Light moves through TK City, swaying back and forth, and I am at my window; vigilant as ever.
There's a knock at the door but I ignore it. Instead, I think of my fiancée; my beautiful talented bride-to-be. She's out there somewhere; in the city, tending to her duties, selflessly thinking of others before sparing a moment for herself. She won't be able to get away for hours, such are the demands on her time. Or maybe she will be home any minute. Maybe she's in the elevator right this second, tired and put upon, but still eager to please.
And then again comes the knock, and louder than before. But still I delay. I go into the kitchen and fetch myself a drink, standing there, waiting for the knock to come a third time; knowing that my dirty little secret is waiting anxiously for me to answer.
Minutes later, after the knock has come twice more (the length in-between having grown each time) I yank the door open with such force that she staggers back in shock. She looks at me and I scowl at her pleading, almost conciliatory, smile. She doesn't say anything about the ten minutes she's been waiting in the hall. She just waits for me to step aside and shuffles past. I close the door behind her with a bang.
She turns to look at me as I step away from the door and I see that she's wearing a Nirvana t-shirt, fitted tightly around her small frame, and for a moment I am repulsed. She must think she knows what it means, what they stood for. But she wasn't there, she didn't see what happened. She's only ever read about it all in the past tense. She's heard the songs, maybe even watched the DVDs. But she wasn't there, she doesn't know, and this makes me irrationally angry at her. How dare she stake such a claim to my past? To imagine she is worthy to share the reverence that's reserved for that particular chapter in music history. She's a fucking idiot child and she needs to me told; she needs to be put in her place!
My fiancée would understand, of course. Together, we laugh about the kids we see today sporting t-shirts of bands long gone; bands they couldn't ever hope to appreciate. And for a moment my mind drifts back over the city and I find her. Mentally, we laugh. Telepathically, we mock and belittle the pathetic little child stood so helplessly and so uncertainly in our apartment.
But it's not a genuine connection, just a fantasy, because despite my distaste for this girl and her pretensions, my anger is tempered, or maybe even augmented, by a growing desire. I want to tear that t-shirt off her, but only partly because it's so offensively ridiculous on her, but also because I want her. I imagine my mouth on her young breasts, biting and teasing her nipples. I imagine how she would moan and grip my head and I lifted her up and dumped her on the leather sofa, how she might squeal in pain as I bit down, but how she would love every second of it. Her breasts – they're small but in good proportion to the rest of her body, perfectly so. When she gets older her shoulders will broaden just a touch, as will her hips, and they will not seem nearly so inviting. But now; now she is alight with irresistible teenage geometry and it's all I can do to stop myself from enacting my desire; from descending on her in a passionate fury.
I do none of this though. Instead I walk away form her, heading back to my window.
For long moments she stays still, unsure. My fiancée would know exactly what to do. If she were here by now we'd both me semi-naked and I'd be fucking her bent over the kitchen table. She would be gasping and crying out in pleasure. My apartment is sound-proof, and needs to be for what we get up to.
But part of the attraction of this filthy little slut is her inexperience. She may well but an excellent fuck, she might give head so good that I'd be begging for more, but she's accustomed to her youth being her erotic lure; to her mere presence being enough to drive men senselessly with lust. All she has to do is turn up, ready and willing to be abused because she knows that that's what men want to do to her above else – to soil her, to use her up and throw her away, and in her feeble heart that's what she wants too; what she yearns for. She's not used to a man walking away from her when she's offering herself on a sliver platter, and for a moment she is lost.
Eventually, she comes up with a plan, and it works but for the wrong reason. I've been watching her, stood helpless reflected in the bullet-proof glass, and so I see as she raises her arms to pull off her t-shirt. I turn.
'No!' I demand, and she stops immediately, her top pulled halfway up her breasts. 'Leave that on.'
She looks confused, but does as she's told. The uncertainly is turning to a sort of panic though, and I suspect that tiny tears are pricking her eyes. She thinks I am going to send her away; that inexplicably I am immune to her. But I'm not immune. I may be more deliberate in my manner, but I am as lost to her allure as anyone else. It's just I have other plans, other ways.
'Come here,' I order, and watch as she pads across the apartment without hesitation or complaint. She's excited, and that excitement is rising at least partly because she doesn't know what I will do with her. Even the most unpredictable lover she can normally anticipate, because she can understand his or her lust for her. But she doesn't quite know the steps to this dance, and is worried that she will end up treading on my feet in some unforgivable way. But she is thrilled by the challenge nonetheless, and that, in turn, excites me.
As she moves I look at her properly for the first time. She's short, and though her frame is narrow I sense she's stronger than she looks. It seems that though she's complacent in ability to ensnare older men with little effort, she's also relatively fit. Maybe she dances or does gymnastics, something like that, but for whatever reason she less bony than many girls her age, which would be her chief attraction were it not for her eyes.
