Faye (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
said_scarlett) wrote2008-05-31 10:00 am
said_scarlett) wrote2008-05-31 10:00 am
Entry tags:
Silent Hill Kink Meme Fics
I think it's been long enough to re-post, under my own name, what I wrote for the Silent Hill Kink Meme. :D And I wasn't able to write any pr0n yesterday, with my uncle about. Here's some Silent Hill pr0n! We've got sweet and sexy, disturbing and horrific, and... whacky pairing-tastic. :D
Title: Angel in a Centerfold
Pairing: Henry/Eileen
Kink: Photography
Warnings: None really, this is pretty tame
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: Henry and Eileen have a very special sort of photoshoot.
Eileen sat on the bed, her long coltish legs bend feet hidden under her body. She wore nothing but her bra and panties - light pink with purple polka-dots, bra modest, panties wide and cut high on her legs, charming and almost girlish. And somehow more appealing than the sheerest negligee or most revealing combination. Because it was so very Eileen.
Henry stood behind the camera, fidgeting with buttons and knobs. Eileen was laughing, almost shy. She bent her head and reached to tuck her hair behind her ear and Henry found himself raising the camera and clicking the shutter. Eileen looked startled.
“Are we starting already?” she asked, blushing a little.
“No. I’m sorry, I just thought you looked….” He trailed off, feeling awkward. “You just looked perfect, like that.”
Eileen’s blush deepened. Henry cleared his throat and lifted the camera once more. Now he was ready. He nodded, and Eileen smiled, lifting her arms and clasping her hands behind her head and striking a pose like a pinup girl from the 50s. Henry swallowed hard, snapping away, entranced by the sight of her.
It was somehow easier to be safely behind the camera, watching her, than it was to touch her, to kiss her, to make love to her. Here, Henry had no fear of being awkward or clumsy or doing the wrong thing. This he knew.
Eileen turned, smiling, arching her back and thrusting out her breasts. Every so often she laughed, and her cheeks stained pink, and Henry wasn’t sure if she was uncomfortable or just thought this was silly. He suspected the latter. Because she moved without shame or embarrassment. She bent and arched and posed, pouting then breaking into a smile and covering her face with hands in a good natured fashion.
And Henry kept taking pictures.
She surprised him. She crossed her arms over her chest, gripping her shoulders, the image of coy and shy and flirtatious. And Henry took the photo and then Eileen was pulling down the straps of her bra, slowly, almost teasing. Her arms obscured her breasts as the straps dangled down her arm and Henry catalogued the movement in pictures, quick shot after quick shot as he felt his mouth beginning to dry.
There was a teasing look in Eileen’s eyes as she covered her breasts with one arm, pulling the other from her bra-strap like a dancing girl. She reached behind her and in the quiet of the apartment Henry could hear the clasp of her undergarment opening. He saw the material hang away, suddenly, held up only by Eileen’s own arm and one loose strap. Which she slid off, letting the bra fall away until her bare torso was obscured only by her arms.
Henry had to pause, frozen in time as he looked at her through the lens of the camera. She was perfect. He couldn’t think of any other word to describe her as she knelt there, bra in a heap on the comforter, glimpses of her smooth breasts visible through the narrow gaps between her arms.
“Is this…okay?” she asked, and Henry watched as her face fell suddenly.
“What? Oh! Yeah, of course. I just… got distracted.” And now he blushed and Eileen lowered her eyes and she was smiling. And she lowered one arm, only wrist and hand covering her nipples. Henry remembered he had a camera in his hands and he continued to photograph her, trying to detach himself, trying to ignore the surge of blood that rushed downwards. And when Eileen let her hand fall away completely Henry sucked in his breath. He’d seen her breasts before - held them, caressed them, kissed them - but there was something different about seeing her this way.
It was almost dirty. Her poses were innocent for a few frames, tame pinup homages that suited her perfectly. And then she ran her hands over her breasts, and her tame movements became sensual. Her arched back was no longer aesthetic, but inviting. And her eyes told Henry she knew it.
When she lay on her back, one hand on her breast and the other between her legs, over the cotton of her panties, Henry feared he’d drop the camera. Was it okay to still take pictures? Eileen wouldn’t do that if she didn’t want him to, would she? She wouldn’t lay there on his bed, mouth open, fingers pinching her nipple, hand twisting between her legs if she didn’t expect Henry to take a picture….
