Chapter Six: "Alice: How long is forever? White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second." ~Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland
I stand there for a moment, watching Holmes saunter away from me and leave through a door marked EMERGENCY EXITS ONLY. I don't know what to think, but I certainly feel annoyed. Just like that, I'm going to sign up to be his exclusive...sleeping tablet for three months? And move into some manky flat, sight unseen, without Pablo? Well, okay, Knightsbridge is unlikely to be manky, but still...
Back at the black car once more, the suits are no friendlier to me; if anything, they seem more hostile. One of them has gotten out and is holding the door for me; silently, I hold up my manacled wrists and jangle the chain at him. His lip curls slightly, but he reaches into a pocket to pull out a little key, and ungraciously removes the cuffs.
I get back into the car, then, and rub my sore wrists as we ride back into the City. It's a surprisingly short trip, it seemed much longer on the way out. Fear has a way of distorting time, I guess.
I don't have to tell them where to take me; the car pulls up at our kerb, and the suit on that side pulls the door open, waving me out of the car. As soon as my foot hits the pavement, the door is slammed behind me, and the car peels away with a squeal of tyres. I guess they were as fed up with me as I was with them!
Pablo is the only sign of life in the flat; he is waiting by the door to wind around my ankles and say, Hullo, where were you, please feed me? I scoop the big cat up and snuggle into his warm fur, feeling the deep, comforting rumble of his purring against my chest. I let out a shaky breath that I didn't know I had been holding all night.
I loose Pablo to jump down from my arms before he starts to wriggle, and wander into the kitchen with him at my heel. Checking the shelves, I am astonished to see how much food there was in there all along; a mere six hours before, the cupboard had seemed entirely bare. Look, a tin of beans! Suddenly, that sounds like a feast. I can't decide if I want a hot bath first, or food, so I compromise by doing both at the same time.
By the time I've fed Pablo, opened my own tin, hunted down a clean spoon, and stripped off my astonishingly dirty clothes, the tiny tub is full enough for me to fold myself into the steaming water with a sigh. The beans taste...like cold beans straight from the tin, but I'm so hungry that it doesn't really matter.
I stretch out, putting my feet up on the taps so I can sink my shoulders under the soothing water. I feel numb. Just, numb. So much in one day. The wedding. Running miles through the city, dodging that black car-how could it have taken me so long to realize they were tracing my phone? And Holmes materializing in that rank warehouse...I can't believe how cheeky I was! I don't usually talk back like that to people...except with friends like Steen. I'm like that with him.
I feel a pang of guilt. I should call Steen this week, but I don't want to deal with his envy, especially now that I really am going to be on long-term for a while-no, damn it, might be on a long-term contract. I haven't decided yet.
I put the empty bean tin on the floor and grab the soap to start washing up. Who am I kidding? Holmes was absolutely right, I have already decided to take the contract. There is no way that I won't. I'm hooked.
Fed, washed and dried, I flick on the telly for a minute, then flick it off again. Boring. I'm exhausted, but still too keyed up to sleep. I fix another snack, some marmite on stale crackers with a cup of milky tea, and retreat to my bed. Propped up with pillows, I grab my ereader tablet and flip through my collection for something soothing, an old friend. Pablo Neruda, yes; some of the best love poetry on the planet.
Pablo jumps on my bed and curls up in the valley between my knees, purring loudly as if he approves my choice. I read the poems of his namesake aloud to us both, in Spanish, until my voice turns to mumbling and the reader falls from my hand.
# # #
By the time Sara comes home from her habitual Sunday boyfriend-brunch, I am up and sorting through my clothes, packing some into suitcases. I've already talked to my manager this morning, who called with the glad tidings that Holmes had emailed her a contract offer for my hire, and she bubbled with joy when I told her I had decided to accept. She will send a copy of the contract to me for an e-signature later today, and recommended that I print up a hard copy for reference,
"Because even the most intelligent people sometimes get confused, dear!" Is she talking about me, or Holmes, I wonder?
When she comes in to see me, Sara immediately wants to know why I'm packing, and I give her the abridged version of my day yesterday. She sits on my bed, and alternates between amusement and horror. Shaking her head at the final encounter in the warehouse with Holmes, she asks, "Is this guy for real, Angelica? Are you sure that he isn't having you on? I mean, the amount of power he would need, to have you traced like that, to watch you...it's a little unreal, isn't it?"
I shrug, folding up a shirt. "You'd understand if you met him. I don't think for a minute that he's having me on. In fact, I think there's a lot more he's not saying, and never will. The blue one, or the green?" I hold up two sun-dresses.
