I select a large lamb roast from the back of the refrigerator. I'm absolutely ravenous; I feel like I haven't eaten in weeks. A few small slits in the skin, whole garlic cloves pressed into the meat, sprigs of fragrant rosemary tied on top with twine. I place it in the oven along with a pan of buttered new potatoes. With dinner seen to, I return to my trussed prize.
I swiftly untie the knots, and she winces slightly as she brings her arms back down to her sides. The ache in her shoulders must be excruciating by now. Her eyes are slightly puffy, tinged blue underneath from the pressure of the blood trapped there by the belt. I can see the unmistakable shiny lines of tears dried on her cheeks.
"How does your back feel?"
"It stings between the shoulder blades. Did you break the skin?"
"I did indeed. Would you like to have a bath before dinner? We still have an hour yet."
She looks down at her wrists, rubbing out the pattern and soreness that the ropes leave behind.
"Would you like that?"
"Yes, very much."
"A bath sounds good."
"Excellent."
I gesture with my hand, and she proceeds me down the hallway. Underneath the quilt of scars, her young body is delicious, all firm, taut skin, and fine long muscles. I can feel a stirring in the pit of my stomach, and I'm tempted to knock her to the floor and mount her against the carpet. Instead I follow her into the bathroom.
A large claw foot tub resides in the center of the well appointed room. Placing both hands on her shoulders, I perch her upon its edge, and twist the hot and cold spigots. I toss a handful of Epsom salts into the water. They'll sting like mad, but they'll reduce the swelling a great deal. Tucking her hair up into a raised twist, I survey the damage. There is a thin, red gash in the skin, about three inches long. The bruises are faint, but plentiful. I lower my tongue to lick between her shoulder blades, dried blood moistening and breaking free, fresh blood leaking out onto my waiting taste buds. And quite suddenly a startling aroma wafts up to my nose. Musky, heady, arousal, emanating discretely from between her legs. I chuckle softly, amused. She shifts again, and another wave of scent slaps me hard across the cheek. I'd like to burry my face between her legs and lap her dry. No. This new development presents such interesting possibilities. No half measures, no hurried panting couplings. I'll have all of her before I'm through.
The bath fills and I guide her into the warm water. She sinks down low, the water licking gently at the downy hair at the base of her skull, coaxing damp tendrils down to the depths. I take up a bar of sweet almond soap, and a sea sponge, and lean my wrists on the edge of the tub.
"May I wash you?"
There is a faint blush to her cheek as she silently nods. I roll back my sleeves. Dipping the sponge in the water, I apply a thin layer of lather, and set to work. I lean her forward and clean her back first, then her arms and upper chest. When I slide the sponge over her rounded breasts, the nipples tighten and peak. Lovely. I absentmindedly flick my thumb over one wrinkled nub and savor the trembling that ensues. I sponge clean her abdomen and belly, stopping short when my fingers brush the wiry thatch of her delta. Her lips have grown puffy, bloomed outward in the warm water, spread deliciously. I abandon the pretense of the sponge and it floats to the surface of the bath. I pause to roll my sleeve further up my arm. She shudders as my fingers return to the top of her mound, and she squirms anxiously under my feathery explorations. Her movements betray her. She'd take me right now, deep inside, and I'm half tempted to join her in Neptune's realm and fuck her against the smooth porcelain. What a pity that I have such a fine suit on. I'd hate to soil it, even for something so inviting. I wonder briefly whether or not she's ever had an orgasm. No matter. If she hasn't, she will no doubt learn well in the next few days. My thumb presses down on her hood, and her hips buck against me, sending water splashing onto the tiled floor. I withdraw my hand and roll my sleeves back down. Her cheeks positively glow with shame , and she won't meet my gaze.
'You've made a mess, My Dear."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sure you are. Why don't you clean the floor while I go put the finishing touches on dinner."
"Yes, Sir."
"That's a good girl. And dress for dinner. The gray I think."
"Yes, Sir."
I hand her a towel, and turn to go, but pause when her fingertips brush mine. I grab that hand and kiss it. I give her my most dashing smile and wink. I can see the poor thing clench, her heart fluttering like a bird batting it's wings against it's gilded cage. Interesting.
"Oh and Bonnie, If you're a good girl, I might even let you be Alexandra again for the rest of the night."
And with that, I leave her on her hands and knees, scrubbing my floors.
