Over Exposure (Darkroom Saga)

by Poppet

  Fuck indeed.

  Alone, I lift the duvet, seeing dried blood stuck to the inside of my thigh, the smell of sex overwhelming.

  Good grief.

  Instantly wobbly with recollection of my public humiliation, I crawl to the edge of the bed, taking it easy, dawdling into his bathroom.

  The vision of my bruised face pulls me toward the mirror, and I tilt and preen, examining the damage.

  There's no Victor to fix me this time.

  God damn, I miss you like I've had an amputation.

  Succumbing to misery I blast the shower, fighting back tears long enough to climb inside the shield of water. Dropping the kimono I step in, pulling the glass door closed, and plant my hands on the wall, staring at the floor, letting my tears fall with the haze of droplets.

  I'm hung-over, depressed, desperate.

  Slapping the wall, grieving in silent sobs, I wallow, wishing I could get my itchy paws on a big dose of poison. Looking around the shower I search for a razor.

  Stepping naked and dripping back out of it, I yank on the cabinet door, appalled to find a his and hers deodorant, my perfume and his cologne, toothpaste and floss. That's it. Not a razor anywhere.

  “Fuuuuuuck!” I scream out frustration, slapping the door closed, horrified to turn and he's standing in the doorway looking alarmed.

  “What is it?” he demands.

  “What? Everything! That's what!”

  “Shauna, you need to calm down. Hysteria and temper tantrums are forbidden.”

  Yanking open the cabinet I hurl his deodorant at him, “And I suppose being human and having feelings is forbidden too!”

  Bitterly angry I snatch my deo and chuck it at his head, reaching for my perfume next when a masculine hand clamps around mine, the pressure exerted on me compressing my lungs and cutting off blood to my hand, “Shauna, stop it. Put it down.”

  “No!” I screech, wrestling against him, stamping my wet foot on his toes, wriggling like a possessed wind-chime.

  His arms straitjacket me and he sits on the floor, pulling me with him, harnessing my rage in his muscular prison.

  How come he's suddenly so strong and able? What's he taking? Whatever it is, I want it.

  “Are you on steroids or something?” I demand, still crying, naked and smelling of ripe sex and blood.

  “If you want answers, ask Alpha,” he snaps, and I stare at the veins protruding on his arms, the downy hair on his forearms as combed and perfect as Victor's used to be.

  Crumpling, I sag, exhaustion and a throbbing headache waging war through my body. This tumultuous emotional trip is too much. I can't just pretend. I'm shattered.

  Wailing, crying in ragged jerks, I let him hold me, cradle me, force me back into the shower and wash me. It's like being washed in acid and bleach. I'm stripped and blanched by the end of it, no dignity remains, no pride.

  Treated like his personal doll, he dries my hair, gets me ready, puts me in the slinky dress, brushing my hair after drying it, and finally sitting next to me on his bed, holding my hand.

  “It's gonna be okay.”

  “It's not,” I mutter. My despair has robbed my voice of emotion, my spirit of essence.

  I feel like a toilet roll.

  Hollow and vacant, and tired of crap.

  “You're distraught. You'll get some good rest when I go back to work. I'm here for you Shauna. Talk to me.”

  Snapping to look at mister perfect and his fucking perfect hair and his perfect smile and his perfect upbringing and his perfect fucking money and his taut and muscular body and his fucking ability to take what he wants because daddy says he can have it, I shout, “Here for me? Bullshit!”

  “That is quite enough,” speaks deeply from the threshold, and we both snap guiltily to face 'daddy dearest'.

  He holds out a hand to me, “Come.”

  Doom settles into my bones and I suddenly am utterly bereft of strength.

  “Do I have to carry you?” he demands in his impatient manner.

