This one is dark. Not super dark, but...kind of dark. Be thou forewarned.
The song for this one is "Rain Fall Down" by the Stones, if you wanna you can hear it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBytpryXVk0
Enjoy.In Case Of FireThe hesitation, that's how I knew.
June, and miserably hot. I'd just moved from halfway across the country, leaving the familiar behind, for a job I wasn't even sure I'd like. I figured we all need a Grand Adventure, one time in our lives to do something stupid and brave. I brought my car and my laptop and a few boxes of stuff, the clothes on my back, and the remainder of my last tax return. That was it. The apartment came with a futon, a closet-sized kitchen, apparently busted air conditioning (the super gave me a clicky desk fan, gratis) and an incredible view of the river cutting its slow, dirty-silver path through downtown. Lots of trees here.
And that was my life, in total, on the hot Saturday in June when I looked up and found a stranger in the room with me.
Later I'd realise he's almost my height, but from my knees - I'd been cleaning the scary kitchen linoleum - he looked massive. Backlit from the open balcony doors, built square, a dark male shape above me like the Sword of Damocles.
My scrub-brush fell from startled fingers, my mouth dried up suddenly and completely; I felt hollow inside with surprise and fear. Instantly aware of my vulnerability, kneeling there on a soapy floor in a t-shirt and boxers, barefoot. Slapped with a dizzying sense memory of being so much smaller than I am now.
"Where's John?" he said, and I could hear the pause in his voice, something near confusion. I knew the answer to this, and later would kick myself for not outright lying, but the truth squeaked out of me before I could catch it.
"Oh, John Wilson, he used to live here, um. The sup said he moved home. His father had a heart attack. I just moved in...sorry..."
Stupid, see? Might as well have been "Why yes, menacing stranger, I
am here alone. Do with me as you will!"
"Shit," he sighed. "He owed me $50."
And then, the hesitation. Me on my knees, barely dressed, staring up at him; holding myself ever so still, like a hunted rabbit, waiting for the inevitable pounce. Him still standing - looming - a thundercloud of a man, looking down at me on the floor. I swear I could see his shadowed eyes narrow, darken, as the thought went through him, saw the broad ringless hands twitch. In that second we neared clairvoyance, shared the same thought; of bodies entwined on the slick-wet floor, his knees pushing my thighs apart at a cruel angle; of my soft helplessness struggling in his grip. Of the sounds I would make while he held me down and fucked me.
A single, breathless moment, where everything in the world seemed to stop; and then he stepped back, crouched down a bit to be at eye level. A nice smile, boyish, an aw-shucks-ma'am smile, and an open palm held out to me in apology. "I must've scared the hell out of you - sorry about that," he said. "I'm Bill Dwyer, downstairs. John and I would play cards from time to time. I promise I won't bust in on you like this again."
"Sure," spilled out of me, being sociable on autopilot. Shaking the hand that dwarfs mine; his palm was warm, dry. "Claire. Bowden. Sorry I look like crap, I really did just move in and, well...I won't insult John's housekeeping to a friend of his..."
"Never fear, I won't tell." He stood back up, nodded politely. "I'll be on my way. If you ever need anything, just knock, I'm right under you."
"Thanks! Good to meet you. I will."
He turned, walked off. Just a man. Not too tall, solid but with some grace, and out of the shadows his eyes were friendly brown. A guy.
Still, once I heard his footsteps vanish downstairs, I locked the door. And the patio.
-----------------------
Almost a year passed. I never needed the precaution.
Bill was the perfect gentleman. He worked late - something in a factory, something requiring quite a bit of technical expertise, I gathered. He wasn't stupid. I'd wake up early to get ready for work and sometimes, slipping out to the fire escape for a quick cigarette before the commute, I'd find him already out one floor down with a smoke of his own. We'd talk for a while. Politics, music. He has a niece upstate, twelve already, says she makes him feel old...he can't be more than 30. I told him about my uncles and the auto shop they ran, how they argued and schemed and finally started destroying the business, running it into the ground out of spite at each other, until finally they got drunk together one night and went down to the shop. Burned the whole thing down as some kind of fucked-up alcoholic peace offering. Bill laughed so hard, I thought I'd killed him.
