Cutting Room Floor: Icarus (darker version)

Whilst I continue to get back into my writing groove, I thought I'd share the original--darker--version of the Icarus chapter's ending. This didn't go through the extra revision of the published chapter--apologies for any errors that slip through--which is also why it reads differently (for example, I rewrote David's involvement in the physical action into passive verb form to indicate his psychological distancing from what was happening).

Part of me is still tempted to revert to this darker version, but I'll leave that decision for the final rewrite.

***

[...]

            When we break the kiss, I’m panting heavily and he’s grinning like the proverbial cat. He took my hand. “Coming?”

            Panties soaked through and nearly trembling, I laughed. No, not yet, I wanted to say. Instead, blushing and wide-eyed, I nodded and slid off the stool. The room swayed as I found my feet in high heels. I only just remembered to tug my dress down before following him out the bar, holding the hand of my stalker.

            I don’t know if Julia noticed me leave. The moment we stepped out the bar, the choker at my neck went dead, as did the vibrator. Away from Julia’s system, I was suddenly free of her and her goddamn AI’s influence.

            Good. There didn’t need to be a record of what was about to go down between us.

            We weren’t the only ones in the elevator: a few older businessmen in suits, and a young woman with tired eyes who might’ve been an assistant, dressed like Cindy on a working day. There was also a family of four crowded in with us, suitcases, two young children under the age of ten and their parents. I felt the dad’s eyes on my ass, and the mother’s disapproval roiling around us, even as we crowded into the front and ‘Terry’ held my wrist and surreptitiously pressed my hand to his crotch, where I felt his erect cock under my palm. He moved my hand and twitched under my touch, and I blushed wondering if anyone could see.

            A few floors of awkward silence. Flustered clatter as I stumbled in heels and a tight dress, trotting to keep up with this man’s eager pull as he dragged me towards his room. The hallway was almost eerily silent, the lights a little too dim, and the dark beyond the window at the far end almost complete, devoid of stars, lightened only by the red flashing of passing drones. Identical doors rolled down either side of the corridor. We stopped outside room 2029. I avoided thinking; Cindy was in charge; my hands roamed, sliding along his neck, across his chest, down to rub his crotch. “Hurry,” I moaned. “Get this fucking door open.”

            He fumbled around in his inner jacket pocket. “Christ,” he laughed.

            Then the door slid open. He smacked my ass, and I laughingly yelped and we fell through the threshold into his room.

            Almost instantly, his hands were all over me, too, insistent and rough. “Show me,” he demanded, already groping at the front of my dress. He crushed my tits through the dress.

            “Easy.” Gently but insistently, I pushed him away. “Not so fast.”

            Instead of backing down, he pulled me to him. His arm snaked around my waist and held me close. He forced his mouth to mine, thrusting his tongue into my mouth. Meanwhile, he returned to my chest, groping and kneading with way too much enthusiasm.

            I’m still weak in the knees and wet and horny as hell, but he was doing a fucking fine job of dousing the flames. Frankly, I expected better from my stalker.

            This time, I shoved him with a little more force. He fell back, nearly falling over the corner of the bed “What the fuck?”

            “I said easy,” I explained, the tone of a primary school teacher with a particularly dull child. “Slow down.”

            “You told me to hurry,” he said, petulantly.

            “And I need the little girl’s room.” I posed in the doorway, arms outstretched, hip cocked to one side, and tossed my hair and looked back at him over my shoulder. “Why don’t you make us a little drink?”

            I closed and locked the door. I stepped out of my heels and sighed with relief. Then I extracted that fucking vibrator. I wrapped it in tissue paper and buried it at the bottom of my purse. Then the choker, tricky to unlatch but a moment’s effort and it joined the sex toy. Then I took a piss, because after all those tall, fruity drinks I was genuinely desperate. Finally, I touched up my makeup in the mirror, a little flutter of mascara, a dab of gloss at the lips, and quickly brushed out my hair. Reluctantly, I stepped back into my heels and tried not to think as I fiddled with the delicate straps. Everything I did was done avoiding conscious thought. I did my utmost to avoid even acknowledging myself in the mirror. Cindy was in control. The last week’s training was fully in control. I needed this guy to see and believe in the girl I’d become.

