Doxy
She wanted freedom. From expectations, her skin, her sense of obligation. Always being the good girl wore on a girl's nerves.
So she planned her debauchery.
It required a good wine; then money demanded she select sherry instead. A filmy top in shades of violet cut just-so to the waist.
And a whole lot of nerve.
***
That night she showed up at the bar already drunk, with dancing feet. She threw a quarter into the jukebox's maw and it repaid her by playing James Taylor.
In My Mind, I'm Gone To Carolina...
She danced along to the song's rhythm; nothing about it suggested the sensuality of rolling hips, but she had studied Shakira before, envying her free sensuality. For all of her worth she shook her hips, rolled her shoulders. Drew the wrong sort of attention.
Her eyes zeroed in on him from a distance. A good Christian boy; just the right type to beg mercy from. A boy who loved his mamma, and would be good to her body.
So she ingratiated herself to his side, plying him with drinks. He was weak tonight, thank goodness; an easy target for her own means. And married, to boot.
Well, she wanted to be bad...
***
The room was lit up by his eyes. She didn't need to see anything, not even his hands as he manipulated her.
It was a manipulation, a misty illusion. The kisses, the caresses, the screams. He tore her blouse and her underwear and laughed when she squawked. He left bruises and saliva upon her virgin breasts, hips, thighs.
Still...she remained dry.
***
Dawn came, dragging in its undertow rationality and a dose of reality. All of those hard 'R' words that she had vowed to ignore.
He couldn't meet her eyes as he dressed; she knew that he had soiled his code of honor. She had shredded her own, after all.
She began to explain herself to the ceiling; how she wanted to taste rebellion for just one night and was sorry for his adoring gaze. He cut her off, begging her not to tell his wife.
Never. She would never tell.
He ran from the bed, his fear plain, saying absently that he hoped it was special for her.
Special.
It was sex.
Admitting that it meant anything at all to her would have been fatal to her poisoned body. So what was so special about sex?
Just a question that slipped through her mind as she remained bleeding between the sheets, alone at four in the morning.