“A lady does not conduct herself in such ways as you have this evening. I, for one, am rather embarrassed for you.”
“Oh, do forgive me,” she mocked him. “I had no idea high society encourages men of great stature such as you to be such astute jackasses.”
She reeled. No one had ever hit her before, much less someone a great deal more robust than she, she with all her frailty and nimble joints and finely-structured twine bones. The ache in her cheek pulsed through her skin, prompting her to raise a delicate hand in her appalled stupor and touch the blood freshly seeping from an abrasion beneath her eye. It hurt. She regained an arrhythmic sense of breathing, caught somewhere between gasping and trying not to cry, too proud and too shocked to speak. A raging flush rose to cover the freckles on her nose in bright scarlet, that same blood carrying out the only logical action she knew in that moment.
When she hit him, it was practically mortifying. Her fist could barely do a fifth of the damage he’d just done emotionally and physically to her fragile composure. She swung it hard nonetheless, ignored the ache in her knuckles in a bestial rage, and continued to do so no matter how unladylike it was in the foyer of such a bourgeois apartment. Naturally, he averted any marginal damage by eventually catching her obstinate limbs, though she wriggled persistently like a wounded fish in his grasp. He tried to tell her to calm down and act like a lady yet again and even stuttered apologies, but it fell on deaf ears. It wasn’t out of anger any longer; the implications of his actions had dawned on him and he was merely wrestling with her while his mind blanked and guilt settled in. It was horrid. So unlike him, so wrathful, so inexcusably out of nowhere that he’d lost the will to quell her and released her arms. Her hands darted forth to yank him by his pretentiously-styled lengthy hair, which caught him lost in thought and rather off guard. After a procession of awkward limbs losing their balance, the two were sent tumbling to the floor.
She made a grand show of repositioning herself in the seat of control once more, hastily collecting herself and scrambling to pin him down with all her weight upon his chest. It was wholly empowering to see that he made no effort to thwart her; he just lay there in guilt-ridden resignation, the familiar glasses she often glared into knocked astray in their quarrel. She was poised to kill him slowly through use of her meager fists tipped with shoddy French manicured nails, looking like the most conflicted king cobra in the world. Then, it occurred to her in silence punctuated by their labored respiration that it was futile. Beating him senseless wouldn’t erase the blood near her eyelashes or the dreadful way he’d made her feel inferior. The tension in her shoulders gave, and she let her hand go limp, falling gracelessly at her side. Everything about her in that moment was graceless: the ruffled pieces of hair that fell out of her ponytail, the size six-and-a-half kitten heel that had hit the door at some point, the awfully awkward way her tweed pencil skirt had risen up her hips given her position.
He took the opportunity in her moment of defeat to push himself up off of his shoulders, effectively sliding her down to his stomach as he was wont not to touch her again. Now, at least his head could rest in its exhaustion against the mirrored wall, some ghastly crystalline closet that was probably at the height of interior design in some magazine. The two of them tried intently to avoid one another’s gaze. He was never the one to think of things to say. So, she did.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” she managed to ask without totally breaking her composure. She hated crying and she simply would not give him that satisfaction. She had half a mind to strike him again, but refrained, ignoring the skittish way he managed to inch himself back up against that wall beneath her like she was weightless. Instead she tried to hold his gaze as he became increasingly more uncomfortable with her position, much closer than he would have liked in her state of rage. “What is it – that I’m poor, that I don’t know the precise way to hold one of my allotted forks at dinner? That I’m not a blue-blooded princess you can wear like an ornament? Am I not pretty enough, not eloquent, too socially inept? What?!”
He really never knew just how to articulate himself. The silence following her outburst was brutal. Instead of stammering out a few lines of nonsense, he paused, allowing himself a moment of thought before he opened his mouth to speak – and was promptly cut off by his own trachea, a glottal gasping noise erupting.