            He smiled as I exited the bathroom. He’d taken off his blazer and tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. The room was small, double bed and tiny desk, and a tv screen on the wall, with a small window looking out on a central courtyard far below. The sight brought a heavy feeling of sadness, a recollection of far too many lonely nights spent in similar rooms. But the memory was fleeting.

            To be honest, I’d expected a bigger room. And in the dim light—his best effort at creating mood, I guess, overhead light off and a pair of reading lamps on—he seemed older, mid-thirties maybe, shorter and less muscular, still in good shape but much less threatening.

            He had a bottle of beer in each hand. “Beer?” he said, passing one to me. “You don’t strike me as a beer kind of chick.” He shrugged apologetically. “All that’s left in the minifridge.”

            I took the bottle. He watched me drink: raising the bottle to my lips, delicate grip and pinkie finger sticking out, pink nail white tipped sheen and the undulation of my throat with each swallow. The beer was cold and refreshing. Moisture beaded on the bottle, dripped, dotted my chest. I the hunger in the way he tracked my movement. I dabbed at the drops along my cleavage with a finger and sucked on the tip. “Mmm, good choice,” I purred through pursed lips.

            That did it for him. He dropped his bottle. It tipped over, frothing beer onto the carpet. He crossed the room in a single stride and grabbed me. I suppressed instincts to defend myself. Instead of kicking out the knee, or cracking the bottle across his face, I… gave up; retreated and did nothing. Hummed as he swept me up in his arms and swung me around—straining a little—and slammed me up against the wall.

            Gasping at the impact, I laughed. “Show me those tits,” he muttered, groping again at my chest, scrabbling at my thigh, hand sliding up under my dress, cupping my ass.

            I ran my hand through his hair, fingers curling around his ponytail. Up close, his hair was darker than remembered, more chestnut than sandy and thinner as well, almost balding at the top. With both hands I forced his face into my cleavage. His breath against my skin, wet lips, then his tongue dragging its trail of spit across my breast. He came up for air, groaned, and his cock prodded my thigh.

            Smiling wickedly, still pinned against the wall, I hopped into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist, arms at his neck. His eyes widened, and he groaned again and staggered under my weight.

            “Whee!” I laughed as he spun me around. We fell back a step and collapsed onto the bed.

            “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed, panting. “You’re heavier than you look.”
            And he was weaker than expected. I swung off the bed, grinning as I reached behind for the zipper. “As promised,” and shrugged and shimmied and stepped out of the dress. Then I stood in heels and bra and lilac silk panties. They had a cute keyhole detail over my bum, lace and tulle panels, and delicate pearl ornamentation: a luxurious gift from Julia. But the exquisite finery of my lingerie was lost on this guy, his eyes fixated solely on my tits.

            “Keep going.” He watched from the bed, sitting up. He brought to mind a puppy, begging for treats: eager and excited. But the surge of confidence that brought me to this point evaporated. Instead, I began to feel indescribably shy, and blushed and my knees shook very slightly. Reaching behind to unclasp my strapless bra, I instead hesitated and then my arms dropped limply at my side. Meanwhile, he was rubbing at his own crotch. “Hey, don’t fucking stop!” he exclaimed.

            “I….” Trailing off, unable to meet his gaze, I stared at the floor. Stroked my hair and felt the return of the earlier fear. My stomach churned and the room tilted slightly, and it occurred to me that I was actually really quite drunk. “I want you to do it,” I mumbled.

            Then he was standing, standing over me, reaching around and fumbling at the clasp of my bra. I swayed in the circle of his arms, helpless for the interminable length of time it took him to undo four hook and eye clasps. He radiated heat as he cursed under his breath. ‘Jesus, got it,” as the bra came loose, and my boobs bobbled free.

            My bra joined the dress on the floor. Jeff—Terry—this man stepped back and admired the view of a gorgeous young woman standing nearly naked in panties and heels in his hotel room. But he admired the view for only a moment, before taking my tits in his hands. He massaged and curled his fingers into the soft flesh. I yielded to his touch with a gasp. “Your ex was an idiot.” His tongue darted out, flicked across my nipple, and I moaned. “A fucking idiot.”

            Trembling, I pushed my chest further into his rough hands.

            “You like this, don’t you?” He kneaded harder, pinched my nipple and I jerked, shook my head no but he threaded the fingers of one hand through my long hair and grabbed tight. “You do.”

