JP: While this entire story is rated Teen, this chapter does include a M/F dalliance, which is intended for character development and crucial for the next pairing, and may even have a trigger moment for some, just a head's up! Otherwise for the non-prudes out there - enjoy some steam!
Chapter Eight: Make A Man Out Of You
Forest Woods, Ivy University
August 27, 2013
He pulled her face up to his with one of his hands, his kisses urgent. Like he hadn't kissed a in girl ages and he needed it like he needed air to breath. His other hand ran over her collarbone to her décolletage area, caressing her skin with the pads of his fingers with astonishingly seductive precision.
If you were into that sort of thing. Which she most certainly wasn't.
Never had been, never would be.
Like all the others, this besotted fool was merely the ends to justify the means.
Or in this case, the new future keeper of the necklace she needed him to stash for her, a slightly daunting feat, as thus far, they'd only exchanged some lightly flirtatious banter in the university library for approximately the past half hour…Hence her coyly leading him for this forest rendezvous behind the school, which was where the two were now making out like bandits.
It was the perfect place for this illicit tryst, or, to put it more delicately, for them to, as she'd sweetly suggested, "Continue their delightful conversation and get to know one another better, privately."
Getting to know his privates would have to be part of that action plan!
Desperate times called for desperate measures, and she dreadfully needed to secure his unwavering devotion, and in the best, most infallible way she knew how…by allowing her beguiling beauty to speak in the universal language that all male play-things fell victim to due to their ever-raging libidos.
She despised breaking in untrained virgins, but a man of more worldly experience with the fairer sex undoubtedly wouldn't have been seduced this easily by her feminine wiles. This specific loser had folded like a bad poker hand, with merely some heaping flattery and coquettish eyelash batting!
Because no man alive could resist Dahlia Lilith Hawthorne.
The one exception of course, would be that nosy Diego Armando. He was obviously loyal to that overly busty-bitch, Mia Fey. But look where that had gotten him in the end!
If only the defense attorney had been like all the others, and simply acquiesced to her whims in the first place! Had that been the case, she wouldn't have been left with no choice but to resort to plan B: their fateful, innocuous coffee date…
Phoenix's hands were now roaming over her chest, almost hesitantly, and she pressed it firmly into the questing path of his digits, an unpredicted contented sigh escaping her, as his ministrations weren't entirely unpleasant.
I hate to admit it, but this guy seems to have a certain gift for knowing what a girl wants, when, how and where. If I didn't know better, I'd think he'd used those seemingly skilled hands for things other than painting…or on himself!
He moved his lips down her neck, down the bodice of her dress, lifting the skirt to stroke her inner thigh while his mouth continued to devour her throat, and she emitted a slight whimper of pleasure.
"Mmm, I love the sounds you make, my sweet Dollie." His breath was warm against her ear, jolting her from savoring the sensations he was arousing within her.
Ugh, I hate sappy talk! The doofus just had to ruin it didn't he? Just as well. Mustn't lose focus of the end goal…
"Talk is cheap, Feenie, wouldn't you say?" She murmured silkily, while expertly divesting him of his polo and skillfully unzipping his fly, feeling a jolt of surprise, in spite of herself, at what she'd unveiled. "I'm more a girl of action."
Well, what do we have here? Guess the geek's nowhere near as scrawny under that baggy shirt as I'd thought. Who'd have known an art student wouldn't be purely skin and bones, but instead actually have some sculpted shape going on?!
Dahlia ran her palms hand over his defined chest and kissed his neck, then nipped his collar bone as her hand slipped lower, tracing his six pack, before heading further south. He shivered at her touch, making her smile against his skin.
This is more like it! They're supposed to be putty in my hands, not vice versa!
He hastily shoved the front of her dress down to her waist, so her white mounds were now uncovered for the touch of his fervent hands.
She tried not to moan her enjoyment as he lowered his head to plant kisses over her neck and shoulders, and jolted slightly as his inexperienced caresses grew bolder. In an embarrassed effort to mask the sound, she quickly wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss, nibbling slightly at his lips, then moving to his throat. He seemed to enjoy it immensely when she gently nipped and sucked at his neck.
Without warning, he lunged at her, pushing her back against the sycamore tree behind them. She gasped at the jarring stab of sharp bark against her naked back, but momentarily forgot the discomfort as he lowered his lips to trail them over her bared bosom. As she writhed in his arms, he continued lavishing attention to that area, blowing cool air on the hypersensitive flesh made moist by his eager mouth, making her tingle and arch her back.
