It was a city, much like any other city.

You could stand upon any high spot which rose from the shifting sea of industrial grey and be assured of almost exactly the same view ; brick upon brick, road upon road, body upon body, vehicle against vehicle, light amongst darkness. Dust, decay and desolation wrapped in social cohesion.

Everywhere insect like motion appeared to run at random ; cars, buses, lorries, trucks, bikes, prams, children, mothers, dogs, uniforms ...all swimming in a sea of greyness.

It would be difficult to focus on a single and significant event from this point of perspective, and yet this is an inevitable outcome, this desire to target some movement in a scenario of frenzied stagnation ; objects or people, there is very little difference.

In every city there are a million tales to be told, except that few of them are very different or interesting.

Animation or non animation.

Bright or dark.

Chaotic or ordered...there is very little difference.

The overview of any city is always the same irrespective of some particular geographic landmark, but there is always some form of focus. Some point which catches the eye, not because of any unique quality of colourful movement within a land of uniformity, but simply human whim, or even pure chance.

It is within this context that this story takes place, unfolding within an abundance of monotony and similarity where to be different is to be outcast, and to be alive is terminal. It is here we discover the privacy of L. and the discovery re creation of her own self.

Locked in oblong rooms staring out to transparent pictures of urban continuity, each day indifferent from another, incapable of leaving any lasting or informative impression, life grinds away with its insidious decay. Yet, behind the doors within walls, life sometimes flourishes in the most unlikely of environments.

From the observation point the street is no different to any other, vehicles flow in waves of order, trickling past lights while the armies of tribal ants become somewhat sharper and divisible now, while still being at one with the greyness.

Clouds hung in the air on the first day, occasionally breaking into light showers spiting into the corporate face of the city. Figures darted and rushed to avoid the contaminated dampness, splashing past puddles, huddling in doorways while buses and lorries screamed along the palatial roadways throwing tinged spittle from their wheels at the shifting pedestrians.

There was a continuous noise from this street, endlessly echoing from building front to building front, storey after storey ; from grey to dark to black. Voices feet vehicles loading radios business...all as one unforgiving, cruel, eternal scream.

Life carried on past the doorway with its metallic black gate, was unaware of the nineteen stairs, oblivious to the tall, black door, and made no attempt to find out about the creature within.

The air was still here, noise and chaos could only drift in as echoes and eddies of the tidal effect from the street. It was almost as though the architectural design was conceived with the very intent of reducing the influence of the unrelenting grey sea outside, almost.

There were no other stairs, only this landing and a bricked off stairwell where once, in another time, people may have continued up another three or four flights of stone. But now...now there was the door, the flat inside and its occupant. Walls and door were unnaturally clean but slowly became dirtier as the womb opened and the cocoon unravelled to be exposed to the filth and irritation which was the outside. It was a cunning form of disguise.

There were few unwanted trespassers here, for from the outside it was the same as all the other doorways...but here there was something which hung in the air, something hung heavily like an almost tangible impression of the past.

From the heights of observation, down to the depths and then to here, something stands waiting at the door...casually.

It can wait, there is time.

On the inside is a creature, aware only to a very limited extent about itself. Just as outside the sky salivates upon the unfortunates, within, behind the black door, a body is immersed in water, and from this body weeps a moisture, effusive and constantly seeping out. The constant action and reaction, down from above, within, to rise and break again ; REPETITION.

It waits, time is not the important factor here.

Clumps of weeds flick and nod their heads as the roots remain firm in the pale pink soil. The tide's pull reached inside and out as clouds of mist hovered across the body of pink land, waiting by the patches of weed.

On the outside, it lights a white envelope of tobacco and draws upon its sheath, smoke hanging against its body just as condensation hung within and without the body inside the residential, urban prison.

There was plenty of time.

She rose from the water's influence and stood unconsciously proud, naked within an environment of tile and mirror, slippery with condensation, slippery like the pearls of water drawn by gravity from her pinkness underneath the zones of steam clinging to her body.

Body stared blindly at body, looking back against the front in a complex of muted mirrors.

Still it waited.

It was almost time.

It was time.

The room was small, but pleasantly so. Dominating the chamber was a large bed...wide and encompassing, too wide to be simply designed for the adequate comfort of only one person. The pale door opened directly onto the end of the bed, exposing the central area of the bedroom into the rest of the flat.

Within the room, to the right of the door, windows ran high along the length of the wall while the lower half was uniformly composed of bright mirrors about six feet high. Small statues and figurines which ran the length of the solitary window ledging cast strange shadows within the room, silhouetted by the intensity of the stark grey light which flooded into the blue, filtered only by the flimsy white, gauzed curtain.

The opposite wall glowed back with a smoked brown glow, hiding the enormous customised wardrobes within, darkly mirroring the room and then itself within the opposite reflection.

