Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. >Which Way I Fly. by Milton. She shivered and wondered why it should be so cold down here. Hugging herself in her nightshirt, she skittered across the dark kitchen, only the bare balls of her brown feet pressing against the icy lino. She was reaching for the outline of a mug on the draining board when she belatedly noticed the smashed window. Her heart pumped suddenly as it does when you almost step in front of a car. The latch had been lifted and someone must have climbed through into her house. Why now? Why when her husband was away? On an intuition, or from some subconscious warning, she looked at the wooden block of knives by the bread bin and noticed a blank slot amongst the black handles. The small sharp one, said her brain. A second certainty then came to her - she was being watched. She felt-heard a quiet step behind her. There was nowhere to run. Should she fight? She didn't dare. The last two years of her marriage had dulled her to resistance. She could only wait, terrified. Twenty-three years of life, two years of marriage, no children. Would that be it? Murdered by a burglar? A hand clamped over her mouth and pulled her back against a body, dragging her off-balance. The grip was like iron and there was no softness to his chest against her shoulders, just tense rangy muscle. His arm wrapped around her slim waist with practised ease and almost lifted her from the floor as he took her backwards, into the living room, away from the window and any hope of escape. Before she'd even begun to struggle she'd been thrown to the floor and his weight fell on her, pushing her down. It felt like he had a knee placed at the bottom of her back and his hand held her face against the rough, musty carpet. She was not weak, she had long limbs and was fit, but she was no match for the compressed energy of this intruder. She struggled to rise for a few long moments but there wasn't any use in it. At last, she lay panting underneath him. She was conscious of all the places his body pressed hers; the long hand at the base of her skull, the bowling ball weight of the knee on her back and his calf laying alongside her thigh where he knelt. She could feel the rough denim of his jeans against her skin and the heat coming through them into her bare leg. She couldn't turn her head enough to see his face properly. She just caught the outline of a lean Caucasian face and loose blonde hair. And of course the lightness of his skin. He held her there for what seemed forever. The energy that had rushed through her body a moment ago seemed to desert her, knowing that she was beaten. She'd been through this before and it was best not to fight. Of course, it was illegal when it wasn't your husband, but her body remembered the procedure. He seemed to sense the fight go out of her, that she was afraid of him and that she was bargaining with him. 'Just don't hurt me.' And then to her surprise he relaxed too. He shifted his weight off her back a little and stroked her neck in tiny, soothing motions like you would a frightened animal. "I don't want to hurt you." His voice was a soft baritone, educated, utterly unexpected. She didn't say anything. "I just needed somewhere to hide," he said. He took his knee from her back now and slid the palm of his hand firmly down her spine. She could feel the heat of it through the thin nightshirt she wore. When he reached the base of her spine he began again at the nape of her neck - quick steady strokes. What did he think he was doing? "I'm sorry I scared you," he continued, his voice sincere and straight-forward. "I thought you might run and call the police, but you wont will you?" "You won't try and run will you," he repeated. "No." She spoke very quietly, afraid of him, trying to say whatever he wanted to hear. "Good." He continued to run his hand down her back gently, very gently. "We can both relax then." And she did. Her body responded to the hope he was offering her, bit by bit betraying her in it's need to believe him. The shameful gratitude of the weak to the mercy of their oppressors. And yet, as he continued to talk, a steady monologue, telling her that he'd just had to get indoors somewhere, that he'd picked her house because there was no car outside and he'd thought the owners might be away (No, just the husband), she found the situation had suddenly changed. A status quo was reached that she didn't dare upset now by trying to make a run for it. So long as she was safe right now that was all that counted. She suddenly realized he asked her a question and was stunned to realize that she'd been drifting.. "What," she asked? "I said that you'd come downstairs to get a drink, hadn't you? Why don't you go and get it; you must be thirsty by now." Her mouth was dry as chalk. "I'll go and sit over here so you don't feel threatened," he said rising to his feet. He walked over to a comfy chair by the TV and sat himself down. She lay still for a moment trying to think. Unsteadily she got to her feet. After a moment, she tried to pull the nightshirt down to cover more of her. Of course it just bounced back up to mid-thigh. Although she never wore short skirts anymore, nor anything tight, she still had the smooth, toned legs that had turned so many heads when she was younger. Younger! Two years ago! Did he want her in that way? And what could