Soft Part 1 - Gathering
He knew she was soft, he had brushed her hand once, and the silky glide of her skin had nearly undone him. She, of course, had not noticed. She never did. He was not sure she noticed much outside of work. He did, but mostly he noticed her.
She dressed plainly, her clothing always of good quality, but dull; lifeless colors, dull styles. She did not wear perfume, or makeup. She arrived always ten minutes early, left five minutes after the stroke of five, unless she was asked for help. Then she stayed for as long as it took. She took her coffee black. She did not gossip, did not really mingle, and worked with quiet efficiency at whatever task she undertook.
Her relentless efficiency betrayed her to him. He saw that smiling for her was merely another task, one she did well. No different from the papers she filed, the snarls she untangled, the tempers she eased, the solutions she found. He saw and he wondered.
In him, wondering usually waited, coiled like a sleeping snake, silent and easy to overlook. Seldom did he ever do more than watch, or listen before his curiosity was fed. Then he could move on, until his wondering found another focus. Seldom, but not always. He continued to watch her.
She was dark, and so he thought first in terms of how to frame her, how to present her. Dark woods in the room where she would sleep, darker than she, and a bed that cast shadows, dark ones to ripple over her luscious skin. White sheets, stark and plain to show her off, and soft enough to be worthy of touching her. He would have to move furniture, and obtain things he lacked.
He watched, and began to plan.
He passed her desk, early one day, found her there, eyes shut, fingers massaging her temples. He stopped, knowing she did not see him, had not heard him. Her face had no expression, but her fingers were tense.
"You all right?"
Her eyes snapped open and she looked at him in shock and surprise. "I… oh... just… waiting for my headache to pass." She sounded shaken and breathless.
He tried to look non-threatening. "Have you tried accupressure?"
She looked at him blankly. He had never seen her startled, he realized, not unknowing. Her eyes were deep and expressive, and he could almost see the pain as she tried to see him clearly. Her pupils were immense, swallowing all the color from her eyes, stark black wells of pain. "You mean, the needles?"
He shook his head. "No. Pressure. Here, give me your hand." He took her hand, in both of his and stood a moment, transfixed. Her skin was soft, softer than any he had ever touched, soft and fine. He cradled her hand in one of his. "Let go," he told her, "Let me have all the weight of your hand."
She did as he asked; he felt the change in the weight of her hand in his. Her eyes held him; she simply waited for him to move, to act. He pinched into the web of her flesh between her thumb and index finger, searching for the bundle of nerves that might give her relief.
She caught her breath and the tension in her shoulders eased. She smiled as the pain slid away. "Thank you,"
His breath caught in his throat. This smile he had never seen, it was shy and warm and promised everything. He massaged her hand, his fingers sure and firm. Her skin slid under his, soft, inviting caress as well as massage. She did not pull away, let him press into the tight muscles at the base of her fingers, let him slide his fingers between hers and work into her joints. He felt almost lightheaded with the sensation of her skin against his. He imagined touching more than her hands, her hands sliding over him, his hands free to learn her shape, but only for a moment.
He forced himself to release her hand. He smiled, it felt to him as if he was baring his teeth, but she seemed not to notice anything amiss.
She stared at the hand he had rubbed; her eyes wide as she turned her hand over and looked at the palm, then at the back. "It feels… weightless." She smiled up at him in delighted wonder. Her eyes seemed to shine. Her lips looked full and inviting, softer than her hands.
He stared at her mouth, and his loins surged with interest. He blessed the height of her desk since it hid his response.
He left her, a smile on her lips, thanks in her mouth, warmth in her eyes. He went directly to the men's room, closed himself in a stall and leaned on the wall, breathing hard. He struggled to focus, to calm himself. He thought he'd known what she hid, what she had to offer, but the slight touch of her skin, her hand given to him so trustingly. He balled his hands into fists. He could not wait much longer, less now that he had actually touched her. He did not allow himself to think of how she would look in the room he had prepared for her, the room that would shelter her as he freed her.
It went exactly as planned, to the last detail. The next Friday she stayed late he was ready. He measured the drops into her coffee when she left her office, then waited. He caught her as she slumped at the copier, caught her and wrapped her in the blanket he had waiting. She weighed less than he had expected, or perhaps success made him stronger. He carried her to his car, and no one saw. Elation surged through him as he drove through the darkened streets. She was his.