            I bit my lip and tried to shake my head again, but his grip stilled the motion.

            “You like being a slutty girl, don’t you?” He cradled my head, thumb sliding along my chin—to my mouth—and he forced it between my plump lips and held me like that. “Yes, you do.” He forced a nod from me, pushing my head up and down, like a doll’s.

            I moaned around his thumb. His other hand left my breasts to crawl spider-like across my abdomen, and I shuddered at the dimpling passage of his touch. His hand came to rest over my pussy—over my prosthetic vagina—fake flesh and his flesh separated by only the thinnest threshold of silk. His finger pressed down. He felt the wetness of my panties, traced artificial labia lips beneath. Another moan, and I trembled under his touch.

            “Suck it, babe,” he commanded, forcing his thumb deeper into my mouth, even as his other hand continued to rub my mock pussy. And I did, wet little slurping noises as he pushed me, none too gently, back onto the bed. The frame hit the back of my knees; I dropped sitting onto the mattress, his thumb still in my mouth, the other still between my legs. Summoning up some resistance, I squeezed my knees tightly together, pinning his hand.

            “Want me to stop?” He extracted his hand from between me knees and reached for his belt buckle. “I don’t think so.”

            His trousers pooled around his ankles. He kicked his feet free. His dick tented his boxer shorts, black cotton spotted with dark circles of precum. Standing over me, he fumbled at his shirt buttons. A moment later his shirt joined his trousers on the floor. Then he stood over me, slightly rounded belly, chest fuzzy with whisps of hair, pale and naked. He still had his socks on, and his shoes.

            “Touch it.” He grabbed my hand and brought it to his groin. I felt his cock beneath the cotton. It twitched when I touched it. I stroked him, rubbed him through is boxers, and looked up at him. “You want this?”
            I nodded.

            Increasingly, I felt detached from what was happening. I observed from a distance. This was Cindy’s show, not mine; at least, not yet.

            “Take it out,” he said.

            Into his boxers went my hand. His penis was coiled around by my fingers. It felt hot and the skin smooth. Pubic hair scratched the back of my hand. He looked down at me, suddenly wordless. His mouth hung slightly open, and the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips. For the first time, I noticed how thin and pale and dry his lips were, over a weak chin. He barely resembled the man I remembered from that first encounter in the alley behind the strip club.

            His boxers were lowered by a gentle tug, and he stepped free, and the whole time his cock was held by my hand. He stood over me, and I sat at the edge of the bed, with his dick in my hand.

            “Go on,” he said.

            Eyes wide, I shook my head no.

            He hesitated for a moment. A moment of doubt clouded his eyes. The old redness was back. He looked more than a little drunk, like me. Then, he grabbed me by the hair and yanked me forward so that his dick bounced off my chin and I felt the trail of slime it left there.

            “Suck it,” he said.

            Whimpering, my mouth opened. Then there was a penis in my mouth, resting on my tongue, cheek pushed out by this thing invading me. His dick had my lips wrapped around it and he shuddered as he felt my head slowly bob up and down. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Fuck yeah.”

            It only lasted a minute or so. With a pop, his cock popped free. It bounced off my chin. His grin was mean and his eyes hard as he shoved me onto my back. I fell back onto the bed. Then he groped at my panties. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and yanked them down my legs. They were tossed aside by this man who then rose over me. I felt the artificial pussy exposed to the air in front of the gaze of a man for the first time.

            He knelt on the bed and my knees were grabbed by him, parted by him as he shuffled into position between my legs, and his cock was hard and erect and pointed towards that space between my legs, trained on that prosthetic, aimed at me.

            From somewhere far away the thought reached me: he’s not so big; he’ll fit.

            There’s a moment of panic. I can’t do this. No—but it’s too late.

            This man rose over me.

            Then, he was inside of me.

            His cock was inside of me.

            Yeah, he shuddered as he slid into me, fuck and you like that, baby and you’re so tight and he was inside of me as I lay on my back pinned to the bed by the heavy weight of a man whose whole hips thrusted back and forth and back and forth and I’m being skewered by this thing moving inside—not me, but inside the prosthetic, a shell of artificial flesh laid over the real me and he’s rutting and sweating and his fingers curl into my shoulders as his pace picked up, harder, wet slapping sound and panting breath, creaking of the bed and rhythmic impact as I watched from a distance, ceiling and picture on the wall, impressionistic swaths of colour, some alley of French boutique cafes against a night sky, tits bouncing with each thrust, God, almost there, he grunted, face red and ugly and lips curling, bitch, cunt, God, you fucking cunt and—

            His whole body shuddered.

