(To mix up the housewife
storyline, which sounds quite dull but I want to use that picture badly. I can't think of any other ideas for it, she seems so domestic somehow with that bow. )
Ava's handbag was filled with the meaningless clutter of a matron's life. Compact, lipstick tube, hairpins, comb. Detritus. A grocery list. The order for the milkman. No rouge.
And yet her hands were hastily sifting through the articles, tossing them out to the side, digging frantically. The lipstick tube skidded across the kitchen floor. The compact arced past her legs and bounced open, pale powder exploding out like fairy dust. Hairpins scattered like a flock of black birds.
The black hair she tended to so carefully every morning was completely disheveled, strands looking rather like she had been grasping it in desperate fists. One pearl earring was missing. There was a run in her left stocking and her garter had come undone. Tear tracks had dried on her face, her porcelain doll features mussed and slightly skewed.
Ava scarcely noticed.
She was about to give up and rummage elsewhere when her fingertips brushed underneath a crease in the lining of her purse. A rough surface. A ragged line. Ava felt a sob of relief leave her throat, the noise trembling and raw and involuntary.
The rope was pulled from the reticule and lay in her quavering hands. It was a rugged, sinister piece of twine.
The sight of it thrilled Ava to the core.
A shadow appeared on the floor next to her, growing larger, consuming her own shade. The brisk sound of polished shoes on the floor growing closer.
Ava swallowed. “I found it, Sir.” Her head tilted to the side and she looked in his direction. She didn't have to see him to know that a familiar smile was sitting on his face. That the movement she caught out of the corner of her eye was him shooting his cuffs, checking his watch.
“Good girl. Now...
” A pause and a creak of wood told her that he was leaning against the door frame. “Put that rope in your mouth and bring it to me.
Ava knew what came next.
“Crawl to me. Right now.
A Bowl of Cherries.
[Scene with Miss_Vivi
turned off the faucet and watched the last beads of water fall. Forming at the silver mouth of the spout they dripped down after, landing in splashes on the white porcelain of the sink. Fresh and clean. The droplets lived short lives.
She reached down and cupped her hands around a colander that overflowed with cherries, bringing it up and clasping her arms around its girth. The cool feel of metal brushed her skin and pressed into the sensitive flesh of her underarms. Cherries glistened in the sunlight that filtered through the window: bright lace curtain dappling the afternoon glow.
The girl turned to the wooden table behind her. Its surface was dark and scarred but spotless. The wood looked well loved and worn. A white bowl lay empty in the middle of the sturdy expanse. A folded blue cloth had been placed nearby.
This was the part she liked the best.
She lifted the colander in her hands and upended it over the bowl. The rain of cherries fell fast and fragrant, the pattering of fruit flesh alternately slapping the tabletop with thuds and slipping with vaguely musical plinks
upon the sides of the bowl. The cherries now lay in delicious abundance inside the white crockery. Their carmine flesh spoke tart from the somber wood. Stems jutted out every way possible, tangled up in each other and itching to be plucked up. A feast of red.
“Come see what I've brought,” the girl called out. She lifted up the blue cloth and wiped the remaining damp from her hands. One of those hands, dainty and unmarked, reached out for a cherry. Her mouth flooded with sweet juice as bare feet moved on the hardwood floor.
Rough hands moved around her waist. A full mouth with teeth very white against black stubble bit out at the fruit dangling from her fingertips. She squealed in mock dismay as those ivory edges nipped at the sensitive pads of skin. He kissed the side of her neck, leaving cherry juice upon her, and then spat out the pit into the sink.
“They're finally ripe. Aren't they lovely?” she spoke with quiet pride.
“Hmm. Lovely.” His hand reached out past her and snatched another cherry. The crimson seemed to fit the olive tones of his skin. A forbidden fruit, a tempting man. Black eyes glinted at her.
Teeth lowered into another blooming globe. His eyes stayed on her as he reached forward, the half-eaten fruit passing over the line at her collarbone. Squeezing the rest of the juice onto her clavicle. He threw the spent cherry into the sink, where it landed with a splat. Fingers easing into the belt loops of his jeans, watching her standing with burgundy essence creeping down her chest. Leaning easily against the counter as she reclined against the table.
She smiled at him. Moving lazily, she pulled an arm through one shoulder strap, then the other. Clutched the bodice of her dress against her. Something like approval flickered across his face and the corner of his mouth twitched.
Her bottom lip was sucked in for a moment, the pink color whitening, and then restored as she freed it from her mouth.
“What a mess you've made,” She chided him, teasing, gently mocking.
He exhaled through his nose. A pause. And then he sprang forward, large frame one motion of seizure and so he did: hand tangling and gripping her hair, a brusque tongue running once along to collect the juice, her mouth pulled up to his. Breath hot in her face.
