Authors: Keziah Hill
He watched me with a determination and
fierceness that confused and excited me. I felt he was testing
me.
I was conscious of my paintings lining the
walls and looked at them through his eyes. All I could see was a
woman who toyed with her work, unable to produce anything
significant; just some strange decorations for other people’s
houses.
But as he sat, he spoke about the power of
transformation. He said it was a difficult pathway to travel and
many thought it a curse, but in his country it was a power valued
above all others. Anyone with the ability to transform the ordinary
into something else was greatly revered.
This surprised me as I had begun to believe
I was cursed and destined to be an eternal outsider. I wondered
about his country and about this man, whose darkness and power
pulled at me. He was both seductive and fearsome as he sat before
me and looked into my eyes. I felt he could see every secret, every
wild desire I had ever had. But in his eyes I saw them reflected
back to me with passion and delight.
My body came alive under his gaze in a way I
had not experience for a long time. My skin prickled and heated. I
wanted him to touch me.
As he hadn’t made a request for a door yet,
I had no images of how his door should look. I felt increasingly
agitated as we spoke about how I came to decide on what I should
paint, and I found myself telling him about Rebecca. As I spoke, I
started to weep, recalling the pain I felt as her life
unraveled.
He sat across from me, reached over to my
face, and wiped my tears away. His hand was calloused and rough
like sandpaper. I lifted my hand to cover his and pushed it all
over my face and down my neck feeling my skin abrade where his hand
slid over it. He undid my shirt and pushed it off my shoulders
cupping my breasts. As he scraped his hands across my nipples I
shuddered, feeling unaccountably comforted.
I fell into his dark eyes as he told me he
wanted me to paint my own door so he could see what I would create
for myself.
As soon as he finished his request, my mind
was full of images. I was very fearful. I had always avoided
thinking about what I wanted for my door not wanting to know my
path. Now all I could see was every door I had ever painted
suspended forever in a giant spider web. This would be on the front
of the door. On the back, I could see a diptych. One panel was a
dark and hooded man dragging me into the Underworld away from my
house and my sunroom.
In the second panel, I was painting in my
sunroom and the work on the easel depicted a man and a woman
entwined in the act of love. The man was thrusting into the woman
who had arched her back and wound her legs around him. On the work
table was a halved pomegranate with six seeds spilling on to the
surface.
I had never painted anything like this.
After the man left, I started to work
feverishly, needing to finish my door as soon as I could. I painted
day and night for a week. When I finished, I looked at my door and
felt utterly exhausted. Not only because I had painted for so long,
but because every door with every life I had painted was in front
of me. It was as if I had vomited all the joy, responsibility, pain
and horror from each of those doors, onto my door. I didn’t think I
could live with it in my house.
When I looked at the other side, I could see
my own face on the woman in the picture, entwined with her lover, a
look of painful yearning in her eyes.
As I gazed at my door I felt a sense of
great doom. I feared my life would change in a way that would hurt
me. But tiredness claimed me and I sank onto my couch and fell
asleep.
When I woke the door bell was ringing and
the man had returned. He looked very sad as he examined the front
of my door, closely studying each tiny door in the spider web. When
he saw the back of the door he smiled widely. I could see what I
hadn’t seen before, that the man in the picture was him. His face
was fierce with desire, his mouth on the breast of the
woman-who-was-me in the picture.
My body was on fire and my mind in turmoil.
This door had set in motion something that would change everything.
I was not sure it was a welcome change.
I turned to him and frowned, telling him how
I felt. He told me it was too late, the door had already created my
future. He brushed my mouth with his lips and slid his hands up my
arms to cup my face. I shuddered, wanting his rough hands all over
me, wanting him to scrape and scour my skin, to peel away my
doubt.
He told me my life would be full of love and
belonging when I went with him to his country. I felt my body and
soul yearn for him, but mourned the loss of my precious life of
solitude, painting doors.
As I stood before him torn with conflicting
longings, he asked me to paint his door.
