This fic I wrote last year and I guess was inspired with someone particular in mind--not that it matters now, as the fic is general enough to carry itself. One of the things that also prompted the story was that line from Alanis Morrisette's You Oughta Know - 'Would she go down on you in a theatre?' I'd wondered at writing about a scenario like that, albeit in reverse, so gave it a try here. Listening to The Presets at the time also helped the creative process :)
AT THE MOVIES
In hindsight, it probably wasn’t my best choice of film. Self-conscious French drama wasn’t really to your taste either, judging by the smirk you opted to share with me, though I spotted a glimmer in those brilliant blue eyes, all the more prominent in the pale glow that bathed your face. I wasn’t truly certain of what that glimmer entailed until the armrest that separated us ceased to be a barrier to your hand, sweeping up my thigh to rest right there, between my legs, which, up to this point, I had forbidden you to explore, only enter, again and again, in the most wonderfully depraved ways imaginable.
Public places proved no deterrent to your will; I smiled at the recollection of a blissful hour spent in a lift, whereby you split me open and poured yourself into my mouth, my cunt, molten gold I treasured with all of my being. Not that you were entirely dismissive of your surroundings, glancing over to the sole pair of occupants that had joined us in this tedious exercise, an elderly man beginning to snore faintly, fast sleep, and a younger woman furiously texting on her phone.
Tantalised, I watched the zip teeth widen, my fly unveiling the fine black layer of cotton that you breached with little effort, the stark coldness of your fingers inside my wetness eliciting a startled gasp. Luckily, my reaction had not drawn anyone’s attention, the woman promptly grabbing her bag and leaving the cinema, and the man as-yet unstirred from his slumber.
You chuckled, relishing your glistening fingers with a deliberate precision, taking each fully into your mouth from its base to its very tip. To think you weren’t always like this, that you were once coy about indulging in such crude behaviour (your words, not mine) filled me with infinite satisfaction. For in my heart, the most profound pleasure, greater than these immediate physical delights, resided in the knowledge that I, a mere little thing, could fashion you, a man almost old enough to be my father, as gradually as I had, without your apparent awareness, into this creature purely fuelled by want. A creature whose lips soon met mine, an artist’s caressing brushstrokes, painting a picture of your intent, vivid as the saltiness of my own slick cum, a taste of my own desire.
Silently you sunk to the carpet, almost level with me despite kneeling at my feet to tug at my hip pockets, leaving my jeans and underwear gathered around my ankles. I slouched further into the plush seat, my bottom veering upon its edge as I compliantly thrust my pelvis in your direction, which you received, unable to hide your joy, as though you were a boy who had just been granted his Christmas wish. In a matter of moments your touch spread me open, flowing, hot lava which rose up my thighs to converge at my centre, marked with a neat triangular thicket of hair, following its corners under your thumb, the apex that it formed.
“Now I know why you chose to skip dessert,” I murmured.
You grinned from ear to ear, a massive swell emerging from within the typically calm ocean of your gaze, warm, shallow breaths upon my pubis. Always entertaining the depths of my vulgarity, whether by remark or action, like that night I brought out the gag and handcuffs, my birthday present to you. Now you were repaying me in kind.
I gripped the other armrest, captivated by the sound of those fleshy lips, long protected from anyone else’s contact other than my own, nurtured by your gentle suckling. With seeming ease, you parted them to coax at that tiny, hidden bud with the tip of your tongue, from which I moaned my pleasure, pooling and aching, ever-so-sweetly within my womb. Finding it impossible to cope with your prolonged teasing, I seized your head, tufts entwining in my fingertips, plunging you deeper inside me, to which you held firm, levering my thighs even further apart.
Shock riveted my spine as you consumed my now swollen bud, each longing stroke attracting heavenly spasms that coursed endlessly through my veins, seeping to the surface through cries that dissipated amidst the dark expanse of the theatre. Euphoria was now finally in possession of me, driven, controlled entirely by your loving mouth, eyes sparkling divinely at the sight of my unashamed wantonness. Everything melted away, my vision blurring, wavering from you to the screen, a fluid kaleidoscope of colours and shapes, the actual story of this film much like the world around me, irrelevant, petty nonsense, except for you. My only source of clarity among this white noise of existence.
Never could I venture to put that veritable truth into words for you to hear. Nor did I have to.
Still leaning upon me for support, you sat upright, licking your lips, panting, just able to catch your breath again to speak. “Someone’s awake.”
I peered behind me, blinking my own view into focus, to find the elderly man yawning, wearily surveying the scene around him. Initially his attention settled on us briefly, squinting, before he resumed acquaintances with the on-screen action, mesmerised, oddly enough, by a sex scene between the two main characters, a short, balding, middle-aged man, and a vivacious, porcelain-skinned brunette.