            His cock swelled inside the prosthetic.

            He grabbed me tight and stabbed himself as deep inside of me as he could and his eyes rolled back in his head as he sagged and collapsed on top of me, sighing, panting, nearly laughing with release, returning from that place a man disappears into when he cums.

            And I, too, returned from somewhere far away.

            I wrapped my legs around him, locking ankles together and held him tight. With a jerk, I rolled him over onto his back. He was still inside of me, but now I’m on top. His eyes widened, he began to laugh, he can’t believe I’m eager for more and reached for my hips to push me off….

            But I grabbed his hands and pinned them beneath my knees.

            And then I grabbed the pillow and forced it down over his face.

            And he’s still inside of me as he begins to thrash, his screams muffled by the pillow as I relentlessly push down on him, legs kicking and jerking beneath me, naked flesh slick with sweat. He tried to pull free. His hands scabbled at mine, twisted, tried to pull free. He writhed his whole body to throw me off and his legs kicked the bed.  

            But only for a short time. Soon, his desperate action stilled. I continued to press the pillow down on his face a little longer. Some time later, satisfied that Steele’s man would never disturb me again, I removed the pillow.

            Despite the fact he’d been spared any bruising, I no longer recognized the face of the man I’d killed.

            His cock slipped free as I lifted myself off the body.

            I sat for a moment, catching my breath. The room was quiet but for the quiet breathing of the air conditioning unit. I listened for noise from the adjoining rooms but heard nothing. First, I finished off my bottle of beer. I don’t know that I’d ever enjoyed a more cooling and refreshing drink. Then I went into the toilet. It took some effort and time to repair the damages of the night, but when I stepped away from the mirror my makeup was once again immaculate. As I was repairing painting myself a new face I felt a sudden cold, sticky trickle down my leg as the man’s cum suddenly dribbled from my pussy. I cleaned myself with a tissue and flushed the last of this man down the toilet.

            Finally, I pulled my panties back on, and the bra, and the dress and slid back into my heels. I took a moment to send a message from my phone, one that I hope would clean up this mess. Then, I turned off the lights and left the room. The door clicked shut behind me.

            With each step down the long corridor back to the elevator, Cindy gradually settled back over me. I knew, as we walked a corridor that stretched interminably before us, that cameras tracked our movement and recorded her presence.

            Step by step, I subsumed myself to the physical sensations of the walk. The precision of each step. The slight wobble of heels on hotel floor carpet. Tight dress, mincing walk, and a wet ache between the legs. Long hair sway, earrings dangle, long eyelash flutter. Waiting, at the elevator. Smoothing down the dress, quick mirror primping: mirror, emerald eyes and pale face and a smile that wasn’t quite right. Sudden heavy feeling, man weight over mine, gasping, and a rawness at my crotch and a stickiness beneath panties and—I didn’t recognize him!—and—he had it coming—and….

            No.

            I smiled again, and this time it was right.

            The elevator arrived. I rode it along with two others, man and woman in business attire, both tired, neither aware they shared their space with a murderer.

            Returning to Icarus, it occurred to me that I’d been away for all of thirty minutes. There was Nadia, serving another costumer. Men in suits milled around. I felt their eyes tracking me as I entered the bar. And there was Julia, still sat in the high corner of the bar by the window. Her laptop remained closed. The bulky shadowy figure of a man still sat with her.

            I returned to her. Julia smiled as she saw me, eyes flashing with amusement—no, with pleasure, with barely restrained glee.

            “Cindy!” She stood and met me halfway. She took my hands in hers. “I’m so glad you’re back. I lost track of you for a bit, sorry. Have you been having fun?”

            I smiled wanly.

            “I’d like you to meet someone,” she said, leading me back to the table by the hand.

            I followed her passively. The heavy figure at our table, back turned to us, stood as we approach.

            “He’s an old friend of mine,” Julia said, voice simmering with excitement. “Here for the conference.”

            The man stood and turned, and I looked up into the grinning face of my constant friend, Thomas Hunter.

To be continued…