::: CHAPTER SEVENTEEN :::
I wanted to use my delicate hand to wipe away the look of insanity in Riddick's now glowing eyes. Too bad Riddick had my arms pinned down along with my crazy rationality. I squirmed in his grasp, making little whimpering noises just for show.
I felt like an oozing substance, particularly the type in needles that is discarded -- for a purpose, of course . . . but still . . . discarded . . . completely and utterly disregarded. It was pain -- raw and unforgiving and not surprisingly I was feeling all hot and bothered because of it.
Pushing against Riddick's iron hold, I touched my legs to his. I rubbed up and down, creating tense friction. A pink bubble gum painted illusion it was.
Riddick growled towards my vicinity and spun me quite quickly to face the wall. I was pushed roughly against it, and my right hand raised up and slammed next to my head to keep me from feeling the full impact. As he pushed against my back, stabilizing my slightly wobbly legs, I couldn't resist throwing a crack at him while remembering his submerging, yet resurrecting, words from before:
"You wanted me dead, Jack? Well, I've just died . . . again, and it feels good to be back."
I laughed out loud at my own private joke. "Gee, Riddick, you die a lot."
The words left my lips and Riddick's hand tapped me on the head, almost causing me to bite my tongue. The smacks didn't stop. His heavy hand landed blows to my neck and back while I just stood as still as possible.
In my opinion, he was hurting flesh . . . skin . . . but definitely not me. Keeping my composure made him think I was a pushover. That was a facade. I was a realist in every sense of the word. Grace covered up my superb sense of intuition and self-assurance. I knew more than Riddick would ever admit to anyone . . . especially himself.
I knew what his eyes looked like at that moment . . . like mockingbirds caught in a cage. I knew what his lips wanted to whisper . . . . I want you to bleed, Jack. I even knew what his demand was . . . . He wanted us to be even. And then the clashing would stop. Too bad he didn't know that no matter how much of an upper hand I stole, I would always find something new to hate to love . . . and that just made me want to own it or crumple it. Either way it was too stifling for him. I had always had a rigid view of how things should be. Strange, but true: Bad luck made me into a strategist . . . expect the worst . . . hope for the "okay." Funny, like weeping stars that drop milky splotches to the ground only to feed deeper roots that bloom daisies.
Riddick tapped my spinal cord . . . like he had done this sort of thing before . . . only he hadn't. He pinched my neck and twisted long fingers in my short hair. I just knew that it must have taken the power of ten panthers to keep him from really injuring my body and tarnishing my already faded spirit. His blows were littered with balance and control from his side; they didn't hurt. But still . . . .
By giving into those dark instincts, he just gave me more power. I just stood as still as possible.
He twisted my left hand behind my back, and my cheek turned to face the cold, steel wall. And I just stood as still as possible.
I was becoming good at being a statue. My insides were already rock. Why not fuse together the outer with the inner?
And soon, as I knew he would, Riddick tired himself out and was calmed down by his own surrender to animal instincts. Although what he had done was purely nonsexual, I wanted to turn it into something much more sinister and damaging to Riddick's morality.
I leaned against his steady chest and turned my eyes, under wisps of hair, to his deadly calm face. I blew each word out like a perfumed cloud.
"I never knew you liked it rough." Puff of air here . . . puff of air there. Thrust of the hips.
Riddick blew the air right back in my face. "Don't play this game." Hips pushed back.
I wanted to snort. What game? My life? Sure, it was ha-ha funny. All I knew at that moment was that the almost merciful blows from Riddick were just the physical intro to my punishment. There was definitely more to come. But like him I knew how to work skin, muscle, nerves for the sole purpose of manipulation. As I was musing and getting lost in my insanity again, Riddick pulled me off the wall, and my right hand slipped off it, leaving a sadistic blue hand print there.
He held me against him momentarily before quickly releasing me to the floor, where I crumpled like a forgotten origami swan. He stepped away from my crooked figure, as I turned my body fully to stare up at him.
Riddick had a scary sureness to his pose. And his words were almost carefree. "Went easy." He was telling me more with his eyes. It definitely went easy.
I couldn't keep the spite out of my voice. "Just the beginning," whispered my inner self.
Smirk appeared on his dangerous features again. "Right you are."
I had to desperately change the mood . . . the atmosphere. I added my own smirk to the concerto. "Thanks for the spanks, Riddick . . . really needed that," I only half joked. And then I swiftly kicked him in the kneecap. Barely a flinch. Naughty him for bringing out any kind of sentiment in me.
I made all my decisions objectively and in a detached manner -- dangerous combination. Riddick should know.
I wasn't angry. My existence was beyond that. And well, truthfully, Riddick just looked tired at the moment in the suddenly dimming light of my eyes. Unseeingly, I had taken another chunk out of his struggling, drowning, pitiful humanity and with each bite (though I made them seem like nibbles), I was coming closer to my goal of destroying him before he annihilated the thing I held dearest -- my independence. If I was going to lose everything, so was he. And what more amusing way to do it than driving him to the brink, pulling him back, and then shoving him over.
Yes, death was too good for him (why had I ever wanted to do that?) This was much better. Too bad that now I had given him a reason to fight back . . . if only in my eyes.
