A tale of smoldering, unrequited love for Valentine's month...
|SCREAMS!!! Entry 2/1/20
Theme: An Insidious Policy
“I don’t date students,” said Professor Malick.
Fury boiled within me, erupting from my eyes with an infernal roar.
He took a step backward under the silent inferno blasting from my twisting visage.
This was all his fault, stoking desire with his visual connection--eyes locked to mine, class after class. His chiseled features and swimmer’s build fanned the flames.
The smoldering passion of youth raged ever hotter, week after week. He had to have known. And he did nothing but ogle my fiery eyes, caressing my blazing heart. Flames licked my body, tasting it with elegant desire.
His simmering lips tasted my burning flesh in erotic dreams. My back arched, my throat ignited in flaring screams as he set fire to the fuse of countless detonations.
And now he didn’t date students?
I reached toward him and touched his cheek, two knuckles of my index finger slipping from sculpted cheekbone to jowl, scraping stubble to give me a touch of pain to add to the festering glow already seething within me.
I slapped him next, so hard that my wrist fumed with a languidly evaporating ache as it came back to my side.
I closed this vent on my anger as he refused to meet my steaming eyes, whirling and stalking away like a flickering wind blowing a forest fire into another dark, expectant mountain of tinder.
As I slammed the door to my dorm room, I put flaming fingers to everything fragile and sent it airborne, reducing it to jagged, heated smithereens against the walls that represented my emotional cage.
Gasping and gulping invigorating oxygen, I used my lungs as a bellows to ensure that the convection kept the cherished heat of my rage torrid.
I lay in my bed until dark, eyes open, every breath thrusting the visceral fervor of crescending fury into the coals alight within my gut.
The hearth that was the professor’s bedroom enveloped me in cozy warmth as I entered. He was asleep in the torpid night. I stripped off my clothes, the thermic effect of my bare skin enough to heat the room to sweltering.
The sweet smell of gasoline billowed and glugged from the can that I held over my hair and his blankets, my eyes sparking in combustible delight.
His eyes fluttered open as I watched him, widening in terror as they met mine once more, drinking in their dark, glimmering damnation.
I giggled in a final moment of wild, tempestuous joy as I lit the match.