She has her way with him, and he deals with the psycological reprecussions.
SIide Note: POV change means Point of View change.
I stand above the body of a man, holding a small knife coated in still crimson liquid. Looking at the man there is a slit in his shirt, upon his left breast. Around the slit still seeps yet more of his blood, spreading across and through the cloth, transforming the purity of the white, staining it. His eyelids lay open, as do his lips in part. His eyes have only begun to glaze, and he might be mistaken for alive and in shock. He is not though, I know this for it was I who kissed him and tasted his last breath.
I kneel down by his side and begin to gaze into his dead eyes, feeling myself begin to desire him and in him what he is. His eyes though, I am drawn to them for such lovely clouded sapphires they are… I slowly slip my knife back into its sheath upon my thigh, not once pulling my eyes away from his. After a moment I tear myself away and my eyes travel down his chest, resting on the wound.
I take my hand and trail my fingers over it, tainting my finger-tips with the blood. I run my fingers up through his hair now, causing it to stick together in places with the liquid. I drag my fingers down now, over his jaw and around his lips. Unable to restrain myself I lean forward and press my lips against his, kissing him deeply. When I break the kiss, I look around myself again; I see the office space, which is unlit for it is night. I sigh softly, wishing this time it could have happened differently, in particular, less publicly.
I know that the more time I spend here the greater the risk of someone walking in. I draw the silver flask out of my shoulder bag where it sits beside me, along with a small funnel that I place in the neck of the flask after uncapping it. I draw out my dagger once more, knowing that I had already let the corpse set for far too long. The blood was at a standstill in his veins and thickening by the moment.
I place the funnel beside his neck, wishing I had just slit his throat to begin with so his heart would pump the blood out. I sigh, drawing the daggers blade quickly across the jugular. His blood hardly moves. It runs slowly down his neck until caught by the funnel and trickled into the flask. I squeeze at the wound, trying to coax out more. After a moment the flow halts entirely; I grumble and also slit his wrists, collecting as much blood from them as I can. This complete, though relatively futile, I replace the stopper in the mouth of my flask. I then return my instruments to my bag, sighing thoughtfully.
As I gaze over my victims cool white flesh, I feel longing come over me. If only I could be like that… I lean down to his face and kiss him lightly on the lips. I begin kissing him again, when I note that the elevator has begun whirring several floors below. I grow irritated at this, for it is not a question of my ability to destroy whatever is contained behind the doors, merely one of time. Of course, there is no way to determine if this floor is its destination, but for the moment I can’t chance it.
I move quickly, silently, to the stairwell door on the opposite side of the large office space. I open the door and slip noiselessly down the stairs, taking my time before eventually reaching the bottom and the door that opens out onto the dark street. It has rained recently, and the light from the streetlamps reflects off of the puddles, while steam wafts up through a few vents into the empty street. I know where I am to go now, I must return to you. I hasten down the darkened street in shadows, cloaked by my own midnight garb.
The old florescent lights flicker, and a hollow echo resounds through the hall as my heels click on the ancient tile. I make my way quickly to room 27, and hurry in without knocking, letting the heavy oak door close behind me. A single meagre light shines atop a desk in the corner of the room, casting a shadow over you, save your face. You mumble out to me in the usual, moderately deep voice:
“I wish you’d learn to prop the door open when you come in, you know it makes me nervous.” Your voice lacks both the seriousness and the mild irritation that your words naturally imply, so I brush you off, saying that,
“There’s no harm in it.” You sigh heavily in mock exasperation, but say no more of it for now. I move over beside you, behind the desk, and you fail to even glance up once from your work. Slightly disappointed, I turn around to sit on the edge of your desk, a vantage point from which I can more easily allow myself to become absorbed in the features of your face. Even through the yellow tungsten glow I find that I can lose myself so easily in you. The pallor of your skin reminds me of a dead mans in so many ways… But your eyes, light and much more grey than green still shine brightly enough to betray you as living.
“Did you at least bring it?” Your solid words pull me out of my distracted state, and you look up at me over the top of your glasses.
“Yes, of course.” I mumble out, reaching into my bag to pull out the flask containing the man’s rather thick blood. I give it over to you, noting that, “It’s still warm.” You nod, and open the flask, taking a small sip of it. I stand up and turn around again to lean against the wall as you recap the flask. You then return to whatever it is you’re working on without another word. I begin to survey your neck from where I stand next to you, imagining how easy it would be to do to you what I’ve done to so many others.
