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An Interlude copyright 1999, by Lectergrrl
Clarice 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. Outside, 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. What 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. "Well 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?" She 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. Those 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?" She could only listen to her own breathing, fearful of any movement. Even a nod. "You can nod, you know. I won't mind." She closed her eyes. Get out of my HEAD! He 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 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." She could only nod. The 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. The 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. Explanations. Self-explorations. Why do I still think of him? He
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 ... Clarice 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. Was 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 ... ... ether? She 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? When 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.
FIN copyright 1999, by Lectergrrl |