The low dim lights casts warm shadows across the room, making his face appear much softer than normal, almost too kind, worried, and worn. The prize awaits him in the room, and he goes to it, slow, strong steps that cause his boots to echo across the wooden floorboards. Routine does nothing to quell the anticipation that wells within his belly. Opening the door to the room, a small creak emits from the hinges, announcing his entrance. A small smirk tugs at the corners of his usually somber mouth. A single quiet sigh escapes him as he crosses the room, allowing his prize to sit and stew for a few more moments as he fiddles with the small music device he had Milton make him. Music is one of the few things he misses from his life Before, from his life as Brian Blake. Now, he's just the Governor, but he thinks he likes that too. The music starts up, some CD they found while rummaging through one of the houses, and it helps to set the mood.
This is as good a place to fall as any
We'll build our altar here
He saunters over to his prize now, a malicious grin across his face: there is no reason to hide, not now, not here. She looks up at him, the familiar look of fear set deep into her eyes. The way her chest rises and falls makes him realize that her heart pounds wildly against her rib cage, and the smell of fear in the air excites him. He gives her a look, eyes twinkling, and tilts his head slightly. She already knows what to do, and shuffles quickly to do it.
Make me your Maria
I'm already on my knees
Kneeling down before him, she unbuckles his belt, setting it gently on the bed before turning her attention back to him and unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, pulling them down to let them pool around his ankles. Looking up at him with wide eyes, tears already beginning to form at the edges, she tugs his boxer-briefs down where they join his pants around his ankles. His member exposed, she opens her mouth to take it in. A small gasp escapes him.
You had Jesus on your breath
And I caught Him in mine
She lets out a moan, and he knows that she only does it because that's what she thinks he wants to hear, but it still turns him on. It's not the moan itself, but the fact that the fear and power that he holds over her can cause her to be so fake, to do whatever he wishes. It's never been about the sex. All he wants is power, over her, over Woodbury, over everything and everyone. Back in Before, he had been weak, runty, little Brain Blake. No one had ever given him a second look; no woman would ever give him the time of day. But now, now he could take whatever he wanted, and he even had women throwing themselves at his feet, even. He's something like Phillip now, but still so much more.
Sweating out confessions
The undone and the divine
A light sweat begins to form on his body in the Georgia heat. No air conditioning, not anymore, but he's mostly gotten used to it. There are still times like this when he longs for the comfort of central air however. The suction on his engorged member sends tingles up his back and he wraps his fingers into her long brown and tugs tightly. Tears fall from her eyes now, and he's not sure if it's from pain or embarrassment, but he loves it. The hot, salty liquid falls down onto his skin, and another moan, almost a whimper, of pleasure escapes him.
'Cause this is his body, this is his love
Such selfish prayers and I can't get enough, oh
Pulling her up by the hair, his erection leaves her mouth with a little "pop!". He throws her back and against the bed, kicking off his pants and underwear before working on removing hers. His fingernails scrape up her sides, insider her shirt, digging deep into soft flesh. Gasps and groans like soft pleading leave her pink, puffy lips as more tears fall from her eyes. He's not even getting started. This is all just the warm up. He slips himself inside her, roughly, caring nothing for lubrication. The friction of her hot, dry heat against his own erection feels like he's gotten into heaven. Her mouth opens, but no sounds leave her now, and he sticks his fingers into the gaping hole, running them along the inside of her cheek and over her teeth.
Yeah, I can't get enough
His trusts are slow, hard, deep. He wants the bitch to yell out, to feel him filling her up deep inside. He removes his fingers from her mouth, giving her a firm slap that causes her to cry out in pain. The sound is music to his ears: glorious, the loveliest thing he's heard in a long time. He feels her growing wet, making the friction less and less. He knows she doesn't enjoy this and it's her body's way of coping with the intrusion, so he slaps her again (this time across the other cheek), causing her to tighten around him. Better.
