ancillaryanalog
11-12-2006, 01:34 AM
“ I feel like writing a story.” The girl looks up at him from the gray carpet where she lays flat on her belly; listening to him compose and watching his shoes.
“Go for it.” He replies, making a mark in a notebook and then striking a chord on the keyboard, another; and then frowning as he crosses out his notation and tries again.
“Well- “ She pauses, watching the way him shifting to write makes his knees move. “It’s like… there are things I want that aren’t going to happen because if I manipulated them into happening, it wouldn’t be satisfying. It’d be based in reality, but pure fantasy because of the cast of characters…” She suddenly looks unsure, insecurity taking away the five years of their friendship and making her an awkward teenager again. “I guess what I want to write is masturbatory in nature… is that okay?”
He acknowledges that she is speaking with a neutral sound, plays three notes in quick succession, smiles, frowns, and makes another notation.
She grumbles, rolling onto her back, kicking out both legs; bare feet going thud, thud on the carpet. “You’re infuriatingly neutral! I’d kick you if you didn’t smell as good as you do to me.”
“Scent is usually a powerful indicator of compatibility.” He says automatically, hovering over a black key, wondering if he goes to the d sharp well too often or not enough.
She climbs, hands in tight little fists. The passive act aggravates her, always has, always will- makes her always feel the need to react, to aggravate him back. She stands beside the keyboard, crassly plays a horribly flat sounding combination of notes and punches him squarely in the upper arm.
“Ow.” He says in a good natured tone, and distracts her with an instrumental ditty. She pauses, cocking her head to the side and gazing lovingly at his fingers before snapping out of it. Cad, scoundrel… to use her admiration of his talent in such a blatant way! She takes in a deep breath and reaches to tousle his hair beyond recognition…
Her wrists are caught in the overworked paws that are his hands. “No.” The tone different- not angry but authoritarian in nature; it is a carefully cultivated sound that makes her knees tremble. She glares at him and he glares back. Tread carefully is the message coming loud and clear from behind his eyes.
She smiles her sweetest, sugary, buttery, pastry-like smile. “Bored now.” She whines, “Hair now.” It is an old game passed down through three generations of his exgirlfriends. She's not as comfortable tormenting him as was her predecessor (her best friend in college) because technically, officially, he is not her boyfriend- but feels deeply loyal to the tradition attached to ruining his careful hairstyle.
“No.” He repeats in the same tone. It’s a patient tone- one that says ‘I will wait for you to come to your senses for another minute before I let you go’. Lurking just underneath is the resigned disbelief that the tone works on her at all despite knowing that she knows it is an affected tone.
She pouts prettily, bringing her arms together to form a deeper cleavage at his eye level, licking her lips and smiling coquettishly before renewing the pout.
“So can I suck your cock instead?” She doesn’t try to make the words sound sexy; she’s annoyed at him and his self-control. He continues to look at her neutrally. She smiles, in the faux perky persona that she does when she doesn’t want to show how much she wants something… “Fellatio would distract me away from messing up your hair.” This too is an old game- a reference to two years before when she tried too hard to seduce him and failed.
They look at each other consideringly… to this point sex has been a weapon in the arsenal, a distraction. Up until this point, as many intimacies had passed between them there was not yet that inevitable conclusion to unresovled sexual tension.
He sighs, looking pained. He had walked this road all too often before her; and furthermore- she knew that. And he could never understand what had changed from the beginning of their friendship, when they were close and could share anything, but she said she would never sleep with him. Now, instead, he just couldn't find the words he knew she wanted, and instead of her mind; which he treasured, all she seemed to offer was her body. He let go of her wrists.
She frowns, tearing involuntarily, dropping to her knees at his side. "I'm sorry." She whispers. "I went too far. I-" She stops talking suddenly, buries her face against his thigh and begins to cry. Her breath hitches, it is an ugly cry; not the crying of movies where the man kisses the woman to make her stop; she can't stop her diaphram from convulsing, her nose runs, and she snuffles into her lap for a long time.
He strokes her hair gently as he decides on d sharp after all. His left hand caressing her scalp through her luxuriously thick and long brown her, his right plays a snatch of melody that is unfamiliar to her, one that repeats but adds elements on each repetition before returning to its base simplicity after eight measures.
When her keening finally quiets, he lets go, doing chords with his left- and she discovers the melody is a waltz. He opens his mouth and words come out; he sings of the ocean, its depths, and drowning. She shivers on the high notes, she drowns with him on the low notes. When it ends, the silence is only broken by her irregular breathing and involuntary little spasms as she tries to force her body into pretending to be happy and normal and well-adjusted again.
They look at each other, and she nods her head. She bites her lip, trying to keep from ruining the beautiful thing he just gave her.
"You can say it." He whispers gently, touching her face.
"M-master..." She stops. She can't say it, as much as she wants to; as much as she always wants to say it. She shakes her head.
"Say it." That tone, only infinitely more gentle.
"It hurts more than if you spanked me." She says in a subdued tone, mechanically. "It hurts when you are kind to me." She pauses, unsure how to finish her thought. "Why can't you just be mad at me?"
