Note: This is modeled after the last scene of the film "Besieged" (which was based on a novella by James Lasdun called "The Siege"). It's one of the most amazing movies I've seen in a while, especially the last scene. I don't own the characters or the main idea, but I took it and ran with it anyway. Plus David Thewlis rocks. Enjoy! Please read and review, but be nice - It's my first published fan fic.
"Love's Bargain Kept"
He's lying on his bed when I creep in, his breathing steadied by his slumber. The piece of paper I have scrawled my confession of love on is heavy in my hand. I bend down silently and place it under the lamp by the headboard. This done, I think of leaving him to his dreams, but I cannot resist the temptation of going through with what I had just moments before been fantasizing about. I know that it is now or never. In the morning my husband will be on the doorstep of the villa I share with Mr. Kinsky.
He's laying on top of the covers, passed out, still wearing his shoes. I pad to the end of the bed, and my deft fingers reach out to untie his laces and pull off his shoes one by one. He stirs slightly but doesn't wake up, the steadiness of his breath hardly interrupted. What is he dreaming about? I think. My eyes flicker over his handsome face as I come back around to the side of the bed. He has a sharp prominent nose and a generous mouth that a romantic such as myself fancies is created solely for kissing. Shaking, my fingers reach down to undo the buttons of his blood red shirt, parting the fabric to reveal the glory of his ivory flesh. I suck in my breath at his skin's beauty.
Clutching my sarong around my breasts, I walk around to the other side of the bed and lay down beside him, propping my head up so that I can look down at him, my crooked elbow on the pillow. Yes, he's beautiful, I think again. Slowly, cautiously, I fold my leg over his. I lean forward and kiss his slack hand, lacing his slender fingers with my own. He stirs in his sleep and shifts his body to meet my embrace, our thighs and the kinks of our knees meeting. He moves his face towards mine, our foreheads touching intimately and then his golden eyelashes flutter open like angel wings to reveal the brilliant blue of his eyes.
"Hi," he whispers.
The silence of the room is deafening. One could hear a pin drop.
"Hi," I reply. My fingers are quivering frantically as they reach out to touch his face, tracing the lines of his cheekbone, the curve of his chin. I lean forward slowly and take his mouth, that beautiful mouth, with my own. He is shaking too as he takes my hand and squeezes it, his lips opening over mine so that our tongues can take part in the kiss. In my mind his music has begun to play as real as if it emanates from the music room nearby, as clear as if he is not here kissing me but actually playing the piano across the hallway. Then I remember that the piano is gone. He has sold it along with many of his other prized possessions in order to procure my husband's freedom.
I undo the knot of my sarong and reach for his hand. I press his fingers against my naked breast, coaxing him to knead it, my breath quickening beneath his ministrations. He bends down and kisses my right nipple, taking it between his lips expertly so that it puckers. I moan very softly as if I still fear waking him from his dreams, my fingers ruffling the feather soft hair at the base of his skull as he feeds on my breast.
"Let me undress you," I whisper, my hands reaching to push the black coat off of his broad shoulders before moving to the blood red shirt. I expose his naked skin to my greedy eyes cautiously, as if I am afraid of seeing some mysterious malady that he has hidden from me up until now with his clothing. But he is so smooth, I think. So smooth. My fingers trail down his white flesh in awe. He is like those milk white marble statues that he has sold to the auctioneer's block. I am so in love, I think. So in love with this body. So in love with this man.
He moves the dress away from my body and places it to the side, his hands careful as they glide across my ribs, my abdomen and hips as if he is memorizing a piece of divine music. He kisses my neck as I reach between his legs and touch his clothed sex. He grunts softly as I massage his cock over the fabric of his black slacks, my mouth hastily finding his, kissing him deeply and passionately.
I want to tell him that I love him. I want to open the shutters of the windows and scream it to all of Italy.
My hands reach for his belt, undoing it excitedly before ripping open the button and zipper of his slacks. He shifts on the bed, removing his pants and throwing them on the floor. His sex is beautiful, thick and swelling up from the light hairs of his pubis, a grand instrument of desire. He takes my hand and coaxes me to straddle his lean body. He is inside of me in one swift movement, both of our breaths caught in their respective throats.
We make love like it is our last day on earth.