I abruptly tear myself away from these thoughts. I search for a distraction, reaching under my skirt to retrieve the knife strapped to my thigh. I examine the shiny silver blade, and catch some lamplight on it deliberately. I turn the knife to an angle, causing the reflection to bounce over the room. The light plays onto the flask accidentally, resulting in a bright glare that hurts my eyes and an annoyed grumble from you. Momentarily, once my eyes have readjusted to the dark, my gaze falls upon you once again. I now completely realise a very important thing: I want you, and at this point I don’t care if you’re alive or dead. I say slowly,
“You know, you really are quite handsome.”
“Well, thank you.” You reply with disinterest.
“Now stand up and take off your clothes or I’m going to kill you.”
I blink a couple of times, surprised more at her bluntness than the actual implication behind her request. Women these days I suppose. I turn in my chair to face her, and then stand in front of her, quickly being reminded of the blood’s effect.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask, raising my eyebrows at her. She nods, and I resign myself to this pitiful fate. I slowly unbutton my shirt as I watch her twiddle with her knife, while waiting for me to get out of all my clothes.
I am unable to read her wholly, and can not determine precisely what is going through her mind right now. This is a frustrating matter, which I make a conscious attempt to fixate upon, in order to distract myself from the current situation. This quickly proves futile however, as I am all too aware of her gaze upon me still. I cast a glance over to her knife, the shiny silver blade capturing tiny fragments of light and scattering them about the dimness. I become mesmerised by this momentarily, and my fingers falter with the final button of my shirt.
This prompts a snicker out of her, accompanied by a slight, yet mocking, smile. I slide my shirt back over my arms, then hanging it over the back of the chair. In a comparatively swift motion, I pull my under-shirt off over my head, draping it also over the chair. In spite of the darkness, the fairness of my skin is obvious even to me. I kick off my shoes without bothering to bend down or untie them, giving no thought to tactical possibilities for delay.
My eyes begin to search her face once more, and she turns her eyes up to mine. She smiles once more as I continue, undoing my belt slowly, and dreading what is soon to come. I pull open the button on my trousers, undoing the fly, then pulling them down and stepping out of them. I take a moment to fold them over and set them in the seat of the chair, stalling. I now stand here clad solely in my socks and shorts, almost wishing she would just kill me. I make no motion to continue now, and she, growing impatient with me, halts the motion of her knife.
“Go on.” She says, glancing from my shorts to my face. She begins to pace, circling around me, my eyes following her as far as they can. I can tell by her footfalls that she is directly behind me now. Suddenly I feel her grab me by the back of my hair, jerking me backwards and causing me to stumble a bit. She puts her face next to mine, practically hissing in my ear: “Take them off, now. She releases me, shoving me back forward and away from her. I slowly begin to pull my shorts down, agonisingly removing my last shred of dignity.
She then begins moving once more, walking around to face me. I watch as she gazes over me, her eyes resting just below-/
“Don’t worry it’s the blood lust not you.” I say, cutting off my own line of thought. She simply shrugs, not seeming to care.
“That doesn’t change the final outcome though, now does it?” She asks, almost tauntingly. She reaches out to my groin, and I cringe as she touches me, repulsed by her actions. Still holding her knife in her free hand, she drops to her knees before me. I know what’s coming now… The very idea sickens me. She wraps her mouth around it, and though I want to flee she holds the advantage still. For as many people as she has killed; I know she would make no hesitation in slitting my throat. So I endure her actions painfully.
Her mouth continues to move over me, warmly, softly, and I can feel the tension throughout my body begin to dissipate… No, this isn’t right. What am I even thinking? How could I even possibly begin to find such a vile action pleasurable?! What does that make me? Does this not then make me as wretched and damned a creature as any other common one?
You’re pitiful, noiseless, and afraid. This is good though. This is exactly what I want. Your entire body is stiff, and anxious. You’re constantly relaxing and tensing back up, responding to my actions. I revel in my knowledge of your torment, and become enamoured with it. Wishing to further it, I remove my mouth from your member, and begin to stroke it gently with my hand. I cast my eyes upwards, searching for yours. I discover that your head is turned to the side, and your eyes are tightly closed.
