Disclaimer: I don't know how this could POSSIBLY matter anymore, but I don't own 'em and I'm not making any money here.
Warning: RATED NC-17 FOR SMUT!
Author's Note: This one was inspired by my muse, Mandy. I'll say it again - without her Ginger would have never existed.
A Final Word: Plot? We don't need no stinking plot!
 

The Mistake

by Ginger

I am here for one reason and one reason only: to find out exactly what is going on with her. She is different. Oh, she still chases and I run but, three months ago, she abruptly stopped playing the rest of the game - the game we've played for years without interruption - and I need to know why. Is she planning something? Making a break for it, maybe? I really need to know. It could be dangerous. She could get hurt. Sometimes she acts without thinking first.

I need to know what has drawn her to a coffee house in the East Village in New York City on a Sunday evening in late May, so I follow her here and watch her go inside. I suppose it could be as simple as having an evening out; maybe she has a date. Come to think of it, given her attire, that is a distinct possibility. If so then there's a lucky man sitting in that coffee shop, luckier than he'll ever realize because she'll never let him truly get to know her. And since I'm here, I think I'll go have a look at Mr. Lucky.

It's now dark and the street is fairly crowded so I figure it's safe to approach the door to steal a peek inside. If I have to, I can easily turn tail and disappear quickly into the sea of people flowing toward St. Marks. The door is propped open and there's a flyer tacked to it. I am both surprised and intrigued when I read:

Welcome to Jo-Jo's! TONIGHT ONLY: Readings from the winners of our Fourth Annual Erotic Fiction Contest!

My lips curl into a smirk. My, my, it would seem that she's developed a taste for genre fiction. I did send her that romance novel a few years back. Perhaps it piqued her interest. I cautiously poke my head inside and scan the moderately sized crowd. I spot her, seated alone at a table near a small platform at the front of the room. A waitress approaches and she places an order. I decide to take a chance and slip into the back of the room, feeling decidedly upbeat at the prospect of using her choice of entertainment this evening to torment her later on. Even if she manages to spot me tonight, she'll know that I know and it will make her crazy. Then she'll have to respond. She won't be able to ignore me anymore.

It occurs to me that I must be smiling because everyone who passes smiles back. And this is New York. After a couple minutes, a petite young woman with close cropped, jet black hair and wire rim glasses steps onto the platform and welcomes everyone. She explains that we'll be hearing the stories (in the order she lists them) that took third, second and first place in the competition. She goes on to thank the authors for being willing to submit their brilliant, exciting work, and for being brave enough to share it personally with the audience.

She then introduces the third-place author, a woman of a certain age with a warm, kind face. She looks like someone's mother and may very well be. Not the kind of person one would necessarily associate with erotic fiction but if there's one thing I've learned out here, it's that looks can be deceiving. Her story is set in Victorian London, which is a fairly common setting for this type of thing. I recall puzzling over that fact when I did a little research into the topic before writing my own magnum opus, "The Saddest Little Valentine." I concluded at the time that it was all about escape. Setting a story in the past heightens the element of fantasy; the presence of gaslight and carriages and corsets takes the reader away from the everyday.

The next author to read, a brooding young man who appears to be in late adolescence, takes a different approach. Set in the present, his tale is all about creatures of the night - vampires, werewolves, demons - and the men and women who love them. Black leather factors heavily in the narrative and I raise an eyebrow, wondering if she's particularly enjoying this one. It doesn't quite do it for me, though, as any mention of monsters tends to evoke the image of the people who raised me. With that thought comes a shudder. I realize that I'm wrinkling my nose so I quickly fashion my face into a neutral expression. The kid is up there doing his best, after all.

He finishes and the mistress of ceremonies once again steps in front of the mic to announce that this year's first-place author is new to the competition. Not bad, I think, silently addressing this as-yet-unseen individual. Way to go. The unanticipated turn this evening has taken makes me feel more cheerful than I have in ages. I glance over at the table. If she was expecting someone, he hasn't joined her yet. I'm smiling again. I'm playing our future telephone conversation in my head and I'm smiling. I'll tease, she'll threaten, and everything will be back to normal.

As she did with the others, our host announces the prize winning author by *first* name only. My smile evaporates. It is not an especially rare name and therefore it is entirely possible that there could be more than one in the room. And yet even before she rises from her seat, I know this isn't the case. Shock doesn't begin to convey what I'm feeling but it will have to do. And I am not sure what shocks me more: that someone has uttered her first name aloud without any apparent fear of death; or that she's calmly stepping onto the platform and smiling modestly in response to the applause.

She gracefully glides onto the stool and crosses her legs then deftly adjusts the mic in front of her. Clearing her throat discreetly she glances in the direction of the management and announces that, if nobody minds, she would prefer to recite her story from memory rather than read it. They appear a bit surprised by her request but nod graciously in assent.