************************************************************************
When the place touches down, Clarice stirs from her dream-addled sleep and rubs her eyes. She pops a breath mint into her mouth to disguise the scent of her earlier libations. Her nasal passages are dry and her lips feel puckered and tight. She isn't looking forward to the evening, but at least she'll get to stretch her legs.
Claiming her baggage at the automated carriage, Clarice hails a cab and mumbles the address of a local motel 6. Years ago, they would have at least popped for a Best Western. Here's to hoping that the adulterous couple in the room next to her aren't too loud this time.
Check-in goes smoothly, her key-cards handed to her by the tired young woman behind the counter, along with a map that pinpoints the exact location of her room in case she happens to get lost among so much stucco and lava rock. Once inside room 113 (Experience tells her that a lower floor room invariable is serenaded by the running feet of the children staying above her) Clarice opts for a shower. She strips naked, tossing her clothes on the desk in a messy pile. Tearing open the little paper wrapper of the limey soap, she turns the water up high and steps inside. She lathers the soap between her hands, creating a thin foam that she spreads over her body. She avoids touching her upper shoulder, instead letting the spigot spray against it. When she reaches to push back her hair, her fingers brush it anyways, and she pulls back as if burned. The scar never ceases to have that effect on her. The damage done, she returns her fingers to the smooth, barely raised flesh, and quietly admires his handiwork. Damn him, for the miniscule stitching. Damn him, for not letting the pigs finish her off. Damn him for every false lead that eats away at the sad semblance that's left of her life. Damn him, for making her want him, and making her hate herself. And just like the last time, and the last, and the last, Clarice Starling sinks to her knees and sobs against the grainy porcelain of a cheap hotel bathtub.
************************************************************************
The aroma of the rosemary and the lamb is divine. And even better, it's so rare that it weeps red tears as I slice it. I arrange a large portion on one plate, and carry it into the dinning room.
For a moment, I remember another dining room, a year ago, with another dinner guest dressed in borrowed finery. I look right through Bonnie, harkening back to a night that went well, but not as well as I had hoped. I sigh and cast her from my mind. Dinner is getting cold.
I reach out my hand and she takes it. The gray silk sheath whispers around her ankles, a delicate "shushing sound" perfuming the air with every movement she makes. Her cosmetic application is minimal; her features would benefit from a touch more shadow at the brow bone, a duskier sweep of rouge across her cheekbones. No matter. Sometimes less, really is more.
I kiss her hand, and she tenses again. I hadn't expected her to find such an attraction for me so soon. Perhaps it's my fault for applying so much pain, so quickly. She has such an odd inner landscape; she correlates pain with such interesting emotions. A quick survey of her eyes yields a view into a raging conflict. She's excited for possibly the first time in years, but that sorrow, that weariness battles to the fore again. Make no mistake, her highest priority is still her demise, but if perhaps she can experience a twinge of erotic fulfillment along the way, so much the better.
"Hungry?"
"Yes."
"Good. Do you like lamb?"
"I don't know. I've never had it."
"Excellent. I enjoy introducing you to knew sensations."
I take her hand and guide her to the head of the table. I sink into my own seat and leave her standing there beside me. She looks bewildered, unsure. I smile.
"You may sit at my feet."
If the proposition is shocking to her, she masks it well. Mustering as much dignity as a woman in a ball gown on the floor can manage, she tucks her legs to the side and sits beside me. Her head levels out nicely with my hand. I turn my attention back to the succulent feast before me. When the first piece hits my tongue I shut out the world outside the delicate carpet of taste buds, and for a moment I hear a symphony of my own design echo through my ears. The evening is shaping up so much more nicely than expected. Who says there are no good surprises.
I let one hand fall to the side of my chair and I stroke my fingers over her soft brown hair. I apply a little pressure to the side of her head, and she lays her cheek against my knee. Lovely. When my hunger has subsided a bit, I slice a small piece of the lamb, and grasp it between my thumb and index finger. Lowering the morsel, I offer it to her lips. She grasps it delicately in her teeth, and tugs it free. She chews and swallows. As an afterthought, her tongue emerges and she licks my fingers clean. The tentative touch of her tongue is maddening. I wonder what her tongue tastes like. I cut her off another dainty piece and feed it to her in the same fashion.
"Do you like the lamb?"
"The flavor is…strong."