I wanted to use my delicate hand to wipe away the look of insanity in Riddick's now glowing eyes. Too bad Riddick had my arms pinned down along with my crazy rationality. I squirmed in his grasp, making little whimpering noises just for show.
I felt like an oozing substance, particularly the type in needles that is discarded -- for a purpose, of course . . . but still . . . discarded . . . completely and utterly disregarded. It was pain -- raw and unforgiving and not surprisingly I was feeling all hot and bothered because of it.
Pushing against Riddick's iron hold, I touched my legs to his. I rubbed up and down, creating tense friction. A pink bubble gum painted illusion it was.
Riddick growled towards my vicinity and spun me quite quickly to face the wall. I was pushed roughly against it, and my right hand raised up and slammed next to my head to keep me from feeling the full impact. As he pushed against my back, stabilizing my slightly wobbly legs, I couldn't resist throwing a crack at him while remembering his submerging, yet resurrecting, words from before:
"You wanted me dead, Jack? Well, I've just died . . . again, and it feels good to be back."
I laughed out loud at my own private joke. "Gee, Riddick, you die a lot."
The words left my lips and Riddick's hand tapped me on the head, almost causing me to bite my tongue. The smacks didn't stop. His heavy hand landed blows to my neck and back while I just stood as still as possible.
In my opinion, he was hurting flesh . . . skin . . . but definitely not me. Keeping my composure made him think I was a pushover. That was a facade. I was a realist in every sense of the word. Grace covered up my superb sense of intuition and self-assurance. I knew more than Riddick would ever admit to anyone . . . especially himself.
I knew what his eyes looked like at that moment . . . like mockingbirds caught in a cage. I knew what his lips wanted to whisper . . . . I want you to bleed, Jack. I even knew what his demand was . . . . He wanted us to be even. And then the clashing would stop. Too bad he didn't know that no matter how much of an upper hand I stole, I would always find something new to hate to love . . . and that just made me want to own it or crumple it. Either way it was too stifling for him. I had always had a rigid view of how things should be. Strange, but true: Bad luck made me into a strategist . . . expect the worst . . . hope for the "okay." Funny, like weeping stars that drop milky splotches to the ground only to feed deeper roots that bloom daisies.
Riddick tapped my spinal cord . . . like he had done this sort of thing before . . . only he hadn't. He pinched my neck and twisted long fingers in my short hair. I just knew that it must have taken the power of ten panthers to keep him from really injuring my body and tarnishing my already faded spirit. His blows were littered with balance and control from his side; they didn't hurt. But still . . . .
By giving into those dark instincts, he just gave me more power. I just stood as still as possible.
He twisted my left hand behind my back, and my cheek turned to face the cold, steel wall. And I just stood as still as possible.
I was becoming good at being a statue. My insides were already rock. Why not fuse together the outer with the inner?
And soon, as I knew he would, Riddick tired himself out and was calmed down by his own surrender to animal instincts. Although what he had done was purely nonsexual, I wanted to turn it into something much more sinister and damaging to Riddick's morality.
I leaned against his steady chest and turned my eyes, under wisps of hair, to his deadly calm face. I blew each word out like a perfumed cloud.
"I never knew you liked it rough." Puff of air here . . . puff of air there. Thrust of the hips.
Riddick blew the air right back in my face. "Don't play this game." Hips pushed back.
I wanted to snort. What game? My life? Sure, it was ha-ha funny. All I knew at that moment was that the almost merciful blows from Riddick were just the physical intro to my punishment. There was definitely more to come. But like him I knew how to work skin, muscle, nerves for the sole purpose of manipulation. As I was musing and getting lost in my insanity again, Riddick pulled me off the wall, and my right hand slipped off it, leaving a sadistic blue hand print there.
He held me against him momentarily before quickly releasing me to the floor, where I crumpled like a forgotten origami swan. He stepped away from my crooked figure, as I turned my body fully to stare up at him.
Riddick had a scary sureness to his pose. And his words were almost carefree. "Went easy." He was telling me more with his eyes. It definitely went easy.
I couldn't keep the spite out of my voice. "Just the beginning," whispered my inner self.
Smirk appeared on his dangerous features again. "Right you are."
I had to desperately change the mood . . . the atmosphere. I added my own smirk to the concerto. "Thanks for the spanks, Riddick . . . really needed that," I only half joked. And then I swiftly kicked him in the kneecap. Barely a flinch. Naughty him for bringing out any kind of sentiment in me.
I made all my decisions objectively and in a detached manner -- dangerous combination. Riddick should know.
I wasn't angry. My existence was beyond that. And well, truthfully, Riddick just looked tired at the moment in the suddenly dimming light of my eyes. Unseeingly, I had taken another chunk out of his struggling, drowning, pitiful humanity and with each bite (though I made them seem like nibbles), I was coming closer to my goal of destroying him before he annihilated the thing I held dearest -- my independence. If I was going to lose everything, so was he. And what more amusing way to do it than driving him to the brink, pulling him back, and then shoving him over.
Yes, death was too good for him (why had I ever wanted to do that?) This was much better. Too bad that now I had given him a reason to fight back . . . if only in my eyes.