cozzybob (cozzybob) wrote in cozzybabbles, @ 2008-02-25 22:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | 6xd, dorothy, smut, zechs |
[GW] Turtle Blues
Turtle Blues
by cozzybob
Rated: NC-17
Pair: Dx6, past 13x6
Warning: Het lemon, bondage, kink, gunplay, mind games, adult language & vulgarity, thoughts of abortion, family issues, angst, sap, emotional-ness. And pure unadulterated love of the blues. This is a sequel to Paceatur, but it can be read as a stand-alone. If you're curious, it's also set between the end of the series and Endless Waltz.
Note: This is my first full het lemon. Isn't that awesome? Written purely for Arabian Princess and Ederyn, who both squeeze the best pairings out of me. The title and the song sung within were taken from "Turtle Blues" by Janis Joplin. Which is the best. Song. Ever.
Summary: Dorothy has something she needs to tell Zechs, but her methods are a little unorthodox.
One week after the incident at Treize's grave in Victoria, Zechs remained sleeping in Dorothy's house against his better judgement. He could have gone back to Sanq and found loyalists to the royal family still willing to take him in, and he could have crawled under a thousand different rocks in what passed for the world that he had attempted to destroy, but Dorothy literally held him by the end of a leash and her grip was something made of gundanium. It was clear that despite her rejections of the words love and affection, she didn't want him to leave, and she had gotten more attached than was good for her.
What would it do, to have the press knowing that Dorothy could fall in love? At this, the corner of his brow wrinkled in a wry epiphany: one would think that pigs would fly and Treize Kushrenada would rise from the dead to burn every rose bush in spring before Zechs ever uttered the l-word again. His entire family, Treize, and in a way, even Relena had died because of that word. But he had been the first say it less than a year ago, and she was still struggling against her own twisted upbringing.
He knew enough about her through Treize to know that it was a trait of the family. Both the Kushrenadas and the Catalonias made the Bartons look like the Brady Bunch.
"Good morning to you, Zechs. Did you have a pleasant slumber?"
Back to speaking like a baroness to hide the fact that she had drugged his breakfast and chained him to her bed--yes, the woman had gall.
They both slept in different rooms, but they shared meal times and spent a good part of the day together in quiet company on the hours when Dorothy wasn't working for Relena... a topic that had not been broached between them, of course, as Dorothy seemed to be interested in keeping her work private, and Zechs his tension with Relena padlocked in his closet where she belonged.
But for the past few days, Dorothy had gotten tense whenever these quiet, somber moments took place between them, and as a result, their company had been reduced to a few hours in passing at their meals. He didn't know what sparked the change or what was going through her mind, but he assumed it had something to do with women being women, since he had never quite learned to understand the species and their many complications anyway. The only thing Zechs ever had to worry about with Treize was exposure of their relationship. With Dorothy, the list started with "dangerous mood swings" and went on from there.
This morning, three days into her unusual tension, she was suddenly reinvigorated with life in general, and back to being the cunning, deadly woman that she was. She'd smiled at him so sweetly, that bright, Dorothy-is-nice-today smile, and she made him hot cereal like his nanny used to make when he was very young--loaded with fruit, cinnamon and the perfect glue-consistency thickness that had always grossed out Treize, but made Zechs climb rockets to the moon. How she'd known, he could only guess... there had been a holiday when he was six, spent at the Kushrenada house just months after the fire, and Dorothy had been invited. She was very young and different then, and spent most of her time in the kitchen with Treize's mother... it was a Christmas dinner, but Treize's mother had made the cereal to lighten his spirits, and he had eaten it, all of it, his first full meal since the tragedies in Sanq. Dorothy must have never forgotten, but then, Treize's mother, like her son, could be like that.
He had been humbled this morning by the memories, and it never occurred to his blissed-out taste buds that Dorothy acting so sweetly could be a bad thing. There had been a moment when he felt the weight of the world sitting on his eyelids, and he had stopped eating to shake a great yawn from his body... and then there were the annoying nods of his head, which wanted so desperately to fall face first into his breakfast that he knew he was doomed. His thoughts had been sluggish, and it took the space of about three minutes to figure out that she'd drugged him, and by then, he could only blink at her, and drop face-first into that bowl of cereal that fate would have him dressed in.
