Toccata And Fugue In D Minor

The apartment is in one of the better parts of the city, overlooking a park, but not Central Park. It has obviously been decorated by a woman of means and good taste. Small night lights near the floor provide the only illumination, as the glow of the metropolis below is shut out by heavy curtains. Shadows from their tiny beams cast on the perfectly pink walls describe the formal curlicues of the ornate furniture throughout her well-appointed home. The only sound is a stereo, tuned to a classical radio station and piped into every room.

One piece fades into memory, leaving a stark silence. In a moment, a pipe organ, cranked to a startling shrillness, chirrups out the first trill of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. As if waiting for the cue, an all-metal lighter scratches, then flames up, igniting a European cigarette and eerily illuminating a man's face: young, cruel, with sharp green eyes.

He takes a long, throaty drag on his smoke, watching the woman sleep as he stands in the doorway of her bedroom. With black leathered fingers, he sets the cylinder down in a large crystal ashtray that he seems to know will be under his hand on the bureau, leaving it to smoulder.

The sleeper does not stir, her eyes blinded by a black velvet sleep mask clutched around her straw-blonde hair with an elastic band. Perhaps her sculpted nose is used to this brand of tobacco, for the scent does not disturb her, either. She lies uncovered on her back, her silk nightgown outlining her slender body as it rests on the satin sheets.

The pipe organ continues its contrasting trickles and booms as a black leather jacket is deposited in a Queen Anne armchair, followed by a pair of gloves, one after the other. The man kicks his boots off quietly, placing them carefully on the floor before crawling onto the huge, queen-size bed. Denim slides roughly against silk as he parts her legs with one knee in the same instant that he muzzles her with his left wrist. With the other hand, he rips the mask from her lovely face, grinning as she groans against his arm. Her ice blue eyes show less fear than anger once she can distinguish his face in the darkness.

"Don't scream, Marita. I could easily kill you rather than fuck you. No one will hear you anyway. Just lie still and let me do this, and I promise I won't hurt you very much." He pulls his arm from her mouth experimentally, apparently surprised that she doesn't try to bite him. She must realize that he speaks the truth, and that he would need no weapon to end her life if he really wanted to do so. Her eyes close as if to shut out the image of his face, but she does not struggle as he reaches for the hem of her gown and bunches it at her waist.

He rests on his elbow, his weight holding her legs down against the mattress, as his other hand reaches inside her wispy panties. Strong fingers weave through her bristling hair and smooth over her clit, coaxing an unwilling gasp from her throat. They continue their journey back, coming to rest at her opening, where they dip in forcefully, seeking moisture. Finding little, he tears the delicate garment away before raising himself up to unfasten his belt buckle and the fly of his jeans with one hand.

The intricate patterns of Bach's Fugue wind through the air as he drags himself up her body, scooting his pants down in the process. He shoves his left arm beneath her shoulders, clutching at her carelessly and making her eyes open, startled. As she stares, furious, he makes an elaborate show of licking the fingers of his right hand, then thrusting them once again between her legs, coating the edges of her sex with his saliva.

Repositioning himself slightly, he places his erect penis just at her juncture, then with a small adjustment, replaces his fingers inside her with its tip. Without a trace of gentleness, he plunges his cock into her depths and pulls it halfway out once, then once more. His hips take up the age-old rhythm then, gaining momentum as he penetrates her over and over again. He holds her left hand down with his right, ignoring the perfectly-manicured nails that score his flesh in silent protest. A vicious smile plays over his face as he watches her eyes, which trickle reluctant tears with every brutal stroke.

The music reaches its climax concurrent with his own, his mouth contorted in a cold grimace as he ejaculates fiercely within her womb. He pulls out of her, tucking his spent organ back into his pants and kissing her forcibly before he gets to his feet. Stepping into his boots and collecting his jacket and gloves, he digs a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and slides it under the ashtray, from which he retrieves his still-burning cigarette for a final puff before stubbing out the butt.

"Alex," she addresses him, barely concealing the crack in her voice, "is that how much you give Mulder when you fuck him?"

He hesitates for only a heartbeat, regrouping quickly to cover his distraction at her retort. "No," he parries. "He pays me."

The last strains of the piece fade away while he leaves as efficiently and mysteriously as he arrived.