A/N: Here's the recipe for this little piece of prose: spike a 102 degree fever, take 2 Vicodin, put on Radiohead's "Black Star" and then fall asleep. Yes, kiddies, this disturbing, thick, dark piece came to me partly in a fevered delirium. I hope it leaves you in a similar condition.
4
His eyes look empty even in the half-light from the wall sconce. She expects them to be the only luminous thing in the room, but instead they only absorb the light and reflect none of it back, like a black hole that no amount of light could ever convince to shine. She smells bourbon and expensive cigars and doesn't recognize the song on the stereo. It's something raw and sad at the same time, violent and beautiful, mournful and angry. Curiosity wells up in her, followed by trepidation and then its distant cousin, reverence. This is his private self, the essence of all that he is and is not, all that he was and will never be again. She's just stepped into the deep of his world, the part everyone knows but no one sees. No one but her, tonight, unannounced and as yet, unreceived.
She knows he knows that she is there. She senses that just as he senses her, even though his eyes never move from the ceiling and whatever he sees in his mind or is trying to hide from it. His arms are stretched out over the back of the couch. A barely perceptible turn of his hand beckons her over and she stands in front of him. His fingers curl roughly, demandingly around the bones of her hips. She doesn't recoil. He grips tighter, trying to get her to react. His hands are strong, dry and warm, his skin flushed from the alcohol.
"You like this. You like when I hurt you." There's something dark and distant in his voice. Tighter still. He wraps his arms around her hips, running his nails roughly down her back, leaving deep red strands behind, just this side of bleeding. He knows just how much harder he'd have to press to break her skin. She doesn't have to answer. Her knees protest against her weight and she knows he feels it.
"Why? Why do you need this?" Who in their right mind wants to be hurt: that was what he was really asking. He hopes her answer justifies the obvious, converse question: who in their right mind wants to hurt another? But he needs it as much as she does. Maybe neither of them are in their right minds.
He never asks why and this doesn't go unnoticed. He cares only about the end result, the reasons never matter, have never mattered before and she knows, deep down, that they don't matter now. He doesn't really care why she needs this, needs him out of all the able bodied and beautiful men in the world to give it to her. He cares about his own reasons but he can't ask the question for himself. "It makes me feel alive. Makes everything seem real. It forces me back into my own body. I want to see how much I can take." For you. She doesn't say that part.
"Then you don't understand what pain is." He wants this comment to scare her, just a little, and he knows she wants to be afraid. It adds another element to this for her, but it's also true. She's trying to get into her body while he tries to get out of his own. Ironic, and that's probably why it works. It makes them both damaged, both unable to feel without the other and he hopes for a second of a second that this is what makes it alright. He really wants it to be alright. He wants to be alright. He wants to see her hurt and like it and think that maybe the pain isn't so bad after all, that it's natural and normal and maybe even good and he'll keep doing this until he can make himself, make both of them believe it. He knows that she wants out too, she just wants out of her mind instead of out her body and he's glad he knows it because he knows that she doesn't. This is what makes her trust him.
He reaches for the buttons of her blouse and that's when she knows he isn't drunk, at least not from the alcohol. His hands are delicate and sure and she watches him in the heavy light of the apartment. She doesn't touch him, not yet, but she wants to. She always wants to. Only with her hands on him can she feel his vitality. There's something different about him tonight, a subterranean melancholy that before tonight only lurked below the surface of him. She knows he won't hurt her but she also knows he will, that he wants to, and it scares her a little. She needs it too much to let the fear take over.
Her blouse and her bra fall from her shoulders and he stares at her, his eyes consumed by a liquid intensity and she knows he's planning what to do next. He pulls her toward him so she's straddling his legs and kisses her. His breathing is slow and even. He's in perfect control and he tastes of liquor and darkness and she feels exposed with her bare chest pressed against the rough cloth of his suit coat that he didn't even take off when he got home at least three hours ago. His lips move to the tender, sensitive spot below her ear, that little dent where there's no muscles, no tendons, just soft, sensitive, ripe nerves and his tongue laves her skin in a serpentine way. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and goes weak, letting her weight sink down against him. His teeth graze her skin and she stiffens, waiting for it, hoping for it, and he scrapes a slow trail down the side of her neck that makes her shiver and ends back at that sensitive place she likes to feel his tongue, where he barely has to say anything at all and it reaches her ear, like a child whispers a secret he's embarrassed to speak aloud. "All you have to say is 'stop', OK?" She nods. And knows she won't say it, knows it because he'll never make her need to say it.