But he couldn’t focus any longer. He cleared his throat and lowered his camera, arousal straining in his pants. Her legs were spread and her back lifted off the bed and he couldn’t think of taking pictures now. Not when his mind was far too occupied with the idea of burying his head between her legs, tasting her through the cotton of her polka-dot panties…
“I think…we have enough,” he managed, running a hand through his shaggy hair. Eileen lifted her head and wet her lips, hazel eyes bright.
“Then why don’t you put down the camera and join me?”
Title: Sacrifice of Flesh
Pairing: Pyramid Head/Maria
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Um, a lot? Non-con, gore, violence, guro, snuff, tentacle-rape. It's Pyramid Head.
Summary: Maria existed for punishment and punishment alone - her own, as well as James'.
Pale, blood spattered skin. High round breasts, shuddering. Muscles jumping, twitching. Spread legs, laced with gashes. Red stained lips, parted. Gasping. Panting. Screaming. Leather gloved hands gripping twisted hips, restraining. Holding down. Bruising.
Where was James? James, James, James. Why didn’t he save her? Maria’s naked body writhed on the dirty table, splayed out between archaic surgical instruments, beneath hanging corpses. James would never save her, could never save her. She had been created to die again and again, to live in torment and anguish.
And the monster held her down. Cut her, tore into her, sliced her perfect white skin. Stomach gashed, viscera glistening, blood trickling from her mouth. The monster took her, forcing itself into her body, stretching the slick pink skin of her cunt. Slick with sweat and blood her body bucked as the creature drove into her again and again, soundless, faceless mask looming above her like some blunt edged weapon of old.
The knife entered her body. Her skin split beneath it and Maria screamed, jumping as though shot, the Great Knife pinning her leg to the table. It cut through her thigh, red washes of liquid heat spilling over her. Splattering her thighs and between her legs, wet against her slit.
The monster withdrew. Maria fell to the table, shuddering, breasts shaking. The knife pulled out of her flesh, roughly. The pain so intense it was beautiful. Roughly, the monster flipped her over. Maria lay spread on the dirty table, and the knife through her back was no surprise. Like a butterfly in a collection she lay nailed to the table. Slick, ropelike flesh gripped her wrists, pulling her up. Confused, frightened, she looked over her shoulder, upper body half lifted from the table, breasts glistening with blood and sweat in the murky red light.
From beneath the thing’s helmet spilled forth a mass of writhing tentacles, brackish brown and thick. They wrapped around her. Her thighs - still bleeding - her arms, her breasts. They squeezed and threatened to crush her fragile bones. The thing’s monstrous cock nudged at her once more, between her legs, before spitting her once more. With every movement the knife cut into her more, the wound opening. Throat raw from screaming, Maria let her head fall forward. Tentacles around her neck, forcing it back up. Forcing her lips to part. Sliding into her mouth and making her gag.
She was lifted from the table, lifted with the Great Knife still through her, leaving a gaping hole between her breasts. A tentacle slithered inside, fucking the open wound as her breasts were squeezed and gripped, tips of slick inhuman flesh brushing over her nipples.
She was held aloft for her unholy rape, legs ripped open to the point where her hips creaked, the monster’s cock driving up into her body, tentacles in her mouth, through her chest, holding her arms out in parody of a martyr nailed to a cross, gripping her waist and slipping into the tear in her once smooth stomach, harder and faster until Maria was sure she would die.
The monster came, roaring and thrusting into her one final time. Her body dropped and she choked, gagging, leaking blood and semen onto the stained floor. A kick to her midsection and she fell, the light blinking out of her eyes at last.
Only to return a moment later, the wounds covering her body closing, to repeat the process over again.
Title: On The Job
Post an Entry
Pairing: Frank Sunderland/Cynthia
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Prostitution?
Summary: The escort gig wasn't a bad one, and some clients could be...surprising.
It was a small, musty, worn apartment. Nothing special, nothing interesting. Old furniture, faded curtains, dusty tributes scattered here and there in testament to some female touch that had long since been absent.
Cynthia slipped off her coat, folding it over one arm. She stood in the doorway, expectantly.
“Is everything all right?” Why wouldn’t it be? She knew she looked good. Tight red dress, fuck-me pumps, thigh high stockings. Sexy, but the classy end of sex appeal. Call girl rather than street walker. Sensual, not slut. It was a fine line.
“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Come in, Miss….?”
“You can call me Cynthia, handsome.” She moved into the apartment on long, lean legs. Her heels clicked on the hard wood floor.
