**Standard Mice Disclaimer**
Mice is in no way associated with the Mutant Enemy She is merely trying to
write a story and this is all she has to show for it. A noble effort.
Though she would one day like to be paid for writing, please don't send her
any money (send mail to urmonkeyifudo@yeahright.com on instructions to send
her money). The characters of mentioned and used herein belong to Mutant
Enemy. Any archiving of this story that is unaware of her attention will be
ily received (Read: Tikki Curse). If you e-mail her, explain your
intentions to archive the story and address of your archive, she will be
more than gracious and will probably do something nice for you, like bake
you brownies, not to mention archiving the story. She just wants to know
where she can drool over the sight of her name. If you want to e-mail her
comments, do it at reese@snarkyblue.com. You'll also get some brownies out
of the deal, but it's not really that great of a reward because she can't
cook.
The Way You Hold Your Knife By Mice
There was nothing special about the moment in itself. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce had decided to walk to the store for groceries instead of riding his motorcycle, which was sort of special in this city. Along the way, he stumbled over the uneven Los Angeles pavement, catching himself by his hands, and finding him nose to toe with a woman in exceptional high heels.
"I'm sorry," the woman said from up above, Wesley later recalled before she moved out of his way.
Wesley remained in the position long after she was gone.
There were two factors involved in his inability to move. The second was the sight of the shoe. Most women, and especially in Los Angeles, wore shoes. These shoes were another mark of perfection. They weren't a label and Wesley knew them by sight. Because they were her favorite shoe. And she wore a perfume that smelled nothing of perfection and apricot.
The first was the faint scent of perfume. Most women, and especially in Los Angeles, wore perfume and to Wesley's senses, very few knew how to pick out a scent. The notes in the perfume seem to cause a cacophony with the first spritz. This perfume didn't smell of anything but perfection and just a touch of apricot.
Wesley remained in the spot, not because he was in any physical pain, but because he swore if he stayed there, he'd eventually be able to give her a name. Eventually, a bus stopped near him and he was forced to move, but he didn't venture far. He found a bench and sat himself down, frowning to himself.
Fred was baby powder and cheap knock off shoes found at the mall. Virginia was gardenias in bloom and shoes grounded in practical elegance and not of superb quality and style. Cordelia was, though. Cordelia was close to these things, but not correct.
He got up to walk himself to the store, the woman he was thinking of only leaving an impression in the bed in his mind. Had he taken her to bed? He quickly chided to himself, "Of course you did, you lucky bastard." It surprised him to hear him say it.
Wesley walked through the aisles, forgetting the list he had made in his mind, hoping for something else to spark a new memory. Walking through the frozen foods section opened up a brief, happy sensation in him, but faded quickly as he was sure he found the face he was searching for.
He walked briefly past an aisle dedicated to feminine needs when he saw a section for women's stockings. He made a quick decision to abandon the shopping and went home.
He entered his apartment with mounting trepidation. Instinctively, he went to his closet and pushed back clothes that were his and looked for a clue for what was hers. He barely scratched the surface of his belongings when he found a black silk stocking of superb quality and the smell of perfection and apricots. It may have at once been used to shadow a leg, but it had been stretched. On another instinct, Wesley wrapped it around his wrist and felt an instant burst of forgotten security.
He laid himself on the bed and tied his wrist to the head board and he could almost hear her laugh. It wasn't light and bubbly. Playful, but tinged with malice. He responded to it positively. He looped his wrist on the other end of the stocking, trying to encourage the memory more.
Nothing came.
Wesley slowly undid himself in defeat as he heard a voice in his ear distinctively purr, "You're holding out on me." He didn't come that time either. Most of the memory came back with sparkling clarity - while he relished watching her on top of him, he didn't want to give and surrender to her like this. He wanted to take her. It was as much sexual as it was emotional. He could feel his muscles tense with the sense memory of concentrating on not giving her the satisfaction of conquering him, not at that time. He remembered other nights were similar scenarios would follow. Sometimes he lost and she never let him forget it, glowing in victory. Sometimes he won and she glowed just the same. It was all the same to her. It was everything to him.
And then it was all gone. Except for a black stocking made of exceptional silk that smelled of perfection and apricots.
The Way You Hold Your Knife By Mice
There was nothing special about the moment in itself. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce had decided to walk to the store for groceries instead of riding his motorcycle, which was sort of special in this city. Along the way, he stumbled over the uneven Los Angeles pavement, catching himself by his hands, and finding him nose to toe with a woman in exceptional high heels.
"I'm sorry," the woman said from up above, Wesley later recalled before she moved out of his way.
Wesley remained in the position long after she was gone.
There were two factors involved in his inability to move. The second was the sight of the shoe. Most women, and especially in Los Angeles, wore shoes. These shoes were another mark of perfection. They weren't a label and Wesley knew them by sight. Because they were her favorite shoe. And she wore a perfume that smelled nothing of perfection and apricot.
The first was the faint scent of perfume. Most women, and especially in Los Angeles, wore perfume and to Wesley's senses, very few knew how to pick out a scent. The notes in the perfume seem to cause a cacophony with the first spritz. This perfume didn't smell of anything but perfection and just a touch of apricot.
Wesley remained in the spot, not because he was in any physical pain, but because he swore if he stayed there, he'd eventually be able to give her a name. Eventually, a bus stopped near him and he was forced to move, but he didn't venture far. He found a bench and sat himself down, frowning to himself.
Fred was baby powder and cheap knock off shoes found at the mall. Virginia was gardenias in bloom and shoes grounded in practical elegance and not of superb quality and style. Cordelia was, though. Cordelia was close to these things, but not correct.
He got up to walk himself to the store, the woman he was thinking of only leaving an impression in the bed in his mind. Had he taken her to bed? He quickly chided to himself, "Of course you did, you lucky bastard." It surprised him to hear him say it.
Wesley walked through the aisles, forgetting the list he had made in his mind, hoping for something else to spark a new memory. Walking through the frozen foods section opened up a brief, happy sensation in him, but faded quickly as he was sure he found the face he was searching for.
He walked briefly past an aisle dedicated to feminine needs when he saw a section for women's stockings. He made a quick decision to abandon the shopping and went home.
He entered his apartment with mounting trepidation. Instinctively, he went to his closet and pushed back clothes that were his and looked for a clue for what was hers. He barely scratched the surface of his belongings when he found a black silk stocking of superb quality and the smell of perfection and apricots. It may have at once been used to shadow a leg, but it had been stretched. On another instinct, Wesley wrapped it around his wrist and felt an instant burst of forgotten security.
He laid himself on the bed and tied his wrist to the head board and he could almost hear her laugh. It wasn't light and bubbly. Playful, but tinged with malice. He responded to it positively. He looped his wrist on the other end of the stocking, trying to encourage the memory more.
Nothing came.
Wesley slowly undid himself in defeat as he heard a voice in his ear distinctively purr, "You're holding out on me." He didn't come that time either. Most of the memory came back with sparkling clarity - while he relished watching her on top of him, he didn't want to give and surrender to her like this. He wanted to take her. It was as much sexual as it was emotional. He could feel his muscles tense with the sense memory of concentrating on not giving her the satisfaction of conquering him, not at that time. He remembered other nights were similar scenarios would follow. Sometimes he lost and she never let him forget it, glowing in victory. Sometimes he won and she glowed just the same. It was all the same to her. It was everything to him.
And then it was all gone. Except for a black stocking made of exceptional silk that smelled of perfection and apricots.