Dark Places
I stand in front of the door and hesitate for a second. The door -
closed still - stares back at me like a mute, and the moment is over;
I open it with shaking fingers. It was not anxiety that made me
hesitate, it was merely the need to act my role properly. Merely for
appearances' sake, appeasing expectations. It has been so much a part
of me that even at this hour - when nobody is about and the hallways
echo desolately - I cannot shake it. Because it is me, not anyone
else, that is most concerned about appearances. And I slip inside,
into the darkness of the room, I let it embrace me, swallow and
devour me.
The door closes without a sound behind me and I stand in the
darkness, waiting, feeling my body slowly coming alive with
expectation, my eyes straining to adjust. I know she can see me, I
know she is watching me, my every move, her eyes upon me. And my body
begins to tremble - as it does every time I come.
Slowly I enter deeper into the darkness, into her lair. I move
through the room knowingly, the layout being familiar as if it was of
my own chambers. The eyes never leave me, mocking, provoking,
enticing me into her den. I reach the other end of the room, my heart
beating furiously, driving me forward, but I stop in front of a door.
The air is charged with needs and wants, heavy like a storm-cloud
waiting to spill its load.
The door slides softly away and I enter her bedchambers soundlessly
(except for this uncontrollable heartbeat, like a drum announcing my
arrival). This second room is even darker and I reach out with my
hand. I make a cautious step forward, then another, until I make out
what could be the bed in front of me. I stop and shakily release a
breath I didn't know I was holding.
After confirming the bed's reality I straighten up and reach for the
sash of my dress. I begin untying it, hindered by my own trembling
hands. My breathing is labored, I struggle to keep it under control.
Then, within moments her strong arms grab me, lift me and pull me
while my body rejoices. Pulling and tearing my dress, nails scraping
my skin, mouth biting - I see, tonight she will leave marks. My
punishment for absence in the past week. But I don't care about the
marks or the pain that brings them, in fact I revel in them as my
body is consumed in a primal heat of her desire - and my own.
She slams me against the wall, my dress hanging down my body in
tatters. Still in midair, I grasp for hold, knocking various items
from her table and dresser around me. Finally I relent and hold on to
her as she moves downward from biting my neck to biting my breasts.
She continues downward, holding me in the air with ease, forcing my
legs open, immediately attacking my exposed privates.
She never had any patience, never choosing to wait and the force of
her absolute want again drove me into her waiting trap. And again I
accept it willingly - or is it my want that drives me here and she
the one who accepts?
"Say my name," she demands and sinks her teeth into my inner thigh.
I bite my lower lip, unwilling to give in to her. She gives a small
wicked laugh. "Then I'm gonna make you scream it," she sneers and my
stomach convulses.
She lifts me higher, carries me a short distance then drops me on
the bed roughly. I still had my hands entwined deeply in her silver
mane and pulled her down with me just as cruelly. I drag her on top
of me and our lips touch accidentally for the briefest of moments
before her teeth emerge and bite my lower lip. She doesn't draw blood
but I can't say that wasn't her intent.
She moves away, giving my breasts a rough squeeze then buries her
head between my legs. After a vain struggle (for appearances sake) I
spread my legs willingly, obscenely, hungrily, allowing her access.
She ravishes me, my hips eagerly swinging toward her, my legs
embracing her.
I feel embarrassed, guilty, and hide my face behind my hands, trying
to say that I will never do as she asks, but no words escape my lips
- just moans of pleasure - and anyway, soon I /will/ be calling her
name nonetheless. She knows of course. Everything.
"Do you hear that?" she asks, making wet sounds somewhere down
below. "Can you hear how wet you are?" I struggle against her but she
slides two fingers inside me easily without warning and I moan out in
pleasure.
I am panting, breathless, and she is merciless, her fingers, tongue
and teeth violating me. Moaning into my hands and squirming under her
I feel pleasure through the pain, pleasure taking over my body and I
explode, gasping for air, my body revolting everything proper, and
thrashing obscenely. I lose control, I am arching up to her, grasping
at her, my desire demanding more of her, more of her fingers, her
tongue and teeth against my flesh.