“Cynthia. I want you to know I don’t normally do this. But I’ve been alone a long time, and a man…”
“Please.” She turned, red lips smiling. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Sometimes a gentleman needs a little company, that’s all. I’m happy to be your company for this evening, Frank. May I call you Frank?”
“I think that’d only be right. Can I get you something to drink? I think I’ve got some beer in the fridge…”
“Aren’t you sweet?” Old, awkward, but sweet she supposed. He wouldn’t look her in the eye, and he hadn’t even so much as made a move to take her coat. No, it was very clear he didn’t do this often. He certainly didn’t look as though he had the money to spend on expensive women.
Common class hookers, maybe. But not an agency girl. It was a decent gig, really. Discretion, good pay, a level of security. And it let her keep her own hours and live the lifestyle she enjoyed. So she sometimes had clients that were below her standards, so what? There was no harm in giving them a thrill.
Cynthia tossed her coat over a chair.
“Why don’t we skip the beer?” she purred, moving towards Frank. She supposed he wasn’t terribly bad looking. He wasn’t fat, he wasn’t bald, he didn’t reek of death and mildew.
“If you say so. Should we…where should we do this?” Stumbling over words, wringing his hands. Cynthia reached up, hands sliding along Frank’s shoulders. Worn soft cotton wrinkled under her red, manicured nails.
“Wherever you’d like.” He didn’t touch her, even then. Cynthia stepped closer, fingers twining behind his neck. It was oddly endearing when they were shy. She teased the small hairs at the back of his neck, parted her lips, every inch of her body screaming invitation.
And still Frank did nothing but awkwardly place his hands on her hips. Perhaps he was simply out of practice. That was all right. She could just give him a little reminder.
Cynthia tilted her head up, brushing her lips against Franks. His lips were chapped, dry. He returned the kiss almost hesitantly, moving his mouth against hers. She molded her body into his, deepening the kiss. Her tongue slid between his lips, teasing and encouraging, trying to draw him into her seduction.
Frank’s hands on her hips tightened. Through the thin silk of her dress she could feel they were calloused.
They stood in the living room of Frank’s dingy, worn apartment, kissing and holding onto one another until finally, after what seemed like an eternity of strangely restrained kissing, Frank’s roughened fingers pulled carefully at the zipped of Cynthia’s dress.
“Is this alright, then?” he asked, pulling away from her hungry lips. Such a gentleman. Cynthia resisted the urge to laugh. Instead she stroked his cheek, smiling.
“Of course.” Anything he wanted was ‘alright’. Within reason, of course. Cynthia had her limits - any woman did. The zipped was pulled down carefully, the calluses on Frank’s fingers sometimes catching the silk of her dress as he sought to relieve her of it.
There were no straps. The zipped pulled down to the small of her back, Cynthia’s dress fell away. Frank was looking at her, the red silk pooled around her feet. Now she stood in the dingy living room in her stiletto heels, her thigh high black stockings and her black bustier. It clung to her waist, pushed up her breasts, placed her body on display.
“I don’t mean to offend, but you look just like those girls in the magazines.”
“I’m flattered.” Cynthia kicked away the dress. She hooked her fingers in Frank’s collar, tugging him forward, leading him playfully to an old armchair. She turned, urging him to sit. He did so, clearing his throat. She kissed his stubbled jaw, his weathered throat. She ran her hands along the soft cotton of his shirt, down his chest, his stomach. She knelt between his legs, fingers on the buttons of his faded blue jeans.
He reached for her, fingers tipping up her chin.
“You don’t have to do that,” he told her, looking at the floor. She shrugged. Still, she popped open the buttons of his jeans. She reached inside, hand finding the warm flesh beneath his underwear. He was hard. She ran her nails along his concealed length and she heard Frank gasp.
“What about this?” she asked, wetting her already shining lips. He only nodded, hands gripping the arms of his chair. Such a reaction so soon? Cynthia rose, fluidly, slipping into Frank’s lap.
“I…”
“Shh.” She placed a finger over his lips. She took his hands, placed them on her breasts. The weathered, work-worn feel of his skin on hers was oddly exciting. “Touch me,” she urged. “I haven’t been touched by a real man in so long.”
Maybe a bit of encouragement was all he needed. Frank grasped her breasts, hands sliding beneath them to lift them from the bustier that contained them. His fingertips over her nipples made Cynthia sigh with pleasure. She lowered her head to kiss him again, and this time his tongue met hers. She reached between them, into the front of his pants, stroking him while he kissed her hard and toyed with her breasts.