He leans forward and finally slips his coat off, letting it pool behind him and she's thankful for the almost-contact. This way, at least, she can feel his heat and the outline of his muscles and bones through his shirt. She moves her hands over him, letting them rest on his biceps, her fingers just breaching the sleeves of his t-shirt and his skin feels so real, so hot, he feels so good and she leans forward to kiss him again but he pushes her away, his hand solid and firm against the straightness of her upper chest. His thumb traces her collarbone as he drags his fingers along her skin, scratching but lighter this time and when his fingers meet he runs his knuckles down her chest, between her breasts, his wrist skimming her nipple on the journey, hardening it instantly.
His hands hold her hips firmly as his mouth finds what his touch created and his tongue ignites the point where their bodies nearly meet, but he won't let her move against him. His tongue strokes and circles her nipple, his teeth rake at the satin flesh and she has to have him, has to have him closer, her body knows what it needs and it needs him. She squirms in his grip, wanting to close that last torturous inch between them, relax her hips against his, feel the response and the need of his body answering her own. He won't allow it and nips harder at the vulnerable skin between his teeth in warning. She doesn't care, in fact she purposely ignores him, whimpers and presses down harder and feels his fingers dig into her bones with a strength she didn't know he possessed. Now she wants to see how strong and willful he really is so she pushes again, still needing more but not caring what she gets or how she gets it anymore, she wants to get under his skin, if he's going to push her to the edge she's going to make him do it, goad the part of him that doesn't want to admit he wants this out until he can't control it any more. His teeth close on the morsel of flesh in his mouth, just to the side of her nipple and she thinks he wouldn't do it, he wouldn't and then she wants to try to make him, just to see if he would and because more than a little of her wants him to. She wants to see if she can push him that far, she wants to see if she'll let her push him that far, and her body just wants it even though her mind knows it shouldn't. Right now, though, she doesn't care about should and shouldn't.
His fingers are embedded so deeply into her hips they're turning white with the strain and she twists with all her might and whimpers, needing whatever he's going to do just so it's more than this. He moans in his throat, not letting go of his piece of flesh and it's primal, ancient and so fucking hot, he's so close to it now. His nails will leave crescent shaped welts in her flesh for nearly a week after this but he can't feel his hands anymore, his mind isn't on his hands, he's hot and frustrated and aroused and focused, so much that he's nearly angry, crazy with it, and she does it again god damn it, hasn't she learned anything? She's doing this on purpose, he knows that, but what he isn't sure of is whether or not she knows that he isn't fucking around, not tonight, and he hopes she does because he's sure going to prove it to her, whether she really wants it or not.
His teeth break the last barrier that existed between them, just enough so the faint taste of iron mixes with the taste of bourbon and flesh and lust on his tongue and it scares him but the fear turns to awe and intoxication as he feels her hands don't push him away, her mouth doesn't say stop, instead her fingers weave themselves in his hair and she moans in pain, pleasure, release, something inside her can finally let go and then he's glad he did it. His tongue soothes until there's no more to be had. Later he'll remember this as the most intimate moment of his life but right now he lets her kiss him again and feels her startle when she encounters the taste on his lips, the proof, even though she knew it would be there. It doesn't' stop her from kissing him deeper though, in fact it spurs her on and she trusts him completely now, wants him completely in a way there aren't words for.
It's like they're dancing now, she pulls away from him and kneels down in front of him, of course it's demeaning in this position and that's why she's doing it, she doesn't even want him to have to ask her. She stares up at his eyes and he looks analytically down at her, watching her unbuckle his belt and pop the button and lower the zipper and then she has him in her hand. She doesn't think she's ever felt him this hard before, knows she hasn't. He gets off on hurting her and the thought turns her on even more. His skin is so hot her mouth feels cool around him at first. He won't let her tease, pressing the palm of his hand against her silken hair and pushing, slowly but firmly. He clenches his jaw and hears his teeth scrape together inside his head. "That's it. Take it all." She gags slightly and pauses, knowing she can do it, knowing that she doesn't have a choice even though she knows she has a choice. She shifts her position and straightens her airway, takes a deep breath in and then he's deeper down her throat than she ever thought possible. She swallows to keep from gagging again and the contraction of her throat squeezes him and he bucks his hips, knowing it'll force him in uncomfortably deep and that's why he does it. Her throat strains and her eyes water and she loves it and she takes him down another fraction of an inch just to prove it to him.