Two tubular steel chairs flanked the bedroom doorway, sitting squat on polished floorboards and before the metallic wall units which ran from wooded floor to ceiling. Matching bedside tables flanked the steel framed bed, completing the evocation of pensive solitude within the pale blue room. Its atmosphere was of hanging scent and ancient denial.

Flimsy clothes gasped as a thin breeze sighed into the room, crushing garment against metal, exposed to the room from the open wall unit.

A variety of chronometers began to slither simultaneously while strands of events began to flow together in unification, merging in a mysterious harmony. Soon the time would be right, the precise, finite moment of creation.

It had begun.

She awoke, mouth and lips dry, strands of hair tangled across her face. The anaemic quilt lay toppled from the left of the bed as legs and arms slowly stirred into activated life as they recovered from their akimbo position. The room resonated with an uncanny freshness.

The pure white of her underpants blended into a greyer expanse of

tainted white amalgamation, weaving gossamer-like fibre and clinging,

glistening moisture where leg met leg. There was a smooth, shiny glow sparkling down and around the inside of each of her thighs, hanging with sticky web like strands as they parted...stretching further below, leaving a wet trace beneath her frame, spreading away like a mute witness to an unspoken crime.

She moaned.

The room remained silent.

Again she moaned, stretching, sighing and already pulling at the old gaudy red top which was her most inseparable and reliable bed mate.

Outside, the world was moving unaffected while within the pale blue prison the stain marked a calling card indicating the beginning of some kind of evocation.

Nails brightly painted and chipped removed the clinging, red laced, vest top abrasively against her belly, breasts and shoulders. Her bosom quivered and bobbed as it settled to reveal the subtle evidence of her body's guilty affirmation. Engorged nipples stood stiff and isolated, forced to attention by the harshly condensed areola, as her terse arms rubbed rhythmically, wiping the red vest against her thighs to remove the contaminating lubricants. Soon the red garment was soiled by the exuding dampness which had been earlier ejected from between her legs.

She sighed unwillingly, in disgust.

Once again she turned to the task of cleaning the shining, greasy lubrication which marked her hair, her pants, her legs, her bottom and stained the bedclothes beneath, where she slept.

Mounting the bed again, she knelt astride the damp patch where she had lain, rubbing at the ice blue sheet with only a minimal effect. In disgust she arose, her back to the light, staring into the opposite, dark mirror...staring fixedly at where the pure whiteness of her pants had become a translucent sheen of thick, sticky ooze which surreptitiously revealed her most intimate contours. Tangled strands of unkempt pubic hair peeked in clinging twists from above and to the sides of her flimsy knickers. It was also where a further, active oozing was currently emanating from.

With disgust and irritation she pulled them from her torso in a swift movement that was complete before she had returned to an upright position. Holding the damp underwear in her hand she breathed her own scent as it hovered and blended with the perfumed fragrance of her bedroom, moved by the light breeze coming through the opened ventilator above. The rich, vaginal perfume which had exuded from within herself carried a scent that was somehow alien, not quite her own but still repulsively appealing. It amazed her that a garment so flimsy could retain such an incredible amount of body moistures within the confines of its fibres. The small, bright fingers squeezed, experimentally at the clump of stained white clothing in her grip. A string of opaque drips escaped in hanging strips to fall to her knee, shin, foot and finally drip noisily onto the shiny wooden floor.

An exasperated sigh burst from her lips as she felt another wave of dampness ripple through her entire body. She rubbed the oozing sheen from her body once again with the red top as she stared down at the big stain on the bed, almost placed on the exact spot where the stains of the two previous mornings were located. Three sets of sheets tainted by three dreamless, sexual manifestations which she could not consciously explain. Today, in addition, her breasts felt as though they were being pinched by large, unseen, crushing fingers.

There was a noise.

She stopped breathing, inexplicably alarmed and her heart suddenly racing.

Again. There was the same noise, like a slow motion sigh.

For a moment she started towards the opened bedroom door, moving slowly in her defenceless naked state. Now she could hear it...dripping like a slow, thick jelly. The sound echoed from outside her bedroom door, from within the bathroom which buffered her sleepingroom from the living room beyond. She moved into the bathroom, feeling the cool, tiled floor chill the soles of her feet as she closed the door behind her and leaned back against it. Before her the high, stained glass window transformed the light into an array of softly pleasing colours which painted her nudity and multi toned the coolness of the mirror and tiled room. Her face flashed in a reflection of momentary discomfort which passed as the deep pain in her breasts lifted to become an almost pleasant tingle, but without release from the sensation of being held with a rigid tightness. Her sweating palms flicked over her chest and grasped the fleshy tissue of her own breasts in an attempt to alleviate herself from the unseen confinement. She knew it wasn't her self massage which had dissipated the sensation, the engrossed redness was obviously still there, instead she realised that the pain had moved.