When he moved his hands, his mouth replaced them. He was gentle, tender almost. Reverent in a way. He kissed the smooth tops of her breasts, her nipples, the valley of her cleavage. And his hand slid between her thighs, his palm sliding along the line of her damp panties.
She leaned over, just enough to reach her coat. She tore open the condom with her teeth. It was awkward, unrolling it onto him positioned as they were, but she didn’t want to move. When she finally straddled him, guiding his cock up into her, Frank tipped his head back against the chair. Cynthia’s hands were on his shoulders and she rode him, breasts bouncing and hair pulling loose from the clip that held it. Frank didn’t moan or cry out, but he grunted and his knuckles on the arms of the chair went white. Cynthia moaned. She moaned and sighed and panted and bared her throat to the flickering light overhead.
He came quickly, and Cynthia rode him until his shudders had stilled. She leaned forward, resting her head under his chin. He was still and quiet for a time, but then he put his arms around her and stroked her hair, holding her there. There was no harm in this. She was his lover for an hour or two, and laying entwined after sex was part of the package.
“The chair was a good idea,” he finally said, and Cynthia tipped her head up questioningly. “My hip,” he explained. “It’s not all that good. Worked better in the chair, I think.”
Cynthia smiled. What a funny old man. But he was sweet, in his own way. She wouldn’t mind paying him another visit sometime. Or maybe even throwing him a freebie. But for the moment, she had other things to do. She pulled away, sliding out of his lap and adjusting her bustier, tucking her breasts back in, pulling her panties back into position.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” she said, picking up her dress. She slid it on easily, twisting to zip herself up. Frank remained in the chair. She picked up her coat. He was watching her.
“Have a good day, handsome,” she said, smiling, wondering why he didn’t say a word. “And if you ever want another round… here’s my card.”
She dropped it on his counter and let herself out.
Title: Angel in a Centerfold
Pairing: Henry/Eileen
Kink: Photography
Warnings: None really, this is pretty tame
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: Henry and Eileen have a very special sort of photoshoot.
Eileen sat on the bed, her long coltish legs bend feet hidden under her body. She wore nothing but her bra and panties - light pink with purple polka-dots, bra modest, panties wide and cut high on her legs, charming and almost girlish. And somehow more appealing than the sheerest negligee or most revealing combination. Because it was so very Eileen.
Henry stood behind the camera, fidgeting with buttons and knobs. Eileen was laughing, almost shy. She bent her head and reached to tuck her hair behind her ear and Henry found himself raising the camera and clicking the shutter. Eileen looked startled.
“Are we starting already?” she asked, blushing a little.
“No. I’m sorry, I just thought you looked….” He trailed off, feeling awkward. “You just looked perfect, like that.”
Eileen’s blush deepened. Henry cleared his throat and lifted the camera once more. Now he was ready. He nodded, and Eileen smiled, lifting her arms and clasping her hands behind her head and striking a pose like a pinup girl from the 50s. Henry swallowed hard, snapping away, entranced by the sight of her.
It was somehow easier to be safely behind the camera, watching her, than it was to touch her, to kiss her, to make love to her. Here, Henry had no fear of being awkward or clumsy or doing the wrong thing. This he knew.
Eileen turned, smiling, arching her back and thrusting out her breasts. Every so often she laughed, and her cheeks stained pink, and Henry wasn’t sure if she was uncomfortable or just thought this was silly. He suspected the latter. Because she moved without shame or embarrassment. She bent and arched and posed, pouting then breaking into a smile and covering her face with hands in a good natured fashion.
And Henry kept taking pictures.
She surprised him. She crossed her arms over her chest, gripping her shoulders, the image of coy and shy and flirtatious. And Henry took the photo and then Eileen was pulling down the straps of her bra, slowly, almost teasing. Her arms obscured her breasts as the straps dangled down her arm and Henry catalogued the movement in pictures, quick shot after quick shot as he felt his mouth beginning to dry.
There was a teasing look in Eileen’s eyes as she covered her breasts with one arm, pulling the other from her bra-strap like a dancing girl. She reached behind her and in the quiet of the apartment Henry could hear the clasp of her undergarment opening. He saw the material hang away, suddenly, held up only by Eileen’s own arm and one loose strap. Which she slid off, letting the bra fall away until her bare torso was obscured only by her arms.
