Man-eater

"Have a nice day," he said, in that voice that distracted me so very, very thoroughly.

"What..." I started to retort.

And a gust slammed the heavy oak-framed door closed onto me.

I screamed in agony as my arm got trapped. I dropped my bag and yanked in panic at my limb, trying to free myself, sobbing.

He was there in a flash, forcing the mechanism open again and freeing me as I cried.

"Ow. Ow ow ow oh fuck ow," I whimpered, slumping to my knees, cradling my arm to me, dimly conscious of the tears but unable to do anything stop them.

He got an arm under me, dragged me out of the doorway and back inside, helped me to stand and propped me up against the wall so that he could rescue my bag and coat and shift them away from any potential damage.

"Here," he said softly. "Let me look at that."

"No... I'm... okay..." I managed, panting as I furiously scrubbed my working arm across my face and smeared my makeup everywhere.

"You really aren't. That's going to be a savage bruise and you might have cracked something. Don't be stubborn. Let me see it."

His voice was warm, gentle, taking the sting out of his words, and I found myself letting him gently pry my arm away from where I'd clamped it against myself.

"Are you a doctor?" I asked, despite my desperation to stay uninvolved and aloof from him.

"No. I have... experience but I'm not a doctor. Okay, it's straight so it's not obviously broken. Come on. I'm on the second floor and I have a good stock of kit and painkillers. Lets get you sorted."

"Are you a drug kingpin?" I asked, pain making me stupid.

He snorted. "No. But I have friends who are perpetually injuring themselves in spectacular, very intelligent and very mannish ways."

"Oh. Like me. Apart from some anatomical differences..."

The pain was making me far more wordy than I really wanted to be with him.

But I somehow couldn't help it.

He felt strangely safe to be around.

"Probably worse," he snorted. "But this is still worth mentioning in dispatches. Come on. Lets get you upstairs."

He supported me as he lead me, unresisting, up the two battered flights and onwards to the neatly-painted door of apartment 202.

He pushed open the door.

"Don't you lock?" I asked, confused by his carelessness despite the distracting waves of pain.

"I was only planning to be a minute," he said. "A post-run post run."

"So punny..." I whispered. My arm hurt like hell; the injury site throbbed like it was being stabbed with every rapid beat of my heart.

He steered me to a chair by his austere kitchen counter and helped me lower my arm to the counter top.

"Stay there, please," he said. "I'll be right back."

I whimpered a shaky "Okay," and then stared down at my hand as I tried to uncurl my fingers.

I listened with half an ear as he rummaged in the cupboard in the passage. His flat was disorientating - like mine, just mirrored in layout and far more Spartan in clutter and colour and furnishings - greys and browns and muted grey-blues dominating. Familiar but utterly foreign.

And clad in calming colours.

Centring colours.

I stared blankly at a metal-framed photo of him and a much older man - one of the few ornaments that I could see.

Both wore uniforms of some sort in front of what looked like a helicopter of some kind.

Or maybe a plane?

I didn't really know much about either...

Then I jerked, startled, as my rescuer set a red-cross-emblazoned metal box down on the counter in front of me with a hollow clonk.

He opened it and lifted some metal trays out of it.

"Here we go," he said. "I'm going to roll your sleeve up, and we're going to look at it together, and then if necessary I'm going walk you downstairs and drive you to A&E."

"It's... really not necessary..."

"It is. If it's cracked or, worse, fractured, then you need to have it in a splint. I can do what I can here but you really need to take this seriously. Please."

I tried to focus, but his voice was so warm and mellow and lovely and I was so sore that I really couldn't.

So instead I sat, just breathing and watching his strong, gentle fingers as he eased back the fabric of my sleeve. He made a strange little "Hrm," as he saw the bruise that had already started to form - deep, purple and livid.

"Ouch," he breathed.

"I bruise easily, don't worry," I whispered. "It's the perils of the pale skin. It's a bit less sore now..."

"It's going to be a real shiner," he muttered. "Are your fingers okay?"

"It hurts to move them but I can move them now. They're working again."

"Any pins and needles?"

"No... just throbbing."

"They're the right colour so that's also a plus. Here, look," he added as he gently pressed on my index finger. "Your blood flow is fine. You're alright. Probably."

"Thank fuck," I whispered.