"Didn't have a coronary down there, did you?" I asked, leaning over the railing.
He was quiet for a second - until I got actually worried - then there he was, leaning out below me, reaching up to touch the very trailing tip of my hair. "Come down and check," he said, and gave me that shucks-ma'am grin again.
It was too dark for him to see me blush. Probably. I laughed it off, and we said goodnight, wandered back into our homes.
I'm not sure we were friends, exactly; we got to know each other pretty well, but there was always that question in the back of my mind, where I didn't like to go. The faint magnetic pull of that moment on the floor, the memory of something that never actually happened; his body pressing down on me like a dark cloud, the sound of rough breathing in my hear and of my own whimpering.
I didn't want to think about it...sometimes I couldn't help thinking about it.
There were six or seven dates that year, brothers or friends of the girls I'd met at work, but none quite worked out. Only one or two made it as far as my bedroom. Quick, fun, safe encounters, screwing as best we could on my lumpy futon; guys who called me 'baby' like they'd forgotten my name, who weren't invited to stay till morning. Nothing that really satisfied. My job was good, the money was good, but nothing really...stuck.
I was thinking about moving back home, really.
------------------------
April, raining, maybe three in the morning; I couldn't sleep, so the week's last Corona and I were out communing with nature. I watched Bill's car pull up to the curb from my fire-escape perch, hidden in the shadow of the building. He was alone, walking like he was tired.
A few minutes later his balcony door slid open beneath me; I saw the dark shape of his head, the flare of a lighter.
"It's wet," I warned him. "You'll catch your death."
Between the metal slats I could just barely see his head tilt as he looked up at me.
"Probably," he told me, "but you're out here."
I laughed. "Don't follow my example. You'll end up lonely, wet and sneezing."
No response to that. I saw his cigarette fly out over the parking lot, thrown hard; then the door sliding shut beneath me, rough, shaking the fire escape.
"Shit, Bill, I didn't mean to piss you off!" I called over the railing, and got no answer.
After a while I went back inside. Unsettled, pacing the apartment, rubbing my hair with a towel. I didn't mean to make him angry. Stupid damn thing to say when he'd just got home from work, probably exhausted, alone, I'd never seen him bring back a woman, never...
Yes. I was that dense. It took me exactly that long. And even when I figured it out, when I stood there openmouthed in the dark of my apartment like Pentecost had come and put a light through my whole body, I couldn't go to him, not at first. Oh, it was too much. Too scary and hot and dark. I faltered there in front of the sliding door for ten, fifteen minutes, not even pacing, just rocking back and forth, chewing a fingertip, trying to breathe. To nerve myself up.
And finally, couldn't stand it anymore, being trapped there on the threshold of so much; I climbed down the stairs to his balcony and rapped on the glass until he came and opened the door for me. A tired Bill, still in his work jeans, barefoot, beer in hand; looking at me with narrow eyes, dark eyes like that very first time. The rain was beading in my hair, soaking my shirt, running down my bare calves and the sides of my throat, touching me everywhere.
"When you found me in the kitchen..." I started to ask, and faltered. Somehow he was doing it again, looming over me in the shadow of the doorway, making me feel fragile and afraid. And so unspeakably excited.
"You were beautiful," he says, low-voiced. "Perfect, delicate, all flushed from the heat. On your knees."
I was shivering, and not from the cold, and he knew it. "What were you thinking about...doing?"
And he smiled. Not the friendly reassuring grin I knew but a dark, knowing smile. His hand slid around the back of my neck and pulled me close - easily, no effort at all, letting me feel the power of his arms and the warm puff of his breath against my ear. "I knew you were afraid...that I would rape you."
The word shook me, brought a gasp from me...pleasing him. Adding a rough edge to his voice. "And I could never, ever do such a horrible, violent thing to a woman."
His teeth grazed my earlobe, nipping, making me whine, and I pressed my wet body into his chest, pleading without words. His other arm wrapped around me, palm pressed into the small of my back; no escaping now, wherever this was going, I was going with it.
"But I *wanted to*," he growled into my ear, and bending his head down, sank teeth into the soft spot where my throat met my shoulder.
