Mila was barely over the threshold when Doctor Lecter slammed the door entrapping her dress and he savagely ripped the rest off with his hands. He pushed her backwards and her head pounded against the thick oak, pain was rippling through her but their lips met and pleasure pooled in the pit of her stomach: This was what she was used to. She felt the doctor's desire like a white heat all over her body; her head still ached but she was focusing more on how his hands roamed over her breasts so sensually while his approach to kissing was far more ferocious – he had nipped her bottom lip and their tongues collided with the metallic taste of blood.
"I knew…you felt the same…Hannibal." The young temptress moaned into his mouth and he retracted.
"You are to call me Doctor Lecter." He bellowed, and with that, he scooped her into his arms and marched into his office, pushing her onto the desk. Mila's head was screaming but when Lecter touched her it magnified the sense of pleasure.
She lay there in her underwear panting as he removed his tie and shirt agonizingly slowly. Her instinct was to touch herself and she ran her nimble fingers over the fine lace covering her crotch, but like lightning Lecter struck, grabbing her hand and rising above her on the desk. Once again their lips met and for the first time he hinted at his own gratification, letting out a deep hum.
"Mila you know your parents can never find out about this."
"Don't talk about them." She gasped.
He licked her neck. "My reputation hangs in the balance as it is. Your parents can't find out."
Mila wondered what Hannibal had already done to have his reputation on the line but the eroticism of the situation took precedence.
"Please Han…Doctor Lecter, let us take this to the bedroom?"
"Truthfully, I had other things in mind." Mila wondered how kinky her charming doctor was.
"Oh yeah? Indulge me." She whispered and with that, he put his hands round her slight neck.
Horror washed over Mila's face as his thumbs pressed in harder and she realised he wasn't going to let go. Her final instinct was to kick him but she was too slow. Suddenly, in all but physicality she ceased to exist. With a satisfied smirk on his face, Hannibal Lecter re-suited himself, scarcely glancing over at the corpse crudely embellishing his office. To Hannibal, it was never enough to kill somebody without a performance – the elegance of the art was diminished significantly, otherwise. He simply hadn't felt that desire in their first meeting because it was so obvious that Miss Alkaev had been holding back. That extra something just now – the sprig of desperation – always made for fine dining.
