Writing Challenge ~ January 2011

WRITING CHALLENGE ~ JANUARY 2011​

This month’s prompt…


You can involve the prompt itself in your piece and make your link to the prompt as obvious or as subtle as you like or use it simply as inspiration for something else. I tried to keep the prompt open to a wide variety of interpretations and don’t want to say too much as it will be interesting to see how different people are inspired by the image!

The word limit for this month’s challenge is 2,500 words and your submission can take whatever form you desire – poetry or prose, complete story or a vignette. Erotic or not, serious or light hearted, it’s whatever you want it to be!!

Post only your submissions in this thread, constructive comments and reviews are to be posted in the appropriately named – Writing Challenge Review Thread

The deadline for this month’s challenge is Friday 21st January 2011, to allow readers time to get through everything before the February challenge starts!

Happy writing!!

The Black Dove



Soon..She is almost ready. They will be here for her soon, and take her across the city to the Ambassadors party. Soon. It will be over, and soon...she will be able to breath again.

Eleven years ago, Helena Adamson had stepped - or rather she had been hauled - from the train, and its stinking freight carriages full of terrified families, with urine stanched clothing and muttered prayers. She had been eleven years old, her mother had held her hand, and her father had held her brother in his arms, as they struggled to stay together.
Hundreds had been rounded up like animals. Hundreds all petrified, depending on one look from one soldier to just signal to them that in some insane way, they'd be ok. Safe. Free soon. Able to rejoin those they'd been pulled from.
No looks had come. No soldier offered one indication, one sign, that they would soon be free. Safe...Returning back to family embraces.

Her mother had pleaded. She had begged, as Helena had been 'chosen'. Her fingers had been pried from her childs wrists as Madeline Adamson dropped to her knees begging. Begging...begging.
Helenas father Isaac stood with his right hand on his wifes shoulder, his two year old son Samuel crying on his left hip, numbly held as a father watched his daughter vanish behind the giant gates that separated the chosen....and the unchosen.
He had heard the stories.
He had heard that at a glimpse, an S.A.S officer would decide who survived the selection to live and work behind those gates, and who didn't. The last time he saw Helena was as the doors closed and she was screaming ''Papa..Papa''..and he'd felt useless; a eunuch on the platform of sobbing mothers and drained shamed fathers. Useless.

The weeks passed. The months seemed to be a year of hours and minutes, devouring spirits , infesting flesh with sickness and ticks. Helena didn't know for sure where she was. No one knew, but it was always known they existed behind 'Hells Gates''.
No soldier spoke to them to reassure or confirm where they were. But it didn't demand much from a Jewish prisoner to draw an obvious conclusion , that they were digging holes, mending uniforms, growing vegetables for the German Army, in a prison camp outside Oshwiecim, in Galacia.

Auschwitz.

The mere name of the encampment was enough to bring grown men to their knees praying for hope....pleading to anyone that would listen....begging. Helena remembered her mother. Remembered how her hand had grown tight around her daughters wrist, as her fingers were pried away, and Helena had been pulled from her.

For a first year, she never knew if they'd lived or died. If little Samuel had been sent to the laboratories, if her father had been shipped out or if her mother had been killed. The day to day function of existing. Starving. Fighting the cold. Doing work that children shouldn't do, soon filled the hours of wondering about her family, and time was simply what defined day from night.

No one knew the days of the week, unless a soldier decided to tell you. No one knew the feast days unless a new prisoner who still remembered, shared the date.


He had been a handsome man. He had strode in with his spit shinned boots, gloved covered hands, and with the smell of licorice on his breath.
Josef Hemmlir.

He had in the moments after the gates had closed, robbing Helena of her family, became her entire world.
His men were detailed to command over the running of the laundrette. With prisoners, children, cleaning the soldiers uniforms. Pressing officers shirts. Polishing boots and belts.
He decided if she ate, worked, slept, lived or died. He became a god over the lives of those that were his , as he reminded them daily , to ''protect and cherish''.

He would smile at her - and all of them - like a father would to his children. He would dote on them, and those that won his favor that day ate. Lived. He would chose eight. Always eight. Eight that survived another day.
You whored your soul for a smile from him and learned to turn on a friend for it.

The weeks passed, growing into months, ..filling almost a year before the Allied forces broke the back of the Nazi forces, and entered the camp of starving bald headed prisoners . How long had they been there outside in hills preparing? Trying to help. Trying to save those left still living..still hoping..still petrified..?

On the day the rumble of the Allieds first presence was felt, Hemmlir had come to laundry and shot eight girls dead. He had promised to return. Promised to chose another eight the next day, rather than see them infest the world again.
Why eight, Helena had never understood. He just did things in eights. It simply seemed to be his favorite number.

It was only in the year that followed, when she was free, without a family, without a home, that Helena learned of the countries that had come together to save so many.
Too late for so many. Too late for her parents...her baby brother..Too late.
She had been angry. Furious with guilt that she had survived. Unsure at first if her family had perished. No papers were kept. They had not been one of the chosen.
They had never bore the tattoo their daughter wore on her inner wrist. So no one had the facts where they were. But they had never been found. Like hundreds. Thousands.....Hundreds of thousands. No one knew for sure.

Tonight, she stands dressed in an elegant black cocktail dress. Tonight, she will attend a party - a New Years celebration, in the Embassy - where she will be introduced to the cities finest.
Two years ago, 'they' had found her, became her family, became a life line to sanity.
Each of 'them' half mad with grief and guilt. Each torn asunder but full of promises for justice. 'They' had become her life, and she had become a part of theirs.

There are many like her all over the world, doing as she does; living lives that are put on hold. Waiting for hope. Waiting for a life full of healing, but still trapped in lives full of nightmares where the smell of dying flesh is a perfume that still fills nostrils .
Knowing no matter how many times you bathe, you can't get the shadows of the camps filth and stench from your flesh.

Each night, Helenna closes her eyes to sleep. And each night behind her lids is a world that starts and stops on a railway platform, with the steam from a train dulling the images of mothers clinging to their children, and fathers clinging to their weeping wives...Useless .
Eunuchs of men; brave proud frightened men, made utterly useless, holding on to what was left of their families, while their wives screamed their grief for the children stolen.
Every night when she closes her eyes, Helena sees them. Every night, her fathers drained expression, his dead eyes and his mouthed ''I love you'' to her, is something she see's over...and over...and over...until the gates to Hell are slammed shut.

Her hair is in an elaborate coil of curls and pins. Her make up is heavier than she's used to wearing. Dark eyes peer back at her, as Ellen retouches her lipstick. Blood red, against her pale skin..
A car door slams outside, and she goes to the window. Henry.
He clutches his cane tightly as he limps and follows Abraham.; both men baring the broken evidence of the abuse the camp had lavished on their bodies years before. Abraham with his shoulders stooped, hunched over, his body far too old for his years, never speaks.
Never utters one sound . There is only so much a body can take when not fed..not nourished..not healed..not cared for. Abused.

She waits, watching the street lights flickering on as the sun sets over the arched roof tops of the cities old, but still battered beautiful buildings. Closing her eyes, ….they're there. Mama and Papa.
Even little Samuel. She remembers that she'd loved him -loved holding his little pudgy body to her as she'd helped feed him - and listened to his babbling bubble filled words around his spoon.

Had he been afraid? They didn't do things gently in the camp. Kindness was only displayed to gain your trust. Had they been kind to the baby? Had he been loved just a little before......

Her eyes open, staring through the floral pattern of the white net curtains.. Is he dead? Maybe he is still …...
Her heart tells her hope always lives, but her soul tells her that Samuel is with Mama and Papa, and that they had all died.
She feels that. Always feels that empty cold space in her heart, like a some one had dug a hole beneath it and left it empty.
They had died a long time ago. They had never worn the tattoo; had never been registered. They had known the release to the angels instead, while Helenna had remained behind to remember them...To avenge them.

Would she know the angels because of her sins now? Her heart tells her no, but her soul told her yes. She will be a sinner among them, but she will know them again. Rejoin them. Be forgiven for needing the justice of finding all those possible, that had left a stain on the entire world.
Those soldiers of men that had been her wardens., her captures. She had begun with seven. The seven that had taken their orders from Hemmlir in the laundrette ; found them all, one at a time, and saw the life fade from their eyes.
She had at least given them what they hadn't given her family. A face to look at as they recognized the end of their new lives; the end of their new names and their new positions in society.
A face that had not been born cruel..

''They'' came.
Knocking on her door. She looks towards the door, but doesn't move. She drifts again, into memories. Sad, .. paralyzing memories. Seven men that had led prisoners to deaths when they couldn't work anymore. With bodies broken, too bruised, hungry and weak to work; the unresistant were taken to the chambers that filled lungs with gas and ended the pain..
Death that humans shouldn't know. Deaths that humans shouldn't inflict on other humans.

There were others like her, Henry and Abraham.
Others that dedicated their lives now to tracking down men and women for crimes committed in the camps, against people who had done nothing wrong.
There were others like her. Henry, and Abraham, that didn't wait for justice in the courtrooms.
She had looked, right into the eyes of seven others, in less than a year, and witnessed their recognition of her, as she smiled and assured them, that they would not be alone for long in their purgatory. That soon, she would send others.
Soon, ...very soon.

Tonight, after months of work, painfully sad moments where they watched a man bastardize freedom with his happiness, with no sign of a conscience for the deaths that ended lives at his hand, or on his orders.
It wasn't fair to sit in a car, watching him dine in restaurants, stroll in the park with his wife, ...hear him laugh as he bought her flowers and she'd kiss him.
He looked so normal.
He looked so normal!
It was a cruelty as great as when she closed her eyes and saw her parents sob.
How dare he laugh. How dare he be so arrogant to believe a change of name was all he needed, to convince the world he had a right to be in it.