Dahlia's unplanned responsiveness resulted in the feeling him being the one to smile against her skin this time.
"You're so beautiful, Dollie," he whispered dotingly. "You look like a painting."
She kept her voice as sweet as honey to mask her irritation at his lame attempts to make this romantic. He was her pawn, her prey. This clandestine affair was merely additional insurance to ensure the deal was sealed. Nothing more.
"How about we keep savoring that sexy silence, Feenie?"
The spiky-haired student grinned at her like a goofy, lovesick puppy and nodded his obedience, then resumed pressing his heated lips against her flushed cleavage. The redhead rocked her hips a little, as her encaged position against the sycamore didn't allow much scope to move, and reached down to stroke his flat stomach, drawing circles on the side of his abs were he seemed to be little bit ticklish, resulting in him bury his lips against her neck while lightly biting, making her audibly gasp.
This vampire boy had best not give me a hickey!
The seductress pulled him in closer so their forms were pressed tighter together, and her stinging back was slightly lifted off the tree trunk. She kissed her way up his neck, running her hands through the black spikes, which were surprisingly softer than they looked, and he groaned blissfully. He stepped forward slightly so she was pressed back against the tree and grinded his pelvis against her.
She bit his earlobe, a little harder than needed, and drew circles on it with the tip of her tongue, and the next thing she knew, while Phoenix's not-exactly-manicured nails zealously ripped at her sheer pantyhose, then tore off her wispy panties.
His hands, his soft, art student hands, gripped her forcefully by the hips, exactly where it mattered, exactly where some demonic set of nerve receptors she had been till now only semi-aware of having, waiting to be found and used like buttons on a game controller. It was impossible for her to know if it was him moving or if she was doing it herself.
Not that it was a distinction to be lingered on till much later, of course, if at all, although in some circles, it'd be held to be something of a big deal…
Suddenly, Dahlia was shoved forcefully back against the gnarled, twisted tree trunk again as he hitched one of her knees over his hip while he pushed the skirt of her dress up to her waist, before reaching around her back and lifting her effortlessly. She deftly wrapped her legs around his waist as he positioned himself against her womanhood.
"Are you ready, Dollie?" he asked softly, his smitten gaze never leaving her face.
Am I supposed to be thinking this is sweet, him asking? If only he knew I'm still tight, so it does hurts a bit if I'm not loosened up. I do pelvic floor exercises to keep it that way, as I don't want my body to show signs of the activities it participates in on a nearly daily basis. So because Feenie dearest hasn't preemptively loosened me with those impossibly soft fingers, he's probably just checking that it's not going to hurt me. If it does, I have zero qualms biting or scratching him in return!
She nodded her head in muted assent.
Both of his hands dropped to her backside, lifting her higher until he found her entrance, teasing her with the promise of filling her completely, and then he joined them, with so little inconvenience that she realized she must have actually been turned on by his neophyte lips and hands, without even realizing it.
Luckily he's not as big as some guys I've been with, although considerably still larger than average.
Phoenix eased himself forward, moving very gently to allow her to adjust to him, but since it was her reflex to clench herself tightly every time, she still winced slightly at the intimate invasion.
What do you know? The little dweeb isn't exactly cursed by nature…at least, not size wise! And what he might lack in expertise, he's sure making up for with vigorous enthusiasm!
Her long ago perfected capability to mentally disengage her mind from her body, and keep them as two entirely separate entities so she could remain coolly detached from the coitus itself, and all accompanying impressions, was not working this time.
This one was ensuring she remained in the moment with him.
He groaned loudly and moved his head to roughly capture her lips with his, mashing them against hers, forcing them to respond. He put his hand on her chin and pulled her jaw down so she'd part her lips to allow entrance for his plundering tongue. As it entered her mouth, she gently sucked on it with precise expertise. He nibbled on her lower lip and bit it, then drew back and stared searchingly into her eyes.
Phoenix's dark blue orbs were swirling with lust, desire, and helplessly undisguised ardor. They were intense and smoldering. She don't want to look at them too much. His eyes probed hers, as if looking for signs of something, although she wasn't sure she wanted to know what. She dropped her glance, not liking the intensity of his stare.
His gaze is slightly unnerving, I've seen that look before; all these hopelessly enamored men, wanting more than I can give, and I don't like it.