"The blue. The green one makes you look a piece of chalk, I told you that when you bought it. So, you are going to go live with a top-secret-super-spy government man that you know nothing about, in a hidden flat somewhere in Knightsbridge for three months, so he can get some sleep? Am I understanding you correctly? Do you realize that you sound completely mental?"
I pull open my lingerie drawer, knowing I face some tough decisions. Lingerie is one thing that escorts take extremely seriously, it forming a large part of our working uniform, and even after only one year I have a considerable amount of it. What to pack?
"Well, you've got a few things wrong. I won't be living with him; he's letting a pied-a-terre for the three months, as I understand it, and will visit me there. The flat isn't hidden, I just don't know where it is yet. I think you're right about the sleep part, though." I hold up two negligees. "Which one, do you think?"
"Oh, dear, the purple slutty-strappy-thing, or the red slutty-strappy-thing? However is one to choose?" she mimes a woeful hand on her forehead, and I start throwing fistfuls of slutty underthings at her until we both are giggling. I decide to pack all of it, since slutty-strappy-things really don't take up much room.
"You should be relieved that I'm taking this, Sara. It means that I will be only seeing one client for the next
three months, and I won't be having to travel to appointments. Safer that way." We exchange a look.
"I'm all for the safer part," she says, and helps me pack the lingerie in the suitcase. "So, what's he like? Old or young?"
"Well, neither, really."
"Handsome or homely?"
"Somewhere in the middle."
"Nice or nasty?"
"Um, both, by turns."
Sara stops and gives me one of her looks. "Are there any absolutes about the man? Or is he perfectly amorphous?"
I laugh at that. "Anything but! Tall, dark, and sarcastic sums it up, I think."
"Just your type, then!" I give her a scowl at that. "Truth, Angelica, and you know it. Erik was like that, Sam was, so was Derrick..." How on earth she remembers the names of all my ex-boyfriends, I don't know, because I can't even remember. "Dad was too, you know, and we all know what Freud said..."
"Yeah, Sairs, he said that everything was a penis! And speaking of which..." I take the black umbrella down from the hook in my closet, and stow it in my large suitcase. Can't forget that, Holmes specifically asked for it. I've decided not to tell him where it's been, what he doesn't know won't hurt him.
Sara and I cover the business end of things over tea, since I will need a place to store the stuff I'm not taking with me, and she will continue to need me to share expenses. And she agrees to look after Pablo, although it's hard for me to ask. She was much against my adopting him on the first place, citing my lack of responsibility in the past, and warning that she wasn't going to end up stuck with a cat when I got tired of him. I make it clear that this is only for three months, and that I'll be visiting back here regularly.
"You better visit!" Sara tells me. "And keep in touch between visits. You are awful about calling me..."
"Then you should learn to text. I don't call, I text. Only oldies make phone calls anymore."
She blows a very mature raspberry at me.
# # #
Time crawls by so slowly when I'm waiting on something; by Monday morning, I'm getting a little stir-crazy. I just want to get this move-in over with. It's almost noon before there's a knock at the door, and I answer it to find Ms. Black Dress, the pretty brunette, on my doorstep with a large envelope. We give each other fake-friendly smiles, she hands me the envelope without a word, and drives off. Okay. That felt like kind of bitchy, but maybe she's just being efficient; it can be hard to tell sometimes.
The envelope contains a hard copy of the signed contract, a key, and a note informing me that the flat, located at 1113 Ennismore Mews, is serviced twice a week, at ten o'clock a.m. on Mondays and Thursdays, and, as my contract is effective immediately, I am to relocate to that premises and expect a visit at 8 pm this evening, signed M.H.
Well, that's all warm and friendly, too, isn't it. I wonder for a minute what I've gotten myself into, but I know that since I've chosen this, I've chosen where it takes me. I call a minicab, asking for one with a large boot.
Ennismore Mews turns out to be a narrow, secluded cobblestone lane that meanders through a very quiet area near the Park. The high, pale plaster walls on either side are punctuated by occasional doors and windows, and every one graced with a blooming urn or flower-box. Number 1113 is a bright blue door, freshly painted, with a little gabled overhang trimmed in the same blue above it.