Thankfully, she'd washed his face before he'd woken up, and probably thankfully for her, he was fully secured as well. Standard police handcuffs bound both of his wrists above his head, the chain fastened to a high steel hook protruding from the wall. His legs were bound with special cuffs and chained to bars at either bed post, leaving him spread-eagle. He was also entirely nude, fitted with two rather painful nipple clamps chained together across his chest, and a complicated cock ring that was secured to a belt that wrapped around his waist, and--
Something in her hand was switched, and something inside him vibrated against a certain spot that no woman had the right to abuse. His hips jumped in shock, then surprise, and then pleasure, and he moaned as he instinctively ground back into the mattress, pushing against the thing that tortured him because he knew he was helpless to resist. In the white of the pleasurable agony crashing down on him, he saw her smile sweetly again, and he snarled at her, head slamming back into the pillow as his back arched, his neck tendons flexed out in both rage and offering. The plug inside him was secured by straps connected to the ring and the belt, so that one held either the other firmly into place. He was pleasured by the cruel vibrating plug inside of him, but the ring prevented any relief.
The humiliation of being so captured and exposed would have killed the last sane bit of him, if it hadn't happened many times before. Dorothy loved her kink almost as much as she loved her mind games, and he had long learned to accept whatever she did to him. It was easier in the end--she never seriously hurt--well, not as of yet--and she never failed to give him exactly what he wanted.
Which was what, exactly? Because he was sure he never asked to be drugged, chained to the bed and fucked by a toy that just so happened to press right into that spot, vibrating like a Zero after a run of genocide.
And that smile of hers grew even more sweet, to the point where he was sure he was going to go into sugar shock, if he didn't get a charlie horse and blue balls first. The thing in her hand was switched again and the vibrating stopped. He collapsed into a boneless heap on the bed, cursing in German between great panting breaths and not a little incoherency.
She slid up onto the bed, and his curses slowly died in his throat at the sight of what it was she was actually wearing. Which was nothing. Well. Not nothing. She did have a gun strapped to a holster on her thigh... if that counted... Christ, but she did have a beautiful body. He collected his drool and what shreds remained of his dignity and tried to think.
Why he didn't notice her nudity at first, he'll never know. Maybe the drug really had fried his brain, or maybe he was so used to seeing Dorothy nude and holding deadly objects that he hadn't thought to pay attention.
As we said. This has happened before.
She crawled up over him like the wet dream out of one of Satan's darkest nightmares, painted crimson red fingernails--when had she painted her nails?--holding the cold barrel of a .99 and dragging the muzzle lightly over his ribs, the metal and the object both forcing a hitch of breath from his lips. He hissed as she traced it up his chest, nudging the chain of the nipple clamps with a clink of metal on metal, and then up into his throat, pressing the barrel lightly against his Adam's apple, making him swallow. It wasn't the idea of the gun, so much as Dorothy with one--there was no telling if she actually intended to use it or not, and worse, he fairly was sure that she would. Had he done something to provoke her? Maybe she had come to put him out of his misery--he still wasn't quite clear of the depression that had plagued his life for the last fourteen years, and he wouldn't put it passed her for considering a permanent cure.
Her other hand still held the switch to the plug and she turned it on again, her smirk flashing pristine teeth when he squirmed underneath her. The gun pulled away from his throat and went to his right temple, and from the deadly look in her eyes, he stopped breathing entirely. It was like staring once again at his own demise, but this was ultimately more terrifying than mobile suits and atomic explosions for the personal invasion of it. Dorothy, like her cousin, knew every last little bit of him. She knew how to make it hurt.
His erection hard as diamond, his body drunk on need, and the still-there part of his mind furious over his own fear of her, he didn't know what to do but freeze. What did she want? Was she angry, or was she feeling playful? Why did a gun have to be part of this? Why did there have to be a 'this' at all?
She bent down so slowly, her lips vivid red with lipstick, and sharp teeth chewed on his lobe. He moaned with that--his ears were one of his biggest weaknesses, and she'd always known to use it to her advantage. When the vibrating and the chewing were ready to drive him mad, the vibrating stopped again, and he collapsed even further into the mattress. There was nothing he could say--he didn't know where to start.
There was a clatter of metal on wood as she set the gun onto the bedside table to his right.
"I have something to tell you," she said in his ear. She licked it again, and he shivered. "I would have told you in an ordinary fashion if you were an ordinary man, but you are not. Thus, the bondage." With her free, painted nails, she flicked the chain that connected his nipple clamps again. There was a bastard spark of pain and pleasure there that made him groan, and her face gave away nothing but dominance. "I cannot trust that your reaction will be pleasant, you see. It's our protection."