I awake early in his bed. The sun is just rising. My eyes are weary as they shoot open, regarding the ceiling of the alien bedroom that surrounds me. I have cleaned this bedroom many times, picking up his clothes and his half-finished pieces of sheet music, even climbing under the bed to get a carelessly discarded shoe. Still the room is strange; sleeping in it and certainly making love in it seemed before last night to be somehow sacrilegious.
I am thinking about my husband, about how dark his skin and eyes are in comparison with the Englishman lying beside me. Tears are flowing down my caramel cheeks without any effort on my part to stop them. Why shouldn't I cry? My lover's arm is brawny compared to my tiny body, a great white appendage draped over my breasts protectively and possessively. My eyes continue to stare at the ceiling as he stirs. He has picked up my love note, and he is looking at it, reading it for the first time. Mr. Kinksy, I love you. He already knows this truth, of course. We are beyond words now. The silence is not uncomfortable.
Downstairs on the doorstep my husband is standing. He has wrung the bell. I can see him in my mind's eye, tall and emaciated from the political prison where they no doubt fed him only gruel and dirty water. His bag is tattered, second-hand and worn. His fedora hat is crumpled. You can see the bones in his back beneath the long coat, protruding menacingly.
My lover turns his head to face me, his blue eyes darker in this new day light. The doorbell rings again. I am crying. His strong hand dances up to stroke the line of my clavicle. He says very softly, "I will not let you go."
I have never felt such pain, I think. Even when they took my husband off to prison and I saw the car driving away, not knowing if he would live or die. That scene I bore with an accepting resilience, but my lover's eyes looking at me inquisitively I could not take. He was daring me.
Somehow in the course of the night we wound up at the other end of the bed, our feet facing the headboard. We are wrapped in the fabric of my small sarong so that naked patches of skin remain uncovered suggestively, the scene both erotic and cinematic. The covers are strewn about on the floor along with his clothes.
The door bell rings a third time. I have ceased crying because he has kissed all of my tears away. I am resolving myself to the fate he has demanded of me with those light eyes, those generous lips. He has freed my husband from the prison in order to drive the point home that he loves me, that he told the truth all along, and I dare not dispute it now.
And now I am his.
He's kissing me with that mouth. Oh, I cannot resist this. God forgive me. His body is overpowering and bruising as it seizes mine, his slender hands pushing my wrists down against the mattress of the bed. I am his prisoner. I am his captive now.
He kisses me again with that mouth. "Tell me," he whispers.
"I belong to you," I reply. Again we kiss.
The door bell has stopped ringing.
"Love's Bargain Kept"
He's lying on his bed when I creep in, his breathing steadied by his slumber. The piece of paper I have scrawled my confession of love on is heavy in my hand. I bend down silently and place it under the lamp by the headboard. This done, I think of leaving him to his dreams, but I cannot resist the temptation of going through with what I had just moments before been fantasizing about. I know that it is now or never. In the morning my husband will be on the doorstep of the villa I share with Mr. Kinsky.
He's laying on top of the covers, passed out, still wearing his shoes. I pad to the end of the bed, and my deft fingers reach out to untie his laces and pull off his shoes one by one. He stirs slightly but doesn't wake up, the steadiness of his breath hardly interrupted. What is he dreaming about? I think. My eyes flicker over his handsome face as I come back around to the side of the bed. He has a sharp prominent nose and a generous mouth that a romantic such as myself fancies is created solely for kissing. Shaking, my fingers reach down to undo the buttons of his blood red shirt, parting the fabric to reveal the glory of his ivory flesh. I suck in my breath at his skin's beauty.
Clutching my sarong around my breasts, I walk around to the other side of the bed and lay down beside him, propping my head up so that I can look down at him, my crooked elbow on the pillow. Yes, he's beautiful, I think again. Slowly, cautiously, I fold my leg over his. I lean forward and kiss his slack hand, lacing his slender fingers with my own. He stirs in his sleep and shifts his body to meet my embrace, our thighs and the kinks of our knees meeting. He moves his face towards mine, our foreheads touching intimately and then his golden eyelashes flutter open like angel wings to reveal the brilliant blue of his eyes.
"Hi," he whispers.
The silence of the room is deafening. One could hear a pin drop.
"Hi," I reply. My fingers are quivering frantically as they reach out to touch his face, tracing the lines of his cheekbone, the curve of his chin. I lean forward slowly and take his mouth, that beautiful mouth, with my own. He is shaking too as he takes my hand and squeezes it, his lips opening over mine so that our tongues can take part in the kiss. In my mind his music has begun to play as real as if it emanates from the music room nearby, as clear as if he is not here kissing me but actually playing the piano across the hallway. Then I remember that the piano is gone. He has sold it along with many of his other prized possessions in order to procure my husband's freedom.
