Shadeje
Serf
- Local time
- Today 7:15 PM
- Messages
- 2
She is on a bed, knelling at the feet of the man. His skin pale against the dark sheets, the room, soft lit by concealed lighting casts shadows which sculpt and define the sinew and muscle of his torso, she takes a moment to drink in the sight of him.
Earlier in the evening when he come to stand by her - close, so very close - she had glanced at his face and thought that even in middle age he was still handsome, not film star handsome, his attraction was more visceral – primal. When he had hooked a finger beneath her chin to tilt back her head, she had met his eyes and they had conveyed ownership, an absolute belief in his dominance over her and his right to choose her and lead her away without speaking or waiting for her to acquiesce.
Rocking back on her heels and clutching her knees she thinks, I knew it would be special, spectacular even, but it had been better than her wildest dreams, he had not disappointed.
In truth, the last four hours had been some of the best of her life, and really, she owed one man in particular special mention for helping to make her dreams come true.
Charles Carter Esq had operated an agency for a select clientele from discreet offices in an unimpressive building on the edge of the city. When alive, he had been a presentable older gentleman of around sixty with a quiet charm and a reputation for being trustworthy and discreet. He had known everyone it seemed, and rumour held that he had secreted away records of all the orchestrated introductions made over the years. This, as it turned out, had been just that, a myth. His death had been unexpected, his passing sad because it ended their relationship far too abruptly.
Before he had passed, Mr Carter had been good enough to share his knowledge and so armed with this information she had been able to set wheels in motion to ensure she would be in the right place at the right time. Within three weeks of his death she had been rewarded with a summons to the inner circle. Finally, to be so close to her goal, her heart had soared, she had been giddy, she had thrown up her hands and twirled around the room giggling and laughing until her friends had soothed her, giving her a pill and staying with her until she fell asleep.
They had prepared everything, from the oil that scented her bath water, to the underwear, outfit, makeup, jewellery and perfume, nothing had been left to chance. Each item had been selected based on meticulous research, all aimed at invoking for the man a feeling when he first saw her that she had just stepped out of his fantasy. When finally, she had been led into the room, she knew by how the man had consumed her with his gaze that she would be leaving with him. When he had laced his fingers around her arm she had been as happy as the cat that gets the cream to be led away, and happier still when he had finally steered her from the room into his waiting car and then into his house and finally into his bedroom.
Snagging the waistband of his tight briefs they join his trousers and she manoeuvres both down his legs until she can pull them free and drop then to the floor to join the rest. She imagines the scene as if it were playing out in one of the shows she used to watch in hospital when the nurse wouldn't unlock the cabinet to change the channel. As the camera panned to the bed a voice would be describing the evidence collected at the scene, and what the police investigation had unearthed. At some point, in this particular case, they might bring a police officer on toward the end of the programme to talk about how the clues had been dead ends and the trail had eventually run cold. They would ask people to come forward with any new information, but in the long run the case would be filed away with all the other unsolved cases.
If anyone should ever come looking for the woman that left with the man, they would find a ghost. She had already begun to cast of this persona, and the only person who could have perhaps given a good description of her was now dead, poor Mr Carter, it was ironic really that he should suffer what she suspected was a heart attack as she wielded the lit cigar, but then she supposed it might be more shocking when it was your own rather than someone else's flesh sizzling against the hot coals. The fire had started in his office but then rushed through the old building consuming everything in its wake. Some of those old places really were death traps.
Slipping to the floor and making sure to step over the slowly pooling blood, she goes to the head of the bed to retrieve the glass to wash and return it to its place by the decanter.
That last time she'd been admitted to hospital there'd been two woman, well girls really, and over time they'd begun to share their stories, seeing something of themselves in each other a bond had formed. They brought out the best in each other, stepped in when things were getting dark, they were a family and they kept each other safe. Since being free of the hospital they had planned for and achieved a great many life goals, on their own behalf and the behalf of others. If this were an episode from a true crime show it might be titled woman dealing with all the fuckery one fucker at a time. It was a little long, maybe the they could use the voice over person again.
They were helping her now, just as they had planned it, one from a computer terminal in another city was busy erasing every trace of the woman who had been so lucky to be chosen by the man. The other would be arriving shortly with supplies. She hopes that if her mother is with her, which she often feels that she is, that she is happy and finally able to find peace. It was after all the money she'd been awarded years after her mother's death that had made all this possible, so in a way her mother was part of the team. A silent investor so to speak.
Of course, the true crime drama having no clue as to the identity of the killer would have no idea of her past, such a shame for the audience to miss out on the stereotypical psychological mumbo jumbo about how losing a loved one during the formative years often had a lasting impact. No shit Sherlock. Besides she'd heard it all before, it was true she hadn't coped well with the death of her mother, perhaps it would have been easier it she had been taken by disease or some terrible accident. As she grown the gossip had been hard to ignore, research had gotten her the rest of the way and so she had discovered the chain of events that had driven her mother to her death.
To read what she had alleged the man had done to her, how they painted her mother as a mousy secretary in love with her boss, a fantasist offering sex on a plate to a rich well-connected businessman, beyond repute and apparently above the law. The case had been thrown out. Her mother had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and the man had swallowed her up.
Picking up the glass from the nightstands she tips the rim toward the man, in life he had been every bit the alpha male, proud and strong, soon he would be nothing but slurry. It was everything she had always dreamed it would be, she directs a smile at where he's eyes used to be, then alerted by a text she leaves to meet her friend at the back door. There was much to do before they could call the night a success, but they were used to the work and meticulous in their planning and execution.
