Pierced
We are at daggers drawn. A new outrage, and I’m angry enough to drive to his house and confront him. My brilliant, difficult, employee. No respect.
He opens his door. Since leaving the gallery, he’s changed. Slipped into something less comfortable. The shock of his appearance slices off my anger. I had no idea. He stands, neither embarrassed, nor wanting admiration. Letting me make of it what I will. So arrogant, my opinion does not matter.
The sight of his halter-neck dress catches me by the throat. He leads. I follow oyster-flesh satin, two shades lighter than his skin. A backless dress for a compelling back, broadcasting warmth and softness, the line of his spine a groove, a track for a finger. Stilettos strike the marble floor. Mine. His.
A slit to his thigh, a dress made for falling away. His leg as long and slim and toned as a cabaret dancer’s. His shoe the plum-stain of his mouth, that satin shoe with an arch so high I feel it pushing the sole of his foot. The sweeping curve of heel. The ankle strapped tight with a sliver-thin foil of diamonds. The knife-point toe. I stare at his shoe and it cuts me open.
His hair is his own short black hair, lacquered to arrows at his cheeks. His lips are the colour of decadence, a purpled love-bite red. Bare collar-bones like swords pressing through soft sheaths. Before, I was immune, although he tried. I turn men down. It never works. I have a problem.
His eyes are now precious in their new setting of shadow. Lashes thick and false, a stretched, expanded fan on a fat thread, the blink is the flick of resting butterflies. With his artificial eyes he sees into me, and he knows my skin feels brushed by wings. “You can touch, as well,” he says.
Smooth and body-hot, his silk shakes me. My palms stroke down the breastless flat of his chest. He is not like a woman, not even trying for female. Feeling flesh and heat slipping through satin makes me hard in a way I’d thought male.
Strong hands strip me to my own silk. Their raised virile veins and dark glossed nails so sharp a contrast, it shaves off my dead, resistant layers. His not-quite drag drags desire to my pared surface. Then touch is near pain. He is a weapon, shaped especially for my unfeeling. He is a honed steel edge, scraping away, ceaseless.
Our shoes collide. His polished dress sliding between my thighs makes them stretch. Both he and the lethal beauty he has made are inside me. Weight traps my response, writhing, wounding. Tearing to tears. Hardness grows. I had no shield for a mirror. Now I fill with stones and serpents. I cannot contain.
Hands lock on my wrists. Nails spear. Motion concentrates emotion. He cries out too, tells me I am not worshipping alone.
When the miracle happens, it goes to my heart like a blade.
Copyright © 2006 by Lisa Sandys. All rights reserved.
Lisa is a writer from London and has had many articles and stories published in magazines and newspapers in the UK.
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