From: Adey Kelly To: 'sadwank@onelist.com' Subject: [sadwank] FF: sod it, I'll post and be damned Date: Thursday, April 29, 1999 01:49 From: Adey Kelly I'm not going to be able to get to a computer tonight after all (bloody work! ) so I'll send this (slightly earlier) version along. This *hasn't* been edited, so all errors and so on are entirely my fault. I'd hoped to un-purple some of the prose (and finish the sex scene) before posting but this'll have to do. Once again, apologies for my unreliability in this matter. Sorry. Blame my inability to manage time efficiently (and the demands of nekkid detectives). cheers kel =========== TITLE Forbidden Fruit sequel (chapter 2) AUTHOR kel RATING NC-17, f/f, L, C/D themes SUMMARY A little night music FOR Tracey "het? what's het?" M. & all at Sadwank COMMENTS Incomplete (original structure was to be continuation of sex scene after interlude with the Doctor in the TARDIS); also un-beta'd (zero out of four edits complete) === Club? Hardly that; a dark, smoky room, carpeted with the lost, the lush and the lusting. Peri stands for a minute in the doorway, feels the old, young-girl Bad Place reflexes melt before the all-encompassing Need. Feels, somewhere, the wrongness, the alienness of this dissatisfaction, but cannot remember why; lingering trepidation stifled before it can properly be born. And in that moment knows she need not be powerless. She knows only she needs; and what she needs; does not question why. The girl at the bar; woman, really - dark shape in the already dark room, a little pocket of black and white, angles, curves, attention. Awareness. Peri can feel the link between them, already; and walks, slowly, the invisible line between them. No alternatives. As she pushes her way through the crowd, skirting or parting the couples sullenly embracing, she knows she has been noticed, feels it; in the intervals of vision sees an empty stool, where none had been before, and takes it; crosses her legs, and faces the room, and watches from the corner of her eye. Strong, compact body, hard and clean-lined, cased in dark, supple leather; thick, chestnut curls, poised on her shoulder like a cat about to strike; the woman turns clear, wide eyes to her, briefly, and looks, openly and hard at Peri's dishevelment; her hair, disarrayed and tangled, lips swollen and parted, and the marks of passion visible on neck and thigh. Bites her own full lower lip, gently, thoughtfully, and studies Peri with insolent surety. Peri keeps her eyes on the wreaths of smoke dancing near the ceiling. "Waiting for someone?" Indifferent; casual; in no doubt of the answer Peri doesn't bother to give. The woman runs an elegant, black-gloved hand through her hair and turns, slightly; black-clad, skin-tight legs hooked casually under the rungs of the stool. Cocks her head to one side, studies the way the smoky neon lights the stretched ridges of Peri's dress, the way it draws attention to the barely contained flesh beneath the stretched material, the way her every movement pulls at it. Peri leans back, both elbows on the bar, hard ridge of tender nipple rising at the chafe, knowing she's not the only one who's noticed. The woman turns away, again; sips lightly at her drink and puts it down, long fingers playing a thoughtful tattoo on the rim; every line of her body breathing determination, excitement and reluctance overcome. "How much?" And Peri just turns her head, slowly, and smiles. So easy. The barman, close by and listening, raises a pierced eyebrow. The woman nods, quietly, and takes the tiny key he slides onto her coaster. She stands, surveys the room, and walks away, slowly, surely. And Peri follows; enjoying the way the crowd parts before them as they thread their way past the carousing and the cursing, the drunk and the damned, past threadbare pool tables and torn posters of forgotten bands, to a small, dark door. And through it, and up the suddenly silent darkness of a dirty, narrow staircase, winding up and round, and past another small, dark, door, and another, and more. Not safe, not friendly, but perfect. And Peri laughs, shockingly loud against the muted bass thudding from below. "What a dump." And the woman stops, turns back slightly, shadowed eyes unreadable, looking past Peri, through Peri. "You don't speak." And the soft menace in her voice rekindles the burning inside, white-hot at the base of Peri's spine. And she turns back, and walks again; and Peri stands for a moment, watches the play of dark yellow light upon the other's curls, the suggestive swaying of her hair across the dark leather, and imagines it playing across her own body, as she knows it will, as it must; imagines the soft skin beneath, and her own below that. Watches the sure movement of muscle beneath the tight, constricting leather jeans, and thinks there's something of the wilderness in the way she moves, step by step, sure, silent and catlike; and in that instant Peri knows she will be owned, and smiles secretly, and follows. And another landing, the last; they stop, and the woman turns as Peri steps up, stands almost invisible against dark, heavy wood and simply watches as she draws near. Peri slows, knowing