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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Drama · #2004866
It was a complex relationship of love and hate that only we understood.
I stare out of the barred filthy window, trying to remember why I had loved Glen Agree. He was that rare combination of man that certain women are drawn to. His words were smooth as silk, compliments a woman thrives on.

A gentle lover, he would ask, "Does that feel good?" His touch was a little rough, spice with sugar, a letting go then a possessive pull back that felt, well; uncomfortably secure.

At first it was intense and all about us. Then time slipped by and he became careless.
Once, at the peak of passion, he murmured, "Lana, baby, you're amazing!" Now, my name is Laurie but anyone can make a mistake. I can be generous so I let it slip but I could never forget.

Glen, you are the reason I am standing here shaking. I know I thrive on excitement and danger. Like you excel with red hot rage to set a dramatic fire as I carry icy words to tease.

I made a perfect playground for you, working late most nights. You loved that I made a lot of money. Why didn't I question times you didn't pick up my cell or text calls? I accepted excuses and figured I was working hard for "us".

I smelled 'Dolce', saw a lipstick color I didn't own on your shirt. I knew if I said anything, your fist would fly, connecting with my cheek. Then you would cry remorseful hot tears of sorrow and tell me how your father was so cruel to you. I always accepted your apologies along with dozens of red roses, fine jewelry and Godiva chocolate I had paid for. Oxycontin with Kristal champagne took the pain away.

Then I caught the real Glen in action. I came home early, parking on the street, opening the door quietly hoping to surprise you. I slipped off my high heels and walked down the hall to our room. The room was dark and I could barely see a figure under the sheets. I heard some moaning sounds from the bed. I noticed what appeared to be a dress, and a bra, articles of clothing scattered around. The clicking sound started in my head, like the beginning of my migraines.

I screamed out,"You lousy cheatin a**hole!"

They jumped apart like I had thrown ice cold water over them. I flipped on the overhead lights.
I didn't understand. She was a used up looking tramp, twice his age with smeared makeup and lousy drugstore hair color.

"Is that what you want, Glen? An ugly hooker old enough to be your mother?"

I lashed out at her, not you! She has nail marks embedded in her face that will require a plastic surgeon. Her flesh felt like the fire of redemption under my fingernails. I felt her guilty bones. In pain and scared, she ran naked from our house and you didn't do a thing to protect her, not even offering a sheet. What a louse!

You didn't say a word, simply got dressed, grabbed your phone and keys and left.
Always thinking about yourself.

You called the next day with excuses. I made you beg. Time for another strategy. I love to fan the flames, let you swelter, melt in your own tragedy.

I didn't take your calls for a few days.

Then it was my turn.
I cooed, "I will make your favorite dinner, let's forget about it. We both know it didn't mean anything."

I open the door and you look so delicious in your black silk shirt open to mid chest. I can see rippling muscles under the dark hair, sheer strength in all the right places and I admire you.

At first, we make small talk about a big account I had just landed and a photo shoot you just finished. The intensity about our work was magical like our sex life.

Dinner was chilled strawberry puree soup, watercress salad with artichokes, asparagus, almonds, and standing rib roast with steamed veggies. Cream Brulee and espresso finishes it off. We drank two bottles of vintage Merlot.

Feeling the wine, I began to speak of all our marvelous times. It seemed like once again we owned fire and ice as logs sizzled and champagne flowed.

We tear at each other's clothes with our hands and teeth. We made love with the intensity of Greek gods consuming each other. Glen exploded with desire as he screamed "Laurie". I own credit for that orgasm.

Then I picked up something up on the floor as he fell back on the bed spent.

Without hesitation, I plunge the ice pick deeply into his muscled neck armed with all the pain that had built up over time.

Papers call me "The Ice Queen".
I rather like that crown but I hate this dirty cell and don't understand what I did wrong.

By Kathie Stehr
Feb 6, 2020

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