Sleight of Hand
The greatest obstacle to discovery is not ignorance – it is the illusion
of knowledge.
She comes
to him naked, the simple scent of soap adorning her fresh, smooth flesh. He
drinks her in, eyes tracing paths hands will soon wander along. She looks down
as he does so, eyes only occasionally flicking up to meet his own, an effect
that is both coquettish and contrived all at once.
And though
he does not show it, anger rises inside him like bile. Do not lie to me! I see it. I see it all. Do not lie.
Hands alight
on her flesh, caressing the ripe bounty of her curves, of promise both implicit
and explicit. She is there for his delectation, this he knows as well as she,
but though she believes experienced in the cut and thrust of this game, of the
lover’s dance, she is wrong. This is no game and it is no dance. And love does
not, yet, come into it.
This is
something altogether different. She walks in his world now.
He kneels
before her standing form, takes her in his arms almost, hands easing their way
up from behind her knees, stroking the backs of her thigh even as his lips
trace a path of kisses along the front.
She
breathes in, luxuriating in the familiar adulation of the easily impressed
male, one who puts shape before substance. This is the world on her terms, he
knows, and he can feel the delight coursing through her as she wallows in it
conforming to her expectations.
Something wicked this way comes,
he smiles
to himself as a shiver of pleasure courses though the girl, a ripple under his
touch. You walk the path eyes closed,
with no idea of where it leads.
He brushes
his lips over her sex, barely touching her, and feels the heat of her,
expectant and complacent. Behind, his fingers run between eminently ruinable
cheeks and she draws a soft, luxurious breath, slips another notch into
blissful ignorance.
Briefly,
quickly, he sweeps around her, lips caressing her every inch of the way,
turning as he does so until she stands in front of him. He strokes his tongue
between the cleft of her cheeks and she inhales sharply as he ticks another box
on her checklist of appreciation.
You walk the path eyes closed
, he muses.
And so you do not see the darkening sky
overhead. All the better.
Again he
moves in front of her, bringing his hands to cup the delightful heft of her
breasts, smoothing palms over flesh and the hard buds of her nipples. His mouth
dances across her throat as ever moving hands sweep up behind her head and
twine into her long hair, gripping tight but not too tight. He pulls back and,
like the performer she is, the girl arcs her neck back, mouth open slightly,
the pose of the enflamed lover fitting her like a comfortable but not
particularly well-tailored coat.
But he
follows his own script anyway and arcs her back a little more, pushing her
breasts out to meet his descending mouth, succulent flesh taken between hot
lips. His tongue flicks and strokes over each in turn and her breathing deepens
another octave.
And then,
tongue trailing between sumptuous breasts, he crouches back down and breathes deep,
feasting his senses on the scent of her. Heat. Wetness. Need. Passion. Desire.
And he
knows she is primed, that she is as deep into her own over-rated mythos as he
needs.
And now he
will simply take the girl at her word and, in doing so, make good on his. She
came here of her own volition, knew the consequences of doing so. He warned her
to be wary, to keep her senses about her. Nothing
will be what you expect it to be. Do not believe, for a second, any
differently.
But here
she was, convinced he’d become as enamoured by her as would a normal man.
Well, the
best lessons are those learned hard.
Time to welcome you properly to my world
, he
thought to himself.
He rises
then, circling around her, one arm around her waist, another over her shoulder,
pulling her back to him. His own passion presses hard into her and he feels the
predictable pressure as she pushes back and she reaches behind to curl fingers
around his shaft.
He
registers the sensation without passion simply because she doesn’t deserve that
from him. But he appreciates the deftness of her touch, the assured and easy
manner in which she envelops him in her grip. What saddens him is that such a
prosaic sensation should be worth remarking on at all. The modern woman, he
decided long ago, lacks in many things her predecessors did not; femininity and
seduction are merely two items on a long, long list.
And that I now find such a thing is an indicator of potential
,
he says to himself with a rueful sadness, but that blows away like smoke as he
contemplates the next sensation he will bless her with.
His mind
runs through the tools hanging in their place inside the cupboards she never
enquired about and in drawers she spurned the invitation to open. A curious mind indeed, he thinks with
detached amusement as he imagines bright red stripes and swollen flesh.
She is
lost.
He will
find her.
In the
darkness, her screams will bring him to her and she will learn, this night, to
embrace torment and tormentor alike. There will be no gag; suffering is too
valuable to be quieted, to delicious to be wasted.
He will
claim her.
Flesh will
bear witness to trials endured and so it is hoped the mind will display the
lessons learned so that her awareness is roused from slumber. There is nothing
more cleansing than fire and this girl will burn in his desires before the
night is done.
He will
bring her to her place and give her a purpose.
What she
believes is truth will be wholly, utterly destroyed by what he knows is truth.
She will see the world as he wishes her to and she will see, too, where she
belongs within it. Tonight what she is will be overwritten by what he knows she
should be.
And maybe
she will stay there.
Maybe he will find one that remains when all of her bluffs have been called, when all of her bubbles have been burst and when her feet have been dragged, kicking and screaming if necessary, back to solid ground.
His ground.
His world.
And he
whispers to her in a lover’s tone.
’Shall we
begin?’