Somewhere on the stairhead there was a vague echo of movement which mutely resonated through her flat. It was a momentary distraction from the pain which almost instantly resurfaced. There was a sudden swelling deep within her as if her bladder had just expanded twofold. A low grunt escaped from between her perfectly set white teeth as her pink lips rolled back across her face in tense discomfort. Automatically her knees pressed together and she bent forward as if her spine had been removed. With thighs locked together she managed to fall hard on the cold black toilet, kissing her knees and breathing the heady odour of her own soft scent as is slipped out from within.

Her breathing was strained and bubbles of sweat broke from under her arms, forehead and anywhere her skin was in contact with itself. A long sawtooth moan filled the shiny black room as she slowly sat back on the seat, clutching her belly as if to suppress her geometrically expanding bladder from bursting forth. The damp hands parted the almost numbed legs as she inspected herself, eyes ignoring the tense, pointed breasts but noting the soft folds of her stomach did not reveal the incredible pressure she felt within her internal physiognomy. Usually her pubis was obscured by the thick, abundant shag of dark hair between her legs, but now the matted clumps of pubic hair revealed the swelling flesh below.

It was then she realised that the sweating, laboured breathing and light headedness were symptomatic of shock. She rested her elbows and forearms on her parted thighs and leaned forward again. Little drips of sweat ran coldly over her flesh from a thousand minute secretions and she once again became aware of the incredible internal pressure. With a slow intake of breath she tried to relax her bladder so as to gently allow the pressure a natural exit. Absolutely nothing happened, except that another terrible moan escaped from within...and then her body began to shake, very gently and very softly.

There was worry painting her face as she slipped her right hand between her legs, tentatively pressing with open palm against her entire vulva. Suddenly she had a handful of warm ooze that made her jump and pull her hand away from herself in fright. Her wide eyes gazed at the slithering, jelly like, secretion dripping from her palm, between her fingers. The whole of her hand was soaked with her sizzling and thick vaginal secretion, the hot drops and long strings of fluid slithered from her grip to splash over her thighs, clinging to her legs like tears, and down to the floor. Her own scent was still alien and, paradoxically, a purer distillation of her own erotic perfumes.

When her breathing was more normalised she sat back on the black seat and parted her tights widely, vulgarly like an open book. Her fingers sifted through the untidy pubic mane, feeling the heat of her swollen vulva as she ignored the disgust her intellect inflicted upon her as she mentally acknowledged the personal humiliation her body was forcing her to endure.

The small, thin, pink lips which were usually discretely ensconced

within the neat, petite slash were now protruding in thick purple puffs of skin which dripped fluid from the expanded genitals. She was so wet that the thick juices dripped out of her constantly like a leaking tap.

The wild mane of dark hair which usually secreted the delicate vaginal lips was now a marshland of sopping pubic wisps cleaved into subtle semispheres of partition by the savage, purple lipped cleavage.

The appalling pressure remained and she once again pressed her, still wet, hand between her thighs. Frictionless her fingers slid over and smoothed the puffy labia, massaging flesh between every finger of her right hand, coasting on the abundant lubrication as they pressed experimentally against her sex.

She moaned loudly this time, totally against her will and to her own surprise. The entire vulva and especially the labia seemed to expand and swell beneath her very touch. The fingers of her right hand started to move with a will of their own, she was like a ghost in her own body, helpless but to watch the machinations of her probing hand between her thighs. Without choice her hand wiped and probed her bloated sex, now gaping open hungrily open like a fleshy scar. Pushing down and then up she found the clitoral hood straining from the protrusion beneath. A fast mask of horror painted her features as she, with more than a little difficulty, managed to pull the stretched hood of tissue back to reveal the once petite clitoral tongue as a thick and tall nipple like bubble of sensory tissue some four times larger than any previous level of physical stimulation and growth. The sight of the aggravated flesh which seemed to expand as she watched disgusted, appalled and frightened her, demanding that she automatically shut her legs together to remove the offence from her field of view as if to place it out of sight and out of mind. As she did so there came a wave of spasm washing over and contaminating her lower half. The white teeth ground together as she realised that this spasm was verging desperately close to the sick wave of climactic orgasm that she had so often sought willingly in the past. She froze, hand dripping with a sickly perfumed odour that was duplicated and pheremonely intensified from its pure source between her thighs. Like a parasite she hung over her legs, not daring to move, breathing in the scent of her aroused interior. To remain motionless seemed to reduce the intensity of the alien feelings and manifestations which seemed to be possessing her body.

Outside there was the noise of motion, against the walls, against her very door.

Her naked, rigid body was burning up in heat and continuous trickles of hot sweat ran freely from every pore of her oozing frame.