"I'm going to put a sling on for you just to be safe, and then I'm going to give you some painkillers that you most definitely never got from me, and get you back home. When you're feeling a bit better you should go see your GP, okay?"

"That's... very sweet. I'll be fine though."

"That's what I'm hoping," he said softly. "I think it's just a bruise. You were lucky. That door must weigh close to a hundred kilos."

"A bit lucky but... not very," I sighed.

I sat quiescent as he unrolled a triangle of cotton fabric and tried not to embarrass myself with any involuntary noises as he leaned in and tied it around my neck. He cradled my arm and gently lifted it into the sling, and then slid a small blister pack of tablets towards me. "They're codeine," he said. "Partly anyway. I shouldn't really have them, but I do. They're a bit old but they'll still work."

"Thanks..."

"Where can I take you?"

"I'm in 301. Upstairs. On the other side."

"I'll walk you up. Let me know if you need a lift to A&E or anything okay?"

"I'll be fine," I managed. "I'll let work know I'll be late and then... sit on my couch and sulk for a bit."

He laughed softly, and for a brief moment I closed my eyes and lost myself in the sound.

He helped gently me to my feet, and steered me to the door, and held it for me. He hovered behind me, ready to catch me if I tottered, and made sure I got back up the single flight of remaining stairs.

I leaned against my door, staring up at him.

"What's your name?" I asked him.

"I'm Liam," he said. "And who are you?"

"I'm Eleanor," I answered him, and as I said it I realised that I'd slipped and given him the truth instead of one of my string of handy aliases.

I flushed hot and clawed my door open. He passed me my coat and put my handbag down over the threshold for me.

"It was nice to chat. Take care, Eleanor. I'm here until this evening - please come knock if you need anything."

"I... will. Thanks. Thanks for helping me. Really... thanks so much."

"You're welcome."

He smiled; my heart did silly things in my chest.

He turned away.

"See you around," he said.

"Bye," I managed, barely able to get the words out.

I let my door close and leaned back against it.

And I realised that I was in complete and utter disarray.

So I did the only sane thing and called in sick.

And crawled into bed and lay there, far too sore to do anything but stare at the leaves of the trees across the road as the sun slowly crossed the morning sky.

And daydream at extreme length about him and his smile and his voice and his strong, gentle fingers...

Three days later I found a gift bag outside my door.

Inside was a small box of chocolates.

There was no card.

It didn't matter.

I knew that it was from him.

.:.

Recuperation kept me fully occupied at first, but my physical needs never left me in peace for long and my frustration ticked (as always) ever upwards.

Eventually I couldn't avoid it any longer. My arm had healed enough to no longer hamper me and I could hide the unsightly bruise under a long-sleeved skirt that I hadn't worn in a while.

Both it and I needed an airing.

It was a Thursday night near the end of the month and I knew it would be busy in town - a good time to find Mr Right Now.

Nine in the evening saw me on the dance floor of a new club, flirting up a storm with a tall, muscular man whose close-cut brown hair had caught my eye. He was a good dancer; he had an innate sense of rhythm, and the old fluttering excitement built quickly in my belly.

His strong hands felt good as he cupped me against him; his thigh was hard when he'd press it against and soon enough between mine. I stared up at him, eyes narrowed, lips open, teasing myself wet and him hard for me. He felt big, eager, just what an empty girl needed to fill her.

"Lets get somewhere... quieter," I tip-toe-whispered into his ear during a lull in the music.

He grinned.

I felt a little out of control when he steered me away from the amenities and pulled me towards a roped-off area of the club; a bouncer nodded to him and stood aside for him. He opened a door and pushed me firmly into a smaller room with muted blue and red lighting.

Then he closed the door behind us.

I stared around at the black leather couches, the small glass tables, the central floor-to-ceiling metal pole and the short expanse of private bar and its collection of expensive-looking bottles.

I smiled up at him.

"Nice little bit of privacy," I said over the muted noise of the music. "Glad I rate the VIP treatment."

He laughed, and I strained up to kiss him once more.

I was going to enjoy this.

I spun, pressed myself back against him, lifted my arms up to cross them behind his neck as he cupped my breasts and pulled me firmly against himself. I dropped my hands, fumbled between us, found his zip and eased it downwards. He bulged outwards, grinding himself against me.

