The Hunt

Inspired in part by, The Pet Shop Boys' Discoteca, and my experiences dancing in discothèques in Europe as a college student.

Night lay thick all around, the city breathed with it, casting its long shadows over pools of light from intermittent streetlights.

She walked swiftly, a bounce of anticipation in her step that set her pale, layered skirt aflutter around her knees. She couldn't wait to get there. It was Friday night and time to dance.

Suddenly, from a shadow came a voice "Excuse me miss, is there a discothèque around here?" Nearly jumping out of her skin, she squinted into the shadows.

He was handsome she thought, in a pale, lean sort of way, dressed so neatly in a crisp button-down shirt and leather jacket. Something about him sent off an alarm in her mind. Drawing back slightly she answered "No, I'm sorry, there isn't. Try down by the waterfront." Turning away she increased her pace, rattled by the encounter.

Later on when the music had taken away all her fears, she danced with rapt abandon and forgot all about the stranger in the road. It was always this way, the beat seeping into her veins, better than any drug, any other thrill, pumping the blood up into her face and making her tingle from head to foot.

He could see her from the dark space in the angle of the stairs. Her feet hit the floor energetically with every beat, and she flipped her skirt up over her knees when the music took hold of her, granting him a flash of shapely thighs and smooth skin.

His eyes gleamed in the darkness above the red ember of his cigarette as he continued to watch her, spinning about. So lovely, her velvety brown skin, slicked with sweat, the swirl of long raven hair, eyes flashing with gypsy spirit. The music, frenetic as always, shifted, became more frenzied, wilder, eliciting an answering response from the dancers on the floor. His eyes never left her form.

Outside, the air was chill, with a taste of winter to come. She tucked the ends of her scarf into the jacket that she'd tossed on over the thin blouse and layered skirt. As always, the dancing had brought on both release and excitement. Though she knew that her body was tired, she felt strangely awake, energized and electric.

She did not hear him gliding along through the shadows behind her, captivated by the light of the swollen three-quarter moon hanging like a pearl in the mouth of an oyster.

It wasn't until she was far away from the lights of the discothèque, halfway between here and nowhere that a slight scuff of his shoe on the pavement alerted her to his presence. A trickle of sweat ran down between her shoulder blades, cold now in the November chill. She quickened her pace knowing that home was still far away.

He did not match her steps, but took another long drag on his cigarette continuing his leisurely but ceaseless pace with the grace of a cat.

She did not hear him now, so she dared a look behind her. At first she saw nothing in the darkness. Then the end of his cigarette glowed in the shadows beyond the streetlight. She knew she was doomed. Her tiny apartment with its red and gold wall-hangings, green plants and cozy futon bed could never be reached in time. Panic seized her by the throat, she turned, half-running now, away from the presence behind her.

He quickened his pace slightly now, not wanting to lose sight of his quarry.

She was too perfect to resist really, a lush bloom, sensual yet innocent all at once. He flicked the cigarette off into the darkness, sliding his hands into his pockets.

He had time, plenty of it. He knew she could not escape him now and he knew that she knew it too.

She was really running now, heels echoing in the empty streets. Tears of fear squeezed from beneath her long eyelashes, streaking her mascara. There were so few lights lit, yet each pool of light carried with it both the promise of security and of revelation: she could see him, but he could see her too. She clung to the shadows instead, as she ran. Blinded now by fear, she could find no open doors, hear no sounds but her feet pounding on the pavement and feel her heart thumping wildly in her chest.

She rounded a corner and nearly bumped into an old man out walking his dog.

He let a violent swear word and glared at her mussed hair and dancing clothes.

"Please sir, please, help me, someone is following me, please will you walk me home?" He shook his head impatiently, pushed her aside and walked away, muttering again beneath his breath. "Whore ..." drifted back to her through the cold night air.

She looked about wildly, trying to hold the terror at bay, think clearly, but no saving grace of logic came. She didn't see him behind her anymore. Maybe he was gone. Maybe her run-in with the old man had scared him off. Tucking her hands under her armpits against the cold, both within and without, she walked on fast, not running.

Tap, tap, tap, sounded her heels on the pavement.

One block.

Two.

Three.

Still no sound of pursuit.

She was so close now, so close, just a few more blocks and the key on the chain around her neck would let her into the safety of her home.

Four.

Five.

She reached the intersection. All was still. The lights changed, slowly, dancing their eternal dance, green, orange, red. Within its frame, the little white walking figure appeared, hanging brightly against the darkness, spelling release that propelled her into the street, across the lines of the crosswalk.

Then she saw him in the archway across the street. She couldn't see his face, but she sensed the smile, the relish, the excitement emanating from him.

He had her.