Spilled-milk tears, I did this for you
Spilling over the idol, the black and the blue
Welts already begin to form on her face, salty tears running over them and causing them to glisten in the brightest shades of black and blue. This is beauty. This is what he wants. Another hit. More welts, more bruises. Perfection. Each mark across her face only highlights her beauty. Red-black cheeks, puffy and swollen rather than hallow from the hunger that was suffered before Woodbury. He wonders, if she had known, would she have rather starved outside the gates of Woodbury or lived with the horrors within?
The sweetest submission, drinking it in
The wine and the women, the bedroom hymns
Submission. That's what this is, and he loves it. Every second of it. Power, control. He takes the belt from the side of the bed now and raises it high above her head, bringing it down with a sharp crack against her thigh. A real cry of pain, loud and echoing. That's the kind he likes, and it spurs him on further, making his thrust more wild, almost frenzied. He reaches besides him for a bottle of alcohol, popping it open and taking a swig before pouring it over her fresh wound. He imagines the burning it must cause her, the pain. The fact she endures it all for him is riveting.
I'm not here looking for absolution
Because I've found myself an old solution
He's not sorry, never sorry for all that he's become. Sure, he misses his friends, his family. Phillip. But he is Phillip now, and that's the way to keep him alive. He can never be sorry for the atrocities he has committed, because they are all for Woodbury. And if he enjoys them in the process, well, that's all the better isn't it? He never expected anything like this to come from him, but after so long of being walked all over, taken advantaged of, looked down upon, well, it was only a matter of time until he snapped. And it couldn't have come at a more convenient time.
This is his body, this is his love
Such selfish prayers, I can't get enough
The words from the music continue to wash over him even as he continues his activities. More whipping. More hits. Some pinching. Hell, if he had some salt with him, he'd rub it into her wounds too. Selfish? No. This is what he deserves. After all he has done for Woodbury, Woodbury can stand to give a little bit back to him. The thrust only become wilder as he chases his orgasm, pleasure enveloping him, sending jolts of electricity that run up his spine and through all his nerves.
I can't get enough
Another smack. Hard. It echoes the sound of the whip cracking against her flesh. He wonders if he may have cracked her skull, or maybe set some teeth loose. That would excite him, that would be best. He likes teeth and the pain that comes from pulling them and the sound they make when you rip them from someone's skull. The thought excites him to no end, brings his orgasm closer until he is at the cusp and another hard smack accompanied by the beautiful cry sends him over the edge. He stops thrusting deep inside her, spilling his seed into her, his breath caught in his throat as his body constricts with the pleasure. The orgasm leaves him dizzy, dazed, but he rolls off of her, laying besides her, a lazy grin on his face. As soon as he untangles himself from her, she picks up her clothes, haphazardly making herself half-way decent before running out of the room.
I can't get enough
She'll be back. She always is.
Yeah, I can't get enough
There's a job for everyone in Woodbury.
Truth be told, he was a virgin before this whole thing broke out. Back in Before, back as Brian, he hadn't ever even been on a proper date. Sure, he'd gotten a wife somehow, that Jamaican girl from Gainesville, but she'd barely been able to speak any English so Brian had somehow managed to woo her with his vocabulary, his nerdy little ramblings and sharp observations, but when the charm of all of that wore off and she realized Brian didn't have any money, she was gone, ran back off to Jamaica. Sometimes he thinks about her, wondering if things are just as much shit over there as they are here. Except, things aren't shit. Not really. Not for him anyway.
Rowan's the first women to really try and build a relationship with him. She's strangely domestic, even in this mess, and that brings him a sense of comfort he wasn't sure even existed any more. They go out on "dates" if you can even call them that. There's not much to do in Woodbury. Not much that's recreational anyway, but there's always a whole ton of work. Work can be recreational though, if you put just the right kind of spin on it. But he's not thinking about that as he sits across the table from Rowan in the little diner. The sun's only just beginning to set, so they still have some time to eat away at their sweet potato fries.
