16 comments/ 27956 views/ 3 favorites Alpha, Strange and Beautiful By: Unsung Muse In a room full of preening playboys, this man stands out. They circle and leer and lunge. He hangs back. The predatory hoof-drag-huff-and-snort, the gaudy-ruffled-feather dance around me, blurs and fades to background noise against his subtler brand of watchfulness. As the night slides on, he's all I see. A residual veneer of vanity won't allow me to read his stoic demeanor as disinterest. After all, I am hunting too. A rumbling lonely hunger, crying out from the bitter hollow of fresh-laid unlicked wounds, consumes me. It compels me to play this tired sordid game. My eyes narrow and, from halfway across the room, search hard into the ill-lit corner where he stands. I perceive the tug of a restrained smile playing at the corners of his mouth and catch the involuntary downturn of thick dark lashes, when I try to engage his gaze. My trained eye detects a slow measured shift, the redistribution of body weight from one leg to the other. It's palpable -- something carnal rousing within. He's sizing up the other players. It cracks his poker face, reveals his hand to me. My skin prickles and the thumping in my breast quickens in time with the loud tribal dance-mix coursing through the room. I swallow and taste a quiet sort of danger. At last, eye contact. I feel I am stealing away his secrets, things the other men don't know. Without them ever feeling his presence, ever seeing his hat in the ring, his ante on the table, his stake or his claim -- he has disarmed them. The smack of danger should now lay thick and sweet upon his tongue. He has my full attention. I call him Alpha. I do not know his name. I do not want to know his name. I do not want to know him. The innocuous stranger in the corner (whose challenge I've accepted, whether he's issued one or not) will serve my needs better by remaining nameless, cloaked, and masked. I aim to delve no deeper than I need to. My body wants -- my ego needs -- to play. I will... No, must leave my deeper hungers out of this. I have to. She is watching. * * * The weight of Gita's presence deflates my posture and swiftly slows the rhythm in my chest. I begin to feel awkward and self-conscious. The glossy reflective surface of the bar echoes the odd amethyst-tinted lighting in the crowded cocktail lounge. I rest my hands on it and the sight of them (the skin, paper-thin; every vein visible, raised, and illuminated) startles me. I imagine my face skeletonized by the same unkind effect and, in alarm, I turn -- my back toward Alpha -- to confront the wall of assorted antique mirrors to my left. Squinting into the darkness, past the blur of moving masculine forms, I catch a fractured glimpse of Gita. Her arresting image, split across a series of eclectic mismatched frames, mullioned in black. As always, she is stunning. Not even this cruel heliotrope glow can sully her humbling perfection. Gita's skin -- smooth, pale, opalescent: polished bone from fallen gods -- plays taut creamy host to beautifully fierce angular features. The otherwise severe shape and sharpness of her face is sweetened by the ripe fullness of grenadine-glossed lips and softened by the surrounding blue-black shock of gleaming blunt-cut hair. Poisonous silver-white-metal flecked irises flash and glitter, fire and ice, from smoky coal-lined eyes. My knees threaten to fold at the sight of her, as they always do. Gita's reflection delivers a wide unnerving smile, before beginning the slow measured strut that has me working hard to steady my breathing. Long toned limbs flow like liquefied living ivory from a simple backless shift (whisper-thin, black, and mid-thigh short) to lend movement to a form that seems too unreal to move on its own. Michelangelo's chisel blessed her with a soft fleshy tribute to David's ass, but clumsily lopped off her wings, leaving sharp protruding shoulder blades. I see them scraping just beneath the surface, aching to tear through her skin with every sinuous stride she takes. This excites me and I hate myself for it (for the unexpected bloodlust, as well as for wanting her), but my excitement is soon replaced by a different sensation... Just as base, just as distasteful. I swallow hard at the dry angry lump forming in my throat, as I watch Gita slink toward Alpha. Whore. Bitch. She-Devil. I have no claim on this man, and yet, I feel a dark hideous surge of jealousy rise up in me, as she prowls around him -- catlike. Thin, tall, hard, strong, and confident. His (real or imagined) intentions toward me are bound to fall away and be forgotten, with one undoing look into her pooled-liquid-mercury eyes. Cunt. I freeze in place, unable to look away from the reflection, (but, in my mind, I'm making a hasty exit from the club through a thick wall of testosterone-driven objections, a soothing balm of lustful pleading). I want to save myself the pending pain (another fresh strip off my raw and bleeding ego, new flesh torn from reluctant bone), to run from the unholy challenge issued by that disquieting smile. I hate this game. The dull ache of covetous simmers under my less-than-perfect skin and rises to spill from my sore, tired eyes. "You can't have him", my brain screams. I feel ugly, wretched and pitiable (like a child, old enough to know better, throwing a terrible public tantrum), though I have neither moved nor uttered a sound. It does not matter to me that Alpha is not a notably attractive man. Clean cut, sure. Well groomed, granted. His black-on-black t-shirt and sports-coat pairing over well-cut, well-worn jeans; while exuding confidence in a nice understated way, somehow seem more safe than stylish. His sturdy frame promises strength and thickness, but his short jet-black hair is styled in that product-affected-and-spiked-just-enough way to disclose it's beginning to thin. Dark molten-chocolate eyes summon from a soft tawny baby-face. This, he clearly overcompensates for by limiting himself to too-serious smile-wary expressions. Oh, but when an unchecked smile breaks free, makes that rebellious escape, its light and warmth join forces with those eyes and the outcome is unexpectedly disarming. In truth, however they rate, these outward qualities are irrelevant. They skim through my mind on fast-forward (the speed of cool indifference) -- a muted whirring hum. I have an uncanny intuition when it comes to sexual compatibility. I sense it. Smell it. I can taste a well-matched lover's skin before I've come within ten feet of his or her body. I know their kiss. I can feel the firm press of their touch without ever having exchanged a word