Spontaneous Combustion
Keywords: Combustion, Spontaneous,
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Circe was, in every respect, the modern woman. She was unmarried, working successfully in a male dominated profession, and had a stern, take-no-bullshit attitude mitigated by quick, though sometimes filthy sense of humour. She stood a mere five feet six inches, with a long slender build she was confident enough about not to trouble with her appearance.
She walked the streets every day in tight jeans, a black leather jacket and boots, and a fitted tank top. Her piercing brown eyes and graceful, efficient gait were more than enough to draw the attention of passers by. She was, in every respect, a challenge to the modern man, who faced society's restrictions on human aggression, and the effects of increasingly effeminate male fashions.
Circe was a private eye, and she was far from perfect. With her take-no-bullshit attitude came a temper as volatile as Mother Nature, and a stubborn streak a mile wide. She operated her business in connection with several of Montreal's law firms, who had those such as herself handy to provide information in divorce cases, and the occasional lawsuit. It wasn't the most ethical of professions, nor the most exciting, but it was ideal for someone with her unique talents who didn't care for the discipline of the police or military. As far as she was concerned, Circe was living the good life... except for one thing...
"I'M FUCKING HORNY!" she exclaimed, popping a brownie into her mouth.
"Oh come off it!" Crown Prosecutor Dea Ricci retorted snatching the bag from her friend's clutching hands. The two had been thick as thieves since University.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Circe demanded.
"I mean you sound like a fucking stereotype! 'Look at me, I'm the modern woman, but I still need cock! I need cock real bad!'" Dea said in a singsong voice, moving her lips into a mock pout, "Isn't that vibrator of yours doing any good?"
"Yes, yes the rabbit's WONDERFUL, but we BOTH know it's not the same. Vibrators don't come with foreplay"
"Hmpf! Neither do most men!" Dea replied irritably.
"Says the woman who's happily engaged to a guy who can make her come, what is it? Fifteen times a night?" Circe asked, pointing to the massive rock on Dea's finger.
Dea grinned and sighed contentedly, "Okay, so I got lucky."
"Lucky is not the word. How many women in this city can brag that the man of their dreams fell into their lap the second they decided they were available?"
"That's beside the point. Look if you're so sex starved, why not grab some random guy and fuck him?"
Circe sighed with irritation, "I don't work that way... and besides, I've been so busy lately the only men I meet are lawyers, cops, and jealous husbands."
"So...why not one of them?"
"Oh please. I get paid to deal with lowlifes. I don't fuck them... Hell, even if I wanted to, no man would ever touch me no thanks to Howard Somma."
"The lawyer from Laurier and Rosenberg?"
"Yeah. We dated for a few months a while back. It didn't work out because he was too needy AND bad in the sack."
"I remember; what about him?"
"Well, he started going to the gym where I train."
"The one where all the cops and security guards hang out?"
"Yeah, well, he's now a regular there. After we broke up, he told everybody that the only guy that could ever date me would have to beat me in a fight."
"Why not switch gyms?"
Circe groaned and looked heavenward.
"Because it's damn near impossible to find a gym willing to put a punching bag up. Most gyms have those stupid machines and aerobics classes. Besides, I know the owner; it'd break the old guy's heart to find out I'd switched."
"You are such a softie."
"Maybe."
"So why not just lose the next fight on purpose?"
"First of all, half the guys there are terrified of me. You can see it in their eyes," she said, her eyes widening in mock horror.
"Because of what you did to Somma?"
Circe smiled slowly, remembering how she literally 'kicked' him out of her apartment.
"The other half are the type 'who don't hit girls'. Anybody else is usually looking for a fight, and I HATE losing. With my training, I toss them around without thinking. I haven't had sex in over a year thanks to that son of a bitch!"
"I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I haven't a clue what to tell you. Maybe I can get Bruce to set you up with one of his friends,"
Circe smiled and tossed Dea the box of Godiva chocolates she'd been hiding. Dea dove for it instantly.
"If he's half the man Bruce is, set it up. But NO basket cases; I want to get laid, not spend two fucking hours talking about FEELINGS." she said with a grimace.
"Huh?" Dea had been too busy savouring the chocolates. She was a perfectly rational human being most of the time, but with 'Aunt Flo' in town plaguing her with cramps and mood swings, her body needed chocolate, and her dear friend was always willing to provide.
"Did you hear a word of what I said?"
