Title:  Redux

Author:  Harper

Email: Xfjnky2@yahoo.com

Rating:  NC-17

Fandom:  Dawson’s Creek

Pairing:  Joey/Audrey

Archiving:  It’ll be at www.realmoftheshadow.com/harper.htm.  Should anyone else be interested in my little PWP (and forgive my skepticism on that point), just drop me a line and ask.

Disclaimers:  I don’t own these characters.  Someone who is in some way affiliated with the WB probably does.  I mean no infringement and will certainly make no profit from this.

A/N:  This is a short little response to the 10/09/02 episode.  Professor What’s His Name says Joey can’t write stream of consciousness.  This is my take on just how she’ll prove him wrong (entirely conceivable that you may find this to be a monstrosity).  It’s pretty much a PWP, though the episode dictated that more than I did.  It’s un-beta’d, so please forgive any errors.  If you’d like to send feedback, I’d love to hear what you have to say. I’ll be at Xfjnky2@yahoo.com.

You say I can’t write sex.  Say if that my e-mail was an attempt at stream of consciousness then I’m nothing more than a picnicker on the shore.  Say I’m afraid of sex and of my own sexuality, that I can’t even confront it in the light of day.

You’re right.  Of course, that doesn’t make you any less of a sanctimonious prick.

Secret time.  There’s something you don’t know.

I can write sex.  I can write sex in verse that dilates pupils and dampens panties.  Sex captured in words that stir far more than the soul.

The only problem is that I can’t write sex like that about Dawson.  When I write sex, real sex so visceral that you, the reader, can’t help but lick your lips and wish you could taste me, its not his hands on my body, not his teeth closing down tightly on the hardened tip of my nipple.

There aren’t any blunt, broad fingers.  No, the digits tracing over my skin are tapered, with sharpened, polished nails.  Nails that leave red trails down my back, over the flesh of my belly, nails that evoke a blissful, euphoric state somewhere between pleasure and pain when they scrape deep inside me.  Nails that leave four perfect crescents in an imperfect angle along the side of my neck.  Nails that hold me just where their owner wants me.

I only felt their sting once.  I shouldn’t be consumed by them, I don’t think.  Shouldn’t see strawberry gloss covered pouting lips and shiny, silky blonde hair and the dusty, full circle of tightened nipples.  Champagne kisses and the careless laughter of the carelessly drunk.  Drunk because Audrey’s like that, because she can bring home two bottles of champagne and proclaim it an impromptu celebration.  Drunk because I laughed and said yes and took a glass, giggling at her as she popped the cork and spilled a silvery sliver of carbonated confection on the dull gray multi-purpose dorm room carpet at her feet.  Drunk on the shared hysteria of frenzied girl-intensity, that maddening, dizzying sheer joy of talking about everything and nothing, of trying on outfits and divulging fuzzy pink secrets wrapped in the secretive veil of heated whispers.

I don’t know how it happened because you never can, nor do you want to, remember the illogical progression of drunken actions.  There was a moment, a fleeting moment where the air was thick and heavy and her eyes were too close and sparkling and I could feel the scorching heat of her breath pant harshly against my lips, her lungs struggling to regain balance after a particularly violent bout of laughter.  Then the moment was over and the space was gone, replaced with the too close intimacy of nothing.  Her lips on my lips, softer than any lips I’d ever kissed before.  Soft skin under my fingers, soft tongue stroking my own, soft caresses burning through the thin cotton fabric of my shirt.

And then she pulled back, laughing maniacally, mad gleam in her eyes as a quick movement pulled her shirt free from her torso and flung it across the room.  There was nothing I could do but lay there and look at her, breasts full and heavy, resting on amply curved bottoms with an almost impertinent upturn that made me want to cup them.  So I did, took another woman’s breasts in my hands for the first time, thumbs brushing against the diamond hard tips of aroused nipples, eyes watching in rapt fascination as the pink tip of her delectable tongue traced the outline of an aristocratic upper lip.

