copyright 1999, by Lectergrrl
The characters Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling were created by Thomas
Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit
of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and
no profit, of any kind, is made by the creator, maintainer or contributors to
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Starling, Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, suddenly
gave in to an unlady-like yawn and slumped slowly on the library desk
which she'd occupied for the last five hours. Opened books, loose leafs,
pens and two empty juice containers were spread far and wide on the oblong
wooden table, along with a yellow square peeking between sheets of papers;
her walkman, which had been playing fresh, favourite songs in the first
hour, had long since been discarded, its novelty lost on the young woman.
the half-lit moon hid behind ash-coloured clouds, dimly casting a square
of light on the dusty cement floor of the library basement. Soon Clarice
was breathing steadily, oblivious to the shadow which cut the moon-lit
square in two jagged halves.
Clarice Starling was not oblivious to, however, was the hand which
promptly closed over her lips, pulling her head up against something firm
... a chest. She detected the calm breathing of a man rising and falling,
warm air tickling the hair surrounding her ear. Her eyes wide, her hands
splayed openly on the desk, she could hear her own breathing harsh and
fast cycling through her nose.
Clarice," a calm, achingly familiar voice said. "How I've longed
for this moment. When we'd meet again. Oh yes, I did promise I wouldn't
call on you," he said, as though it were a pesky afterthought,
"But ... well, can you blame a healthy obsession?"
tried to answer, listening to her futile, muffled voice against his warm,
dry hand. Any novice would be sweating bullets. Heart beating hard and
fast, breath matching. But this man was dangerously serene. She knew
nothing would perturb him. Not on any measurable level anyhow.
steel fingers pressed harder against her jaw, the broad soap-scented palm
crushing her lips. She stopped moving. "That's a good girl," he
purred. "I didn't ask you to speak, did I? No. This is strictly a
one-way street, dear Clarice. No quid pro quo today, I'm afraid. Though
... I do miss those days. Don't you?"
could only listen to her own breathing, fearful of any movement. Even a
can nod, you know. I won't mind."
closed her eyes. Get out of my HEAD!
chuckled. "Yes, I can tell you miss me, Clarice. Do you know
how?" He reached down and slipped her Colt .45 Government Model out
of her yaqui slide, his grip on her mouth never yielding. "You would
have used this. I refuse to believe you'd be so frozen by fear you would
forget about this charming little toy. Am I right?" The finely-shaped
hand twirled the gun in front of her before placing it on the desk ... out
of her reach. "Of course, you have no way of knowing what I hold
behind you. A weapon of my own, perhaps." She felt her assailant
rise, the hand more intimately pressed now, and it was not a chest
pillowing her head anymore. She shook her head, more muffled protests
streaming from her mouth.
tsk. I would never be so crude as to force myself on you, Clarice. I had
hoped you'd do that on your own." Another rich-voiced chuckle.
"There we go ... up, up!" he encouraged as his hand compressed
her jaw and forced her to rise. "Now I'm going to turn you around,
but before I do that I will release your lips. Scream, and our little game
will come to an abrupt end, I'm afraid."
could only nod.
hand disappeared. Her shoulders were promptly held then forced into a
turn. When their eyes met, Clarice felt an unnamable wall crumble into
pieces. She had time to utter 'Doctor' before their lips met in a
passionate embrace, arms interlocked around each other, such fierce,
violent rage in their exchange.
books were swept on the floor. The Joys of Cooking. Baltimore's Renowned
Serial Killers. Italian Poetry. Vogue. Loose leafs fluttered in the air,
balancing idly before they hit the floor; half-finished letters.
do I still think of him?
dropped her unceremoniously on the desk, though not out of
inconsideration; more like untamed fire. A need that hadn't been sated and
was now at his reach. He followed her, pushed down on her, their kissing
uninterrupted as he pinned her wrists to the cold wood. His thighs found
and pushed hers together. She was completely his. She under him, spread
like the crucifixion. She beneath him. She writhing and kissing back with
all the fervor of the obsessed. The loving. The passionate. They danced
the dance for endless minutes, exploring every minute details. In that
moment, their fire lasted for eternity. It was pure bliss ...
Starling, Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, gasped
aloud in the silent basement of the Baltimore public library. Her hair was
plastered on her hair with her sweat, her breathing had accelerated, and
she felt a familiar and aching warmth between her legs. She swallowed
gulps of air as though she'd been drowning. She blinked, trying to focus.
that ether she smelled? She pressed her cold forehead to the desk, letting
go of a single sob. Why was he in her head? Why did ...
looked up. She looked around. Her gun was on the table, though nothing
else seemed perturbed. With an incoherent murmur, she grabbed it and aimed
it at the door. It was closed. Shelves of books stared down at her, hiding
their secret greedily. What had they seen?
Clarice holstered her gun and prepared to leave the basement with utmost
haste, her eyes fell on a single sheet of paper which had been placed over
her copy of Italian Poetry.
fire is hypnotizing, my dear, and like the moth to the flame, I cannot
help but be drawn.
shall call on you again, Clarice. My world is much more interesting with
you in it.
Hannibal Lecter, MD
copyright 1999, by Lectergrrl
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