Message: 5 Date: Sun, 14 Apr 2002 07:30:21 +0000 From: "Witch Kittyn" Subject: Glitter On The Mattress (1/1) NC-17 Title: Glitter On The Mattress File Under: Witchkittyn amber_gris@hotmail.com Rating: NC-17 Website: http://www.geocities.com/witchkittyn Summary: Faith enjoys some off hours at an L.A. hotel... with her boss. Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy and Fox and the WB would probably disapprove of my abuse of their characters...if they knew about it. Notes: Hm. Let's see how many people I can piss off this time... Dedicated to: Megaccino creme lipstick from Jane Cosmetics, which Faith is modeling in this story. And to body glitter everywhere. ***** She walks out of the darkness filling the adjoining hallway, but she never really seems to emerge from it. The darkness clings to her, always, making those parts of her already dark -- chocolate shag hair, black button eyes, haunted triangles of brows, wearied lashes -- all look blacker, as though revealing holes in her glossy exterior, exposing the utterly dark girl within. Rents in a beautiful facade. Rips in a paper doll. Los Angeles is a city that worships facade. Beautiful place. Under different circumstances he might have settled here, taken over leadership of this charming little borough instead of his own small, nondescript town (but friendly, won't find friendlier citizens anywhere, no matter how much you train them, and safe! Never mind the so-called high mortality rate; drug-free, never you doubt. Sunnydale is a D.A.R.E. community.) Los Angeles shares his fondness for bright and shining lies, its verneer of money and clean streets masking its lurid underbelly, its own demons, although most of them are human. The punch line of this particular joke is that the brighter a denizen of L.A. might appear, the darker, more depraved they truly are. Their surfaces scratched, any Angelino businessman or agent or supermodel or pizza boy is as corrupted, as evil as anything that might be crawling through the sewers of his own little town. (Not, mind you, that there *is* anything down in those sewers.... strictly off the record.) Seems like a lifetime spent in dark places. Seems like they're making light bulbs dimmer and dimmer these days. Things used to be built to last. This room is atmospherically lit, part of the package, all finer hotels come complete with mood lighting. When you have money, you stay in fine places. You live out your life in beautiful rooms surrounded by fine things. Never mind the damn track lighting is so low you can never see them. Oh yes... he curses, on occasion. Never out loud. Betrays a man's ignorance, low class. Yes, what he's letting himself be a party to being just the peak of moral conduct... Oh how attractive it all is. How her leather body glistens, drinking up the sparse light as though thirsty for it, for any light at all. A void draining the light, a black hole. Black is beautiful. She is negative energy at its purest, and she is beautiful to behold as she walks athletically across the expensive rug. Even a man not trying to look would have no choice but to, and he has long since stopped trying not to, though he still pretends he isn't. Her symmetrical face was grey in the dim light in the hall, but as she comes into the yellow circle of lamplight she colors, finally; her sweet bowlike mouth lifting in a berry-colored smile. "I don't know why you always get two rooms," her smoky voice breaks the silence, as she stretches her sparkling arms lazily. "We never use 'em both." Her lazy confidence doesn't fool him a bit. There's a tremor in her eyes, in her smile; aging her beyond her young face's telling. A child's face atop what is clearly a woman's body, her skin pale from running with the bourgeois night crowd, glistening with that artifical body glitter the kids wear, her shirt showing far too much. A true lady reveals nothing. They used to teach little girls that, and he briefly reflects on the pros and cons of the fact that they no longer do. The windows in this room make one wall, meeting the floor, the shag rug ending abruptly at the sparkling L.A. cityscape. It's a bit like those dioramas kids used to make, little scenes with little people glued to little bits of furniture, three crayoned walls suggesting a living room... or hotel room... the fourth wall open so the sparkling, neonlit real world can see in. This world, of course, being the false one. Nothing in here is real, which means that anything goes. That's why they keep coming to these places. Tomorrow they will leave, and not speak of it, not even talk about the next time, which itself they will choose to believe will never happen. No comment. A politician's best friends, those two words. It's better this way, easier to work together and take care of the day's business. As boss and employee, commander and soldier, mentor and protege. Certainly not the roles they play here. Depraved, twisted roles of submission and domination, of wrists tied to bedsprings with nylon, of perverse names and soft, licking kisses like bites. It takes a lot, at his pronounced age, with everything he's seen and done, to make his skin crawl, and he marvels at her ease in doing so. He watches as she comes closer, standing his ground offhandedly as she pretends to stalk him. He uses the word pretend because that's what they're both doing. She's pretending to be a nymph, a willing call girl, whatever she thinks he wants, whatever will get her what she wants. And he is pretending to be in control, because he's always in control. Always. You don't come to be a leader, a head of state.... an out-and-out emperor by losing your control on any situation. So he pretends now, plays the role of the dirty old politician trysting with the help, stands back and lets her have her way. Because the fact of it is, anything she wants, he will give her. Apartment, car, clothes, jewelry, credit cards, cell phone... illicit sex in an