Author's Note: It's so hard to write lately but this one just wouldn't leave me alone. Please review review review.
You know one thing for sure right now, and that's that you're going to die. Either high school will kill you or Fiona will kill you.
It's a tug of war between them, and each batters pretty hard, but it seems that Fiona is going to win. Though high school is a much huger monster, one that spins a far-reaching web to trip you up and fuck you up, it doesn't work the same way as Fiona. High school squeezes you from the outside like a python, tries to assail you with all its demands, but Fiona gets you from the inside. She penetrates you, seeping through from within. She fucks you. She psychologically fucks you. She gets in there and it feels good, but it's an invasion, an investment at the same time, one that will exhaust you and pervert you long before you've realized you're too far in to stop or even put your clothes back on.
"You're late," she purrs, lips brushing your ear from behind as her slender fingers slide upon your shoulders. Your joints are sore from the heavily loaded book bag you'd just dropped to the floor, and you unconsciously roll your shoulders under her hands in response to her touch. One reason you got sucked in this is that you've got so much tension. You've always got that tension, it's just that high-strung someone you are. Ever since the end of you and Declan there's been a void for tension relief, a pair of therapeutic hands on your skin. And ever since the end of you and Declan - because of that end - the tension has only become inflamed. Fiona just ended up being far too good at giving you a reason to believe that what she did for you (to you) was that relief. It's occurred to you that maybe it's an "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" type thing. It crossed your mind once that it's Fiona's fucked up way of actually trying to be relief.
"Sorry," you mutter, guilty at how easily you just melt under Fiona's touch and lean back into her body, like you have no dignity whatsoever. "I couldn't skip the end of study hall today, I had a lot of-"
"Whatever." Her nose brushes your neck with one dip of her head, eliciting a sigh from your mouth. "You're here now. I wasn't waiting too long."
Half of you wants to turn around and kiss her, but the other half knows you're just going to stand there and wait for her to do what she wants. It's what you've done, for the most part, for the past couple of weeks. You haven't much of a choice. Your fucked up sense of integrity forces you to stay, to make up for stealing from Fiona's bank account and repay your debt. Your even more fucked up sense of "friendship" forces you to stay and endure for sick pleasure. Because when it comes down to it, you convince yourself that you let Fiona do this because you owe her just to rationalize for the fact that you want it. It's hell to admit.
It's complete hell, this exchange, because even after several years of emotional progress you still have so much pride. You can't stand feeling like you owe anything to anyone, especially when it's because you fucked something up. Indentured servitude, its simulation is what's like cyanide to you now, and that's how Fiona is going to kill you because she's got you in this trap but you essentially got yourself there in the first place. That's the worst part. You're the one who stole from Fiona. You deserve this.
And then she's inside you, mouth focused gently on the pulse point on your collar bone, pushing within with calculated abandon. That's where and when everything starts to twist. From Fiona's nimble fingers twisting, as though connected to your stomach twisting and clenching as it sinks, to the air twisting out of your windpipe as you try to breathe, to the kaleidoscope twisting of Declan's face in and out of your mind and memory as you twist your head from side to side to try and shake the thought. Not him, not now. But if not him on your mind, then who? The one you're with now? The choices are enough to make you cry from utter frustration.
Fiona's the twisted one. She's going to kill you, after all.
But she starts out gentle, like she always does. She takes her time with your body, and she enters you slowly, sighing almost lovingly. It would be easy to believe she cares, easy to think this maybe isn't just a business exchange. You know in the back of your mind that it really isn't just that, but her soft lips on your skin make it seem almost like that other thing could be something like love.
Good thing you're smart or else you could have easily gotten lost in that misconception.
"Is that good?" Fiona growls as her teeth graze your ear, fingernails raking you from the inside so cruelly you almost cry out.
"Yeah," you pant, a half-lie. You let yourself float off from your body for a minute, to escape, and consider the question is that good. There are so many ways you could answer that. They would all be true.
Deep down, you truly hate this. But deep inside, with eager nerves and nerve endings that can't be told what to feel, you're not listening to that. The parietal lobe in your brain (P is for parietal is for pleasure, which is because of your senses, which is because of your parietal lobe) is devouring the rest of anything that could get your body to walk away. The dizzying heat pulsing on and around your center is the leash that's keeping you rooted right where you are. It's the leash that jerks you back nearly every single afternoon.
And when you come - when you get to that point where the climactic gradient from white to red is at the deepest and boldest blood point - you wonder, how is this even compensation, a punishment of any kind? You're the one whose spine curves like a high-jump pole, whose chin points to the ceiling, whose insides are flooded with deliriously perfect magma. Something that feels this good can't possibly be meant to make up a couple thousand dollars.
But afterwards you remember it's a business exchange. Just in case you'd forgotten and thought it something else, the realities rush in. Sitting there, having only to cheaply readjust your thong and smooth out your skirt like it's nothing, keeps you smart. Sitting there, realizing that all there is to do now is maybe mention work or some exam to fill this silence, keeps you smart. Sitting there, watching Fiona get up to fix her mascara and grab a bottle of Perrier, keeps you smart.
"When are they going to give you a raise at that menial job of yours?" she comments dryly as she leans against the counter, sipping on her imported French water like five minutes ago you weren't curling tight around her fingers. You're desperately trying, at least, to be a smart girl.
"You really ought to work on getting one so you can buy for yourself the accessories that match what I wear." She's behind you, dark hair tickling your shoulders as she slowly puts a necklace around your neck. Her fingers brush your skin agonizingly as she delicately does the clasp, and you're ashamed to realize that you want her all over again. Even after having fulfilled your requirement for the day.
"It's the Diamants Légers de Cartier," she says silkily, as you absently brush trembling fingers against the cool metal of the white gold pendant. This probably cost just as much as you'd taken from Fiona's bank account, if not more. It's probably more expensive than the Entrélaces from last week, though not as much as the Caresse d'Orchidées brooch from the week before.
"It's beautiful," you murmur. The urge to kiss Fiona flares up overwhelmingly again. You fuck often, but you rarely kiss.
But if you did kiss, you might end up waiting to hearing silly things like So are you. Sitting there, watching Fiona get gracefully to her feet and exit wordlessly to the kitchen, keeps you smart.
You don't know which is worse, knowing that all this is and will ever be is fucking as a business transaction, or the fact that you've gotten yourself involved in fucking as a business transaction. The former is a strain on your stupid fucking heart, and you don't even want to dwell on that. The second is poison for your pride, and sometimes you think that your pride is all you've got. It's when you're sitting here, twisting your fingers in your lap in the aftermath, that you realize that this is absolutely compensation. A punishment.
"We're going downtown," Fiona calls from the kitchen, and you hear her rummaging in her five-thousand dollar purse.
"Okay," you call back hoarsely. This you can handle better, the "purchased" friendship, because you would give it to her regardless of whether or not you owed it to her. Still, you don't want to go. You want nothing more than to go home and take a sleeping pill or two, to drift off and be alone for once. But you don't have much of a choice in the matter. You've got a duty to this girl, a debt to repay, and whether you like it or not you're kept.
It's going to be the death of you.