She stares up at me with big, doleful eyes. Her eyes, more than anything else, are what she trades on, both for their innocence and for their melancholy. She's a poet, this girl, or she thinks she is. And no doubt she writes endlessly about her pain and her anguish and her hopeless. I look deep into them and she gazes back, unflinching. Despite her apparent vulnerability there is a sort of defiance there. Maybe she doesn't even realise it. She longs to be dominated but also, somewhere inside, to be in control too. And perversely I suddenly understand that that's what she gets with these sorts of encounters: control. Because the men that fuck her may force her into submission and do all kinds of perverted things to her, but only because she wills them to, only because she is capable of something that they're not; of stirring up such unrestrained passion in another, and without even having to try. Because, in the end, she chooses who she lets fuck her brains out and so the user becomes the used.
Realising this, my resolve weakens ever so slightly. Because I want her; I want her so badly that I'm aching inside. But my desire is so well hidden that for a second I fear that she will decide it's just not worth it; that if I'm not bothered then she's not bothered.
But it's just a moment. I am in control here. She wouldn't dare turn away from me now, and I wouldn't let her if she tried.
Slowly, I lift up my hand and cup her small face. She's confused by this; it wasn't what she expected or what she wanted; this tenderness. Or maybe, just maybe, a tiny part of her is excited. Perhaps a part of her would sincerely like to reject the idea of rough, meaningless, sex and fall in love with me. Maybe she secretly longs for tenderness. But if she does then that's not the part of her that remotely interests me. She's just an object, a fuck-puppet. Something to amuse me while I'm bored and while the woman that I do love, that I am tender with and who pulls on every string of my heart, is away.
As if to prove my point, after her moment's hesitation, the girl tilts her head into my gentle one hand-handed embrace. But I'm already working my fingers up into her hair. Then, without any warning and without any change of my facial expression or breaking eye-contact, I grab a fist full of hair yank her violently round. She lets out a small scream, though it's more in shock than fear. Using my other hand to restrain her flailing arm I force her round and then back against the window. I'm close to her then; for the first time in her body space and I can smell her cheap (though she thinks it's expensive) perfume. A punky, pungent scent, but unmistakeably teenage, and this makes me smile. Smells Like Teen Spirit, I think to myself, and what do you get if you play that backwards? Rape Me.
So now I have her. One hand still grips her hair while the other pulls at her pants, forcing them down past her hips, but no further. She tries to fumble for my belt but I knock her hand away and give her hair a twist just to force home my point. She gasps silently when I do this, but doesn't protest. She knows her place, or thinks she does anyway.
She looks up at me, eyes wide, and tense with anticipation. This is what she came here for, but still, she's not sure exactly how she's going to get it. And I, in turn, look down at her; at those eyes; wishing well eyes, into which disappears all hope.
In one fluid motion I forcibly turn her round, pulling on her hair as I do, and then my elbow in her back I push her hard against the window. Outside, the city glows; a billion lit candles in the night. And across from her there are a million other windows, and in each of which she imagines someone spying on her; seeing her depravity and being disgusted, but also, aroused, by her unashamed depravity.
I come in close then, my arms wrapping round her small frame, enclosing her. I squeeze her entire body, smothering her, as if I could force her out of existence. Then, as one of my hands makes it way under her ridiculous Nirvana t-shift finding its way to her young firm breasts, my other slips down between her thighs to her shaven, already wet, pussy.
She moans and arches her back slightly as I simultaneously work her clit and massage her breasts. She pushes her ass into my crotch and squirms contentedly, wanting more, wanting me to finger fuck her properly, but I do not oblige. I sense her frustration and smile as I pull my hand away from her hot little cunt and I cup her pert buttocks. I hestitate for a moment before gently slipping a finger into her ass. She tenses, but doesn't resist, and after a moment she even pushes back, impaling herself on my finger as I twist and pinch her now erect nipples with my other hand all the more forcefully, making her bite down and groan with desperate longing.
Her breathing is deep now as she realises what's coming, and as I work a second finger inside her I bring back my other hand to undo my belt. She presses herself against the window of my apartment, as if the cold class could absorb her into the fabric of TK City. My fingers are hurting her, but it's a wonderful sort of pain; illicit and daring; the kind that makes her feel most alive. And when I press the head of my solid cock against her tight little asshole she lets out an almost pleading moan of pleasure. She wants it. Is desperate for me to force it into the ass.
I withdraw I fingers and use them to guide myself in. For a moment it seems impossible, like it couldn't possibly fit, but with one hard thrust the tiny point of dark flesh is forced open, and as I shove myself in deeper, she cries out in a mixture of both pain and delight.
'You want it?' I whisper into her ear as I pull back and almost out. 'You want me to fuck you, you disgusting little bitch?'
'Yes,' comes her breathless reply. 'Please. Fuck me. Hard. Please...'
Again, I delay, but for just a moment, teasing her. And then with both my hands suddenly on her hips, I began to roughly fuck her so hard that she has to rest her forehead on one of her arm to prevent it from banging against the glass.