On front of his door I again painted the
dark hooded man pulling me down to the Underworld. On the back of
the door, I painted myself standing in a doorway, one foot in the
darkness and one in the light. I was holding the halved, glistening
pomegranate with six seeds. It was luscious and juicy and ready to
be eaten. Some of the pulp was smeared on my breast. I was offering
myself and the fruit to my dark, hooded lover who reached for both
willingly, turning to the light.
At first my love was perplexed when he saw
his door but as he traced his fingers over my face and breast in
the image he laughed. Turning to me, he told me transformation was
always a risk, even for him. Now he would have to live some of his
time in the light.
He pulled out a pomegranate from his coat. I
took it and bit into it. Turning to him, I kissed him and pushed
the slippery fruit into his mouth. The juice dribbled down onto my
breast and he bent his head to lick it.
The door opened wide.
Angel
Somewhere along the corridor he could hear a
low moan. As the night wore on it got louder and more desperate.
With lust or fear; he wasn’t sure. Maybe here there wasn’t a
difference.
David Jenkins caught his finger in the hole
punch and cursed. Then cursed louder when he knocked over his
coffee. He could’ve stayed in bed, pulled up the covers and ignored
everything, but the soft snores and sour breath of his pregnant
wife drove him out. Work seemed a better option until his secretary
called in sick. Then he fought hard against the temptation to close
up shop and take the day off.
He grabbed the newspaper to soak up the
coffee and jerked with frustration when the form guide fell out.
Happy Dancer was in the fourth at Randwick. He could take a little
spin out to the track and lay a few on with his favorite bookie.
Stroll through the members’ enclosure and scope out all those sleek
tarts with their mile high legs and firm breasts. He’d always been
partial to a little silicone enhancement. After the baby was off
the breast maybe he’d start working on Chrissy to have her tits
done.
Sure. As if they had enough
money for that. He scrubbed his hands over his face and gazed
around the office. The dirty cream walls and grey, threadbare
carpet sneered at him. A stale, rancid smell of cooking fat drifted
up from the fast food place downstairs. He threw the soaked paper
and the form guide in the bin and stared out the grime-flecked
window. There were better ways to make money than on horses. With
any luck the delivery would arrive soon and he’d be able to sell
the items for a good price. Fuck it, for a
great
price. Virginal Thai quim
wasn’t all that common and lots of places were hanging out for
supplies.
Nothing would get done if he didn’t get a
replacement for his secretary. She told him she’d be off for at
least a week with a bad flu. She wasn’t the best secretary in the
world, but she knew the ropes and more importantly, could keep her
mouth shut. It was a risk getting a temp in, but he’d sink without
one. He was certain he could keep his extra-curricular activities
hidden and let the temp concentrate on the immigration
paperwork.
The bell in the outer office tinkled. He
opened the door and stood, staring. She was tiny, blonde and
couldn’t be more than seventeen. Wide blue eyes, minimal makeup and
a simple, sunny dress that draped softly around her boyish figure.
She smiled shyly.
“
Mr Jenkins? I’m Sandra Hall
from the temp agency. They said you needed someone for a
week?”
“
Yeah. Yeah. How old are
you? Sure you know what to do?”
“
Here’s my resume. I’ve been
overseas for the last few years. Only got back a few days
ago.”
He scanned the pages and saw she was
twenty-five and had a fair amount of experience. Definitely not his
type though, even if a faint imprint of her round nipples pressed
against the soft cotton of her dress. She certainly didn’t need to
wear a bra with those slight bumps passing for breasts. His cock
twitched unexpectedly. Lack of sex was making him desperate.
“
Okay. Good. I mainly need
you to answer the phone and do some typing and filing.”
“
Sure,” she said. “No
problem.”
He stood behind her after she sat and fired
up the computer. Bending slightly, he pointed to where the files
were kept. The scent of something flowery floated around him. He
glanced at her short, curly hair and moved his gaze down the
smooth, pale skin of her arms and back to her neck. Her pulse was
beating fast and she seemed breathless. She shifted in her
seat.
