Unhinged

10

Oliver

There's a new clock in her house since I was last here. It hangs on the north wall, a deep blue, drowning the room in an ominous shadow. It ticks slowly behind me. My knee jumps anxiously, as she stands in front of me, disrobing.

How the fuck did I get back in here? I mean really, Oliver just...pluck your eyes out and serve 'em to her on a silver platter why don't ya? Fuck.

Fuck.
Fuck.

Why don't I ever make good decisions when it comes to her? It's like she crashes my brain's processor. System error just starts flashing in red behind my eyes.

Cannot compute.

Maurya stands in front of me now, completely bare. I entangle my fingers, almost a prayer, putting my knuckles to my lips as I look up at her. The soft curve of her hips, and the fullness of her breasts. That self-assured smirk. Those eyes. She's a cruel, evil selfish bitch, who'd probably kill me in a second.

And yet, I sit back, opening my legs for her. She steps between them, into my grasp. I reach out, my fingertips brushing her skin. She reminds me of bronze, like the statues in museums. So cold, so perfect. Like she was intentionally shaped, given the perfect proportions. And yet, when I touch her, she's just flesh. Soft. Warm. Electricity zings through my fingertips. I carefully drag them down her skin. She's still, looking down at me with those warm eyes, pools of darkness.

I skim her hips. Her thighs. Then I'm moving up, to her torso. Her soft belly. I touch her arms, and her breasts, gently, just exploring. Coming to terms with this woman.

Her hands rest on my shoulders, allowing my expedition. Once my fingers have had their fill, my lips follow. I take her breasts into my mouth, enjoying the warmth of it; the weight of it. There's nothing under this breast is there? No beating heart? She's not capable of anything like that, probably. What keeps her warm then? Maybe it's a burning hatred. Maybe I don't really know.

Maybe I can just...have her this once. Once more and then put this entire mess to rest. Her breathing shudders at my earnest attention. My cock strains underneath my jeans. Why can't I get away from her? Why can't I be free if this entity—this evil?

Maurya. Sorrow. That's what she is to me, a sorrow. But here I am.

"Oliver," she whispers, her grip getting tighter. My lips drag down the center of her body, stopping at her belly for a moment.

"What do you want from me?" I ask her, for what feels like the millionth time.

She smiles softly at me. "I want you to touch me."

I frown and lean back. So simple. Some complicated. Does she know that or does she just not fucking care?

"I can't do that. Not when you kill every man who crosses your socio-path."

She giggles, and bends down, kissing my cheek. She leans in, his lips on the shell of my ears I close my eyes, my cock twitching in my pants.

"Don't worry about anyone but yourself. After all, I still haven't decided if I like you alive or dead."

My eyes roll my back, as she fastens her lips to mine, rough, and hot. I put my hand on the back of her neck, trying to control her, keep her under my guiding hand. She's rebellious, strong-willed, and hard to predict.

"Maurya..." I murmur against her lips, tasting a hint of sweetness on her tongue. When will I be free of her?

"Oliver...will you bleed for me a little more?" She whispers sweetly, my eyes fly open. A small, sharp switchblade with a pink handle sits against my cheek, cruel and cold. 

She smiles, digging the blade further into my face eagerly. Finally, she draws blood her eyes sparkling in anticipation. She drags her tongue down the small drop, moaning, dropping herself on my length suddenly. I shudder, suddenly, warm wet, and in pain all at the same time, all the sensations swirling together, a cacophony of flavors.

"Just like that. Look at me," She whiseprs, clutching my face between her sharp nails. "Look at me, Oliver."

I hold her eyes. She's so fucking pretty. So damaged. Who can love her like this? This black widow, this monster in pink clothing? I wonder how lonely you have to be to want to devour someone's eyes. Does it matter? If she were just an awkward white guy with ugly glasses and a kinda ordinary face would I even be thinking this hard about it? Wouldn't I just condemn them?

"What made you this way?" I ask her.

She pauses and cocks her head, her smile dropping. She seems to think on it for a moment. Then she smiles shakily.

"Does it really matter? I can't be unmade."

And that's that. I understand that. She is what she is until she isn't I suppose. And aren't we all?