“Yeah. But it's my mess.”
The dress and jeans crumpled to the floor. He pushed her on her knees.
Much later, she scrubbed the blue cloth over a newly washed table. The wood looked darker in some places, newly tested. She might have lamented the imperfection if she had not known that there would be more stains.
After all, there would always be another bowl of cherries.
Caroline had her hands all over Mia. It might have taken a lot of her precious time, but the girl who had perched on the last bar stool with vodka cranberry after vodka cranberry was finally alone with her.
Caroline herself had been nursing Jameson straight up, the liquor competing with a buzz that had announced itself as soon as the brunette came in the door. She had almost dropped the tumbler of liquor onto the sullied bar floor. Like one more stain would've mattered.
But she wanted that girl. The girl with the pearls and little black wrap dress, the turquoise heels that tapped against the rungs of her chair. Legs crossed, legs uncrossed, ankles crossed, ankles uncrossed. Fabric pulling up on her thighs when she shifted, like it had a pulse. Like it drew up of its own accord, taunting. Caroline wondered how much it would tease if she ripped it away. Left the pearls on.
It was the little things: the long dark hair, the dip of her waist, the glint of silver in her ears.
So Caroline had eased herself in. Sent the idiot with a Heineken clenched in a greedy hand away in a cloud of cheap cologne. It wasn't hard. He had eyed Caroline's ass like it was a jeans encased puzzle, a challenge to be risen to, until he had met her eyes. Green and unflinching. She was too big a bite to chew. He went to look for something simpler.
Their conversation was brief. The girl was polite, curious. A bit distant. She introduced herself as Mia and shook Caroline's hand, their skin touching for the first time. Her palms were warm and pleasantly dry, soft. Nails manicured but no color. Caroline liked that, even though hers were still pink from the week before. She pondered how they looked side by side, the blonde and the brunette. The elegant dress next to the skinny jeans and baby doll top. A small contrast.
It was the little things.
They sat, companionably drinking, casually conversing. What they did, who they knew, where they went. All of the mundane things of day to day. Caroline wanted to clear all the drinks off the bar and lay the girl down on it, use her nails and teeth and tongue and hair until the girl screamed underneath her. But she made nice. And she made nice.
Finally, when Mia had tossed back her third vodka cranberry, she turned to Caroline. Her brown eyes were direct and not hazy with alcohol. Caroline was startled. This was unexpected. She had been anticipating some tipsy giggling or maybe even a farewell. It wasn't to be.
Mia reached forward with one polished nail. It made contact with Caroline's wrist, sending a jolt up her arm to her heart or stomach or fuck, maybe even lower. Caroline could not say. It was as powerful as if she had been grabbed by the throat.
“I want you to wait until I go back into the hallway. Then you will get up off that stool, go down the same hallway until you get to the storeroom, and knock twice.
Mia wasn't done. Her lips slick with gloss moved until they were right next to Caroline's ear. “And then, when I'm making you cum, I want you to scream. If you keep quiet, I'll stop. Probably a good lesson for someone who thinks a girl with pearls is an easy pick up.
Caroline did what she said.
And that was where she was. In the stockroom. Mia's teeth holding onto her collarbone as Caroline's cunt clenched down on those delicate fingers. Hoarsely crying out, no longer caring who heard outside the flimsy door. Caroline had her arms wrapped around that lithe body just as she had wanted.
As she came, her nails raked down Mia's neck to the strand of pearls that had gleamed so invitingly around a slender neck. Her fist grasped and pulled, moving with each spasm of her hips. The pearls spilled over the floor and Mia laughed, the exertion of their time showing itself as dampness at her temples and the clean smell of her sweat. Caroline ran her tongue along that skin, tasting the salt.
Yes, it was always the little things.
“And where do my hands go?” she
* paused mid-note, his fingers arched over piano keys. He laughed outright, spun around on his chair with a squeaking sound, and faced her. She was right where he had left her, kneeling on the floor in front of the bay windows. She had kicked off her heels but left the underwear on.
She looked bewildered, perhaps a little sullen.
“They go...” he trailed off, blew out air. “Well, they go where I want them to.” He linked his fingers and stretched his arms out, knuckles cracking with a decisive air. “Right now? Just put them on your thighs. Be a good girl and hush.”
He turned back to the black and white keys, coaxed a brief melody
from somewhere. It wasn't that he was distracted. Something was missing.
He rumpled the keys and delivered a jarring mix of tones that made the poor girl jump. The jingle of the bells wrapped around her ankles betrayed the movement. They were just a formality, really: the space had been chosen for its acoustics and sound carried phenomenally well. Light wood floors, high ceilings. The bells were quite insignificant in the spacious atmosphere. It was a noise of troublemakers. Cats after birds, unwanted company. Nothing different with his use of them now.
