Eyes closed, completely vulnerable and entirely satiated. Like perfectly prepared meal in too small a portion. Fiona in bed. Everywhere else she was overstimulation. In foreplay as well. Too rough to fast too to the point about it. Rushing rushing rushing. But then contact and the pace skips a beat. The moments in between become more deliberate. When she finally lets go the suffocation of her, of Fiona, that character she plays so expertly, falls apart and se becomes more tolerable, she tolerates more. Always demanding more except in that pristine moment of orgasm. Otherwise, a competent child. A child nonetheless. Too many ideas, not enough direction if something fails to hold her interest.
Michael held her interest. Pity she couldn't hold his. Circling around back to each other. She'll watch him die. She's absolutely convinced. Or the breath will sputter out of her and litter his shirt with speckles of blood. Like speckles of blood. Neither has a conceivable way out. He'll cry, maybe. She wants him to. If it could be her blood, breath, same thing; his tears. What a pretty picture of intimacy they would make. She wants to believe her body would be a bit softer. In death she would like to be soft, feminine. There is something appealing about the feminine death, the passivity of it. So utterly in juxtaposition. A detonation gone wrong, taken out by something by but not of her hand.
'Fi, Fi, Fi..." She could smack her name from his lips. Make him sputter.
Right now all she thinks she'll manage to rip from him is an orgasm. And how utterly empty is that? Been down this road before. Men being so predictable. Touch here, make that noise in the back of your throat, but none of it is faked even as it is planned. Rolling through something. Can't say his name!
Almost lost her today. Fast and hard, too fast. Car going too fast. She's whimpering in a way that suggests discomfort. But that's what gets her off, right? Not submission but relinquishing enough control. Maybe she trusts him. Michael, Michael. Where is his name exaggerated on her lips. Touch the right places. Everything will be just fine. She's good at playing the girl. Good, bad, it's all the same. With the ability to be any woman at all, why should he want anything else? Only, perhaps, because he wants nothing at all. Too many loose strings and unforeseen consequences. Damage is done. Feet curled under her frame, perched like a bird. Nothing so fragile as a bird with her hollow bones. Fiona couldn't possibly be hollow. She falls like a lead weight upon him. Twitching. Now on her back. Fighting him on the way down. Protests faked. He can see right through her.
Orgasm is such a simple thing to achieve. And if that's all that is to transpire between them, well life would be so very simple. Work and orgasm. Those two things needn't be combined. That is not the issue at hand.
Warm, warm. Nearly like nourishment. No, nothing so nostalgic. On barren ground. The word rings in her ears despite it not being uttered. Small sacrifices. Better this way. No other way. They break each other down. Neither can be weak in such an exchange. She wants only to sleep.
Suddenly, intercourse seems such a vulgar thing. So far removed from the sleeping form next to Michael. Though her hair sticks to her back from the sweat of their shared sheets. The twitching continues. He must have been good enough.