The driver unloads my suitcases by the doorstep, I tip him for the trouble, and off he goes, the tyres making a odd rumble on the cobbles. I unlock the door, and step inside to one of the most adorable flats I've ever seen. The place is furnished with nineteenth-century antiques, or good reproductions of them. It feels like a boutique hotel room, but larger and not so cutesy-overdone as most of them. Whoever did the decorating had some restraint. The downstairs has a sitting room and modern kitchen, the upstairs a single bedroom and a period-style bath. That's it, and it's tiny, but what more do I need?
And when I enter the bedroom, I have to burst out laughing-the space is dominated by an enormous mahogany four-poster bed. To my mind, it fairly screams "Adult Playground!" but then, I've got that sort of mind. Opposite the bed, I can see sunlight and green through the tall windows; they must overlook the Park. Nice touch, that, since I specifically mentioned trees. A burnished mahogany clothes valet is positioned in a corner under the windows, and the other corner bears a comfortable-looking padded armchair, with a little round side-table for company.
No built-in closets in an old place like this, but there is a good-sized wardrobe, and I have it all to myself. I set to putting my things away. As I'm setting my toiletries up in the bathroom, though, I discover that Holmes has put some personal effects in the flat after all; a gentleman's shaving kit is laid out on a tray in the bathroom cabinet. There's a mug, a cake of nice-smelling shaving soap, a badger brush, and, most curiously, a straight-edge razor. I've never seen one before, and I take it out to have a look. The handle is brushed stainless steel, the blade all business. Very elegant. Figures that he wouldn't just use a disposable plastic twin-blade or something ordinary like that. I appreciate that he has it here, because I really hate stubble on a man's face. Beard-burn is a serious occupational hazard.
When I've emptied my suitcases, I stow them under the bed and take the whanghee-handled umbrella downstairs to tuck it into the brass umbrella stand by the front door, and bid it a fond farewell. It's been fun, little friend! I'll have to get one for myself one of these days.
Using my trusty satellite navigation app, I venture out into the neighborhood on foot and locate the nearest eatery, a Chinese take-away, and it's not too awful. I also find a place to pick up a jug of milk, some tea, and a loaf of bread, so I'm set until I can figure out the bus lines and do a proper shopping trip tomorrow.
On my way back, I stop at the park for a smoke. I don't know if I should light up inside the flat or not; I'll have to ask Holmes about it, since he's paying for the place. I don't want a cigarette often, but it's a nice thing once in a while. I just don't have a very addictive personality-when it comes to substances, anyway.
I'm still dying to find out more about Holmes, for example, although I now know that he would probably find out if I stalked him, and most likely be displeased. Very displeased, if I read his reactions right. But I still want to! It's a hard habit to break, and I still have a lot of questions. Like, is that Sherlock that was on the phone the other night his boyfriend, or what? Do they live together? Where does the man get his money from? This cute little flat-in this neighborhood-isn't over-the-top posh, but it isn't cheap either. Comfortably upper-class, I'd say. And there's my retainer for the three months-although if you count up how much he'd be spending in nice hotel rooms plus my hourly, I think he's getting a reasonable discount by going for the long-term. Very practical, actually...
I stub out my cigarette and toss it into a bin, and head back to my new abode. It's time to start getting ready.
I go to put the jug of milk in the fridge, and get a huge surprise, because there's already one in there! Along with some other things, food that I use often, like lettuces, tomatoes and Swiss cheese. How did he know I only like Swiss? I check the freezer and cupboards, and there are more provisions. My favorite ice-cream. Eggs. Bread, and bagels. The biscuits we buy that Sara likes; the London shops never have the ones I like. There's even two packets of tea; my regular one, and a flavored one that I buy for Sara.
It's quite thoughtful, and sort of intrusive, all at the same time. Has he had people going through our garbage or something? Watching me at the shops? Weird, weird, weird. I shrug it off and go upstairs to bathe and dress.
Sliding into the tub, I realize how big it is; I can almost stretch out fully in it! Now, that is something I could get used to. Once I've tended to my grooming and dried my hair, I have the delightful chore of deciding which bit of lace to decorate myself with. There is a full-length mirror thoughtfully set into the outside of one door of the wardrobe, and I spend quite a few happy minutes trying on this and that and admiring myself. I settle on some classic black satin for the bra and knickers, and a stretchy, tight black dress with a micro-skirt. Just a little makeup, no need for product or doing anything too fancy with my hair. I throw in some hot rollers to give just a little curl and bounce, even though my stylist claims that those things are ruining my hair.
I've brought along what I like to call my "toy-box," a small locking trunk that holds my personal and professional sex toys, and the black gym bag is in there with the accouterments that Holmes provided for me. I take it out and set it on the floor beside the bed, since I'm not sure what the new ritual is going to be. I get distracted, poking through my toy-box, when I hear the front door being unlocked downstairs. Oh, hell, it's eight already! I start ripping curlers out of my hair, tossing them into a bathroom drawer.
