Sanity is a stone in the mouth.
"Did you have to do that?" Crawford asks in a resigned tone.
He slouches against the doorframe, arms crossed. The fluorescent overheads shine on his glasses, turning them into headlights and transforming him into a monochrome figural study.
Spit out the pebble…
The question is both irrelevant and rhetorical, so I ignore it. As I walk towards him there's a small movement to the right, a woman in a teal blue designer suit. Two bullets explode her head, a grey and red fan of blood and brain tissue spraying upwards. It was probably only an involuntary spasm - corpses do that occasionally - but better overkill than to leave a job incomplete. I would find that most… dissatisfying.
and the pooka remains a pooka.
Crawford makes a small sound of disgust. He's glaring down at his white Armani, now painted with carmine and ashen splatters. He doesn't like Jackson Pollack. I smile.
What is lost is the binding.
I stop in front of him, sheath the gun and step close. I'm near enough to feel the heat from his body, to smell his sweat mixing with the smoky charcoal incense of cordite and the dark iron stench of bloodied, dead meat. I begin to burn.
Because control is an illusion - a foolish deceit that man practices.
Crawford lifts his head and I can see his eyes now. They're distant for a moment, then widen.
"Farfarello, no! We're not… ugh!"
I push him against the wall, stop up his protest with my mouth.
Upon himself. Upon his reality.
He struggles for a few seconds, but it's half-hearted and he's already partially aroused. If he really objected I wouldn't have gotten this far, but it's another of his little games. It's a pity he doesn't truly understand the rules. And I sometimes wonder if he knows there isn't a word for "no" in Gaelic?
I sink to my knees, hands dragging streaks of colour down the white silk lapels. I pull his zip and trousers down and swallow him as far as I can. Crawford groans and almost immediately stiffens into full erection. His fingers start to tease at my scalp as I suck up and down his cock, one hand massaging his balls, the other stroking him off at the same time. The scent of blood and musk excites me and I can feel my trousers tight against my own arousal. Crawford starts to thrust faster, humping the wall, making those whiny grunts he does when he's about to lose it. There's an edge of desperation to those little noises that licks some pleasure spot inside me. The pressure of orgasm builds up and up, until it's an unstoppable blur of noise and colour fountaining out of me. I clamp down, scream suffocated by Crawford's cock, and the bitter wash of semen in my mouth tells me Crawford has come too.
Control and choice are not the same thing.
I watch Crawford shakily rearrange his clothing. He grimaces at the state it's in - no drycleaner in the world can salvage this suit. He looks at me, but I know he doesn't see, because he smirks and says,
"I swear, one day you're going to bite my dick off, Farfie."
But he'll keep coming back. Maybe one day he'll even understand what I'm trying to teach him.
And sanity is a stone in the mouth.