Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

* * *

Elisa wandered through the next few weeks like she was a passenger in her own body. She uncontrollably thought about him. She did everything involuntarily, as though it was a reflex. Arthur had broken in and strapped her to the bed, he spanked her, whipped her venomously, inserted things into her, dripped hot wax onto her, lubed her body with oil, and finally, fucked her with his limitless force, and she faintly enjoyed it, she remembered when he left that she had not said a word, not cried out once, because she had never given a moment’s thought to what he was doing. She let him do as he pleased, received the normal gratification from an excessive orgasm and the exhaustion that followed, without considering it, without veering her thoughts. He was still controlling her.

Elisa was no longer her own person, she shared her body with a man she’d met only once and who had said those things to her. She realized that all she had been doing was for him. She finally woke from her trance and saw what she had been doing. She had purchased things for him, clothing, a chair, special sheets for the bed, shaving crème, a razor, shampoo, new lingerie for him to see her in, new clothes she thought he’d like to see her wear, food for them to have for dinner, and she had not known what she was doing, whether he would ever use these items or see her again. She was satisfied though with him inside her, she didn’t feel as though she’d lost control, she felt as though she’d given it to another because he should have it, like the keys to lock of a cell. Elisa sat for hours enjoying his presence.

When she saw people, when she went to those pesky parties and social engagements that were required of her, she was not annoyed because he kept her company. She appeared to others as though she’d changed, become more sociable, more amiable — almost happy. Elisa realized it, she enjoyed that they were so misdirected, that they were so simple that they believed she’d come to her senses, when in reality, she’d never felt so senseless, so mad, in her entire life. She could not tell you what she’d done three hours before because he was in control of her and he had decided what they were going to do; she simply followed. When she slept, he spoke to her, and when she awoke, he was quiet, communicating to her without speech. She liked herself with him.

And she very much enjoyed that no one knew of him, that while Ms. Abernathy retold the same story for the sixteen millionth time she was thinking of him, that while the duplicitous Captain fumbled over some ludicrous story about engineering that they both knew was completely false, she was remembering his gaze. People would make remarks about it, Elisa Greene was actually (meaning: perhaps, possibly) smiling and not with that coy, I know something you don’t know grin, but a pleased smile of happiness. Something had happened and it was so strong she would smile despite herself. Even Vincent, with whom she tried to be on guard, had said something about her constantly breaking out in a smile and she let the agent believe that it was because of him. Elisa would say Joseph’s name under her breath when Vincent was making love to her, she would compare every man she met to him, she would spend hours contemplating where he was and what he was doing. Nothing made her more happy than when she sat around a table of old wives and pretended to listen to their ruminations, only to think about him touching her skin, when Vincent was groaning below her, when his hands cupped her thighs and she felt his fingers tear into her flesh, she was dreaming of his lips against her breasts, when Arthur Dodger tied her arms behind her back and forced her to prostrate herself, she was imagining him against her, when Graham called and began his lengthy diatribes, she was thinking of him cradling her crotch with his arms and feasting on her moist, dripping lips. That was why she smiled.

And yet, although she felt close to him, although she volunteered to his control, she missed his presence, she didn’t want just the phantom within her, she didn’t want just the imaginings, she wanted him to look at her that way again. Elisa wanted nothing more in the world than for Joseph to come to her and consume her.

* * *

“Elisa, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re happy,” Captain Vincent said, wrapping his thick arm over her naked shoulder and caressing her thigh with his hand. She was straddling his leg, her body lying half on top of his, her head against his chest. They had just enjoyed Sunday afternoon intercourse after a failed attempt at a friendly stroll, Vincent watching her haunches move underneath of her skirt and finding himself incapable of continuing. She had never said no to him. “Elisa? Are you awake?”

She remained motionless beside him and he couldn’t see her face, but she was awake, she just wasn’t with him in the room. She was with Joseph. When Vincent had stopped, Elisa and Joseph had continued. She was still experiencing it and she hadn’t heard Vincent calling to her.

It was late and Elisa had drawn a bath for herself. She slowly stripped off her clothing and poured in a concoction that made bubbles in the water. The water was hot; she tested it with her toe and slowly immersed her foot, was able to stand it and placed the other foot in the water. Then, she squatted down and inched her backside into the water, finally sitting down. She closed her eyes and focused on him. She heard it, she was sure she heard it. Arthur wouldn’t dare though, not with Vincent nearby. She heard it again. It was the sound of someone moving across her floor. Elisa knew which boards made noises and what noise they each made and she heard the creak of the board just outside the bathroom door. Elisa got out of the water immediately and grabbed a towel. She wrapped it around her body, covering her chest and midsection. She knew someone was just outside the door. Her hair was still wet, dripping water down her back. She moved towards the door. She listened. He had not moved. She touched the doorknob. He had to be right there. She turned the knob and flung the door open.

The hall was empty. There was no one there. Elisa tiptoed towards the front room, waiting for Arthur to jump out from behind something or attack her from around the corner. But her apartment was empty. She checked the front door and it was locked. She had been hearing things. She laughed at herself and moved back towards her bath. Vincent was breathing heavily in her bedroom. His large nude body spread eagle on top of the covers.

Elisa went back into the bathroom and removed the towel. That was when she saw him standing there. She pulled the towel towards her body. He had been behind the door. He was there, just as she’d dreamed about. He was looking at her again. She could feel him entering her. She stared back at him in awe. Vincent was asleep just ten feet away. She came to her senses and motioned to him that Vincent was there. He nodded and his grin didn’t change. She held the towel up to her chin. He didn’t look away from her face. She didn’t know what to do.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. Joseph reached forward and touched the bare skin of her shoulder like he was inspecting fine fabric. She tried to push him away with one hand and keep the towel in front of her with the other as his fingers slid over her chest. She let the towel drop slightly. “We can’t…” she whispered heavily, “…there’s…” He continued to stare in her eyes. She felt him returning inside. “No, we can’t.” The door was still open slightly. Her pleading murmurs could wake him up.

Joseph leaned forward and kissed her bicep. He laid his head against her arm, his cheek against her elbow. His hand skimmed over her throat, her neck, her sternum. She pressed herself against him, clenching. The soggy towel dropped. Elisa put her arms around him. He laid his head in the lectern of her shoulder. She pressed eagerly. He picked her up with one quick movement and laid her down on the bathmat. Elisa shimmied, trying to be as quiet as possible. Joseph loomed over her, her fresh nudity just below him, her wet skin allowing her to slip out of his grasp, for him to have trouble holding her in place, she squirmed underneath of him, without making a sound. She didn’t even dare whisper. He was holding her down and caressing her. She was threatening him and kissing him passionately. He plunged into her and she whelped like a kicked dog, arched her back and came. He pressed himself against her entirely; she relaxed, exhausted, incapable of fighting any longer, electricity quivering up her body, causing her to bury her face in the floor to muffle her squeals. She came again, bellowing out a noise that could only be described like a death rattle. She wasn’t in the bathroom, her skin against the shag and the linoleum, she wasn’t sure where she had been because she’d never been there before. But it was a place where every pore ached, where the slightest touch caused streams of her personal juice to pour out, where her areolas puckered like lips around a lemon and her nipples felt like they were going to split open.