Desideratum
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He's back. Did you hear? He's back again. That guy. Her john. The freak.
The whispers chase her along the corridor, heads turn, chins lower passing judgement. Poor thing. Lucky girl. It's one and the same depending on how you look at it. Eyes sear her as she hurries past, tucking a stray tendril behind one ear, drawing the sash a little tighter about her waist. Her hand at last is on the doorknob, one deep breath and she's inside.
The corner where he sits is dark; the head of the cheap bedside lamp twisted outward on its flexible stem, a spotlight, the centre of the room now centre stage. Only his hands and the dark leather of his boots are visible, the rest of him an deeper outline within the gloom.
She takes her place in the halo of light, shaking the shiny, chestnut hair around her shoulders, her dark eyes shuttered, awaiting his command.
"Show me."
The curtain rises, the robe falling at her feet. The 40-watt bulb gives her skin a creamy sheen, the small, high breasts winning a smothered gasp from within the shadows.
"Touch yourself."
She knows the drill, takes it slowly, her fingertips circling the areolas only at the last, when the knuckles of his hands are white against the wooden armrests of his seat.
"Tell me that you love me." The voice is raw and he leans forward, just a little, almost as if he's afraid she might refuse him.
"I love you," she says, her fingers caught amongst the curls that show she's legal.
"My name." His hands grip a little tighter. "Say my name."
His intensity is thrilling, even to her, and she's panting, not sure now how counterfeit the sticky, wetness between her thighs. "Mick," she says, her voice high and breathless. "I love you, Mick."
Even in the dark she can see his shoulders tremble as she says it and she knows what's coming next, what he can never stop from coming next.
"Now tell me to go and fuck myself."
She may not understand them but she knows the lines too well and her voice hardens as she speaks them, her shoulders straightening, her eyes narrowing, her demeanour glacial, contemptuous.
"Go fuck yourself, Mick. You're not a man, you're a weakling, a nothing, a self-righteous fool who can't even get hard anymore unless he's with a human. You disgust me, you worthless, mortal-loving coward, you - "
The groan that sounds from the dark never fails to touch her and she steps forward as the role demands and threads her slender fingers through his wavy hair. Large hands slide around her tiny waist and he sobs, just once, into her belly. Ice-cold tears trickle into the tangle of her pubic hair.
"Coraline," he whispers then. "Coraline."
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