The way she said 'our' was strange, but then she flicked the vibrator on yet again, and he growled at her, trying to shake her off of him. Of course it did no good--she was straddling his hips like a femme fatal stolen from the pages of the comic books that Noin used to fancy in her younger days. Was it Cat Woman? Yes, she even purred like one, and those forked eyebrows only made it more menacing... damn his own facination for those infamous forked brows...
When he ceased to struggle, knowing full well that he was doomed, she stopped the vibrator and lifted that beloved brow at him. Then she reached over to the bedside table and lifted a remote, pointing it at a stereo on the far wall. The background sounds of a busy weekend bar night floated into the room, and a piano keyed down playfully with the first notes of a classic blues harmony.
There was a strange kind of euphoria that ran down his spine when Janis Joplin's voice crooned in a hoarse, half-drunken manner, singing, "Oh, I'm a mean, mean woman... I don't mean no one maaaan no good, no..."
She set down the remote and watched him the way a cheetah does before mowing down dinner, and then she picked up the gun again, setting the switch that controlled the vibrator in its place on the table. With her free hand, she toyed with the excess chain of his nipple clamps, and pulled, fueling pain and pleasure and a low groan of fierce hunger out of him. He was hard, and he wanted relief. He didn't care for anything else, especially not her relentless teasing. What did she have to tell him that was so terrible she needed to get him chained to a bed and on drunk on need so that he wouldn't rip her throat out?
He tried to imagine the sorts of things that Dorothy would have to tell him at such magnitude and quickly stopped before the train came very far down the tracks. There were a lot of things that Dorothy had hidden in her closet, and they were things he could better live without knowing. Even the ones that involved himself.
But of course he was helpless, and she was going to tell him anyway, whether he wanted to hear it or not. His curiosity only made the confusion that much worse--what did Dorothy have to tell him? And what was this sudden fixation for Janis Joplin and the blues?
"I just... treats 'em like I wants to--I never treats 'em, honey, like I should..."
The gun was brushing against his thigh, and he gasped not for the cold metal but for her mouth around his left clamp, toying with it, and then removing it entirely with nothing but her teeth.
"Oh, lord, I once had a daddy... he said he give me everything in sight..."
The clamp was dropped carelessly on his heaving chest, and it slid down to the side of him, lightly tugging the remaining clamp on its chain with the weight. He almost whimpered when her hot tongue dragged over the freed, aching nipple, torturing it with slow, luxurious licks. To be cruel, her free thumb flicked the nipple still clamped, and he arched off the bed again. Ears were a weakness, but nipples had always been his downfall.
"Once had a daaaaddy-y, he said he'd give me everything in si-ight..."
Whatever she had to tell him, Janis was going to say it. The years-dead woman was crooning her heart out, losing parts of her voice as she sang from her gut and down to the bottom of her soul. He was sure that if Dorothy ever sang, she would sing the blues. And with any luck, just like that.
Treize had a thing for opera like the rest of the high class society of OZ and Romefeller, but as much as Zechs respected world music, he truly loved raw, classic blues, and nothing greater than when sung by a fierce woman who knew what it meant to feel pain. Men were good, but they were expected. A woman singing the blues, and truly belting it, that was something unique, meant to stand back and savor. It was one of the many things that turned him on about Dorothy--she was a cruel bitch, but she had that same coarse blood in her veins, and she understood the blues better than most men dared.
She bit his nipple hard and he pressed into her against his will, the gun dipping insidiously between his legs. When the barrel flicked the head of his erection, he choked and tried to lurch away, but there was no where to go. It was pain, and it was good, and if he wasn't going to come soon, he was going to die instead. It was great way to die, but... not in chains.
His mouth slack from an overdrive of sensations, he wet his lips with a dry tongue and whispered, "Doro.. w-whatever it is..."
"...so I said, 'Honey, I want the sunshine... you take the stars out of the niiight.'"
"Whatever it is, Doro, say it."
But she released his tortured nipple and ran to the other, removing that one with her teeth as well.
And Janis said, "C'mon and give 'em to me baby, 'cause I want 'em right now!"
If there was a god, any god, anywhere in the world right then looking for a follower, he would have prayed to get an answer from the woman's lips. Janis continued letting soul scream from her veins, telling all the men in the world that she was a mean, mean woman, and it was dangerous to get attached. The implications were not lost on him--it was a subtle copy of how Dorothy felt about their relationship, and the fact that they had one. She was a girl of one night stands and male heartbreak, but she couldn't bring herself to break from Zechs because his one night stand had evolved into several, and she wanted him just as much if not more than he wanted her. It was an interruption of routine, a tear into her harsh character, revealing a terrified part of her soul that she never dared show to anyone in her life. Just what did it cost her, to show a little tenderness every now and then?
