Alpha, Strange and Beautiful

I decide to preempt it. I reach under the table and deftly slip the tiny black undergarment off from beneath my dress. I present them just long enough to have the act of removing them begin to register, before I tuck them deep into the right side pocket of his blazer.

I know they are wet, they've made my hands a little damp, but I might just be imagining the sweet familiar scent lingering in the air between us. I inhale long and deep nonetheless and tell myself he's doing likewise.

I bask in his amusement and study his curious glow.

Alpha presses his hand over his pocket. I want him to reach inside and clench his fist around them before the heat of me diminishes, but instead he gives the outside of the pocket a proud little pat. He is shaking his head, sizing me up, regarding me like I've just unraveled some rule-biding reality (one he's not very sorry, but still surprised to see go), and guarding the little bulge in his jacket like it's a treasure I might repossess.

I slide out from behind the little table and step three lanky-legged paces away. I stand there -- feet wide apart, my back toward Alpha -- in answer to the question I didn't wait for him to ask. Other patrons are already eying me with a familiar mix of desire, curiosity, and contempt, but I wish only that I could see through Alpha's eyes. Taking a big deep preparatory breath and donning my most practiced "see what I mean" smile, I turn around to face him and prove the requisite function of the object now in his care.

Alpha's glass clunks to the table. I watch his textbook posture yield to a softening renovation and his mouth open in warm unclaimed kisses... waiting, mine for the taking.

In my mind, I see him rising (fingers slipping back into his glass to retrieve a pre-loved ice-cube on his way), moving toward me, kneeling before me, sliding the ice all the way up the inside of my leg until it melts, with his hand, into me. In reality, I see him rising (fingers dipping into his wallet to overpay the unseen bill), moving toward me, taking my hand, leading me all the way to, and out of, the front door.

* * *

I see the blur of white marble, an elevator, a hallway; sense the jingle of keys, a door. I'm in a non-descript open kitchenette, witnessing feigned interest in the polite formality of filling glasses, but before my old smoky amber friend can make it into my hand or to my lips, a headier elixir proves a much more intoxicating substitute: a frenzied whir of discarded clothes stirred by assertive hands. My hands.

I'm struck by the flash of a large black tattoo and think it out-of-character, before I correct myself -- I have nothing to base this on. I swim in a sweet fog of heavy breaths, easy laughter, the quiet click of buttons... soft clink of belt. I feel my dress slip up over my head as we move through the small room and through another door.

As we fall together, the spirited rhythm of breathy laughter subsides into a softer blush of expectant smiles. Too sweetly, Alpha brushes the hair from my face and smoothes it with a bemused intensity. "So attractive..." It has that same detached far-off air, like he's talking to himself under his breath, again.

I take refuge in thinking he may be dehumanizing me too, just as I've been deconstructing him. Still, I find he's looking far too deep into me and I am aware I'm thinking far too much about what he's seeing... and what's going on behind his eyes.

Everything slows to a marked stillness and my dizzy high begins to recede.

It's too quiet. I am too naked.

* * *

I see that I have Alpha pinned beneath me and I feel a sudden wash of remorse (like a hungry beast developing an inconvenient human conscience, as I look down into the wide eyes of my oblivious playful prey).

At odds with my appetite, my mind again starts to process: this is a man. This is a person. This is a stranger. He is more than parts, more than pieces, more than hands to clutch me, more than a mouth to taste me... more than eyes to see me.

...Eyes to see me.

Fuck.

Once more, I fight to stave off the willful mental image of my changed body (the skin of the perfect dress, shed; the diffused lighting and smoky mirrors, gone), before its dreadfulness can obliterate my wanting or unravel my resolve. I fake a seductive smile and rally a thin moan to mask my unwelcome vulnerability, but I do back away. I relinquish my aggressive position and settle myself between his legs.

I elect to study him, attempt to forget my own body by objectifying his.

This helps.

But for the warm hum and heartbeat, the gentle expectant quiver of Alpha's body beneath me, he looks just like he's fallen from the heavy ornate frame around the mirror hanging just above the headboard: one of its carved Kamasutram figures, detailed in hard dark wood. I smile again (this one is genuine). I'm arranging him in an array of the most compromising and challenging positions, in my head, and feeling a delicious sense of power. My thirst returns.

Kneeling between Alpha's knees, I allow my eyes to drink him in. My lips part, but I manage to stifle the faint reflex growl.