of introduction and this is happening now, with Alpha. This is all I need to choose him -- set my unwavering sights, flare my nostrils, paw at the ground, lick my chops, growl deep in my throat -- and instigate the chase. No, it doesn't matter to me that Alpha isn't the most extraordinary specimen in the room, but it matters even less to Gita. She's come to know what I want, even before I do, and she cares only that I have chosen him. She feeds on my wanting. * * * Gita faces the multi-mirrored wall once more and locks my reflection in an unblinking standoff. She side-step-slides directly behind Alpha, her neck and head poised just above his broad left shoulder. She lowers her moist juice-stained lips to his ear. I can feel the wet heat of her breath against my own ear, as she exhales each word with a slow seductive push. I want to know what she is saying to him, but all I can hear is the too-loud thumping music -- now punctuated by the screech of imagined feedback as it's mixed with the eerie echo of Gita's unnatural voice inside my head. "Is this what you want, Gemine?" I'm forced to press my fingers to my temples, as the deep throaty tones and strange reverberating whispers produce an excruciating blend of pleasure and pain. "Is this our intended plaything for tonight? Interesting choice, my love, but you know you'll never make a fucking move." My eyes sting and they begin to well-up again. "That's right, sweetheart, bring on those sad little tears. You can stand there looking hurt -- clenching your boney little fists, telling yourself how badly he wants you -- while you watch me play. You know I can reduce this man to a pleading puddle with nothing more than a whisper. I'll have him, I'll use him up, and you'll just cower over there, gaping -- sucking on your hungry tongue and trying to cross your skinny little thighs over that ache in your sopping panties." While the harsh ringing inside my head wears away at my crumbling confidence, the pale glow of Gita's hand trails up Alpha's thick arm and over his shoulder. Her nails graze the side of his neck. I can feel it. Her long pretty fingers slide up into his hair and back down to his cheek before coming to rest at the base of his throat. I cannot stop myself from imagining the soft pressure on my skin. The sight of her wraithlike white hand, contrasted against his umber flesh, stirs urges as violent as they are lustful. I resent them. Seething, I realize I am sucking on my tongue and I am forced to twist uncomfortably, clenching my legs over the wet heat and mounting pulse. Despite the unwavering hold of Gita's eyes, I am compelled to search Alpha's face... try to thrill in the delicious heat of her touch, vicariously. Nothing. Nothing? The moist caress of her breath -- the sight of her, the smell of her, the raw unrestrained sexual air about her -- should be enough to shatter him, yet Alpha shows no visible reaction to her presence. His expression registers no response to her touch or to her words. I am rattled and confused, then impressed... elated. Not an easy mark, this one, it seems. She will not be pleased. Morose delectation. Schadenfreude. I fill with a restorative sense of satisfaction and have to suppress a chest-inflating burst of laughter. The broad bright smile of pure delight that I cannot contain, transforms the image in the mirror. The gaunt sallow face I've envisioned blows away like a gray film of powdery dust, lifted and swept from the beautiful object beneath. I see a very different me. I see my tall, confident, striking reflection and I see Alpha -- eyebrows raised, a smile to rival my own -- walking toward me. Stolen or shared, those secrets shine in his eyes again and, predicted or remembered, the taste of his skin skips across my tongue once more. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and, with a deep steadying breath, I make a quick quarter-turn back to face the bar. The odd purplish glow takes a moment to adjust to and, blinking down into it, I feel Alpha next to me before I see his black-sleeved elbow come to rest on the surface to my right. I'm stunned, but relieved that I can smell no trace of Gita on him. His scent, however, fulfills prophecy. I feel light-headed. My face grows hot. I love this part. I inhale deeply, lust-drunk and dizzy. I hear Alpha place an order: three shots of... something. It is the first time I'm hearing his voice. It vibrates inside my chest, instead of being taken in by my ears or processed by my brain. Eyes still downcast, I see one brimming shot-glass glide toward me -- a slow drawn-out skate over iridescent ice -- propelled by the side of Alpha's broad left hand. A little of the liquid (in this light it's hard to tell, but I think it's pale yellow) dribbles out over the rim and makes a sticky mess of his pinky. The finger darts instinctively to his mouth. My eyes follow and, as it slides into the wet warmth between his barely parted lips, I hear my breath catch (a sharp-rasp-come-weak-whimper) in my throat. Not a man to me now, if ever he was, I'm not the least bit bothered if Alpha hears it too. In this moment, I have reduced him to parts -- arms, hands, mouth, tongue, eyes -- and I am silently (almost frantically) praying he won't disrupt this by initiating an exchange of idle pleasantries, mundane conversation. I don't want to reconnect the pieces. We knock back the shots at the same time, without a word or gesture or signal. I swallow and (despising the flavor of lemon) try hard not to wince. I manage a thin smile in thanks. He nods. Signaled by the sweet familiar ring of our empty shot-glasses hitting the surface of the bar in unison, the bartender extends a bottle toward Alpha like a dangling rhetorical question mark. I know the bottle (it's an excellent single-malt and I would love some), but Alpha is already shaking his head in response. "I'm supposed to meet a friend for a drink. Little place, 'round the corner... Do you know...?", he spells out the name of the bar and secures rather detailed directions. It is clear to me that Alpha knows exactly where this place is -- that this exchange, the resulting information, is for my benefit. An invitation. There is no air of presumption, though the clear-cut translation is "let's get out of here" and, while the coy covert delivery has me battling a begrudged grin of amusement, there is an accepted sense of simple unspoken understanding. I know, before my head catches up, my body has already agreed to go. As Alpha turns to leave, he is repeating the name and address of the bar (just like the kid reciting the shopping list on the way to the store: a carton of