Like Zechs, the world had hurt her. But unlike him, it had been caused by the greater half of her own family, and she had long learned that she couldn't trust anyone. Someday, he was going to ask just what it was that did it--it was only fair, considering she already knew everything there was to know about him. But then again, a girl would have to be blind and isolated from all news in the world not to figure it out. His story had been pretty much let known to everyone after the disaster of Libra and White Fang, when Sanq discovered that their long lost little Miri was dead. He'd found out about that after he saw a running documentary of his life from a to z on television, starting with Sanq, and ending in war. That had been an unpleasant thing to watch, to say the very least. Why he hadn't turned the channel was like asking why a deer could only stare at the on-coming headlights of a tractor trailor.
His chest hurt.
The pain was not just emotion. He had suffered a coma for nearly six months, and woke under the care of the royal physician who'd treated him and his family for nearly three generations. The physician said he owed his father a debt, and he wouldn't let the royal son die if a doctor of Sanq had anything to say about it, no matter what acts might have been committed. Zechs never discovered how the old man had gotten hold of his comatose body, but he did owe the doctor his life and repayment for the quiet services. The doctor wouldn't let him pay, saying that the care was long overdue, but Zechs was not a man prone to taking charity and the doctor would be repaid in more ways than one whenever the opportunity arose. In a way, he actually found it ironic--his father's will had never been opened after the attack and the events proceeding it, and he'd lived his entire life thus far away from the wealth that was born to him. At twenty, Zechs had very little to his name, and yet somewhere in a vault secured for the last fourteen years was half of several billion in estate that belonged to him and him alone. He had been born one of the richest men in the Earth's Sphere, and lived like a Spartan soldier. But then again, he didn't think he could live any other way anymore, so it probably didn't make a difference.
The doctor said that he had suffered numerous ailments and had been sent into surgery several times over the long six months of his coma, but by the time he'd woken, Zechs was relatively recovered, if not brand new. With the newest scars and some temporary drugs, he also suffered a weakened heart caused by a number of factors the doctor had explained to him, but didn't entirely translate into Zechs' mind. The only thing he knew was that he would have it for the rest of his life. At the time, Zechs was still going through a bit of shock at being alive at all, and afterward, he didn't care to read the health reports that the doctor had kindly given to him. He still hadn't read it and didn't plan to... although, in truth, the whole thing had only happened three weeks ago, so there was still time to face facts.
He met Dorothy at Victoria, where Treize and himself were buried in empty caskets following the war, only two weeks after waking up. She didn't know about this or his heart, because she'd never asked, and he didn't want to tell her.
It was difficult, knowing that his heart was weakened. His life was lived on the edge of a knife, and how long could he balance himself with his death-defying acrobats before he had a heart attack and died? That terrified him even more than a naked Dorothy with a gun to his crotch. He didn't want to die because of a heart attack. It was either old age or war.
But he said nothing. He said nothing about the pain in his chest under her ministrations because saying it meant admitting it, and for all of the things that he had faced in his life, he didn't want to face the flaws of his own body. Even more than the sickness of his heart, perhaps his great fear was the fear of himself.
Which, looking back, really wasn't much of a shock. But it still made him very uncomfortable.
Dorothy pulled away and frowned down at him, caught in whatever expression betrayed on his face. It broke her carefully indifferent dominatrix routine, as she bent down to kiss him on the lips... it was soft, the kind that hovered above his mouth before sinking in and melting with his bloodstream. It was quick but very sweet, and when she pulled away, he tried follow. She smiled tenderly at him. For the first time since waking from the drug, it seemed honest, and truly Dorothy.
But then she lifted the gun and pressed it against his skull.
A guitar solo he hadn't realized was in progress ended with a smash of glass, and Janis muttered, "I guess I'm like a turtle... its hidin' underneath its honey shell..."
Dorothy reached for the table again, and opened a drawer, pulling out a set of jingling keys. The gun still at his forehead, she unlocked his handcuffs with one hand and his arms fell in procession, drained from having been up in the air for so long. When she crawled down his body and unlocked the cuffs to his legs, the gun remained over her shoulder, aim never waving at his head. Despite the threat, he remained docile, eyes falling to slits as he got a good view of her side and the soft curve of her spine, milk-white hair kissing her back muscles and tumbling over the side of her breasts. Having terrific hair himself and being quite vain about it, he was his own kind of hair man. Of course, he was also an eyebrow man, but that might have been a default for getting hitched with both Treize and Dorothy over the course of his lifetime. The entire family had the best eyebrows in the history of eyebrows.