There was a low moaning now from beyond the front door. In her present state it seemed indubitable that the sounds had to emanate from a couple locked in blissful fornication...the noises, the thudding and the rising throaty whines.

Despite being locked in an immovable pose she was angered at her stairhead being desecrated in such a manner - how they had attained entry was not even considered at that point. She was also angered by the control her body was exerting on her intellect, dictating her every response and leaving her only with the ability to rock back and forth gently on the hot, black seat.

As her frustration and growing discomfort grew she resolved to try and minimise the internal pressure by commanding her bladder to surrender its, apparently enormous, payload...to free its captive, glistening, hot liquid prisoner. Leaning forward she pushed down with her stomach muscles as she threw her legs apart.

Instead of a hot flow exuding from her widened urethral opening, she released only a scream initially as her vagina spasmed in waves of locking and opening as if some enormous phantom fist was being ruthlessly rammed in and out of her sexual orifice. The scream continued unabated as lubricants spat forth from her opened vaginal egress, spitting and splattering in rigid time against the blackness of the black bowl beneath her seated frame. Her sex dripped and ran freely with the tireless flow of thick, opaque, intimate secretions, spattering everywhere and releasing a heady perfume she noted despite her ongoing screams. Her lower half hung with hot, dripping strands of erotic mucus.

With difficulty she fought for control and managed to cessate the vaginal flow as she curtailed her own scream. Her breathing was rapid, painful and frightening... she did not dare attempt to alleviate the, still intense, internal bladder pressure.

Outside the sounds appeared to reach some sort of animal like crescendo and then to mutate into some kind of rhythmic moaning. There was the sound of a door closing, but not her own...and there were no others on the stairhead. There were no more doors other than her own.

As her mind began to pursue the logistic problems of hearing doors which weren't there, her body curtailed the process by warping into rigid, painful spasms that locked and unlocked her weeping walls like the opening and breathing of some expert whore demonstrating the virtuoso abilities of unnatural vaginal control. Her eyesight became blurred as her entire frame shook in aftershock ripples mutely echoing the vaginal spasms. Looking down at herself through distorted vision she saw the engorged purple clitoris grow like a bud filmed in stop motion photography. The fleshy pleasure trigger grew and grew until it dwarfed her large and tight nipples, threatening to swell to bursting point before it could reach total fruition.

She fell to her left and felt the wall jump out to support her distorted stumble. There was little arguing with the issue as she conceded that her uncontrolled form was about to submit to an orgasm not of her creation. The horror of being a victim to her own body's whims and mutations initiated the screams that began deep within her glistening chest. She heard the screaming, echoed reverberation of her own voice squealing an eternal "Nooooooo!". Her flesh shook and pulsed with corporeal earthquakes and ripples whilst her blood rushed through her entire cardiovascular system at an alarming rate manifesting in the swelling protrusions she associated with erogenous arousal. If she had the ability she would have vomited as she watched her sweet clitoral bud distend and swell to the point that it resembled a bloated finger of flesh reminiscent of a hermaphrodite's penis.

The fleshy trigger quivered and waved like a microcosmic penis, pushing and disposing of the fleshy hood which protected and hid her personal jewel, pushing it back until it was nothing more than a bright pink collar of flesh that made a tissuey 'V' delineating the zenith of her labial slash.

Inside her sopping vaginal cavern the wild spasms of orgasm churned and twisted in a vicious grip. Her very cervix juddered as her uterine contractions seemed to symbiotically tug the base of her flickering clitoris. Like a series of Baja surf breakers, wave upon wave of delightful pleasure rippled through her entire body, emanating solely from her genitals. The screams of resistance transformed into guttural grunts of subliminal pleasure as sweat burst out anew from her skin while her muscles followed her sex into uncontrollable spasm. Throughout the unrequested pleasure, the internal swelling never once diminished, but mutated into a repulsively seductive sensation of sheer erotic frustration.

Minutes of orgasm left her wet everywhere, drained of strength and with half closed eyes shifting about the stained glass illuminated room. She was a helpless rag doll, slumped against the cool, black tiled wall to her left. The numbness was as shocking as the unnatural sensations her body had inflicted on her. Slowly she found sensation and awareness returning to her pleasure numbed frame. The appalling feeling of finding her right hand vigorously massaging her vulva angered her once again. She was no longer in control.