“Or maybe it’s because you can’t have me,” she added brusquely, her tone quite a bit softer now that she drew her formerly graceless hand quite daintily up the leg of his pants. If there was one thing she was damn good at, it was quiet, covert vengeance. The shameful way she averted his gaze was now something coy and inexplicably seductive, the rows of lashes fanning out and hiding any sort of emotion beneath their lids. “You’re ashamed to want me.”
“That is absolutely absurd,” he replied sternly albeit much faster than he had intended, fidgeting away from her touch as best as he could. It had instantly incited a reaction, one he was wholly less than proud of, but there was really no getting out from under her without either exacerbating the situation or literally throwing her across the room. “You will desist at once.” His whole body gave a delightfully embarrassing twitch at the end of his order, jolting away as her fist circled to grasp the bulge forming beneath the fabric of his tailored pants. If only he had a way to hide his eyes from her, to not look at her coyly teasing him, to stop his heaving thorax in its tracks, to ignore the tension forming in his groin as she rubbed him. It was a terribly lewd affair.
In a moment of strength (of which he had many), he managed to pry her hand away, holding her wrist hostage in the air and looking absolutely reprehensible with his gaze directed anywhere but her. “You will stop.”
She gave no resistance and let her body slide down from where she propped herself up on her knees. It was the first time she had managed to crack a smile – out of joy due to the obvious win she was receiving, but also in an attempt not to laugh. It was a weird feeling, grinding her hips against someone else’s. Perhaps she would have liked it if she didn’t hate him so very much in that moment. “Okay.”
“I—” he began to command yet again, but what was very strange for her was entirely excruciating for him. It took even more resolve not to let a sound slip from his mouth in response, so instead he clamped his lips shut and made the executive decision to let go of her hands and try to think other thoughts.
That was a bad decision.
Ecstatic at the freedom to do what she felt necessary, she pulled the pin from her hair to let it fall freely down her back, pressing the upper half of her body forward against his to rest her face against the crook of his neck. She felt somewhat horrid about exploiting herself in such a way, but she imagined the feeling of her breasts crammed against his pectorals would only aid her cause. “You just want a poor girl like me to worship you, don’t you?” she whispered into his skin, practically chomping on her lip to avoid bursting into laughter at the absolute inanity of it all.
She seemed something fiery and radiant to him in that moment, overwhelmingly passionate and absolutely fucking filthy. She was so far below him and yet everything he wanted to cherish and keep to himself for reasons he didn’t fully comprehend while his head was lost in a frenzied miasma of indecision. An excruciating ambivalence quickly evolved in his head between the vile idea of indulging in her precious rose-scented flesh and the noble, natural reaction of physically throwing her out the door of his swanky Upper East-Side abode. He was hardly paying attention when she managed to undo the clasp of his pants so quickly, to expose him within seconds without even a glance at his expensive silk boxers.
Then, he was allowed a moment of clarity in that she barely knew what she was doing, and paused in horror at the fact that she had no idea what she was going to do with that thing. In fact, the both of them sort of stared down, frowning in confusion, unable to decide who was more embarrassed in that moment. She, however, was the one fighting the war, and proceeded to let her fingertips stroke up the subtle curve of his cock. Still frightened, she kept her body pressed up against him, leaving the lingering notion that if he’d just force her hips down a few inches that he’d hardly be as pure as he claimed anymore.
But this alone was too much, and now his breath was loud and unbridled in its rhythm, his head cast back against the damned mirrors that watched the ordeal, his hands clenched her bony hips in a feeble attempt to steady his aching body. If she was fiery before, she had positively ignited the two of them now, her own cheeks a rosy pink as she ran her petite hands as delicately as one could while handling a rigid, totally foreign organ. She was focused on getting out, however, and the situation was not as expedited by her wordless, racy actions as she had hoped.
So she retracted her dexterous hands, eliciting an immediate, disdainful eye-opening on his part. After all of that fidgeting and tenseness and internal conflict, she was just going to stop?