I love this part.

I want to capture this, file the portrait away in my visual archives, take it all in.

His cock arcs upward, waiting sleepless and expectant, against his quivering belly. The shaft (deeply creased with promise of the full erection to come) is dark like the rich carved wood, as I'd expect, but it curves up and blossoms to a shock of the most unexpected and delicate shade of rose-petal pink. It is a soft blush hue I can't imagine matches any other square-inch of this man's body, save maybe (and I vow to check) the tender underside of his tongue.

Awestruck by this rare wonder, I stare -- wide-eyed as Alice -- feeling a giddy long-forgotten rush. I'm not often thrown.

Taking in the intense contrast of this ripe pink plumb, burgeoning from its unlikely stalk, I'm overcome by the strongest impulse: a fierce longing to be able to summon the image, inside my mind, when I take him inside my body. I find the notion exquisitely erotic, the sight... strange and beautiful.

A faint questioning murmur breaks my studious trance. Like a curious school girl, dying to look but not wanting to be caught, I blush deeply at the sudden reminder that I'm not alone. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and breathe in the scent of Alpha's skin, but I cannot divert my attention from the novelty rising before me. I lower my head, open my mouth, and take him deep into my throat -- one long slow slide -- until my lips come to rest on the soft fleshy mound surrounding the base of his cock.

I sense a soft spread of tremors, trapped and released, from beneath my devoted hunger. I hold, wait, pause: wanting to heighten the sensation of forthcoming movement by drawing out this moment, this sweet stillness rippling with expectation. I feel Alpha harden and expand to fill the wet warmth of my open mouth, the tension and slight pulsating press against the back of my throat, the gentle stretch at the corners of my mouth.

Hands entwine in my hair and I crave the sweet sting of a sharp unsparing tug, but instead they are careful and tender. He turns my face to engage my gaze and, instead of fighting it, I find (against all instinct) I long to stay in this moment: to live in that look in his eyes.

I feel as though I have a clear window into the deepest part of his imagination and think I hear his thoughts inside my head, "My god, don't move. Never release me from the warmth of your mouth, the hug of your throat. Stay like this, just like this. Make the world fall away..."

As my minds-eye scrawls a bold inky signature across this implausible imaginary agreement, I swallow and feel my throat contract around him. I hear a low appreciative growl that soon falters into a troubled sounding groan.

I feel Alpha's hands twisting in my hair again, this time with more force and urgency. He's looking at me too hard now. He is lifting my head without my compliance and, in breech of our very fresh faux contract, initiating a slow aching slide from my reluctant mouth. I moan in complaint. I don't want to let go, but he is staring at me so intently: the plea in his dark eyes has changed. I know this face. He's afraid he'll come too soon. I grant his release, but (locking him in my sights) reconfirm my opposition with a series of avid willful sucks, as he goes.

I let Alpha coax and guide me up over his splayed body. His hands clutch the backs of my thighs and pull me to his open mouth. I feel the icy sting of the mirror over the headboard pressing hard against my forehead, as I straddle his soft unfamiliar face and try to surrender myself to the consoling flick of his (still unexamined) tongue. I let the mirror cool my cheek, sliding up against its smooth chill, as I rise and straighten above him.

Alpha's adept attentions, long slow licks from a broad flat tongue, should have me melting in pleasure. I long to give myself over, but there is an odd new prickling sensation at the back of my neck. I can't focus. I can't relax.

My eyes flare open. The image in front of me, steals any hope of surrender.

The startling face in the mirror stares back at me: waxen, gaunt, agape. Wide pale gray eyes send cruel daggers of truth and pain and realization through me. A thin binding shiver constricts my spine and reels me backward from the dreadful reflection. It is me. It is my own panic-stricken visage that gawks back at me, my own long bony neck that looks like it's about to snap, my ribcage that protrudes -- in full grotesque view -- from the sallow pull of blue-white skin, unnatural and stretched.

I see Alpha's dark broad hand clutch at my colorless emaciated hip and fear the sharp angular bone, a jagged crest between his fingers, might rip through my flesh at his touch. I'm frightened and embarrassed. I look like a ghost of myself. I try to lift away from his mouth, wriggle from his hold. I have to fend off the disturbing image that invades my brain: sickly white lab rat trying to swallow the great black anaconda, strange swollen pink-head first. My stomach lurches. I feel ill.