I stand up, releasing you. You turn your head to face me again, opening your eyes and looking into mine. Your look is desperate, but it is more so a fearful desperation than any other sort. I still hold my knife, and I have no intent of relinquishing my grasp upon it. I use my free hand to work down the front of my black blouse, undoing the buttons slowly. You turn your head to the side again, staring at the floor in evident discomfort. I open my top completely, but do not actually remove it. This reveals my bra, a pathetic garment of black lace, which leaves little to be imagined.
I reach under my skirt, using one hand to unfasten the sheath for my knife. I let it fall to floor, and once again reach under my skirt, working my panties down over my thighs. They slide to the floor after a moment, and I step out of the matching lace piece. I look to your face again, watching as your eyes travel up my body from the floor. Your eyes meet mine once more, and I notice that some of the desperation that your features once held had faded.
“Lay down on the floor, on your back.” I command, with as much authority as I can summon at the moment. You move out and away from the desk, towards the middle of the room. You movements are slow, but deliberate. You follow my command, sitting down first onto the wooden floor. I imagine it to be cold against your skin. You lay back now with your arms pressed against your sides, and your eyes staring up at the ceiling quite intently.
I kneel at your side, keeping my eyes on your face. I reach out to your cock once more and begin stroking it. You jerk slightly as I touch you, before succumbing to my touch. You don’t shut your eyes this time, but you’re still not looking at me. I feel that it’s time now, and I straddle you at your waist. The material of my skirt brushes over the head of your dick as I position myself over you. Navigating the cloth I slowly lower myself down onto you, and am startled by the pain as I do so.
Your eyes remain turned away from mine, even as I continue to take you inside of me. After a moment I rest upon you, with you completely inside of me. I slowly begin the up and down rhythm of sex, and fix my eyes upon your face. I take pleasure in the way that you refuse to meet my gaze, and the way you hold your body so rigidly. It reminds me of some of my past lovers… I continue to move over you, gradually increasing my pace, and I hear your breathing begin to grow more ragged after a few minutes.
You turn your head, and your eyes meet mine. The look on your face has changed again, and now I find it to be indescribable. Your breathing becomes exceptionally heavy suddenly, and a low moan escapes your lips. I feel a new warmth inside of me, and I realise that you have climaxed. I continue moving however, even as you become flaccid. I feel the softness of your cock inside me, and I begin to experience the tension and pleasure of my own climax building. You slip entirely out of me, and I begin to orgasm on you, moaning softly.
I remain on top of you, slowly regaining my senses. I realise now that your eyes are fixed with mine, and have been for quite a while.
I… I… Oh god… What… What has just happened? I have allowed myself to take such pleasure in her actions, and by my failure to prevent her actions, they then become MY actions. So I am then no better than she is. Why could she not have just slit my throat to begin with? Surely death would have been a better fate, rather then to live with the knowledge than I am so weak.
She sits on top of me still, despite the fact that she has obviously already climaxed. She stares into my eyes, and I am bothered by this, though I continue to search her face for some sort of clue as to what to do next. She rises momentarily, stepping over me and walking over to where she let her knife’s sheath fall, and picks it up. She inserts her knife into it, then dropping it into her bag as she picks it up off of my desk, and swings it over her shoulder.
I sit up and watch as she quickly does up the buttons on her blouse, though still leaving a few of the upper ones undone. I suppose her intent is to be provocative. She walks over to door, then turning once more to me.
“You won’t be seeing me again.” She says, then turning abruptly and leaving out the door. The door falls shut heavily behind her, and I scoot myself across the floor, lacking the energy and for that matter the will to stand at the moment. I move over next to my desk, and lean back against it.
As I stare out over the floor I note a small puddle of dark cloth, and lean forward to retrieve it. As I pick it up, I quickly realise that it is lace. She had forgotten her panties. I rest my arm on my knee, holding the garment at arms length, unsure as to what exactly I should do with it. I drop it after a moment, vowing to return to it later.
Surely she is evil. She is a murderer, and I suspect her to be a necrophiliac. She is beautiful; however she is also cruel, and heartless. Her beauty therefore means nothing. I never desired her, not in any sexual way. I paid her to do a job, which she did, and I was satisfied by this, wanting nothing more. There was a point though, that I lusted for her greatly as she was on top of me.
This lust that I felt was overwhelming, and in that moment I felt as though it controlled my very being. The feeling seemed natural though, as did the pleasure that I had with her. Perhaps then, pleasure in this way is not inherently evil? I suppose that if it were evil by nature, that all of the world should be damned. Then, if it is not wicked, perhaps I in turn, am not evil.