He carried her limp body inside, moving carefully not to bump her on the doorframe. The house was ready, perfectly and completely. He could feel it fold around her, welcoming her. He carried her into the bedroom, her room. He laid her gently on the bed, unfolding the blanket that hid her. He cast it aside as unworthy, but it had served well, he would not burn it when he burned her unworthy clothing.
He debated, then secured her to the bed. Nothing fancy, just her arms over her head attached to the headboard, her legs straight, secured at the ankles and attached to the footboard. He stopped to smile at her, his sleeping darling. He took the buck knife from the dresser and carefully cut her clothing away. She would not need these things again; they never expressed her correctly. He cut neatly along the seams, pulling the ruined clothing away from her, casting it aside like the trash it was. He tried not to touch her skin, her wondrous silken skin. He knew, once he did that; he'd be lost.
Her body was more than he had dreamed. The soft flesh curved sweetly over her strong frame. Her breasts would more than fill his hands. Her hips swelled generously, promising to cushion him in welcome. Her strong legs, were perfectly formed, her muscles there strong and sleek. Her feet were small, but he had known they would be. Dark hair curled at the apex of her thighs, hiding her from his avid gaze.
He pulled a light blanket from the chest and covered her lest a draft disturb her. Then he gathered up her useless rags and carried them away to be burnt.
She was still asleep when he came back. The dark woods in the room seemed even more perfect than he'd imagined. She lay like a jewel against the stark whiteness of the sheets, framed by the dark walnut frame of the bed, the chests, the trunks, the armoire, all were dark, darker than she.
He had water ready; her throat would be dry. He sat on the bed and waited. He did not know how she would wake. Would she be angry? Would she be afraid? Would she understand she was finally home?
She stirred, eyes flicking back and forth beneath closed lids.
He touched her cheek, let his fingers glide over the delicate skin, down along her throat. His eyes closed as he touched the fineness of her. Her soft skin seemed too perfect to be real. He caressed her gently. He slid the blanket aside with one hand, and let his palm slide over her soft curves. She stirred as he touched her, skin warming from his touch. Her nipples hardened as he explored her body.
She moved restlessly as he aroused her, the sensations of her body finally driving her to wake. Her dark eyes opened and she saw him. She frowned, trying to make her sleep fogged wits respond. Then she smiled, recognizing the face of the man who cured her headache.
He smiled back, heart lifting. It was the true smile, the one he had only seen once before. The smile he knew others never saw. He had not dared hope that would her first response. He would treasure this moment, no matter what came next. "Do you need water?"
She nodded, drug still fogging her a bit. Something was wrong, but she could not quite focus. Her mouth felt like she had gargled sand. Water would help. She started to sit, but could not. She frowned, looked at him to ask, but his hand was under her head and he held a glass to her lips. His fingernails were brilliantly clean; she noticed, clean and perfectly shaped. His fingers were long and she could see the roughness of calluses. It seemed odd to notice such a detail so clearly, but it seemed hard to focus on anything larger.
He only let her have a few sips. Then he took the glass away. "Not too much. Just hold it in your mouth a moment. You'll feel better."
She did as he said. Last time he told her he would feel better, she had. She remembered. If her head would clear, she was sure she could make sense of things. The water softened the gritty hard feeling in her mouth and tongue. She let the water trickle down her throat and felt marginally better.
He caressed her, breathing in her clean scent. His hand moved on her skin, skimming and awakening her. He watched her body respond to his hand, watched her eyes as she struggled to clear her dulled wits. He lifted her enough so she could drink without choking, put the glass to her lips. "Another couple of sips." He allowed her only a little, then put the glass back on the nightstand. He resumed his caresses, his hands moving over her silken skin.
She obeyed. This time the water washed the grit away and with it some small measure of the fog clouding her thoughts. She opened her eyes again and frowned. The walls were alien, the room in no way familiar. She had never seen the furniture before. Her frown deepened. She tried to frame a question, but words would not come.
He watched her, his hand never leaving her body. He stroked her gently, steadily, and possessively, he admitted the last to himself. She felt so good, so right. He knew she was not thinking as fast as she ordinarily did. He also knew she thought no time had elapsed between her first mouthful of water and her second. She was wrong.
He slid his hand down over her, sliding it over the warm curve of her belly. She sucked in a startled breath and her spine arched. Her body knew, even if her mind had not yet caught up. His smile grew wider. She was so much more perfect than he had thought, had imagined.
"More water?" he asked.
She blinked, then focused on the question. More water? Had she had water? She felt warm, languid. Her arms and legs felt heavy; perhaps that was why she could not move them. She did want something, but she did not think it was water. She must have spoken out loud.