I didn’t think, didn’t take the time to ponder the ramifications of my actions.  Swept away in the heat of the moment, in the seductive promise of sultry, heavily-lidded blue eyes and the searing heat of her pressed against my belly, I took what I wanted.  Surged forward, lips capturing a hard peak, teeth testing the resilient spring of skin that tasted faintly of lavender and lemons.  Bit down harder when surprisingly strong fingers tightened in my hair, a low, languishing moan of approval escaping her throat to hang heavily in the air above me, announcing approval.

When I finally moved away, I left the already dark blue brush of a bruise.  Dark outline in the razor sharp silhouette of my teeth, irritated red painting the flesh between.  Me at my most basic, nothing but instinct and desire and an absence of rationality.  Reduced to the primordial depths of my being by the sheer absolute joy of possessing that nonexistent tether of control.

She said I didn’t hurt her and then she showed me just how good it could feel.  My previous lovers had been gentle, my body a priceless and ultimately easily breakable treasure in their hands.  With her, though, my blood sang.  It raced through my veins, obscuring sight and sound until I was nothing but the black, empty vacuum of myself and the rising, rushing tide of endorphins thundering its way to the slippery wet folds between my thighs.  Until I was a mass of pain tinged with pleasure, pleasure heightened by pain.  Audrey, who never did anything in half-measures, refused to let me escape it.  Refused to slow down for self-imposed socially correct barriers.

And when she touched me there, when her agile, magical fingers parted the lips of my sex and brushed against my clit, when they slid even further down until they were buried deep inside me, I screamed.  Screamed in a way I never had before, in a way I haven’t since.  Screamed with the primal joy of being there in that moment, with my arms above my head, fingers blindly searching for something, anything, to anchor me.  Screamed in unabashed, unembarrassed pleasure.

She talked to me as she fucked me.  Not the sweet, comforting words of lovers past.  She spoke in harsh tones, her words rough and ragged, her voice a deep, possessive rasp.  Some part of me hated her for it, hated the way she could make my body respond, hated the obvious joy she took in being able to bend me to her will.  How she used her gutter rough words to make me even wetter.  Literally putty in her hands.  Feral, overwhelming sensuality rolled off of her in waves.  I couldn’t resist, couldn’t protest.  Sharp nails scraped lines of fire down my belly and I begged for more.  The velvet rasp of a tongue tortured me and I bit down so fiercely on the soft flesh of my palm that I tasted blood.  She was everywhere, surrounding me in a cocoon of Audrey and sex.  Sex and Audrey.

When she made me cum, fingers filling me with more fullness than I could have imagined should I have taken the time to imagine before, I told her I loved her.  I could understand, with the part of my brain that was still functional, how people could toss those three seemingly all important words around with ease.  In that moment, I did love her.  Loved her and was possessed by her.  Marked by her.

After a moment, she lay back, legs spread wantonly and come-hither smile etched across her sharp features.  I obeyed, my untrained fingers and tongue struggling to imitate her.  Each small moan, each nearly imperceptible hitch of ragged breath became my secret Morse code.  There was no hesitation, no reticence.  Whatever I had to do, needed to do, wanted to do… I did it.  Enthusiastically.  With great joy and abandon.  With as many fucking adjectives and verbs as apply.

I made her scream too.  Scream and rake those deadly nails over the angular curve of my shoulders.  Sometimes, if the light is just right, you can still see the scars.  At least, I hope you can.

I could tell you more.  I could tell you how she tasted when I wrapped her legs around my shoulders and drew my tongue along the length of her sex with agonizing slowness.  So slowly that she begged me, hands tugging fiercely and impatiently at my hair.  I could tell you how she felt, so hot and tight and wet and soft as silk against my skin.

I could tell you a lot of things.

But, my confessions are limited to the scant discoveries of one night.  She was gone the next morning, off on a cross-country trip with her boyfriend.  My ex-boyfriend.  One more thing we shared, I suppose.  Left me with lipstick smeared pillows and the smell of her burned into my sheets.

We don’t talk about it and I don’t know why.  But, that’s really not any of your business.

I hope you enjoy this one more than the last, Professor.  If you don’t mind, keep it to yourself.  No need for the class to be privy to this one.  Just you and me this time.

And don’t ever again tell me what I can’t do.  Proving you wrong is so tiresome.