Moved

MOVE
ME

Moved – Part I

K.M.Liss

LUST

Layers of Sin

By Katrina Liss

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 - K.M.Liss

Smashwords
Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook
may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like
to share this book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and
did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only,
then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright ©
K.M.Liss 2014.

XSEX Books

All Rights
Reserved.

This book is
sold subject to conditions that it cannot by way of trade be lent,
resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s
prior consent, in any form or cover, other than which it is
published.

Disclaimer:
This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and
incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on real figures,
are purely the work of the author’s imagination.

Thanks &
Acknowledgements

Love and
thanks to my family and friends, for believing in me and
encouraging me to write my little heart out.

I emerge from my
harrowing experience.

He's leaning against the wall, in a
world of his own, his eyes are closed and he's sucking his cheeks
in, taking a long draw on a cigarette. I'm really pissed at him for
walking out
―
just when I needed him most
―
seconds before the crucial point of entry, into my
nervous and quivering flesh.

“
Surely you could have waited two more minutes for a fix,
Mase? ”

“
Nope,
I was desperate.” He blows out a long stream of smoke.

“
I
thought you'd given the ciggies up?”

He hadn't smoked for
two days, not to my knowledge, anyway.

“
So
did I. But apparently, I'm not ready to.”

I grab his arm and
drag him off.

I'm damned
annoyed.

We start to walk back
to our flat, around the corner.

“
That
really
hurt. I don't think it was properly numbed,” I
complain.

“
Really? Could your body be trying to tell you something,
d'you think?”

I huff out a sigh. “I
guess it is, but I really wanted my lip done.”

“
Well
ain't that great, because now it is done, and guess what...pain's
included as part of the deal.”

I shoot him a look.
He's so mean and sarcastic at times. I want a hug, not a
lecture.

I try to put my
piecing experience behind me.

“
What
d'you think, anyway? Nice?”

Stupid question
really, of course he doesn't.

He turns his head and
looks at it for a second. Then he grimaces, averting his eyes.

I'm guessing he hates
it, like usual.

I huff out another
longer sigh. Mason doesn't 'do' stuff like this, and doesn't
understand it. Tattoos and piercings, that is.

Not that I've got that
many.

Five tattoos, that's
all.

So far.

A wonderful black rose
on my shoulder, which I love to pieces. And a meaningful sentence
about life on my hip bone, in a beautiful scrolled font. It took me
ages to decide on it, and I had it written in Latin to accentuate
it's beauty.

'Aut Viam Inve’niam Aut Faciam
'

W
h
ich means, 'I'll either find a
way, or make one.'

The other three tats
are on my ass, one underneath each other. Faith, Strength and
Trust. All three done at different times, when I was going through
some really tough patches at home. My mum and dad getting divorced,
struggling with my drama course at college and a painful and sudden
end to a two year relationship with my boyfriend. I had them
tattooed in the perfect spot, invisible to the world. I was tucked
away in the tattoo closet back then.

I plan on adding to
these, slowly, as and when I reach a stage in my life where another
crisis occurs, or, with a bit of luck, something wonderful happens
instead.

My piercings are
sparse. To my mind anyway. The usual earlobes, three on each, one
tragus, and now my brand new upper lip stud, which I am incredibly
happy with. Pain aside.

I flick the inside of
it with my tongue, without thinking, and a little too roughly it
would seem, as it smarts like hell.

“
Owwwahhh...
Jeeesuss...
”

Then I whimper, like a
baby, and press my hand to my mouth, trying to stop it stinging,
but it only serves to make it worse. My eyes are watering.

He laughs,
unsympathetically.

In fact he's always
unsympathetic when I drag him along to my latest session of self
abuse and mutilation. The idea was, that he should provide a
modicum of moral support, and hold my shaky hand, because I'm not
so brave on the pain front. Especially where needles and sharp
metal are concerned. There's only one other thing that scares me
more. Spiders. I am absolutely terrified of the creepy little
bastards.

Anyway, it hasn't
worked out the way I would have liked.

His idea of supporting
me is to act like the devil on my shoulder, digging his little
pitchfork in and shouting 'don't fucking do it, you stupid bitch',
and doing heavy verbal battle with my little piercing or tattoo
angel who's shouting 'more, more, bigger, bigger, be more daring
girl.... express...'

Self abuse and
mutilation.

Mason's terminology
for my stuff.

I suppose it is in
reality.

But personally, and on
a lighter note, I consider it to be more a form of self projection
and beautification. It's quite acceptable for a modern young woman,
as I am, to indulge in things like this. I could understand his
objection if I was having big chunks of metal embedded in my ears,
nipples or genitals, a bull-ring at the end of my nose, or tattoos
on my eyelids. But I'm not. I'm very tasteful about it.