''Are you ready Helena''?

She turns slowly, and nods to Henry as Abraham closes the door behind him, pocketing the spare key he carried. She'd gotten distracted in her day dream. Abraham had opened the door to her suite himself, and he and Henry had stood watching her.
Watching their 'Black Dove' remember.
It is good to remember. It has to be remembered. No one is to ever forget, and those that lived, were to make sure no one ever did. The world has to know.
How in the name of all that is pure and good, could the world not know?

''Yes....But don't call me Helena, Henry. She's gone..''

he sighs, nods, and Abraham removes his hat politely, leaning his left hand against the back of an armchair for support.

''As you wish. But if you forget her, ...you're of no use to us ''

She smiles, and Henry watches as she goes across to Abraham to rest her hand on his comfortingly.

''I am not forgetting.....But she is my fathers daughter..., and he didn't raise her to kill..''

Returning to the dressing table, Ellen sits, and reaches for the feathered cocktail mask, before placing it over her eyes, and holding it there. The woman that looks back at her is a creation born of need. She saves Helena. Preserves a daughter that has like so many others, seen too much, too young.
She gives Helena a place to rest, when Ellen is needed.
Standing slowly, Ellen fixes the clips on each temple, the mask pinned in place and turns to face the others. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. It never does.
Not yet. But nor is her smile cold. It is just..a beautiful mask.

''Have you the gun''?

''Yes...in my garter''

''good...good..Helena...um..Ellen...Are you sure you're ready?''

She nods. He smiles at her, and puts his hat on. She, with Henry's and Abrahem's help, have become a secretive tiny army, of three. They are whispered about in the shadows. Admired...or dreaded. Some want to forgive...move on.
Some just can't. So they look at the 'Black Dove' and her minute army, and pray for the souls of those they remember every day,..every night,..every time they close their eyes, every time they breath. She has become a dreaded legend in such a short time..

And now it is Josef Himmler's time. Seven of his men before him have died, and led her to him. Seven that had been as cruel as he was, but , were not him.
They were not the one with his eight sweets, for eight children. Eight pats to their heads, that they fought for.
He is the eight.
Eight. Always eight. It has become her mantra.
But then...,eight had been his favorite number.

It seems fitting.

You Can't Keep Me Here, I Can't Stay

I love when you kiss me. I do.
And I love feeling your lips trail down my neck...my breasts...my tummy...between my thighs.
And you do wonderful things to me.
But.
This isn’t me.
I’m not here.
I’m in the ladies room of that hotel restaurant, the expensive one, remember? And I’m crying as she fucks me, slowly, from behind. I’m giving her the groan she needs from me, the tears that roll down my cheeks, those are for me and my release and dear god she’s in me so deep I can feel it through my spine and her nails dig deep into my hips and I don’t care who comes in because I know she won’t stop and she’ll leave me there, broken and covered in the scent of fucking.

I’m in the other apartment, where I keep her. She has food, she has water, she even has TV. But that chain will never break and that collar will never slip off, try as she might. I like that she tries. I like that she fights. Toys are easy. She’s much more than that. My possession. Her teeth have tasted my blood, trying to get me to stop from...whatever...I might be doing to her. But in the end, her hands hold on to me and she begs for my kiss as her cunt drips and she becomes my beautiful little girl, and whispers her love for me.

I’m at the club with my daughter and we are dancing. Dancing for another girl. We are priestesses to the magic she has. She’s brought us so far and made us learn the scary things that make us happy and given us the sweetness that burns in our veins. The things we can not live without. She has made us pure, we are nothing but what she makes us and we kneel at her whisper, hoping, praying, that she will complete the both of us, for one more night. We never sleep.

I’m with my teacher, in high school, and I have her secrets. She’s begging for me to keep them, to not share them with her husband, her daughter. She collapses when I tell her how I found them out. She barely resists, her body is so very...ready...for everything I’m going to give her, take from her. I laugh into our kiss as I think of the grey empty she’ll return to later.

I’m at a party, and she’s wearing a strap-on. She shushes me and pushes me to my knees. I know what she wants, and I tease her. My tonguetip barely touches the tip of its head. Then swirls, then runs the length of the shaft. She tires of my teasing and her hand in my hair impales my mouth on the thing. And I take it. I devour it, cover it with my saliva. Bite it and drag my teeth on it. I keep up my efforts, waiting, until her attention wanders for a brief moment, and in that fraction of time I push her onto the sofa, my skirt up, mounting her. And I take whats mine.

I’m the dirty old broad up the street that all but a few of the girls are scared of.
I’m the bride being taught to regret my decisions on my wedding day.
I’m the boss with a girl who earns her pay many times over.
I’m the girl at the bar with the legs.
I’m one night stand.
The fantasy.

I’m all these things.
But this, here, with you, this is not who I am.
And I’m sorry.
I love you.

The Mask She Wears


Put.....me....on.......

Fiona's head jerked up from the book she was reading, her face a rictus of fear, shaking her head she tried to concentrate on reading the book. "No," she thought, "Ignore it, just read."

Place...me....on...your....face........

“No!” Don't react to it, try and ignore it.

It might have seemed odd to anyone watching to see a small blond woman cuddled up on a couch, her legs underneath her, reading a large book and apparently talking to herself. If anyone who had been there could here here this phantom voice they would have noticed that it came from an ornate black mask, with large black feathers; hanging on a far wall. Of course, if anyone else had been in the apartment with Fiona, and could hear this phantom voice they too would be trying to ignore it, trying to concentrate on anything other than the alluring commanding voice they dug straight down into the brain, bypassing the need to go through any intervening air or even the ears.

PUT....ME.....ON........

“No, please.....no” Her voice was a meek response now, and Fiona's body didn't seem to want to go along with her resistance, unfolding, hovering on the edge of the couch now, the book abandoned on the the arm of the seat. Her hands gripped the edge, her nails digging in, trying to hold on, trying to stop being pulled along by the voice.

The voice said nothing now, but instead there was just a feeling, an overwhelming emotion, one that saturated her every pore. It reached down into her spine, her arms and legs, there was nothing there, and it didn't even feeling like someone pulling her along, more like the air had become solid, buffeting her along, pushing her towards the wall.

“No, please, I don't want to....” The air became thicker as her feet dragged her toward the mask, her hands reaching out to grab it, the tips of her fingers so close, but stopping short of it, shaking violently as the last shreds of will tried to stop herself from touching it, knowing what path would follow if she did.

A surge of emotion flooded from the mask....NOW!.....her hands closed around the mask, lifting it off the wall, clasping it tightly. The air now twisted her in place, moving her over to a full length mirror nearby. Standing in front of it, her breathing ragged and deep as her arms turned the mask around, lifting it up, getting closer to her face, she could taste the emotions pouring out of the mask now, it lay thick on her tongue, cloying and pungent.

As it lay on her face, she could feel it melding to her skin, although it never changed, it was still physically separated, an ordinary mask, yet it clung there with nothing apparently holding it in place. Fiona looked into the mirror, her eyes shining in the depths of the mask, her breathing calm now, everything was right with the world, no more worries, just pleasure.

Her mind became silent, no idle thoughts to distract her. A smile curled up around the edges of her mouth as she smoothed down her clothes; nothing but a simple black dress but now it looked so good on her, enough to make anyone fall to their knees in gratitude to be able to look upon this masked woman, showing off her curves in ways that it wasn't meant to, they might not even be there now.

Fiona glided over to the door and left the apartment confidently, barefoot and coatless, out into the night. The apartment quiet behind her, in a state that would make it look like she had simply vanished from existence. The night outside was cold, but clear; couples wandered the street outside the building, staring as the woman in the mask and dress briskly walked by them, unaffected the cold, not a single goosebump appeared on her flawless and beautiful skin. Dog walkers stopped and stared as they saw this singular woman walking with purpose, barefoot, without showing any notice of the harsh material of the concrete pavement.

The doors to the dark club opened and Fiona walked in. If at this point Fiona had been able to think any thoughts she would have wondered how the club could be dark; it was filled with lights, yet they didn't illuminate, they highlighted the darkness, shapes, silhouettes danced in the darkness. The club was silent, created by the din of loud beating music and people shouting; the senses shut down upon entering this club, overwhelmed by everything the club had to offer. The dancers were deaf, blind and dumb, senseless, except for Fiona, she heard everything, saw everything, she could taste the sweat and smell the scent of every dancing body. But Fiona did not think any of this. She couldn't at this point, she didn't want to; instead she walked on deeper into the sea of people.

Although she wore only a simple black dress and her mask Fiona was now a beacon, the dancers stopped, mesmerised by this confident goddess, who paid no attention to them, and then as she walked by the dancers continued, almost forgetting about her, almost, the image still haunted their memories. Fiona came to a stop by the bar, her smile widening as she spied out the one she wanted; there she sat, sipping a drinking, looking hopefully around the bar.

“Come with me....I need you to come with me....” Fiona whispered to the woman. The woman froze and stared at her, like a deer caught in the headlights. Fiona's words reached her ears, even over the sounds of the music. A frown crossed the woman's face as the dual tone of Fiona's and the mask's voice entwined and went straight into the girl's brain.

“I...need to....but no, I don't know you...I can't.” She said as the words escaped her lips, confused.

“You must.... you need to.” Fiona said simply, taking the girl's hand and pulling her gently off the bar stool, the girl complied and slid off, although her lips half-formed words of resistance. She followed behind meekly, unable to break free of Fiona's deceptively light grasp.

As they walked back, people stared again, the barefoot, half dressed goddess leading along an almost scared looking woman who gazed at the one leading her with a mixture of arousal and fear.