We looked back at each other, mirroring sly smiles that broke out into laughter. Coincidence and timing were, indeed, everything when it came to lucky escapes.
Once we had both readied ourselves, I eagerly accepted the offer of your hand, whisking me away from the redundant comfort of my seat to make a hasty exit.
“So, what do you feel like having for dessert this evening?”
Poker faces abound, nonchalant, but knowing at the same time.
“Oh, you know me. The usual...banana split.”
The second fic I'm squeezing into this post was another one I started late last year, but actually didn't get to finish till early this year. On the subject of music, the fic was prompted by a La Roux song, 'Tigerlily', from which the title was derived. It was meant to be a no-holds barred PWP to start with. Trouble was, I got stuck with where to take it and end the tale. After reading a book with erotic short stories, in particular one which was film-noirish in its stylings, I finally got around to finishing the ending. Eventually, this fic turned into a bit of a espionagey thriller. The fact that I like James Bond flicks (gross chauvinism aside) may have also had a major influence on how it came out.
This was meant to be a straightforward intelligence gathering mission, an assignment he would normally perform with his eyes shut. The brief was frighteningly simple; make the deal, one secret, from him, in exchange for another, from her.
A rose by any other codename, that reeked of dainty feminine fragility, at least on her surface, within those lofty black mules, stationed near the bedside table. Lean calves supporting smooth thighs, skirted by fine black fabric that barely clung to her arse, offering a glimpse of those peachy cheeks as she sifted through her briefcase to pluck out a yellow envelope.
He smiled, tearing the buttons from his crisp sky blue shirt, flinging it away, landing on the carpet near a silver trolley, an iced bucket atop containing a bottle of Bollinger, two champagne flutes at its side, not that he saw fit to use them. Wine tasted so much sweeter on skin, especially hers, having refused him for so long...so very long.
Even when she had a gun pointed to her head. Resisting his resistance.
Envelope in hand, she stood before him, silent, expressionless, meeting his level, perched on the bed, and presented him the package. As per his instructions, it contained a transcript of this week’s session, her scrawled observations and impressions littering the page margins. Immaculate in her attention to detail, down to the subtle little nuances and gestures conveyed during these exchanges, invested with hidden meanings, patterns only she could decipher.
He cast the package aside, paper-weighting it with his holstered Sig Sauer. Patterns, links, bringing these idle facts to life, charted in a web pinned to his wall, concealed in a sea of reports, dossiers, files, photos and statements stacked upon his desk. Those cavernous eyes had willingly entertained his curious inquisitions, a beam of truth shining through the mist of duplicitous facades that surrounded them, helping him to assemble the pieces of this puzzle, form a tangible picture of reality – their reality.
Conscious of damage to the flesh, her fingertips inclined towards his jaw, nursing the fine red scar carved along the underside of his throat to his Adam’s apple, bobbing nervously under the care of her touch. Painfully attuned to the deeper wounds inside, experiences he presumed no-one else would ever really understand.
He entwined his fingers in hers to hide himself in her palm, revelling in its warmth, kiss drifting to her tiny wrist, pulse throbbing beneath the surface, this precious life that healed his, ever-so fleetingly. But he wanted so much more, consumed by the delicate skin inside her arm, drawing her close, to suck upon the point of her elbow. Steadily melting that pain away, yielding to a longing that surged like quicksilver, through his veins, and hers.
She pooled, sleek, black, hot, into his lap, effortlessly unfastening his belt and fly with able precision, a face that filled his hands, becoming an extension of himself, this empty vessel, purely for him to fill with his own indulgences, wants and needs. After all, it was a fundamental part of her job, to comprehend the human condition, analyse the extremities of its flaws and foibles. In the end, she made it that much easier for him to walk away, knowing full well that she’d committed little to nothing of herself.
The question was; did he truly want to walk away?
Walnut tufts drifted across her face, this faint curtain which he parted, feathering her brow, tucking the hair behind her ear, to reveal rosy lips that smelt of strawberries, glistening as they curled into a sly grin. She ignited in a flush under the guise of his thumb, highlighting the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Deceptively youthful, except for her eyes, shadowed and sparked by cognisance beyond her years, that could see right through him, branding his soul, the seemingly unquenchable fire of her spirit, burning just for him.
How could he simply walk away? Deny her, his craving to reach out to that rich, cleansing flame, its searing caress of his insides, the ravenous divinity of her lips shaking the ground beneath his feet, turning his world inside out? Everything he thought he held dear to his heart reflected through her, a mirror, like she would with her patients, allowing him to see his own reflection, a life of fakery and lies and politics and death, in all its ugly and chaotic glory.