eggs, a container of milk, a stick of butta...). It is louder and slower as his lips pass, warm and smiling, close to my right ear. For me, this is an unwanted glimpse (a boyish sweetness, a sense of humor, a personality), a person trying to rise up from the pieces that I'm determined to keep apart. I don't allow myself to laugh or to watch him walk away. I stare blankly at the untouched third shot and experience a sudden chill. I linger, pretend to check my voicemail, take my time settling my tab. Then I let a few more young strutting peacocks puff up my feathers, as I make my slow meandering way through the crowd toward the exit. Outside the front door, I light a cigarette and let my mind play out a filthy array of prospective fantasies. I take long deep hauls, thoroughly enjoying every poisonous pull, as I mentally deconstruct Alpha again and reprogram myself. By the time I begin to walk, I've roused myself back to sweet willful abandon -- heightened all the more, somehow, by keeping Alpha in wait. I feel strong and sexy and dangerous. The chill in the air teases my nipples and I smile knowing the dress I'm wearing will do nothing to mask the effect. As I so often do, I get the intense sensation that my sexual energy is spilling over onto every person I pass on the street. A little lost in the unfamiliar area, I have to ask a couple for directions. They are sweet and helpful, but they're both visibly flushed and eyeing me like they want to eat me alive. I leave them delighting in the idea of having worked my way into their filthy fantasies... at least for tonight. Exhilarated, on a lust and ego high and slightly out of breath, I finally arrive at the correct address, but -- with the cold bronze door-handle already in my grip -- I'm quickly aware that I don't want to be in another bar. I don't want to share a drink, chat, hang out, relax... Even as I'm thinking this, I'm already crossing into the warmth on the other side. * * * I glide in past a long mirrored back-bar and catch my strutting form in the much more flattering light of this cozier venue. Deadly Sins chart-topper notwithstanding, I can't help taking pride in what I see. Jesus, I love this dress. The sassy bare-shouldered disco-inspired cut in whiter-than-white body-hugging thin stretch fabric, in which I appear lean and tanned and toned, rather than bony and frail and emaciated, plays up a very discernable outline of the tiny v-cut thong beneath. This is intentional (everything thing else I've tried to wear under it, in every shape and shade of 'nude' shows through, but with the distinct impression I'm unaware of it). Tonight, I just cut to the chase and opted for black. I let the image in the mirror bolster me. Without Gita here to mar the view, I can quiet the cruel whispers of demoralizing diffidence. I can see a remembered reflection of me. * * * In a dim little nook, I see Alpha. It's a painting torn from a lovely old book, a frame snatched from some obscure antiquated bodice-ripper. In the warm glow of this diffused golden lighting, the image of him (settled in this ornate upholstered corner bench, heaped with cushions in deep shades of red and gold) makes me feel as though I'm being presented as a harem acquisition. I'm wondering why this trite fancy is so arousing, but I deign to embrace it. I cling to the cliché and eroticize the five-second-story-board in my head. I approach in silence, my best attempt at serene reverence, and -- like he knows the scene -- he nods, wordless, at the space on the bench next to him, indicating I may sit. In front of him, a dusty bottle of Scotch and two empty rock glasses are arranged on a tray. I slide in. He opens the bottle and pours. My rather contrived sultan fantasy fades from beneath a more novel fascination (Scotch being my undeclared libation of choice), laced with a very unexpected and unwelcome pang of guilt for taking my time in getting here. Suddenly, I find the pointed absence of conversation feels much heavier, more intense and more intimate, than the brand of idle chitchat I'd been dreading. I am grateful when Alpha clears his throat (though distracted by it, I miss the chance to stop him from dropping ice into my glass). He speaks with a far-off air, musing to himself, almost like I haven't arrived yet, but he is in fact addressing me for the first time. "Everyone is asking who you are..." it's the quiet curious tone of a scientific observer "who is that gorgeous woman in the sexy white dress?" Thank God, they are not mimed, but I definitely hear the finger-quotes. The tone and third-party positioning are enough to deflate me, all on their own. Does he not share the sentiment? Why am I here? I hate this game. Uncomfortable, I fiddle with the tassels on a cushion next to me and allow my posture a more fitting slump. I'm surveying the room, agitated, wondering why I'm expecting to find Gita's ravenous eyes glowing back at me from each table and corner I survey. With the bottle placed back on the tray, Alpha wipes his hands and then raises both glasses. He hands one to me and, for the first time without the aid of mirrors, looks directly into my eyes. He seems oblivious to my discomfort. I brace myself for a hokey toast. "Do you know you can see your thong right through it?" The broad grin he's trying to suppress is not cooperating and the composed coolness falls away from his soft boyish face. Caught off-guard, my laughter escapes past all my own rigid checkpoints. I assure him that I'm aware but, as I watch Alpha fish an ice-cube from his glass and rub it back and forth across his lips, my casual synopsis of failed neutral toned panties trails off and my light banter tumbles into a series of quick deep breaths. Letting the melting ice slide back down into his drink, Alpha presses his chilled lips against the side of his glass (warming them into a far-off smile) and I know, in his mind, the glass has transformed into some warm wet part of me. My toes curl. Having had this conversation about the apparent non-existence of a suitably invisible thong for my clinging white dress before, I already know the question Alpha is going to ask next. I want him to stay silent. I prefer that he remain right where he is, inside his head... with his mouth opening against the moist heat of my skin to bestow a long slow lick (rather than against the cool unyielding surface of a plain old glass, preparing to pose a predictable question). Alpha, Strange and Beautiful I decide to preempt it. I reach under the table and deftly slip the tiny black undergarment off from beneath my dress. I present them just long enough to have the act of