  I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Covering my head with my hands I scream, and scream, and scream, until God comes over and sticks a needle in my neck, lifting me into his arms, mumbling in tongues to Seth, walking away with me.... into the light.

  ~~~

  Alpha:

  The sedative has calmed her hysteria. I would thank god but that would be moot. Grief, this woman is one hormonal wench.

  I need to get them checked. I'm beginning to think her issues are stemming from an imbalance caused from the pregnancy. However, my boy is clearly not her favourite human right now, so it's best to keep them separated. It's the perfect opportunity to drive a wedge into their newly formed friendship and divide her focus.

  Reclining while the surround sound softly filters Mylène Farmer into my abode, I sip my whisky, appreciating a fine woman in a fine dress. I'm a connoisseur, and heaven knows I've been around long enough to see the best and worst of humanity, but I know it when I see it. She's reminiscent of the very first woman. It's what drew me to Eve, and it's what draws me to Shauna.

  If she lived four hundred years ago I'd have had her painted by a master just so I can stare at her for hours without detection. Digital is cold, even when it's video.

  Crunching the tissue up, she stares sullenly at me, “I'm sorry.”

  “Shauna, an apology is useless unless it's sincere. You are not sorry because you are fully entitled to your breakdown.”

  “I am sorry. You're all dressed up and clearly went to a lot of trouble, and I just lost it.”

  Arching an eyebrow at the slender waif, I tease, “Would you like me to help you find it?”

  Arching both eyebrows back at me, she speaks in her soft lilt, “I know exactly where it is. It's in a grave and he's never coming back.”

  Placing my goblet on the side-table, I pat my leg, “Come sit with me.”

  She gives me the look of resistance, then indecision, before standing and obeying.

  She learns fast. But tonight I'm encouraging communication, not mindless compliance. I need to be her confidant, the one she runs to when Seth gets on her tits. Literally and figuratively.

  Sitting on my thigh, her back ramrod straight, she looks at the floor, displeasure evident in her pouting lip.

  Holding her hand, I rest ours locked together on her leg sleekly wrapped in red silk, saying, “Let's start again. I'd like to get to know you. You were full of questions earlier and I like that. An enquiring mind makes for decent conversation.”

  Twisting to face me, she looks doubtful.

  I think I've found her weakness. If she thinks I am the one lacking, she'll be more inclined to open up. Seth appealed to her compassion and it blew her walls of resistance apart faster than dynamite.

  “Shauna, do you think it's easy being the god in charge? Everyone wants to either kiss my ass or defy my every word. There is no middle ground. Having companionable and uncontrived conversation is a rare gift in my bland haven.”

  She offers a weak smile, “Yeah, I guess. It must suck to be you.”

  “You have no idea,” I chuckle, stroking my thumb over her palm, adoring the way her body reacts. Her nipples are rigid and it's not chilly this evening.

  When I made woman I was truly inspired. What a magnificent creation. So intricate and complicated. Her only flaw is her spirit. Her spirit was a gift from Sophia, and therein lies the root of every problem inside my creation. Wisdom is her birthright and she embodies the will to embrace it. The proof is old news, the tree of knowledge was irresistible to this gender.

  Shauna asks endless questions, she stands her ground and fights, even when she knows the consequences will deliver a world of pain to her door.

  She can't help herself.

  Swallowing audibly, she sounds nervous, “So... uhm... are we eating?”

  “Are you hungry?” I counter.

  “Ravenous.”

  This time her smile is genuine, and I'm mesmerised while she licks her lips, leaving th
em rouged and wet.

  “Good,” I say, keeping my tone even. “You are too thin, it's time we started putting a few curves back on your bones.”

  Helping her up, pleased she did as bid instead of being difficult, I stand with her, taking my whisky and offering her my arm, “We're going to the other side of level nine.”

  Accepting it, she walks with me, her carriage naturally proud and elegant. She's short without shoes, and I'm pleased she listened and wore only the dress.

  Just a dress, nothing else.

  Watching us advance to the east wing in the mirror, I savour the sway of unrestricted breasts as she walks, her long wavy hair framing her nipples in a way that makes me want to bunch it up and feel the silkiness in my hand.