Finger-combing my hair, I slide on some flats and head downstairs. Holmes has just put his other umbrella into the stand, beside its mate, and looks up at me as I come down off the last step.
"I trust you have found everything to your satisfaction?" he asks politely.
"Yes," I nod. "Very."
"Good, that's good." He puts his hands in his pockets, rocks on his feet a bit, and gives me a calculating, thoughtful look. He is a man with a speech to deliver. I loosely cross my arms, and lean against the carved bottom stair-post, expectant.
"Before we go into the specifics of our little arrangement, Angel, there are some things that I must be sure you understand. Are you listening?" Mutely, I nod my head, and think, God, what a patronizing, arrogant git you are!
He continues, looking past me now toward the sitting room. "I will keep this simple. Most important is the need for utter discretion on your part. Whatever you think you know about me now, whatever you find out later, is not to be shared, ever. With anyone, for any reason. Corollary to this, is loyalty. You will not act in any way, at any time, against my interests."
He turns his eyes toward me, then, and they are like glittering ice-chips. I involuntarily shiver. "If you betray me, ever, Miss Talbot, in any way, I assure you that I can, and will, arrange matters in such a way that the rest of your life will be spent incarcerated, with no hope of release, ever. Do you understand?" His face is like stone. I have no doubt whatsoever that he means every word of this.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, and nod again. My brain has gone a little numb. It's just too much, I want to get away. My eyes slide down from his face, to focus on his tie. It's blue, and covered with unexpectedly silly, tiny umbrellas, and I find my voice saying, "Why...why not just have me killed if it's necessary, and be done with it? Seems simpler..." Where is this sass of mine coming from?
He looks genuinely thoughtful, and sticks his tongue in his cheek for a second. "It's surprisingly complicated to eliminate someone that way. I don't resort to it unless absolutely necessary."
Oh, my god, he's serious. I don't know if the shock registers on my face or not, but Holmes gives me an oddly cheerful smile, goes over to the sideboard in the sitting room, and pours himself a tumbler from one of the decanters there.
He holds the glass up to the light, admiring the color. "Well, that's that, and now we understand one another. Now for the particulars." He seats himself on the sofa, and waves me toward one of the armchairs like a gracious host. I sit, legs crossed, and my hands folded on my knee with a perky look, like I'm a new hire getting instructions. I think he misses the nonverbal sarcasm, but it makes me feel better.
"First, availability. Your contract stipulates that you have complete freedom to come and go as you please, which of course is completely acceptable, but you are to be available here within three hours of notice, correct?" He sips his drink, I nod my head. "Is there any way to reduce that by mutual agreement to two hours, or even one? My schedule is at times far more erratic than I would like, and three hours advance notice will be inconvenient."
I consider. "Well, the main problem is transportation. I don't have much going on that I can't drop with short notice, but it's getting back here quickly enough that would be the difficulty..."
"What if I sent one of my aides to transport you?"
Oh, lovely, I think. Ms. Bitchy Black Dress and the Suit-ettes, what fun. I shrug. "If you're sure they don't mind, we could try for two hours as a maximum, and less if I can manage it."
He pulls a frown."Of course they don't mind, they're my aides. It's their job not to mind."
Holmes stands up and walks over to the entertainment system hidden inside an armoire at the far end of the sitting room. "Very well, two hours, then, and we shall have to see how it goes."
He begins rotating through the cd's in the carousel, looking for something in particular. "In future, I would like you to await my arrival upstairs, in the bedroom, rather than coming down."
"Okay," I say. "Any preference for me to be dressed, undressed, whatever?"
He settles on a Baroque piece with lots of violin, and glances at my outfit. "Dressed. That one is acceptable, but I would prefer more like the blue one with the ties," He flutters his long fingers in an imitation of pulling strings. He turns fully toward me again then, with a more calculating regard. "Two more things. First is your hair. Stand up, please."
"My hair?" I ask, standing. I've heard about this kind of thing with long-terms, they start to want to fiddle with your look. One escort on the forum said her long-term client even paid for her to have breast implants! I love my hair, and I'm not dyeing it or chopping it all off, no matter what. Well, maybe I would for a whole lot of money, but it would have to be a LOT.