I shot him a glance over my shoulder and moved towards a section of the bar. I lifted my skirt and bent forwards, resting my tummy and boobs onto the surface, wriggling my hips slightly to give him a hint

He came to me, positioned himself behind me.

I gasped as he yanked my panties off my hips and rubbed the hot bulge of his head against me. Then I groaned, thighs shaking as he abruptly pushed himself into me; I hissed at the discomfort - he hadn't slicked himself up at all.

"Gently, gently," I moaned. "There's no rush..."

"You have a nice little cunt and ass," he rasped in some strange accent, the first words he'd said to me. "Really nice and tight. Good for fucking."

I made a face at his choice of words, then pushed my irritation aside. I was here for the cock, that was all, I didn't need to like his attitude...

He began to drive himself deep into me. It was extremely uncomfortable; he was big and he stretched me quite a bit.

"Slow down a bit," I gasped, reaching back and fumbling at him, pushing at his belly. "Let me...just..."

I cried out as he caught my arms and restrained them behind me.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

He grabbed the base of my neck, forced my head down against the counter and began to slam himself deep into me.

"You're hurting me!" I cried. "That hurts!"

But he didn't slow, didn't stop. I moaned and whimpered in pain as he bruised me with his uncaring thrusts into me. My leg muscles were in rebellion, heels skittering left and right as I tried to ease things as much as I could. He was panting now, slamming deep and fast into me. I writhed under him, snatching breaths, trying to get space to move, trying to get the edge of the counter away from where it was catching the skin of my thighs and scratching me.

I squeezed my eyes closed, willing him to just be quick so I could get him out of me without too much damage and finish him off and get the hell out of there...

My cheek was aching from being ground into the surface of the counter.

My thighs were raw from the counter top's unfinished edge.

And my pussy was aching from the rough, uncaring way in which he was using me.

And his penis was too big. Too big for me to take without proper preparation and a little bit of consideration and thought.

I clenched my fists, trying to salvage something positive...

He suddenly arched over me, groaning, shaking, grunting as he began to throb and pulse and empty himself deep in me.

I swore, jerked at him, tried to pull free, tried to get him out of me, to keep at least some of him outside of my body to minimise the amount I'd have to clean myself of his sordid and completely unwanted gift...

But he locked himself inside me until he was done, no matter how much I writhed and flailed and tried to push him out of me.

"You fucking arsehole!" I cursed him when he finally pulled out of my body and I realised how much he'd put inside me.

"You talk too much, little whore," he said - flat and emotionless, not even gracing me with the dignity of even a sliver of... anything.

And when I turned to try to slap him he casually caught my fist with his left hand and backhanded me hard enough with his right to knock me to the floor, split my lip and daze me.

I lay on the laminate, winded, semen running out of me and puddling under my thigh, watching through shock-blurred vision as he tucked his softening cock back into his trousers and walked away.

He opened the door, looked back once to sneer at me, and then closed it firmly behind him.

.:.

I sniffed, dabbed at my mouth once more.

Another dollop of his semen dripped free of my lips and plopped into the toilet bowl beneath me.

I shuddered, disgusted.

I pulled more tissues from my bag, wiped tenderly at myself and eyed the dappled blood and... fluids... with cold nausea. Then I leaned against the wall as I took a slow breath.

I sniffed again.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I should have bailed when I saw the door to the private room. I should have known it would be trouble.

I ached. My cheek ached, my groin ached, the tender skin around my entrance stung, and my heart was bruised worst of all.

I hadn't wanted this. I'd wanted pleasure, a few moments of escape; instead I'd caught myself a sicko who got off on pain and thought nothing of inflicting it.

It would have cost him nothing to take another few seconds to ease into me.

I'd have been fine with that.

Bastard.

I hoped he'd choke. Or that the next girl he was rough with was carrying a knife.

I wiped gently at myself again.

Most of him seemed to be out of me. That was a small mercy at least. At least I could pull my underwear up again to contain what was left until I got home.

My lip ached; I licked it gently, tasted blood, dabbed at it once more with yet another tissue.

I fumbled my phone out of my bag, saw it was not even eleven.

And then, sniffing again, I ordered a cab. I wanted to be home, safe, where I could lick my wounds and cry in safety.

I emerged from the ladies, ignoring the shocked stare of a tall brunette who was fixing her makeup. I barged and elbowed my way to the doors, emerged onto the pavement, and found my pickup spot. I stood, sniffing occasionally, ignoring the people around me; when my cab arrived I climbed gingerly into it, gave the cabby my address, and cowered back into the darkness and privacy of the back seat.