  Victor died for you, Shauna. He died so I could have you. When you're mine I'll personally go searching for him. He can come back only when you have eyes for no one but your creator.

  Reaching the black room, I cover her hand with mine, taking her into the passage lit with candles standing in candelabra, giving my favourite section of my abode an air of mystery and foreboding.

  She reaches out, trailing her free hand on the wall, 'oohing' at the damask wallpaper. I'm exceedingly fond of it; it's raised black velvet on such a dark red silk that it looks diabolical.

  Everything on this side is black and red. Muted and Gothic, entirely lit with candles and firelight.

  Closing in on the intimacy of my sanctuary, she looks up at me, “It smells delicious!”

  Acknowledging her statement with a wink, I say, “Just wait until you see it.”

  Rounding the curve in the passage, we enter the parlour with its ebony piano, obsidian table, and ancient chairs carved with the finesse of the seats in ancient Rome.

  The artwork reflects the hedonism and debauchery of Pompeii, and I pull out her chair, letting her take her seat before shrugging out of my jacket and hanging it on the back of my own. The ceilings are vaulted, dangling smoky quartz chandeliers to illuminate the black candles and their romantic flames.

  I fully intend to woo this woman.

  As I sit on the velvet cushion two shades darker than black ink, I smile at her delight.

  She's from England, where roast chicken with all the trimmings is a Sunday institution. I contemplated having my personal chef prepare roast beef, but after all her medication and binge drinking I decided chicken was prudent. This meal alone will drop her guard, awakening fond memories and loosening her trust.

  “Wow, you even have Yorkshire pudding!”

  Inclining my head, I can't hide my grin, “I'm glad it meets with such obvious approval. Wine?”

  Lifting the Cava and offering it over her glass, she shakes her head, “No thank you. I've got the headache that would slay Satan.”

  Replacing the wine, I hold out my palm, “Give me your hand.”

  Cautiously she puts her little hand in mine, and it's enough to give me a retro moment of sappiness. Restraint is not my virtue and I fight my reaction long enough to pinch her hand, putting immense pressure on the nerve cluster with my thumb and forefinger, pressing the webbing between her thumb and fingers.

  “What are you doing?” she whispers.

  “Alleviating your headache. Satan is not welcome at my table.”

  Slapping her right hand over her mouth, she looks scandalised, “Oh god! I'm so sorry! I wasn't even thinking–”

  Laughing, I look at the young lady, “Oh god? Me, or the expression?”

  Blushing suits her. The pink in her cheeks has that post coitus hue to them. Fuck, nothing is more gorgeous than a woman sedate after a good fucking. Shauna has a tendency to keep my thoughts on one track. I don't do gutters, but when I created mankind they were all naked. I preferred them that way.

  I gave them one command, 'go forth and multiply'.

  Why? Because fucking is good for you. It lowers blood pressure, it releases hormones and endorphins that have a plethora of health benefits, and besides all that if people released their urges there would never be violent crime. People who fuck often are happier.

  “How did you do that?” she says, smiling up at me with eyes bright with interest.

  “I'm god. Need I say more?” Lifting the bottle as she extricates her hand, I offer again, “Wine?”

  “Please!”

  The enthusiasm is precious. How daft are my humans that they'd rather take a tablet than understand their own bodies. Pressure points are a grid which should be used, exploited even.

  If she only knew how much time I took to design the clitoris. It contains ten thousand more nerve endings in it than a male penis, and it's the only human feature which was designed purely to provide pleasure.

  There are many reasons for this, not that she cares for any of them, but I do. How few people understand just how large the clitoris is. If they only knew it's the exact same shape as the female symbol ♀.

  Lifting my glass, I wait for her to lift hers, “To a great meal and good conversation.”

  Looking shy, she is too cute when she hides coyly behind eyelashes, “Cheers.”

  Draining my glass, I replace it and refill it, explaining, “This is a special sparkling wine from Spain. It's from Catalonia and is called Cava.”

  “Wow,” she nods, sipping it, trying to be appreciative but failing miserably.