removing them begin to register, before I tuck them deep into the right side pocket of his blazer. I know they are wet, they've made my hands a little damp, but I might just be imagining the sweet familiar scent lingering in the air between us. I inhale long and deep nonetheless and tell myself he's doing likewise. I bask in his amusement and study his curious glow. Alpha presses his hand over his pocket. I want him to reach inside and clench his fist around them before the heat of me diminishes, but instead he gives the outside of the pocket a proud little pat. He is shaking his head, sizing me up, regarding me like I've just unraveled some rule-biding reality (one he's not very sorry, but still surprised to see go), and guarding the little bulge in his jacket like it's a treasure I might repossess. I slide out from behind the little table and step three lanky-legged paces away. I stand there -- feet wide apart, my back toward Alpha -- in answer to the question I didn't wait for him to ask. Other patrons are already eying me with a familiar mix of desire, curiosity, and contempt, but I wish only that I could see through Alpha's eyes. Taking a big deep preparatory breath and donning my most practiced "see what I mean" smile, I turn around to face him and prove the requisite function of the object now in his care. Alpha's glass clunks to the table. I watch his textbook posture yield to a softening renovation and his mouth open in warm unclaimed kisses... waiting, mine for the taking. In my mind, I see him rising (fingers slipping back into his glass to retrieve a pre-loved ice-cube on his way), moving toward me, kneeling before me, sliding the ice all the way up the inside of my leg until it melts, with his hand, into me. In reality, I see him rising (fingers dipping into his wallet to overpay the unseen bill), moving toward me, taking my hand, leading me all the way to, and out of, the front door. * * * I see the blur of white marble, an elevator, a hallway; sense the jingle of keys, a door. I'm in a non-descript open kitchenette, witnessing feigned interest in the polite formality of filling glasses, but before my old smoky amber friend can make it into my hand or to my lips, a headier elixir proves a much more intoxicating substitute: a frenzied whir of discarded clothes stirred by assertive hands. My hands. I'm struck by the flash of a large black tattoo and think it out-of-character, before I correct myself -- I have nothing to base this on. I swim in a sweet fog of heavy breaths, easy laughter, the quiet click of buttons... soft clink of belt. I feel my dress slip up over my head as we move through the small room and through another door. As we fall together, the spirited rhythm of breathy laughter subsides into a softer blush of expectant smiles. Too sweetly, Alpha brushes the hair from my face and smoothes it with a bemused intensity. "So attractive..." It has that same detached far-off air, like he's talking to himself under his breath, again. I take refuge in thinking he may be dehumanizing me too, just as I've been deconstructing him. Still, I find he's looking far too deep into me and I am aware I'm thinking far too much about what he's seeing... and what's going on behind his eyes. Everything slows to a marked stillness and my dizzy high begins to recede. It's too quiet. I am too naked. * * * I see that I have Alpha pinned beneath me and I feel a sudden wash of remorse (like a hungry beast developing an inconvenient human conscience, as I look down into the wide eyes of my oblivious playful prey). At odds with my appetite, my mind again starts to process: this is a man. This is a person. This is a stranger. He is more than parts, more than pieces, more than hands to clutch me, more than a mouth to taste me... more than eyes to see me. ...Eyes to see me. Fuck. Once more, I fight to stave off the willful mental image of my changed body (the skin of the perfect dress, shed; the diffused lighting and smoky mirrors, gone), before its dreadfulness can obliterate my wanting or unravel my resolve. I fake a seductive smile and rally a thin moan to mask my unwelcome vulnerability, but I do back away. I relinquish my aggressive position and settle myself between his legs. I elect to study him, attempt to forget my own body by objectifying his. This helps. But for the warm hum and heartbeat, the gentle expectant quiver of Alpha's body beneath me, he looks just like he's fallen from the heavy ornate frame around the mirror hanging just above the headboard: one of its carved Kamasutram figures, detailed in hard dark wood. I smile again (this one is genuine). I'm arranging him in an array of the most compromising and challenging positions, in my head, and feeling a delicious sense of power. My thirst returns. Kneeling between Alpha's knees, I allow my eyes to drink him in. My lips part, but I manage to stifle the faint reflex growl. I love this part. I want to capture this, file the portrait away in my visual archives, take it all in. His cock arcs upward, waiting sleepless and expectant, against his quivering belly. The shaft (deeply creased with promise of the full erection to come) is dark like the rich carved wood, as I'd expect, but it curves up and blossoms to a shock of the most unexpected and delicate shade of rose-petal pink. It is a soft blush hue I can't imagine matches any other square-inch of this man's body, save maybe (and I vow to check) the tender underside of his tongue. Awestruck by this rare wonder, I stare -- wide-eyed as Alice -- feeling a giddy long-forgotten rush. I'm not often thrown. Taking in the intense contrast of this ripe pink plumb, burgeoning from its unlikely stalk, I'm overcome by the strongest impulse: a fierce longing to be able to summon the image, inside my mind, when I take him inside my body. I find the notion exquisitely erotic, the sight... strange and beautiful. A faint questioning murmur breaks my studious trance. Like a curious school girl, dying to look but not wanting to be caught, I blush deeply at the sudden reminder that I'm not alone. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and breathe in the scent of Alpha's skin, but I cannot divert my attention from the novelty rising before me. I lower my head, open my mouth, and take him deep into my throat -- one long slow slide -- until my lips come to rest on the soft fleshy mound surrounding the base of his cock. I sense a soft spread of tremors, trapped and released, from beneath my devoted hunger. I hold, wait, pause: wanting to heighten the sensation of forthcoming movement by drawing out this moment, this sweet stillness rippling with expectation. I feel Alpha harden and expand to fill the wet warmth of my open mouth, the tension and slight pulsating press against the back of my throat, the gentle stretch at the corners of my mouth. Hands entwine in my hair and I crave the sweet sting of a sharp unsparing tug, but instead they are careful and tender. He turns my face to engage my gaze and, instead of fighting it, I find (against all instinct) I long to stay in this moment: to live in that look in his eyes. I feel as though I have a clear window into the deepest part of his imagination and think I hear his thoughts inside my head, "My god, don't move. Never release me from the warmth of your mouth, the hug of your throat. Stay like this, just like this. Make the world fall away..." As my minds-eye scrawls a bold inky signature across this implausible imaginary agreement, I swallow and feel my throat contract around him. I hear a low appreciative growl that soon falters into a troubled sounding groan. I feel Alpha's hands twisting in my hair again, this time with more force and urgency. He's looking at me too hard now. He is lifting my head without my compliance and, in breech of our very fresh faux contract, initiating a slow aching slide from my reluctant mouth. I moan in complaint. I don't want to let go, but he is staring at me so intently: the plea in his dark eyes has changed. I know this face. He's afraid he'll come too soon. I grant his release, but (locking him in my sights) reconfirm my opposition with a series of avid willful sucks, as he goes. I let Alpha coax and guide me up over his splayed body. His hands clutch the backs of my thighs and pull me to his open mouth. I feel the icy sting of the mirror over the headboard pressing hard against my forehead, as I straddle his soft unfamiliar face and try to surrender myself to the consoling flick of his (still unexamined) tongue. I let the mirror cool my cheek, sliding up against its smooth chill, as I rise and straighten above him. Alpha's adept attentions, long slow licks from a broad flat tongue, should have me melting in pleasure. I long to give myself over, but there is an odd new prickling sensation at the back of my neck. I can't focus. I can't relax. My eyes flare open. The image in front of me, steals any hope of surrender. The startling face in the mirror stares back at me: waxen, gaunt, agape. Wide pale gray eyes send cruel daggers of truth and pain and realization through me. A thin binding shiver constricts my spine and reels me backward from the dreadful reflection. It is me. It is my own panic-stricken visage that gawks back at me, my own long bony neck that looks like it's about to snap, my ribcage that protrudes -- in full grotesque view -- from the sallow pull of blue-white skin, unnatural and stretched. I see Alpha's dark broad hand clutch at my colorless emaciated hip and fear the sharp angular bone, a jagged crest between his fingers, might rip through my flesh at his touch. I'm frightened and embarrassed. I look like a ghost of myself. I try to lift away from his mouth, wriggle from his hold. I have to fend off the disturbing image that invades my brain: sickly white lab rat trying to swallow the great black anaconda, strange swollen pink-head first. My stomach lurches. I feel ill. A thin pained whimper issues up from the dryness of my throat. Tears spill and cut stinging paths down my icy cheeks. I feel a presence in the room. She is here. She is watching. I narrow my burning eyes, blurring the horrid sight of my own frail form, focusing hard into the dim space beyond. At the sight of her, I am torn between outrage and relief. I want to shatter the glass and assault her with the shards, but her face -- her beauty -- softens me. I want her to come closer. I beg her strength to strengthen me. I need her, somehow. * * * Gita sits in a low leather club-chair: her lovely head lolling leisurely to the side, her creamy bare shoulders pushed back, her hips thrust forward, her long lean legs spread wide. She appears delighted to have finally caught my eye, to have my attention. The flash of her quicksilver eyes and sweet mischievous smile seem to illuminate the shadowy corner she occupies. A silver-blue plume of cigar smoke encircles Gita's pretty neck, like the ghost of a perfumed feather boa, and its sweet heady aroma begins to calm me. One of her long graceful arms sways, a lovely languid pendulum, rocking a filled-to-trickling Scotch glass back and forth between her open thighs. It soothes me into a warming erotic trance. I watch as Gita begins to trail the wet rock-glass up along the soft inside of her leg, shifting the hem of her gauzy black dress up with it, and leaving a glistening dew of condensation and amber droplets of whiskey on her skin. She arches her back and propels her hips further forward, making the dress slip up, inviting my eyes to the slick pink flesh between her widespread thighs. My breath catches in my throat. Gita takes a long slow sip from the brimming glass and my mouth fills with warm Scotch-flavored waters. She places the drink on the small round side-table, next to the chair, and pulls the dangling silver chain on a little lamp sitting there. Strange golden light halos around a stately looking dark-umber bottle. I watch her thin white hand stretch and wrap firmly around its thick glossy neck. A firm hard heat fills my own clenched hand. Spellbound, it has gripped Alpha's cock, just as Gita's has the bottle. I feel my shoulders pulled back, my hips thrust forward, my legs open wide -- my body is emulating her movements. I watch her take the handsome bottle, press its cool ample neck to the hot pulsing need between her parted thighs, and slide -- long and slow -- against its length, her slippery open lips clutching in thirst around it. I hear Gita's greedy moan at the contact, followed by unnatural echoes of softer breathing and panting, but the sweet sounds of her arousal seem to be coming from my mouth. I feel my awakened clit rubbing up and down Alpha's warm firm shaft. I feel my fingers slide around and beside him, sucked in by a tight clutch of wet heat before they're pushed back out past him... to smear, to press, to flatten him against me again. I feel it, but I can only see Gita: her painted fingers, her lips, and the slow-sliding bottleneck. I watch her and she watches me. I am not afraid of what she sees. I put myself in her place, and her in mine. I love this part. The cool smooth surface of the bottle, slick and sticky with Gita, melts to warm thick honey as I slide against its long dark neck. I surrender to her control. She is an unholy