With a dominating force of control she pulled the dripping hand which offended her, up and away from her hungry sex, flicking it to the side and spattering the black tiled wall with a slash of hot vaginal jelly. Automatically her body started to initiate the sensations associated with urination, as she felt this happen she commanded her frame to dump the enormous urinal pressure which seemed to dominate her interior. Again her body fooled her and once again threw her into vaginal spasm, this time far more violently. Her body was like a twisting glove puppet, thrashing and jerking about on the hot seat as her body ravaging orgasm ripped through her entire fibre, warping her body with unnatural delights and pleasures as her orifice spat a never ending piss of vaginal juices which splashed everywhere and over everything within the room. Helplessly her body pulsed while her arms and legs jerked uncontrollably, only her body weight kept her centred on the toilet seat. Vaginal muscles clenched for long, long moments followed by a reaction of almost painful internal expansion far and beyond the capabilities of her fleshy interior. The stench of her sex and assorted lubricants filled her lungs like the sweetest air she had ever breathed as it mixed and harmonised with her scented sweat. The combined scent odours of her exuding body hung in the air like a delightfully perfumed mist.

Her legs, buttocks, anus, navel, breasts and throat pulsed in mistimed harmony, each goading the others onto greater sensations of pleasure. The nude rag doll writhed about in the throes of a sexual fit.

She foolishly believed that this moaned sensation of intensified pleasure had peaked as she felt her shaking body rise from the seat. Her body rippled in the most exquisite torture as her vagina continued to exude a spasmic spray that splattered her legs and the black tiled floor.

Suddenly the orgasm kicked up two or three levels and she stood like a trancing zombie, head shaking and body quivering in an orgasmic ripple that warped her sensate abilities to the point where they could no longer sustain her own ability to stand independently. As she hit the cold, wet, tiled floor she was still bucking and, against her will, wallowing in the spectacular pleasure that her body possession was still undergoing.

The cold of the floor seemed to intensify the discomfort of her breasts and did nothing to alleviate the ongoing orgasm which continued to wind her jerking body higher and higher up the erotic Karma hierarchy. Somehow she was on her back, thighs tossed apart as if to accommodate the demonic Incubus which had possessed her erotically.

The whining groans of pleasure now seemed to emanate solely from herself, groans and moans of pleasure usually only found within the guttural and low class realms of Porno films or cheap live sex shows.

Now she was a whore to her own sexual psyche.

It took long minutes of continued, dehydrating, orgasmic emission until her body could come to rest. She tried to ignore the fact that her hands and fingers were constantly rubbing, coaxing and probing her wildly over-stimulated genitals. The fleshy, extended clitoris was easily manageable between her oil soaked fingers. Like she was watching a film on T. V. she was a tranquillised mind suffering the agonies of pleasure as she observed her schizophrenic body inciting her enhanced sexuality to new heights of superb depravity. Her innate disgust competed against her pleasure receptors as she peaked and troughed between joy and repulsion. She felt like symbiotic twins sharing the same space and physiognomy whilst being universes apart. The eternal ache for release plagued her until she could absolutely bear no more.

Once again the nauseating tide of impending orgasm was welling within the her multi-climactic receptors. Broken now by shock and pleasure she simply gave up and surrendered to the control her body manifested upon her intellect. The overall tightness, the growing physical tension, the erotic notching stepping higher and higher...it was useless to resist. She lay on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, helpless. Only listening to the resonating voice within the room, moaning its encouragement.

"YYYYesssss!Yessssmmmmnnhhh, higherrrtightaaandMmMMMnnnuuuhggghh!"

She felt herself falling over the edge. But this time there was nothing, an absolute numbness overtook her entirety. Lying in a twisted heap of folded flesh and overlapping limbs she heard the harsh sound of running water, splashing and spitting over the cold tiled floor. Slowly, the tell tale sign of hissing, stinging acidity reached her nostrils, inoffensively. Her subconscious mind acknowledged that she was finally releasing the incredible internal pressure of blisteringly hot urine, discharging it over herself and spraying it everywhere about the little bathroom.

The gaping urethra was stretched wide open as the highly pressured jet of golden fluid ripped forth from deep within her torso, gathering in an amalgamated pool on the floor, slowly slipping down the chrome plated drain with a satisfied gurgle no louder than the hiss of her body's opening.

There was no attempt to curb or control her body's wishes now, the fear of the uncontrollable pleasure or the intensification of the subsiding body pains inhibited her enough to simply lie like a whipped dog and submit to the whims of whatever was controlling her.

By now, even her shoulder length mane of geometrically cropped black hair was sodden with piss and come as the impending flow gave no indication of subsiding. She lay still and afraid. Hearing the grunts of satisfied moans she was awash with juices and confusion, uncertain where the deeply satisfied moans were coming from - within or without?

Meanwhile her eyes and mind also wept uncontrollably, even though in the heat of fear and repulsion she knew there had also been pleasure of an intensity and level to which she had never been exposed before.

To be a prisoner in one's environment was bad enough, to be a prisoner of one's body and subconscious psyche was hideously frightening. The loud sound of her own urination was slowly drowned out by the sound of laughter, coming from somewhere else...was it from above, below or within?