upscale hotel room. She is sick, a hollow-eyed war orphan under six solid inches of stainless silver, and he wants to give her everything. Even what she doesn't need, even if it's the worst possible thing for her. In this particular instance, he doesn't have much choice. He knows from past experience that even were he to deny her, she'd go right ahead anyhow. She's stubborn that way. Strong, too -- he'd get hurt, badly hurt in the process. Nothing he wouldn't bounce back from... but still, a battle that doesn't need fighting. No point getting a good suit bloody. Stubborn girl, no mistake. God knows why she comes to him for this... but any night she does is at least one less night she seeks it at one of her nightclubs; that in itself is something of a favor he does her. Disreputable trash, those club people... carrying God knows what kind of diseases... "I suppose now you'll want to go to bed," he sighs. She shakes her head, that playful smile dropping open as her eyes flit toward the ceiling. "Actually, I was thinkin' you should probably sit down for this." Her perfect teeth shine at him, that sweet triangular smile, so disarming that more than a few fellows have had the privilege of seeing it just before they die. The chair isn't unlike the one in his own office; leather, tall, plush and on rollers. She drags it across the shaggy floor, wedging it up against a black formica dresser against the wall. Leverage. Can't be rolling all over the place, might tip over and get a bruise. She looks up at him with that smile, waving her arm toward the seat in a wordless you-first motion. So, invited, he gets cozy, settling himself down in the plush leather, which squeaks faintly as he sinks down in it. Large hands brush off his slacks, and his wedding band gleams dully in the light. He deliberately doesn't look at it, because it isn't real, not tonight. None of this is real, it never took place, it's not even happening now. He tugs his lapels, straightening out, and rests his hands on the armrests, waiting. A faint dismay sets in as he realizes: she's going to dance for him. Without warning, without music she starts rubbing herself, hands moving over her slick shining body, tangling in her wild mane of hair as she spins around like one of those pre-fab ladies of the night on late-show phone commercials. Sex, flash, glitz. Driving through West Hollywood this afternoon must have given the poor kid a self-inferior mindset. She swings around like she's in one of her dance clubs, writhing and grooving. It's really rather heartbreaking to watch her like this, he thinks. Like so many kids today, she thinks sex is the answer to everything. There's a desperation, a self-consciousness to her overly sexy moves, in those infinitely black eyes, in the provocative wiggle she puts in her hips. Completely unnecessary. She's putting on a show for him, and she doesn't have to. This isn't about him. It's about her. His hand flickers, waving her forward, having seen enough. She isn't trained, but she moves like she is, stalking toward him with a predatory smile like a jungle panther. Caramel-colored fingers flutter down her shapely form once more before they hook in the top of her leather pants, slinking them down to the floor. She steps out of them, kicking them aside carelessly. That's reason enough right there to get two rooms. Lovely she is, but he can't abide her slovenly housekeeping. Her pale legs look devoid of any flesh color in the dim light from the city in the window. Her layers of muscle curve softly in the light, not sharply, nothing as blatant as any bodybuilder's physique. Strong though... perfectly shaped thighs, flat belly, the black lace wrapping around her hips as closely as though it were tattooed there. She looms over the chair, using the considerable strength in her hands to cuff his wrists to the armrests. A lazy grin works over her dark lips as she stares down at him, soft tufts of chocolate hair hanging in his face. "Tell me you're not loving this," she dares him coyly, already slightly breathless, or maybe that's the act. He wonders how it's possible for her to exposition herself, and somehow make him feel like the whore. "Very much so," he assures her calmly. "Although you're allowed to enjoy yourself too, you know." That seems to throw her momentarily, but not enough to show it. "Always do," she says, leaning down. She kisses like she's devouring food after a month's starvation, hungrily, her hot tongue pushing into his mouth uninvited -- and when did they start teaching girls to kiss like that, anyway? The things kids pick up from television these days... She's wearing some kind of lipstick that's the color of blood and tastes like chocolate, and it suits her, her morbid sexuality, like enjoying a particularly thick and heady cappuccino. She leaves off his mouth, quickly moving down his neck and nosing into his collar, tugging at the material with her teeth before her fingers leave his wrists and begin undoing buttons. "You shouldn't do this," he speaks. It's a token dissuasion, just for the record. Just so he can say he gave her a choice. Just to ease his... well, he doesn't even have a conscience, that went the way of his soul all those years ago, so that's really a flimsy excuse. Hands, small hands on his belt, pulling him apart to the open air, and her lithe body all but pours down his as she leans forward, hair dangling. "No-- hey!" He grips her arms suddenly, one hand completely covering that odd tattoo of hers. He jerks her back up onto his lap like a naughty puppy, one that's just come entirely too close to soiling the living room rug. "You get out of there," he admonishes sharply, slightly breathless. The look on her young face is confused, her perfect dark brows scrunched together. "Why?" she mutters, although her voice doesn't sound entirely displeased about his decision to stop her. He knows right off, being the contrary little miss she is, that she'll