"I'd like you to consider a slight change in style. It would please me quite a bit." He comes over and lightly touches my hair, pushing it back over my shoulders-then his face twitches, and he pulls out a hot-roller u-clip from the curls, holding it up in a bemused way. "What in the world is this?"
I snatch it out of his hand. "Overlooked it. Sorry."
"Quite. Well, I would like to see your hair just a bit shorter, to above the shoulders, like so," he flips the ends of my hair up so that it just grazes the top of my shoulders. "And curled under smoothly, not all messy like this." He flops the ends about disdainfully. "And, perhaps, a bit of fringe, just here," he traces a finger across my right brow. "What do you think?"
Actually, it sounds pretty good. I've got such bad split ends that my stylist has been after me for months to take off a few inches, and a classic bob would look good with the 60's retro clothes I like right now...and I'm not going to let on to any of that, because I want full points for being agreeable. Might be useful.
"Well, I don't know...it's taken me years to get it this long..." I sigh reluctantly. "I guess, if it really means a lot to you, okay. I have an appointment two weeks from now, I'll have my stylist do it up then?"
He shakes his head, with a trace of a smile. "I will make the arrangements for this week, at a good salon."
I shrug. "Okay. What else?"
He knits his brows together and tilts his head for emphasis. "Up until recently, you have been blissfully silent. I would appreciate a return to that, if you please." I smile, "I didn't think you were here for conversation."
He doesn't smile. "Most certainly not," he drawls out with an arch look, and gestures me up the stairs. I'm tempted to have the last word with, Well, neither am I! But I'm pretty sure that would be an error, so I bite my lip and head upstairs to await his lordship's pleasure.
# # #
The baroque violins are sounding upstairs as well; there must be speakers installed in the bedroom. I go in and lie down on the big bed, with my head under a pillow. I can get along with nearly any sort of music most of the time, but there are times when classical is just plain annoying, especially the wailey violins. I roll over and stare up at the flounced canopy above me.
I need to get over this attitude, and fast. I am full of resentment at Holmes, and that does not bode well for the rest of our business relationship. If I want this job to work out, I'm going to have to work at it. I close my eyes, and meditate on my breath, and calmness, and all those good things. I mentally recite some good poetry. I almost fall asleep.
I don't know how long he was there, but I open my eyes eventually and Holmes is standing in the doorway, not exactly looking at me sprawled on the bed, more like taking in the entire scene, with me embedded in it. The bed, the girl, the rich mahogany furniture, the green-gold sunset streaming through the tilted slats of the mini-blinds onto the pale ivory walls, he's taking in all of it, and he looks supremely pleased with himself. He has such a smug smile, that something rises in me that wants to wipe that gloating look off his face. I want to do something horrible, just to make him stop being so goddamn pleased with his wonderful self.
Aren't we human beings a piece of work?
He hangs his coat on the clothes valet, and puts his drink on the little table, motioning for me to stand beside him. I comply, standing barefoot and ready. I'm still battling down the surge of hostility, trying to get back to feeling simply calm and attentive. It's a struggle. He doesn't want to do the long stare tonight; perhaps because he did already. He reaches down to the hem of my skin-tight dress, and begins to stretch and roll it upwards, over my hips, waist, bust. I raise my arms up over my head, and he pulls it up until my head pops out, but my arms are still wound up in the black fabric. He gathers the fabric tighter with one hand, pinning my elbows together over my head, and with the other hand very delicately strokes the satin cupped over my breasts, and the tiny triangle of it at my crotch. Note to self-Holmes really likes satin. Must get more.
He shifts around to be able to fondle my backside then, and I realize that I can now see the reflection of his face quite well in the mirror on the wardrobe door. His eyes are closed, and I watch his expression curiously. His brow is knit, his face tense, lips parted; he might be a man in pain, but I know better. I've seen that look before-it feels so good that it hurts. He also looks pale and drawn to a thread; I can see marks of exhaustion under his eyes that I hadn't noticed before.
Poor bastard really looks like he hasn't slept in days. Well, we'll take care of that. He releases my arms suddenly and motions for me to take everything off, as he reaches down beside the bed for the black bag. Out come the cuffs, but no harness this time. When I am naked, he buckles the ankle and wrist restraints on me, and I end up on my back, with wrists tethered to the head of the bed, then he guides my legs up, one at a time, to clip each ankle to a wrist. It's not as uncomfortable as you would think, especially after he tucks a pillow under my bum for support.
The light has started to fade by then, so he turns on a small lamp on the bedside, a rather bright one. He then goes through his disrobing ritual, down to his undershirt and briefs as usual, then...he disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running, and the click of the cabinet. Bless his heart, he's shaving! I mentally take back at least a third of the uncharitable things I have thought about him.