I undo the knot of my sarong and reach for his hand. I press his fingers against my naked breast, coaxing him to knead it, my breath quickening beneath his ministrations. He bends down and kisses my right nipple, taking it between his lips expertly so that it puckers. I moan very softly as if I still fear waking him from his dreams, my fingers ruffling the feather soft hair at the base of his skull as he feeds on my breast.
"Let me undress you," I whisper, my hands reaching to push the black coat off of his broad shoulders before moving to the blood red shirt. I expose his naked skin to my greedy eyes cautiously, as if I am afraid of seeing some mysterious malady that he has hidden from me up until now with his clothing. But he is so smooth, I think. So smooth. My fingers trail down his white flesh in awe. He is like those milk white marble statues that he has sold to the auctioneer's block. I am so in love, I think. So in love with this body. So in love with this man.
He moves the dress away from my body and places it to the side, his hands careful as they glide across my ribs, my abdomen and hips as if he is memorizing a piece of divine music. He kisses my neck as I reach between his legs and touch his clothed sex. He grunts softly as I massage his cock over the fabric of his black slacks, my mouth hastily finding his, kissing him deeply and passionately.
I want to tell him that I love him. I want to open the shutters of the windows and scream it to all of Italy.
My hands reach for his belt, undoing it excitedly before ripping open the button and zipper of his slacks. He shifts on the bed, removing his pants and throwing them on the floor. His sex is beautiful, thick and swelling up from the light hairs of his pubis, a grand instrument of desire. He takes my hand and coaxes me to straddle his lean body. He is inside of me in one swift movement, both of our breaths caught in their respective throats.
We make love like it is our last day on earth.
I awake early in his bed. The sun is just rising. My eyes are weary as they shoot open, regarding the ceiling of the alien bedroom that surrounds me. I have cleaned this bedroom many times, picking up his clothes and his half-finished pieces of sheet music, even climbing under the bed to get a carelessly discarded shoe. Still the room is strange; sleeping in it and certainly making love in it seemed before last night to be somehow sacrilegious.
I am thinking about my husband, about how dark his skin and eyes are in comparison with the Englishman lying beside me. Tears are flowing down my caramel cheeks without any effort on my part to stop them. Why shouldn't I cry? My lover's arm is brawny compared to my tiny body, a great white appendage draped over my breasts protectively and possessively. My eyes continue to stare at the ceiling as he stirs. He has picked up my love note, and he is looking at it, reading it for the first time. Mr. Kinksy, I love you. He already knows this truth, of course. We are beyond words now. The silence is not uncomfortable.
Downstairs on the doorstep my husband is standing. He has wrung the bell. I can see him in my mind's eye, tall and emaciated from the political prison where they no doubt fed him only gruel and dirty water. His bag is tattered, second-hand and worn. His fedora hat is crumpled. You can see the bones in his back beneath the long coat, protruding menacingly.
My lover turns his head to face me, his blue eyes darker in this new day light. The doorbell rings again. I am crying. His strong hand dances up to stroke the line of my clavicle. He says very softly, "I will not let you go."
I have never felt such pain, I think. Even when they took my husband off to prison and I saw the car driving away, not knowing if he would live or die. That scene I bore with an accepting resilience, but my lover's eyes looking at me inquisitively I could not take. He was daring me.
Somehow in the course of the night we wound up at the other end of the bed, our feet facing the headboard. We are wrapped in the fabric of my small sarong so that naked patches of skin remain uncovered suggestively, the scene both erotic and cinematic. The covers are strewn about on the floor along with his clothes.
The door bell rings a third time. I have ceased crying because he has kissed all of my tears away. I am resolving myself to the fate he has demanded of me with those light eyes, those generous lips. He has freed my husband from the prison in order to drive the point home that he loves me, that he told the truth all along, and I dare not dispute it now.
And now I am his.
He's kissing me with that mouth. Oh, I cannot resist this. God forgive me. His body is overpowering and bruising as it seizes mine, his slender hands pushing my wrists down against the mattress of the bed. I am his prisoner. I am his captive now.
He kisses me again with that mouth. "Tell me," he whispers.
"I belong to you," I reply. Again we kiss.
The door bell has stopped ringing.