Not wanting to regard that lovesick expression anymore, she wondered if it was too late to somehow ask if there was any way for him to turn her the other way, and take her from behind instead. Most men had no objections to this, as it made them go deeper and harder, and she then wouldn't have to kiss them or look at them, and she could even take care of herself with her own dainty fingertips if she so desired, since none of the other boorish brutes she'd known were capable of it, all of them too wrapped up in their own selfish pleasure.
To be fair, if any of them had desired to be solicitous, it wasn't like she would've ever allowed it! Sex was nothing more than a game, where she was sole predator and men were the prey, and she refused to give no man any sort of domination over her by letting them give her release.
Control was power, something that was exclusively Dahlia's, and hers alone, to wield over these creatures, these stupidly infatuated men. All of them were naught more than penises that could talk; her playthings to ensnare in her clutches and bend to her every will and need.
Phoenix increased his speed and pants. Almost on their own accord, she ran her hands down his toned back, digging her nails in a little, to scratch him, mimicking the brash tree trunk jutting into her back and shoulder blades with each movement, the agony of the rough texture against her delicate skin forgotten in the heat of the moment, because he felt too good to think of anything but the fullness of him as he receded, and then kept filling her again and again and again. In this glorious, yet acrobatic, position, he rubbed against her deepest, innermost places, with unforeseen gratification triggering each penetrating movement. Her arms began to tremble with fatigue as she clung tightly to his shoulders, but subconsciously, she didn't want him to stop just yet. Not when she was so close…
No! Her breath caught with shock in her throat. This can't happen! I mustn't allow it! I can't let myself ever lose the power of having the upper hand…
A low snarl emanated from her throat as her traitorous body let her mind know she was fighting a losing battle.
"Oh. Oh. Oh, yes," her vocalizations grew louder and needier with each gyration. Her excitement and hedonism built and built and built, and then something happened which never had before.
Dahlia Hawthorne lost all control. Of her mind, her senses, and her body…all at the same time.
She experienced something which dozens, no, countless men had failed to give her. There was a burst of light, and she felt herself entering a kind of black hole in her soul, in which intense pain and fear of the unfamiliar sensation mingled with total bliss, pushing her beyond all previously known limits.
Her back arched and she tensed around him. There was the painful scraping of the tender flesh on her back against the sharp bark, coupled with the unanticipated, unadulterated carnality of the act as he kept pressing on, while her rapturous cries came flooding out of her mouth, her pores, her eyes, and her skin.
Her unhinged obscenities echoed loudly against the high treetops in the otherwise stillness of the woods, yet she was unable to stop herself from the euphoric shrieking, not until her throat was dry and raw.
Phoenix's hips gave a final jerk as his own release followed hers, then he held still, waiting for her to regain her bearings.
"Wow," he murmured against her throat, and Dahlia silently echoed his sentiment, even though she would have rather died than admit it!
She still couldn't fathom how such a thing had happened!
Long moments passed where they both tried to catch their breaths. When her body relaxed, he drew back, she unlocked her ankles, and then he squatted and lowered her feet to the ground. The moment he stepped away from her, reality hit her like a slap in the face, and along with it came a heaping dose of the shame she could feel scorching her cheeks as she trailed a limp hand down her visage.
"Are you OK, my sweet Dollie?" He asked tenderly, looking remorseful as he noticed the angry red scratches and bruises forming on her ivory shoulders. "I'm sorry if I didn't take it as easy as I should have….it's been awhile for me! But…wow, right?"
What the hell? Awhile?! The wimpy little geek wasn't a virgin?! This wasn't merely beginner's luck? I had him pegged all wrong?! How could that be?! Grrr…I think I want to kill him even more now…and I would, if I didn't need him still!
"You could say that." She plastered a saccharine smile on her lips and laughed, somewhat maniacally. "Yes, Wow, Feenie. That was…"
"…Magical. It was the most perfect moment of my life. I'm glad it was good for you, too." His cheeks colored with embarrassment as he painfully stretched his arms. "Can you stand? I didn't think I could hold you that way much longer. I was getting tired. I guess I need to work out more – lift something heavier than paint brushes! Heh, heh."
Most guys couldn't hold me like that for fifteen seconds much less fifteen minutes! But I refuse to give him any more of an ego boost. The first time in my life when I haven't needed to fake it and it was with … this dweeb?!