"It's an acquired taste." I inform her as I shove a piece a little roughly between her lips. "You'll get used to it."
She accepts it, and returns her tongue to the task of cleaning my hand. I could get used to this.
************************************************************************
I swiftly untie the knots, and she winces slightly as she brings her arms back down to her sides. The ache in her shoulders must be excruciating by now. Her eyes are slightly puffy, tinged blue underneath from the pressure of the blood trapped there by the belt. I can see the unmistakable shiny lines of tears dried on her cheeks.
"How does your back feel?"
"It stings between the shoulder blades. Did you break the skin?"
"I did indeed. Would you like to have a bath before dinner? We still have an hour yet."
She looks down at her wrists, rubbing out the pattern and soreness that the ropes leave behind.
"Would you like that?"
"Yes, very much."
"A bath sounds good."
"Excellent."
I gesture with my hand, and she proceeds me down the hallway. Underneath the quilt of scars, her young body is delicious, all firm, taut skin, and fine long muscles. I can feel a stirring in the pit of my stomach, and I'm tempted to knock her to the floor and mount her against the carpet. Instead I follow her into the bathroom.
A large claw foot tub resides in the center of the well appointed room. Placing both hands on her shoulders, I perch her upon its edge, and twist the hot and cold spigots. I toss a handful of Epsom salts into the water. They'll sting like mad, but they'll reduce the swelling a great deal. Tucking her hair up into a raised twist, I survey the damage. There is a thin, red gash in the skin, about three inches long. The bruises are faint, but plentiful. I lower my tongue to lick between her shoulder blades, dried blood moistening and breaking free, fresh blood leaking out onto my waiting taste buds. And quite suddenly a startling aroma wafts up to my nose. Musky, heady, arousal, emanating discretely from between her legs. I chuckle softly, amused. She shifts again, and another wave of scent slaps me hard across the cheek. I'd like to burry my face between her legs and lap her dry. No. This new development presents such interesting possibilities. No half measures, no hurried panting couplings. I'll have all of her before I'm through.
The bath fills and I guide her into the warm water. She sinks down low, the water licking gently at the downy hair at the base of her skull, coaxing damp tendrils down to the depths. I take up a bar of sweet almond soap, and a sea sponge, and lean my wrists on the edge of the tub.
"May I wash you?"
There is a faint blush to her cheek as she silently nods. I roll back my sleeves. Dipping the sponge in the water, I apply a thin layer of lather, and set to work. I lean her forward and clean her back first, then her arms and upper chest. When I slide the sponge over her rounded breasts, the nipples tighten and peak. Lovely. I absentmindedly flick my thumb over one wrinkled nub and savor the trembling that ensues. I sponge clean her abdomen and belly, stopping short when my fingers brush the wiry thatch of her delta. Her lips have grown puffy, bloomed outward in the warm water, spread deliciously. I abandon the pretense of the sponge and it floats to the surface of the bath. I pause to roll my sleeve further up my arm. She shudders as my fingers return to the top of her mound, and she squirms anxiously under my feathery explorations. Her movements betray her. She'd take me right now, deep inside, and I'm half tempted to join her in Neptune's realm and fuck her against the smooth porcelain. What a pity that I have such a fine suit on. I'd hate to soil it, even for something so inviting. I wonder briefly whether or not she's ever had an orgasm. No matter. If she hasn't, she will no doubt learn well in the next few days. My thumb presses down on her hood, and her hips buck against me, sending water splashing onto the tiled floor. I withdraw my hand and roll my sleeves back down. Her cheeks positively glow with shame , and she won't meet my gaze.
'You've made a mess, My Dear."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sure you are. Why don't you clean the floor while I go put the finishing touches on dinner."
"Yes, Sir."
"That's a good girl. And dress for dinner. The gray I think."
"Yes, Sir."
I hand her a towel, and turn to go, but pause when her fingertips brush mine. I grab that hand and kiss it. I give her my most dashing smile and wink. I can see the poor thing clench, her heart fluttering like a bird batting it's wings against it's gilded cage. Interesting.
"Oh and Bonnie, If you're a good girl, I might even let you be Alexandra again for the rest of the night."
And with that, I leave her on her hands and knees, scrubbing my floors.
************************************************************************
When the place touches down, Clarice stirs from her dream-addled sleep and rubs her eyes. She pops a breath mint into her mouth to disguise the scent of her earlier libations. Her nasal passages are dry and her lips feel puckered and tight. She isn't looking forward to the evening, but at least she'll get to stretch her legs.