The smarting soon
wears off and I run my finger over the stud very carefully and
softly and smile cautiously with inner joy, at my sparkling
acquisition.

Then I elbow Mason
with a hard prod to get his attention again.

I give him a quick
flick of my eyelashes, and what I hope to be an extremely sexy
pout.

He laughs at me. “What
the hell was that?”

“I was trying out my
sexy diamond stud look. Did it work for you?”

He stops and drops his
cigarette stub on the floor, grinding it into the paving slab with
his boot.

Litter bug...

But not only that, I
really wish he'd have the strength to quit this unhealthy and
disgusting habit. I can't stand the smell of it on his breath.

I finally get his
attention, after he kicks the stub away, into the road.

“Hmm, well that kind
of look's not gonna work on me, is it? I don't even notice you're a
woman a lot of the time.”

“Oh thanks a bunch,
buster,” I grind out under my breath, unimpressed, yanking my arm
out of his and storming off in a huff.

I can't believe he
just said that.

He catches me up and
links his arm back through mine. “For fuck's sake... don't sulk.
You know what I mean... You're my bud,” he offers sincerely.

“I know we're pals,
but I never, ever forget you're a man,” I point out,
reasonably.

“Of course you don't,
not looking the way I do,” he replies, tongue in cheek.

I thump him and then
laugh, and so does he.

It's all a big joke.
He doesn't take himself seriously. Or much else in life either.
Apart from the crew and dance.

Mason's a funny type
of guy.

In between being
sarcastic and mean.

The funny side of his
nature is why I continue to share his flat with him after six
months of too much togetherness. Because we really do spend way too
much time together.

Actually, I'm being
unfair. Although he has fallen short in certain areas of his
character development, he's a nice enough person at heart. He's
honest and has his thoughtful moments. What's more, he's a great
cook. He's unusually clean and tidy around the place, for a guy, as
well. That's a very big plus, because I know most aren't. All these
things count, I suppose.

The rent he charges me
is pretty cheap too. Actually, that's the real reason I live with
him, I remind myself. Yeah, that and his cooking. My stomach
rumbles at the thought of food.

“Anyway... what's for
dinner tonight?” I ask hungrily, my mouth watering. I am constantly
amazed at the variety of things he can dream up with pasta,
tomatoes, cheese and another X, Y or Z ingredient.

“I'm going out to eat
with Summer. I did tell you.”

“Oh yeah, so you did.
I just didn't listen properly. On purpose. Anyway, I thought you'd,
been there, done that... 'So stupid she was annoying' ... that's
what you told me. 'Five dates was four too many'... or something
sweet like that?”

“I thought I'd hang in
there for a few more days. While there's no one else on the
horizon. And yeah, she is kinda dumb, but the rest of her's okay.
And she likes Chinese food, and going to the movies, that's
something in her favour. So, she'll do, I suppose.”

“
She'll do, I
suppose?”
I repeat, in a mocking tone of voice.
“
Look, I
may be wrong here Mase, but her tits, movies, and a quick Chinese
aren't a great basis to continue a relationship, are they?”

“It's good enough for
me and far more than I usually base it on.”

He has a valid point
there, because hair colour and chest size are usually
all
he
bases it on. Other considerations such as personality and sense of
humour seem to be irrelevant.

But perhaps he's
finally reached a turning point in his life, venturing out there,
beyond his maximum five dates. This seems to be his magic number,
and the point at which his interest is extinguished. Amazingly,
he's going for a sexed up sixth with Summer. Strange choice of girl
though.

Mason's constant
procession of so called 'girlfriend' material, typically all
lookalike Barbie fuck-dolls, with big tits, is not only immature
and superficial, but more than a little deviant to my mind. But
then again, what do I know about the needs and desires of men? Not
that much really. But I'd like to learn a little more.

“You know something? I
just don't get it.” I'm going to push my point.

“What don't you
get?”

“How you can
continually jack all these nameless bimbo females? We're not
talking a couple of quick fuck and dumps here, are we? It's all you
ever do. It must get boring, surely? Don't you think you should get
yourself a real girlfriend? Someone you can connect with, talk to
and do normal nice things with. Not someone who you see purely as a
sex toy? It doesn't have to be serious or long term, just someone
you like.”

He gives me a quick
dirty look, out of the corner of his eye.

“People are wired up
differently. I'm into ‘get it while you can’, in a package I like,
absolutely no strings, no hassle and no relationship. You know I'm
not like you. You're a hopeless romantic.”