Todestrieb
"I should probably pack," you manage to say. You even smile as you add, "I can't wear the same pair of panties every day, can I?" Those striped ones, with your mom's
it's like a bad movie. How does one end such an abnormal conversation? With normalcy, you suppose.
"Thank you for your help, Dr. Fay. I'll schedule an appointment when I'm back."
It's almost like leaving for Christmas break.
"Anna," she says very quietly. You turn around. "Your tickets, sweetheart." She said "sweetheart" like she meant it. You bite your lip as you take the small envelope from her hand. "Your flight is at 9:30 in the morning. We've arranged for a taxi to take you to the airport so you don't have to worry any more than you have to. Godspeed, Anna. I look forward to seeing you again."
"Thank you, Dr. Fay."
Crossing the windswept quad, your tiredness melts slowly into a strange sort of anxiety. What you feel is an acute sense of emptiness, something that must be filled immediately. You must be filled. You close your eyes for a moment. Opening them again, you are at the street corner. So is he.
"Anna!" he proclaims. "You deserted me during my dissertation today!" When you don't immediately respond, his manner turns on a dime. "Everything okay?" he almost whispers.
"Would Sigmund like to take a study break in my apartment? I'm afraid I don't have any coke, but there is a coffee machine."
You barely hear his answer when you start walking again towards your apartment. He is coming home with you and you are going to sleep together. Not even 24 hours ago, you were fantasizing, wondering what would happen if the air above your groping hands suddenly became his back. Now it really will be his back, and you will scratch your nails down it until he howls. He must fill you; he has no other option. The air between you is electric, and he knows that you know that he knows that something is wrong, but you have tacitly agreed not to mention it. You are at the door to your studio. He smiles a little nervously, saying stupidly,
"I hope I'm not imposing on your plans."
"What plans? I'm going home tomorrow for awhile."
"You are?" Again, a silence. You shut and lock the door behind you. He trips over your whiskey bottle on his way into the room.
"You can put that in your coffee if you can scrape any off the sides." He laughs, shaking his head at you and taking a seat on the edge of your bed. You turn away from him, shakily pouring some coffee grounds into a filter, turning on the machine. Your face is on fire. The empty feeling has spread its way up through your body, into your head. The pressure of the air threatens to crush you at any second if you don't fill up the void immediately. Some time passes vaguely, silently.
"That took forever, didn't it?" you say, handing him a shaking cup and taking a seat on a chair after kicking off the pile of pants on top of it. You pull it close, across from him. He's on your bed. He is sitting there on your bed, putting that precise weight on it for which it has been calibrated, expectantly. You gaze boldly at him. Straight black hair, green eyes, a square, firm build. He smiles, at first nervously. Then he seems to remember that he has green eyes and a firm build, and he says with a sly smile,
"Ja, und Frau O'Hagerty, was do you come here for on zees kalt day?"
"Frau O'Hagerty!" you exclaim hysterically, a gunshot going off in your ear. That's the ancient sound, the horn at the beginning of the fox hunt, the start of the race. With a mechanical motion, you tip your coffee cup directly over your lap.
There is that thrilling moment of expectation that has always entranced you. Like in the movies, just after the person has been shot, but before the blood appears. The damage is done, but they are still alive, standing just as they were before. But time is running out very, very quickly. You breathe in sharply, and then it is there, a merciless stinging all over your legs, and between your legs. Steam rises from your lap as you gasp through the agony. You look over at him. His eyes are saucerwide staring at your smoking crotch.
You stand up, taking a little step forward so that your knees are almost touching. You quickly remove your jeans, revealing your scalded red legs.
"Kiss it and make it better," you whisper through tears, pressing your legs against his, moving your hands through that crowlike black hair. He looks up at you with a steady gaze, his green eyes scrutinizing you. Then, slowly, he touches his lips gingerly to the angry red blemish on the front of your right thigh. His burning lips make you shiver, and you grasp onto his shoulder with the other hand, attempting to steady yourself. Gently, he runs his tongue up and up until it hits against the seam of your coffee-soaked striped panties. You grip him more tightly, whimpering a little with the pain of the heat on top of heat. The green eyes look up at you again, but you look away, pushing his face towards your dripping center. The carpet below you is badly stained. He breathes in deeply, lightly hitting against your mound with his nose. Then he begins to suck from underneath, hungrily pulling out all of the coffee and everything else that begins to pool between your legs. One hand grips clawlike at your backside while the other begins to pull at the seams of your striped panties. You arch your head back, letting out a long, low moan. Suddenly, he has wrapped the elastic of your underwear around his fingers and with a deft, harsh movement, he rips them from your body. You stare down in shock as they lie there on the floor, your torn coffee-stained striped panties, mom's gift to you. Your eyes flood suddenly with tears. You stare him fiercely in the eyes. Then you turn your hand sideways and slap him hard across the cheek.
"That was my favorite pair of panties," you cry out at him, feeling suddenly like a child who has just had her blue balloon wrested from her hands, watching in desperation as it drifts away into the heavens.
He looks up at you with genuine confusion, his moist lips hung in suspension.