"Yeah, yeah! Big dick, no basket cases, no lover boys—"
"I never specified a size!"
"You meant one. Tomorrow night, seven thirty, Typhoon lounge, sound good?"
"Yeah, sure," Circe said, zipping up her boots and throwing her knapsack over her shoulder.
"Where you going?"
"The gym. The frustration's got to come out somewhere," she winked, and with a two finger salute, she bid her friend goodnight.
The gym was empty that night. On Friday nights, most of the regulars were cruising the bars or at home with their wives and girlfriends. The only other person at the gym was the guy at the desk; a tall man of about thirty with mahogany brown hair and the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. He was at least six three, with broad muscular shoulders, and strong arms.
"Where's Charlie?" she asked. Charlie was the gym's owner; a sweet old ex boxer, who'd always considered her a 'nice girl' despite her unladylike tendencies.
The man smiled, making his masculine, almost patrician features, seem boyish. Circe didn't smile back.
"He's taking his wife out to dinner: their fortieth anniversary. I'm Tom, he asked me to fill in," he said, offering his hand. Circe shook it briefly, momentarily surprised by its strength and grace. He was, she decided, a little too good looking for comfort.
"Circe," she replied.
A ball buster, he thought, sizing her up, and a beauty at that. Her jacket couldn't hide soft breasts, just big enough to fit a man's hands, and a torso he'd bet was slightly toned with muscle. Her eyes were so dark, the color was impossible to tell, and her lips, tight as they were, were deliciously full. Her skin was the colour of rich honey, and her long, pin straight chestnut hair was tied neatly to the back of her head. There was something about the way she looked at him, interest combined with more than a little contempt, that made him want to bait her. But he didn't, he simply handed her a key.
"Enjoy your workout," was all he said.
"Ok then," she replied with a sarcastic lift of her brows, and headed to the locker room, and then to the punching bag.
Circe always believed that the line between sex and violence was paper thin. As her wrapped fists and long legs beat her frustration into the bag in front of her, she dreamed of the man who could finally take her on. As a woman who took martial arts classes the way some women collected shoes, she was more than qualified to deal with the average man. Although she resented her ex for ruining her chances with the men she worked and trained with, she knew that on some level, he was right. A guy who couldn't take her on was worth no more than a night, because she'd never respect him.
She worked the bags for over an hour. With every blow, she felt herself grow stronger. As sweat built between her shoulder blades and her fists bloodied beneath her wraps, she hit harder, and faster.
Violence, she thought, was just as addictive as sex, and when tapping into its power, it was just as easy to lose control.
Circe was so immersed in what she was doing that she barely noticed when Tom touched her. Her body registered it before she did, and she reacted instantly. In three strategic, lightning fast blows, Circe sent him to the mat.
Tom had parried and fought back, but at the time, she'd been too fast. She stood above him, arms at her sides, her sweaty tank top plastered to her chest.
With him on the mat, and her above him, they stared at each other, breathing heavily, Tom's blue eyes bearing into the darkness of her own. He was shirtless now, and his lean, muscular chest heaved as he watched her.
His eyes skimmed her body briefly; then he smiled and leaped gracefully to his feet. With the two of them standing face to face, Circe involuntarily took his scent deep into her lungs.
He smelled of sweat and man, with the slightest hint of whatever cologne he wore.
She responded instinctively when he attacked, manoeuvring her slender body just out of the range of his fist. She kicked at him, and Tom caught her leg with a smile. For the first time, Circe smiled back, and with an elegant leap, kicked him in the chest with her free leg.
The blow loosened his grip, but it sent Circe to the mat. She jumped to her feet instantly, but his darting attacks matched her careful evasions. She landed a solid blow to his stomach, and he responded with a kick to her side. She punched him in the ribs as his knuckles grazed her jaw. Circe kicked him in the side, and her knee snapped her calf upward to kick him in the head. This time, however, Tom was ready for her. He ducked as her lower leg came up, grabbing her torso and taking out her supporting leg.
She fell onto her back on the mat, with him kneeling above her, holding her leg against his shoulder. Once again, they stared at each other, their bodies glistening with sweat, their heaving breathing forcing them to take in each other's scent. They both knew what the other wanted, and neither was in any position to deny it.
Slowly, Tom released her leg and let it slide carefully along his shoulder, his arm, his hip, until it rested beside his leg as he knelt above her.
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Keywords: Combustion, Spontaneous,