Juanita Dark
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I've been looking for a woman to save my life
Not to beg, or to borrow
A woman with the feeling
Of losing once or twice
Who knows how it could be tomorrow?
I've Been Waiting for You ~ Pixies
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Their little charade had been all about contempt; and how a man could get off perfectly well if he hated the woman beneath him.
In the interregnum there was little love lost to share, less the afterglow. He withdrew from their curious coition with a gathering distaste. He was honest with her when he told her that their time had passed.
"Get out."
***
He feels her arousal when he has her by the throat - it's badly drawn pretence but she's the best at it.
He lets her go.
Suggests she walk him home to discuss the matter further. But she's dry, like a cat drawing claws against the bird. Slipping her purse under her arm, she says, with that strange little smile:
"Nobody walks in L.A."
And his hackles duly rise.
Perhaps they crawl.
***
His apartment - on their arrival - is small and ignobly cramped. The objets d'art like effigies (dusty, unsmiling); his welcome is a wake. Lilah hits her ankle on an inconspicuous - but obtrusively obvious enough to him - volume. No light? She wonders. But he's learned to live in the dark - and be slithered over.
Perhaps she would like to leave.
But when she turns to the door - if only to get away from that damned sharp-edged book - she turns right into him. Correction. She turns right into his arm barring the way to the door. He wants her to ask if he's trying to scare her.
"What..."
The hell?
"Are you doing?"
Letting you leave - do try to keep up. He steps back and gives her the necessary room, watching the black and white suspicion that he is playing with her flicker all over her features like a serpentine tongue.
She falls back on an accustomed calm; might it occur to her that when he'd had his fingers on her craven neck - he'd meant it? Perhaps. But like all good lawyers, Lilah could never take no for an answer. She would chase his glittering hearse until they buried him in it, or grind him under foot. Whichever came first.
She removes her jacket, drops her purse - he doesn't help her retrieve it. Sees her last in the hall, looking downward for something lost - her hair like cinnamon - in a bloodless room, without colour.
A swell of organised disorder descends on him and he turns to the bedroom.
There's a drop of whisky in the glass by his bedside table, which he drinks, turning on the lamp next to it to lend a grim emerald glow to the proceedings. Her perfume comes with her, entering the room with that rarefied air of suggestion that sways above the city in an odious, corporate blanket. There are a million women like her - and none of them worth his time of day.
Taking off his shirt, he fragments the formalities:
"Why don't you take your clothes off and we'll get on with this, hmm?"
She keeps her poise but throws down the recovered purse like a glove. The cold air curls across his back like shadows, and toe-to-toe with her, he deliberately opens her blouse button by button mastering her gaze without batting an eyelid. Her eyes are beginning to glaze. She's just a little interested and just a little dead. Marlene is a name that calls to him, far, at the back of his mind.
A shame he's not relying on her pride.
He leaves her there half-gaping as he returns to the bed and removes his socks, his shoes. Relieved of her blouse, Lilah steps out of her skirt (and places both on the back of a chair). He's taking all this in with the detachment of a surgeon. Not aroused by her but in spite of her. He strips, and naked (not oblivious to Lilah's lizard glance over his length) slides into the bed.
She walks around the bed, slowly (if she thinks this is a turn on - think again), perches on the opposite side removing her underwear then climbs in. When she rises over him he removes the bra. Feels her nipples pushed against his palms. Moves over and onto her. Feels himself enlarge.
A woman, a woman, a woman. His hand between her legs.
She's still trying to be poised at this point and this... with its play at discretion, seems to bait him. She's also trying not to breathe too hard. Couldn't have him thinking that she's wanted him. That would not do. He breathes against her neck. Yes, she seems to like that. She's easily reduced to the sum of her parts; there aren't many and they're obvious. She's soft for such an intolerable bitch and she hasn't grabbed at him. She's waiting for his opening gambit. Wanting it nonetheless.
His hand is on her neck now. That slim column of flesh just presents itself to abuse. Soft, trembling abuse.
She opens beneath him. An improvement. His hand brushes against her breast on his way down to parting her further. Her thighs are wet. Again, this is a faintly curious revelation. A travesty of distended sex.
He's deliberately slow with her, nudging her - a push, push here. She had kept pushing him, hadn't she. And there were very few edges he hadn't already been over in the past few weeks. Withdraws from her, wet and sticky. She wants him inside. Her hands knead his hips; that look is devilry. Her lips shine in the dark and he kisses her hard and pushes past her resistance at last. Again. Something inside her is pleading and holding tight against her face the mask, like oxygen.
Now. Let's. Try. This. Again.
School teacher's eloquence; "Discipline, Wesley," - was a ruler coming down on a sweaty palm. The loud 'thwack' of a leather that put his teeth on edge. The pity from the first girl who let him inside of her.
Lilah's choking off her noises - unsuccessfully. She very hot down there and enjoying her penance. So he catches her off-guard with a deep thrust and her arms welcome him. Knuckles involved with the flesh. No. No harder. Not just yet.
Swift defence and parry. He learned fencing from his father, from other Watchers.
He feels her quicken. Hmm. Ready so soon?
He'd just about talk to her - her ear is by his nose. Yes, talk to her. How does that feel? Is this enough for her. Think about it, did she? Oh yes, she's about to come. Want to say anything?
Strangled vowels.
That's all.
He would like to strangle her; the world would thank him for the favour. Maybe that's what she wants - death. Deep fucking of her is as close to death as he will have it.
Telltale tremor from her - she can't disguise her joy now. Too bad. He's not finished yet. Didn't think he'd take his time over her, did she? God, he loathes her. But anger, he's about to learn, is by far a bigger turn on - as he feels his cock leap inside her. He's surged to a new level of ill will. Soft, soft Lilah's mewling like a cat. Another brush of her breasts before he needs friction -- needs. And harder and harder, release.
He can come alone - he might as well be. In his mind she's no longer in the room.
Hot Lilah comes again this time and he no longer wants to feel the glow or be around to watch the sweat he engendered radiate off her skin. He's bitter that she's still - indeed - here, so he tells her - be gone like the phantasm of my thoughts, you're no longer needed. It takes only a glance at her to adjust his bad composure - shedding her like skin. Eying the high ceiling.
She's not leaving? Yes, withering. He restrains what urges bubble up in him; coolly modulates it into a language she can understand. How trite that she tries to taunt him here, when he can still see the triangles of her flesh.
Not even an aftertaste. Like water. No residual emotion he wants to keep. He's airtight and sealed.
Another quick word, and balanced on her wounded pride, she leaves. A parting shot from a tiresome mind. She hadn't seen him slip the knife in but she had felt it. His satisfaction is (distressingly, if he cared) indistinct.
Lying on his bed he can't feel much. No, not much at all.
-fin-