“Tsk,” he clucked his tongue, his back still to her. “You're supposed to be my devoted audience! Soak up all my beautiful music like a little sponge.”
His voice was still playful but his eyes were seeking something. There was a black leather crop sitting on the music rest. He rarely put sheet music there. It was unnecessary and often distracting. Occasionally he put a mirror there but that was more for visual diversion than necessity. Small amusements, like the girl behind him. He reached for the crop.
“Finn! What's that for? I wore the stupid heels and bells. I even knelt on this hard ass floor. How--” the girl cut off her lament, as he pushed up from the stool and walked across the floor to her, the ragged cuffs of his jeans shuffling around his feet.
He studied a sunbeam that fell across her collarbone. It lit up her skin, dust motes in its path leading the way to the pulse of her subclavian artery. He placed the crop at her mouth. Pink lips, pouting. It was ridiculous when women pouted. He sighed, disappointment deep in his exhalation.
“Kiss it,” he said, brooking no argument.
She spluttered with laughter, green eyes wide, looking up at him. “Are you nuts? What is this? I--”
He flicked out a hand and gripped those red curls, pulling her up from where she balanced on the soles of her small feet. They looked better in heels, he decided, but it was something to remember for later. She emitted a low whine: his grip was firm and inexorable, although his voice when he next spoke was calm.
“You know... I told you I like to be in charge. You said it turned you on, you said--” his hand twisted and she yelped, her fingernails skittering across the floor as she tried to push on the floorboards and relieve pressure. “You said you liked to be a good girl, and so far--” The hand with the crop swooped down and encircled her waist, lifting her up as squeals rained down on him. They were ineffectual and didn't stop him from tossing her roughly on the bed. Not an innocent tumble in snowy white sheets, but a violent throw. The bells jangled riotously.
He ran his calloused fingers through his hair and looked at her as though tallying her new estimation. Tapped the crop against his knee. He glanced over his shoulder at the piano wistfully, picturing an afternoon of uninterrupted creativity.
There were other ways to be creative.
Finn dawdled over to the bed as she kicked out her feet and screamed at him, the bells continuing their frenzied accompaniment. He grabbed her ankle and glared at her, saying sternly, “Now are you going to flip over, take what I give you, and maybe--maybe
--cum sometime today? Or are you going to be a difficult little cunt, and end the day with welts and an ache in your pussy that just...” here he trailed the crop down the outer aspect of her leg, admiring the effect of black on pale skin, before rearing back and striking with a thwack!
“Won't go away?”
She was breathing heavily, red hair flaring around her face. Cheeks bright with exertion. She looked at him with hate in her eyes, but she stopped kicking. She jerked her foot away from him and he laughed at her, watching as she moved over onto her stomach, and onto all fours.
Christ, that was easy.
“Alright, little bird,” he drawled. “Keep count for me. And remember...”
Finn traced an “S” on her left ass cheek.
“The name, for you, is Sir.”
*Thank you to Brit for the delectable picture that served as inspiration for Finn.
Solid oak. At least, that's what she thought. The planks were heavily shined and sturdy. A black metal handle, curved and dull, was set into the center of the door. A door. The frame was high and curved in a rounded top. A good door, as far as entrances and exits went. Like I'm an expert on doors?
Afternoon sunshine filtered in through the curtains and caught the wood, making it gleam in a quietly sinister way. Quiet: after all, it was only a door.
Surely she was going mad. The white expanse of her living room wall had been unmarked with this strange gateway only an hour before, when she had been out digging in her garden. The dirt stained gloves she had carried in with her were lying on the floor: dropped in alarm as she shrieked at the sight, the illusion. It must be an illusion, I got overheated
. She seized the thought, marching into her kitchen purposefully. A glass filled with water from an icy pitcher. Drank down, gulped. A hand wiped across chilly lips. She poured more water and went to the living room again.
With trembling fingers she placed the glass on the mantle and walked forward. Maybe the paint just disappeared, and this door's been here all along
-- Her arm stretched out and touched the portal. --could be, weirder things have happened
-- The dark material was warm and felt almost pulsing underneath her fingertips. --it's probably just a dream, anyway
. The ring of the handle was gripped in her hand.
She flexed her arm, pulled hard, and heard a resounding creak as the door came back. Throat working, swallowing, she peered around its comforting bulk and into... darkness. The shafts of sunlight fell onto a dusty wooden floor, but beyond that, she could see nothing. Frowning, feeling the tickling of uneasiness inside her grow, she stuck a hand around the side of the wall—the universal gesture of someone hunting for a light switch. Her daring would have shocked her ordinarily but she didn't take the time to think. Her fingers closed around something—not a switch, a button, old-fashioned—and she pressed. A tinkling and a flicker and the light came on.