She stares at him, smiling, and he simply looks back, smiling the charming little smile he's perfected since becoming the Governor. She lets out a small giggle, almost like a school girl, and asks, "What?" He shakes his head, still smiling, responding, "Nothin', nothin'." She eyes him over, seemingly taking in all the details of his face, his mannerisms. Everything. He looked almost like a little boy when this whole thing started, what seems like another lifetime ago, but he supposes for him it was another life time. Trauma and responsibility had hardened out his features, aged him, but not horribly so. No, he looked distinguished now, more like Phillip, nothing like that pathetic little weakling he once was.
She tilts her head slightly, still looking at him, before smiling widely and asking, "Were you seeing someone? Before, I mean." It's a bold question, and she has guts to asks it, which is something he likes. Hell, if he's being honest, he actually likes her, likes her in a way he hasn't liked another woman in a long time.
Phillip bubbles up within him as he answers. "Had a wife. She died long before the world went to hell though." He clenches his jaw, unsure why he couldn't just tell the truth. Maybe there's more Phillip in him than Brian, or maybe Phillip is just who he needs to be. Either way, he's sticking to it. "Marriage and relationships don't seem realistic now, not in this day and age." He shrugs, picking up a fry and nibbling on the end.
She tilts her head, staring at him curiously. "Why are we here then, if we don't really matter to one another?" A brief pause. "Why are /you/ here?"
He swallows thickly before he's able to answer, using the fry to buy himself a bit of time. "The food's better than anything I can make at home." He says with a grin, trying to play off the joke, not wanting to reveal his true reasons, not wanting to actually tell her that he likes her. But he does, although he doesn't know why, usually a cold fortress of impenetrability. "Guess I'm here because I like you." She smiles at that, and he smiles back, a genuine smile, one he hasn't shown in quite a while.
They finish the last of the fries just as curfew sets in. Of course, he can always be out, if he really wanted to, but he prefers putting on a nice public face for the citizens of Woodbury, just like any politician. Some things never change.
Back at his place, he goes to the bathroom, splashing water upon his face and looking at himself in the small, oval mirror. He's always looked like Phillip, but the resemblance is much more apparent now that he's gained muscle. The years seemed to wash over him before, barely making a mark upon his face, but not the worry lines, the little dips and furrows of his face, mark closer to his true age. Phillip. Phillip. Phillip. His brother is never far from his mind.
Stepping out of the bathroom, he sees Rowan standing at the window, looking out over the town. Naturally, Brian, no Phillip... No, he's the Governor now. It's easier to think that way. Naturally the Governor chose the tallest room overlooking the entire town as his own. It's quite a sight. Not the city lights of New York or anything like that, but a small town that brings a sense of normalcy back to the world. That's what they're all looking for anyway, right?
Only, in a "normal" world, a person like Brian Blake would never be on top, never aspire to be anything like the Governor. But maybe that's why he's Phillip now, or at least that's what he tells himself. Is that just what he tells himself, or is it the truth? He shakes the thought from his head and focuses instead on Rowan's beauty. "You wanna drink?" She doesn't answer, continuing to stare out at the town. He follows up with another question. "Whatcha lookin' at?"
A brief pause, just a moment before she turns to face him, warm smile on her lips as usual. "This view. It's beautiful." He can tell how much she appreciates him and what he's done. But she doesn't know all the things he's done to get there. He walks over to her, staring out the window with her as well, nodding but not saying a word. She turns, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling him close into a kiss. Gentle, yet aggressive. He's not sure if he likes that, but he smiles into the kiss anyway. She begins to undress him, still kissing his lips. He breaks the kiss to nibble at her neck, the buttons of his shirt already completely undone. The shirt falls to the floor, discarded, forgotten, as he picks her up and pushes her down against the bed.
As they kiss some more, tongues and mouths exploring one another, they undress further. Shoes, socks, his belt. Flesh still has yet to meet flesh however. She stops him, in the middle of him running his tongue over the creases of her neck, and pull his head up to look into his eyes. Her hands run over his cheeks, coming to rest on the back of his head, her eyes gazing intently into his. His heart races faster than it ever has before, thumping hard against his chest. This feels intimate, and it's not a feeling he's accustomed to. He stares into her eyes as well, until the intimacy becomes uncomfortable and he has to break it with another kiss. But he does like her.