Self-conscious now, she used the heavy trunk to pull herself fully back her feet and looked away as she quickly tugged the top of her dress back into place and unrolled the skirt, which had been bunched at her waist. Now that their mutual itch had been scratched, she had no idea what to do or how to proceed, and he didn't seem inclined to dispel the awkwardness and uncertainty settling over her while he made some clothing adjustments of his own.
She reached down for her parasol, keeping her burning face turned away, while hoping he'd get the hint and give her some space.
Instead he snaked his arms around her waist and kissed his way up her neck.
Despite the liason they'd just shared, she stiffened at the personal touch.
I mean don't get me wrong, I suppose this feels nice, but the lovey dovey crap that people expect after sex just makes it harder to distance yourself from the emotional side of it. No one can hurt you if you detach yourself from everything and avoid becoming emotionally invested in anyone. That's why I don't do snuggles. After the feeling of ecstasy, I don't want to feel lust or that fake feeling of love. I want to relish in the high I get from having sex and nothing more - not be reminded of what else they want from me, and what I don't want from them... and refuse to give them! Especially this one, whom I despise more than the rest, for making my own body betray me like that!
What had just happened to her in response a lover wasn't like her in the least, but it was impossible to ignore the tiny thrill of excitement that slid up her spine that because of her body betraying her in such a manner, she had experienced uninhibited ecstasy with a partner for the first time in her life.
Right now, if she was going to keep the police off her trail, she had to forget about basking in the afterglow, as she had some serious simpering and convincing to do with her latest conquest now that she'd sweetened the pot.
The unbridled fury and self-loathing for this would come later.
Dahlia Hawthorne's Journal
August 28, 2013
The good news is with my surefire "honeypot" method, I got the doofus to take the necklace! Good ol' Feenie never knew what hit him, and now dopily thinks that we're an item, simply because we canoodled in the woods! Normally I would laugh at such a pathetic, simple naïveté, about how he presumptuously assumes that just because he brought me where no man has ever brought me before, it means that I know belong to him and will be eagerly back for more! Sure I told him as much, but that's hardly the point!
The infuriated siren tapped the ball point pen against her teeth with a sharp clacking sound, lost in contemplation as she tried to compose her scrambled thoughts.
The thing is, I still can't understand how I let such a thing happen. It's not as if I merely finished up with a tiny ripple – because the extent of the explosion I experienced would have topped the Richter scale!
I still hate myself for that – for allowing it to happen – almost more than I loathe him for making my own body turn against me!
How I could've possibly lost such control? Aside from the still raw, physical welts on my back from it getting up so up close and personal with that accursed tree trunk, which the overly enthusiastic idiot repeatedly pummeled me against, my so-called new boyfriend left another kind of lingering mark on me as well – in my mind – and it's driving me absolutely crazy! None of the others were like this in the least!
It's not like the dweeb was only at half-mast and he thrashed around wildly inside me, hoping I wouldn't notice, and the end result was the usual aching lady parts. I've gotten used to this with all the others, and somehow even found it pleasing; it meant once I'd gotten him to do whatever I needed him to do, I'd be able to get free of him now; I thought, so long as he isn't a good lay, I'll be able to forget him.
The more forgettable, the less regrettable. It's always been my motto. So many men that were plagued with premature ejaculation, impotence, and other sexual dysfunctions…and of course, some were just so flat out laughable, I couldn't forget them for the life of me!
I remember vividly how pitiful Terry Fawles was. He made it very clear I was his first, despite being six years my senior. That retarded loser was also pathetically shy, so it was almost touching. He liked to leave the lights off and reach for me under the covers, as if we were doing something that had to be kept secret. He'd buried his face in my chest, mumbling my name over and over again while he rubbed against my leg as I felt his fat, bloated man thing bumping me clumsily.
It made me think of a Newfoundland puppy, a creature whose gawky, immature, undisciplined behavior was completely inappropriate to its size.
He'd spend ages paying too much attention to my breasts and not much else – that overgrown adolescent, sucking, but too hard, making me sore and angry. But as soon as those thoughts passed through my mind, they were drowned out by a roar of remorse. So I'd just lay there, moving my body lightly, trying to set off a spark, something that I, or, less likely, he, could fan into a flame. Terry was in for the long haul at my chest. He was hesitant, always had been, about touching me anywhere below the waist, as if it might be a disrespectful to do so…
Then of course there was Doug Swallow. That stuck-up, British Wannabe ...Minute Man!