Earlier in the evening when he come to stand by her - close, so very close - she had glanced at his face and thought that even in middle age he was still handsome, not film star handsome, his attraction was more visceral – primal. When he had hooked a finger beneath her chin to tilt back her head, she had met his eyes and they had conveyed ownership, an absolute belief in his dominance over her and his right to choose her and lead her away without speaking or waiting for her to acquiesce.
Rocking back on her heels and clutching her knees she thinks, I knew it would be special, spectacular even, but it had been better than her wildest dreams, he had not disappointed.
In truth, the last four hours had been some of the best of her life, and really, she owed one man in particular special mention for helping to make her dreams come true.
Charles Carter Esq had operated an agency for a select clientele from discreet offices in an unimpressive building on the edge of the city. When alive, he had been a presentable older gentleman of around sixty with a quiet charm and a reputation for being trustworthy and discreet. He had known everyone it seemed, and rumour held that he had secreted away records of all the orchestrated introductions made over the years. This, as it turned out, had been just that, a myth. His death had been unexpected, his passing sad because it ended their relationship far too abruptly.
Before he had passed, Mr Carter had been good enough to share his knowledge and so armed with this information she had been able to set wheels in motion to ensure she would be in the right place at the right time. Within three weeks of his death she had been rewarded with a summons to the inner circle. Finally, to be so close to her goal, her heart had soared, she had been giddy, she had thrown up her hands and twirled around the room giggling and laughing until her friends had soothed her, giving her a pill and staying with her until she fell asleep.
They had prepared everything, from the oil that scented her bath water, to the underwear, outfit, makeup, jewellery and perfume, nothing had been left to chance. Each item had been selected based on meticulous research, all aimed at invoking for the man a feeling when he first saw her that she had just stepped out of his fantasy. When finally, she had been led into the room, she knew by how the man had consumed her with his gaze that she would be leaving with him. When he had laced his fingers around her arm she had been as happy as the cat that gets the cream to be led away, and happier still when he had finally steered her from the room into his waiting car and then into his house and finally into his bedroom.
Snagging the waistband of his tight briefs they join his trousers and she manoeuvres both down his legs until she can pull them free and drop then to the floor to join the rest. She imagines the scene as if it were playing out in one of the shows she used to watch in hospital when the nurse wouldn't unlock the cabinet to change the channel. As the camera panned to the bed a voice would be describing the evidence collected at the scene, and what the police investigation had unearthed. At some point, in this particular case, they might bring a police officer on toward the end of the programme to talk about how the clues had been dead ends and the trail had eventually run cold. They would ask people to come forward with any new information, but in the long run the case would be filed away with all the other unsolved cases.
If anyone should ever come looking for the woman that left with the man, they would find a ghost. She had already begun to cast of this persona, and the only person who could have perhaps given a good description of her was now dead, poor Mr Carter, it was ironic really that he should suffer what she suspected was a heart attack as she wielded the lit cigar, but then she supposed it might be more shocking when it was your own rather than someone else's flesh sizzling against the hot coals. The fire had started in his office but then rushed through the old building consuming everything in its wake. Some of those old places really were death traps.
Slipping to the floor and making sure to step over the slowly pooling blood, she goes to the head of the bed to retrieve the glass to wash and return it to its place by the decanter.
That last time she'd been admitted to hospital there'd been two woman, well girls really, and over time they'd begun to share their stories, seeing something of themselves in each other a bond had formed. They brought out the best in each other, stepped in when things were getting dark, they were a family and they kept each other safe. Since being free of the hospital they had planned for and achieved a great many life goals, on their own behalf and the behalf of others. If this were an episode from a true crime show it might be titled woman dealing with all the fuckery one fucker at a time. It was a little long, maybe the they could use the voice over person again.
They were helping her now, just as they had planned it, one from a computer terminal in another city was busy erasing every trace of the woman who had been so lucky to be chosen by the man. The other would be arriving shortly with supplies. She hopes that if her mother is with her, which she often feels that she is, that she is happy and finally able to find peace. It was after all the money she'd been awarded years after her mother's death that had made all this possible, so in a way her mother was part of the team. A silent investor so to speak.
Of course, the true crime drama having no clue as to the identity of the killer would have no idea of her past, such a shame for the audience to miss out on the stereotypical psychological mumbo jumbo about how losing a loved one during the formative years often had a lasting impact. No shit Sherlock. Besides she'd heard it all before, it was true she hadn't coped well with the death of her mother, perhaps it would have been easier it she had been taken by disease or some terrible accident. As she grown the gossip had been hard to ignore, research had gotten her the rest of the way and so she had discovered the chain of events that had driven her mother to her death.
To read what she had alleged the man had done to her, how they painted her mother as a mousy secretary in love with her boss, a fantasist offering sex on a plate to a rich well-connected businessman, beyond repute and apparently above the law. The case had been thrown out. Her mother had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and the man had swallowed her up.
Picking up the glass from the nightstands she tips the rim toward the man, in life he had been every bit the alpha male, proud and strong, soon he would be nothing but slurry. It was everything she had always dreamed it would be, she directs a smile at where he's eyes used to be, then alerted by a text she leaves to meet her friend at the back door. There was much to do before they could call the night a success, but they were used to the work and meticulous in their planning and execution.