A bare room. Empty. Gray walls, wood floor, and a coating of dust on the ground that looked almost two inches thick. Her nose wrinkled and she glanced up at the ceiling, eyes searching. Something. Something up there. Leaning around the door frame, keeping a hand on it like a child, as she struggled to look closer. Were those... chains? Shocked, she let go of the wood and stepped into the chamber. Yes, chains: dark and substantial, a black tangling vine hanging down from creaking wood rafters. There were manacles on the end, round and wide and open, latches flung wide.
Suddenly she didn't want to be in that room anymore. Her skin crawled and goosebumps traversed up and down her arms. As she turned to flee out the door she saw that on the ground, leading away from the center of the room, a trail of footprints had marked themselves in the dust. Simple and stark, no whorls of plastic stamping or design: just patient footsteps. Who?
Her breathing escalated and the panic came, the feeling that she had to get out of that room and once she was in the living room—she'd be fine. She whirled back to the door and did the strange skipping steps that superseded full out running, when faced with the ghosts of day-to-day lives. The light was slapped off and the door was hurled shut, and she ran across the living room to the front windows, where she stood breathing raspily.
The noise of a sprinkler filtered in through the screens, along with the chatter of children down the street. The room was cheerful and bright, just as it had been before she had made her foray into the secret--chain room
, her mind helpfully supplied—room and it was easy for her to catch her breath and still her racing heart. Sweat dampened her brow and she shoved her bangs back, rubbing the heel of her hand against her eyes. The door still stood, patient and silent. Waiting.
Wearily, she went to go sit on the steps, leaning against the banister. She was beginning to ponder just what to do about the door when she heard a throat clearing behind her, in the dining room. The ice was back and sinking down her spine. All breathing stopped. The chains were open.
As she turned on her heel and flattened against the wall, the man in the suit looked up from his chair at her and smiled. He placed a small metal key on the table. The last of the afternoon sun hit the metal, caught her eye. The front door was just a few feet away...
He stood, straightened his cuffs, his jacket. He was handsome, dark hair and flashing teeth.
She opened her lips to speak, but her tongue was dry, with no words coming.
The smile widened.
A voice, rich with promise, came from his amused mouth,
“Hello. Thank you for opening the door.”
CURRENT STORY IDEAS AND INSPIRATIONS:
This one would be a modern retelling of Eugene Onegin
by Pushkin. I've skewed it so the Byronic character of Onegin would instead be a Russian mobster - someone who most definitely does not fit into societal norms. A description of such characters historically would probably help explain, "typical characteristics are disregard for social values, cynicism, and existential boredom. Typical behaviors are gambling, romantic intrigues, and duels. He is often unempathic and carelessly distresses others with his actions." My idea is to make Tatyana the lover of this modern Onegin but have him be cruel and capricious, perhaps romantic but more than anything disinterested and then acquisitive. Scruples do not figure here. He will reject her, steal the modern Lensky's Olga, and eventually come crawling back to Tatyana only to be rejected in turn. Or, at least, that's how the original went. This isn't done either.
Viking thread, maybe Icelandic, pillage burn rawr rawr.
A reverse of Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame
with a woman disguised as a monk in 15th century France. She is not disfigured, but her "ugliness/difference" is that she is a woman hidden away in a monastery or small sect. A fugitive from justice arrives, thus paralleling the sequestering of Esmeralda, and discovers that she's a female. Desperation drives them together or apart, or one after the other. Haven't figured this one out either, just really like the symbolism and the fact that she would have a shaved head.
A Duel of Tongues:
Courtesan thread, 16th century Venice. This may be a group thread and will involve fast-paced wit and dialogue as a focus.
One Thousand and One Nights:
A small summary of the original collection. "The main frame story concerns a Persian king and his new bride. He is shocked to discover that his brother's wife is unfaithful; discovering his own wife's infidelity has been even more flagrant, he has her executed: but in his bitterness and grief decides that all women are the same. The king, Shahryar, begins to marry a succession of virgins only to execute each one the next morning, before she has a chance to dishonour him. Eventually the vizier, whose duty it is to provide them, cannot find any more virgins. Scheherazade, the vizier's daughter, offers herself as the next bride and her father reluctantly agrees. On the night of their marriage, Scheherazade begins to tell the king a tale, but does not end it. The king, curious about how the story ends, is thus forced to postpone her execution in order to hear the conclusion. The next night, as soon as she finishes the tale, she begins (and only begins) a new one, and the king, eager to hear the conclusion, postpones her execution once again. So it goes on for 1,001 nights." My idea is to switch up this classic and make it much darker - Shahryar would be decidedly greedier, and would perhaps accompany the storytelling with discipline or training of some kind. Or really as rough as anyone would like to write him. There would need to be some adaptation and collaboration here, obviously. The idea is nowhere near fleshed out.