In his dorm room, he used his hands to hold my head, moved it with deliberate but tempered force— far more than a suggestion— from a spot on his neck to his chest to himself. He kept his hands pressed firmly to my ears, then played with strands of my hair. That was his idea of foreplay. Despite being lame in the sack, for some reason, he was so damn cocksure...so sure of himself!
I recall how I felt the same taut, sure strength in his hips as they pressed into me, forcing me to press back.… With his hips, he pulled me along to the edge of sensation, and then let me pull back ever so slightly, and back and forth and back and forth. I always felt as if I were getting ready for a dive, jumping up and down on the end of the diving board to get a feel for the springs. Tighter than I'd expected. Nevertheless, I never offered any resistance, and feigned as though I'd finished right before he did. Then he'd catch his breath – that 60 seconds of activity obviously exerted him! – and pull the covers back up, before kissing me on the cheek, a quick good-night kiss, then rolled over and slept by himself, not even noticing as I crept out of the room.
I'm sure that Anglophile loves to tell people he broke up with me! But the truth was, he cried like a bitch once I'd gotten what I needed from him and told him it was over. He wept like an infant, as if he hoped to sway me with his tears.
I can't abide to see a man cry. Weak. Pathetic. Loser. As I took my eyes off him, he crumpled. How could he expect me to love him when he wore his heart on his sleeve like a goddamn girl?! No balls, none whatsoever. I let my eyes flick briefly back to his reddened face – it nearly matched his hair – and his expression was just as forlorn as my weak-willed sister's the day she and I parted ways. I remember how my phone pinged to remind me of my manicure. I let out a hefty sigh and flicked my hair over my shoulder. "It's over, Dougie. Don't call me again. I like a clean cut. Done is done. K?"
Did he really think I'd have an attachment to him merely because I'd let him have what he thought was sex with me?!
I've learned long that sleeping with a man was something strictly for his enjoyment, and it was something I'd long ago learned to endure, because a few moments of tending to their primal urges had gotten me through a lifetime of eagerly bequeathed favors from the male gender, all leaping to do my every desire.
This son-of-a-bitch Phoenix Wright...He somehow messed up my entire operation. He was different. His hands…I can't get them out of my mind. They were tender…sensual. They weren't oversized and clumsy, like Terry's. Or stiff and mechanical like Doug's. Or cold and rough, like my father's…
Dammit! I can't venture down this path again, or how this nightmare all began because that sick bastard left me no alternative but to be resorted to jewel thievery and conspiracy, just to get the hell out of that house!
The bottom line is, if I ever set eyes on Phoenix Wright again…
I. Will. Fucking. Kill. Him.
Of course, this just won't do, since I need to lay low, what with the whole Diego incident. Also, you know, because a lot of people still think I'm dead!
But ultimately, I don't trust myself around that artsy geek. The mere notion of allowing him to seduce me ...Touch me again and throw all inhibition out the window once more makes me recoil faster than a snapped high-tension spring!
And yet, I know I need to see him again, since I've got to get that necklace back! The question is, how?!
Dahlia looked up from her desk and caught sight of her angry reflection in the vanity mirror next to it, noticing the glimmer of fiery hatred glowing in her dark orbs as she thought of her latest lover/obstacle. With a smirk, she suddenly changed tactics entirely, and rearranged her features into the docile mask which brought all men to their knees.
Immediately, her hostile visage was replaced with a serene, angelic one, and she lowered her gaze demurely, in the same manner she had seen her sister do on countless occasions.
Of course, when her meek, mild-mannered, identical twin bore the same expression, it was actually genuine.
A cruel, supercilious smiled played on the titian-haired girl's full lips, and giggling manically to herself, she resumed penning the diary entry.
Iris. Of course. Why didn't I think of my living, breathing mirror reflection before? I know she'll help me out. After all, I unwittingly did her a favor by allowing her to be spared by having her sent away from father's Hellacious House of Horrors to Hazakura Temple. That girl OWES ME.
And after all, what are sisters for?
JP - Sincerest thanks to Napoleon32 for sharing his head-canon with me about the possibility that Dahlia's intense hatred for her father may have stemmed from some sort of abuse at his hands, which psychologically, would also explain her need to dominate yet be so dismissive of men and be so promiscuous at such a young age - like being with a man 6 years her senior at 14!