she do if he did? She looked at him cautiously, ready to lower her gaze. He looked back smiling, his own gaze fixed at eye-level. But his body was ready to move, she saw - the long hands rested on the arms of the chair with the fingers curled lightly over the ends, ready to pull him forward and launch him at her if she ran. She took in the long legs, the sparse athletic trunk and knew that he might as well still be on top of her for all the difference it made. "You could get me a drink too, if you don't mind." She nodded dumbly and padded back into the kitchen. She returned a few moments later with two glasses of apple-juice. He hadn't tried to follow her and still sat in the chair, but he'd clicked on the little lamp in the corner and it's yellow glow let her see him clearly for the first time. She took him his glass and they studied each other in the new light. He wasn't old, under thirty probably; save for a few little scars his skin was still smooth and tan. There was an iron-definition to his musculature that made him seem older though. No youthful softness at all. The fair skin couldn't conceal the cable like tendons in his arms. And his eyes, his eyes were hazel as softer than her own. He took the glass from her and took a few sips, not taking his eyes off her. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Only her husband had seen her without even her hijab in the last two years, and then suddenly here she was in front of a stranger in nothing but a thin bit of cotton and her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Strangely she wasn't embarrassed or ashamed. Because she had no choice in the matter, that was it. No guilt or shame for that reason. Oddly, she could relax into her powerlessness. He was staring at her, almost inspecting her. He wasn't shy in doing so. Why should he be? He can do what he wants. Did he find black girls attractive? Some white men did, but most stuck to their own race. And she certainly wasn't a little blonde. She guessed she was just a few inches shorter than he was, and though her limbs were slender they had long curves of muscle under the soft dark skin. She turned and walked over to the sofa and wondered if he was now inspecting her bottom beneath the white cotton night-shirt too. If he tried to take her she would let him. She was stunned at the sudden self-knowledge. "What are you going to do," she asked? "I'll wait here for a while and slip out in the wee hours. I'm sure the police will have hurried off to deal with something else by then." "Oh. Okay." "You can go back to bed," he said. "Don't try and sneak out or call for help. I'll be just down here." She hesitated. He couldn't really expect her to go back to sleep with an intruder in the house, could he? He said nothing, waiting for her to leave him. Instead she switched the electric fire on and sat down in front of it, pulling her legs around to the side and leaning back against the sofa. Her heart beat faster, as he watched her sit, she was nervous again. He smiled and raised his eyebrows. "I'm a dangerous fugitive from justice, you got that part, yes, - he said with amusement? -Desperate man and all that..." She swallowed. "Why are you running? What did you do?" "Hm. I was in prison. Went over the wall this afternoon." He laughed. "Let Him surer bar his iron gate, if He would have me stay in that dark durance," he quoted. "Wont it be worse for you if you get caught?" "I'll risk anything to be free. Wouldn't you?" Again he looked at her, appraising. "I don't know," she said finally. -Well, tell me about you, then. Tell me your story." And she did. They talked for hours, mostly her. He didn't interrupt. He just listened and took it all in. She told him about her life, her marriage. After a while, he went to get them more to drink and when he came back he sat next to her. Her hand touched his as he handed her the glass, later his long fingers lay against her soft brown thigh, small steps. Both knowing where it was leading, neither yet certain enough to speak it aloud. She told him about previous boyfriends, about previous experiences; her conversation heading to more intimate terrain bit by bit. He was so close to her now. His face was by hers, almost cheek to cheek. His fingers were hot where they brushed her legs. She faltered as she told him about her husband's lovemaking, hesitating at this penultimate betrayal before rushing on to tell him how brutal it was, how ungentle, how it didn't reach her. There was nothing left to say. She felt breathless. She turned her head to meet his gaze. They were so close now she could feel the blood in his cheeks. His fingertips traced along her lips, full of temptation. She was beautiful; at once strong and afraid. She closed her eyes as his mouth met hers. His hand slid around the base of her skull caressing and keeping her in the kiss. His tongue probed her lips, enquiring, romance or sex? The tip of her tongue met it, pressed against it. Her mouth opened slightly and the kiss became more forceful, deeper, hungrier. She felt his hand on her waist, gripping, She grabbed his arms, her nails depressing crescent moons in the taut triceps. His hand rose up her body, trying to hold as much of her breast as possible, squeezing through the thin cotton. His need was contagious. She pulled at his t-shirt, tugging it free from the tight jeans, laughing as she wrestled