"I don't know what's happened to you today," he manages after a moment. "Perhaps we shouldn't be doing this. I feel like I'm hurting you."
Your lips tremble and for a moment you think you might faint.
"Thank you for your help, Dr. Fay. I'll schedule an appointment when I'm back."
It's almost like leaving for Christmas break.
"Anna," she says very quietly. You turn around. "Your tickets, sweetheart." She said "sweetheart" like she meant it. You bite your lip as you take the small envelope from her hand. "Your flight is at 9:30 in the morning. We've arranged for a taxi to take you to the airport so you don't have to worry any more than you have to. Godspeed, Anna. I look forward to seeing you again."
"Thank you, Dr. Fay."
Crossing the windswept quad, your tiredness melts slowly into a strange sort of anxiety. What you feel is an acute sense of emptiness, something that must be filled immediately. You must be filled. You close your eyes for a moment. Opening them again, you are at the street corner. So is he.
"Anna!" he proclaims. "You deserted me during my dissertation today!" When you don't immediately respond, his manner turns on a dime. "Everything okay?" he almost whispers.
"Would Sigmund like to take a study break in my apartment? I'm afraid I don't have any coke, but there is a coffee machine."
You barely hear his answer when you start walking again towards your apartment. He is coming home with you and you are going to sleep together. Not even 24 hours ago, you were fantasizing, wondering what would happen if the air above your groping hands suddenly became his back. Now it really will be his back, and you will scratch your nails down it until he howls. He must fill you; he has no other option. The air between you is electric, and he knows that you know that he knows that something is wrong, but you have tacitly agreed not to mention it. You are at the door to your studio. He smiles a little nervously, saying stupidly,
"I hope I'm not imposing on your plans."
"What plans? I'm going home tomorrow for awhile."
"You are?" Again, a silence. You shut and lock the door behind you. He trips over your whiskey bottle on his way into the room.
"You can put that in your coffee if you can scrape any off the sides." He laughs, shaking his head at you and taking a seat on the edge of your bed. You turn away from him, shakily pouring some coffee grounds into a filter, turning on the machine. Your face is on fire. The empty feeling has spread its way up through your body, into your head. The pressure of the air threatens to crush you at any second if you don't fill up the void immediately. Some time passes vaguely, silently.
"That took forever, didn't it?" you say, handing him a shaking cup and taking a seat on a chair after kicking off the pile of pants on top of it. You pull it close, across from him. He's on your bed. He is sitting there on your bed, putting that precise weight on it for which it has been calibrated, expectantly. You gaze boldly at him. Straight black hair, green eyes, a square, firm build. He smiles, at first nervously. Then he seems to remember that he has green eyes and a firm build, and he says with a sly smile,
"Ja, und Frau O'Hagerty, was do you come here for on zees kalt day?"
"Frau O'Hagerty!" you exclaim hysterically, a gunshot going off in your ear. That's the ancient sound, the horn at the beginning of the fox hunt, the start of the race. With a mechanical motion, you tip your coffee cup directly over your lap.
There is that thrilling moment of expectation that has always entranced you. Like in the movies, just after the person has been shot, but before the blood appears. The damage is done, but they are still alive, standing just as they were before. But time is running out very, very quickly. You breathe in sharply, and then it is there, a merciless stinging all over your legs, and between your legs. Steam rises from your lap as you gasp through the agony. You look over at him. His eyes are saucerwide staring at your smoking crotch.
You stand up, taking a little step forward so that your knees are almost touching. You quickly remove your jeans, revealing your scalded red legs.
"Kiss it and make it better," you whisper through tears, pressing your legs against his, moving your hands through that crowlike black hair. He looks up at you with a steady gaze, his green eyes scrutinizing you. Then, slowly, he touches his lips gingerly to the angry red blemish on the front of your right thigh. His burning lips make you shiver, and you grasp onto his shoulder with the other hand, attempting to steady yourself. Gently, he runs his tongue up and up until it hits against the seam of your coffee-soaked striped panties. You grip him more tightly, whimpering a little with the pain of the heat on top of heat. The green eyes look up at you again, but you look away, pushing his face towards your dripping center. The carpet below you is badly stained. He breathes in deeply, lightly hitting against your mound with his nose. Then he begins to suck from underneath, hungrily pulling out all of the coffee and everything else that begins to pool between your legs. One hand grips clawlike at your backside while the other begins to pull at the seams of your striped panties. You arch your head back, letting out a long, low moan. Suddenly, he has wrapped the elastic of your underwear around his fingers and with a deft, harsh movement, he rips them from your body. You stare down in shock as they lie there on the floor, your torn coffee-stained striped panties, mom's gift to you. Your eyes flood suddenly with tears. You stare him fiercely in the eyes. Then you turn your hand sideways and slap him hard across the cheek.
"That was my favorite pair of panties," you cry out at him, feeling suddenly like a child who has just had her blue balloon wrested from her hands, watching in desperation as it drifts away into the heavens.
He looks up at you with genuine confusion, his moist lips hung in suspension.
"I don't know what's happened to you today," he manages after a moment. "Perhaps we shouldn't be doing this. I feel like I'm hurting you."
Your lips tremble and for a moment you think you might faint.