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sarea
First of all, Tom's new height is very exciting. I always knew he had it in him! Though, now he's truly perv-worthy, and that's not necessarily a good thing.
Second of all, I wrote a story as part of a one-hour writing challenge tonight. We were supposed to be able to work on anything, but I wanted to try doing a standalone and see what I could come up with in that time. Great exercise, but damn hard. This is my one-hour-and-ten-minutes effort, so really, don't be too harsh. <g> And since I am not one to leave things alone, I had to edit it a bit afterward. Thanks to the other challengers and especially Jade, who puts up with my insane need to beta, for feedback and editorial comments.
Warning: This story is NC-17 in nature, and has themes of violence and sex that may bother some people. If this is you, stay far, far away.
In the Moonlight by Sarea Okelani
Rated NC-17
He takes the stairs three at a time, but feels he is moving through a thick haze of honey and smoke. Nothing can get him there fast enough.
His palms are sweaty and there seems to be a film of something over his eyes, making the world shrink to the size of a postage stamp, the head of a pin. There is only one face he wants to see, and everything else is noise.
The bedroom door makes a satisfyingly loud sound as it crashes against the wall, and there, seated at the vanity table, is the object of his hunt. She does not look up when he enters; instead, she continues to run a brush through her long, straight hair that falls nearly to her waist. It is the color of the burgundy wine that sits in a glass on the table; it is the color of blood that pounds dangerously through his veins.
He wills her to turn around and look at him, but she does not. It is as though he is viewing her from beyond a sheet of glass. It feels all too familiar, and he strides forward quickly to break through that imagined barrier to grab her roughly by the shoulders and force her to face him.
Searching her face for any hint of culpability, any hint of regret, he cannot see anything but the cool impassiveness of a woman who knows full well the power she has over him, and whose depth of cruelty even he has been unaware of all this time. But she has shown her true colors now, and he won't let her off easy. He won't be made a fool, and if he does not like her answers, he won't be responsible for his actions.
The grip he has on her must hurt; she feels frail beneath his fingers, but he does not let up. It's good that she should feel pain; it's right. It is only fitting for the pain she has caused him, for the pain that is even now cutting like silver daggers in his heart. She is his lifeblood, his undoing, his absolution. And tonight, she is his betrayer.
"Did you do it?"
He barely recognizes his own voice, rasping and hard. If he heard this tone in another man's voice, he'd do well to be wary. But she only lifts her gaze to stare him directly in the eyes, and does not reveal a single thing.
He shakes her, hard, and her head snaps back. Her lips part, and for one moment he believes that she is going to speak, that she is going to confess all to him. He does not know what he will do when she does. He pictures himself throwing her out of his house, grabbing her arm and dragging her down the stairs and through the front door. Her nightgown will be a splash of crème de menthe against the snow, her hair a banner of fire that will decorate the otherwise barren landscape. Her legs are a creamy white, but they will look golden next to the powdered rain that is even now drifting outside the window. It is when his mind conjures the idea of her vulnerable bare toes digging into the icy ground that he knows he won't do it.
She doesn't speak.
He pulls her up and shoves her roughly in the direction of the bed. She stumbles against it but doesn't make a sound, nor does she try to escape. She looks at him without fear, and this makes him angry. She should be afraid. She should be sorry for what she has done. She should be begging his forgiveness, not staring him down with those dark, impenetrable eyes. She sits down demurely on the bed and waits.
Seeing her there, he tries not to think of other chilly winter nights he has spent in that bed, feeling anything but cold. He remembers how it felt to see the bright yellow glow of the moon against the cascading midnight blue of the sky, with this woman warm and soft beside him. Contentment was not a word he knew before he met her, and he wonders if he will know it again.
For now, possession will be enough.
"I asked you a question," he says, keeping his voice calm. Considering the circumstances, he is being extremely civil. Part of him hopes that she will take this opportunity to defend herself. To tell him that all is not as it seems. To soothe his temper and his pride, as she has done dozens of times before, and show him that she loves him above all else, above all other things. That she would never betray him.
The words do not come.
Anger heats his skin again, melting the last of the snow particles that had landed on his hair when he'd rushed into the house. He can feel them trickle down the side of his face, and he wipes his eyes, for he can feel them there as well.
"Damn you, how could you do this to me?" The explosion does not surprise either one of them. He half expects to find the shattered pieces of his sanity staining the carpet the way his muddy shoes do. She barely flinches when he takes two swift steps toward her, with every intention of making her hurt. But at the last second, looming over her, he crumples, dropping to his knees and burying his face against her stomach. "Why?" he asks brokenly, but she has no answer.
Her silence reminds him of her betrayal, cold and bitter on his tongue. Snarling, he takes one of her thin nightgown straps in his fingers, jerking forward, breaking it. The other is given the same destructive treatment and the material slithers down, revealing her perfect, unmarred breasts. He soon changes that with his lips and teeth and tongue.
