| Subject: Chapter 275 - Part 2 (16 and above) (end of chapter 275) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, March 12, 07:32:21am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark continued (273>)" on Monday, March 05, 07:03:06am
He wasn't certain how he had gotten to these concerns, certainly had no idea how a pair of roughened hands had caused them--but he supposed that the end of his more-open feud with Ackerman, as well as his enforced distance from his beloved, had given his thoughts time to roam. He just kept having a vision of returning to her to find her repulsed by him, to see that their distance had allowed her to change her mind. He had no idea at all what he might do then. But it was this uncertainty which worried him most of all.
It was the time away which had allowed him to ponder it, to see his own greed. Even if he truly did wish for his wife's happiness, his vision of her joy was always with himself at its center; it was an easy way to think of her, given how quickly they had fallen in love after their first meeting. But what if she truly did change her mind? What if the thought of his work-roughened hands on her body, of his presence anywhere near her, made her shrink back in disgust? *Could* he accept the change? Or would he . . .?
No. He refused to carry the thought out, terrified of where it might lead--afraid that he had become far too much like the man beside him, the one who had once declared himself to be his enemy. Maybe he would just become like every man was supposed to be--dictatorial and commanding, living in the constant expectation that his wife should exist only for his own pleasure and upkeep; something in him saddened, nearly dying. But to see the end of his wife's true need for him would mean the destruction of all his joy, as well.
The sigh he let out this time did carry, making his unwelcome companion stare querulously at him. Ah well. He had expected that. They might have worked out their immediate conflict--but there was no way that the two of them were ever going to be friends.
He let all of this go, therefore, trying to settle his soul--knowing, despite his terrors, where so many of these thoughts originated. It was just that it had been so long since he had seen her, so long since he had held his wife in his arms. When she was beside him, he could feel her emotions, could tend to her every need; it wasn't that he had been less greedy for her, just that he could love her enough to release the emotions safely. But here, where there were no real distractions--here, where only the dialogue of war was spoken--he no longer felt sane. And he was half-certain that, once he returned to her, he was going to greet her like a sailor who had been at sea for a year finding a very-amenable prostitute.
This thought made him shudder a little, such a description the utter opposite of everything he wanted from his wife. Yes, he desired her--that word entirely inadequate to the inferno of need which raged through him for her, even if they were allowed weeks to be together without interruption. But his passion for her was not cheap or lustful, was more a raging hunger for her alone, body and soul. No other woman could sate it; no other even seemed to exist. It was only she who could satisfy him, only Nikita he wanted; this sigh was quieter. But he wasn't at all certain what he might do with her, once he finally returned.
This question was made no easier by the fact that his wife was currently carrying his child--that truth alone leading him down a thousand different paths. For part of him, it made him simply want to worship her, to touch her only in the softest and most tender of ways--seeing her more as a fragile vessel for their child rather than a real flesh-and-blood woman. Still, the other part of him did not agree. It wanted to ravish her, pregnancy be damned, until she screamed first for mercy and then in ecstasy; he was good at that. A small smile bloomed. And he was definitely wondering whether it weren't the latter part which was going to win out, in the end.
He couldn't help any of these dreams, his enforced celibacy without her driving him mad. As much as he had known he would miss her, he hadn't realized how bad this part of their distance would be. He was starting to have dreams of her in the night--ones he hoped like Hell no one else in the unit was noticing--ones which played out, in great detail, exactly what he wanted to do with her, once he was home. They weren't particularly subtle--Hell, they were growing downright lurid. And they were making him wonder whether he might not simply grab her by the arm and drag her off to have his way with her from the very first second of their reunion.
There was part of him which realized that such a reaction would be very much to his wife's liking, part of him which still recognized reality, but his days in exile from her always made him doubt. She was just too damned beautiful, was every man's fantasy. And it made him ache all the more to think that she might grow bored with him, in the end.
It was all of these thoughts which explained why Michael had never answered his wife's stated fears about her growing size. He simply didn't give a damn. Nikita--old, young, fat, thin, pristine or filthy--was his desire. Details were meaningless. So long as he could hear the sweet way she gasped in joy, as he entered her, nothing else could distract him at all.
His wife wasn't to know these truths without him telling her--but he was too wrapped up in his own fears from distance to see this. Instead, all he could think about was her, as he moved toward his barracks and sleep. The night would inevitably bring dreams of her. He could only hope that they wouldn't be so torrid as to entirely dislodge him from his bed.
Extra note: Remember that the desirable body types in these days were different than our current ones. Now, we expect our male stars to do a little heavy lifting so that they can have "washboard abs" and muscles we can trace with our eyes. Heaven help our female stars, who need to appear skeletal on screen--which makes me shudder to think how deathly thin they must be in person. In the time of this story, the standard was a little bigger, even if the starvation to fit it could still apply; as John Barrymore's character says to Claudette Colbert's in the movie, *Midnight*, "I've always had a weakness for size 12"--and his tastes aren't presented as particularly deviant from the norm. This would probably mean that the actress herself would have to be a size 6-8 to look "right" on the screen, but that's a far cry from a size zero (or whatever we're supposed to call the sizes below this now). Also, about the no bathrooms on set, I know this doesn't apply anymore, but in the days of the studios, I'd heard that this was the case; nowadays, they just have a red light in the bathrooms to let you know when not to flush. ;) Don't mean to bore you with all this; I just thought, with Michael's musings in this chapter, that it should be pointed out. :)
[End of Part 275]
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