how the shadows play across her body as the dress pulls here and here with the effort of ascension; knowing the effect of white flesh stark in the gloom, drawing the eye to hidden darkness, begging imagination. As they draw level their eyes meet, and again she allows that clear gaze to fix on hers, and looks back, openly, defiantly, with equal insolence, and is rewarded with a quickly bitten indrawn breath, and a faint smile showing only in the eyes. "Name?" And Peri shakes her head, a little. "Good girl." And the stranger laughs, unlocks the door, one-handed, stands back a little and nods that Peri should enter. And Peri steps forward, finds her way blocked suddenly by one strong, black-clad arm; feels curls on her shoulder and warm breath on her neck as the other leans in; feels the back of one leathered finger stroke slowly down the side of her face. And she doesn't turn, doesn't look; doesn't move at the whispered words "Last chance, little one..." And Peri says nothing; waits; watches the arm fall away, slowly and walks into the darkness. ===== Peri stands, in the middle of the room; eyes adjusting gradually to the darkness. She looks around at the cramped, bare space. A room of shadowed corners, emptiness lit by intermittent red neon crawling through the window and vanishing. A desk, a futon; black, squat boxes, a laptop; nothing here to say anything about the owner. The woman walks past her, sure in the gloom; switches on a tiny, black lamp on top of the desk; tiny black lamp emitting a tiny, dark gold glow that makes the room seem warmer and crueller. Peri shifts, hears the crackle of paper and looks down at a small, untidy pile of unopened envelopes of varying age. She can barely read the name, in this light, can't help but want to know. It seems vital, suddenly -- the name of her tormentor, her owner. D... D something... A viciously high-heeled foot slams down over the envelope, startling her. "Dorothee. " Peri looks up to find the other inches away; not angry, amused. "Nosy little thing, aren't you? Dorothee laughs, kicks the letters away into a corner, into the deep blackness of shadow under a large, black shape, a lethal, unforgiving shape that slowly resolves into a sleek, black motorbike, propped incongruously against the wall. She steps in, slowly until they are face to face; waits, let the silence encompass both of them, lets it become unbearable, before speaking. "Look at you." Dorothee moves closer, leans in; traces a slow, cruel line with one black-gloved finger from below Peri's left breast to her collarbone, and up; circling the nipple on the way, tilting her head back. Not hard; undisobeyable. Her hunger is almost tangible; but she won't give in, not yet. Peri knows this, somehow, and wonders dimly how that can be; and finds the answer in her own response to this unbearable delay. Finds delight in the torture of the others' hair brushing her bruised and bitten shoulders as she leans in, breathes in the scent of Peri's skin; the scent of Joel on Peri's skin. Her hand retraces its route, downwards; traces lightly the line of stretched material across Peri's breasts, and down, wandering across abdomen and thigh, and round; full palm over the small of Peri's back, and down; cupping her buttocks, gently; just resting. Her eyes never leave Peri's; she reads every reaction, and smiles, secure in an aura of restraint, heat, and ownership. Peri shivers as one finger hooks gently under the hem of her dress, crooks gently and slides round, circumnavigates until it reaches hidden dampness; jumps as it rests, touches; stills -- this far, no further. No further, yet. And Dorothee smiles, cruelly. "You've been with someone." And it's not enough, it's maddening; and Peri moves, involuntarily, gasps at the touch of leather on her burning, wet flesh; the hand withdrawn shockingly fast, and her chin grasped, held gently but firmly. Very, very firmly. The heat of the other's fingers, muted through the soft black leather, mingles with the scent of her own arousal, and she cannot help but moan. Dorothee laughs, and lets go, with one last squeeze; reaches down and under again and flicks Peri's clitoris, hard. "Wash." And pushes Peri gently, towards the only other door in the room, half a metre away; follows as she stumbles and regains her balance, watching as Peri opens the door, fumbles in the darkness for a switch and finds it, producing dim, yellow light. A shower alcove, a mirror, nothing more; a once-pale testament to the powers of entropy and neglect. Dorothee reaches past her, turns on the taps, yanks the tattered shower curtain to one side, then leans lazily against the doorframe, arms folded expectantly. Peri, unsure, steps out of her shoes and places them gently to one side; reaches for the hem of her dress and begins to lift it off. "No." Dorothee reaches out, pushes Peri gently. "As you are." That power again. And Peri obeys, without question; revelling in the absurdity. Steps in, under the water, restraining the urge to laugh as the warm streams find her skin and run in soaking rivulets down her body; the material resisting at first, then staining and stretching at the power of the