She turned around, and made him flip over. His erection ground uncomfortably into the mattress, and he let out a soft noise when she pressed her free hand against the plug still in his entrance. He felt the gun caress his spine, and then there was a significant click to tell him the safety was just switched off.
Out of habit, he tensed, but the hand in his ass dug around the plug, forcing a finger in with it still inside. The plug wasn't too terribly big, but it had been a very long time since he'd done it that way, and there was still pain. At first. The finger moved slowly, getting settled, before sliding up and down, pretending to fuck him and bringing up several erotic memories in the process. She'd done that, once. She'd own one of those strap-ons that Zechs never knew even existed, and she'd taken him the way a man would. He'd enjoyed it more than he'd ever dare admit. For some reason, so did she.
And this time, he did whimper.
She tisked at him, and Janis cried out, "But you know I'm... very well protected--I know this goddamn life too wellll..."
That controlled, bluesy, rock and roll scream.
"Oh, you can call me mean, you can call be evilllllll, yeah, yeah, I've been called much worser things arouunnd--honey, you know I have, whaaooowwhhh--"
Deafening silence.
Cut off to nothing within a second mid-scream, he had to wonder if the stereo suddenly busted or if Dorothy had done it on purpose. But her hand was on the remote, and he was left sitting there with the sounds of his own heavy breathing, yanked back painfully into reality. Dorothy had a gun to his head. It was loaded, and the safety was off. And from the way the silence carried itself, she really meant to use it.
The finger was removed from him when the scream was cut off, but he scarcely noticed it in the middle of his confusion. He opened his mouth to say her name, when she spoke for him.
"I told you," she said. "I have something to say."
He made to turn and face her, but her hand held him down and the gun was pressed warningly into his backside. She straddled him from behind in a quick fluidity some women would kill for.
He said nothing, and she caressed his back with her free hand, moving his hair to press the heel of her palm along his spine, slowly messaging. He didn't relax, and she didn't expect him to.
"You're a very powerful man in both body and mind. I should have known, when we consummated at Victoria without the protection of a condom--"
Consummated? Who on God's green Earth ever used the word consummated in a sentence?
But then the words translated, and if it were possible, he tensed even further.
She paused, unsure how to say it. Perhaps, like his heart condition, it was something too terrible to admit. But was it really terrible?
"You're--"
The hand on his spine dug fingernails into his flesh and he shut his mouth.
"I'm pregnant, Zechs."
There was a curse for times like this. But the only thing he could do was lie there like an idiot and wonder why he hadn't yet had a heart attack.
Shit.
What were they going to do?
She tensed behind him and the gun touched the back of his skull. He stopped breathing again.
In a low, deadly whisper, she said, "I'm going to have it. I've already decided. I just..." Now her voice was breaking. He turned to look behind him again, to see her face to face, but she shook and the gun pressed harder into his head. "No. You stay." Voice firming, he could almost hear her swallow, and she said, "I wanted you to know. Maybe... maybe I should have told you over breakfast, maybe I shouldn't have fucking bothered for this sex, drugs and rock and roll bullshit, but for Christ's sake, Zechs, its... our..." He felt something wet fall on his back, like a warm raindrop. That's when he realized she was crying. But he didn't move, because he had never, not once, seen her cry before, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.
Dorothy Catalonia having a nervous breakdown? Bad.
"It's our fucking baby." Her voice became erratic, speaking quickly, words molding into one another. "And I didn't... I didn't want you to... I mean, I shouldn't care--I hadn't cared before, did I?--but I do, and I--I-I mean, I care, Zechs, I really care, because this is my fucking baby and I don't want it too... her too--he? I don't--" Deep breath. Shaking.
"My child will not be raised without a father. She won't go through this fucking shit again, she won't know what we know, and I don't care if I have to lock her into a box and throw away the fucking key, she won't be hurt, she won't be--"
Slowly, very slowly, Zechs looked over his shoulder. The gun was lowered and pointed away, Dorothy staring at the hook on the wall directly in front of her, above his head. He turned and gently took the gun away, turning the safety and putting it back on the table. When she looked at him, he could see the agony in her eyes, waves of tears ready to burst forth like a cup so full that it hovered over the edge of the brim to spill. But she had shed only one tear, because her face was dry and the levee of her tear ducts had not yet been broken.