She froze in place, right in the middle of the intersection and spun around to run again. Something made her stop, something turned her around to face him, her chin lifting defiantly, though more tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and threatened to spill forth onto her cheeks.

He stood there still, leaning languorously in the arch. He was smoking again, the ember marking a slow arc from his lips and back out to his hand again.

She felt a pull, as irresistible as the tide rise up within her, the same tide that she usually calmed with dancing. It was pushing her towards him now. She was caught in its thrall. She couldn't look away.

As she came nearer, he threw the cigarette onto the ground, squashing it firmly under his heel and waited.

She stood now before him, trembling. He reached out slowly with one slender hand and fingered a strand of her hair. Abandoning the ebony curl, one single finger traced her face from just below the temple, down over the slight jut of her cheekbone, along the outside line of her jaw and down, over the tip of her chin, along the curve of her neck. Her heart thundered now, blood rushing in her ears, from fear and suppressed desire.

His hand cupped the back of her neck, the other was sliding around her waist under her jacket, his fingertips digging into her flesh through the scant protection of creased chiffon. "No ..." she whispered, futile protest indeed as he pulled her to him. He crushed her lips against his with bruising strength.

For a moment, she fought, hands pressing against his chest, rejecting the force with which he claimed her, until she could resist no more. Flashes of sight came and went:

His face above her, his eyes glinting still in the dark.

Lamp-lit golden cobblestones outside her building.

A crack in the wall beside her door.

The key in the lock, dangling streamers of broken chain.

The open window and the wind, whipping the red and gold wall-hangings into a froth.

She was lying in her own bed, his hand traveled the length of her arm and she watched almost as if outside of herself, his skin so pale against her own darkness. There was fire in her now, burning out that cold glimmer in his eyes, as his long fingers took hold of the delicate fabric of her blouse and ripped it open, laying her torso bare.

A snick sounded in the room, from so far away it seemed, a blade gleaming in the faint light from the street lamp outside. He hovered it over her, face revealing nothing and her eyes closed to shut out the sight of it. She felt, but did not see, the slicing of her bra straps, the rending of the fabric between her breasts. All of it no more than a brief chill against her too-heated skin from the knife, its point pressing lightly against her collarbone before it was gone - all gone, her blouse, the bra, the blade.

She was lost, unknown, trapped in the pool of her own body, caught between resistance and wanting as his hands took hold of her wrists, bound them to the bed frame with the ruins of her own clothing. He was everywhere and he was everything, she burned for him crying out, unwillingly for more, a soft whimper dying in her throat.

He smiled then, warmth shining in his eyes that seemed a strange contrast to his force and shushed her with a gentle finger pressed against her lips.

"Hush, hush and listen ... feel ... be."

His lips brushed hers lightly, a scant reassurance given, in the tenderness of that kiss, before he left her again. She heard the soft susurration of fabric moving – him removing his shirt, the telltale clink of his belt buckle and the thud of each shoe as it hit the floor. Naked he was now, she knew without looking, and her body cringed into the bed, away, away from him, wrists tugging futilely at their bonds. She didn't remember him taking off her shoes, but they were gone already, leaving her nothing sure to kick with as he returned to her. Up each limb, his hands moved, forcing them apart, sliding along the sheerness of her stockings, over the transparency of her undergarment, as flimsy as the chiffon of her skirt.

His fingers traced along the outer edges of her sex through the shimmering black cloth, taking their time, feeling her shape. Lulled by the tender care with which he treated her, her back arched, feet planting in the surface of the bed, and a moan of need escaped from her throat. Immediately, his fingers stopped, leaving her breathless for more. The blade flashed out once more cutting her panties away, slashing her skirt to ribbons, sheering her stockings from her, leaving her naked and vulnerable beneath him.

He was above her now, hands planted on either side of her head, knees shoved up beneath her thighs and she noticed as his face moved through a slanting beam of moonlight, that his eyes weren't dark at all, but clear blue and full of intense heat – desire for her. With a sharp, sudden thrust, he took her, driving himself fully into her.

She cried out, caught somewhere between the pain of that brutality and the sudden pleasure of him, filling her so completely, the way he angled himself into her so perfectly, on the very first try. Over and over he claimed her, driving into her wet warmth with increased force, an echo of his own need. Clear thought left her completely as she felt herself falling off a high cliff in her mind, floating out into the emptiness beyond. When the pleasure came she dove into it like a welcome sea, clinging to him fast, life-preserver in uncertain waters.

At dawn she woke, in the tangle of his limbs. The sun rising outside limned his features with golden light. He was utterly beautiful and as utterly hers as she was utterly his. She lifted his hand from her hip to kiss his fingers and the golden ring there that matched hers.

"I love you" she murmured softly into the dawn and closed her eyes, drifting back to sleep, head pillowed on his shoulder.