The room is quiet and all eyes are trained on her. She is wearing a black dress and her hair is swept softly up and away from her face. There is a diamond, as sharp and strong as she is, dangling in the milky canyon created by the plunging neckline. Her ivory legs are bare from where the hem of her dress falls - above the knee of course - to the black leather straps circling her ankles. She is a study in stark contrast and she is stunning.

Suddenly I am frightened and a part of me thinks I should not be here, but she starts to speak again, to recite her story, and I know that I will not leave. Since she has stopped playing our game, I no longer have her voice in the dark. I sleep even less than I did before, and that is not a good thing. I need to hear that smoky timbre and I need to hear the words that have won her a prize. I need the thing that has remained a constant struggle since I ran away. I need to understand her.

Her voice, so smooth and deep, flows through the room and flutters like a caress around everyone and everything in it. I am only surprised by my lack of surprise that the man she describes is me. The woman, of course, is her. She tells us that they are no good for each other and that they are doomed but that none of it matters because, in the end, they cannot avoid their fate. They are each other's fatal flaw.

When she describes their encounters, her words are harsh and her tone clipped. She refers to it as fucking or mating because it is all about instinct, a biological imperative. It is not sweet and it is not easy, but they can no more do without each other than air or water or food. They are not a happy couple; they are animals doing what animals do. Like eating and shitting and killing and dying. Those are her words not mine.

The room feels too warm and I am aware that my mouth is painfully dry. I swallow again and again but it doesn't help. The knot in the pit of my stomach tightens as she recounts their insatiable hunger for one another, which ultimately leads to their undoing. It is violent and painful and final, and I can feel my eyes sting with tears as her words pour into me. I picture everything clearly. I picture us. Her words and her voice make it so easy. Besides, it is hardly the first time.

* * * *

One of the many things I like about staying at a smaller, boutique-style hotel is that there are less people around. I am the only one on the elevator when it stops a couple floors up from the lobby. When the door opens, I look directly into his red rimmed eyes and manage to maintain an even expression. With a slight nod, I step to the side to give him room to enter.

He must have arrived either right before or at the same time I did. He wouldn't risk having us seen together in the lobby, of course, and opted to take the stairs for the first few flights. I am a little surprised; I expected to find him in my room. He left the coffee house a solid hour before I did so he must not have come here straightaway. Maybe he tried to talk himself out of it. I am forced to stifle a smile at that thought.

When we reach my floor, I hand him the room key and step out of the elevator. I am not prone to cliched, cinematic gestures but I just feel like it tonight. He is exactly one pace behind me as I make my way down the carpeted hallway. I herald our arrival at my door by spinning around and leaning against the molding of the doorway then watch as he unlocks it, thinking I can detect the slightest hint of a tremble in his fingers. He pushes open the door then steps back to allow me to enter first. We are being very continental this evening.

I toss my bag on a table inside the door and head for one of the lamps next to the sofa, switching it on as I hear the door close and lock behind me. Then I make a beeline for the mini bar and pour us each a straight whiskey. I turn to find him seated stiffly on the sofa, the tension in his shoulders visible as he glowers. I pace over to him and hand him a glass without asking if he wants it then knock mine back with one gulp. He does the same and, even though I know it's got to burn like hell, he doesn't flinch. Ah, I think, tough guy.

I set my empty glass down on the end table and he does the same. Then I just stand in front of him with my arms folded at my chest, my right hip jutting out slightly, and wait. We've come this far but it's up to him to make the final leg of the journey. I'm through with games and I'm done asking what he wants from me. It's time for him to show me.

His hand rises so slowly to hook around the belt of my dress that I gasp in surprise when he gives it a violent jerk. I lose my balance and, as I stumble forward, he pulls me down roughly. I blink away my surprise to find myself straddling his lap. His hands are on my face immediately, cupping my cheeks. His left thumb drags across my skin to my lips. He presses hard, tracing, bruising and forcing them to part then unhinges my jaw to slip his thumb into my mouth. I bite down and he growls as his other hand slips into my hair. He tugs hard and I can feel it tumble onto my shoulders.

The anger radiates from him. This is finally happening - on my terms - and that infuriates him. This time, he is the one who was lured and manipulated and he hates it. He paws at the belt of my dress to undo the knot and, succeeding, unceremoniously pulls it open. His eyes flash momentarily at the sight of my black lace teddy, but he wastes little time before plunging his hands inside the cups. He plucks fiercely at my breasts, molding and pinching the sensitive flesh, and I can hear the lace tearing. He is not gentle; he hasn't kissed me yet. He is so angry.

