The Fourth Wall

April 21, 2010

The music murmured, barely audible over the low chatter. The bass vibrated up the legs of her chair in lethargic thumps. A saxophone wove in and out between the chords of the piano in wanton sighs.

She leaned against the bar, the edge of the bar table pushed against her ribs, digging into her with each breath that she took.  The lights overhead fell over her, a spotlight of her very own in the shadowy room. But of course it did. She’d chosen the seat for that very reason, after all. She knew the way her auburn hair shone almost copper in the light, that it highlighted the creamy swells of her breasts and slopes of her crossed legs.

Stirring the drink with the mixing straw, she swept a sardonic gaze over the characters in the room, her audience for the night.

Their eyes followed her hand as she smoothed her hands over the slinky little black number, fingertips trailing over the curves of her body, brushing away the invisible lint along the deep vee of the dress.

Their gazes were hungry, demanding. But it wasn’t for them that she was arching her back as she threw back the rest of her drink, the liquid burning its way down her throat.

A fresh drink was pushed into a view. She stole a glance at the sheet of glass as she lifted the drink in a salute to its buyer.

He was watching. Of course he was. And he should know any doubt that all that she did, every flirtatious smile and bat of eyelashes, was for him- more than whoever he’d paired her with. But what was even better were the times when she could feel his presence in the room, sometimes close enough that she swore she felt the air stir from his breath. In moments like those, she reveled in knowing that she consumed his thoughts, that she had emblazoned herself into the very nature of his being.

Even if they never last long.

She felt it tingling on her skin this time before it actually hit, the sense of displacement about her. Against the wall, the grandfather clock stopped, pendulum mid-swing.

Her stomach clenched as time screeched to a stop. She grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself, waiting for her body to find equilibrium in the sudden stop.

The glass shimmered. She frowned as he moved out of the view. But when he returned, she found herself wishing that he would stay out of it.

The brunette laughed throatily. It was entirely much too loud and desperate. So was the way she slipped her hands down along his sides and into the pockets of his jeans.

She grimaced. No one knew the art of subtlety better than her. And no one knew what he liked more than she did. Satisfaction surged through her. No. The airheaded twit couldn’t do anything better than her.

And yet, she was the one popping the buttons off of his shirt. And she was the one that he was kissing, touching.

“She’s over again?”

She stifled a groan. Fuck, but the man had an uncanny ability to always show up when he was least wanted. She shot a look over her shoulder. “You’re not supposed to be here, Ollie.”

The scar on his cheek twisted with his smirk. She curled her fingers, remembering the way those broad shoulders felt against her hands. So what if he was easy on the eye? Or that he knew what he was doing in bed? She brushed off the sliver of lust. If she had a say, she wouldn’t have even touched him in the first place. And she was willing to bet the feeling was mutual. “You’re such a prude, Kate. There’s no ‘shouldn’t.’ He’s got no control when he’s not here. ” He nodded at the empty room. “Not like they stuck around either. So,” the stool creaked beneath his weight as he collapsed onto it, “why are you watching this?”

“None of your business.”

“Why so cold? We’re old friends. I’ve seen you naked. At least thirty times. Plus there was that one time-”

“Stop it.” She winced, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s a memory that neither of us want to remember, I’m sure.” Why on earth David had found it a good idea to have her marathon fuck Ollie, she didn’t know. But she wasn’t about repeat it again if she had a choice.

Then again, talk about a moot point.

She shrugged off the hand on her shoulder. “Aw. Don’t be like that, kitty-Kate.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You liked it well enough in bed. Or was it just for him?” She glared at him as he nodded at the glass again. The pair had progressed to the couch. She forced her face to remain blank as the woman dropped kisses over his bared chest. But Kate knew, he liked it better when the kisses stung and the fingers left marks with each caress. “Or would you prefer him to call you that?”

She tore her gaze away from the glass with no little effort. It was rare to see him like this outside of her dreams. Even if it meant sharing him with someone else. “They would call the men in the white lab coats for him if he starts talking to me.”

The stool creaked again as he stood up and stretched. “Pity. Come on, kitty-Kate. Let’s go do something. They’re not going to be done for a while.”

The way that he said it told her exactly what he was going to suggest next, as did the leering. Apparently he was less repulsed by her than he’d initially led her to believe. That or he was feeling more than a little frisky. “No one’s making you stay.”

“No one’s making you either.” His eyebrows arched toward his hairline. “You want to stay, huh?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Go away, Ollie.”

“You know, it’s easier if you’re after something that you can actually get.”

She shot him a withering look. “Back at you.”

“Fine, fine. I can see you’re in one of your bitchy moods.” Backing away, he held his hands up in acquiesce. “The offer stands though.”

The door slammed behind him. She exhaled. Scowling, she pushed herself off of the chair.  Her heels clicked against the wooden floor as she headed for the glass.

