| Straight: BDSM: Pity? The fool. (1/7) |
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He willed himself not to be attracted to her, which is difficult if someone has owned you mind, body and soul by virtue of her shocking beauty and her capricious laughter. She sat across the desk from him, temptation itself, clothed in her sharp black suit and skirt, sophisticated fishnet stockings and sharp black heels. Syrupy sunlight flooded through the window and fell over her, sliced into brilliant bars by the venetian blinds, and her tumbledown black hair was so glossy that parts of it glowed gold. Her hard, hot, dark eyes burned through him and terrible, ruby-red lipstick delineated a cruel mouth. Some people said her chin and nose were a little on the pointy side of perfect classical beauty. But those people, he felt, were idiots. She was gorgeous and he still yearned for her. She looked around his spacious executive office and said, ‘So— you’ve chosen her?’ ‘Yes.’ A dangerous pause. ‘“The plain old mare.”’ ‘For Christ sake! She’s the mother of my children, Zara.’ ‘That’s fine.’ Her tone was light and sensuous as silk, but she regarded him hatefully. He wondered how she saw him: wondered, against his will, if she had been attracted to him in the first place because of his looks. He doubted it: he was well built, but unremarkable; and he was carrying some extra pounds nowadays; and his hair was greying. But he hoped she had never found him unattractive, per se. ‘You’re sweating, John,’ she observed, coldly. He tried to joke about it. ‘You make me nervous.’ She laughed a laugh which was harsh on his heart, however nice it sounded. ‘Don’t try to joke, John. No. You aren’t as funny as you think you are.’ ‘I’m just trying to keep things on an even keel.’ She was silent for an icy moment. Her arms were crossed, her legs folded; she was locked tight with anger. ‘An even keel? I don’t give a fuck about an even keel. I want you to be sorry.’ ‘I am sorry, Zara, I am. I’m desperately sorry. In all honesty, I never meant to—’ ‘Never meant to hurt me?’ she anticipated, with towering contempt. ‘Perhaps I loved you, John. Perhaps I was, briefly, genuinely, that stupid. Regardless of that, I genuinely don’t know what I ever saw in you now.’ Contempt seemed to run off and over her provocative body in rivulets, like a mirror of the sweat drenching him. He tried to look suitably abashed, without pissing her off. He was entirely unsuccessful. She said, ‘…But you’re sorry for me?’ ‘I— yes. Yes, I’m sorry. I feel bad for parting ways like we did… I feel ashamed of how I took advantage of you.’ Her eyebrows proclaimed how unimpressed she was, whilst still inviting further penitence. He went on: ‘I shouldn’t have hurt you. I shouldn’t have said I loved you when I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry for your being…’ ‘You’re sorry for me?’ She stood up. She leant across the desk and grabbed his tie and yanked it hard as a leash: it curled in her fist and her fist hit the table. ‘You’re sorry for me?’ He was almost pressed to the desk. He should have had a broader desk, it would have looked better anyway. He took in her furious eyes, her clenched teeth, and her scarlet, shining siren’s lipstick. He was overwhelmed |
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Hell has no furry.........
