aftermath of a scene of deluded intent
Languidly luxuriating, lustily laying across damp sheets she stretched and sighed. He shuddered and stood. Curling slinkily on the bed, a cat, a feline femme enticing, she could purr or swipe at whim. He knew her enticements, knew only too well it was beyond him, beyond his ability to control his own destiny. If she wanted him, he was hers. If he wanted her, it would be at her invitation only, black tie not required, no time to RSVP.
The air in the room was thick with their desire. He stood, seemingly in regret. She languished. Regret was not a word that applied to her life. Not a word in her vocabulary, regarding herself. She might say, ‘you will regret it if you don’t’. But there weren’t opportunities for even this to be spoken. She never had to convince anyone. ‘Do you regret it?’ Again, she could ask this. But she didn’t. Because she didn’t care to know the answer.
He stood, hand to forehead as if a sudden remembrance of a forgotten task had pushed its way to the front of his mind. She lay watching, not curious, not inquisitive. Not even bored. She took in her nakedness with content admiration of herself. That was occupying her mind. What was on his?
She didn’t care.
The act had passed, She was sated. That’s all that mattered to her. He looked back over his shoulder at her, the light through the blinds casting shadow, giving her complexion a pale/tan illusion. She lowered her head and glanced at him through lowered lashes, thick and painted. A finger to her mouth, she lapped at her own fingertip like a lazy kitten. He shuddered feeling the submission to desire course through his body again. It was never ever enough. His head sunk into his hand and he heard her yawn and could feel her feline stretch without having to see it, driving him crazier.
Still he swung between gratitude and self-disgust. Passion and self-pity. Love and contempt.
He needed to leave, to get out of there now. But something leaden kept him in place, facing away yet held by the same magnetic force that drew him back time and time again. The addictive taste and smell of her, the compelling feel of her, the mesmerising sound of each sigh, moan and cry. And for her? For her what was this but entertainment? But sport? But play? But the feeding of her animal need for physical contact with another being?
‘Baby?’ She purred, his heart pounding extra hard for one beat at the sound of her word. A word. Hardly ever did language emanate from that mouth, to his ears. He looked at her, expectant, exhausted, willing.
‘Get out,’ she said.
(copyright corinna tomrley 2005)