Right from the start, he should have seen this coming.
Behind that numbing concrete column he could feel her, a silhouette, black woollen trench coat hugging her petite figure. She stood at her silver Porsche, fumbling for the keys from her pocket, wary gaze darting back and forth. Soon enough, she’d figure out the state of play. Inhale. Exhale. Solace taking the form of cold black metal in his grasp, trigger under his complete control. He knew. He knew she could feel him.
Projection, she deemed it; he called it psychobabbly bollocks. Energy that bubbled so readily to the surface, having seized hold of her by the nape of her neck, her tongue smothered by his, combing the tiny grooves of her teeth, lost within her inner reaches. How wonderful it felt to turn the tables and steal her away for once, panting as he rummaged underneath that rippled black hem to slide off her g-string, legs entangled in a flurry, kicking away the lacy strip of fabric. Understanding, her gift to him, this new-found clarity of insight, yet he still couldn’t help himself, engorging upon the tender skin of her throat, burying his jaws into her shoulder, tugging at her reddening flesh, these cries ringing in his ears somehow remote, like distant gunfire over yonder.
Deep down, she knew he could feel her too, entwining his fingers in her hair, yanking her back, taking the opportunity to strip her of the tunic. She hoped her limits would be tested, for this merry dance to occur upon a knife’s edge. Feel her body oozing in his clutches, whereupon he dropped to her chest, playing at her expanding ribcage, mouth hovering around the crevices from where her breasts emerged, shaped like tears, to follow the rising curve that peaked at her already erect nipples, nudging them with the tip of his tongue. Eager to engulf those darkened buds, creating gleaming swirls of moisture over her areolae, he sparked in her a smile, sharp breaths prickling her skin. Affectionately she stroked his head, writhing as he took each nipple between his teeth, suckling hungrily, like a newborn, pouring further fuel onto her fire.
Nails scored the length of his spine, scouring the ridges of each vertebra to span the breadth of his shoulder blades, aching to make their own mark against his flesh. Pleasure and pain, fantasy and reality, blended seamlessly together, one and the same with her, forever blurring the lines, these boundaries he originally thought were clear as crystal. Never mix your personal and professional lives. Never – in any circumstances – ever fuck your informants.
Nevertheless, here he was with her. It didn’t matter where they were, whether it was, like now, amidst luxurious surroundings only five-star hotel accommodation could afford, or inside a back room in a posh restaurant, a VIP area in an exclusive nightclub, even in a dingy secluded alleyway – the feeling remained the same. As though life had always been like this, a frenzied whirlpool of pure, unadulterated want, pinning her mouth while clawing at her buttocks, reaching the cleft of her rump, to which he rimmed her arsehole in readiness.
If only life could stay like this.
Eternally entrenched in her quagmire, body pressed against his, sealing the fleshy divide once she spread across his groin, burning wet, to slide back and forth over his shaft, enlivened by the slickness of their friction. A soft moan emanated from the back of her throat each time she reached his tip, nestling its head in her succulent folds, teasing him, tempting him to plunge into her.
Subject to her command, even when she lay physically at the mercy of his whims, a rag doll, flung prostrate onto the bed, limbs splayed in all directions, inviting him to kneel over and take her. Tenderly she held his jaw, adhering to his curve as he did to her contours. Idle hands that were no longer his own, which hitched her legs up, cascading over her knees in a descent along those deliciously meaty thighs to prise her open, revering the smoothness of that delicate flesh nearing her centre, cunt glistening with anticipation.
If only he could serve one mistress alone.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection smirking back at him in the dresser mirror, the mark of a red rose draped in a union jack bulging from the side of his arm, angling her hips in the precise way he wanted. Their plan had worked to perfection. She saw him as nothing more than a foolish old warhorse, desperate to make the most of his chances with her sprightly young arse while he could, drunk with infatuation. This was his designated role, playing the gullible lackey to feed her ego so she would lower her defences. For that priceless mind was the treasured prize his superiors were really after, her unique expertise into the bleakest reaches of humanity.
Victory was a hit of smack, this blissful rush infused through each and every cell, of sheer omnipotence, treading the fine emotional tightrope, aware that the trump cards were all in his possession. It was the only thrill worth living for, worth dying for, sprawled before him along that sparkling bonnet of hers, burgundy skirt crumpled around her belly, exposed for all to see, yet wholly his to ram, for as long as he pleased.
Somewhere along the line, the act ceased being an act. Winning this game became irrelevant.