it over his head. Then they paused for a moment, another boundary had been crossed. Her fingers traced their way over his torso. Not passionately, but just wanting to feel the leanness of him. He had a body built for endurance, for power, not bulk; a fighter's body. She raked her nails down his chest, scraping whiter lines from the white skin. He made a small animal sound and lunged at her and they began again. They clutched each other, kissing until they gasped for breath, she felt him pressing against her through his jeans and the ache in her was like a fire now. She pushed him off her, a tiny push, just an instruction. He complied immediately, rolling onto the carpet. She lay there gasping for a moment, staring at him. He watched her in turn, sweat beaded his body giving it a perfected, oiled look in the heater's glow. Her need was incredible, still she drew it out, liking to see him there, patiently waiting for her. With short breath, she stared at his jeans. "Take them off." He stood to do it. Unbuckling his belt, there was little ceremony to it. He pulled his jeans and boxers off in two quick motions. His legs were muscular and from between them his penis rose quickly upright, ready and eager. She stood and pulled the nightshirt over her head. She was rewarded with an intake of breath from her man. His face was full of desire, she had taken him too far - there was no other way this could go now. He couldn't not take her. It was beyond her choice now, which was what she truly wanted. He sat with his back against the sofa and pulled her to him. She straddled him, holding herself over his member, it's heavy head pressing against her pussy, wanting entrance. Exquisitely, she began to slide down it, swallowing his shaft. She had never been so wet, it must be like taking it in a mouth. Inch after inch of him she took inside herself, squeezing tight with her vaginal muscles, his fingers spasmed against her back pulling her flesh. Finally their pelvis met, locked together and she felt him all inside her. He was long and nearly too hard between the walls of her pussy. She began to slide back up. He groaned and she sighed as he came right to the edge of her, then began sliding down him again. Up and down, riding him, squeezing him tightly, lost to the sensation of him moving inside him. His hips moved to counteract her, never letting her pull away too quickly or descend too slowly. She shuddered, his hands were everywhere, white arms enfolding her beautiful black body, holding more than just her body. She opened her eyes and looked at him the same moment he looked at her. There was so much strength in his arms and his face. Where her breasts were pressed against his solid chest, she could feel his heart beat through them like an engine. His dick inside her was straining for release. She'd never needed a man like this before. She couldn't control this anymore. "Do what you want with me," she said. He lay her on her back and pressed down on her. His weight made her feel helpless. He hooked his hands beneath her shoulders, holding her steady, she locked her legs around his back holding on. He used the sofa behind his feet to push against slamming into her with his dick, ramming into her again and again so fast she thought she would pass out from pleasure. Her hands grabbed his arse, feeling the hard, interplay of muscle under the skin as he fucked her completely. She couldn't think, couldn't try. Her body was wracked with orgasms, felt in every nerve of her body, but most of all in that fire that was racing from her pussy up her spine. She cried out now at every thrust. She could no longer feel individual sensations, just a wave of pleasure coming faster and faster. Someone somewhere was screaming in release. She came again. Individual orgasms couldn't be distinguished anymore. She felt like she was having her mind tattooed. Everything seemed to fall apart as his dick slid back and forth inside her. She was only dimly aware of his back tensing beneath her hands, shaking as he neared his own single orgasm. When it came it felt like she could feel it too, get satisfaction from his one all-consuming orgasm, it was like a burst of light. He cried out and she held him, head in his arms as he shook, his cum inside her, held deep by her body. They panted together in shock and exhaustion. They lay together like this for a long time. At some point afterwards they had made their way to bed and they lay there tangled together. She knew that she slept. She didn't know if he had. He woke her in the early hours of the morning while it was still dark outside. He had to leave. They didn't say much, but they kissed each other goodbye at least a dozen times, trying to make the last they'd have perfect. "Good luck staying free," she told him. He smiled again. He never seemed to stop. "You too," he said. And then he was gone. All day, she thought about the night. It was like losing her virginity all over again. She'd gone to a new level, found new terrain. She couldn't go back to what she'd thought before, no more than she could return to just kissing after the first time she'd had sex - the ceiling had been raised. The memory of what had happened was burned in her mind and it was as though he was still there inside her. She smiled. She placed her hands on her dark abdomen as a new fantasy came to her. Perhaps he still was. fin.