...a cat on a fence...
One of the sexiest scenes of all literature I read. Has the same effect at 32 as it did at 16. Slightly truncated. Shades of Grey my ass. Hope your Saturday afternoon is sexy.
He asked: “What do you want?”
She answered: “You know what I want,” her voice heavy and flat.
“Yes. But I want to hear you say it. All of it.”
“If you wish.” Her voice had the sound of efficiency, obeying an order with metallic precision. “I want to sleep with you. Now, tonight, and at any time you may care to call me. I want your naked body, your skin. your mouth, your hands. I want you - like this - not hysterical with desire - but coldly and consciously - without dignity and without regrets - I want you - I have no self-respect to bargain with me and divide me - I want you - I want you like an animal, or a cat on a fence, or a whore.”
She spoke on a single, level tone, as if she were reciting an austere catechism of faith. She stood without moving, her feet in flat shoes planted apart, her shoulders thrown back, her arms hanging straight at her sides. She looked impersonal, untouched by the words she pronounced, chaste like a young boy.
.
.
.
He sat deep in his chair, stretched out, his body relaxed, and taut in relaxation, a stillness being filled slowly with the violence of future motion.
“I have hurt you today. I’ll do it again. I’ll come to you whenever I have beaten you - whenever I know that I have hurt you - and I’ll let you own me. I want to be owned, not by a lover, but an an adversary who will destroy my victory over him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on mine. That is what I want of you, Roark. That is what I am. You wanted to hear it all. You’ve heard it. What do you wish to say now?”
“Take your clothes off.”
He asked: “What do you want?”
She answered: “You know what I want,” her voice heavy and flat.
“Yes. But I want to hear you say it. All of it.”
“If you wish.” Her voice had the sound of efficiency, obeying an order with metallic precision. “I want to sleep with you. Now, tonight, and at any time you may care to call me. I want your naked body, your skin. your mouth, your hands. I want you - like this - not hysterical with desire - but coldly and consciously - without dignity and without regrets - I want you - I have no self-respect to bargain with me and divide me - I want you - I want you like an animal, or a cat on a fence, or a whore.”
She spoke on a single, level tone, as if she were reciting an austere catechism of faith. She stood without moving, her feet in flat shoes planted apart, her shoulders thrown back, her arms hanging straight at her sides. She looked impersonal, untouched by the words she pronounced, chaste like a young boy.
.
.
.
He sat deep in his chair, stretched out, his body relaxed, and taut in relaxation, a stillness being filled slowly with the violence of future motion.
“I have hurt you today. I’ll do it again. I’ll come to you whenever I have beaten you - whenever I know that I have hurt you - and I’ll let you own me. I want to be owned, not by a lover, but an an adversary who will destroy my victory over him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on mine. That is what I want of you, Roark. That is what I am. You wanted to hear it all. You’ve heard it. What do you wish to say now?”
“Take your clothes off.”