He relaxes the pressure of his hand and lets her lick and suck him on the up stroke and it feels good, but not as good as when he's buried in the tight heat of her throat. She takes a breath and swallows him again, easier this time, forcing her body to expect it. She opens her throat and again her eyes tear up and complain but his moans are worth it. She doesn't let him slide all the way out now and doesn't really need to with the way he's rocking his hips and fucking her throat. She runs her nails up his thighs, purposely going over too far on the right, tracing the edge where soft, scalding skin turns to angry scar and he tenses, forcing her head down on him again to distract himself. She knows she's going to hurt tomorrow, her jaw is going to scream and her throat is going to sting. She'll probably have a sore spot on her head where he has a handful of her hair but she doesn't worry about that now. Now there's only his taste and the sound of the music and his pleasure even though she doesn't know which is which and that's all that matters to her.
He slips past her tonsils again and she uses the back of her tongue to stroke that special sensitive spot on the way down and his groan sounds almost other-worldly. He's throbbing in her mouth and so hard she fears she might break her teeth and she does it again on the next stroke. I'd have never thought from – oh god yes – looking at you that you'd be able to – fuck – take it this good. She knows that's high praise coming from a man who's probably been sucked off by every hooker on the Jersey shore. He grinds his hips into her mouth, down her throat, trying to hold back and trying to get off at the same time. Her mouth is heaven and it's made even better watching her struggle to take him as deep as he wants to be despite wanting to cry and gag at the same time and managing to do it anyway. He wants to come down her throat, watch her swallow every last drop but he wants to take her too, rough and fast and hard, he wants to leave marks and bruises and hear her scream from the onslaught of sensations.
He urges her mouth off of him and she knows immediately what he wants and how it's going to be. She kicks her heels off, stands and shimmies off her pants and underwear, and waits. He turns her roughly around, her back to him as his clothes join hers on the floor, the whole time considering leaving them on to just have her wet and tight around him now, but knowing it's better when he can feel her skin against his, can feel her body slicked with sweat, every shudder and shock with nothing between them. He stands and presses himself against her from behind, bracing his arms against the coffee table for support and she bends over, instinctively and impatiently. It's going to hurt unbelievably, exquisitely in this position because he's going to be able to thrust as hard and as deep as he wants to and he's not going to be at all gentle and she can't wait for it.
His hand caresses her hip possessively and she can feel the raw spots and bruises his fingers left and smiles, feels his hips against hers and wonders what the fuck he's waiting for, do it already and the words are out her mouth before she even realizes it. Fuck me, Greg. I need you. He thinks he'll never get used to hearing that, hearing her say that, knowing what it means, that he can give her something no other man has ever been able to, something she needs that completes her and takes her deeper pain away. He steadies himself with one hand on the table and takes himself in the other, feels her brace and clench in anticipation and then he slams himself inside of her, without pretense or tenderness or mercy, tearing surprised flesh slightly at the intrusion and knocking the wind from her as he announces his presence to her cervix with authority. Again she doesn't pull away but instead pushes back, accepting and he knows she's fine, knows she can take whatever he dishes out and he pulls back and thrusts harder this time, she screams and he feels her back break out in a thin sweat where his chest is pressed against her. She shoves herself back against him, not wanting him to stop, too hard isn't hard enough, she wants to be used, hurt, satisfied, cherished and to be able to feel nothing but this. His fingers find her nipple and pinch, roll, tease, giving her pure pleasure mixed with the elegant pain of his hard, selfish strokes and she's close already, he can feel it in the way she's squeezing him inside of her, rhythmically.
He thrusts harder, past the resistance he feels at the end of every stroke, having no idea how badly it must hurt and more than a little surprised she can take it, want it, beg him for more, and he pinches the nipple between his fingers sharply, squeezing the firm flesh as hard as he can and she comes with a bone crushing intensity in a flood of pleasure and agony. He forces himself to hold back, knowing how she needs this to end, wanting to save just a stroke or two for her overstimulated, hypersensitive flesh, wanting to use her body at the very end for his pleasure and his pleasure alone, no matter how much she enjoys him doing so. He waits until she's nearly come down and he can't stay still any longer and takes one, two, three hard strokes and she shudders in his arms, barely able to stand it and then he's there, four and five push him over the edge and six finishes him as she exhales and waits, purposely not breathing, until her body forces her to draw another breath. With it comes a temporary peace, satisfaction, some serenity until the chemicals wear off and life intrudes again. But she always knows the way to his doorstep and he, to hers.