Always she danced away from me, prancing on the balls of her feet, just out of my reach. Taunting me, teasing me with her body language. Enticing me to chase her again, though I never would catch her. Not if she didn’t want me to. Always just out of reach. Like a cold, distant star that I could never grasp, a piece of ice that melts in my hot palm, or a fish that wiggles free leaving only tickling memories. That is all I have now: tickling memories.

Summer sun and color of jewels. Sparkles of light on water. Her hair was the color of a new penny: that wonderful shiny, copper red. Her’s with streaks of gold. Long and curly…it smelled of roses. Her eyes were a shade of blue. Winter oceans. Leaden and molten. Flecks of silver, but from a distance they looked black, deep. Wrinkled, lined eyes. Tired eyes, too tired for her youth. Glowing, pink coral skin and freckles. Thin salmon colored lips. Meager, but expressive.

She was not beautiful. No. These things as a whole, they did not make her beautiful. Separate they were earth-shaking. Together, it simply was.

She was a large woman, a stout woman. Thick arms, thick legs. Her whole body spoke the word: blunt. Sagging breasts with an hourglass figure. Sensuous, lush, inviting. Until you saw her face. Expressionless. It made your mind roil, made you angry and guilty all at the same time. Clear, cold. Like a shock of water. A stare. Neither judging, neither yielding.

I remember making love to her. She never touched me, not truly. She would simply lie there; her eyes closed and head to the side as if sleeping. Her hair framed her face, curling on the bed to make a dazzling halo. I pumped away, holding her shoulders, my face buried in the crook of her neck.

Grunting, sweating. Her skin smelled like: vanilla, musky, dark and warm, swirling, exotic, erotic. I felt dirty, guilty, perverted, demented. Slamming against her I heard the slapping of my skin against her’s. Screaming, done. I ravaged her. I bit her nipples and I sucked her flesh.

A flicker, a glimmer, but she gave me no response. Only slid out from beneath me, dressed, and went out into the summer weather. A silent sylph. Left me laying there, the condom full on my shriveled dick. Semen dribbled out to pool in my pubic hair.

I loved her… somehow I loved her. Taunting, rabid bitch. Never touched, never spoke unless to goad me somehow. Ah, but one day…

She sat, watched me watch her. “Why do you stay?” Her voice was soft and high pitched. Feminine. Until she was angry then it became a screech.

“Because I love you.” I said.

“Doesn’t it hurt to be here? To be taunted, disregarded…” she asked.

I ignored her question and asked my own, “Why do you let me stay?”

“Because you are beautiful, but…”

I waited. 

“…weak.” She finished.

“Teach me.” I spread my hands in supplication.

“Teach you what?”

“How you can be so cruel.” 

She moved away before I could jump up and demand a piece of the magic that she claimed as her own. 

She laughed. “How can I teach you what I am not?”

“You are...…” I began.

She frowned, briefly, fleetingly. “Strong.” She finished my sentence. “I am strong… I cannot teach that.”

I spread my hands again. “Then what will I do?”

She shrugged. “Whatever you will.”

And I knew the truth. In this world there are weak and there are strong. She was one, I was the other. She thought she knew who was who. 

Something inside broke. I looked down at my hands, looked at her. I was not angry, yet part of me was. Detached. “Bitch.” It was calm, soft. Almost like loveplay.

“Bitch? No, that is you. The dog in heat. Rabid, rutting buck. Who uses my body though I lay cold.”

I stood. 

She there, laughing. 

It rang in my ears. 

“Ugly cruel woman.” I slapped her hard, a backhand across her mouth. Her bitter, laughing, sneering mouth.

She reeled back, her hand to her bleeding lip. Her face was red. Blossoms on her cheek. She pushed me and I stumbled back, landed in my chair. We stared. There were no words. A tear ran down her cheek. She kneeled at my feet.

“Harsh I may have been. But I never hit you. Never.”

I reached out and wiped the tear from her cheek. I licked my finger. It was salty. She looked at my eyes. That calm, cool, level, gaze. I was angry again. 

I grabbed her hair. Yanked her head to the side and bit her neck. I felt her squirm, a gasp of surprise. Then her arms slipped around me. Clung to me. I pressed her against the wall and lifted her skirts. She was dry. But I plunged in, hurt her, but didn’t care. And I fucked her. Hard. Ground into her, slammed, bucked. I wanted to hurt her.

She moaned. Pressed against me. Her tears on my neck. Her hair on my face. My back arched. I pressed against her. We slid down to the floor. She still held me.

“I love you.” She whispered in my ear. Her hands were on my face. “I love you.” Said again, desperate. 

I rubbed my hand down her hair.

“I know.” And now I do. Somehow, in her own way. I know… 

Copyright © 2002 Amber Hipple. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.