The bathroom was awash with the sound and scents of her own body as she lay quivering - consciously aware of being alone and frightened.

The large front door clicked closed behind, bolts rolling automatically. She glided across the quiet, spacious room. The powerful constriction of her Janni Rothan dress controlled her pace as she tossed her dark grey coat on the sofa. The sight of her own reflection, tall, dressed in a skin tight grey and black lattice of jagged stretch fabric with a dense, plunging lace V from neck to mid belly simply didn't interest her. The atmospheric lighting, which she often left on within her flat when she was out, sometimes appeared warm and inviting and other times it was as cold as night...tonight it was cold and empty.

There was a little crackle of static from beneath her dress as her thighs, wrapped in sheer black 5 denier YSL tights, rubbed together as she walked to her drinks cabinet, kicking off her black court shoes as she went. With a little crack she tossed some ice in the empty glass and half filled it with pure orange juice.

It had been another strange and disappointing night. One more night of expecting to meet the entertaining, the gifted, the amusing, attractive or even simply talented had resulted in another unfulfilled soiree of mortifying tedium.

Granted, there were a great variety of people there. Young, old, foreign, native, pretty, bright, rich and less wealthy, some of them were even very attractive, almost desirable...sometimes amusing, but none stimulating. Was she an alien, an outsider removed from the world everyone else seemed to inhabit? How many people in her life had she felt much emotional contact for or have anything in common with? Why was this eternal malaise always with her, this ongoing sense of emptiness?

She sipped at the glass, leaving an impression of her lips in a muted red around the rim of the glass. The room was silent and the sounds of the outside world were subdued. As she padded about the living room the sensation of the deep pile rug seemed to relax and massage the soles of her sheer meshed feet. It was the company of equals she sought, but that was still company, even she had some sort of hankering for a kind of communicative union. She had no idea what she was looking for.

The pale pinkness of the room reflected an artificial ambience of warmth and tranquillity, it made the black furniture even more coldy stark than was innately plausible. She sat by the enormous single window of the room, by which all natural light entered. The view overlooked the 'high' side of the building, some 15 metres up a blank brick wall which once housed some enormous, enclosed industrial process...back in the days when the area was still factory ridden. She felt secure here, on a viewpoint high above the city watching the host of flashing and winking lights. Sometimes she preferred to sit and watch the city for some time rather than sit watching the T. V. or a video or listening to music, it was a little more stimulating... sometimes.

Baalaski House had been her home for almost 5 years exactly, her minimalist and scrupulously tidy living room represented the important fascinations of her life - art, fashion, sculpture, photography, design, architecture, cinema and an eclectic collection of books ranging from mainstream classics to obscure philosophy. Everything in her elegant home reflected something about her inner soul, sometimes even in statements she was unaware of.

The lights of the ugly city painted it a happier landscape, or so it always seemed at night. She sat by the window, staring, waiting.

She pulled her legs tight up to her chest and felt the seam of her tights once again erotically aggravating her still bloated genitalia. There was a faintly audible ripple of bubbling fluid escaping between the pert pink lips, making her aware of the nudity beneath the dress and tights. The little trickle smeared and spread along the fine mesh of the black tights, just where it kissed her source of intimate arousal. A tiny smile spread across her face as she stared out vacantly. The right side of her face was painted in a faint tone of neon yellow, while the left reflected the pale pink hue that glowed from the interior of the room.

The shoulder length black hair shook as she suddenly stood on the floor and began to pull the clinging hem of her Rothan dress up to her waist, beginning to undress and keen that it shouldn't be soiled with her pleasure juices. With the Black and Grey dressed pulled up only to her hips, she paused as she felt, rather than saw, something in the room.

There was something there...just beyond the bedroom door. She felt a stab of fear rip through herself, a fear sourced in the sensation that she had some subconscious familiarity of the present situation.

She pushed her legs together, ignoring the now moist thighs, and nervously tugged her dress down again. Her breathing seemed to be echoing throughout the room, making the walls move in and out in synchronicity with her every breath. As she gazed into the dimness of the bedroom, beyond the shadowy domain of the bathroom, there was the noise of a door closing. It sounded like the front door, her door.

It wasn't true, she could see the front door from where she stood - it wasn't open. She was jumpy, unnaturally nervous. Unmoving she paused and listened. Listening to no more than muted silence. It took a few minutes before she allowed herself to move.

Padding across the rich carpet in her stocking feet she cautiously approached the little bathroom corridor, staring into the open door of the bedroom about 2 or 3 metres before her. Her hard brown eyes peered into the dimness, slowly discerning what lay inside - what was different.

The subdued strip lighting overhead popped on as she stroked the switch with her forefinger.