Claiming her baggage at the automated carriage, Clarice hails a cab and mumbles the address of a local motel 6. Years ago, they would have at least popped for a Best Western. Here's to hoping that the adulterous couple in the room next to her aren't too loud this time.
Check-in goes smoothly, her key-cards handed to her by the tired young woman behind the counter, along with a map that pinpoints the exact location of her room in case she happens to get lost among so much stucco and lava rock. Once inside room 113 (Experience tells her that a lower floor room invariable is serenaded by the running feet of the children staying above her) Clarice opts for a shower. She strips naked, tossing her clothes on the desk in a messy pile. Tearing open the little paper wrapper of the limey soap, she turns the water up high and steps inside. She lathers the soap between her hands, creating a thin foam that she spreads over her body. She avoids touching her upper shoulder, instead letting the spigot spray against it. When she reaches to push back her hair, her fingers brush it anyways, and she pulls back as if burned. The scar never ceases to have that effect on her. The damage done, she returns her fingers to the smooth, barely raised flesh, and quietly admires his handiwork. Damn him, for the miniscule stitching. Damn him, for not letting the pigs finish her off. Damn him for every false lead that eats away at the sad semblance that's left of her life. Damn him, for making her want him, and making her hate herself. And just like the last time, and the last, and the last, Clarice Starling sinks to her knees and sobs against the grainy porcelain of a cheap hotel bathtub.
************************************************************************
The aroma of the rosemary and the lamb is divine. And even better, it's so rare that it weeps red tears as I slice it. I arrange a large portion on one plate, and carry it into the dinning room.
For a moment, I remember another dining room, a year ago, with another dinner guest dressed in borrowed finery. I look right through Bonnie, harkening back to a night that went well, but not as well as I had hoped. I sigh and cast her from my mind. Dinner is getting cold.
I reach out my hand and she takes it. The gray silk sheath whispers around her ankles, a delicate "shushing sound" perfuming the air with every movement she makes. Her cosmetic application is minimal; her features would benefit from a touch more shadow at the brow bone, a duskier sweep of rouge across her cheekbones. No matter. Sometimes less, really is more.
I kiss her hand, and she tenses again. I hadn't expected her to find such an attraction for me so soon. Perhaps it's my fault for applying so much pain, so quickly. She has such an odd inner landscape; she correlates pain with such interesting emotions. A quick survey of her eyes yields a view into a raging conflict. She's excited for possibly the first time in years, but that sorrow, that weariness battles to the fore again. Make no mistake, her highest priority is still her demise, but if perhaps she can experience a twinge of erotic fulfillment along the way, so much the better.
"Hungry?"
"Yes."
"Good. Do you like lamb?"
"I don't know. I've never had it."
"Excellent. I enjoy introducing you to knew sensations."
I take her hand and guide her to the head of the table. I sink into my own seat and leave her standing there beside me. She looks bewildered, unsure. I smile.
"You may sit at my feet."
If the proposition is shocking to her, she masks it well. Mustering as much dignity as a woman in a ball gown on the floor can manage, she tucks her legs to the side and sits beside me. Her head levels out nicely with my hand. I turn my attention back to the succulent feast before me. When the first piece hits my tongue I shut out the world outside the delicate carpet of taste buds, and for a moment I hear a symphony of my own design echo through my ears. The evening is shaping up so much more nicely than expected. Who says there are no good surprises.
I let one hand fall to the side of my chair and I stroke my fingers over her soft brown hair. I apply a little pressure to the side of her head, and she lays her cheek against my knee. Lovely. When my hunger has subsided a bit, I slice a small piece of the lamb, and grasp it between my thumb and index finger. Lowering the morsel, I offer it to her lips. She grasps it delicately in her teeth, and tugs it free. She chews and swallows. As an afterthought, her tongue emerges and she licks my fingers clean. The tentative touch of her tongue is maddening. I wonder what her tongue tastes like. I cut her off another dainty piece and feed it to her in the same fashion.
"Do you like the lamb?"
"The flavor is…strong."
"It's an acquired taste." I inform her as I shove a piece a little roughly between her lips. "You'll get used to it."
She accepts it, and returns her tongue to the task of cleaning my hand. I could get used to this.
************************************************************************