by Kell Brannon
(01/17/07)
She should not be with him, but she cannot stay away.
The tiny golden cross around his neck taps her parted lips when he moves above her, and she bites at it, trying to pull him down. He speaks evenly -- how wet she is, so wet she drenches his thighs and dampens the sheets, how ready she is to be taken -- and punctuates the words with thrusts that he knows are a little too deep; she feels his pubis drumming her clit, feels every sharp breath disappear from her, and it is perfect. The perfect angle, the perfect pain, the perfect bend of his cock winding in like a screw. He's the first she's ever begged to keep fucking her, spoken the word for. She can see herself reflected in his eyes, in the light flickering through his open window between the fading leaves.
They have been in this trance for a week. They cancel appointments, lie to friends and lovers, scramble to stop the mad whirl of space and time. There were months of longing, brushing against each other until it seemed the heat would make marks on their skin. For weeks they couldn't speak of it aloud, for fear of falling in and being lost.
Finally, there came a moment carved just for them, a secret sphere where they could linger. His hands uncovered flesh at her waist; he knew exactly how she would taste when he dropped to his knees behind her, curled his fingers into the cup of her hips, then rasped a slow tongue along the small of her back. The faint salt of her sweat, the perfume she'd so absently rubbed there.
She could taste it in his mouth when he finally pulled her down.
She must leave him. The hunger is too intense; he will possess her piece by piece until there is nothing left.
Instead they devour each other helplessly in the back of his car, the overstuffed chaise in the basement. Sometimes they fuck on the stairs, unable to wait.
At first she disliked the waterbed -- nothing solid under her, no way to push back. She could feel every liquid molecule through the blanket and sheets, the false heat, the taut thickness of plastic holding in the water. They thrashed on it like serpents; to calm her he growled and sank teeth into the flesh where her neck met her shoulder. She felt the cut of incisors, the molars holding her in place, the threat of blood.
When she at last lay still, he began a slow pulse, millimeters in and down, out and up. When she moved, he stopped, watching her dismay, drinking it in; when she calmed again, he renewed the movement. As his thrusts deepened, the waves of the bed buoyed her up and against his body. The room fell away and left nothing but the rhythm of fullness, of flying, the sweat hot and slick where her thighs slid over his hips.
And when she starts to come -- every time she starts to come -- he tells her, Open your eyes, and spears them with his. He is a god watching her, within her, commanding the very water to pull her onto his cock in waves.
Shaken, she dreams of him all day, looks for the answer and the question in the faces of strangers. She comes back, she comes; she cannot stop. This is the ecstasy of the myth, the marble saint falling and falling, the arrow piercing her side, the arms of the angel outstretched. They ripple to a deep music, a bow drawn along the base of her spine, a note that vibrates so low and so high she cannot hear it, keeping time with the swinging chain, the tiny cross clicking at her teeth again and again.