Henry had to pause, frozen in time as he looked at her through the lens of the camera. She was perfect. He couldn’t think of any other word to describe her as she knelt there, bra in a heap on the comforter, glimpses of her smooth breasts visible through the narrow gaps between her arms.
“Is this…okay?” she asked, and Henry watched as her face fell suddenly.
“What? Oh! Yeah, of course. I just… got distracted.” And now he blushed and Eileen lowered her eyes and she was smiling. And she lowered one arm, only wrist and hand covering her nipples. Henry remembered he had a camera in his hands and he continued to photograph her, trying to detach himself, trying to ignore the surge of blood that rushed downwards. And when Eileen let her hand fall away completely Henry sucked in his breath. He’d seen her breasts before - held them, caressed them, kissed them - but there was something different about seeing her this way.
It was almost dirty. Her poses were innocent for a few frames, tame pinup homages that suited her perfectly. And then she ran her hands over her breasts, and her tame movements became sensual. Her arched back was no longer aesthetic, but inviting. And her eyes told Henry she knew it.
When she lay on her back, one hand on her breast and the other between her legs, over the cotton of her panties, Henry feared he’d drop the camera. Was it okay to still take pictures? Eileen wouldn’t do that if she didn’t want him to, would she? She wouldn’t lay there on his bed, mouth open, fingers pinching her nipple, hand twisting between her legs if she didn’t expect Henry to take a picture….
But he couldn’t focus any longer. He cleared his throat and lowered his camera, arousal straining in his pants. Her legs were spread and her back lifted off the bed and he couldn’t think of taking pictures now. Not when his mind was far too occupied with the idea of burying his head between her legs, tasting her through the cotton of her polka-dot panties…
“I think…we have enough,” he managed, running a hand through his shaggy hair. Eileen lifted her head and wet her lips, hazel eyes bright.
“Then why don’t you put down the camera and join me?”
Title: Sacrifice of Flesh
Pairing: Pyramid Head/Maria
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Um, a lot? Non-con, gore, violence, guro, snuff, tentacle-rape. It's Pyramid Head.
Summary: Maria existed for punishment and punishment alone - her own, as well as James'.
Pale, blood spattered skin. High round breasts, shuddering. Muscles jumping, twitching. Spread legs, laced with gashes. Red stained lips, parted. Gasping. Panting. Screaming. Leather gloved hands gripping twisted hips, restraining. Holding down. Bruising.
Where was James? James, James, James. Why didn’t he save her? Maria’s naked body writhed on the dirty table, splayed out between archaic surgical instruments, beneath hanging corpses. James would never save her, could never save her. She had been created to die again and again, to live in torment and anguish.
And the monster held her down. Cut her, tore into her, sliced her perfect white skin. Stomach gashed, viscera glistening, blood trickling from her mouth. The monster took her, forcing itself into her body, stretching the slick pink skin of her cunt. Slick with sweat and blood her body bucked as the creature drove into her again and again, soundless, faceless mask looming above her like some blunt edged weapon of old.
The knife entered her body. Her skin split beneath it and Maria screamed, jumping as though shot, the Great Knife pinning her leg to the table. It cut through her thigh, red washes of liquid heat spilling over her. Splattering her thighs and between her legs, wet against her slit.
The monster withdrew. Maria fell to the table, shuddering, breasts shaking. The knife pulled out of her flesh, roughly. The pain so intense it was beautiful. Roughly, the monster flipped her over. Maria lay spread on the dirty table, and the knife through her back was no surprise. Like a butterfly in a collection she lay nailed to the table. Slick, ropelike flesh gripped her wrists, pulling her up. Confused, frightened, she looked over her shoulder, upper body half lifted from the table, breasts glistening with blood and sweat in the murky red light.
From beneath the thing’s helmet spilled forth a mass of writhing tentacles, brackish brown and thick. They wrapped around her. Her thighs - still bleeding - her arms, her breasts. They squeezed and threatened to crush her fragile bones. The thing’s monstrous cock nudged at her once more, between her legs, before spitting her once more. With every movement the knife cut into her more, the wound opening. Throat raw from screaming, Maria let her head fall forward. Tentacles around her neck, forcing it back up. Forcing her lips to part. Sliding into her mouth and making her gag.