They stepped back into the apartment, and life returned to it, picking up where Fiona has just vanished from it. Spinning around in place Fiona placed her lips against the girls, seeking out a kiss, her lips commanding and devouring. The girl responded eagerly, but still afraid, but as the kiss deepened her fears left, returning the passionate kiss with her own now as she gave herself to this goddess. Fiona's teeth bit down on the girl's lip and she whimpered, half pulling away and leaning again, whimpering louder as the teeth dug in a little deeper, drawing a small amount of blood.

Without warning Fiona broke the kiss and turned the girl around bending her over and pushing her up against the wall by the door, standing behind her, running her fingers over the soft curves of the girl's ass, covered by a tight leather skirt, moving her hand lower, her mind blank except for the arousing desire that filled her, her fingers left the cool material of the skirt and onto the hot soft skin of the girl, traveling the inside of her thighs, pushing the skirt up until it revealed her bare ass. The girl whimpered and tried to lift her ass up to meet the goddess' wandering hands, spreading her legs apart invitingly.

“Please....” A single word, said so softly, so meekly and wantonly. Fiona didn't react, appearing to not be paying any attention to the girl, despite being so intently focused on the girl's eager form; her fingers moving, seeking, until the found the lips of the girl's wet cunt, spreading them apart, massaging them before sliding two fingers, deep inside. The girl wasn't ready, felt herself wanting more, eager to please she rocked her hips, pushing down against Fiona's hand, all she felt now was pleasure, her own mind going blank with desire. Moaning and whimpering as she got used to the incredible, invasive fingers.

It could have been an eternity, it could have only been a few brief moments, the sun could have risen and set again in the time as the two woman stood there, pressing closer and closer together, the girl and her new goddess moaning in turn as their pleasure fed each other, then the girl cried out, her body buckling and shaking as she came, falling against the wall, leaning against it heavily, Fiona falling with her, now not moving, only breathing heavily. There they lay until she took the girl by the hand and lead her to a new room, occupied by a large comfortable, yet simply designed bed.

“Strip, you need to be unclothed....nothing between us....” Came the entwined voices of Fiona and the mask again, leaving no room to argue, a voice that commanded. The girl obeyed, quickly she stood there naked, she felt a little strange, standing unclothed before this goddess, she wanted to hide herself but her hands wouldn't obey, she stood there waiting. Fiona reached up behind her back and undid the single zip that kept her dress on her and slid out of it, letting it fall to the floor; the mask stayed on her face, unmoving.

Fiona once again took the girl's hand and led her to the bed, making her lie on her back and to the girl it felt suddenly as if she had been bound to the bed, spreadeagled by heavy chains, she looked and there was nothing, but she was unable to move no matter how much she vainly tried to struggle. Fiona was now crawling on top of the girl's body, her legs coming to rest on either side of the girl's head, the scent of her own sweet cunt was so incredibly musky and overwhelming to the girl, making her drunk on the presence of this commanding woman.

As Fiona lowered herself down the girl lifted her head eagerly, her lips parting in need, and as she did the girl knew that now she served this goddess and that this was only the beginning.

The sun shone into the room, hitting Fiona, she looked around, the room seemed normal, and thoughts flooded in as her mind awoke...thoughts, she reached up and felt her face, the mask was gone, once more leaving her with the consequences of what it had made her done the night before. Looking down her body there was a girl slumbering peacefully in the crook of her arm, looking so peaceful. The slight movement of Fiona must have woken her though as the girl opened her eyes sleepily and blurredly looking up, and then smiled widely, sighing with contentment.

“Morning my goddess.”

“I don't know what I made you do yesterday....I'm sorry...it's not really me...it's....mask...made me do things.” Fiona stammered apologetically. The girl just smiled and looked at her slightly confused.

“What mask?”

There in the next room, hanging on the far wall the mask hung, as it always had, covered in a slight layer of dust from where it hadn't been moved in weeks; an ordinary mask, a decoration.

Who's Beautiful Now?

**removed**

The Mask of the Living Goddess

They had dressed her. She stared into the mirror contemplating herself. The mask hid most of her face making her green eyes look brilliant surrounded by black velvet. She sighed at the image. They had the right to make decisions about her body, that right had been revoked from her. Still she hated the mask; the plumed feathers above her head, the simple cotton dress that made her look pauperish. She hated the pageantry of her eyes, and she really detested what would happen next.

A knock to the door, and they entered. Their simple grey gowns giving nothing of their excitement away, they simply stared at her, and she knew it was time to go. When one of them reached for her, she shrank inside herself, shivering at the cold contact of his hand.

They surrounded her and led her out into the short hallway. She could feel the palpable anticipation coming from the next room. Silently, they entered the room and she was led to the dais, where they violently cut the shift from her body. Her acolytes moved quickly and methodically preparing her body.
She was lifted to the altar and her legs spread, a thousand eyes sliding over her slim, naked body, five hundred eagerly parted lips, while the moment hung pregnant in the air, they waited on her. Her disciples, ten of them, are wearing their red velvet masks, eyes warily on the crowd, calmly surveying what would soon be frenzy.

“I am here!”

The words fell from her lips unbidden, but tutored. They rang clearly through the hall.

“I am ready!”

A few gasps of pleasure as her followers began to explore each other. She heard them, and waited a moment while her acolytes massaged oil into her skin and prepared her body for what was to come.

“Breath, blood and cum.”

The words were clear, and the moans from the crowd began to grow. Her acolytes had finished their preparations; they spread her legs and placed their fingers at her clit, nothing less would do than their flesh upon hers. But none of them would fulfill her.

“We are one. Feel the heartbeat of forgiveness and love”

Her acolytes rubbed her clit and bound her hands, they pinched her nipples and whet her lips as she began to climb. They listened to her moans rising in pitch, their eyes shrouded behind their hoods, while they worked.

She began to shake, that shake of a woman close, she could feel the orgasm building in her belly while she writhed and moaned on the altar, for their part the hooded figures bent to the task of helping her along. Finally she could take no more, screaming;
“To me! To Me! The Living Goddess!”

Her disciples shed their robes in conjunction as they ran up the stairs to the altar, the ten of them surrounding her, one of them filling her, while she cried out in passion. Her followers were a writhing mass of flesh that ebbed and flowed around the dais, the moans of her people sending her to greater heights.

Her disciples pushed her higher, as they took turns fucking her, sliding into her wet and oiled cunt, or they kissed her taking of her essence, slowly they took from her, and then moved out into the crowd, spreading her breath, blood and come. It had culminated into a craze on the floor.

Finally, the oldest and wisest disciple took her last gasp of orgasm. It washed over the crowd and they fell silent in the awed hushed for all that remained was the Mask of the Living Goddess.

A Poison So Sweet

He couldn't see the smile behind the mask, but he knew that it had be as wicked as her body. She was sin made flesh, her entire being seemingly dedicated to sensual temptation. Before he first touched her, he had felt his pulse racing just from the sight of her, of the simple understanding of what she embodied: raw, unabated lust given a perfect form.

It seemed like it had been hours. That first dance had intoxicated him, and he'd felt such bliss at the simple contact of her body. An innocent dance, but he knew from the feel of her skin that there was nothing innocent about this woman. In his mind he'd felt he was already fucking her just from sharing the air around her, and his body was tuned to a fine hum with his arousal. There was just the finest sheen of sweat on his brow that was entirely from the anticipation, rather than the exertion. The entire experience had felt like desperate, fevered fucking at the center of what was otherwise a polite social event. This creature had a way of stirring his cock from the smallest glimpse of her at the edge of vision. But she had some sorcerous gift. Despite standing out like a diamond amidst charcoal, she was able to disappear entirely for some length of time.

His eyes longed for sight of her, even while the rest of his body was somewhat relieved that the pressure caused by her proximity was abating. Get out while you can, came a warning from the back of his mind. Painful disappointment lies ahead. He could not heed it. It was too late now, perhaps it had been too late since he'd first spotted this beauty. He yearned to see beneath the mask, to peel away her anonymity along with her clothes and bury himself against her flawless figure. He had the rational sense to know that she was epitome of all teases, but the pathways to his rational thought had long since shut down, and all that was remained was flushed excitement, with a hint of desperation.

He knew he could do naught but wait for her to reappear. He had already sought her out, looked for her, but when she disappeared, there was no finding her. She disappeared utterly, and not even the distinctive mask could be seen amongst the crowd. Whatever wiles she possessed were beyond his gift to pierce, so the only recourse was to wait and remain subject to her whims, no matter how the pain increased.

Then he felt her. He could not say if it had been fingers or lips or the silk of her dress brushing against his neck, but the electric desire that flooded his senses could only have come from her. He turned and she filled his vision to the exclusion of all else. She giggled at him, if it could be called that-it lacked any undertone of innocence, replacing it with all the raw sensuality of an empassioned succubus. He seized her in his arms, overcome, kissing her with the accumulated hunger of a starving man. She tasted like hot sex. The sensation was like an orgasm without the reprieve, sheer pleasure that only increased the pressure in his gut and loins, making feel as though he was falling. For a brief moment she was melting in his arms, and then she was gone.

His eyes had been shut, but they flew open, watching her as she disappeared into the crowd. His feet gave chase. He caught a glimpse of her darting here, and then there, and he slipped through the faceless crowd, chasing after a pair of long silken legs and the hint of haunting, sensual laughter. He was fast, and moving as quickly as he he ever had, but she somehow always remained well ahead of him. As he gave pursuit, he began to finally process the featureless, anonymous faces of the crowd around him, and a small part of his mind realized he was asleep, recognizing this dream. That part of him thrashed in his bed, wanting him to wake from this agonizing experience, but the greater part of him by far wanted to remain asleep, wanted to continue the fruitless pursuit of his mystery woman.

