by Emma Dashwood
(03/11/09)

Whatever passed for conversation has died between us. All our years of sharing each other's bodies, souls and lives cannot save us. In the silence, our eyes meet across his bedroom in a sad cliché. We know that we are not in love, that whatever there was between us has died. I find myself snapping at him, fragile and taut with frustration, oppressed by vague longing for a time that had died.

We lie on the bed, but not together. I am on my front, face pressed into the pillow in a vain parody of crying, but feeling only numb awareness of love's imminent ending.

The first sensation I can remember is the cool, viscous droplets from a bottle of almond oil, dripping across my naked back like sweet liquid silk.

In my brittle frustrated state, my first thought is the mess.

I get up, my legs shaking, my heart pounding, and start to strip the sheets from the bed.

He watches me with a lazy, indolent expression, a self-satisfied stare. I'm bewildered, until I notice his hand slowly stroking his cock, the oil shining on his skin. He knows I love his cock. He knows I won't be able to resist staring as he touches himself.

I'm suddenly furious at him, at his assumption, at his arrogance, at his carelessness, and most of all at the fact that he knows me far too well. I try to tear my eyes from him, he notices my scowling face. He smiles indulgently, at my attempt at anger, as he stands and moves towards me. I hate myself as my heart thuds, even now, in his presence. Even when there is no love left, there is the memory of love. There is lust.

I know what I look like. I know that my pupils are huge, my eyes shining with hunger for him. I know that my arms ache from the desire to push him roughly onto the bed and fuck him, use his body, hurt him with this poisonous concoction of anger and desire.

"You're cute when you look like that, baby, but you don't fool me. I know how wet you are." His hand is on my wrist. "Come here and let me touch you."

His other arm slides round my waist; he pulls me close so that I am locked against him, my breasts crushed against his chest. I can feel the heat of him pressing against my stomach and I gasp involuntarily, and then hate myself for it. He smiles and lifts my chin so that he can look at me. I know that when he sees my eyes he'll know that I'm putty in his hands, and I resent the power he has over me, I resent the growing warmth in my stomach and the aching in my pelvis that tells me my body is betraying me.

His eyes meet mine and lock into them, searching. He knows I want him, but there's a part of him that needs my permission, my implicit consent to what he is about to do to me. I suddenly know what he has in mind, and my legs shake even more. He feels me tremble, and smiles.

"You want it that bad, baby girl? Let's find out..." With these words he slides his fingers between my legs, feeling the heat and wetness that tells him that even though my face says no way, my body says yes please.

He has known me long enough, this man. Known me long enough to seize me round the waist and fling me across the bed, long enough to know that what I want right now is to be fucked. No sweetness, no tenderness, no love. I want to feel that delicious pain of being totally impaled on his cock. As he flips me onto my front I feel the oil on my back again, trickling over my skin, down the curves of my spine. I can see nothing but the pillow in front of me, I live only by sensation as his hands slide around my body, onto my breasts, my stomach, then down between my legs, over my ass, my thighs. I realise I am writhing involuntarily, trying to bring my pussy closer to his fingers. My patience is thin, I'm not in the mood for a slow tease. I need him now, yet I know that if he notices my frustration, he will use it against me.

"Who's desperate tonight?" I curse inwardly at his words. I have been caught in my desperation, and now I will pay for it.

"You little whore," he whispers in my ear as he bends forward. "You'll beg for it first."

I suddenly recall that the last time we fucked, I teased him until he was almost in tears. I deserve this. But I'm not going to take it lying down, so to speak.

"Please, at least your fingers, please." I hate the sound of my own voice, begging him for what I need, but I know that it's the only way I will get anything tonight. And I need to be taken, hard.

My prayers are answered, his finger slides into me, then another. But not deep, not enough. His fingers curve and I feel him stroke my g-spot, lightly, a feather touch. And suddenly I realise what he is doing. I will never come like this. But I will suffer, on the brink, getting soaking wet, until he decides to release me.

I feel like crying. With my face muffled in the pillow, I can only imagine his triumphant smile. I writhe against him, trying to push his fingers further into me, but he holds me down with his free hand. God, I love strength in a man, love the feeling of being with a man who can contain all my body's strength with one arm.

I need him now, and I'm beyond the point of caring that he knows how badly I want him. I hear myself whimpering incoherently, pleading, pathetic, begging for his cock. His fingers withdraw, I have a wild and disconcerting sensation of utter loneliness as their touch fades from my heated skin, then a fierce raging delight as I feel his cock sliding into me, fulfilling the promise of his fingers. It almost hurts, I'm so tight around him, wet as I am. I love it, pushing my hips back greedily, taking every inch of him.

He leans forward and runs his fingers across my lips. I taste my pussy on his skin, the rich sweet taste of female arousal mingling with the salty maleness of his fingers. I moan as I run my tongue over them, feeling him drive into me harder.

Every muscle in my body aches, my back arches, I need him so badly. On a night like this, I care more about the sensation of being fucked, filled, taken, than I do about coming. I love the sheer power of his body above mine. It excites a primal, erotic, animalistic emotion that burns in my chest and stomach and makes me arch upwards like a strung bow to bring my body closer to his until, contorted, strung out, I can feel his chest touch against my back, covered in oil and sweat. I hear him moan as his heated breath caresses my neck and ears. I feel him bite my shoulder and I scream. Masochism suits me tonight, it fits my tumultuous emotions, my vague, nameless self-hatred, my misplaced lust for a man who no longer cares for me. A man who can still turn me on more than anyone I've ever known.

The stranger who now plays my body like an instrument has been closer to me than my own psyche, has known me better than I know myself. Who is now fucking me as if nothing else mattered except the shared sensation of the heat between our two bodies. One flesh we are not.

This is primal. This is real. This is almost love.

If he can take me hard enough, long enough, maybe the dulled, cold passion in our hearts will awaken again. Maybe through the joining of our bodies I can force some spark of the closeness we once shared, desperately fanning the flames of a fire that died long ago.

The satin of the bed sheet is rubbing against my swollen clit, he is driving into me and I start to come, crying out in an ecstasy of raging, frustrated pleasure. Even as the physical release rushes through my body and shakes my core I feel a rush of painful emotion. I know he is close, and as he cascades in hot jets across my naked, glistening back I feel a terrible, knowing sadness, even as I writhe in oil and sweat and semen. I want him to remember me like this, to get painfully hard lying alone in this same bed when I am long gone, after he has banished me from his life as I know he soon will. I want him to be tormented by the image of the naked, shining, fierce woman in front of him, with the wild tangled dark hair streaming across his sheets and the wanton glazed eyes.

I gather up my things and leave.

A week later, he calls me and tells me it is over.

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