scent infecting the only air to breathe. She is unnatural whispers echoing inside my head. She shows me terrible portraits of pleasure, beautiful depictions of pain, and I can't get enough of either. The whispers in my head become unearthly screams, as we writhe and grind as one. I give myself over. It is all for her... all to feed her. Like this, pressing Alpha's forgotten shaft firmly against me, I reach release. I forget myself and come. Alpha's voice reaches me through a dark fog of muffled cries. His unexpected words ring (eerily human in contrast) distant, out of place... strange. "You have no idea how fucking hot that is..." The unnatural hiss resonates. "Yesss, I do..." It is not my voice. It is hers. I feel like I'm looking down from some distance above: detached, somehow, as though a part of me, my consciousness, has left my body. I see Gita, sated and purring, trailing her glistening nails over Alpha's flesh and to his mouth, feeding him one sticky finger at a time. Each sopping finger on my right-hand feels the warmth, the graze of teeth and gentle rhythm of his sucking. My left wrist feels the tight clutch of Alpha's free hand, as I watch him raise Gita's other hand up to her waiting lips, and my tongue flicks against the tender stretch of skin between her thumb and forefinger. My mouth closes around a slender digit, feels the sensual nub of knuckle, and I drink in the salty-sweet taste of her. Alpha's chest is heaving; his breath, strained. He is biting at his bottom lip, moaning low in his throat, and rummaging, one-handed without looking, around the nightstand. I hear the quiet crinkling of the dark dutiful serpent readying itself for unknown sacrifice, taking on a new skin, sheathing itself for protection. I feel my body, hips lifted by unseen hands, rise and spread. I hover, open and suspended, above the brave pale pink head -- pulled taut and shining in its tight transparent mask. Innocent and fearless, naive and willing, it wears more expression than any faceless thing should. Holding like this, paused (as much in ritualistic reverence as in respectful remorse), I grant this poor unsuspecting soul time for last requests, last rights... last prayers to the gods or god of his choosing. There is a bittersweet sadness in knowing the time -- used as such by him or not -- can do nothing to ward off the inevitable. Still, I myself try to use it to offer up a blessing, to give thanks for this gentle creature who unknowingly submits his essence to sustain another, while my body shudders under waves of her hunger. Before my peace is made, Alpha is freeing me from my unwelcome role as executioner, sparing me the guilt. With a resolute grasp on my hips, he is pulling me downward and plunging himself into the closing depths that promise a blissful drowning: a Kama-Kamikaze surrendering to the suffocating inferno that calls him home. My guilt spins away like debris, as I welcome his self-destructive crash. I take Alpha's heat into my own and it becomes mine. Made whole by his sacrifice, more complete by what will deplete him, I feel the natural flush of pink return to my skin. An invigorating warm syrupy flood of carnal nourishment spreads up through my belly, my lungs inflate, dormant nerves awaken, and beautiful breathy sounds of pleasure come unguarded from my lips. I rise and fall without falsifying my desire or control, my will or my presence. I even allow myself to look -- to watch the fire consume him, without any further weighty remorse to spoil the intoxicating view. Eyes unshielded and unblinking, I see Alpha's body. The deep rosewood sheen of his skin, slick with sweat, moves against my fragile pallor... unafraid. His hips lift and buck to match my rhythm: an exquisite blend of gentle crashes, soft stabs, and tender thrusts. Low murmurs of awe, forgiveness, wonder, and understanding linger between his careful lips. I fall forward to capture them, bend over his mouth to suck them from his timid tongue. They are an elixir. They complete my restoration. I ease my hands in underneath Alpha's shoulders and slide them down into the warm damp hollow behind his lower back. My nails begin to play there -- grazing in small circles, teasing and tickling. The too-human boyish giggle this spurs very nearly softens me. I cannot allow it to. I know I'm running out of time. I begin to weep, as I sink my claws deep into his moist brown flesh to stifle the too-sweet coos of contented laughter that are tugging at what used to be my heart. I have to. She grows impatient. * * * Gita's breath comes in quick weighty rasps of excitement. It echoes in my head to drown out Alpha's cries. It heats the back of my neck, to caress and compel me, to dull my innate sensitivity to his pain. Her arms encircle me and I tremble in ecstasy at her touch. She pins me down and rocks me hard against Alpha. He is arching upward in violent contorting spasms, struggling to extricate himself from the sharp shredding rake of the ten pointed spikes I've driven into him. These frantic attempts only reward me with terrific urgent thrusts. Bound by the intense pleasure ripping through my body (as much as I am by Gita's unyielding hold), I grind against Alpha's feverish twisting and jerking, showing no mercy. I hear her throaty inhuman laughter. It seeps through a steady animal rhythm of heavy breathing and dreadful cries. Images fill my head in disturbing flashes of red and black: strange contorted fragments of writhing and torture and pleasure and pain. I cannot control them, though they sicken me. I can't hold them for long enough to piece-together the disjointed visions, though they titillate me. I'm awash in a strange suffocating bath of reluctant elation, sweet sadness, delicious remorse, and atrocious ecstasy. Both of Alpha's hands are flattened over my face now, pushing with desperate force. I growl and bite to make them stop. I lick and suck to make them stay. My respect for this one grows, he fights like no other, but I taste the salty-sweetness of myself on the palms of his hands and my body begins that delicious uphill climb. His eyes are fire and water and fear. I see what I think is his shock and horror at my emerging orgasm, but -- inside me -- a quick succession of familiar spasms tell me, it is shock and horror at his own. It excites me in a shamefully dark and powerful way. Alpha, Strange and Beautiful Alpha's confused tortured howls become white noise, overpowered by the otherworldly aria of my mounting climax merged in eerie harmony with Gita's hunger and delight. She is about to exact her claim. She will not wait for me. Soon the reverberating