Her other hand goes down between her thighs but I quickly chase it away and replace it with my own, my fingers pushing into her dripping wet pussy. She squirms and moans from the excitement of my cock in her ass and my fingers in her shaven cunt. Then, using my fingers in her pussy to force her ass back onto my cock, I am able to release her hip and I move my other back round her body. This time it finds its way up her neck. I grip it tightly, making her breaths come in uneven gasps. I am denying her the ability to marshal the sensations coursing through her body, forcing an altogether more animalistic response, and in a few minutes she will begin to feel light-headed and panicky, then she will be lost.
As this continues my mind glows hot and vivid. I am alive. I feel as if I'm the centre of a collapsing universe. And this girl, this stupid American brat who is ten years my junior and who has nothing but the inelegant grace of an immature prodigy, becomes a mere object; an object into which I plunge myself, over and over, without mercy, without conscience.
And God; her ass is so tight that it hurts even me. As I continue to frantically withdraw and force my way back in I begin to notice a thin red shine of blood now covers my cock, and this prompts me to fuck her harder still, and to dig deeper into her pussy with my fingers, working it more intensely until, all of a sudden, she begins to jerk and scream in uncontrolled bursts. I feel her pussy convulse and tighten as she drowns my fingers in her come. It's almost more than she can bear.
Before she is finished, and without warning, I throw her to the floor. She falls hard on her elbow and cries out in pain. But I don't allow her the luxury of feeling sorry herself. I quickly scoop down to grab a handful of her hair and drag her back up to her knees. She instantly knows what she has to do and opens her mouth to accept my bloodstained cock. She chocks and gags as I am standing almost on top of her, holding her in place by her hair, though it's hard to know whether her gagging is form how deep she was taking me or the taste and knowledge of where the thing in her mouth had just been. But she takes it, she doesn't fight. Even with the disappointment of being interrupted mid-orgasm, and the humiliated of being forced to suck a dirty bloody cock, she knows her place.
As I suspected, she knows what she's doing. She's a skilled cocksucker, but still more than a little overwhelmed by the intensity of the situation and so has difficulty picking up the pace. I shuffle back, just an inch, to allow her room to breath and she quickly finds her rhythm then, and even manages to work her way down to my balls, taking them in her hot young mouth as she continues to work my cock with her hand.
I feel my own orgasm rising, the pressure building in my cock, ready to explode, and so with a quick twist of her hair I encouraged her to take it back in her small wet mouth. She gazes up at me with those eyes of hers. There seems to be some kind of childish need for approval there, for acceptance.
'Do you like that?' I ask her. 'You nasty little cunt. Do you like sucking my cock?' She moans in appreciation and closes her eyes, concentrating on what she's doing. 'You want to taste my come? You want to swallow it all, you revolting whore?' Again, she moans: yes.
But only the first shot touches her lips, one greedy gulp, and then I pull back her head and angle downwards so that I empty myself all over her precious Nirvana t-shirt, covering it in hot thick sticky come.
When I'm done I take a step back, and finally, I release her. She sinks back down on her heels and wipes the come from her mouth while as I pull up my pants and as catch my breath. She doesn't have a clue what to do about the mess I'd made of her top, and looks back up at me questioningly.
I smile at her, a reflex that she returns, but with genuine warmth. She believes that she had in some way proven herself. That with just that one brief encountered she has made some sort of connection. But this notion is quickly banished back into uncertainly as I stride over to her and pick her up by her arm. She doesn't know what do to, whether to struggle or to submit as I half carry, half drag her back across my apartment. She soon realises what happening and does start to struggle, but just a touch, and with no real heart. I dump her in the corridor outside my apartment and as she sits in a defeated heap staring back at me, I step back and close the door.
For a moment, I wait, listening, but I can't hear a thing through my soundproof walls, and she wasn't stupid enough to try knocking; to beg for me to let her back in. Instead, I imagine her sniffling as she picks herself up off the ground and pulls up her pants that are still round her ankles. She can hardly walk as she's bleeding from her ass, and maybe her pussy too. She will stumble away then, wounded and delicate, covered in blood and come. She might try and wipe some of it off before she leaves the building, but the stains would be there for all to see, and the smell too. Her punky teenage scent replace with the cloying, yeasty smell of my spunk. Humiliated and shamed, she will have to make her way through the city, with people staring at her, seeing what a disgusting little cunt she really is.
And another thought occurs to me as I return to my window and gaze at the clammy imprint that she's left on the glass; that maybe she would pass my fiancée as she leaves the building. That maybe my love will arrive home in a minute and tell me about this dirty little whore she's seen in the lobby, and we'll laugh and deride her, and then we'll kiss and melt into each other's arms; into our love.
As I imagine this I scan TK City, as if for clues. The light I'd seen before is gone now, eaten up by the darkness. But I am at my window; vigilant as ever.