streams; the dress clinging to her even more tightly, giving definition to every curve, every line. She revels in it, closes her eyes and pulls sodden hair back from her face; gives in to the sensation, conscious only of the water and the watching. She knows how she must look; knows how starkly the wet black cloth contrasts with the tiles behind her; turns, stretches, smiles at the obvious change in Dorothee's breathing as light and water illustrates her body; mons, breast, buttock, nipple, thigh. She raises her hands to the low-cut neckline, pulls it away and out, allows streams to form and run underneath; laughs at their passage, the way the water pools between her flushed breasts, the way it forces its way down, stretching and distorting the restraining cloth, teasing at her already aroused flesh. Without being told, she reaches for the soap, the one clean thing in this torrid little room, and begins to slide it over her skin. Arms, legs, neck first, then underneath, hidden. She understands all too well the power of the hidden; spends a long time, soaping... a measure of revenge, perhaps; lets the slow streams of bubbles that emerge and slide from under cloth to bare flesh tell their own story, and dares to look up, watch Dorothee's face, and knows that she understands right, that she has done well. And dares, as the water runs clear; she grows bolder; drops the soap; kicks it into the corner and lets the play of fingers against her own flesh move from practical to provoking. Over the sodden, shining dress, of course; strokes herself, plays lightly over curves, brings hidden folds into relief, and watches Dorothee; lets her breathing become ragged and teasing; watches the involuntary way in which Dorothee's own hands begin to move, involuntarily over her own body, the way she catches herself and stills, the tracing of one black-gloved finger along her lower lip the only sign she allows herself to give, testament to arousal, irritation, impatience; until it all gets too much and she explodes into action, wrenches the taps off and pulls Peri bodily from the alcove. Pulls Peri, triumphant and powerful, back into the other room; pushes her stumbling and wet across the floor to the futon, and pushes her down. Pushes her down, hard and straddles her; hands tangled hard in her long, wet hair and pinning her down for a cruel, desperate kiss, open-mouthed and wet and desperate for control. And Peri fights back, in her own way; tangles her own hands deep in those long, thick curls and pulls Dorothee close, biting gently, and not-so gently; hooks one hand in her dress and pulls it up, over her hips and out of Dorothee's sight, drives her hands hard along the other's hips, and down, and back, tearing at the skin-tight bodysuit and cursing as it refuses to yield. "Oh, no you don't, little one." And Dorothee pulls back, and laughs; shrugs off the heavy jacket and lets it puddle to the floor beside her, leaning into Peri's fingers as they seize and trace patterns on her confined breasts. Laughs again and seizes Peri's wrists, pressing them to the bed. So strong. Peri resists the urge to protest; it's not painful. Not quite. And Dorothee slides down, backwards and down; pins Peri's hands beside her hips and leaves them, doesn't need to say don't move, it's understood. Traces gently along Peri's neckline, water from Peri's skin staining her gloved fingertips, fingertips hooked suddenly, violently into the cloth and pulling, so the dress tears with a strangely muted harshness, tears and peels apart from collar to navel. She bends her head to the exposed flesh, the softness of her mouth unbearably hot over the chilled hardness of Peri's aching, frustrated nipples; tongues and bites, gently, smiling at the involuntary moans Peri gives forth at her touch. First one, then the other, and back, hands working the rounded flesh beneath hard, squeezing and touching. Using. And Peri's first instinct is to bring her hands up, but the slightest movement brings the play of teeth, sharp, hard teeth; not unwelcome, but there are limits, so she obeys. Still. Receiving. And Dorothee slides down, bodysuit dampened and clinging, now, until she is kneeling on the floor, black-gloved fingers wide and powerful on Peri's thighs, holding them apart as her lips and teeth trace the sensitive line of misshapen material and heated flesh, and down; tugging at damp and curling hair over lips already parted and ready. She looks up, briefly; catches and holds Peri's gaze, feral smile lighting her words. ===== Meanwhile, back at the TARDIS,... ============== Into The Bill? Then visit the Jasmine Alley http://www.wcs.net.au/~bessie/sunhill/sunhill.htm Your only online source of Sun Hill Slash Latest uploads: "Touch Me In The Morning" (Boyden/Monroe) by Sandi NC17 "Clean-Up Rate" (Carver/Skase) by Sandi NC17 "Coming to Terms" (Skase/Other) by Phutty NC17 Coming May 1-7: "Cat-Walk" (Skase/Loxton) by Claire NC17 "Compadre" (Carver/Beech) by kel NC17 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Did you know that you can now set up a shared calendar to post events of interest to your community? http://www.onelist.com Check out our homepage for details.