I shut him out for three months and that was difficult for him. It was difficult for me too but I had to know if I could stand it. I couldn't. But I also couldn't bear the thought of going back to the status quo, so I had to do something else. I had to do this. Even though I do not believe it will end well, and will more than likely get us killed or worse (because where we come from there are worse things), I had to do this.

My arms continue to hang limply at my sides, quite an achievement for a person not generally known for passivity. I have not touched him yet because I do not think he is ready. So I let him continue his greedy exploration of my body. He is invading, exposing, and has managed to work my dress completely off. It now lies pooled somewhere near his feet. I'm on his lap in a teddy and high heels while he remains fully clothed. I must look like a high class hooker on the job, but I do not care.

I sense his hunger and I revel in it. His hand is in my hair again, twisting and jerking my head back to give him unfettered access to my neck. I feel his lips on my skin for the first time, followed by his tongue then his teeth, and it is sweet torture. He is literally gnawing on my flesh and I know he'll leave marks, but I do not dissuade him. Mark me, I think. Brand me.

He pulls harder on my hair, my back arches, and one strong hand on my back prevents me from tumbling backward as he leans forward. His head drops lower and I feel his mouth close around my left nipple. I cannot control the sounds escaping my throat as he suckles, growling like a hungry lion cub as he moves voraciously from breast to breast either nosing aside or ignoring the ruined silk and lace.

I am completely at his mercy. Were he to let go now, I would fall back onto the floor, perhaps landing on my head. If I landed just right, I could break my neck. And even though I know it is wrong, that thought excites me. My fingernails dig into the upholstery. It feels like flying.

His hand leaves my hair and moves lower, lower, lower, until I feel it sliding between my legs and think yes, please God, yes. His low moan vibrates throughout my body as he slips his fingers beneath wet silk and lace to feel the effect he is having upon me. He parts and prods and strokes my flesh, and I emit small cries with every move he makes. He pinches and I choke back a scream, my body jerking against him. That is the moment he chooses to slip one finger inside of me. I suck in a sharp breath and he groans against my neck.

A second finger joins the first in exploration and I call out frantically. A third finger stretches me, almost to the point of pain, and pushes me to the edge of madness. He is without pity and I am without shame, and when his fingers abruptly leave my body, I feel so empty that I whimper like a wounded animal.

All is well, though, because he is unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly. His movements are hurried and rough as he struggles to free himself and does so quickly. One hand moves lower on my back to maneuver me into position as the other manages to both pull aside the slick fabric of my teddy and guide the tip of his erection to press against my slippery skin.

The breath I've been holding releases in a hiss as he glides home. He emits a long, slow rumble from deep within his chest and I feel the sound travel, cell by cell, through my body. I open my eyes to meet his and we remain still for a moment. Obliterate me, I plea silently. Make me disappear.

His thumb is hooked in the crotch of my teddy to keep it out of the way, his warm fingers splaying across the top of my thigh. His other hand moves from my back to my hip and, holding me to him, he slides his lower body forward and leans back, allowing me to grasp the back of the sofa for leverage. Then he begins pushing me back, ever so slowly, then pulling me forward. Pushing and pulling. Pushing and pulling. Pushing and pulling.

All I can do is hang on for dear life as he picks up the pace, working my body around his. I bite my lip so hard I break the skin. He swears through gritted teeth as we push, pull, push, pull, push, pull. Our lips have not touched. We are not making love. We are fucking. We are mating.

* * * *

Pink light is slipping into the room through a crack in the drawn curtains. The sun will be up soon. I sit back on my haunches, naked, and watch her in the faint light. Neither of us has let the other sleep more than a half hour but I am trying to exercise a measure of self control.

She looks incomprehensibly beautiful lying beside me, her hair spilling across the pillow, her expression so relaxed and peaceful. She moves and the sheet shifts, exposing one breast. I admire the gentle slope and rosy peak - territory already so familiar after just a few hours - as I watch the gentle rise and fall and count her breaths.

I know she thinks that this moment - our lives, everything - is one big, unavoidable mistake. Maybe she is right. If so then my fate is sealed because I will not stop this. I cannot stop this. I need her like I need air and water and food. I have known this for some time - three months to be exact - but probably suspected it much earlier. When she stopped playing the game I stopped living and merely existed. And now she has forced me to stop playing too.

She opens her eyes slowly and gazes up at me. It occurs to me that we have not uttered a single word to each other all night, nothing coherent anyway. I decide it would be a really good idea to say something, and I'm about to when she turns onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. The sheet falls away completely to expose her other breast and I am temporarily distracted.

I gather my wits and open my mouth to speak when she calmly reaches over and wraps her hand around my penis. I look down and stare dumbly into my lap for a moment then meet her eyes again as she begins stroking. It is a mistake, I think, to dive into this without any thought or discussion of the consequences. Then I stop thinking.

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FIN