At one point, he thought she had pulled her disappearing act once again, as he lost her entirely. His heart pumped heavily, unwilling to embrace the dejection, before she appeared in his line of view between the bodies once more. The silk straps of her dress were sliding off of her shoulders, and he felt a certainty that she was bare underneath, only making him more desperate to reach her. The material was threatening to bare her perfect breasts, and he imagined he was seeing the tiniest beads of moisture at the tops of her thighs, as the dress had become much, much shorter. His breath caught in his throat, and his feet faltered for a moment, and in that instant, he knew, somehow, he was caught. He'd lost control of his own body and could no longer move his feet or arms, and a victorious laugh rang out to taunt him.

She approached him, slinking over sensually, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and embrace, pull her close and drag her to the floor, but all muscle control had deserted him. She said nothing, as she'd been silent but for her laughter throughout the encounter. Her hands brushed against his chest and his cock throbbed in response, but she only moaned sensually into his ear and pressed her soft lips against his neck. Her body pressed up against him and slide around behind him, and he could feel her breasts dragging across his back. Her fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, undressing him without paying any mind to the crowd around him. As her hands made contact with his bare chest, it made his skin tingle, the flood of sensations washing over him leaving him no recourse but to resign himself to drowning slowly.

She peeled his shirt off and away from his skin and he heard it land on the floor, followed by an echo of the sound which he knew meant her dress had joined it. He desperately wanted to turn, to look, to enjoy the aesthetic pleasure of her figure, but he was still help rapt, unable to so much as bend his neck. Her hands were on him again, and her lips, and everywhere her touch felt as though it was burning him-he imagined he could detect the scent of seared flesh. Her wicked hands were removing his pants, and his cock twitched in response. He knew that just one touch of her skin would be enough, that he would need no more, but he also knew that it would not come, that she would give him even the hope of relief.

She removed his pants, baring him entirely. Not even the shame of being naked in front of so many strange eyes could dull the sharp edge of his desire, and he was still as trapped as ever. Her nails were dragging against his skin, along his legs and back, and her lips as well, and all he could do was released a long suffering groan, filled with a pain too extreme to bear, worse than anything he could remember.

Suddenly she was in front of him. She was bare except for that wicked mask, hiding her face, and her body as perfect as he had imagined, impossibly perfect, only capable as the result of some dark art. Her breasts heaved with excitement and her thighs were indeed moist with desire. He realized he was able to move his eyes away, yet it was impossible to avert his gaze. It was only increasing the torture to look at her but his body was embracing this torture. His sleeping body lurched on his bed, as he would have liked to, but his dream body was still trapped in place. She sauntered closer and pressed her body fully against his form and let her lips taste his, all too briefly. He relished in the contact, the taste, the sensation, but she broke it off to the sound of another strangled groan escaping his dry throat.

His body was taunt with its desperate struggle against the invisible power that held him in place. His muscles felt tired from fighting against it, and the sheen of sweat on his skin was now more evidence of the exertion of trying to move than it was the overwhelming heat of her presence. His breath was coming in rapid gasps and his heart felt that it would soon leap out his throat. He had one last desperate desire. He needed to see behind the mask, to know the face of his tormentor. He felt certain that once he knew her identity, her power would be broken and he would find some respite. A sudden, desperate strength entered his arms and h strained twice as hard, before there was the sudden sound of glass breaking. His arms had removed whatever spell lay upon them and were free, and he reached out to quickly drag the mask off his wicked nightmare....only to see that she had no feature, her face a foggy vision still hidden from eyes, her identity remaining anonymous.

He awoke with a start. His cock was throbbing painfully, his pulse pounding in his chest, his breath panting as violently as in his sleep. He would have to release his desire soon, but he knew it would not be satisfying. It never was. He was always taunted by this mystery woman, and he felt the longing to know her identity seep over into his conscious mind. Distantly, he knew she existed somewhere, the epitome of all his desires, but he felt as much hope of finding her waking as he did of finding relief in his dreams.

The Masquerade Party

Ginny glanced at herself in the mirror in the elevator and was pleased with how she looked. Her husband Eric hadn’t commented on her appearance, but she was unfortunately accustomed to that. Her smile reflected back beneath the edge of an elaborate green mask, embellished with blue, gray, and emerald green peacock feathers. Eric’s company hosted a holiday party each year and this year’s party had a masquerade theme. It had to be better than last year’s Monte Carlo gambling theme, Ginny thought to herself. She ran her fingers through the coil of her loose pony tail and then adjusted the beaded straps on her dress. Afraid to mess up her makeup, she stopped herself from biting her lower lip as she examined the rest of her appearance. Her emerald green dress made her blue-green eyes look more green than usual, and was complimented perfectly by the feathered mask. She spun carefully on strappy gold heels and admired the way her short dress slightly flared from her movements.

Eric’s hand on the small of her back stopped her movements and brought her eyes to his. He was dressed much more conservatively in a black tuxedo with a simple black domino mask. He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the top of her head.

“You look pretty,” he finally told her.

She wanted to be grumpy at him for waiting so long to compliment her, but she was excited about the party and didn’t want to start the evening on a sour note. Though, as much as she was excited about tonight’s party, she felt the familiar butterflies that plagued her in social situations, especially in situations where she knew few people. If past parties were any indication, Eric would disappear for large portions of the evening as he and his friends went to the patio to smoke cigars and enjoy their scotch.

As soon as they entered the party, he whispered to her, “I’ll be back,” as he slid away. The butterflies threatened to completely overtake her as she fought the mild panic attack that was building.

“Has he left you already?” a voice purred softly in her ear as a glass of champagne was placed into her hand.

Ginny turned at the familiar voice and recognized the speaker despite the elaborate velvet mask she wore.

“Christine! I am so happy to see you!” Ginny hugged the lovely woman who always seemed to know when she needed saving at these business functions. Ginny saw the smile in Christine’s deep brown eyes crinkle behind the cat shaped mask as Ginny’s eyes glanced down to take in Christine’s appearance. Tall, slender, striking. That was the word to describe Christine – striking. When she entered the room, you couldn’t help but notice her. Her ebony hair, stylish clothing and confident presence often made Ginny feel insignificant next to her.

“You look gorgeous Ginny.” Christine said. “But you always do. You wear the best colors to show off your red hair.”

Ginny blushed and smiled. “You look amazing! That dress fits you like a glove.” And it did. The smooth black sheath would have looked plain on someone else, but it hugged Christine in all the right places, accentuating her flat belly and long legs.

The evening progressed as it usually did - dinner, dessert, dancing. When a slow song began, Ginny looked around for Eric, not surprised, but still disappointed to find him missing.

A soft kiss on the back of her neck sent a chill down her spine. Eric would never kiss her like that.

“He really shouldn’t leave you alone and unprotected. There is no knowing what sorts of predators are here waiting to swoop down on you.” Ginny smiled and turned to see Christine’s lips just an inch from her ear. Christine grinned and ran her tongue lightly around Ginny’s ear.

Ginny could feel a familiar blush redden her cheeks.

“You are so pretty when you blush.” Christine held out her hand and Ginny let herself be led from the room.

Her hand grasped lightly in Christine’s, Ginny became breathless as they made their way to Christine’s hotel room. So many thoughts tried to take center stage in her mind: Eric would wonder where she was, she must be misinterpreting Christine’s intentions, Christine had been the center of many of Ginny’s daydreams but to be this close to her was almost more than she could bear.

As the hotel door closed behind them, Christine led Ginny to sit on the bed and smoothly knelt between her legs. Without a word, Christine leaned forward and pressed her lips to Ginny’s. Ginny slid forward and pressed her legs tightly around Christine, running her hands up to glide through her dark hair. When she felt Christine’s hands slide up the backs of her legs and stroke the backs of her thighs above where her stockings ended, Ginny couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped against the kiss. As their kisses deepened Ginny felt herself drifting to a level of need she hadn’t felt in a long time. Ginny tugged gently at the zipper of Christine’s dress. Christine pulled back from the kiss to smile at Ginny.

“What do you want Ginny?” she asked. “Tell me what you want.”

Ginny opened her mouth and then closed it again quickly, uncertain what to say.

Christine grinned and she kissed Ginny’s cheeks. “I know what you want Ginny,” she whispered. “Say it.”

Ginny’s voice was hoarse and quiet as she tried to form words that she never thought she’s have the opportunity to say but had dreamt many times before. “I want to kiss you Christine. I want to touch you and lick you and make you cum. I want to feel your hands on me, your fingers in me. I want to spend the night with you until we are both exhausted and covered in cum.”

Christine pushed Ginny back on the bed and slipped out of her dress. Her hands slid up Ginny’s legs and tugged down the green silk thong that was already soaked in arousal. Christine lay over Ginny and eased the straps of her dress over her shoulders, pulling her breasts over the top of the dress. Ginny gasped as she felt one nipple sucked firmly into Christine’s mouth, warm, moist lips wrapped around her. Ginny wrapped her hands up in Christine’s hair as she closed her eyes and relaxed to the feel of what she had daydreamed about, but never thought could happen. Her soft moans turned deeper and more guttural when Christine’s fingers slipped smoothly inside of her dripping pussy. Each time Ginny controlled her breathing and calmed her moans, Christine would make her gasp – teeth tugging on her nipples, thumb stroking over her clit, finger rubbing over her tight asshole. Ginny’s hips rocked against Christine’s hand, her back arched hoping for harder bites and stronger tugs, her breathing shallow, her heart racing. She was frantic and desperate for release, splayed wantonly beneath Christine she begged for release.