She climbed off of him and removed the straps of the thing holding his groin hostage with shaking hands, reaching down to take off the ring before he stopped her. Though it still hurt, he didn't care for anything but the truth. The truth was not in his groin.
It was in her body.
He reached out with his own shaking hand, studying her flat stomach with such an intensity that through her tears and overdue emotion, Dorothy barely stifled a laugh. He glanced at her and half-smiled through the hair falling into his face, and then touched that stomach, caressing as if to feel what he had put there.
"Have you thought of a name?"
She blinked at him.
"Names," he said. "Did you think of any?"
He took her silence as a no, so he added, very tentatively, "If it's a boy... can we..." Swallow. Breathe. "Can we... name him Treize?"
And then she smiled again. Like the sun had finally chosen to shine through her window after years of being exiled by heavy curtains.
She nodded. "And if it's a girl," she said, "...we'll name her Janis."
He laughed, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her down for a kiss. The dominant hunger she'd displayed all night came back with a vengeance, more powerful because she'd found a greater reason to torture him. It was clear, through the words spoken, that he would not walk away. Why she'd ever assumed such a thing, he did not know, but he didn't think it had anything to do with him personally. It was obviously an issue that involved her own father, and probably her mother as well. Had she been abandoned? He knew that her mother had died when she was younger, but he knew nothing about her father except that he wasn't involved in her life, because during the war, her grandfather had been her guardian. Had her father done something to hurt her? Had she ever known him at all?
In the back of his mind, behind all of the pleasure, the hunger to know the answers was strong. He would find out. Like she had done to him time and time again, he would capture her, and he would find out. For the good of his child... it had to be done.
For now, she remained in the lead, and quickly reduced him back to a squirming mass of man-puddle. She reattached the straps and stroked him with the ring still on, teasing him to the point of insanity, and then she stopped and turned on the vibrator, shoving her tongue into his mouth to cover his loud, protesting moans. He bucked into her helplessly, fists in her hair to cope with the agony of intense, ongoing pleasure. When she bit a nipple, he made several soft noises that floated somewhere between whimpers and growls, and she finally took pity on him, disconnecting the straps that held the ring so she could remove it with the plug still inside.
The same plug, of course, that was still vibrating, and the one that she had purposefully forgotten to turn off. He continued to roll his hips, begs ready to burst from his mouth if he weren't so terribly stubborn, and he cursed himself. She moved on to the other nipple, pretending to be oblivious, and when he sucked hard, arching into her, she reached up and put a fist into his hair, pulling tight to warn him. She didn't want him to be released yet. That would be later, when she gave him permission.
But he didn't want a later. He had waited for almost an hour, and later had missed the train years ago. He was a man of action, damnit.
So he demanded, "Now!"
She pulled away and smirked at him, shaking her head. There was a little Treize-shaped devil on her left shoulder, telling her to let him suffer, while the angel on the right said to get it done, because it was more than time for the good part. She poised to argue with them for a several seconds just to watch him squirm, before finally sliding down and straddling his hips, adjusting his erection and leading it into her warm, wet, wonderful body. She craned back at the sensation, making groans of her own, and he knew that for all of his waiting, she had been waiting longer, and with that final, blessed contact, she wasn't going to wait anymore.
He could do nothing but follow her quick, awkward rhythm as she rode him as hard as she could from above, her crimson mouth widened to expose sharp teeth and a laughing, hungry growl. Her painted fingernails ran down his chest, teasing his nipples yet again, and he finally broke. It wasn't the nipples so much as the way she smiled at him, then--lustful, hungry, deadly, and in need--but there was a light there, something bone-hard with flesh underneath it, something that he knew for a fact started with the letter L.
As he came, he closed his eyes and glued that image permanently into the back of his retinas. Of course she loved him. She'd loved him for a very long time. She wouldn't have a shed a tear if she hadn't. She wouldn't have even kept the child.
He wanted her to look at him like that much more often. Hell, he wanted her to look at him like that when she had the baby nine months later.
Darkness began to steal him away, but there was one thought that held firm, even in the post-coital bliss: he wanted her to look at him like that when he proposed, and asked for her hand in marriage. He wanted her to look at him like that when she finally said yes.
And Janis screamed, "Yeah, but, I'm gonna take good care of Janis, yeah! Hon, ain't no one gonna talk me dowwwwn..."
--Fini