A thin pained whimper issues up from the dryness of my throat. Tears spill and cut stinging paths down my icy cheeks. I feel a presence in the room. She is here. She is watching.

I narrow my burning eyes, blurring the horrid sight of my own frail form, focusing hard into the dim space beyond. At the sight of her, I am torn between outrage and relief. I want to shatter the glass and assault her with the shards, but her face -- her beauty -- softens me.

I want her to come closer. I beg her strength to strengthen me.

I need her, somehow.

* * *

Gita sits in a low leather club-chair: her lovely head lolling leisurely to the side, her creamy bare shoulders pushed back, her hips thrust forward, her long lean legs spread wide.

She appears delighted to have finally caught my eye, to have my attention. The flash of her quicksilver eyes and sweet mischievous smile seem to illuminate the shadowy corner she occupies.

A silver-blue plume of cigar smoke encircles Gita's pretty neck, like the ghost of a perfumed feather boa, and its sweet heady aroma begins to calm me. One of her long graceful arms sways, a lovely languid pendulum, rocking a filled-to-trickling Scotch glass back and forth between her open thighs. It soothes me into a warming erotic trance.

I watch as Gita begins to trail the wet rock-glass up along the soft inside of her leg, shifting the hem of her gauzy black dress up with it, and leaving a glistening dew of condensation and amber droplets of whiskey on her skin. She arches her back and propels her hips further forward, making the dress slip up, inviting my eyes to the slick pink flesh between her widespread thighs.

My breath catches in my throat.

Gita takes a long slow sip from the brimming glass and my mouth fills with warm Scotch-flavored waters. She places the drink on the small round side-table, next to the chair, and pulls the dangling silver chain on a little lamp sitting there. Strange golden light halos around a stately looking dark-umber bottle. I watch her thin white hand stretch and wrap firmly around its thick glossy neck.

A firm hard heat fills my own clenched hand. Spellbound, it has gripped Alpha's cock, just as Gita's has the bottle. I feel my shoulders pulled back, my hips thrust forward, my legs open wide -- my body is emulating her movements.

I watch her take the handsome bottle, press its cool ample neck to the hot pulsing need between her parted thighs, and slide -- long and slow -- against its length, her slippery open lips clutching in thirst around it. I hear Gita's greedy moan at the contact, followed by unnatural echoes of softer breathing and panting, but the sweet sounds of her arousal seem to be coming from my mouth. I feel my awakened clit rubbing up and down Alpha's warm firm shaft. I feel my fingers slide around and beside him, sucked in by a tight clutch of wet heat before they're pushed back out past him... to smear, to press, to flatten him against me again.

I feel it, but I can only see Gita: her painted fingers, her lips, and the slow-sliding bottleneck. I watch her and she watches me. I am not afraid of what she sees. I put myself in her place, and her in mine.

I love this part.

The cool smooth surface of the bottle, slick and sticky with Gita, melts to warm thick honey as I slide against its long dark neck. I surrender to her control. She is an unholy scent infecting the only air to breathe. She is unnatural whispers echoing inside my head. She shows me terrible portraits of pleasure, beautiful depictions of pain, and I can't get enough of either. The whispers in my head become unearthly screams, as we writhe and grind as one.

I give myself over. It is all for her... all to feed her.

Like this, pressing Alpha's forgotten shaft firmly against me, I reach release.

I forget myself and come.

Alpha's voice reaches me through a dark fog of muffled cries. His unexpected words ring (eerily human in contrast) distant, out of place... strange.

"You have no idea how fucking hot that is..."

The unnatural hiss resonates. "Yesss, I do..." It is not my voice. It is hers.

I feel like I'm looking down from some distance above: detached, somehow, as though a part of me, my consciousness, has left my body.

I see Gita, sated and purring, trailing her glistening nails over Alpha's flesh and to his mouth, feeding him one sticky finger at a time. Each sopping finger on my right-hand feels the warmth, the graze of teeth and gentle rhythm of his sucking. My left wrist feels the tight clutch of Alpha's free hand, as I watch him raise Gita's other hand up to her waiting lips, and my tongue flicks against the tender stretch of skin between her thumb and forefinger. My mouth closes around a slender digit, feels the sensual nub of knuckle, and I drink in the salty-sweet taste of her.

