Author's notes:

Is it cheating to fall back on the familiar? Do I have to always challenge myself?

At some point, I think I will have to face challenges in writing. Uncomfortable topics, unsympathetic characters, difficulties in theme or foreshadowing.

However, I think they'll come naturally. If I'm not up to the challenge, I will quite likely be oblivious to them. If otherwise, I will face them then. No point seeking them out for the time being.

Until then, I'll write for fun. This will be fun. Trust me.

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



Sian opened her mouth, but suddenly started coughing the moment the man said "No noise."

His voice was soft, deep and slow. It echoed in Sian's mind as she gasped for air. Her eyes teared from coughing. Bent as she did, all she could see was his feet, sidestepping her in quick stride, then the door swinging shut.

"That's good. Very good." His r's came from his throat, his words clipped. Incongruously, she tried to place his accent. "That's enough of that."

With those words, the ragged itch at her throat subsided, and she was able to breathe again. "Fuck you..." spilled from her mouth, but trailed off as she heard her voice, hoarse and muted.

"All in due time, my dear." With unbelievable nonchalance, he turned and doffed his overcoat, then moved to hang on the empty peg.

Sian sidled to the coffee table, reached for the largest piece of broken vase. Then, stealth tossed aside, she slashed the man across his back, right shoulder down and left.

His scream filled the room. It startled Sian, the ferocity, the depth. She saw a blur, felt her right cheek explode in light, and toppled against the television, knocking it off the stand.

"That. Hurt." His eyes blazed. He stepped forward, and she found herself backed to the bookcase, television at her feet. Her mouth gaped open, but only a hiss escaped.

Then, he was upon her. His mouth mated with hers, his head tilted to the left so her ear felt more than heard his sharp intake of air. She tried to back away, but he pressed her into the bookshelf. His hands sought her neck, but, instead of throttling her, they parted her jacket collar as if it were a curtain. Before she could react, it was a puddle of fabric behind her feet.

His tongue shot into her mouth, electrifying her own. With a mind of its own, her jaw locked in place, mouth gaping, as he explored her palate, her teeth, her undulating tongue. Her hands slapped at his back, and, finding the rent in his garments, tried to dig into the wound.

It was slick with blood, but shallow. She had only cut skin. She drove her fingernails into the furrow and he gasped, sucking her lungs flat. By now, he pressed her head and body against the books, his ardour firm against her belly. His spasm crushed her against the shelves, and books spilled free. Try as she might, she could not escape the vise.

He backed his head away, but inches. She noticed the faint whiteness of a scar's line across his neck. The cloth of his jacket was supple, midnight blue and fine, a slightest hint of a stripe describing his torso's contours. His violet silk tee shirt seemed at once out of place, and yet perfect for his jacket. Somewhere in the back of her consciousness, she felt regret for ruining such work.

Her fingers clawed into the cut, and he grimaced, then forced a smile, a hungry, devouring smile. Her hands flew to his neck, and, faster still, his hands vanished from behind her, to become a circular snare, pressing her wrists against one another.

With inexorable force, he guided her hands between them. His hips trapped her abdomen, her struggles only increasing his pressure. His stance wide, she struggled to kick, but he was too close for her to build up any speed. Her legs only feebly slapped his, and they were iron. A fleeting thought stole into her mind, the vision of his rear, equally solid.

Just as she banished that from mind's eye, his tongue traced the taut tendons on the back of her right hand. Her fingers struggled to try to claw at him, but only brushed against his hair, silken and brown. Digits turned into a fist, trapping his head against her hand. His tongue continued melting her strength with each warm lap.

With the last of her will, she rolled her right fist forward as her left hand yielded. His hair, cool and smooth with a hint of curl, merely slid from between her fingers. When they were gone, her hand felt empty. Alone.

Rationality marshalled itself in her mind, and she found she had very little. Her pupils dilated in fright as she scrambled for her self, her essence. Her gaze locked on his ebony eyes, and his held hers.

As one, her hands and his floated from between them. Vaguely, she felt her self drift free with it, as if she was above the two tangled bodies, watching her eyes soften, her lids lower to half. Her mouth moved freely, lips seemingly in languor. She felt some distant horror as they formed a small 'O,' welcoming and needful.

One hand broke free of the quartet. His. Hers still remained trapped by his other one, but they fluttered instead of flailed. His free hand traced down her bare arm in an agonizing crawl. It glided over her armpit, but did not set her off into giggles as did any other boy's touch.

Men, her forebrain corrected. Men. No, chorused the rest of her consciousness. Boys. In this consuming light, they were all boys.

Somehow, he knew how this roiled her sanity, and stroked her there again. His fingers were delicious against the faint regrowth, fine and invisible. But tangible, oh, so tangible. With each his fingers' terrible graze, her identity dimmed. It fought, it railed, it panicked, but it was sucked under, leaving behind a carnal ache that consumed her, claimed her.