Christine lifted her head to look into Ginny’s dreamy, unfocused eyes. She moved two fingers inside of Ginny’s hot cunt to rub against her g-spot as her thumb continued to stroke across her clit.

“Cum for me Ginny. I have wanted you since I met you, cum for me now”

Ginny’s body shook as Christine’s words combined with her touch. She cried out and grabbed at Christine as she gushed and shook against her. Christine continued to gently stroke Ginny until her body stilled and their eyes met.

“Did you say you’ve wanted me since we met?” Ginny asked. “I have dreamt about being with you for years.”

Christine smiled and brushed Ginny’s hair off her face. “You have me now.”

Her Muse

Her Muse


Sel looked at her self in the mirror and adjusted her mask one last time. She sighed, satisfied. She was almost as ready as she was ever going to be. Tonight was the culmination of plans. Plans within plans, and thoughts, within thoughts. Tonight, she would become something else. Something more than the sum. Tonight, she would become Selina.

Thoughts drifting, she stirred luxuriously, and her reflection, rippled back at her, with a languid sensuality.

She looked at the little gold box on the dresser, nestled amongst the perfumes, soft brushes and the multihued palettes of discarded makeup. It had been deliberately placed there, to appear casually absent. Amidst the chaos, she had almost hoped it would disappear overnight.

Slowly, she picked the box up, turning it over and over, in her soft hands. Her deep red nails clicked over the filigree, tapping, as if trying to illicit answers to questions as yet unspoken. It was heavy. Very heavy for something so small and delicate looking.

Knowing that if she put it off any longer, it would remain a half opened chance, a lingering regret to haunt and ache in later years, her nails popped the latch. Almost without her willing it. The room echoed with a sharp crack and an almost inaudible, hiss, like a long, drawn out sigh.

Deep red silk shimmered inside, reflecting the dimmed, moody lights of her room, and the ripples of conflict welling through her soul.

A tiny black pill sat in the shimmering fabric. She picked it out. It was heavy. The weight she had wondered about was the pill. Now freed from its burden, the box dropped, inconsequential and weightless, forgotten to the floor. It tumbled out of sight, under the dresser, to wait until needed again.

Her reflection locked eyes with her. They watched through the dream, as delicate fingers absently rubbed the black pill, slowly, over red lips. Like the tip of a lovers tongue. Their eyes fused, as the pill disappeared into her wet mouth.


----------------------------


The wooden floor was deeply polished. Like all wood, cold, except where she lay, curled up. There it was warm, hot, and alive.

Selina let her eyes open behind her mask. She was bathed in white filtering light. Just her, for outside of her vision was darkness. Almost completely dark, inky dark. She let her tongue wet her lips, it traced a searing path of awareness, which awoke her senses. An expectant hush circled the room. Echoing desire and dark needs with its cloying silence.

She felt, sensed their presence. For only she could be seen. But, they were hungry. She could feel it washing over her, like wet scent. It boiled. And it made her ache.

Her legs slowly uncoiled and she stretched. Her arms along the floor, fingers reaching for untouchable bars, her head, her back arched. Feline. The hunger in the room grew. She felt it’s . . . approval. It’s . . wetness.

She spun around sitting. Her legs splayed, her head tilted down between them, long hair falling to cover her like a shroud. Her hands gripped her ankles, red nails caressing glossy black patent leather. The lights reflective sparkle, making both flash promise.

Her head swung around, arching, rolling. Long hair sweeping with a silent swoosh. The room dripped, hunger building. She drank it and played with it. Letting it propel her forwards, poised, onto her hands and knees. He head dipped and the cool wood kissed her soft cheek. Her spine bent and her hips rose, her sequined dress riding to expose creamed flesh.

One of her hands crawled with purpose back along the floor. Red nails tapping as they inched along. It rose up her soft thigh, seeking. It was searching for heat. It paused, as if seeking approval from the room. The silence of need was deafening.

Long fingers slipped under wet gusset, dallying a second too long, before easing flimsy material backwards. Slowly wriggling it down, not completely, for that wasn’t what the hunger required. Glistening material came to rest, half down, half up, stretched between thighs trembling with barely suppressed want.


----------------------------


She felt, as much as heard, the footfalls. Crisp leather soles. Measured steps. Controlled steps. Controlled power. She shivered and felt a hot leak threaten in the dam. Her hand, twisted, pulling black, sequined dress, swiftly up over her body, over her head, thrown to rest, scattered carelessly under the lights. Both hands stretched out now, fingers wide and open, her body arched with prostrate beckoning.

The steps stopped. Inches behind her. Her breathing slowed, time itself slowed. Even the rooms hunger paused.

Selina pressed her face down harder. Mashing her cheek to the unyielding wood. Absently, her tongue flicked out, pink, serpentine, and lashed lovingly at the floor polish. A long, slow, wet sigh, escaped her. It caressed the room, whispering to ears of the enraptured hungry.

She felt herself slowly open. Puffy, glistening pink, proffered and split. A tiny bead of dew balanced, before slipping down the inside of her willowy, golden thigh. A gyration scraped. Turgid nipples bent in contact with the ground. Heat from the down light extracted a thin, filmy sheen of sweat and desire, spraying it over her back and soft buttocks. Coating her with a golden sheen of visceral taste.

The room held it’s breath, a palpable, collective, audible intake.

A long whooping swoosh. A sharp, wet, slapping crack.

Sels world, tucked protectively behind her closed eyes, dissolved into a bright red, explosion of lightening. A flash of searing pain. And a lingering shivering rush as her orgasm exploded.

The room groaned. A flood of pent up, escaping release. Lips found lips, hands found wet places, thrusting, teasing, gripping, plunging. But the eyes of the watching never wavered. For down on the floor, in the middle of the room, in front of them all. Selina was . . . becoming . . . herself.


------------------------------





.

Oh, it's rough, but I don't care. Just an idea that needed to get out, and not entirely original. This sort of went off the rails, a little bit..



In my dreams, I am showing him our bedroom, as if for the first time.

His mustache curls with amusement as he slides the pad of one finger into the deep grooves in the nearest bedpost, scarred in circles where the handcuffs bite. He is drawn to the mask hanging over my pillow, as I thought he might be. Curious, he plucks it down for a closer look. I lean over his shoulder and look, too, pressing a kiss into the crook of his neck.

"What's this?"

I smile. "That's the mask I wear when we have sex."

He looks confused, and I laugh nervously, reaching to pinch one corner of it, tilting it into the light. "Don't you recognize it?"

As I watch, curling one arm around his waist, he rubs his thumb into the pile of the crushed black velvet, spotted and stiff and stained, in places. He combs his fingers through the luxurious tuft of feathers, recalling its teasing tickle against his belly, between his thighs. When he turns to me at last, there is hurt in his eyes.

"I thought it was you," he admits quietly, shaking his head slightly. I take his hands, smiling reassuringly.

"It was always me, sweetheart," I whisper. Taking the mask from him, letting it fall. "You looked into my eyes, and you were kissing me, you were always kissing me." I lean up, into him, and he takes my face between his hands as I part my lips to be kissed again -

- and his fingers twitch at a loose edge, under my eyes, where it gets wet.

"What is this?" he demands.

I try to turn away, but he has caught me, he is pulling it off - well-worn and stretched but still convincing: my dimpled smile, my pretty blush - and I can hear the dismay, the frustration in his voice as he blurts, "Have I ever seen your real face?"

In the mirror I glimpse the strange girl standing next to him. A pale blur - her naked face, unsmiling and frightened, is more foreign to me than to anyone. When I look back at him, he is smiling sadly.

"I know you," he says quietly. "You were at my wedding. The day I said you never looked more beautiful."

I reach for the mask in his hand, but he takes my wrist (scarred in circles), kisses my palm and whispers into it, "Leave it off. Just for tonight. Let me see you."

In a flood of tears I am kissing him, pressing my wet cheek to his and gasping, "Yes - oh yes, darling! And your mask, too - let's take it off, just for tonight - let's be naked together!"

The whites of his widening eyes shine like the moon's reflection in my little knife as he flails and screams against my fierce embraces - it isn't a mask, he screams, and God, no don't - and then there is only the familiar breathless, wordless screaming of a lover in the throes of intense passion.

I curl up next to him, on the floor - spooning, the way he likes. It suits me fine. His true face will take some getting used to, I'm not ready to look at it all the time. I wrap his warm arms around me, and smile in the dark. This is love.

It's weird and rough and... yeah go easy on me.

Fire Bird

That night, Aaron found his true love.
His girlfriend had brought him to the circus for the night as his birthday present, and he had brought with him a shimmery diamond ring to propose to her with. His intentions were solid right up until his future fiancé talked him into the trapeze performance.

At that performance he saw her.
A woman so lithe and graceful it absolutely took his breath away. The entire show was centered on her, her tiny frame moving from bar to bar, with nothing on but a black dress composed of the most beautiful feathers and a similar feathery mask adorning her face.

Aaron's girlfriend had also convinced him that the show would be terribly incomplete unless they got the best of seats, and these very seats were such that every time the woman in black swung to the far side of the tent, Jason got a glimpse of her dark green eyes.

This realization hit him when the woman first swung to their side, the trapeze bar squeaking in protest. His girlfriend grabbed onto his arm, a little gasp coming from her as she stared in awe. But Jason didn't notice a thing, he was transfixed on the woman's eyes. Even that little glimpse before gravity took her away, caused a flurry of emotions in him. The woman in black's eyes beheld such happiness to him. Her mouth was curved into a slight smile that instilled the most powerful emotions in him.

Some say it is impossible for a face to reveal one's disposition, but in that moment Jason knew she was perfect.