She was lifted from the table, lifted with the Great Knife still through her, leaving a gaping hole between her breasts. A tentacle slithered inside, fucking the open wound as her breasts were squeezed and gripped, tips of slick inhuman flesh brushing over her nipples.
She was held aloft for her unholy rape, legs ripped open to the point where her hips creaked, the monster’s cock driving up into her body, tentacles in her mouth, through her chest, holding her arms out in parody of a martyr nailed to a cross, gripping her waist and slipping into the tear in her once smooth stomach, harder and faster until Maria was sure she would die.
The monster came, roaring and thrusting into her one final time. Her body dropped and she choked, gagging, leaking blood and semen onto the stained floor. A kick to her midsection and she fell, the light blinking out of her eyes at last.
Only to return a moment later, the wounds covering her body closing, to repeat the process over again.
Title: On The Job
Post an Entry
Pairing: Frank Sunderland/Cynthia
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Prostitution?
Summary: The escort gig wasn't a bad one, and some clients could be...surprising.
It was a small, musty, worn apartment. Nothing special, nothing interesting. Old furniture, faded curtains, dusty tributes scattered here and there in testament to some female touch that had long since been absent.
Cynthia slipped off her coat, folding it over one arm. She stood in the doorway, expectantly.
“Is everything all right?” Why wouldn’t it be? She knew she looked good. Tight red dress, fuck-me pumps, thigh high stockings. Sexy, but the classy end of sex appeal. Call girl rather than street walker. Sensual, not slut. It was a fine line.
“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Come in, Miss….?”
“You can call me Cynthia, handsome.” She moved into the apartment on long, lean legs. Her heels clicked on the hard wood floor.
“Cynthia. I want you to know I don’t normally do this. But I’ve been alone a long time, and a man…”
“Please.” She turned, red lips smiling. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Sometimes a gentleman needs a little company, that’s all. I’m happy to be your company for this evening, Frank. May I call you Frank?”
“I think that’d only be right. Can I get you something to drink? I think I’ve got some beer in the fridge…”
“Aren’t you sweet?” Old, awkward, but sweet she supposed. He wouldn’t look her in the eye, and he hadn’t even so much as made a move to take her coat. No, it was very clear he didn’t do this often. He certainly didn’t look as though he had the money to spend on expensive women.
Common class hookers, maybe. But not an agency girl. It was a decent gig, really. Discretion, good pay, a level of security. And it let her keep her own hours and live the lifestyle she enjoyed. So she sometimes had clients that were below her standards, so what? There was no harm in giving them a thrill.
Cynthia tossed her coat over a chair.
“Why don’t we skip the beer?” she purred, moving towards Frank. She supposed he wasn’t terribly bad looking. He wasn’t fat, he wasn’t bald, he didn’t reek of death and mildew.
“If you say so. Should we…where should we do this?” Stumbling over words, wringing his hands. Cynthia reached up, hands sliding along Frank’s shoulders. Worn soft cotton wrinkled under her red, manicured nails.
“Wherever you’d like.” He didn’t touch her, even then. Cynthia stepped closer, fingers twining behind his neck. It was oddly endearing when they were shy. She teased the small hairs at the back of his neck, parted her lips, every inch of her body screaming invitation.
And still Frank did nothing but awkwardly place his hands on her hips. Perhaps he was simply out of practice. That was all right. She could just give him a little reminder.
Cynthia tilted her head up, brushing her lips against Franks. His lips were chapped, dry. He returned the kiss almost hesitantly, moving his mouth against hers. She molded her body into his, deepening the kiss. Her tongue slid between his lips, teasing and encouraging, trying to draw him into her seduction.
Frank’s hands on her hips tightened. Through the thin silk of her dress she could feel they were calloused.
They stood in the living room of Frank’s dingy, worn apartment, kissing and holding onto one another until finally, after what seemed like an eternity of strangely restrained kissing, Frank’s roughened fingers pulled carefully at the zipped of Cynthia’s dress.
“Is this alright, then?” he asked, pulling away from her hungry lips. Such a gentleman. Cynthia resisted the urge to laugh. Instead she stroked his cheek, smiling.
“Of course.” Anything he wanted was ‘alright’. Within reason, of course. Cynthia had her limits - any woman did. The zipped was pulled down carefully, the calluses on Frank’s fingers sometimes catching the silk of her dress as he sought to relieve her of it.
There were no straps. The zipped pulled down to the small of her back, Cynthia’s dress fell away. Frank was looking at her, the red silk pooled around her feet. Now she stood in the dingy living room in her stiletto heels, her thigh high black stockings and her black bustier. It clung to her waist, pushed up her breasts, placed her body on display.