But she doesn't let me enjoy myself, she continues and it's almost
painful as she keeps forcing pleasure out of my body, her resolve to
make me scream unshaken. My body is soon betraying me again,
accepting her touch readily, hungrily. I even find myself moaning in
protest when she pauses to reposition herself upon me and I open my
eyes to stare at her exposed privates in front of me.
I hook my arms around her legs and hesitantly pull her down to my
lips (I have no choice). Her moans emerge from deep within her, the
growls making her abdomen vibrate - I can feel it just below my
breasts.
"Oh, you're so good at this," she says. "Soooo good," she continues,
purring and grinding her crotch against my face. "You know what I
like," she trails off, a bit too quiet to be considered mocking any
longer.
All the while she keeps on pleasuring me. My body keeps arching
towards her, thrusting against her, pleading her. Though she is
either getting tired and slowing down or my body adjusted to her
rough touch because inside me, my building orgasm is drowning out any
bodily discomfort I was feeling before. I am intoxicated with her
smell (and taste), my limbs winding round her, my moans muted by her
flesh covering my mouth. I allow myself - my body - to accept this
twisted pleasure, born from shame and desire, embarrassment and
excitement, to let it invade my core and I call out her name, I plead
her to take me, to push me over the edge, carry me over that doorstep
and I beg her make me come.
After I am once again master of my deceiving body and mind - after
my useless flailing and shuddering subsides - I find myself once
again pressing my lips against her wet, hungry entrance. I feel her
gasp for air, her thighs pressing tightly against my ears and the
sides of my face. She is saying something, yet I cannot hear her. My
face, my body, her body, in- and out-side, everything is wet, sticky,
damp. Sweat, saliva and other fluids flow anywhere our bodies meet
and I remember how I was once repulsed by it, now I'm not even
embarrassed.
As much as I would like to contradict it, I do know what she enjoys
and if I wanted she would be writhing in ecstasy already. But - as
much as I would like to deny /that/ - I like being in control of how
much pleasure she receives; and how much she is denied.
She rises from above and turns around, lies down on her back at the
head of the bed and I take my position between her legs. She isn't
saying anything anymore, her vocabulary reduced to moans and cries of
pleasure. And again I find myself fascinated at the way my fingers
disappear into her crevices and I am again aware of my absence of
shame and disgust at this act I am partaking in. How long has it been
like this?
The cacophony of sounds that is escaping her mouth (and other parts
of her) is reaching a crescendo and I leave her hanging on the edge,
while all I can think of is how to outdo her, how to drive her deeper
to the madness at the heart of pleasure, deeper than she drove me.
She erupts in a cry of a wounded animal then curls up into a ball
with my head in its center. Her head is pressing into my back at the
base of my neck (yes, she is amazing, in a way), and I hear her
sobbing, muttering incomprehensibly, shuddering, gasping for air.
Her grip loosens and I roll over to the other side of the bed, the
mattress still shaking from her trembling. I lie down on my back,
while she's still curled up on her side, her bare back to me. I stare
up into the empty darkness, trying to keep my mind mute, my head
closed.
/I am lying facing her, wearing underwear I never wore before, not
for her, and she touches me/ touches me /like she never did before and
we kiss gently, she touches me again, my naked body, caresses the
soft places where she bites and scratches normally, I place my hand
on her cheek, we kiss again and she's beautiful, we make love and/ I
rouse from the dream in a fit, my muscles tense, my body in a state
of expectation.
The disturbing images provoke anger, but the dream is quickly
forgotten and escapes my mind as I notice the remains of my gown on
the floor. She is not on the bed anymore and I get up also, heading
for her wardrobe. I take one of the more discreet clothing articles
and leave the bedroom.
As I exit her quarters I can make her out in the darkness of the
bathroom - watching me of course - and my forgotten anger flares up
again (it has something to do with that damned dream, but I cannot
recall it any more).
The corridors of the palace are empty and dimly lit by soothing
nightlights which only irritate me more. I am angry with her, with
myself, with the cruel twist of destiny that denies us the prize of
our eternal disputes and turned us to each other for consolation. I
curse the Gods, the Universe, the perverted Fate. I curse her and her
twisted lust and I curse myself and my sick needs and I curse this
twisted union from which I cannot escape.
The End
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