Some say true love at first sight is a myth, but Jason knew he had proven that wrong.

And in that moment, the nearly engaged young adult couldn't hold himself back. Time seemed to slow down as the youth jerked upwards at the woman, her second pass to their side of the tent causing her to collide directly into him losing her balance on the trapeze and colliding downwards to the net. Screams of terror echoed through the tent as the tip of one feather on her costume caught one of the burning torches on the way down.

The woman hit the net, but the damage had already been done before the ring leader could run to her assistance, the feathers in her costume already charred and burned through her costume, and took her body in a burst of flames, the once gorgeous woman turning into a smoldering fire bird.
That night, Aaron's true love died.

Just a Glance

The unknown is a powerful force. It can terrify or intrigue, and sometimes both. At the moment the only certainty is that I wasn't terrified.

Earlier in the Evening:

The memory of just exactly who and how I was dragged to this costume party fading as the evening drags on. I'm standing in a corner of the kitchen, the rather ubiquitous keg sits on the table a few feet from me, a cooler beside it, and a trash can over flowing with discarded cups and cans. Of course there are far more empty vessels scattered around the floor than near the trashcan. The general atmosphere here is inebriated and hormone driven, almost totally anathema to me in every imaginable way. That of course begs the question of why I'm here at all. I suppose because it's "normal". That doesn't stop my general misery, but doing what "normal" people do is supposed to be good for you. I do these things because everyone else seems to enjoy them, because I'm sick of roommates insisting I go, and because maybe this time I'll get the appeal and fit in. Not much luck so far though.

The common "costume" involves low cut shirts, bleach blonde hair, and too short skirts and shorts for the girls, and letterman jackets shades because it's "cool" or too tight polo shirts with a popped collar. Costume parties are supposed to be freeing, a chance to escape yourself for an evening, so I could almost forgive this behavior. Except this was pretty much the same scene from a week ago, and will bear a striking similarity to next week.

Who would have ever guessed this was supposed to be an institution of higher learning?

The entire mood shifted in an instant. My bored and tired eyes were scanning the room, probably looking for the nearest exit, when they landed on her. Maybe it was just contrast that drew my eye, she certainly wasn't a drunk big chested blonde, but in that instant she had my complete attention. A simple black dress that looked perfectly tailored to fit her form and a black mask covering her upper face. I couldn't look away from her. She was a visual narcotic and I was already hopelessly addicted. I was helpless, eyes freely drinking in the features available to me, the subtle curves the dress highlighted and the eyes that shone like beacons from the mask. Then our eyes met. The faintest whisper of a smile crossed her lips and time seemed to freeze. If her face was a narcotic it was mild compared to this, this was a tiny bit of heaven. Then she half turned away and started moving.

Normally venturing across a room such as the one before me was done only in case of an emergency. While I couldn't in good conscience declare this an emergency, I followed her anyway. Suddenly stealing a credit card to get more of my high didn't seem so far fetched. I started moving, only to be remembered why I prefer immobility at these kinds of things. The constant stream of loud and more than a little obnoxious people desperately seeking their alcohol wasn't very conducive to my movement. I have to slip between them, try and keep my destination in mind or I'll get hopelessly turned around here. Duck the beer cup, make a poor version of an "S" with my body around the guy doubled over with one hand on his stomach. The traffic increases as I get closer to the doorway, these people merge while walking almost as badly as they do while driving. A bit of a wedge with my hands and I'm out of that press of people and into another. This time, if possible, it's a little worse.

A flash of blackness and the motion of those supple curves jolts me back.

The reason this is worse is the noise. For whatever reason the room she's led me into was designated as the dance floor. While I wouldn't categorize the motions of the people as dancing or the noise coming from some unseen speakers as music, everyone else seems to be taking it as such. Another glimpse of her as she glides around people like mercury gives me further direction. Best not to think about it, just go. My body is now pressed from more sides, more motions as arms hips and legs are thrust before my path. I can't go down here, I'd never be let back to my knees let alone my feet. A few more motions, dodging between couples, threesomes, or the mindlessly shaking. The only moderately fortunate thing is that my ears are now more or less deafened to the sound and I can focus more on forward movement. Move around this last group, I'm not even sure they register my passing as I shove into a few of them to make a passage big enough to fit through. Bunch of zombies.

For the first time in what seems an eternity I actually can see her. She moves so easily, so seamlessly. Like she's water and the rest of this place is oil, she seems to glide around untouched. This time she's near the top of a staircase. The stairs are a minefield, a few people unconscious on the ground, a few more paired off against the railing and oblivious to the world around them. This is definitely going to be tricky. I have to hop over two or three steps at a time to avoid those who have succumb to the mind numbing alcohol, then become one with the wall to slip by one stair occupied by two couples. Up and up, is this the worlds longest staircase? Finally I prop myself up using one arm on the rail and one foot on the wall and get over a stair with two people laying on it. I can't tell if one or both is now dreaming, but if one is still with the living he doesn't seem to care about having a stairmate.

She hasn't turned around once. Is she oblivious to my following her, or supremely confident that I'm pursuing her? Does it really matter?

A final fleeting movement of black as she slips into a room. I dodge around a couple trying to see just how accurately they can replicate the sound of a clog being removed from a drain and find myself confronted with the door. I've been so busy pursuing her that doubts haven't clouded my mind until now.

Now as I stand here, one hand on the doorknob, those doubts begin slipping into my mind. I don't know what she looks like, if she even wants me here. If she even really acknowledged me before, or was that whisper of a smile brought on by something I couldn't have seen or heard? What on Earth inspired this? This makes no sense at all, what was I doing here, this was totally out of character for me.

I take back what I said before, terror definitely is playing a part right now.

This door, and the unknown masked girl behind it, definitely can inspire terror as well as intrigue. I've reached the proverbial moment of truth for this night. One more deep breath to steady my racing heart, then my hand turns the knob and I push in.

The Mask In The Box


The smoke from my cigarette danced in strange ways behind the crystalized hand of Mooda Fret. Which amused me since he’d been so very anti-smoking. That is very much in the past tense. His left hand is mounted on a small stand on my desk. His right in in the possession of a man who’s name I wish I didn’t know. His head is at the bottom of a pit that holds no light. We keep these things apart for a reason.

I’m telling you this to give myself a little cred. When the woman walked into my office, just short of stormed in, she was wearing 35 pounds of barely controlled anger. I was not hopeful for whomever that anger might be directed at. I was really hoping it wasn’t me.

“Rebecca Garrote? I’m Eleanor Boone. I have a job for you,” she announced. Which was fine by me. If she had work for me, I probably wasn’t the one making her so pissed off. Funny, all the angry ones wear red. Usually silk. Ellie, as I’d get to know her, eventually, was no different. Her leather jacket concealed everything above the waist, but her legs, in those heels, well, mix that with the anger and the promise of work, well, Mooda Fret would have to wait in line.

“That works out well for me, Ms. Boone, as I have some time on my hands,” I said this as if it was some kind of witty quip. It was not. Nor did she pretend it was.

“Its simple. I need you to go see this man, pick up a package, and deliver it. He’ll tell you where and when to drop it off.”
She handed me a card with a name written on it.
“If you get this done perfectly, I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”
The way the number slipped off her lips made it clear that this wasn’t a lot of money for her. Again, fine by me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Is the money insufficient?”
“No, thats fine,” I pointed at the card, “But is there really a guy named Knuckles Moynahan??”
--
Life in the Big Juncture wasn’t always easy. Sweet deals like this one, well, they were few and far between. And there was always a catch. But, as a P.I., you get used to it.

‘P.I.’. Thats a laugh. At least in this city. We’re mothers, guns for hire, spies, doctors, shrinks, executives and artists. The work we do, there is no name for it.

--

The address on the card wasn’t a nice part of town. Big surprise. Showing up in a power suit, heels and makeup and all, was not going to get me anywhere. The problem with being a woman in this business is that you have to go into these things almost looking for a fight. On the plus side, one fight usually is all there has to be.

SWAT team boots, leather pants, a thermal shirt and camo jacket. I screamed ‘try it’ when I walked into the bar.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Mikey Pete. Mikey Pete had been my first fight one night. Mikey Pete was no one’s wimp. And Mikey Pete had a big mouth. People here already knew not to mess with me.
Shame.
I was hungry.
Being hungry makes me cranky.

“Whatcha need?” the bartender asked, without turning, as I perched on a stool.
“You got anything in a coconut, with an umbrella?”
Then he turned and we shared a smile. Well, a smirk.
“Whatcha need, Miss?”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this...but I’m looking for Knuck...”
“Knuckles Moynahan. Sure. He’s waiting for you. Down the hall, third door.”
What the fuck.
Down the hall I went. This was making less sense each moment.

Third door. Open. Step in. Hope.

“Thats one hell of a name you’ve got, Ms. Garrote,” a small, but well dressed man in the corner said.
“Free press, you know?’
“Indeed. Ms. Boone has explained the transaction, correct? You are to take this box,” he patted a gorgeous, teak box on the table next to him. Probably a square foot, and 6 inches deep. “You are to deliver it to this address,” he handed me a card,”and leave it there. You are NOT, under any circumstances, to open this package. Nor are you to talk to the people at this residence. Do you understand?”

“Take box, leave box, nothing else. Yeah, I think I can manage that.”

--
Fuck me. I couldn’t manage it.
I follow my gut. My gut said I had to look inside, and so I did. But, in my defense, I did wrestle with the compulsion for an hour before surrendering.

All there was in there was a black mask. Like something you’d wear for a masquerade ball. It was made of a beautiful silk, but outside of that, it didn’t seem to be much.