Not like he told her anything that she didn’t know already. But that didn’t make it any less painful to hear aloud. The words whirled about her mind, circled about her chest, tightened, and squeezed until the ache that she’d thought would pass by now returned with all the intensity that it’d ever had.

Kate rested her forehead against the panel. The chill of it sank into her, cruel in its unrelenting reality, offering her no reprieve from hers. She was trapped in this world, but she was living entirely in his. She sighed; her breath fogged the glass. Never did she feel so alone as when she was standing behind him like this. And yet, never did she feel closer to him.

She drew her fingers over the fogged glass, tracing out his form as he pushed the woman back against the couch. Her fingertips followed the dip of his spine that bisected his back, danced over the bumps of his knuckles as he closed his fingers about the woman’s arms, pinning her to the back of the chair.

She let her lids drop, closing her eyes enough that her lashes obscured the woman’s figure. If only the two would switch places. She would’ve given almost anything to see his expression, see what he was doing that was making her hips arch so. Or better yet, if she could switch places with the woman…

The thought itself sent a jolt of desire straight down her spine. It slipped between her legs, coaxing forth a gasp from her as wetness gathered there. She braced herself against the glass, her skin hot against the cool surface. A hand curled above her head to steady herself, she brought the other down along her sides, imagining the brush of his fingers over her belly, the whisper of it along the sensitive undersides of her breasts.

The familiarity in the way he moved about the woman, tugging her over and around the couch, brought about a wave of jealousy that almost cut through her building need. Almost. But his nimble fingers were wonderfully distracting, chasing all other thoughts from her mind, save for the feelings that his fingers were cajoling from her and the growing slickness between her legs.

“David.” His name fell from her lips in a sigh and a plea. The clouded glass instantly shattered any hopes for illusions that her words might reach him. Shards of it pierced her, their edges not the least dulled by time or frequency. They pricked at her, sending sparks of ache that her body answered eagerly.

Masochist that she was, she couldn’t slam the door shut on her lust. She might’ve never hear his voice, never felt his touch, but what he’d shown through his words were more than enough to leave a lasting impression, an etching of himself that she knew she would never be able to rub out. Not that she would ever try.

She dragged her fingers against her thighs; her cunt throbbed in anticipation. Her back arched, thrusting her breasts and the hardened peaks into the glass. A shuddering sigh escaped from her. His fingers tweaked and pinched at her nipples through the fabric of her dress, teasing them into hard points, each tug darting straight to her pussy.

Breaths uneven and ragged with want, she drew her fingers over the elastic bands of her panties, watching him as he did the same to the woman-to her. She could hear his breaths next to hear ears, the erratic and harsh gasps, almost drowned by the thumps of her speeding pulse. He pressed hard against her, the back of the chair digging into her waist, demanding that she acknowledge him-his want, need, desire. Illicit promises hummed in the rhythm of his hips against hers.

So what if the hand pulling up the hem of her dress wasn’t his? And maybe there was no way that she would let him be so light-handed if he were with her, especially knowing what she knew of him. But in that moment, she was rewriting his reality, creating a story of her own. Mirroring his movements, she traced small figure eights over her cunt through her soaked panties. She shivered, her hips buckling desperately against her fingers, the promise of a climax shimmering there, enticingly near and frustratingly far away.

A tremor wrecked through her body, his fingers pulling ripples of sparks from her with each stroke. The elastic bands dug into her as he yanked her panties down in one swift pull, the fabric rolling and bunching at her knees. There were no tenderness here, only raw, sticky want that drove away all inhibitions. His fingers passed over the pale globes of her ass, snapping playfully against the pouting lips of her sex. Wet, slick, the sounds of the slaps echoed about them. Her breath hitched in her throat, the muskiness of her arousal heavy on her tongue.

A shaky moan escaped from her, her free hand curling against the glass. The walls of her cunt clamped down on her fingers greedily. In her blurred vision, she caught his hips thrusting, fucking her proxy on the other side. She moved her fingers in tandem. Her juices snaked down along her thighs, wetting her fingers and knuckles, slicking her hand.

She could feel his fingers branding her, pressing hard enough against her hips that she was sure there would be a permanent mark there. Her head tilted to the side, offering the arch of her neck to her god, which he took enthusiastically with a nip and a claim for all the world to see. The slap of his thighs against hers, punctuating each thrust, their mingled breaths and wordless murmurs- They tangled together in a wicked cadence that pulsed through her with a ferocity that stole away all thoughts.

His name was on her lips again when she came shuddering against the glass, a mantra, an incantation, to keep the bane of her fantasy at bay.

Not that it ever worked.

She slumped, her legs giving way beneath her, her fingers leaving a wet trail behind as she crumbled to the ground.

This. This part was what she hated the most. When her world regained its merciless truth, when it righted itself and she was once again the creation and he the creator, when she was once more caged behind this wall and he forever on the outside.

She blew on the glass, rubbing away the smudges with her palm. Such was the unrequited infatuation of a doll, soundless to its creator, no traces of it ever left behind.

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