Eurydice

[manusgemini]

[continued from here]The saving grace here is that his body is already taking over and he doesn't have to do any thinking beyond watching to make sure she doesn't plunge a knife into his gut or pull a gun. She's been bitten and underneath the heat she's very cold, but once she was stunningly beautiful and a ghost of it remains

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[drivingherpoet]

I let him turn me, let him move me. For a long time now I've felt disjointed, like a puppet on strings and I press my palms against the wall and I turn my chek against the brick, and, when he touches me, at least it's hard enough that I can feel it.

I bite my lip and I don't give him the satisfaction of a sound.

[manusgemini]

He doesn't say anything. Somehow words feel almost like they'd be worse than what his hands are doing, working over her, holding her hand up against the wall as his hand squeezes her tit harder, like the rougher he is with her the more real he'll make her.

How had he ever thought she was burning? His face feels like it might be. He presses harder against her with a grunt and forgets everything else momentarily in favor of the perfect curve of her ass.

Get harder, get off, give her the stuff and get out of here. It's simple. It's easy. Sure.

[drivingherpoet]

There's a little sound that escapes me, a gasp, a moan, something, because somehow he's touching me in a way that almost feels good. The press of his hips against my arse pushes me forward against the wall and I push back, because this isn't a rape, and because I'm not quite exanimate, not yet.

Two ounces.
Two. Ounces.

[manusgemini]

He hadn't expected her to press back against him but when she does it somehow makes everything a little easier and he makes a low, rough sound that isn't quite a groan, hard and letting his instincts take over. Whatever else she is, she's got curves in all the right places and he slides his hand down over her waist, tugging her skirt up in short, harsh motions.

If he closes his eyes it's almost like he's somewhere else entirely.

[drivingherpoet]

There's a certain element of humiliation to it that can't be avoided, that moment when I'm standing there with my hands pressed against the wall and my skirt up around my waist. So now you can feel like a whore, in your stockings and spike heels...

...But at least you're not somewhere else, naked in front of him, and these are small mercies but you take what you can get.

[manusgemini]

Once he gets her skirt up his hand slides up her thigh, taking a second to explore, once again shoving his brain away, back to a time when he didn't use whores by preference, because when you're paying someone to fuck them they're less likely to wonder aloud why you want to keep your pants mostly on.

But half-finished is better than dead. He keeps telling himself that.

He presses his mouth to the back of her neck as his fingers slide under elastic and between her thighs, and when he feels moisture he's relieved more than anything. Maybe he expected her to be a desert. Bone-dry.

[drivingherpoet]

This isn't so bad if I don't think about it as a whole thing, if I fracture it and take it a piece at a time. His hand on my thigh. His mouth on the back of my neck. His fingers between my legs. I move one foot and it's almost a stumble in my heels, and I'm so sensitive, so not-touched, that I gasp, pushing back against him, away from his fingers.

Oh, God. What am I doing?

[manusgemini]

He chases her, his fingers becoming invading, because suddenly it's important that he solidify his position. He's above her. Better than. He hasn't been stupid enough or weak enough to let himself get bitten, and he's still got control, and right now he's got control over her and she's got no right to deny him anything.

He growls and presses two fingers roughly into her, stretching her a little, and maybe on some level wanting it to hurt.

[drivingherpoet]

I feel the touch turn rough, and it really slams home what I've done, what I've done to myself. Still pressed back against him, with his fingers in my cunt, I can feel his dick pressing against me and the top of my dress pressing into my tits as I breathe.

"Please," I say, squirming, and I don't know what I'm asking for.

[manusgemini]

He only growls again in response. Words don't feel like they fit here, and whatever she's asking for... she shouldn't ask for anything. It's easier if he doesn't even think about her as human.

And suddenly it's surprisingly easy to not think of her that way.

"Don't fucking move," he hisses in her ear. He's got condoms in one of his pockets. He should use one. He doesn't know where she's been.

[drivingherpoet]

He tells me not to move, and I don't. because I know my role here, because I know what I'm supposed to be doing. I asked for this. I got bitten, and this is where I ended up, bent slightly into the wall with my skirt up around my waist.

This is my own fault, and he doesn't have to be kind.

[manusgemini]

When he moves away from her he feels strangely bereft, like now that he's not touching her anymore, not distracted by her curves and her smell, he has to face what he's doing all over again. And it isn't even that what he's doing is wrong; it's that he can feel where she is and it's not all that far from him.

His fingers are suddenly clumsy as he unzips his pants, finds the condom, unwraps it and gets it on. But they're on autopilot and he doesn't need to think about it, and it's like he blinks and he's pressed against her again, yanking her underwear aside, and when he's in her with one harsh thrust he actually lets it feel good.

[drivingherpoet]

While he's pulled away from me, I assume a more comfortable position, both hands against the wall with my hips pushed back. "Comfortable". What an odd choice of word for this.

He pushes inside me hard, and it hurts more than his fingers, pushes my hips forward against the wall. The sound that I can hear is part mewling, part moaning and it's hard to believe that it's coming from me.

[manusgemini]

The sound he makes isn't quite a moan as he withdraws and pushes hard into her again; it's too low and too rough, almost strangled. She's nothing more than how she's making him feel, nothing at all, and she's not making him remember anything.

He doesn't feel like he's at the bottom of a well and looking up at the distance to the small circle of light at the top.

He curls one arm around her, groping again at her tit, almost tearing at her dress as his hips pick up a rhythm. And that, also, is something that he doesn't have to think about.

[drivingherpoet]

My palms scrape against the brick, my cheek, but I don't think about marking. I don't bleed anyway. I'm solid stone at my heart.

When I try to remember how long it is since I had somebody inside me who wasn't my husband, I can't remember. I take one hand off the wall and grope for his over my tit. I need to feel like I have some kind of control over this, however futile and fleeting.

[manusgemini]

He isn't expecting her hand on his and for a split second his instinct is to pull it away, maybe pull away completely. But pleasure is starting to spiral up his spine and he doesn't budge. If anything he pushes harder, shoving her into the wall and grunting with the effort.

There's nothing soft about this. There can't be. Not even for a second.