"Oh god BILL - ahh..."
Everything fell apart then, the tiny little fire escape world dissolving into darkness and heat, his hands rough on my body, the searing pain/pleasure of the bite radiating down my torso in a straight line to the depths of my belly, lighting me on fire. I was writhing in his arms as he trailed biting kisses up my neck, too fierce to not be leaving marks, a purple trail that would linger for days; reminding me of what this was...
"You want it." he said to me, and shook me a little until I opened my eyes. "You want this, just like this, rough."
"I - yes. Please," I told him, confessed to him, gave up my truth to his darkness and let it sweep me up. "I want it, I've wanted it the whole time, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it -"
My wrists were in his hands. He pulled me through the dark doorway, leaving it open to the rain behind us. Pushing and pulling, forcing me forward until we reached the stretch of carpet that defined his living room. Then something - falling, but not falling, being lowered helpless to the soft floor, and his dark heat pressed into me just as I'd imagined it and pretended not to imagine it.
I would have opened willingly for him at that point, would have helped him get us there, but he didn't want me to help. I could feel it in him, and in myself. I was not a participant in this; I was prey to be devoured.
"What did you come for tonight, Claire," he asked while I struggled underneath him, my breath coming in a high excited whine. "What did you want? Tell me." His voice deceptively mild, stalking me.
"I wanted - you know - please don't make me say it..." I begged.
Wrists pinned above my head in one broad, strong hand. The other pulled my shirt up roughly, exposing my breasts, pinching and tugging at my nipples until I cried out and thrust my hips up against him, moving as much as I could while pinned. Begging wordlessly, mindlessly, to be taken.
"Say it," he told me - "Or I'll stop.."
"No, please it's too much," and his free hand slapped down across my breast, hard, stinging. Again. The hard curve of his cock grinding against me through our clothes, unbearable pressure where I was soaking wet, ready, hot electricity up and down my spine with every slap, every rough grinding thrust against my clit. Never letting me relax, pushing me so much higher and farther than it had ever gone before. I can't stand this, I thought dimly, I'll explode. I'm going to die right here on his carpet.
"Tell me you little
slut," he whispers, and then the side of my face is hot, stinging. He
slapped me. Not hard, not brusing, but he actually, no one's ever, oh my god oh
god...
I went over the edge in one long, dark spill. My body twisted, arcing under him, coming explosively. Bucking and writhing and babbling, begging to be fucked, to be used and taken, I don't remember what I said but it must have satisfied him. When I came back to something resembling earth, when the fiery explosions behind my eyes faded, I was naked - he was naked - and I was moaning under my breath with each steady thrust of two thick fingers into my pussy, counterpoint to the soft wet sound of the penetration, his thumb gliding slow circles around my clit. He was watching, smiling down at me with that mocking dark smile.
"Good girl, such a
good girl," he told me, almost crooning to me, "So wet for me. So pretty and helpless for me. And you love it, you love every second of it. You love knowing that you're about to get fucked and there's not a
god damned thing you can do about it."
"Mmnn...yes..."
For a second there was emptiness, as he withdrew; dazed, I watched him lick my wetness from his knuckles. Then I was eclipsed again, and his sticky fingers were pushed into my mouth; he made me suck them clean for him, watching while I did it. I felt filthy, exhilarated.
And when he began to push into me, the broad cock that I hadn't even really seen yet forcing me open wide, he kept my wrists pinned down by my sides and his head resting on my shoulder watching our bodies come together...and I came - again and again - a string of firecrackers going off along my spine, explosions that left me unable to do more than curl my legs around his hips, whimper my pleasure each time the contractions hit. He growled approval into my ear and though I can't remember how long it went on, I know he bit me again when he came, leaving a matching ring of bruise on my right shoulder, just at the base of my throat.
I don't remember much after that. Just daylight, and soft blankets under me, and the smell of coffee; and when I opened my eyes again, Bill sitting on the side of his bed, watching me. Tense. Waiting to see if he'd gone too far.
So I smiled at him, and stretched luxuriously, feeling every sore muscle and bruised spot, feeling an incredible rush of endorphin, the new day opening with a hazy, sated glow.
"What's for breakfast?" I asked.