Beneath him, she arched her back, face slipping from his grasp at the peak of his thrusts, humming his approval at her lapping, playfully nibbling at the fingers which lingered long over her lips. No drug in the world could match the natural fullness of her entwined around him, clinging to his neck, slippery with sweat, to crush her chest against his, rising to savage his mouth, her walls grinding him hard. Almost primal in the way she moaned as she climaxed, gnawing at his bottom lip, the sudden shard of pain driving his seed out from him, demanding his violence, his rage, his resentment be stabbed deep inside of her.
So he obliged, shoving her onto hands and knees, that bottle of Bollinger not going to waste, savoured from her skin, allowing her to scull the rest. He’d screw her up the arse, blissfully oblivious to her screams. He’d eat her clit raw, suffocate himself in the taste of her pleasure. He would have her surrender, beg for him to fuck her some more, top, bottom, it didn’t matter. Make her come, again, and again, and again, until he rolled over, exhausted, purged of his ills.
She was still asleep a few hours later when he got up to collect his clothes. Reluctant to switch on the bedside lamp and disturb her, he retreated into the bathroom to dress. Having done up his shirt, sans two top buttons, he stood in front of the mirror above the basin, and withdrew the glasses case from the pocket of his leather jacket slung across the towel rack, skimming over the cursive script embossed at its centre, the letters ‘S. S.’ – his initials. Wire-rimmed spectacles coated with a faint speckling of blood, wiped clean using the white cloth included with the case. Just so they were like new again.
Behind the lenses, his soft blue eyes were enlarged, harsh and circumspect. Here was the end game staring him down, curious to appraise his foreign features, a facade he would gladly see as his own after tonight, assuming its unique mannerisms and expressions that formed the identity of the man whose life had subsumed his over the past two years. Ties that inextricably bound him to her, who had unwittingly helped him come to terms with the cold, harsh fact of his existence, outside the mirror, beyond the realms of this hotel room.
He was nothing.
What he would do to simply have himself disappear into that reflection, escape reality tugging at his sleeve. Flee the horror of those two brown prisms, quickly gathering the disparate threads of logic together. Sidelong glances had left him wondering whether she might have noticed the passing resemblance, when she thought he wasn’t looking. Of course the answer was always there, etched in that ashen face shrinking away from him, the sight of her unconscious desires made flesh.
She’d taught him this psychobabble stuff far too well. At the bedside table, her sympathetic nervous system had stirred into action, feeding adrenaline into her body, pumped by her heart, arm outstretched, levelling the gun barrel with his head, reflexes honed in on their target.
“The deal’s off. I can’t go through with this.”
“They’ll kill you if you don’t.”
“Given what I have to offer in the way of intel, I would seriously doubt that.” Pale light danced with shadow upon her skin, calm and still. Remarkably beautiful in monochrome, her naked vulnerability betrayed by a cold flint-hard stare, comfortably wielding his firearm, clicking off the safety catch. “Seeing as you have his glasses, I’m guessing he’s already dead.”
Unperturbed, he carefully removed the spectacles, popping them inside his shirt pocket. “Indeed, he is.”
“You prick. You’re worse than him...far worse.”
“I think it’s the ideal exchange – substituting one terrorist for another.”
To fight the tears streaming down her cheeks, she chuckled bitterly, shaking her head. “That’s exactly what you are, a pathetic, mindless terrorist. Even with my personal transcripts and recordings telling you the story, you’ve got no clue what’s really going on. None at all.”
Stop. Rewind. Play. He needed to be sure. Back within the sterile confines of his office, he scratched his smoky growth and reclined in his chair, scanning through the last few images. The nonchalant way this particular patient caressed her arm as he shook her hand. Those unmistakable blue eyes, steadfast in their admiration of her, nostrils flared slightly, breathing in her gentle musky scent, holding her essence inside his lungs.
“What, that he loves you?”
She frowned, musing upon the envelope, skirting loosely over the broken flap. Defeat was a shot of sodium pentothal, that wonderful harbinger of truth. Endless reams of files and video footage could only reveal so much, the intangibles of therapeutic rapport, a certain spark between them. Despite the man’s advances, she remained professional, stoically firm with her moral boundaries.
Instead, she’d been indulging her forbidden little fantasy with him.
“No,” she replied, interlacing her other fingers around the handgrip, poised on the trigger. “That I love him.”
With a deafening bang, their world shattered into pieces, metallic shards that fell to the floor around his feet. Combat was his comfort zone, rigorously drilled in handling crisis and threat, basic instincts roused to nullify, wrestle her onto the bed, burying her face into the mattress while pinioning her arm around her back, twisting her elbow, forearm folding in on itself. Her muffled yelp signalled a release of the pistol, snatched away to be swiftly directed at her, digging the muzzle into her scalp.