“I don’t mean to offend, but you look just like those girls in the magazines.”
“I’m flattered.” Cynthia kicked away the dress. She hooked her fingers in Frank’s collar, tugging him forward, leading him playfully to an old armchair. She turned, urging him to sit. He did so, clearing his throat. She kissed his stubbled jaw, his weathered throat. She ran her hands along the soft cotton of his shirt, down his chest, his stomach. She knelt between his legs, fingers on the buttons of his faded blue jeans.
He reached for her, fingers tipping up her chin.
“You don’t have to do that,” he told her, looking at the floor. She shrugged. Still, she popped open the buttons of his jeans. She reached inside, hand finding the warm flesh beneath his underwear. He was hard. She ran her nails along his concealed length and she heard Frank gasp.
“What about this?” she asked, wetting her already shining lips. He only nodded, hands gripping the arms of his chair. Such a reaction so soon? Cynthia rose, fluidly, slipping into Frank’s lap.
“I…”
“Shh.” She placed a finger over his lips. She took his hands, placed them on her breasts. The weathered, work-worn feel of his skin on hers was oddly exciting. “Touch me,” she urged. “I haven’t been touched by a real man in so long.”
Maybe a bit of encouragement was all he needed. Frank grasped her breasts, hands sliding beneath them to lift them from the bustier that contained them. His fingertips over her nipples made Cynthia sigh with pleasure. She lowered her head to kiss him again, and this time his tongue met hers. She reached between them, into the front of his pants, stroking him while he kissed her hard and toyed with her breasts.
When he moved his hands, his mouth replaced them. He was gentle, tender almost. Reverent in a way. He kissed the smooth tops of her breasts, her nipples, the valley of her cleavage. And his hand slid between her thighs, his palm sliding along the line of her damp panties.
She leaned over, just enough to reach her coat. She tore open the condom with her teeth. It was awkward, unrolling it onto him positioned as they were, but she didn’t want to move. When she finally straddled him, guiding his cock up into her, Frank tipped his head back against the chair. Cynthia’s hands were on his shoulders and she rode him, breasts bouncing and hair pulling loose from the clip that held it. Frank didn’t moan or cry out, but he grunted and his knuckles on the arms of the chair went white. Cynthia moaned. She moaned and sighed and panted and bared her throat to the flickering light overhead.
He came quickly, and Cynthia rode him until his shudders had stilled. She leaned forward, resting her head under his chin. He was still and quiet for a time, but then he put his arms around her and stroked her hair, holding her there. There was no harm in this. She was his lover for an hour or two, and laying entwined after sex was part of the package.
“The chair was a good idea,” he finally said, and Cynthia tipped her head up questioningly. “My hip,” he explained. “It’s not all that good. Worked better in the chair, I think.”
Cynthia smiled. What a funny old man. But he was sweet, in his own way. She wouldn’t mind paying him another visit sometime. Or maybe even throwing him a freebie. But for the moment, she had other things to do. She pulled away, sliding out of his lap and adjusting her bustier, tucking her breasts back in, pulling her panties back into position.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” she said, picking up her dress. She slid it on easily, twisting to zip herself up. Frank remained in the chair. She picked up her coat. He was watching her.
“Have a good day, handsome,” she said, smiling, wondering why he didn’t say a word. “And if you ever want another round… here’s my card.”
She dropped it on his counter and let herself out.
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And I really liked the Henry/Eileen one. XD It was... cute, in its own way.
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:D
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I requested both of those, which you probably guessed... or at least I'll bet you guessed as far the the second one. So you already know how much I love them, becuse I commented over there!
I didn't realize you wrote that great Pyramid Head/Maria though. That was awesome, which I believe I already said over there also. Nothing wrong with a little guro in Silent Hill and you did it so effectively.
Sorry for all the squee. It's just that I died when someone answered the Frank/Cynthia one and yours were all great.
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I was pretty sure you'd requested Frank/Cynthia, but I wasn't sure about the Henry/Eileen. I'm so glad you enjoyed them, though! I really enjoyed writing the Frank/Cynthia, because I love working with kind of off the wall pairings like that. :D
Thank you! I sometimes get bunnied for really twisted stuff, and I figure Silent Hill is the best place to release them!
Ack, never apologize for squee! I live off of squee! :D
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