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Chantelle part 2
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Chantelle
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Part II
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He stares in silence for long seconds, knife poised in his
right hand. He looks me over slowly, insolently, and I will myself
not to stiffen against his intrusive gaze. Finally he nods, silently.
I lean forward and run my tongue down his stiff erection. I trace
small, lazy circles around the shaft. I tease the head with flicking
tongue until the growing fever in the eyes I have not dared glance
away from warns me that teasing will not be permitted for long. And I
suddenly realize that I find this man beautiful after all, and if he
hadn't had a knife to my throat I might have wanted this as much as he
did. It is then that I first begin to tremble.
It is quickly over, and I swallow carefully, not wanting to
rouse his dangerous unpredictability. I wait, kneeling in front of
him, holding his eyes with mine once more, willing him not to look
away, to glance at Chantelle. He seems to read my desire. His next
words are addressed solely to me, "Strip and lie down." He seems to
disregard Chantelle, though his body is still tight, still alert. I
do not think I can get the knife away. I rise obediently, and quickly
step out of the black silk shorts, not wanting them to be torn as
well. Some part of my mind must still believe that we will survive
this.
I lie down on the futon, pushing aside blue blankets to create
a clear space in the center, baring the dark green sheets. I stretch
lazily, offering my body up for him to drink deep. A brown cat curled
in the blankets. My eyes are focused on his face, on the raw desire
battling with some indefinable thought. I doubt I could look away if
I wanted to. Some tiny detached part of me wants desperately to
photograph his face. Portrait of a rapist. I am shattering into a
hundred different elements, held together only by the need to protect.
His free hand is suddenly on Chantelle's shoulder, twisting
her cruelly around, off-balance. Then the hilt of the knife is shoved
into the small of her back, and she falls onto me. I voice a wordless
protest, but she falls silent, curving so as not to hit too hard.
Even in this she is graceful. Then he begins to speak.
"Go on, bitch. Fuck her. I want to watch you two sluts
fucking each other on your nice, clean sheets. Eat her, you dirty
slut!" His voice rises higher and higher, and I wonder if perhaps the
neighbors will hear. Doubtful - the walls are not that thin.
Chantelle is shaking her head at the stream of invective, terror
blossoming, a flower in her face. And suddenly I reach up and hold
her face still in my hands, my eyes promising her that it will be all
right. An outright lie; I have no idea what is happening now. She
reaches a hand up to clasp one of mine, then buries her head in my
shoulder. For this moment, this man is giving me a perversion of my
deepest desires. It would be unfair to ask me to refrain.
I draw her down next to me on the green sheets, promising
myself that I will be ever so gentle with her, that she will somehow
find joy in this. Chantelle has gone very very still. Her eyes are
now closed, and she looks frighteningly defenseless. I bend to drop
butterfly kisses on her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. Carefully I
avoid her lips, though I ache to kiss. Somehow I think that would be
too much. For her, and for me. Her nipples are soft pools of darkness in
the golden expanse of her torso. I lick my way down to them, nipping
gently until they stand erect against my tongue. She has begun to move
a little, confused by her body's reactions, bewildered by this night.
But she doesn't utter a word of protest. My frail love has no way of
understanding this night, her only hope to trust in me to keep her safe.
His breathing is loud in the room, and as I kiss lower and
lower on her sweet body, the first moan comes from him. It is a sound
of pure frustration, and I am surprised for a moment that he would
restrain himself. Then I am lost in the scent of her rising up
beneath me, the brush of my breasts along her long legs, the caress of
her curling hair against my cheek. And the greatest joy is that she is
responding to my touch, my tongue, my kiss. She is arching underneath
me, tangling her long fingers in waves, running nails across the
tender places of my neck. The lamp flickers wildly in the room; as
she comes moaning in my mouth we arch together suddenly still. The
eye in the center of a blue-green storm.
Chantelle relaxes beneath me, her still-heavy breaths
sounding. I cannot hear him, I realize. I half-raise, and twist my
body up into the wind from the fan. There is enough light to see
clearly that he is not there. The knife lies, discarded, well within
arm's reach. He has closed the door behind him. And suddenly I am
battling the impulse to reach out and take the knife and hold it to
her sweet flesh, gaining a night of unbearable pleasure as she
fulfills my every desire.
And also gaining a lifetime of hate. I shake my head,
dismissing the last shreds of foolish thought. This will have to be
enough. Her trust, her faith. Her slick body molded to my own. The
memory of her arching against me. And the chance that this night has
changed her mind about what she wants...although it will take time to
know for certain. I lay back down against her, realizing that she is
somehow, impossibly, asleep. I am suddenly eager to join her.
***
The phone rings. I get up to answer, knowing who it will be.
"Forgive me." he says. "I didn't mean things to go so far.
The knife was too much. You were both too beautiful. I got...carried
away." He pauses, embarassed. "I'll buy you a new shirt."
"Forgiven." I say, and hang up.
How can I condemn him? I asked him to come, after all. I go
back to the bed and gather her into my arms. She murmurs in her sleep
and cuddles closer. I hold her tight in a protective embrace, so that
nobody will ever hurt her.
*****
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