"Ever been tied up?"
A six pack in hand, they snuck back into Goop's room, located at the far end of the second floor hall, the quiet mostly-empty half of the lodge, with vacant bedrooms on either side.
Once locked inside, Felicity undressed. Hopefully, she thought, this time not in vain. But just in case, the Calvins were staying on, at least for the time being.
She walked over to Goop, wrapped her arms around his thick neck, and planted her lips squarely on his.
Goop grabbed her, encircled her little waist with his massive forearms, cupping her ass with his hands. His bit down on her bottom lip, drawing a spec of blood.
Felicity gasped, and pulled back for a moment, She looked into his eyes. There was something savage there that made her knees just a little weak.
"Yeah," Felicity whispered, kissing him again.
Goop moved her to the edge of the antique four poster bed. That's when he asked.
Felicity could have explained that she had been tied up more times than she could remember, but instead she reached for one of the bottles of beer they had taken with them, twisted of the top, then chugged it.
The cold, the alcohol, gave her a sudden rush. But it was the beer that didn't make it down her throat, and instead trickled out of the sides of her mouth, down her face, her neck, soaking her tank-top, making her nipples want to explode, that set her over the edge.
Felicity threw the beer bottle down onto the plush carpeting that covered the floor of Goop's room, then held out her hands, pressed together at the wrist.
He walked to the bathroom, and returned a moment later with an oversized bath towel that he found so perfectly folded, resting on a brass shelf mounted to the pastel-colored wall-papered wall, over the old porcelain bathtub.
The towel was yellow.
Goop began ripping it into long terrycloth strips.
Each tear sent a jolt of electricity surging down Felicity's spine and out to every nerve ending. She could never remember being so turned on, but then she had to smile at the harsh realization, how many times in her life had she thought that? A few too many. And then, the morning after the fact -- the morning after the fuck -- she couldn't even remember what had gotten her so excited in the first place.
But the after was still many hours away.
And right now, every movement Goop made, every little flex of every huge muscle, made her twitch and tingle in those very right -- very wrong? -- places.
Once he had the four strips he needed, Goop tied Felicity down to the bed, and not hands together, but apart, one wrist, one ankle to each of the four posts.
"Well, what do you know?" Goop said, looking down at his captive, once the last knot was tied. "You still got your clothes on."
"So do you," Felicity said.
"True," Goop said. "But I believe in the old adage, ladies first."
"Uh-uh," Felicity said. "Show me."
Felicity's eyes went wide when she saw the blade. A four and a half inch knife that Goop swiped from the kitchen when she wasn't looking.
Goop stood by the side of the bed. He placed the knife down gently on her chest, in the space between her breasts. The point was aimed north. Felicity could made out the gleam of the steel blade -- how sharp it seemed -- if she scrunched her chin down. She was still staring at the blade, her heart and mind racing, but nowhere near as fast as the blood to her groin, when she heard the rustle of clothes.
Felicity turned just in time to see Goop step from his sweat pants. The light from the bathroom, cast a glow on his marvelously toned physique.
Goop moved toward he bed, crawled onto it, onto her, straddling her hips, one gigantic thigh on each side of her. Her eyes were drawn first to his face, that smile which cut his face in half, and down, past the ripples, the six-packed stomach, until finally she caught sight of the monster.
If there was any muscle Goop could be proud of, there it was.
"Happy?" Goop asked.
Felicity nodded and stared.
"No waiting for wood with me, baby."
"Christ," Felicity said. "I didn't know there were exercises for your dick."
Goop laughed. A crazed little he-he-he. He liked women with a sense of humor. He liked women a lot. He'd even been in love once, but that was a long time ago. So long ago. Before he'd left Liverpool. The reason he left. Goop had no other choice.
"You'd be surprised," Goop said, finally.
"Well, then," Felicity said, "Surprise me."
Goop picked up the knife, held it gently in his hand. He ran the tip of the blade across her forehead, down the bridge of her nose. Felicity opened her mouth, and stuck out her tongue. He ran the blade softly along that as well.
Then he moved it downwards, over Felicity's neck, back and forth in little loop-de-loops and figure-eights, then over to one shoulder strap of her tank-top.
Goop hooked the blade under the spaghetti strap, and pulled upwards. It sliced through the material effortlessly.
He moved onto the other strap with identical results.
Then lifting the blade, Goop brought it to the bottom edge of her tank, and working it between the material and her skin, he lifted, the blade cutting through the material, the shirt in half, right up the middle.
He opened the shirt, like a present from God, moving the cloth to each side, out of the way, which it was completely.
Smiling, loving the view, Goop tapped the edge of the blade against Felicity's gold navel ring. Little tings and pings of delight tapping at her flat tummy.
"You like?" Felicity asked, in a soft nothing of a voice.
Goop nodded, tracing little circles around the loop with the tip of his blade.