rattle in Alpha's chest will tell my unspent body to stop fucking him and I will obey. This is not for me. She won't let my body take without the sacrifice she demands. She has already allowed me far more pleasure than she's ever granted before. She will take what she needs. I know it is time. I watch from high above again, dizzy, hanging on the edge of incomplete release. I see Gita's beautiful hands reach in beneath Alpha, feel them take me by the wrists. I cannot stop this. I watch her press my hands together, tight, and direct them downward -- pointed at Alpha's soft sweat-slick belly. Terrible pressure at my temples. Loud ringing in my ears. Flashes of red and black course behind my eyes again. I squeeze them shut. I want to disappear. I want to hide. Red. Everything. Everywhere. Dark red. Behind my eyes, I see my hands plunging deep into Alpha's open chest. I watch myself take hold of the slippery heat of his fast-beating heart and pull myself inside. I feel a flood of warmth spill over and around, envelop me. I cling to a fetal memory, ball myself up, hug myself tight, and wail. Inside, I feel almost safe. I can almost shut out the horrid shrieks of inhuman laughter and demonic screams echoing through my pounding head. In here, I hide. I hide from Gita, from him, from Alpha, from myself. Red. Everything. Everywhere. Warm and red. I hear my own scream riding high above the ceaseless drone of Gita's unnatural whispers, ghostly echoes of Alpha's labored breathing, and a strange unholy choir of tortured moans. A sharp hot pain in my right side slices through the darkness and snaps my eyes open. For a second, I fear that jagged peak of hipbone did finally pierce through my flesh in Alpha's valiant struggle, but I cannot look. I am overcome by a different and all-too-familiar sensation. It feels like all the air is being sucked out of the room. Life slips away from beneath me. I feel the warm sticky spread of it flood every available inch, hollow, and crevice between Alpha's still-quivering belly and my own bent body. A torrent of hot salty tears follow suit, filling Alpha's hands: still open, still pressed flat against my face. Soon, I can expect them to turn cold and the disquieting tremors to subside, because I can already hear that terrible stomach-churning slurp, that satisfied smack of her lips, the unearthly moans of her pleasure... as Gita sucks in another soul. * * * Still weeping, I peel Alpha's hands from my face. My eyes sting as I nuzzle against the damp softness of his skin and mix my tears in with the slippery dew of his cooling sweat. I don't want to look, but I cannot stop myself. I bend to face downward, the top of my head coming to rest in the gentle valley at the center of Alpha's smooth broad chest. I blink away the blinding burn of salt, to find it replaced by a dizzying blur of crimson. The sharp tang of bile rises in my throat and I gag, as a garish gleam (the sizeable pool already congealing in the well of Alpha's soft brown belly) comes into focus. I see my unsteady fingers, brave scouts, trying to find their way to the sight my eyes don't want to deliver to my brain. His body seems to stir at their wary and tremulous touch. I hear myself gasp and the sound seems to rouse more movement under me, inside me. My God. He's still inside me. I feel sick. My whole body jerks in violent retch-founded spasms, but the shifting beneath me is soft... warm. I hear a low contented sigh. I feel hands fumbling in my wet matted hair. They are gentle. They are trying to lift my head, coaxing me to look up. I stare bewildered and blinking into Alpha's soft boyish face. He is whole and breathing. How can this be? His heart beats an easy human rhythm beneath me. How, why... Why has she spared him? Joy. I'm overcome by the tenderness I see and feel. Pure joy and deep gratitude fill me. I feel as though my chest might burst. I smile and collapse against his warmth, quaking with unstoppable sobs of relief and quiet rushes of confused delirious laughter, but now Alpha is much more forcefully lifting my face. I hear his breath catch with a frightful rasp in his throat. I see his kind dark eyes well-up, watering with... alarm, sorrow, concern, fear, pain, terror, sympathy, confusion... what? His hands are trembling. His lips are parting, "God," it comes in hushed slow pained whispers. "Did I... hurt you?" Still issuing silent thanks in my head, my response comes through soft breathy laughter. "No. God, no. I thought she'd... I thought I'd..." but I feel my chest deflate, my broad joyous smile falter and slip, as I speak. His expression fills me with fresh dread. He looks queasy, sick, panic-stricken. His words sift, barely audible, through heavy labored breathing. "Your face..." The air stills. The ringing returns to my ears. Reluctant, I straighten, craning my neck to find the mirror. My own face stares back at me. Deep crimson smudges mar my tear-streaked cheeks and neck (distressingly pretty against the ghostly-blue hue of my flesh), haunting... strange and beautiful. Dark wet strands of hair cling in strange ribbon-like lines to make my pallid face look shattered and cracked. Silver-white irises glow like backlit ice from watery coal-lined eyes. A strained squeak vibrates in my throat. My lips move, but no words come. Red flashes. Yellow smoke. I hate this game. Dark visions crash through my brain: crumbling castle walls, blackened turrets, a kingdom -- ravaged and plundered, pillaged and gutted -- left, empty and burning. I mother-fucking hate this game. Alpha is speaking, but I cannot discern it. I do not care what he is saying. I am no longer thankful for his unexpected survival. Fear rips through me. Frantic, I wipe with both hands at the bloody mess where our bodies meet, but I can find no wound. This brings me no relief. It fuels a fury I can't quite comprehend. My heart begins to race. My head swims. A sudden unwanted wash of understanding quakes through me. I know why he still breathes. I know what she has taken, in his stead. Rage rises like hot water, boiling up from an unknown simmer inside me. I curse his words. I curse his breath. This man is nothing to me, disposable. I had been resigned to his fate. I knew the price. I thought I knew... but Gita exacted a price far higher, far greater, than any I knew she aimed to take. Until this very moment, I had no way of knowing such a precious gift was even here to claim. * * * Wordless, I lift myself from Alpha. A pitiless warm torrent leaves the best of me behind. Mindless of the horror in my wake, I leave this strange bed in this strange room. I move in a blind trance. I