Interview With An Assassin 9

::NINE::

Two days. I still have two days, and now I don’t even have the distraction of committing murder to keep me marginally busy while I wait for him. Of course, I could methodically kill everyone on the resort, and it wouldn’t serve to take my mind off Riddick. Fifteen days with only his scent, and the thought of him, to keep me from madness.

I had washed the stink of Janette off me first, disgusted at the thought of any part of her on my body. She was amusing to play with for awhile, but I would have preferred if she had fought, even a little. Even if she had had the courage of her sexual desires and turned to try and touch me, even once, it would have pleased me. Not sexually, of course, but at least professionally. To kill her so easily, with her not even realizing that fighting back might be a smart idea. At least mercenaries fight. More respect for death, and life. Pathetic.

Slip Riddicks last dirty wife-beater over my head. He had kissed me softly, stroking my face, when I had asked him not to have them washed, before he left. Part of him knowing, instinctively, why I wanted them. Why I needed them. I wear them at night, the only way I can sleep, without him here. But after a couple of days, they no longer smell like him, they just smell like me. My body, still warm from the shower, brings the male scent of him to my nose. A clean sweat scent, heady and exotic, just him. No aftershave or cologne to cloud the essence of his body. My mouth waters, a shiver of want racing down my spine, plucking sharply at the taut string of my clitoris. From the outer exposed bud, to it’s deep hidden heart, my g-spot, the scent of him hits a resounding note in me that drowns out everything else.

Simple sleep will not be enough, not tonight. Place the towel on the bed, neatly folded. The whetstone. Small bottle of mineral oil. Take the beautiful bowie knife into the bathroom, cleaning the stain of Janette off it’s magnificent surface. The steel, now free of oil, glows dully in the light.

Sit behind the whetstone, leaving the blade in front of me, while I find a comfortable way to sit. Kneel, place a pillow behind me on my heels. Resting back comfortably, before spreading my knees as wide as I’m able. Rest back, letting the muscles in my thighs relax. Pull Riddick’s shirt up and back, so I’m fully exposed. The cooler air in the room feeling strange against the slick wetness of my pussy. I let the ache still, and deepen. Breathe deep, and think of Riddick.

The slick velvet ease of oil on steel, as I oil the blade, it’s dull surface coming to life under the ministrations of my hands. A small pool of oil on the stone, not much, just enough to ease friction slightly. The stone now a rich black, under it’s skin of lubricant.

Clean the oil off my left hand, not needing it’s slickness, preferring my own. Take the beautiful blade in my right, letting my fingers slide gently over it’s surface first, the slick softness, the steel underneath, so much like what I’d rather have. But this is what I have right now. The handle, far too large for my hand, but so pleasing to me right now, it’s girth less than I like, but, sometimes, it really is the thought that counts. Held at a little shallower than a forty-five degree angle. Just hold it to the stone for a moment.

There are times when Riddick fucks hard and fast, and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t love it. There is something so raw, so primal, in just being pinned and mounted, in not only surrendering to it, but that delicious submission in choosing to not have a choice. And then. Then there are times when Riddick is so slow. When he has played with me, and tormented me, made me beg and plead for what only he can give me. There being no amount of release I could seek by myself that could equal what he could give. When, at the end, his every slow stroke brings about it’s own shuddering orgasm. Until I can’t breathe, can’t think. Incapable of even screaming out anymore. Until I black out, only to arise into another crashing wave of pleasure.

So I start slow. The first stroke over my clitoris almost painful. So engorged. Fifteen days without him, without his touch, mine not enough by itself anymore. Everything in my wanting to rush, to bring any sort of release. But I stay slow, because I need it slow, I need it to last.

Pull the blade back over the stone, that age old whisper, a sound as old as time, the honing of a blade. Let the vibration, it’s music, move through my arm, sliding two fingers over my clitoris in time with that first pass. It’s possible to sharpen a blade quickly, but I’ve never believed that it’s possible to do so well. It’s an art that does, and should, take time. Let the strokes come rhythmically, the angle precise, the passes even.

Never speeding up, letting my fingers circle over my clitoris in time with the passes of the blade over the stone. The completion of every pass…Riddick. Keep time to the sound of his name, at first in my head only, but, by the time I have turned the blade, to sharpen the other side, his name is passing from my lips, a whisper, a gasp, with every stroke. The blade in my left hand now, my right far more comfortable over my clitoris. A circle over the bud, slide down through wetness, a stroke deep inside, back over my clitoris…Riddick.

The ache in me building, and still I go slow. Pulling the will to keep this brutal pace from the utterance of his name alone…Riddick. Who would give me what I wanted, even when I lost my mind and claimed it’s not what I wanted anymore, when I claimed I wanted him to just fuck me harder, faster. Anything to find release. He would go slow. Because he KNEW it’s what I really wanted. Because it was in his heart to please me, always…Riddick. The hot weight dropping into my belly…Riddick. My back arching, as my breath gasps out, making me whimper in need…Riddick. My hand soaked, my clitoris pulled taut, the pressure building…Riddick. The odd sensation of feeling my own internal muscles squeezing my own fingers…Riddick. The white fire exploding though my body, as I scream out his name into the empty room…RIDDICK.

Exhaustion, pressing my hand down over my clitoris to try to lessen the burning ache, not wanting the cold air of the room to touch me just yet. Clean off the excess oil, putting the beautiful blade back into the red Valentines box, and slipping it under the bed. Pushing everything else off the bed, lying back, and falling into a fitfull sleep.

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