  Gesturing at the platters and terrines in front of us, I command, “Tuck in.”

  “Oh my god! Brussel sprouts in a cream and pepper sauce! How did you know?”

  Sitting, watching her gape, I smile, “I'm going to be saying this a lot, I know because I know everything. And if you're going to yell oh my god like that, I can think of far better pursuits than eating to get you to yell it.”

  Blushing fiercely, she looks mortified, spooning sprouts onto her plate, changing the subject, “You look hoity-toity in a dress shirt. So how come you have so many tattoos?”

  “The names of the ones I love are in my skin, and the language from heaven.”

  “Oh?” she cocks an eyebrow, heaping gravy on her selection of chicken and starch.

  “Want to see your name on me?” I coax.

  Replacing the gravy boat, she gives me her undivided attention, “Really?”

  This should be priceless.

  Scooting my chair back, I stand, untucking my shirt as if I'm going to lift it, but instead hold it out of the way when I unbutton my linen trousers, unzipping just far enough to expose her name at the base of my penis.

  A silent O shapes her lips and she looks up at me as if alarmed, delighted, and simultaneously embarrassed.

  She can't see anything that would make her uncomfortable, but I've made my point. Buttoning my slacks and sitting down again, I leave the shirt loose. I hate button down shirts but they add tension to a sexual situation. I'm a stickler for details.

  Relaxing back, heaping nutrition onto my own plate, I appreciate the sexuality of watching a woman eat. It's endlessly suggestive.

  The music envelops us from the hidden speakers and she seems relaxed when she looks around, chewing. After her swallow, she gives me an intriguing glance, looking at her plate as if unsure whether or not to speak up, or stay silent.

  “Speak. This is not the time to hold your tongue. I asked for companionship.”

  “Erm, the art, the sculptures, they're all, uhm...”

  “Sexual?” I say for her.

  “Yes,” she squeaks, reaching for her wine and guzzling it to drown her nerves.

  “What part of go forth and multiply seems prudish to you? My creation were naked, Shauna. They copulated out in the open air, free, appreciating the cool breeze on their skin, having no shame. I like nudity, I prefer it.”

  “Then how come the broken brides are so covered up? And stuff...”

  “Because I do not trust my disciples. They aren't well known for their restraint. The supernatural men have a penchant for abducting beautiful woman and raping them. But up here, in my suite, my preference is exposed for any visitor to witness.�
�

  “So you're like... a perv?”

  Laughing at her candid observation, I relax, nodding, “Guilty as charged.”

  Returning my smile, she has an infectious laugh, her sweet ways cutting through the awkward atmosphere and melting my willpower with sublime increments.

  Catching her hand, I kiss the back of it, inhaling her perfume. “You are adorable. Thank you, I haven't laughed like that in a long time.”

  “It's good medicine,” she nods.

  “So is food, and we still have pudding waiting for us.”

  “Pudding?” she says, again her childlike enthusiasm is infectious.

  “An angel told me your favourite is bread and butter pudding, smothered in custard and served with rosewater whipped cream. Yes?”

  “Oh my god! I've died and gone to heaven.”

  Shaking my head, this time the laughter is severe, squeezing tears out the corners of my eyes, “In a nutshell, pretty much.”

  “Can I stay?”

  The question is sincere, and I squeeze her hand, “As long as you wish.”

  This is a fortuitous start to my plotting. This night she will consume copious amounts of alcohol, dance with me until her feet ache, and sit and watch the sun rise from the celestial view in my bedroom.

  Then I'll tell her she's now my personal guest, freeing her from Seth for a while. It'll ease her into a zone of comfort and trust around me, and then I'll make my move.

  She won't leave this floor until she surrenders.

  To me.

  Chapter 15

  Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands,

  as unto the Lord.

  ~ Ephesians 5:22

  Seth:

  I am so angry with her. Father came down long after midnight to inform me that my wife is having a hard time adjusting to her new arrangement. He swore he'd instruct her in the ways of old, breaking her for me so she'll be an obedient woman.

  I'm entitled to her and quite frankly she's being a brat! I can't believe he's pandering to her when what she needs is more discipline! How dare the little bitch think she has the authority to snub me.