[ For Hei, sex is little more than a commodity, a tool to get a job done. He's reached a saturation point -- like everyone in the business does, whether they're a recruiter or a grunt, a provocateur or a raven. He's spun more lies than a spider constructing a skyscraper of webs, faked more desire than a boytoy for an octogenarian billionaire, smelled so much sex it's permeated his nostrils the way smoke will permeate a wool sweater -- while biting back the cold awareness that the lust, the actual heat-haze of passion, is completely absent. No one in his trade is ever getting off -- but they are all scheming of getting out, getting up, getting ahead, with the right opportunities or info. ]
[ When you reach that point, about the only thing that gives you a boner anymore is a hot shower, good Szechuan takeout, and an empty evening of stargazing. His mind has blurred sexuality and operational necessity together, so all that remains during the act is the tedium, the careful self-awareness, the borderline loathing felt by any stymied perfectionist trapped in any dead-end occupation. ]
[ So this -- Korra's deranged innocence, those flashes of kittenish wickedness that are entirely unfaked ... They're disquieting. Unnatural. He almost wants to wrap each detail in paper, to tuck it away in the folds of his memory -- a rarefied novelty flung down from outerspace. ]
[ Forcibly, he dismisses it as one of those high-pitched sexual thoughts. (Ironic in itself. It's been ages since he's even had those). ]
[ In his brutal grip, Korra twitches and jerks like a marionette, tossing her pretty head in a dark storm-tumbled heap. Her cries are the same: like aching, humid, hurricane-threatening weather. He can tell how close she is: her thighs are buttery-slick against his skull, sweat-sheened and smothering, the tendons taut as wires: his mouth buried against that wet heaving sex, opening her with thick messy stabs of tongue between sucking on her clit every once in a while, letting her feel the edge of his teeth. Winding her up, higher and higher, until she's wildly on edge, at the tip of climax -- ]
[ Then he drops her back across the sacks -- a puff of dust and a lovely spill of limbs, her face all shiny and reddened in its tangle of hair. It's a mutual cruelty: he hasn't come yet, either. His erection bobs full and stiff from his groin, impossibly needy. Dragging his belt free from the loops, he reaches out with the other hand, dragging her up before she can break through the fever-fog and make vile eyes of outrage at him. He deposits her across the smooth gritty floor, on her hands and knees, pressing her neck down and forcing her thighs wide apart. ]
[ The belt wallops across her buttocks -- a single, stinging-hot blow -- before he says, ]
Count. [ Another whack, jolting her to his directive. ] Count back from twenty-one.
[ Twenty-one hours. That's how long they have until they meet their contact and split ways. That's how long he's got until he's done glutting himself on that voluptuous little peach of her body. ]
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Date: 2015-03-29 01:58 am (UTC)[ When you reach that point, about the only thing that gives you a boner anymore is a hot shower, good Szechuan takeout, and an empty evening of stargazing. His mind has blurred sexuality and operational necessity together, so all that remains during the act is the tedium, the careful self-awareness, the borderline loathing felt by any stymied perfectionist trapped in any dead-end occupation. ]
[ So this -- Korra's deranged innocence, those flashes of kittenish wickedness that are entirely unfaked ... They're disquieting. Unnatural. He almost wants to wrap each detail in paper, to tuck it away in the folds of his memory -- a rarefied novelty flung down from outerspace. ]
[ Forcibly, he dismisses it as one of those high-pitched sexual thoughts. (Ironic in itself. It's been ages since he's even had those). ]
[ In his brutal grip, Korra twitches and jerks like a marionette, tossing her pretty head in a dark storm-tumbled heap. Her cries are the same: like aching, humid, hurricane-threatening weather. He can tell how close she is: her thighs are buttery-slick against his skull, sweat-sheened and smothering, the tendons taut as wires: his mouth buried against that wet heaving sex, opening her with thick messy stabs of tongue between sucking on her clit every once in a while, letting her feel the edge of his teeth. Winding her up, higher and higher, until she's wildly on edge, at the tip of climax -- ]
[ Then he drops her back across the sacks -- a puff of dust and a lovely spill of limbs, her face all shiny and reddened in its tangle of hair. It's a mutual cruelty: he hasn't come yet, either. His erection bobs full and stiff from his groin, impossibly needy. Dragging his belt free from the loops, he reaches out with the other hand, dragging her up before she can break through the fever-fog and make vile eyes of outrage at him. He deposits her across the smooth gritty floor, on her hands and knees, pressing her neck down and forcing her thighs wide apart. ]
[ The belt wallops across her buttocks -- a single, stinging-hot blow -- before he says, ]
Count. [ Another whack, jolting her to his directive. ] Count back from twenty-one.
[ Twenty-one hours. That's how long they have until they meet their contact and split ways. That's how long he's got until he's done glutting himself on that voluptuous little peach of her body. ]