“Pull a fucking stunt like that again and I’ll blow your brains out to kingdom come. Is that clear?”
Pallid impressions of his grip on her wrist faded back to light tan, her natural shade, forearm slipping limply to her side. Easing the pressure so they could surface for air, barrel shifted to a position at right angles to her temple. Down the small of her back he traced the black Aztec serpent tattooed there, its intricately patterned body forming a circle, devouring itself. His touch floated between its jaws and tail, caught between endings and beginnings, between the Devil and the deep blue sea.
Sweet torture encapsulated in the impeccable smoothness of her arse, the hollow of her spine a perfect cradle for his lips, kisses leading to the mess of hair fanned over her slender neck, nuzzling within the crook of tendons attaching her head to the rest of her torso, near the jugular vein. Life severed with one minute slice.
“I never wanted us to be like this,” he murmured.
She sighed, searching for him, cheek scraping painfully against his stubble. “I know.”
Perhaps in a faraway parallel universe, he might’ve delighted in scratching further at her surface. Perhaps she might have rewarded him in kind, with love.
Keeping the gun at her temple, he jerked her upright from the bed, limp and downcast. “Hurry up and get dressed. We have to leave.”
Package and gun tucked away inside his jacket, he inspected the carnage in the bathroom, poking his finger into the hole in the wall to retrieve the bullet. Thankfully, it hadn’t penetrated too deeply through the masonry. In the event there was any trouble, the manager would likely be pretty forgiving when told his supposedly low-key money laundering business wouldn’t be tipped off to police.
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, where her attentions were focused, clothed in that black tunic. Close enough to touch, to hold, at a distance beyond his reckoning and reason. She picked up her briefcase.
“Suppose you could make this your perfect world. Where would you imagine us to be?”
He unlocked the door, allowing her to lead them out to the lift, descending to the foyer. “Maybe I’ll tell you in our next session.”
“That’d be Monday at ten sharp. Don’t be late.” She smiled weakly, greeting the concierge upon their exit through the glass doors. Bracing herself from winter chill, she ran over to her car parked across the street, enveloped by the burgeoning night.
You’ll never have her. Not in a million years, not even in your dreams.
Defiance echoed in his ears, a gargled laugh, choking, coughing up blood. Clouds loomed on the horizon, not far from his destination, where a black Mercedes was idling, taillights glowing red, rear right side door open. Two men were waiting in the back seat, both wearing black from head to toe, the nearest one weighed down in arm and leg irons, complimented with a matching blindfold and tape across his mouth.
“What took you so long?”
Once he shut the door behind him, the car lurched into motion. Barely had he been presented the chance to sit down when his partner’s familiar eyes zoned in, unscrupulous in their inquisition.
Fastidious and intelligent, much like his namesake, Spiderman’s alter-ego Peter Parker. On initial encounter with his lean, angular form, this youngish man could easily be mistaken for being naive and delicate. For many who had the misfortune of being his target, it was a lethal error of judgment.
“I was tending to business,” he answered, nonchalantly pulling out the package from the inside of his jacket. “Everything went according to plan.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Mr. P. stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, a mischievous grin creeping out the side of his mouth. “In other words, you were fucking her senseless.”
His partner had a brutal way with phrasing that often left him speechless and his compatriot in perpetual amusement. Meanwhile, between them, their captive mumbled something that sounded like the words ‘fucking cunt’, which startled both of them back to the matter at hand.
“Not to worry – your secret’s safe with me, as well as our mutual friend here. But there is something important I’d like to ask.” Mr. P. leaned across, beckoning him over to whisper into his ear. “Do you love her?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Rain pelted the window, droplets basking in the blurry array of street lights passing them by, tiny luminous spheres vainly attempting to merge with one another, sliding with the prevailing airflow across the glass.Suddenly gaunt, haunted by a sadness and anguish akin to his own, Mr. P. rested a hand upon his shoulder, bereft of his usual sense of verbosity. “I’m sorry.” “So am I. And once I’m done with him, so will he.”
They peered jointly at their captive. By transforming into this man and venturing within his murky universe, how else was this story meant to end? She had become his faithful guide on the slow, difficult path to rebuilding himself. She was everything to him that no amount of power or wealth could provide. She was his atonement, his life.Who was he to deny her?
I'm hoping to start writing again soon, in light of my newfound love for the show Breaking Bad, or more to the point, Aaron Paul, who plays layabout homie Jesse Pinkman. So stay tuned...