I wait, feeling calm and centered, feeling the tingle of anticipation, feeling alive. Holmes comes back into the bedroom, carrying a tray, and has a towel over one arm. I look at him curiously, and he comments with a serene smile, "You always miss a few spots. I like to make things tidy. Actually, I very much need them to be tidy."
My eyes widen with a whimper as I realize that he has brought in the tray of shaving equipment, including the straight razor and a mug of steaming water. I shake my head vigorously. "No. No way. That's not necessary, I already took care of that. Put it away!" My voice starts to rise to a shriek, and he puts down the tray and shushes me with soft fingers laid on my lips.
"I am going to do this regardless," he says steadily. "If you carry on loudly, you'll disturb my concentration, and I might nick you. If you thrash around, I might nick you. Really, the only possible course of action is to relax and do your breathing. You might find that you actually enjoy it," he finishes with a strangely genuine smile, and starts to expertly whip up a lather with the soap and brush.
I stare at the canopy above me, and say through gritted teeth, "So help me, if you do me any damage, I swear I am going to saw off your bollocks with a dull knife!"
All I get in response is a "Shush!" and a chuckle.
I can't believe this. This is why we are supposed to use safe words in bondage play, although I have the suspicion that he would be ignoring that, too, right now. He's applying the brush and lather to my tender bits, everywhere where hair usually grows down there, and a few places I thought it didn't. It tickles, and feels slippery at the same time, and smells very nice. It feels very, very erotic, but I am terrified at the thought of that razor... Actually, the terror of the thought of the razor is making the tickle of the brush even more erotic. He knew that, the bastard! It's so arousing, I have a hard time keeping still; I want to squirm.
Finally, I hear him put the brush back on the tray, and a soft snick! as he unfolds the razor. I am tempted to raise my head and have a look down there, but I can't bring myself to do it. I brace myself for the touch of cold steel, but there is only a slight tugging at the skin, and bits being moved around to keep the skin stretched taut. His hands are sure and gentle, precise. I almost don't dare breathe. I'm so turned on, I feel like I'm vibrating without actually moving, and time is suspended.
After forever, there is the click of the razor being laid back on the tray, and a warm, moist towel is swabbed over me, removing the traces of soap and lather. I start breathing again.
The bed shifts as he gets off it to take the tray back to the bathroom. He returns a moment later, and turns the light down to a soft glow. He lays his hands and face on me then, on the front of me: belly, breasts, thighs, throat, legs, everywhere. There isn't the same frantic intensity as before, though. He's more languid, calmer, more thorough.
I would have thought him more squeamish about the parts that are dripping wet right now, but he seems to relish that, too, feeling and tasting; then he becomes more and more focussed on my bum and backdoor. Ah, so that's the way it's going tonight? No problem, that's fun, too, I think, and concentrate on relaxing.
By the time he's applied the condom, I am so relaxed and slick with my own flowing juiciness that nothing extra is needed. He slides in, and we are, for the first time, coupled face-to-face. I wonder academically if he will be an eye-contact, or an eye-avoiding, or an eyes-closed kind of guy. My money is on eye-avoiding, but I am dead wrong.
I am literally bent double under him, my tethered ankles resting on his shoulders, his arms planted on either side of my legs, his face closer than it's ever been, and those blue eyes are boring into mine. I myself am an eyes-closed person, but it's a disengagement signal to turn away from eye contact, so I endure the gaze, holding his eyes with mine as he moves in me, but it's almost more than I can handle. I don't want to be this close to him, to anyone. I'm laid bare, flayed, and his eyes are sharper and more terrifying than any razor.
He doesn't even close his eyes when he comes, instead curling in even closer to me, until we are nose-to-nose, and I can taste the brandy still on his breath. It's only when the spasms are over for him that he finally lets go of my eyes and collapses against me, his head cradled on the curve of my shoulder, gasping. I start to get a little concerned, but a few moments later he seems to rally, and slowly rolls away from me.
He's not quite out of there like a shot, but he doesn't linger. As always, now I become invisible to him, no more consequential than the rest of the furnishings in the room. I hear the shower run briefly, then he comes out and quickly dresses, finally releasing one of my wrists without a word, or a glance. A moment later I hear his voice downstairs, probably calling his car, and then the front door opens and closes, and I'm alone with the damned baroque violins. I strip off my tethers and stalk downstairs in the buff to figure out how to shut the music off.