He cradles her, comforts her and thinks:
Because I can't let go either.
“Go for it.” He replies, making a mark in a notebook and then striking a chord on the keyboard, another; and then frowning as he crosses out his notation and tries again.
“Well- “ She pauses, watching the way him shifting to write makes his knees move. “It’s like… there are things I want that aren’t going to happen because if I manipulated them into happening, it wouldn’t be satisfying. It’d be based in reality, but pure fantasy because of the cast of characters…” She suddenly looks unsure, insecurity taking away the five years of their friendship and making her an awkward teenager again. “I guess what I want to write is masturbatory in nature… is that okay?”
He acknowledges that she is speaking with a neutral sound, plays three notes in quick succession, smiles, frowns, and makes another notation.
She grumbles, rolling onto her back, kicking out both legs; bare feet going thud, thud on the carpet. “You’re infuriatingly neutral! I’d kick you if you didn’t smell as good as you do to me.”
“Scent is usually a powerful indicator of compatibility.” He says automatically, hovering over a black key, wondering if he goes to the d sharp well too often or not enough.
She climbs, hands in tight little fists. The passive act aggravates her, always has, always will- makes her always feel the need to react, to aggravate him back. She stands beside the keyboard, crassly plays a horribly flat sounding combination of notes and punches him squarely in the upper arm.
“Ow.” He says in a good natured tone, and distracts her with an instrumental ditty. She pauses, cocking her head to the side and gazing lovingly at his fingers before snapping out of it. Cad, scoundrel… to use her admiration of his talent in such a blatant way! She takes in a deep breath and reaches to tousle his hair beyond recognition…
Her wrists are caught in the overworked paws that are his hands. “No.” The tone different- not angry but authoritarian in nature; it is a carefully cultivated sound that makes her knees tremble. She glares at him and he glares back. Tread carefully is the message coming loud and clear from behind his eyes.
She smiles her sweetest, sugary, buttery, pastry-like smile. “Bored now.” She whines, “Hair now.” It is an old game passed down through three generations of his exgirlfriends. She's not as comfortable tormenting him as was her predecessor (her best friend in college) because technically, officially, he is not her boyfriend- but feels deeply loyal to the tradition attached to ruining his careful hairstyle.
“No.” He repeats in the same tone. It’s a patient tone- one that says ‘I will wait for you to come to your senses for another minute before I let you go’. Lurking just underneath is the resigned disbelief that the tone works on her at all despite knowing that she knows it is an affected tone.
She pouts prettily, bringing her arms together to form a deeper cleavage at his eye level, licking her lips and smiling coquettishly before renewing the pout.
“So can I suck your cock instead?” She doesn’t try to make the words sound sexy; she’s annoyed at him and his self-control. He continues to look at her neutrally. She smiles, in the faux perky persona that she does when she doesn’t want to show how much she wants something… “Fellatio would distract me away from messing up your hair.” This too is an old game- a reference to two years before when she tried too hard to seduce him and failed.
They look at each other consideringly… to this point sex has been a weapon in the arsenal, a distraction. Up until this point, as many intimacies had passed between them there was not yet that inevitable conclusion to unresovled sexual tension.
He sighs, looking pained. He had walked this road all too often before her; and furthermore- she knew that. And he could never understand what had changed from the beginning of their friendship, when they were close and could share anything, but she said she would never sleep with him. Now, instead, he just couldn't find the words he knew she wanted, and instead of her mind; which he treasured, all she seemed to offer was her body. He let go of her wrists.
She frowns, tearing involuntarily, dropping to her knees at his side. "I'm sorry." She whispers. "I went too far. I-" She stops talking suddenly, buries her face against his thigh and begins to cry. Her breath hitches, it is an ugly cry; not the crying of movies where the man kisses the woman to make her stop; she can't stop her diaphram from convulsing, her nose runs, and she snuffles into her lap for a long time.
He strokes her hair gently as he decides on d sharp after all. His left hand caressing her scalp through her luxuriously thick and long brown her, his right plays a snatch of melody that is unfamiliar to her, one that repeats but adds elements on each repetition before returning to its base simplicity after eight measures.
When her keening finally quiets, he lets go, doing chords with his left- and she discovers the melody is a waltz. He opens his mouth and words come out; he sings of the ocean, its depths, and drowning. She shivers on the high notes, she drowns with him on the low notes. When it ends, the silence is only broken by her irregular breathing and involuntary little spasms as she tries to force her body into pretending to be happy and normal and well-adjusted again.
They look at each other, and she nods her head. She bites her lip, trying to keep from ruining the beautiful thing he just gave her.
"You can say it." He whispers gently, touching her face.
"M-master..." She stops. She can't say it, as much as she wants to; as much as she always wants to say it. She shakes her head.
"Say it." That tone, only infinitely more gentle.
"It hurts more than if you spanked me." She says in a subdued tone, mechanically. "It hurts when you are kind to me." She pauses, unsure how to finish her thought. "Why can't you just be mad at me?"
He cradles her, comforts her and thinks:
Because I can't let go either.