I wasn't far from home. It was only fifteen minutes of discomfort before I could clamber out and pay my fare and turn away from the world.

I fumbled the building's front door open.

I wanted to strip down and wash myself clean and put on loose leggings and a sweater and try to forget that the evening had ever happened.

I gingerly climbed up the first flight of stairs. I paused, wiped my face, sniffed a breath.

I started to climb the second. I paused again, sniffed hard, scrubbed more self-pity off my cheeks...

... and Liam jogged down around the bend in the staircase, a small backpack thrown over his shoulders and walking boots on his feet.

"Bollocks," I whispered, trapped.

He stopped dead in his tracks. I heard him take a shaky breath.

"Eleanor?" he said, voice weirdly harsh.

I wished that the earth would swallow me.

"Hi," I managed. "Don't mind me, crazy night, ha ha, off I go. Bye, have fun..."

He caught my arm, blocked me from moving past him.

"Let me go," I begged him, suddenly desperate to hide. "Please, Liam..."

"No. No fucking way. Not going to happen, it's back to barracks for both of us. I've got some wound cleaning wipes and some cold packs for that lip. Come along."

"Please..." I begged him, mask hanging by a thread.

But he ignored me, and slipped his arm through mine, and supported me as he slowly and by degrees steered me upstairs and towards his front door.

He didn't restrain me. Nothing he did constrained me. I felt scarily, horribly safe with him. I knew that had I struggled he would have let go immediately.

He stepped slowly along with me, applied gentle hints of steering pressure, touched me only by my arm and took great pains to not even brush against any other part of me.

And that's probably why I let him lead me.

Because it let me give up control for once.

I made it most of the way to his flat before the tears finally caught up with me.

And it took me quite some time to realise that he had simply dropped everything to the floor and pulled me to him and was gently rubbing my back and just letting me cry.

It had been so long since another person had held me with any tenderness that it took me forever to let go.

.:.

"Tea or bourbon?"

"Sorry?" I whispered. I wiped my eyes again.

"Tea or bourbon. Those are the only choices for refreshment I have other than water. I'm short on supplies, sorry."

"Oh. Um. Bourbon, please," I managed.

He dug out a tumbler and poured me a double-or-so. "Here," he said. "It's likely to sting like hell with that lip..."

I picked up the glass and downed it, then retched and coughed as the rough, caustic alcohol burned its way down to my cramping stomach.

"Jesus Rodney Christ," he said, awed. "Even I don't dare do that with this..."

"It's... it's been a bad day..." I gasped.

"Here," he said. "Here's a cold pack for the bruising. Eleanor..."

"Ella. Please. Only my mum calls me Eleanor, and only when she's pissed at me... so that's basically always..."

"Right. Um... Ella... um... can I ask what happened?"

"I can't keep you from asking," I whispered.

"Oh," he said. He rubbed his chin, clearly struggling to think of something to say.

Then he sat down opposite me, staring at me, cataloguing my state.

The silence stretched out and eventually I had to fill it.

"I was stupid. I did something stupid and... now I've paid for it."

"I don't think that... this... was a fair trade for whatever it is you think you did. I think you paid far, far more than you should have. Can... Ella, should I call the police for you?"

"No! No. Thanks. No. This was... it wasn't that. It was just... I let my guard down."

"Ella, was it a man who did this?"

"Yes," I admitted, helplessly.

"I'm calling the police..."

"No! Please!" I begged him. "Please. It's... it's not worth it. It was... I didn't say no to him. I wanted it. It was just... rougher than I wanted it to be. He didn't... it wasn't..."

"That's still absolutely not fucking okay..."

"Liam. Please," I said. "Please. Drop it. I... I don't want to have to deal with questions. Not now. Not tonight. Please."

He frowned and ground his jaw until his teeth creaked.

I winced.

"I don't like this or agree with it," he said at last. "But if it's what you want..."

"The police have... better things to do than follow up on sob stories. I'm not the first girl who got slapped around a bit on a night out, and I won't be the last."

"That is not..."

"Just..." I whispered. I reached out and took his hand in mine. "Thanks for caring. I'm okay. I'll be fine. I'm a big girl. I'll heal."