Great. I risked losing a massive check for nothing.
But still.
I follow my gut.

At the appointed hour, I took a car over to the house in question.
Mansion, of course.

I could have left the box.
I could have left it, walked away, and cashed a check.
But I’m an idiot and my gut hates me.
I knocked and the door was answered almost immediately.
By Ellie Boone. Sorry, ‘Eleanor’.
She must have read my surprise, “No, I’m Suzanna.”
Twins.
So I thought.
“And thats for me, I take it.”
I handed the box to her, silently. I was still surprised.
She opened it, and seemed unsurprised by the contents, but she stared at it like she was looking down the barrel of a gun.
The next thing I knew, the door was closed.
Oh, yeah, and my jaw was hanging open.
I stood there for a moment, catching flies.
Then shrugged and returned to the cab.
My gut was upset, but done is done.

Back at the office, the check had been slid under my door, with a note.
‘I wish you had done as you were told. But here is the money. -E’
Done is done.

Two weeks later, Suzanna was on the front page, floating, dead, in the harbor.
The mask was floating beside her.

That same day, an envelope with another 10k in it was slipped under my door.
There was also a phone number, and a stylized ‘E’ on the note.

I know hush money when I see it.
Its not the first time.

Eleanor never talked about who Suzanna was. Never told me what or why or anything about what happened. And I didn’t ask.

But, sometimes, when we’d be laying in bed, and a sliver of moonlight caressed her face in the dark, I couldn’t help but wonder who was wearing the mask.

Stephie was standing naked in the middle of the living room in 3-inch red strappies and nothing else when Justin returned. His jaw dropped at the sight. He was speechless, tongue-tied, at a loss for words.

"These shoes are the only things of Ali's that fit me. Sorry."

Stephie walked toward him, very seductively. "I was rude to you. It's not your fault Ali didn't pick me up. Sounds like she never told you I was coming."

"Uh...I think she mentioned it about a week ago."

She reaches out, strokes his face, all the time licking her lips.

"Oh, that's just like her. So self-absorbed. But I shouldn't say anything negative about your girl friend."

"Oh no. It's okay. Ali isn't perfect. Who is?"

She presses herself against him.

"I think you're perfect. I want to make up for my bad manners. Why don't I give the perfect man a perfect gift?"

She pulls him tight to her. He smiles. They sway, belly pressed against belly.

"A. A gift?"

She releases him, steps back a bit, her hand rubs lightly on his crotch.

"Yes, a gift. A gift of me sucking on your penis, my tongue caressing your shaft, your cock head deep in my throat."

"You mean now? Right here? Right now?"

"Undress for me, Justin. That is your name, isn't it? Justin?"

Justin undresses. Stephie smiles with at his nakedness, at the rigid state of his manhood. She holds up a latex hood and a pair of cuffs. "Have you ever been sucked in bondage, Justin?"

"Uh no. Ali doesn't go for that. She uh has a vibrator, though."

"Yes, just like her. Everything is me, me, me with little Ali. But I shouldn't speak ill of your girlfriend.

"No, it's okay. Really it is, Stephie."

"Stephanie. Call me Stephanie. Mistress Stephanie. Now turn around, Justin."

Justin turns as she directs. He repeats her words, "Mistress. Mistress Stephanie."

She fits the hood over his head and suddenly all is dark and breathing becomes Justin's major focus.

"You will find, Justin, as your senses become blunted, your perception of your inner world becomes heightened, including all things sexual. Do you understand?"

Justin feels the cuffs around his wrists, locking them behind his back. Click click.

The next few seconds are a blur of confusion for him. She pushes him down onto his knees, then pushes him flat, facedown, onto the rug. She twists one of his legs up and, taking a thin shackle, secures his ankle to the cuff chain.

Suddenly he's hogtied, lying there like a beached whale, his penis no longer front and center. He struggles, rolls onto his side and in a muffled voice, "Hey hey. What? What about the blow job?"

"What blow job?"

"You. You said you were going to suck me off."

"Shut up, bitch boy." A swift kick to the rib cage. He yelps. "We're going to wait for little Ali. And we're going to be very quiet, aren't we?"

She dims the lights. Justin whimpers.

Masked No More

I wonder, if people truly knew what anger does to someone, if they'd still act as they do. Most likely yes, which in many ways is the saddest thing I've heard. To know just what you're doing to someone and still behave as you do. Makes me wonder if people are worth the effort.

You're probably wondering if you can trust this, I wouldn't blame some hesitance on your part. I mean really, just how reliable can the words of someone in my position be? I leave that to you to decide.

To understand how I got here, you have to understand the difference between anger and rage. Think of rage like dumping gasoline on a fire. That flare of heat, of energy, that's rage. It's usually momentary, possibly destructive, and after it's over you feel grateful that it was so brief. You can fly into a rage without really being angry, angry in the general sense at least. You could be having a perfectly normal day, then if the right circumstances happen you'll suddenly be out of control, adrenaline pumping through your veins, blood pounding in your ears. It happens all the time, just the right thing happens and you can fly into a rage.

Anger though? Oh, anger is a whole different beast. Some of the angriest people have never flown into a rage. Anger is like termites. Can go undetected for years, most of the external damage is minimal for so long, but each and every day it gets worse and worse. The final snapping point isn't even rage, just the physics of it. Sooner or later it can't be contained. That's the simple truth of how I came to be here. Sooner or later, it just couldn't stay how it was.

Amber was the source of much of my anger, or at least the catalyst for what happened. See, Amber is just one of those girls. You've seen them before I'm sure, convinced the whole room is looking at them, enjoys humiliating those she deems lesser than herself. Like the time she decided to show off a little, she knew our I.T guy was staring at her. Mike, our I.T guy, isn't very good looking, not quite the stereotypical geek but close. He was a prime target for the alpha male ridden office, bullying, insults, all the usual juvenile things that guys like that think are hilarious. Amber decided to call him on staring, then proceeded to verbally run down his life, his single status, his physique, pretty much everything that she could think of.

Or maybe the constant stuff she does to Michelle. Michelle is a nice girl, but overweight. Nothing horrible mind you, but to someone like Amber it was apparently some kind of personal offense. She pretended to be Michelle's friend, talking about fashion or guys just loud enough for the rest of the office to hear and gather around. Then she'd ask the other guys what Michelle should do to make herself more attractive, or something along those lines. Naturally it rapidly degenerates from there.

How did I fare in all of this? Not badly actually, the first time Amber tried to get me to play that game, something about her legs and if I liked them, I mentioned that I liked Donny's better. Donny, the alpha male of the office and don't-you-dare-question-my-sexuality-or-physical-prowess-or-else. The office pretty much assumed I was gay after that, and tended to leave me alone. Sure I'd get the occasional snide remark, but all I'd have to do is blow them a kiss and they'd suddenly be unsure how to handle themselves.

You might be asking why there wasn't another form of recourse for people like Michael and Michelle. I'm sure technically there is, but the system doesn't function all that well in cases like this. There are a few reasons for that, the first being that Amber's father is rich. I don't just mean rich, I mean really rich. The second is lack of evidence. See everyone besides myself and the victims seemed to think it was great sport, and the situation could be spun to make it just seem like jealousy over Amber and how oh so perfect she was in everything.

Now, back to anger. It's a funny thing. I don't think anything else could so completely transform someone outside of severe emotional trauma and/or abuse. But anger is different, there's no law against it, not much recourse for it, and it's very easy to hide. Anger makes thoughts stick in your head that normally wouldn't linger for more than a second or five. Thoughts like just what is the most painful way to die? It's skinning by the way, the body doesn't go into shock that way and they feel everything. Or that in a fire you're more likely to die from smoke inhalation than the flames. Sorry, I'm getting a little off track, but I'm sure you get the point. to most people those thoughts are fleeting and only come up when the circumstances around them suggest it might be ok to think of them.

If you're angry? Well, stuff like wondering just how fast someone can run with one or both of their achilles tendons cut will keep you up at night.

See, what really annoys me about the whole situation is just how easy this could have been to avoid. What do I mean? Anyone with half a functional brain could have spent five minutes with me and sensed the anger. It's in the eyes you see, even the most adept liar can only hide so much behind their eyes, and you can always get an impression from them. So if one of those quasi homophobic preening jackasses had taken a few minutes to stop ogling Amber and actually speak with me, things might be different. They might have sensed it and taken some kind of action.

Maybe though I'm giving them too much credit for brain power.

The final bit, when that last structural beam was rotted through, was an office party. Amber talked Donny into dancing with Michelle, flirting with her, all the usual stuff. Of course the climax of the ruse was Michelle finding Amber and Donny wrapped around each other in a closet that he'd asked Michelle to meet him in.

I didn't do anything right then, but that was the moment it all came falling down for me.

The other difference between anger and rage is time. Rage is temporary, anger can just keep simmering after the structure as collapsed. Anger lets your research, lets you plan, lets you figure out how to get away with it. It's a truly remarkable thing when you consider it. The power to change everything about you, but also to make some things look so much clearer. Lets you see just who the problem is and how to handle it. Sometimes it's simple, sometimes it takes a little bit more time.

Take Donny for instance, relatively simple. I mean really, people like him shouldn't be allowed to further pollute the gene pool and reproduce anyway. I wonder though if he still thinks I was merciful when I spared his life. You'd be amazed how easy it is to find out how to do that and leave them alive. I just asked someone at a hospital, they gave me enough information and I could guess at the rest. Just handed out over the phone.

I wonder about people sometimes.