He smiled at her nervousness. More than just
nervousness he realized as she glanced up at him and blushed. She
wiggled in her seat some more. She was a pretty little thing
despite the lack of curves. A warm feeling of satisfaction tinged
with lust stole through him. It was gratifying to see someone
respond to him. Someone young and fresh and virginal. Which made
him think of his delivery. There was nothing incriminating on the
computer network, he’d made sure of that.
He straightened and stood next to her, aware
of the bulge in his trousers. She turned her head slightly and
blushed again, quickly averting her face. His cock hardened and a
surge of hot greed spiked through him. She was so small. He
wondered what she’d look like naked, underneath him, as he pushed
into her tiny cunt. She’d be tight. Tight and wet. It would
probably hurt her and she’d gasp and whimper and beg him to stop.
But he wouldn’t and then she’d realise it was better that way,
better to open wide and be stretched, take him in and feel his
whole, hard tool ram home.
His pulse hammered as he watched her. She
shifted again and her nipples sharpened. She wanted him, he was
sure of it. Maybe she was embarrassed. Somehow that made him even
harder. It was time to broaden his horizons, stop being so
predictable. Just because she didn’t have decent sized tits didn’t
mean she couldn’t fuck.
“
You all set now Sandy?
Anything else you need to know?”
“
Uh, no Mr Jenkins it all
seems fine thanks,” she said sounding shaky and
tentative.
“
Let me know if you have any
trouble.”
She nodded and started typing. He went back
into his office and stood at the window. It looked like rain.
During the day, David made up reasons to go
out and talk to her, ostensibly to see how she was going. He made
sure he was on his best behaviour, determined to relax her and get
beyond her shyness. He made her tea and asked her about her
travels. She became animated when she told him about the places
she’d been.
“
What was your favourite?”
he asked.
She ran her hand through her bouncy curls
and considered. “Probably Turkey. It was cheap and not full of
tourists. I liked Vietnam and Thailand too, but by the time I got
there, I was looking forward to getting home. I’d like to go back.
Have you ever travelled?”
He smiled and thought about what to tell
her. That his last trip to Thailand was spent in a brothel? That
when he wasn’t buried deep inside some nameless drug fucked tart,
he was haggling with the owner about the details of the next
shipment? He’d scare her half to death. She seemed so sweet and
innocent. She even had freckles across her nose.
He saw though, his first impression of her
as sexless and childlike was wrong. She was really quite luscious,
like a petite Marilyn Monroe. She had a way of catching her lower
lip with her teeth when she wasn’t certain about what she was
saying that made his cock tingle. He blanked out of the
conversation as he wondered what her teeth scraping against his
cock would feel like. All those gold curls bobbing up and down and
her big blue eyes staring up at him with his cock sliding in and
out of her mouth, hitting the back of her throat, making her
gag.
As if realising what was going through his
mind, she’d stopped talking and blushed again. He was hard and knew
he’d been staring at her with glazed eyes. Standing, he adjusted
his trousers, smiled grimly and went back to his office.
In the afternoon while she was filing, he
came up behind her to reach for a box on top of the filing cabinet.
He heard her sharp indrawn breath as his body brushed against hers
and held himself there. When she pushed back against him,
tentatively at first and then with a sinuous shudder, he wanted to
shout with triumph. She gasped when he pushed his hands under her
dress to touch her thighs, then slid them up to her hips. He kissed
her neck and nibbled, thrusting his bulge against her buttocks and
heard her small moan. She was wet and slick when he slipped his
fingers under her knickers and felt her smooth, hairless pussy.
“
Come into my office,” he
said, pulling away from her. She swayed and leant against the
filing cabinet taking in deep breaths. “Take off your knickers.” He
didn’t look back at her knowing she’d follow him. Sure enough,
after he sat in his desk chair, he looked up and saw her at the
door way. Her eyes were wide with fear and he thought, excitement.
She moved slowly to stand beside his chair and he swivelled it
around to face her. Oh yes, she wanted this alright. Her eyes were
on his fly and she licked her lips.