Untidiness! Her bed was covered in clothing - her clothing. In a flash she had rushed back across the living room, removed a Mauri Machete from the wall and was back at the bedroom door again before she seemed to have moved. It felt heavy in her hand. She had seen this before too! There was familiarity as she moved into the bedroom, the light illuminating her from behind. Staring at the dark mirrors to her left she could see that the bedroom appeared to be empty. But there was a different scent to the room, a different feel. There was something about this situation that was so like some kind of bizarre Deja Vu experience. In the furthermost recesse of her awareness she could feel, more than hear, an industrial beating as if coming from the long dead factory far below her flat...it also seemed to echo her heartbeat.

Blood thudded through her system, little trickles of cool sweat bubbled out and down from under her arms, down her spine, just as the dampness between her thighs felt chilled. She knew this wasn't just naked fear that possessed her - it was a familiar, hideous anticipation. Pale light illuminated her bedroom, on her command, as she slipped in like a prowler in her own domain. Only the bed seemed to have been disrupted. Light from above, passing through the antiquated glass and steel dome that dominated the ceiling, added emphasis like a searchlight to the evidence.

On her still made bed were an almost random sample of her clothes;

dresses, blouses, skirts, jeans, lingerie, tights, shoes, stockings, t-shirts, bras, pants, even gloves and socks lay littered on the wide, soft blue bed. She bent forward, over the end of the bed, and ran her cautious fingers through silk, cotton, lace, wool, chiffon. At the same moment that she felt the cool adhesive touch of an oily liquid liberally dispersed throughout her garments, realisation struck her.

Every hair on her body suddenly erected and she gave a significant and involuntary tremble. Somebody was behind her!

Grasping the Machete she stood up and whirled round. A strange weakness touched her as her breathing increased in time with the accelerated heartbeat. The figure was leaning on the door jamb, arms folded and silent.

Dressed in a white wing collar shirt and opened necktie, tight black sharkskin trousers, dark braces and dark shoes he wore two gold ear-rings in his left ear and a gold bracelet about his wrist. Aside from a pure white streak at the front the man had nearly black hair stopping just below his collar, dark, sharp features and piercing, scrutinising eyes and a large, wide smile complimenting a mouthful of well set teeth. His scent made her think of her adolescence.

They stood in total silence, gazing.

She swallowed hard and prepared to speak, but the other began talking just before she could achieve communication.

"I've been waiting!" he stated in a clear, mid-range, mid-Atlantic tone.

The man stood immobile, showing no sign of any emotion examining the stunned creature before him. The dark, tousled, shoulder length hair, the tall, half womanly body revealed as if naked by her clinging dress. Either she was fashionably 'Model-ish' or a woman still wearing a pubescent adolescent's body. The man's eyes seemed to effortlessly strip her down to the barest form of structure, the exaggerated childishness of her body, the boyish hips and bottom, the implausibly narrow waist and the adequately petite bosom that did not require a bra to hold its shape, even the curve of her legs, shins and arms. He stripped her down and reconstructed her without passion, focusing on the strong face that sat blankly on the long pale neck.

Their eyes locked. The eyes knew what was to come, but at that precise point it was quite literally unspeakable. The pale pink lips parted and she opened her large mouth revealing perfect teeth.

She was afraid, angry, confused, haunted by unusual sensations and impulses, but most of all she wanted to speak - but she couldn't.

Neither of them moved, standing as if in a still photograph from some Art House movie. After some time passed he stood in the doorway, open palmed as if waiting for her to say something. The dark haired girl moved back a pace as he entered the room. Bumping into the bed she stopped and brought the weapon up to her waist defensively.

"The bells aren't ringing for you, are they Ms? Ding-Dong? Hello! It isn't happening, is it? I though you would be much further on in articulation, analysis, you know basic verbal skills at least. You should know - be aware by now. What's black, spits, makes a mess of your underused bed and once it starts - can't stop? No? The hard way it is then!"

With blazing dark eyes she found voice.

"Who are you, what the hell do you want and what the fuck are you talking about?" she demanded almost calmly.

There was something more than familiar about him, there was something about him which she knew - intuitively and intimately, but what? He was a total stranger and this was a frightening and dangerous situation or it should be, or maybe it really was. She gripped the weapon a little harder.

The man's shoulders rose and fell as a sigh slipped out from his tensed lips. He walked into the bedroom, unintimidated by the machete wielding woman. She stared at him, he stared at the clothes on the bed.

"I'm afraid that's my come dripping from your hand, there seems to be a mass of ejaculate all through your clothing." he said unemotionally with lips that moved almost imperceptibly.

The red lips of her opened mouth hesitated only for a moment.

"What?" she demanded angrily

"I've come all over your clothes, while I was looking through them."

"You sick bastard! Get out, GET OUT! - I'm calling the police!"