Amber was different though. After an hour or so she started asking me to just kill her and get it over with. As though I derived some kind of pleasure from her cries or the drip and splash and sizzle over her skin. She should be grateful really, by the time I started using the knife her brain had closed most of the pain gates and I doubt she really felt her mouth being split at the sides or the new form her ears and nose took. Somewhere along the line I'm also sure she passed out. I let her have her respite though, I'm sure she'd been through enough actual pain at that point.

I did have to wake her up just before I left though. Just to let her see her new face and body. Turns out it's just about as easy to inject fat cells as it is to remove them, certain types of scars are infinitely more difficult to repair with surgery, and if you've done your homework the right type and number of cuts kind of preclude reconstruction.

I can still hear her screams when she looked into that shiny reflective surface. If I close my eyes they're even louder than some of the mindless people who share this floor of the institution with me.

Why am I here instead of a prison, or dead because her father could afford to have me killed if he wanted? Because people don't understand the difference between rage and anger. And with just enough work on how it's done you can make the damage anger does look like rage. And people will believe you so often. They want to believe it was just rage, that anger and rage are just momentary, that I hadn't lived and worked with all of that slowly chewing away at my foundations.

Silly of them really. Like I said, anyone with half a brain, a base understanding of people, and who knew what questions to ask, could have probably told you about anger.

Oh well, here it isn't as bad. Mostly because even the orderlies here can respect anger. They know the difference, and I can tell they see my anger. Plenty of others here fly into rages. Me? I just wonder what temperature you need to actually ignite the rubber foam.

I didn't mean for it to get so long, but it's under the word count so... . Also, I want to give credit to a few friends who helped me along the way with editing (I'm not going to mention names though, just in case.) Also, I never meant to offend anyone while writing this story in any way.

The Changing Sun​

The sun was sinking downward, casting a warm and soft glow into Maggie’s bedroom. In a minute her entire room was orange and pink. Her skin felt warm and safe under the comforting glow. She knew she only had a few more minutes until darkness would take over her room and coldness sink into her skin. She sat on the windowsill, her feet dangling in the air. It had become a daily activity in her mundane schedule. It was the highlight of her day to sit and sketch the sunset. Maggie was able to notice the small changes in the sun that most people don’t notice. She noticed the different waves of colors, the different mixes of air flows and shadows. A wall full of different sketches and paintings of sunsets covered her walls. She did this every day and watched as the sun glowed, making her art glow too. It was like she could enjoy the inspiring sunsets she witnessed throughout the year, magical was the only word that described how she felt

Maggie needed some magic; she needed it more than most people. At the age of seventeen Maggie’s psychotic mother was convinced that her daughter would have the same mental illnesses as her. Like the paranoid woman she was, she automatically signed Maggie into a mental hospital and school. The doctors all said they had to wait until she reached her birthday to diagnose her properly. At eighteen, she was examined and was diagnosed with clinical depression and bipolar disorder. A short year later, she was ready to go back into the world.

“Maggie, can I come in?” Doctor Dan poked his head in and smiled.
“Can’t stop you, I’ve tried,” Maggie said with a smirk, not turning her head from the fading sun.
“That is true, but I respect your privacy. Would you come down from there, so we can chat?” he asked and sat on the small couch in the corner.


Maggie decided to finish her sketch before coming down to greet the doctor. She felt a small measure of pleasure making him wait; after all it would be rude to not finish her drawing of her ever patient model. She finished her last stroke and then jumped down into her computer chair.

“What do you want?” she asked and raised an eyebrow over her bright blue eyes.
“You haven’t been eating well. I brought some lasagna my wife made last night.
It was really good. I know you don’t like the food here so I thought you would want to eat something different,” he said as he set the container full of lasagna on the table.
“Thanks. You can go now. We aren’t allowed visitors after sundown. You should know that,” she replied automatically.

Doctor Dan stood up and walked to the door without a word, embarrassed for being caught on one of his own rules. He’d been trying to help her ever since they met. He said he saw something ordinary in her. It was meant as a compliment; to be ordinary was all she wanted. No one could really predict when her next outbreak would surface or if she could deal with life outside of the hospital. Months had gone by without a single incident, which was considered a huge deal here. But some of the smallest things could set her off. People often tiptoed around her, whispering as to not upset her.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, correct?”
“You know it.” Maggie smiled and sat down on her bed next to her packed suitcase.
“I’m attending a ball tonight, the idea is to wear a mask and pretend to be someone else until midnight. My wife had to leave for a couple days for business and I’m expected to bring someone. It would be seem unethical for me to bring a young lady such as yourself to replace my wife, but I have a proposition that could benefit the both of us,” he paused, placing both of his hands on the briefcase he was holding. “You are an adult now and you don’t need the consent of your parents to leave the grounds as long as you have supervision. That is where I’ll come in. I have a costume that I originally bought for my wife and you two are about the same size. The costume includes a mask that covers the top half of your face and shows your eyes. Anyone who sees you will assume that you are my wife with contacts to match the theme of the party.”

Daniel stopped and sat back down on the couch, putting the black briefcase on the table in front of him. He clicked two gold lockets open and slowly opened the briefcase. He took out a folded soft blue ball gown and placed it beside him. He then took out a black mask with several long black feathers on the top and put it on the dress.

“My proposition is this. I will give you the opportunity to experience a lively party if in return you act the role of my wife.”

Maggie was impressed. She had a tiny crush on him for awhile and admired his choice of profession. He wasn’t overly handsome or buff; he was an average looking guy. His hair and eyes were dark brown, he stood at least a foot over her height of 5’5. There wasn’t much that she knew about his personal life seeing as she was the one in therapy, not him. That meant he knew almost everything about her past and her hopeful future dreams. It was a big risk for him to be taking a patient out on a date, but Maggie always loved taking risks.

“Sure. I’m assuming you’re going to pick me up?”
“Meet me outside at nine o’clock. Be dressed with your hair done.” He shut his briefcase and walked back to the door, pausing before turning the brass doorknob. “Oh, and Maggie...”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to put the mask on before you get into the car. Don’t be late.”

He swiftly opened and closed the door without making any sound, leaving her with an hour to get dressed.

An hour later…

Her 2” heels clicked and clacked behind her as she walked down the milky white hallway. She didn’t turn her head to look at reflection in the mirrors because tonight she could be the confident, sexual deviant she was longing to be. She didn’t even stop at the reception desk to check out, she just watched as the automatic doors swished open. A sleek shiny black Mercedes Benz was parked outside, windows tinted so dark you couldn’t see who was behind the wheel. She lightly touched the black feathers that stuck out from her mask and opened the passenger side door.

“Hello, you look ravishing. Hurry now, we don’t want to be late.” Daniel looked straight at her with nothing but a black mask covering his eyebrows and his lower eye lids.

His eyes were on presentation compared to the simple black of his outfit. She never got to see him in anything but a white doctor’s uniform or occasionally shorts and a t-shirt. He didn’t quite look like himself in a dashing suit that looked like it was specially made for him. She couldn’t see the lower half of his legs, but she would bet on it that the pants cut off exactly where they should. His eyes just completed the outfit, something bright and playful against what would seem bland without them.

The dining hall where the ball was taking place was a twenty minute drive which was spent in total silence. He didn’t ask for her not to speak, but she felt like she shouldn’t. She enjoyed looking at the familiar scenery of the town and listening to the random songs that came on the radio. They walked inside together, arm in arm. Maggie enjoyed seeing people stare at her and wonder who she was with the mysterious man. She wouldn’t know anyone here, so she could be whoever she wanted. Tonight, she would play the devoted wife.

The first hour and a half was boring; people that Daniel knew circled around at a table as several different courses were served. They spoke mostly about work, but as the drinks started being served the tone changed. Instead of talking about the most recent study in schizophrenia they were talking about the football game the night before. Instead of comparing notes and opinions on different patients they were talking about the amazing looking singer who was center stage. The wives of the doctors were sitting at a different table gossiping on their own, making Maggie the odd one out. She thought about asking Dan if she should go there and try to find her way, or if she should stay. She never got the chance to, he always held up his glass to make a toast before the words could come out of her mouth.

Soon enough, most of the doctors were liquored up and went looking for their wives to dance with. The party began to pick up. Music was being played and people were up and moving. Maggie had put a few drinks behind her and was feeling bored and tired again. Daniel didn’t show any intention on dancing or even talking. The only contact they shared for the past two hours was when his hand rested on hers below the table. She thought it must have been habit to fiddle with something while talking, but his hand didn’t let go until she pulled away. He stood up abruptly and downed the last bit of his drink.

“Dance with me.” He held out his hand and smiled a wide, white smile.

Maggie was thrilled that she got to do something other than watch other people, so she jumped up at the offer. She placed her hand atop of his and blushed while staring at the floor. She could feel the eyes of people burning into the back of her head as they made their way to the dance floor. Her dress barely touched the floor and she felt like she was floating on clouds. Finally, they found a clear spot and stood in front of each other. Their forms met, his hands finding their way to her slim waist and to her waiting hand. She wasn’t sure what the dance was called, or how it was supposed to be danced, but she followed Daniel's body. If he took a step, she wasn’t far behind him.

“I’m glad you came. I could tell you were bored. My wife usually runs away with the girls to get drunk. I end up sitting alone watching all the couples sway along to the music. I hope this isn’t boring you.”

The music changed tempo, suddenly faster and louder. She realized it wasn’t a band that was playing but a DJ booth that was hidden in the corner. It was a new song, a new dance. Daniel's hands moved from her waist and hands to her hips, grabbing lightly at the dress. Maggie just followed him and put her arms around his neck. They were moving slowly together along with the song, their bodies pressed up against each other.

She forgot about the deal that they made, she forgot all about who she was supposed to be the moment he bent down and gave her a kiss. All the sunsets in the world couldn’t produce as much magic as that moment did.

,,,..