"What else is pierced?" Goop asked,
"Nothing," Felicity said. "Yet."
Sliding down on her body, so that he straddled her knees, Goop slid the knife under the thin elastic band sides of her panties.
First the left side, then the right.
Then a quick and vicious yank . . . and the panties were off, flung to the kingdom of who-knows-where?
And neither participant could have cared less.
Goop stared down at Felicity's glorious form. She really was one of the most beautiful, most perfect specimens he had ever seen. He mindlessly ran the tip of the blade over her, from neck to knee, thinking back, remember Liverpool, what it had been like to be in love, to be loved.
He traced the knife over a few of her tattoos: the little long-legged spider crawling on her right breast, the crying heart at her bikini line, and her largest tattoo, a thick cross, a tortured Christ, with cherubs climbing all over him. Almost eight inches high, and located on her outside left thigh, it was an exact replica of the crucifix Greta wore around her neck. Down to every detail. It had been Felicity's idea of a joke.
As Goop outlined the tiny pieces of art, Felicity felt as if he were creating them for her, all over again. The blade tickled, more than anything else. Like that excruciating feeling, the lightest foreplay. Yet there was something about the glimmer of the blade. Something that scared her.
And that made it all that more exciting.
With his free hand, Goop pulled taunt one of her pubic hairs. And in a flick of the knife, it was gone.
"She loves me," Goop said, holding the short, dark hair up to his nostrils, and inhaling its scent.
Goop got down on all fours, moving his face up close, only inches from her wetness. He inhaled again deeply, slowly, as if it were wine, or his mother's chicken soup.
Then he brought the knife to his mouth, and spit onto it. He worked the saliva completely over the steel edge, then moving the blade down, slowly, meticulously, he began to shave away Felicity's pubic hair.
"She loves me not."
One hair at a time.
"She loves me."
Cleanly cut, close, smooth. So goddamn smooth -- a little like Elliot's head, only with more personality, Goop thought, snickering to himself.
"She loves me not."
Then some more spit . . . or perhaps some of Felicity's natural juices . . . why not? But only when additional lubrication was absolutely necessary.
"Oh, my God," Felicity murmured.
There was a gasp, a cry to her tone. She was watching as Goop moved the blade farther and farther down . . . closer and closer and . . . ever so close.
Goop peeked up at her. "Want me to stop?" he asked.
Felicity swallowed hard, clenched her eyes shut, then pushing her head back down hard on the pillow, she shook it vigorously, and said, "No. I don't."
Goop smiled, then went back to work, whispering, wondering, working ever so patiently toward an answer.
"She loves me . . . she loves me not . . ."
"I thought you'd never come."
The plan had been perfect.
So far, and nothing would go wrong.
He had waited patiently, alone in his thoughts, until the lodge was silent, when all the little creaks and pops had settled down. When sleep had set in, and all the blessed guests were off in dreamland, a little numb, a little happy, from whatever extracurricular activity had raised their pulse rates before calling it a night.
He was ready.
Slipping silently out of his room, he moved down the hall, down the grand stairwell, through the great room, and the dining room, and into the back hallway.
He found the room rather easily. The door was unlocked, as he expected it to be. As it should be. He moved inside the darkened room, shut, and locked the door behind him.
Liana was standing by the frost-covered window, staring out at the storm, silhouetted just slightly. She wore a long white cotton nightgown, and her hair down -- long, beautiful and so deeply black -- flowing over her shoulders, and halfway down her back.
She had been waiting there for hours, or at least it seemed like hours. It was hours, it was days, it seemed like months, years.
Liana thought he might not come, again, and said as much.
Instead of replying, he walked over, stood behind her.
He pushed his fingertips into her hair, pushed it aside, to feel her neck. The heat of her skin, its softness, like cream. He needed to touch her skin, see her skin, breath it in. He grabbed the material of her gown, and ripped it away, ripped it off, completely.
He stayed behind her, his hands roaming over her skin, touching, kneading, feeling inside her.
But she could not turn around. She couldn't face him. Not yet. She had stayed hidden in the shadows, as did he, and now was so frightened, and there were tears in her eyes. He could never see her cry.
Her body was everything he needed it to be, everything he wanted. He ran his mouth, his tongue, over her neck, biting her, licking her. Over her back. Down her back. He fell to his knees and tasted her. He could eat her alive. He would eat her alive.
She moaned, reaching out, grasping the windowsill for support, as her knees went limp, and she knew she couldn't hold back for long.
Then he was standing again . . . rigid, he was so completely hard. She felt him brush against her. It burned the cheeks of her behind, the backs of her thighs. She knew he was ready, never more ready, but not a word was said.
He pushed inside her.
The pain shot through her at first . . . the intensity, the heat.
"Oh, God," Liana whimpered.
How could he? But then, how could he not? How could she even question? It was what she expected. Somehow, what she had wanted.