She always had that doe-eyed look of endearing innocence. Now it was hellish, now that she had pulled away all parts of her supplication and just stared, and they smoldered with something cunning, something intensely clandestine. He took the momentary pause to agonize over how haphazardly his sizable legs were pushed at odd angles in the tiny foyer in which they lay. His hair was a goddamned mess of tousled raven and God only knew how hard he was sweating, and still she just looked at him with a muted fury that suggested she didn’t care even slightly about how off guard and imperfect he was. That notion finally occurred to him, but he brushed away the possibility that she was anything less than incredibly lucky to be anywhere near such an intimate proximity. He tried to ignore the hint of sadness within the ambiance of power that she strove to exude. He pursed his lips while she bowed her head and broke their gaze and kissed him – so gently, and right at the tip, and had he verbalized his claims earlier he’d have taken them back in an instant. Now, he reeled.
There were so many ways to avoid enjoying it in the way he intended, but he couldn’t. The central thesis of all his thoughts was this infuriating girl, her dull pallor and moody, wide eyes and her gaudy lips, succulent and colored like crushed hibiscus and acclimating so readily to him, as though she were hungry or longing or simply devoted to sucking on him in long, sweet swells, and fuck, she was so lovely in that moment that he clamped his eyes shut. It was terrifying. His paradigm of society had been shattered and the part of him that was urging to restore it was distracted by surging and pulsing. Every once in a while, that fragment would assert itself, and she was left choking and staggering to regain her rhythm. He never felt any better about his irresolution afterwards, but it was almost compulsive to grasp her carelessly by her long, dark hair and thrust himself abruptly down her throat.
All she thought about was timing and how nice it would be to have a cup of tea and be nestled in her grandiose bed. She didn’t want to think about how difficult it was to focus on so many things at once, or the brief reminders of each cloying bass note he produced to punctuate his growing hyperventilation, or the recognition that her role was target practice. Such self-pity would only break her, and she wasn’t fond of dwelling on her past actions, so she continued with as little sign of discomfort as humanly possible. She didn’t flinch as his broad, paroxysmal fingertips sunk into the thin flesh on her scapulae, and sometimes she would pause as he trembled in pleasure, looking up from below him with her tongue still coating the underside of his cock, only deigning to close her mouth around it again when its spasms begged her.
Every time she caught his eye, he hated her more.
He didn’t know what gambit lay beneath her ruse, and he didn’t care to find out. There was no way he wasn’t going to come, and he felt the urge rising within him pretty rapidly despite how brutally obvious it was that none of this was something she wanted. It didn’t make sense, and it made him feel like a classic fool, but he was torn between his heart swelling with some semblance of love for her defiance and a royal abhorrence for this absurd course of actions.
She didn’t have many thoughts at all as he clutched at her frail body, marring the sheer silk of her shirt with sweat and pressure. With each guttural growl he emitted, she reassured herself that she could stop soon, and she persisted.
He didn’t have many thoughts at the end, either, finally finding himself totally enamored by this peculiar woman. With each dip of her head and flicker of her tongue, he reassured himself he would only allow it to disgrace her, this unworthy wretch, no matter what an egregious lie that was. He would just finish unannounced and leave her coughing and wiping her face in shame. Internally, he would have much preferred to let her swallow everything he gave her and pull her in and adore each tiny bone in her body for a moment or two, caress her perfumed skin and her modest breasts and enter her no matter how long it would make her bleed and love her. He felt himself shudder and give in, and accidentally whisper it.
She slowly lifted her head at the pained sound of him calling her name, but only just enough to hover above him. He gazed at her, aghast in anticipation, pleading with his expression for just one more touch, one more move to let him have that release.
Her eyes held only a deadly show of misery, and she got to her feet, leaving him raw and slick and covered in the same florid hue that shamed her face. She wiped her mouth bitterly against her arm and slipped her foot back into the heel that had gone astray.
“I apologize for being unladylike.”
Then, she left.