Alpha's chest is heaving; his breath, strained. He is biting at his bottom lip, moaning low in his throat, and rummaging, one-handed without looking, around the nightstand. I hear the quiet crinkling of the dark dutiful serpent readying itself for unknown sacrifice, taking on a new skin, sheathing itself for protection. I feel my body, hips lifted by unseen hands, rise and spread. I hover, open and suspended, above the brave pale pink head -- pulled taut and shining in its tight transparent mask. Innocent and fearless, naive and willing, it wears more expression than any faceless thing should.

Holding like this, paused (as much in ritualistic reverence as in respectful remorse), I grant this poor unsuspecting soul time for last requests, last rights... last prayers to the gods or god of his choosing.

There is a bittersweet sadness in knowing the time -- used as such by him or not -- can do nothing to ward off the inevitable. Still, I myself try to use it to offer up a blessing, to give thanks for this gentle creature who unknowingly submits his essence to sustain another, while my body shudders under waves of her hunger.

Before my peace is made, Alpha is freeing me from my unwelcome role as executioner, sparing me the guilt. With a resolute grasp on my hips, he is pulling me downward and plunging himself into the closing depths that promise a blissful drowning: a Kama-Kamikaze surrendering to the suffocating inferno that calls him home.

My guilt spins away like debris, as I welcome his self-destructive crash.

I take Alpha's heat into my own and it becomes mine. Made whole by his sacrifice, more complete by what will deplete him, I feel the natural flush of pink return to my skin. An invigorating warm syrupy flood of carnal nourishment spreads up through my belly, my lungs inflate, dormant nerves awaken, and beautiful breathy sounds of pleasure come unguarded from my lips.

I rise and fall without falsifying my desire or control, my will or my presence. I even allow myself to look -- to watch the fire consume him, without any further weighty remorse to spoil the intoxicating view.

Eyes unshielded and unblinking, I see Alpha's body. The deep rosewood sheen of his skin, slick with sweat, moves against my fragile pallor... unafraid. His hips lift and buck to match my rhythm: an exquisite blend of gentle crashes, soft stabs, and tender thrusts.

Low murmurs of awe, forgiveness, wonder, and understanding linger between his careful lips. I fall forward to capture them, bend over his mouth to suck them from his timid tongue. They are an elixir. They complete my restoration.

I ease my hands in underneath Alpha's shoulders and slide them down into the warm damp hollow behind his lower back. My nails begin to play there -- grazing in small circles, teasing and tickling. The too-human boyish giggle this spurs very nearly softens me. I cannot allow it to. I know I'm running out of time. I begin to weep, as I sink my claws deep into his moist brown flesh to stifle the too-sweet coos of contented laughter that are tugging at what used to be my heart.

I have to. She grows impatient.

* * *

Gita's breath comes in quick weighty rasps of excitement. It echoes in my head to drown out Alpha's cries. It heats the back of my neck, to caress and compel me, to dull my innate sensitivity to his pain.

Her arms encircle me and I tremble in ecstasy at her touch. She pins me down and rocks me hard against Alpha. He is arching upward in violent contorting spasms, struggling to extricate himself from the sharp shredding rake of the ten pointed spikes I've driven into him. These frantic attempts only reward me with terrific urgent thrusts. Bound by the intense pleasure ripping through my body (as much as I am by Gita's unyielding hold), I grind against Alpha's feverish twisting and jerking, showing no mercy.

I hear her throaty inhuman laughter. It seeps through a steady animal rhythm of heavy breathing and dreadful cries. Images fill my head in disturbing flashes of red and black: strange contorted fragments of writhing and torture and pleasure and pain. I cannot control them, though they sicken me. I can't hold them for long enough to piece-together the disjointed visions, though they titillate me.

I'm awash in a strange suffocating bath of reluctant elation, sweet sadness, delicious remorse, and atrocious ecstasy.

Both of Alpha's hands are flattened over my face now, pushing with desperate force. I growl and bite to make them stop. I lick and suck to make them stay.

My respect for this one grows, he fights like no other, but I taste the salty-sweetness of myself on the palms of his hands and my body begins that delicious uphill climb. His eyes are fire and water and fear. I see what I think is his shock and horror at my emerging orgasm, but -- inside me -- a quick succession of familiar spasms tell me, it is shock and horror at his own. It excites me in a shamefully dark and powerful way.