She reached down and touched herself, she had to now. And she so badly wanted to go over the brink when he did.
But God, could she hold on that long?
His tempo increased, and the pain subsided. And a pleasure, a pleasure she never knew, racked her, turned her inside out. It was faster and harder . . . and God . . . she pressed her face against the iciness of the glass, then her shoulders and breasts.
The extremes . . . the cold versus the heat he generated . . . and a hot sweat, or was it a cold sweat?
It was too much.
She could feel the release. Coming. His fingers digging deeper and deeper into the flesh of her upper thighs as he pulled himself further and further inside her. Crawling inside her . . . growing inside her . . . glowing inside her . . . exploding inside her.
Exploding . . . and . . .
"How I've missed you," Liana said finally, after the panting had subsided, after the throbbing had morphed into an unfamiliar numbness. Then, in a softer, familiar, almost teasing tone, "I see you received my letter."
He spun her around, and held her face with the prosthetic hand, feeling the heat off her skin through the wires and diodes and plastic.
He stroked back her hair with his good hand, then kissed her hard on the mouth -- those lips, he could never forget those lips -- then held her in his arms. He whispered into her ear, in a tone to match hers, "I'd recognize your handwriting anywhere."
"I was hoping you would," she said, giggling slightly with joy, then kissing him again, "I've waited so long for this day."
"Nothing will ever come between us again."
"You promise?" she said.
"I promise," he said.
"I love you, Elliot."
"And I love you . . . Lauren."
February 10, 1996
You must know I'm watching now...
A federal agent. My federal agent.
"Freeze, in the name of love," as Diana Ross and the Supremes would sing. (Do you like oldies? I know you could get to like them. Sing along to them with me.)
Want to know how I figured it out, Paige? How I figured you out?
Sure you do. And it's simple, even a non-pro such as myself could have spotted you in a millisecond. Because the harder you tried to fit in, to blend into the humdrum, the more you stood out. And as beautiful as the women of Florida can be, most simply are not in your redheaded league. (Even the girls of Fort Lauderdale, he adds with a smile . . . Yes! It's been months, Paige.)
You spotted her tonight, before even I did. Drinking her Bloody Marys with Absolut Peppar. How perfectly trite.
I watched you watching her. Read your mind. You knew the time was near. That I was due. And that she was the only other possibility.
So, you kept vigil, Paige, waiting, hoping that you were in the right bar (you were, because I followed you there), that I'd make my move, and then you'd step in and steal me away with one flash of your beautiful eyes (a half a flash is all it would take).
And then, well . . . I shudder at the thought of what you had in store for me. (Do you shudder at the thought of what I have in store for you?)
But Paige, dearest Paige, I'm not ready for you yet.
But . . . not . . . just . . . yet.
She was on her way out of the bathroom. I was on the phone, or pretending to be, having a fight with my pretend girlfriend. I was a musician tonight. (Knew she'd fall for that!) I looked pained, and slammed down the receiver. She smiled. There was no doubt that she wanted to make my heartbreak and despair go away . . . at least for one night.
I would have killed to have seen the look on your face when she didn't return. No, the look on your face when you see her again.
(The taste of those Bloody Marys on her lips still tingles my tongue. But I had to laugh, just going through the motions, brush-brush, snip-snip, oh, what a relief it is! I knew she wasn't the one, she was nothing but practice. But practice makes perfect, does it not? . . . all those hours at the shooting range must make you quite the markswoman.)
But then, you should have seen the look on my face the day I discovered what you did for a living.
Following you from your South Beach apartment (yes, I know where you live, where you jog, where you shop for groceries, where you buy your compact discs . . . I'd follow you to the ends of the Earth, my dear. Perhaps I have), to the federal building downtown, and from there to the fourth-floor Miami office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
I even followed you inside, watched as you greeted your co-agents (or whatever they're called), watched as you walked to your Federal Bureau of Investigation desk.
Then someone asked, "Can I help you?"
I asked if this was the tax office, and was told I was on the wrong floor. Oops. Silly me.
See, Paige. I know how to blend in.
Blending in, is part of what I do for a living.
Or helping others blend in.
Certainly not as exciting as what you do, but that doesn't mean we can't be together. In fact, I can help you. (Don't laugh now, but what undercover agent couldn't use a little help blending in?) And I will . . . in time.
But first things first.
You need to help me, Paige. The Prince needs your assistance.
And you will, of that I'm sure. Otherwise why would you have been assigned to my case? The Sleeping beauty case. (Or is it the Prince Charming case? Do the other special agents give me top billing over my Princesses? I know you do.) Why would you have been delivered into my grasp by your superiors? Federal Expressed to my heart?
The answers to these questions, and more, will be coming up next.
Like the news at eleven.
Like the next Batman sequel. Like the rising sun.
SNOW BLIND ©2004 Gorman Bechard - All Rights Reserved