She stays still and lets him do what he wants, without once making a sound of protest. Her hands remain on the bed, and her nipples are now small pebbles. He makes a growl of satisfaction, and without ceremony rips the rest of her clothing from her body.
"No underwear," he sneers as he pushes her down upon the bed and begins to undo his trousers. "How appropriate for a whore like you."
She swallows and her eyes are bright, but she does not stop him when he forces her legs apart and stabs into her tight sheath. It amazes him how tight she is even after all this time. Following quickly on the heels of this thought is one that is decidedly unwelcome, that another has experienced this heaven for himself.
"Did you move like this under him?" he asks, forcing her to take more of him, grinding his hips hard against hers. She's wet, but he's not being gentle and it probably hurts. She closes her eyes. He pulls out and thrusts back in with violent precision, uncaring of her comfort, wanting to punish her for her crimes. "You're mine. It appears you've forgotten that simple fact, so it's up to me to remind you, isn't it, angel?" He moves faster between the cradle of her thighs, wanting her to feel him, feel all of him, driving out all thought of anyone else. There is only him, will only ever be him.
He crushes her mouth with his, tasting her and feeling unaccountably glad that she still tastes the same, that she hasn't been tainted in this way. She is still sweet and soft and yielding, and his tongue thoroughly reclaims territory that is rightfully his. If he has to mark her entire body, he will.
When he breaks off the kiss he realizes she's crying, and the shock of it is enough to momentarily pause the punishing rhythm of his lower body.
"Ginny?"
She doesn't acknowledge that she's heard him, only continues the quiet weeping that makes him gather her close, and something in him breaks, even as he resents her for making him this weak. She cries into his shoulder, and the hot, wet river of her tears seems to burn through his skin. When her sobs have slowed, he raises his head so he can see her face, look into her eyes. Before he can utter a word, she tentatively touches her mouth to his. It is enough to send arousal skittering down his spine, making him convulse, shudders wracking his body as he marks her one final time.
When he opens his eyes again, he is looking out the window at a yellow moon, and he remembers when things were different.
Had dinner w/ my friend Julie tonight at a snooty Italian place. She just found out that she passed the bar, so of course there had to be some celebrating. Tomorrow is lunch w/ Karen and a viewing of Love Actually. W00t!
Second of all, I wrote a story as part of a one-hour writing challenge tonight. We were supposed to be able to work on anything, but I wanted to try doing a standalone and see what I could come up with in that time. Great exercise, but damn hard. This is my one-hour-and-ten-minutes effort, so really, don't be too harsh. <g> And since I am not one to leave things alone, I had to edit it a bit afterward. Thanks to the other challengers and especially Jade, who puts up with my insane need to beta, for feedback and editorial comments.
Warning: This story is NC-17 in nature, and has themes of violence and sex that may bother some people. If this is you, stay far, far away.
In the Moonlight by Sarea Okelani
Rated NC-17
He takes the stairs three at a time, but feels he is moving through a thick haze of honey and smoke. Nothing can get him there fast enough.
His palms are sweaty and there seems to be a film of something over his eyes, making the world shrink to the size of a postage stamp, the head of a pin. There is only one face he wants to see, and everything else is noise.
The bedroom door makes a satisfyingly loud sound as it crashes against the wall, and there, seated at the vanity table, is the object of his hunt. She does not look up when he enters; instead, she continues to run a brush through her long, straight hair that falls nearly to her waist. It is the color of the burgundy wine that sits in a glass on the table; it is the color of blood that pounds dangerously through his veins.
He wills her to turn around and look at him, but she does not. It is as though he is viewing her from beyond a sheet of glass. It feels all too familiar, and he strides forward quickly to break through that imagined barrier to grab her roughly by the shoulders and force her to face him.
Searching her face for any hint of culpability, any hint of regret, he cannot see anything but the cool impassiveness of a woman who knows full well the power she has over him, and whose depth of cruelty even he has been unaware of all this time. But she has shown her true colors now, and he won't let her off easy. He won't be made a fool, and if he does not like her answers, he won't be responsible for his actions.
The grip he has on her must hurt; she feels frail beneath his fingers, but he does not let up. It's good that she should feel pain; it's right. It is only fitting for the pain she has caused him, for the pain that is even now cutting like silver daggers in his heart. She is his lifeblood, his undoing, his absolution. And tonight, she is his betrayer.
"Did you do it?"
He barely recognizes his own voice, rasping and hard. If he heard this tone in another man's voice, he'd do well to be wary. But she only lifts her gaze to stare him directly in the eyes, and does not reveal a single thing.