go right ahead if he doesn't give a believable excuse. To her twisted sensibility, no means yes. "Because... I said so, that's why," he answers, trying to affect a stern expression. He's not going to make her do that. Just because he plans on running for the White House someday doesn't mean he has to behave like the current resident. Demeaning, not only for her, but for him as well. Maybe she doesn't mind believing this act of theirs should be cheap and dirty... but he refuses to. Call him a hopeless optimist, but he maintains his iron-clad belief/delusion that he can somehow keep her clean, even in this most unwholesome of liasions. The ruse works, as she thinks it's part of the perverse game they are playing. She grins at him, arching over his head, taking both his hands and drawing them to her, making him slide down her black lace. Letting him go she plants her strong, sculpted arms on the chair's. She lifts her feet, actually balances herself on her hands, seeming to tie herself in knots as she folds her knees up and threads her legs over the sides, on either side of him. The back of the chair creaks slowly, like an opening tomb door as she dangles her bare feet over the side, her too-warm thighs shifting on his lap. "You gonna spank me?" she teases, her voice slightly taut, low and rasping. "Am I a bad girl? Do you wanna punish me?" "Do you want to be punished?" He honestly can't understand her. He can't figure out her seeming obsession with falling to earth, what in the world makes her keep wanting to revert to her little teenage group's so-called virtues. She blinks, her dark eyes half-lidded, lust drunkening her. The strangest look, almost insulted...slightly dangerous, comes into those deep, dark pools. Without answering his question she slides forward, smoothing her hands up his shoulders, up the back of the cool black leather seat, pulling herself up slightly. She never breaks her heated black gaze, and he never looks away either, breath held as she settles slowly on him, wet and giving. He can't help that his mouth drops open a little as she tightens keenly around him, sliding down. Black warm water, drowning at the bottom of a tidal pool... his hands tremor as they come up over her smooth backside, guiding her first shuddery rhythmic movements. She's pleasuring herself -- he knows that, isn't kidding himself for a second that he's anything but a tool for her toward that end. He wonders how many other men have been here, in the humid silk privacy of her, how many times she's degraded herself like this, and how he can possibly make up for all of it. He knows many tricks, but even he can't go back and erase her whole unhappy life for her. She sprayed glitter in her hair tonight. All over her in fact, he can taste it on her breasts, the tinny aerosol taste, and under that the scent of the soap and the raspberry bubble bath he bought for her, underlayed with a warmer, more organic smell of human skin. Faint traces of sweat, blood, dust; the scent of a Slayer intermingles with the undeniable, long forgotten taste of a beautiful young girl in heat. The rituals he's gone through of late have instilled strange, darkened memories in his consciousness: ancient fire-tinted images of virgins hearts and torn flesh, heat rising from blood spilled in his patron's name, and he can feel the demon he's half-joined himself to swimming in his fiery blood, summoned by the idea of a sacrifice. .....and if what she's doing isn't sacrificial... half a dozen crude remarks about daggers come to mind. He barely holds back from taking a bite out of her breast. Her hair falls back from her open mouth, her eyes closed, smudged lips moving slightly as though drinking in the air as she moves over him. The leather of the chair squeaks, her nails dig into the headrest and she's almost crushing him into the back, he can hear his own bones creaking slightly, but he holds up, waiting for her. She arches suddenly, pressing him deeper into the leather with a long shuddering upward stroke, her lips finally surrendering a gutteral *oh* noise, and he allows himself to let go, giving himself over to his own pleasures just as he gives himself to the self-mutilation, the rending of his own flesh that the dark ones demand, just as he gave himself to his dark ambition so long ago, that's been burning him from the inside out ever since. She settles down, melting around him, letting out a huffy breath against his forehead, as his hands guide her through her last muted quiverings. That lazy, triangular smile appears at realizing the glitter from between her breasts is now all over his face, sparkling on his lashes and his hair, glistening on his mouth. "You've got some serious David Bowie androgynous deal happenin' there," she tells him huskily, touching his lips and his nose. He surrenders a smile to her, lifts a hand aching from the strain and pulls a slightly damp strand of chocolate hair out of her face, bringing it around to nest in her long thick shag of hair, soft and feathery like rabbit's fur, or a cat's. A long-forgotten television show, from the golden age of black-and-white comes back to him suddenly, affectionate nicknames, Kitten and Daddy... and boy, there's one of the more disturbingly gauche thoughts that's occured to him. Considering what they've been doing lately, that's really saying something. She stays the night, rests in his bed flipping through channels, as he retreats to the bathroom to scrub away her indecent attentions. Not that it matters -- when he goes to turn in she strips naked and crawls into his bed, wraps herself around him and sleeps, her skin still damp, her body moving unconsciously thoughout the night, so painfully lonely that she seeks release even in her sleep. And he holds her, lets her have her way, knowing she doesn't see it as anything more than casual, carnal, the scratching of an itch. Because he'll give her anything. Even control, apparently. End