trip over spilled scotch glasses. The sharp bite of whiskey reaches my nostrils and I gag. I cover my mouth with both stained hands and rush into the on-suite bath. I struggle with strange taps in a strange shower. I double over. Crumple. Tepid water spills down on me, as I huddle on the cold tiled floor. I watch dark red ribbons swirl and disappear down the hungry gaping mouth in the center of the floor, disquieted by the part of me that finds strange beauty in the sight. I weep, hollowed. I cry out for Gita, knowing she will not come. I do not know when we were torn, heart from head and soul from body -- Gita and I. I know only that our horrid accord ends here. Yet, somehow, I still long to see her face, feel her loveless arms around me -- to know she is finished tearing me in two, confirm she is sated. A shadow falls across my bloody feet. I hear a man clear his throat. I do not know him. Still, I clamor weak-kneed to my feet and attempt an apologetic smile through my tears. It is feeble, thin, and fabricated. There is no part of me that cares what this man thinks or sees or knows or feels, but some sad empty part of me closes my eyes on these unfamiliar surroundings and wills his body forward -- begs his strength to hold and rock me, until the purifying water washes all my cruelest truths away... But the water cleanses nothing and these arms don't hold me right. He is not who I need him to be. His is not the chest I cling to, sob against. This substitute embrace brings me no comfort. This is not my Alpha... And this strange and temporary shelter is not my home. * * * I am watching myself from outside my body, once more, as I collect my scattered belongings and try to dress. I begin a poor, numbed, and clumsy attempt to gather and roll the ruined bedding, but the task is quietly taken from me. Wordlessly, I'm directed out of the room. Softly, the door is closed. An eerie reverent silence falls over the unfamiliar apartment. Even with the closed door between us, an odd sort of bond forms -- strangers united -- like what I imagine must be felt in the aftermath, the somber group cleanup, of a natural disaster or a battle or a war... and all of it, in spite of myself, is desperately strange and beautiful. * * * A strange man is driving me home. I am staring at the unfamiliar hand on the gearshift, blinking blankly at the dark crimson traces between his thumb and forefinger. I am cold, sitting here in this scotch-sodden dress, and filthy: cigar smoke in my hair, the salty-sweet linger of unremembered sex in my throat, dried blood beneath my fingernails. "You... okay?" His careful voice invades my protective cloud of numbed isolation. "Yes, Sir" I lie. I feel sick. I want to disappear. I want to cease to exist. A low timid chuckle melts through the chill of my terseness. I feel his hand on mine, his face close to mine, his breath against my cheek. "Did you seriously just call me 'Sir'?" His laughter is sweet, but soft and cautious. The moist heat of his whisper floods my ear, "I've been inside you." My heart pounds in my breast, louder and faster than I knew it could, and a shrill painful ringing once again fills my head. "And I, you..." Gita's inhuman purr vibrates inside the car. I gasp for air, as I catch her reflection in the rearview mirror. She sits, her skin alight, her eyes liquid warmth -- her serene smile stolen from The Madonna -- arms cradling a swaddled scarlet bundle, as mine tremble cold and empty. A pearly drop of milk spills from her bared swollen nipple, but I know no cathartic tug at mine as she bends to him. She is nursing the heir to the throne. There is a strange hand stroking my hair. "I don't think you should be alone," he says. I realize the car has stopped. I am shaking my head, as much to escape his touch as in answer. "I'm not... I won't be," I whisper soberly, fumbling for the door handle, eyes fixed on the empty backseat reflected in the rearview mirror. My words thank him for the ride. My mind curses his every breath. A bitter hollow inward laugh stirs in my chest as I leave the car, reflecting on the name I'd so shamefully bestowed on this man, on this stranger, for the night. Alpha. I had no right to do so. Some ugly unforgiving part of me, takes over... and I let it. Some guilty self-loathing part of me, is playing this game to lose. * * * The dull sting between my legs seems insufficient penance, as I ascend the steps to our front door. I hate this game. A cheerless victory, this: a tragic Homeric homecoming. Though my war is over, my mortal soul returned to me at last, the casualties were too many, the price far too great. My heart may be beating in human rhythm again, inside my chest where it has not been for far too many long and tortured years, but -- devoid of longing, hope, and promise -- it can serve me no real use. My key slides into the lock with a quiet familiar click. I no longer fear what awaits me on the other side of this door. What I know for certain, is -- good or bad, hard or simple, better or worse -- it will feel like home. .................................................................. I do not know when we were torn, heart from head and soul from body -- he and I. I do know that my battle has to end here. I know too, that when his battle is done, he will recognize my face. He will know me, and he will see that I have returned. I will weep against his chest and, once again, I'll find true comfort there. With our bloodied white flags in hand, at long last, we will grieve... knowing we are both, beyond any willful doubt, shamefully to blame. Our kingdom, with its deadened absentee ruler (staining his name, breaking his code) and its restless jaded queen (whoring for scraps, defiling the throne), had not been fit to receive him; its long awaited heir. I know one day, strong again, together we will wash away these... our cruelest truths. .................................................................. I've come home in a whiskey-soaked dress. He sits in the kitchen. There are no questions about my journey. There are no answers about his. His lips are closed. His tongue is silent. His heart is human and beating. His eyes and arms are open. He is Alpha -- my one, my only -- and he is strange and beautiful. I cannot deconstruct him, though all the forces of good and evil know how desperately I've tried, but I keep trying because I know I'll find the best of me in and among the pieces. "Hungry...?" His voice vibrates inside my chest, instead of being taken in by my ears or processed by my brain. I smile. This one is genuine. I want to know him, again. I want to know his name. * * * *