Suddenly, she flips him over, straddling his hips. An almost-panicky feeling rises in his chest, and horrible memories of Before rush into his mind, drowning him. He lifts her dress, struggling to maintain some semblance of control, to seem like he knows what he's doing now even though he feels like he's slipping, losing... She yanks the fabric from his hands, slipping out of her dress and quickly unhooking and removing her bra afterward. He struggles out of his pants and underwear underneath her, only getting them partly off before his hands can't push them down any further. Shimming out of her own panties, she's licking along his neck now, sometimes stopping to kiss his cheek. Intimate. It all feels so intimate, like they have some sort of connection, like this could be something more than just fucking.
That's when he looks down. That's when he notices. That's when the horrible truth hits him.
He can't get it up.
Something's wrong about the whole situation and he just can't get it up. The excitement, the arousal. It's not there. The intimacy from before, the moment where he felt almost a connection to this woman, that's what threw this off. He thinks of the other girl, from a couple of nights before, of how easy that had been, how he felt like he was going to pop from the first moment he laid a heavy hand upon her. That gets him going, but not enough to give him an erection. He panics, and in his panic he bucks Rowan off him, going to sit on the edge of the bed, placing his head in his hands as he massages at his temples. Rowan goes to sit besides him, and although he can't see her face he imagines the slight frown laced with crippling sympathy that must adorn it, and that only makes things worse.
She lays a hand upon his back, rubbing gentle, soothing circles. At least that's what they're supposed to be, but they only serve to piss him off with each stroke. "It's okay Governor." She reassures him, and he imagines that damn smile again. "Should I go?" He waves a hand vaguely, pulling up his underwear and pants and retreating to the bathroom once again before she can say more.
He wants to yell, to scream. What the fuck is wrong with him? Countless other women and he's been able to preform flawlessly, and this one time, this one fucking time, when he feels maybe there could be something, and he fucks it up. That's what it is, the feelings. The feelings are what fucked it up. He slams a fist against the wall, a loud bang resonating in the confined space, then wraps his head in his arms. What the /fuck/. It's at that moment he resolves never to feel again, never again, not for anyone or anything. There is only him and his pleasure and that's fucking it.
When he comes out of the bathroom, Rowan's laying under the covers, completely naked and fast asleep. Perhaps she cried herself to sleep. That makes him feel better, knowing he caused her pain even if that wasn't his intention. He pours himself a drink, swirling it around in the clear, crystal glass before taking a swallow and heading to the window. He looks out upon Woodbury, upon all he's made, upon all those people that have power over him. That's pleasing. That's beautiful. That's /arousing/. He gets that feeling in his groin, and closes the blinds, taking another drink.
Crossing the room, he sits the glass down upon the mantle, next to a framed picture he allows himself to look at, but only for a moment as he removes the key from around his neck. Unlocking the door, he picks up the glass once again and saunters inside, closing the door firmly and securely behind him. He flips a switch to activate the lights, which take a second before they flicker on. He swirls the drink again, not so inclined to take a sip now, lost in deep thought. Sitting down in his large, comfy leather arm chair (really the grandest prize in all of Woodbury in his opinion), he tilts the glass and stares at the contents. If anyone were to see him, it would like as if he is scrutinizing the contents, but really he just needs something to do with his hands as he thinks. He can't believe he fucked it up. He let himself feel, and that kind of thing... Well, fuck, it's just making his blood boil now. But he came in here for a reason, and that's not it. He gives the glass one final look before setting it upon the ground, his eyes now able to focus on the glorious sight in front of him.
Before him, sitting in fish tanks, completely water-logged, are twenty-four severed heads. The newest addition, the pilot who fed him the information on the whereabouts of his peers, Welles, sits all on his own at the top of the tower, a true prize. These people were all at his mercy at one time or another. He held true power over them, and now, now they're dead because of him, in an aimless existence because he chooses not to put them out of their misery. He has that power, to play God with these people, with what they once were.
Reaching a hand down his pants, he feels pleasure.