She Just Looks That Way

Roy followed Agnes into her apartment, the door closing behind them with a soft, decisive click that felt far louder inside his head.

The space smelled faintly of something floral and expensive, layered over a sterile undertone of polish and air freshener. Everything inside looked curated. White walls. Minimalist art. Chrome accents that reflected light like surgical instruments. Not a single misplaced object. Not a wrinkle. Not a flaw.

Like her.

The line surfaced unbidden.

She ain't pretty, she just looks that way.

A ghost of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as the old song played faintly in his memory. He could almost hear the jangling guitar, the sardonic edge in the singer's voice. He and Elaine had connected over it just a few days ago, walking back after scattering her late husband's ashes. He'd always thought the song to be funny, playful, but that was before he'd met Agnes.

The lyric fit too well.

Porcelain skin. Sculpted cheekbones. Designer heels clicking across the hardwood. All surface. All presentation.

Underneath?

Rot.

The quicker he could get out of her life, the better. And he knew exactly the quickest way out. Another lyric rose in its place, less poetic and far more adolescent, that perfectly explained the strategy:

Hit it and quit it.

The bluntness of it felt obscene and absurd and strangely empowering. No tortured romantic confusion. No self-sacrificial longing. No tragic vulnerability. Just a task. A solution. A means to an end.

A smirk lingered on his face.

Agnes turned just then, catching the expression before he could suppress it. Her eyes warmed instantly. The smile she offered in return was slow, intimate, full of private meaning she believed they shared.

Affection.

Devotion.

Love.

The reminder landed heavily in his chest. As ugly as her beliefs were, as vile as her casual bigotry had been in the hallway, none of this was calculated on her part. The wish had rearranged her heart without consent. She believed this was real. She believed he was her boyfriend. Her safe place. The man who understood her.

"We have to be quick," he said, voice steady but low. "I've got a meeting this morning."

Agnes paused near the edge of the living room, head tilting slightly.

"Should we wait until dinner?" she asked, a playful lilt in her tone.

A flicker of alarm shot through him. No. Prolonging this meant prolonging her presence.

"No," he said quickly, recovering. "You're too beautiful. I don't think I'd be able to concentrate all day if we don't..."

The sentence never finished. Her lips crashed into his.

Gone was the measured, champagne-slow kiss from the hallway. This was urgent. Immediate. Hungry. She had taken him at his word. Quick meant now.

Hands were already moving. Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt with efficient precision, slipping them free one by one while her mouth claimed his in breathless bursts. Fabric parted under her touch. Cool air brushed against his chest.

Attempting to match her pace proved futile. His fingers fumbled at the delicate straps of her top, caught briefly in the fine stitching, clumsier than he wanted to be. Agnes made a small, impatient sound against his mouth and pulled back just long enough to slide the garment over her own head in one fluid motion.

The skirt followed just as swiftly. A graceful bend. A zip undone. Fabric whispering down her thighs.

Roy was still wrestling with his belt when she reached for it, fingers deft, decisive. Trousers loosened. Pushed downward. Shoes half-kicked free.

Frantic energy filled the space. Breath mingled. Skin brushed against skin in heated flashes as layers disappeared.

She seized his hand.

"Bedroom," she murmured, already pulling him down the short hallway.

Polished hardwood gave way to plush carpet. The bedroom door stood open, revealing a space as immaculate as the rest of the apartment; white duvet, symmetrical nightstands, a mirror positioned strategically across from the bed.

Agnes drew him inside, urgency vibrating through her movements.

Just a few days earlier, being naked with a woman like Agnes, in her bedroom no less, would have been beyond Roy's wettest dreams. Now, after his wish turned his life upside-down, he saw it as something else: transactional. Sex with Agnes was something he needed to do, and do quickly, in order to get her out of his life. Gone were his moral qualms about sleeping with a woman who wasn't truly consenting. Gone were worries about hurting the woman while she was in the thrall of the wish.

This gorgeous yet vile woman wanted Roy to make love, and while love had nothing to do with it, Roy was going to give her what she wanted.

And then he was going to get out.

She turned as they neared the bed. Once again her lips met his, this time her naked body pressed against his. Physically, it was like she had been scientifically designed for this moment. Her lips were soft, kissing him with practiced urgency. Her large breasts pressed into him, with her tiny waist perfectly forming space for his large stomach. If she hadn't revealed herself to him in the hallway, displayed the ugliness beneath the beauty, he would have cherished this experience.

Instead he closed his eyes and thought of Michelle. Young, beautiful, energetic. Here he was, just a few doors down from the young woman who, he was sure, was packing her bag and leaving his life forever, having sex with a woman who hated her just for the colour of her skin. It was an unpleasant thought. Even the idea that Agnes could consider him agreeing with her on her views of the world left him with a foul feeling in his stomach.

Grabbing his shoulders, he turned her around and pushed her toward the bed.

He didn't want to look at her face when he did this.

"There's my man," Agnes cooed. "Ready to take what's his."

Roy didn't respond. He didn't want to play into her fantasies, her ideas of who he was and how a man should or shouldn't behave in the bedroom. Instead, he stepped up to her waiting body, grabbed her by the hips, and slid his now fully erect penis into her from behind. What Roy needed in that moment was release, not fantasy, not connection, not love.

"Yessss," Agnes breathed, grinding her rear end into him, matching his rhythm. "Take control. Show me a woman's place. Take me."

And he did. No thought to her pleasure, no thought to her feelings, Roy ploughed into her. In that moment, Agnes wasn't a woman, she was a tool, a way to get himself off. Everything about being with her felt incredible, except for the feeling inside of him, the disgust in his heart, for having to be anything akin to intimate with a woman like her.

His grip on her hips tightened as he intensified his thrusting. He could feel it. Rising. Growing. A tension inside, a quickening of his heart. It was almost over.

And then it was. One final push and he held himself deep inside of her as he shook, fountains of his release filling her up. Dopamine and oxytocin flooded his brain, tempting him to lay beside her, to kiss her, to thank her. But he knew better. This was his moment to be free of Agnes. She was beautiful, and sex with her was incredible, but she was poison.

His hands let her go as he slid out of her. She lay on the bed, turning over, and smiled up at him.

"Thank you, Roy," she said, a dreamy quality to her voice.

He stared at her face, the peacefulness there, and almost climbed into the bed next to her. In that moment he could almost believe the softness in her eyes, the love she obviously felt for him. And then her words came back to him.

I don't want those types getting comfortable here.

A wave of revulsion of who she was, but also of what he had been **** to do, hit him full ****.

"I've got to go," he said, turning and leaving the bedroom, heading to the pile of clothes by the front door.

"Of course," she said from the bed. "My man, always responsible. Perhaps we could have dinner this evening?"

"Yeah, sure," he responded, not paying attention, stepping into his underwear, then his pants.

He focussed on getting dressed and getting out. It didn't take long, and soon he had buttoned his last button, collected his messenger bag, and had a hand on her door.

"Think of me when you're working, darling," came a voice behind him.

He turned instinctively and saw a vision of beauty standing in the doorway to her bedroom. Her breasts, her legs, her lips, all of it called to him. He could feel the heat start to accumulate in his groin as he stared at the naked goddess before him. But Agnes was not what he wanted in his life. Not for a minute longer than he had to.

He turned and opened the door, passing into the hallway and out of her life.