He shakes her, hard, and her head snaps back. Her lips part, and for one moment he believes that she is going to speak, that she is going to confess all to him. He does not know what he will do when she does. He pictures himself throwing her out of his house, grabbing her arm and dragging her down the stairs and through the front door. Her nightgown will be a splash of crème de menthe against the snow, her hair a banner of fire that will decorate the otherwise barren landscape. Her legs are a creamy white, but they will look golden next to the powdered rain that is even now drifting outside the window. It is when his mind conjures the idea of her vulnerable bare toes digging into the icy ground that he knows he won't do it.
She doesn't speak.
He pulls her up and shoves her roughly in the direction of the bed. She stumbles against it but doesn't make a sound, nor does she try to escape. She looks at him without fear, and this makes him angry. She should be afraid. She should be sorry for what she has done. She should be begging his forgiveness, not staring him down with those dark, impenetrable eyes. She sits down demurely on the bed and waits.
Seeing her there, he tries not to think of other chilly winter nights he has spent in that bed, feeling anything but cold. He remembers how it felt to see the bright yellow glow of the moon against the cascading midnight blue of the sky, with this woman warm and soft beside him. Contentment was not a word he knew before he met her, and he wonders if he will know it again.
For now, possession will be enough.
"I asked you a question," he says, keeping his voice calm. Considering the circumstances, he is being extremely civil. Part of him hopes that she will take this opportunity to defend herself. To tell him that all is not as it seems. To soothe his temper and his pride, as she has done dozens of times before, and show him that she loves him above all else, above all other things. That she would never betray him.
The words do not come.
Anger heats his skin again, melting the last of the snow particles that had landed on his hair when he'd rushed into the house. He can feel them trickle down the side of his face, and he wipes his eyes, for he can feel them there as well.
"Damn you, how could you do this to me?" The explosion does not surprise either one of them. He half expects to find the shattered pieces of his sanity staining the carpet the way his muddy shoes do. She barely flinches when he takes two swift steps toward her, with every intention of making her hurt. But at the last second, looming over her, he crumples, dropping to his knees and burying his face against her stomach. "Why?" he asks brokenly, but she has no answer.
Her silence reminds him of her betrayal, cold and bitter on his tongue. Snarling, he takes one of her thin nightgown straps in his fingers, jerking forward, breaking it. The other is given the same destructive treatment and the material slithers down, revealing her perfect, unmarred breasts. He soon changes that with his lips and teeth and tongue.
She stays still and lets him do what he wants, without once making a sound of protest. Her hands remain on the bed, and her nipples are now small pebbles. He makes a growl of satisfaction, and without ceremony rips the rest of her clothing from her body.
"No underwear," he sneers as he pushes her down upon the bed and begins to undo his trousers. "How appropriate for a whore like you."
She swallows and her eyes are bright, but she does not stop him when he forces her legs apart and stabs into her tight sheath. It amazes him how tight she is even after all this time. Following quickly on the heels of this thought is one that is decidedly unwelcome, that another has experienced this heaven for himself.
"Did you move like this under him?" he asks, forcing her to take more of him, grinding his hips hard against hers. She's wet, but he's not being gentle and it probably hurts. She closes her eyes. He pulls out and thrusts back in with violent precision, uncaring of her comfort, wanting to punish her for her crimes. "You're mine. It appears you've forgotten that simple fact, so it's up to me to remind you, isn't it, angel?" He moves faster between the cradle of her thighs, wanting her to feel him, feel all of him, driving out all thought of anyone else. There is only him, will only ever be him.
He crushes her mouth with his, tasting her and feeling unaccountably glad that she still tastes the same, that she hasn't been tainted in this way. She is still sweet and soft and yielding, and his tongue thoroughly reclaims territory that is rightfully his. If he has to mark her entire body, he will.
When he breaks off the kiss he realizes she's crying, and the shock of it is enough to momentarily pause the punishing rhythm of his lower body.
"Ginny?"
She doesn't acknowledge that she's heard him, only continues the quiet weeping that makes him gather her close, and something in him breaks, even as he resents her for making him this weak. She cries into his shoulder, and the hot, wet river of her tears seems to burn through his skin. When her sobs have slowed, he raises his head so he can see her face, look into her eyes. Before he can utter a word, she tentatively touches her mouth to his. It is enough to send arousal skittering down his spine, making him convulse, shudders wracking his body as he marks her one final time.
When he opens his eyes again, he is looking out the window at a yellow moon, and he remembers when things were different.
Had dinner w/ my friend Julie tonight at a snooty Italian place. She just found out that she passed the bar, so of course there had to be some celebrating. Tomorrow is lunch w/ Karen and a viewing of Love Actually. W00t!
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no subject
Date: 2003-11-16 02:52 am (UTC)I have a lot of questions about it, about the background, but I will not ask and draw my own conclusions. Instead, I find myself delighting, as I always do, in the way your words and lines seem to evoke such strong reactions for me, and once again I am grateful you share your talent with us.
*hugs*