"Then, my dear, you'd better make sure it's the 'Thought Police', because they're the only ones who'll get to the bottom of this one. I'm invited...am I not?"

Her deep brown eyes kept him in sight like a marksman, watching as he leaned against the dark brown mirrors.

"I don't recall inviting you, I don't know you and I certainly don't have any idea what you're doing here. I mean, what the hell am I meant to think? You don't look like a burglar and don't seem very disconcerted that I've caught you sneaking about my house. There seems to be some kind of impression that I should know something about you - I don't. So tell me what the fuck you want here or get to hell out! Okay?"

"Well your feminine intuition almost got there. Either you're simply pretending you don't know why I'm here or you don't know what you're doing. Which is it?"

"You're the man with all the answers," she said now standing between him and the bedroom door, "why don't you tell me - you're wise, I'm not!"

Her tone was still highly cautious but undeniable reflected some curiosity.

"Pissed anything interesting recently?" he asked casually, "Been sleeping okay? Or have you been getting a little wetter than usual, in fact as you are at the moment?"

The dark haired woman went bright scarlet, scowling towards him in angry irritation. The situation was so irrational that she herself had unconsciously adopted an unexpectedly unconventional response to the danger.

"No secrets here Miss Goody Goody! I'll bet...my soul that, despite your fears and conditioned disgust, the past few days have been the most exciting sexual experiences you've had in your adult life. Am I wrong? I don't think you've had too many sexual partners who've set your bed ablaze with burning passion, right? The same thing that's missing in your bed is the same thing missing in your empty life - MEANING. Well even when you started bedding other women it still wasn't exactly smoking, was it? I agree it was a good idea, some sort of intellectual union as well as having good sex? But you forgot that you actually have to have something in common, and then you have to have some sort of purpose to give it value. You're empty inside because you don't want to look at the things which really make you 'you'. Bad sex isn't simply bad sex - it's attitude. Let's take your less than impressive record in the sack, in fact in relationships. You expect something to arrive, to be presented to you and you get pissed off because it rarely happens, or is disappointing when it does. Despite the fact that most of your chosen 'partners' are pretty brain fucked to start with you can add a list of their impairments which is so negative to your own needs or requirements that you would have to be exhibiting social masochism to pick so ineptly. Given all that it's hardly surprising that men or women aren't going to get through to you the way you want to commune with them when you've got your thighs thrown wide and your libido in overdrive. You've already shut them out before they start - the outcome is a dead cert before the opening shot. You know it shouldn't be any surprise they couldn't get your body going any more than they got your mind going, I guess that's why it was only yesterday you felt yourself coming from the inside for the first time. It must have thrilled you to lie on the cold floor, shaking and tingling with fear afterwards."

"Are you doing this to me...the things which have been happening to me over the past few days?"

"No! You've been doing it, haven't you?" he replied coldly, eyes glowing.

The lace of her dress relaxed as she leaned against the door jamb and let the steel blade hang at her side. They remained silent and she found herself seeing him like a mirror, a mysterious, omniscient mirror which reflected her.

"So what do you want and what else do you know?"

"I know you're no longer scared, that took longer than I thought. You see I assumed you'd be bright enough to realise you have no more reason to fear me than you would have looking into your own mind."

"Are you implying that I've summoned you, somehow sent out a psychic call that you, the Angel Clarence, have dutifully attended to ensure I have a 'Wonderful Life'? Get real!"

"I'm no angel. Like Popeye says 'I Yam what I Yam', this is your world, not mine. I guess that until the penny drops you can think of me as an 'Agent'!"

She stared at him incredulously, but aware that her insides and nether regions of her mind were responding in some manner, like a lamb being lulled to the slaughter or a disciple willingly being drawn into a hypnotic trance. It felt good, clean.

"Am I meant to interpret that in some manner, I mean in a manner that has some connection with reality?"

"Reality? Reality! Why did you choose to live in Baalaski House, you knew it had an odd reputation - I mean, so many people lived here for as little as days or weeks...it seems to be a building that only a 'select', or specific type of person, seems to be able to tolerate. It's a building that draws its residents like a magnet, its whole history makes that apparent. And yet you have always felt safe and secure here despite finding your contentment with life diminishing during your 5 years here. I'm the stranger and I can read more about you from your superficial exterior than you can with self analysis, I'd say that's pretty real."

"But it doesn't explain 'how' or 'why', does it Mr...?"

"Why don't you call me...Jack?"

"Well, Jack, it...still...does...not...explain..."

"You're smart, you tell me!"

"You want to fuck my mind up." she said holding her head aloft.

"No, sorry...too late for that now - you did a great job of that one yourself. I'm more liberating than suppressive, that is what you want isn't it?"

"...yes"

"Then you must know that it's time to begin!"

"...Yes!" she replied.