Novel
Here is a woman masturbating on my bed. The comforter is tucked in, burgundy; the fireplace defunct, though still romantic. On her thin, white stomach, a small, orange paperback rises and falls with the tensing of her muscles. She looks at it, reads, concentrates and continues.
After about twenty minutes, she pauses and looks up at the closed, closet doors. They are white and new and still smell of paint. Behind them, watches a young boy, both hands rubbing the back of his neck. The woman sees him through the quarter-turned shutters. She continues, admiring the silhouette and the interest. She thinks no more of the paperback. Or the fireplace. It must be exciting for a young boy to see a beautiful woman rub the swollen skin between her thighs, she thinks. He would be scared if she stopped, she thinks.
Before she climaxes she licks her hand.
It was quite possible that this boy had been waiting in the closet for some time, hoping for the voyeuristic delight of seeing a fully developed woman please herself and become stoned from the faint stench of new paint. It was quite possible that the young boy was only curious or desperate or was stealing things from my room and hid to avoid punishment. It was quite possible that he feared her. My mother always went by the book.