"Hey lover," she said, "you're not going to leave me like this, are you?"
"Looks like it," Picus replied as he padded away barefoot on the carpet. Before the introduction of the blindfold, he had noticed a courtesy tray left on the credenza by the front door. "Did you order room service?"
"No, but Wally brought it by anyway."
A folded note. Flowers. A bottle of wine on ice. His fingers touched the paper note. "Who's Wally?" he asked, his mind already working on what was written.
DEAREST GUEST, PLEASE LET US KNOW IF THERE IS ANYTHING WE MAY DO TO PROVIDE YOU A PLEASANT EXPERIENCE AND INDIVIDUAL ATTENTION!
The other starting letters didn't mean anything, so far as the rules were concerned.
"Wally, guy with the bad ankle. You know.. " When he looked back over his shoulder, he found her smiling almost shyly from the chair, one knee on it. "The one who's a lil' sweet on me."
D-A-E-I, then? No, no E. You had to take the starting letters down in a column but only if they were our letters.
Picus crumpled the note in his hand and slipped it away in his trousers pocket. Experience. X. XI.
Martina grinned and gave the cuff another clink. "You're not jealous, are ya?"
"What if I was?"
He wasn't. No. Martina had slept with others at his direction. No matter how they treated women, the dissolute had a strange habit of confiding in them once the act was complete. Never mind they beat them, drugged them, left them to falter and die on their own... they would say anything to a woman afterward and Martina had much to report.
This was business, the good old 'biz' as she put it.
She was watching him now, grin vanished, and the look on her face was almost apprehensive. That was what it looked like to him, apprehension. He would have thought that she wanted him to be jealous of her liaisons with others. Keep him interested. But there was a shadow across her face and her posture balled up slightly, the way she kneeled one leg on the chair, both hands holding the back. She took her lower lip in, and her free hand wandered to her garter.
"I won't do it anymore if you don't want," she said softly then, and the confidence was out of her posture, as though she felt now what she looked like: a half-naked girl cuffed to a chair, exposed, unsure. "If you don't want me to, Ron."
He sensed that she feared for his approval, that she was frustrated sexually, that her mood could plummet if he wasn't careful. He hoped she wouldn't cry or something.
"The information you've brought me has saved a lot of lives, Martina." He maintained eye contact for a moment. She looked away, as the weak did when they locked eyes with the strong. Picus relented; there was no further reason to investigate the room service platter, no further reason to leave a girl waiting.
D-X-I. D, 500. X, 10. I, 1. DXI. Room 511, then.
Picus brought the tray to the bedside table. From it he took the spray of flowers and drew them across Martina's cheek. Her eyes closed at the sensation. Hm, so she would like this. He drew the little flowers in slow circles on her face. He didn't know what they were, some plants. He'd never been good at telling them apart, even when taught, even when evaluated. His instructor let him suffer poison for the better part of a day on a field survival test when he'd eaten the wrong thing. They were just plants to him.
Martina's hold on the chair relaxed and her silky little garment caught the light when she reached out a hand to him, wanting contact.
"I'm going to teach you something," he told her. "I hope you'll never have to use it."
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timeasmymeasure
Girl from Ipanema 3/?
Date: 2012-06-14 03:54 am (UTC)"Hey lover," she said, "you're not going to leave me like this, are you?"
"Looks like it," Picus replied as he padded away barefoot on the carpet. Before the introduction of the blindfold, he had noticed a courtesy tray left on the credenza by the front door. "Did you order room service?"
"No, but Wally brought it by anyway."
A folded note. Flowers. A bottle of wine on ice. His fingers touched the paper note. "Who's Wally?" he asked, his mind already working on what was written.
DEAREST GUEST, PLEASE LET US KNOW IF THERE IS ANYTHING WE MAY DO TO PROVIDE YOU A PLEASANT
EXPERIENCE AND
INDIVIDUAL ATTENTION!
The other starting letters didn't mean anything, so far as the rules were concerned.
"Wally, guy with the bad ankle. You know.. " When he looked back over his shoulder, he found her smiling almost shyly from the chair, one knee on it. "The one who's a lil' sweet on me."
D-A-E-I, then? No, no E. You had to take the starting letters down in a column but only if they were our letters.
Picus crumpled the note in his hand and slipped it away in his trousers pocket. Experience. X. XI.
Martina grinned and gave the cuff another clink. "You're not jealous, are ya?"
"What if I was?"
He wasn't. No. Martina had slept with others at his direction. No matter how they treated women, the dissolute had a strange habit of confiding in them once the act was complete. Never mind they beat them, drugged them, left them to falter and die on their own... they would say anything to a woman afterward and Martina had much to report.
This was business, the good old 'biz' as she put it.
She was watching him now, grin vanished, and the look on her face was almost apprehensive. That was what it looked like to him, apprehension. He would have thought that she wanted him to be jealous of her liaisons with others. Keep him interested. But there was a shadow across her face and her posture balled up slightly, the way she kneeled one leg on the chair, both hands holding the back. She took her lower lip in, and her free hand wandered to her garter.
"I won't do it anymore if you don't want," she said softly then, and the confidence was out of her posture, as though she felt now what she looked like: a half-naked girl cuffed to a chair, exposed, unsure. "If you don't want me to, Ron."
He sensed that she feared for his approval, that she was frustrated sexually, that her mood could plummet if he wasn't careful. He hoped she wouldn't cry or something.
"The information you've brought me has saved a lot of lives, Martina." He maintained eye contact for a moment. She looked away, as the weak did when they locked eyes with the strong. Picus relented; there was no further reason to investigate the room service platter, no further reason to leave a girl waiting.
D-X-I. D, 500. X, 10. I, 1. DXI. Room 511, then.
Picus brought the tray to the bedside table. From it he took the spray of flowers and drew them across Martina's cheek. Her eyes closed at the sensation. Hm, so she would like this. He drew the little flowers in slow circles on her face. He didn't know what they were, some plants. He'd never been good at telling them apart, even when taught, even when evaluated. His instructor let him suffer poison for the better part of a day on a field survival test when he'd eaten the wrong thing. They were just plants to him.
Martina's hold on the chair relaxed and her silky little garment caught the light when she reached out a hand to him, wanting contact.
"I'm going to teach you something," he told her. "I hope you'll never have to use it."
Her eyes opened then with interest.