Shadow Girl

He is watching her from a safe distance.

What on earth is she doing?
he wonders. Why is she swaying back and forth in a slow, bizarre pendulum? He remembers her flat face very well. He took a close look last time he came this way. Far too close for comfort, as it turned out.

He can still picture her hypnotic eyes pinning him down as she reached for him. He managed to escape by the skin of his teeth — praise the Great Rainbow — but the encounter chilled his blood and gave him nightmares for a whole moon cycle.

He stares, motionless, fascinated by the filaments draping her head. They oscillate like loose spider's threads, though they're thicker and denser and screen out most of her face when she looks down. He does not know if he could extricate himself if he got stuck in them. A chilling thought. And he does not like anything chilly, even in thought. Heat, he likes heat. Preferably lots of it.

He moves up the glass, to catch a little more of the timid sunlight filtering through the haze.

Careful. He has to be careful. He keeps to the side, flattening himself under the slight overhang of the window frame. He does not fancy being spotted. It's always bad to be noticed by anything larger than him — by snakes, by hawks, by the giant two-legs. Bad bad bad. His mates made sure that was drilled into him. Every chance they got they would warn him: whatever you do, keep a low profile. A low profile. He is keeping a totally flat profile right now and is certain he can't be seen. No, he can't be seen, but he can see
her
very clearly.

Her. He's sure it's her. Over time, he has learned to tell a female two-legs from a male. The females have long head fur mostly, especially the young ones. And they're often smaller, with flatter snouts and voices that trickle out of their mouths like bird songs. Plus they smell quite different. Much nicer usually. They don't make you want to scurry outside for fresh air, like some of the males. Though they can have strong scents too, the sort that make you dizzy. Like resin or coriander. Or jasmines just before they wilt. That's mostly from those with brightly painted mouths.

He licks his eyeballs, just to make sure he can keep seeing that two-legs very, very clearly.

He had not observed those lumps on her chest last time he was here. Last time he was here, she looked different. Not pale and scaleless all over like now. Only the paws and face were like that. Her body was covered in red patterns — flashy and glittering. Perhaps as a warning to keep off. Or perhaps she's like those turtles he comes across occasionally and she needs a bright shell to house her squishiness.

He gives his eyeballs another lick.

No, that can't be it. He has never seen a turtle without its shell. And shells are hard anyway. Not a shell then, maybe just old skin, something she sloughed off. Yes, probably old skin. He can see some of it over there, crumpled up on the ground.

But why would she get rid of that? She has not grown since last time he came by. Nothing obvious at least. And who would be stupid enough to cast off such a pretty shiny wrapping? Not him, that's for sure. He would be so proud, he would parade those tints all day in front of the girls and try to catch the eye of that cute little one he spotted by the pond the other day.

He licks his eyeballs twice, for good measure, and feels almost happy. Then he thinks again.

Actually, no, he could not wear that beautiful sparkling skin. Because he has to keep a low profile. A low profile. He forgot that for a second.

He goes back to his puzzle.

So, not old skin then. Not a shell either. This is quite baffling. Anything the two-legs do seems
soooo
bizarre. And now his head is starting to hurt, with all the thinking.

He can't take his eyes off those lumps though. They seem so large, with dark knobs right in the middle. What in Rainbow's name is
that
for, he wonders. No female he knows has anything quite like that on her chest. Not the snakes, not the birds, not the platypus or the wallabies. And he does not remember his mum having anything like that either. But then he does not remember that much about his mum; she took off as fast as a frightened frill-neck after he hatched.

He climbs further up the glass.

The two-legs is kneeling on a sleep box the colour of mud-spattered leaves. With her knees wide apart. He can see a couple of plump things beside her that look like spongy logs. That's where she puts her head down at night, he knows that too.

Uh, there's two more legs sticking out in front of her, half buried in the sleep box. He had not noticed them before. Two legs that look like they don't belong there. They're less pale, and there's down all over them, like on mice, but less thick, more patchy, with the hide clearly showing through. It reminds him of the backside of the old, sick wombat he met in the bush one day, far away from here.

That is also quite puzzling. Where do those legs come from? Think think think. Oh dear, his head. His head is hurting. Maybe . . . Maybe there's a second two-legs somewhere in there, hiding under her. A male most likely. He has seen males with that kind of fuzzy patchy down before.

The strange thing is, the legs are not moving. Perhaps the male isn't hiding. Perhaps he is dead. Yes, dead. Maybe the female
killed
him.

No, hang on . . . He can see those legs twitching, so the male cannot be dead. At least not yet. But where is the rest of him? Think think think. Through his headache, he can sense a conclusion coming.

Realisation hits him like a bolt from a stormy sky.

Oh no! The rest of the two-legs must be
inside
her! He is being eaten up! She must have another mouth between her legs. A much larger one than on her face. Yes, that's it. The female is busy swallowing the male. It's just like that goanna by the river, the one he saw two moons ago. The one who gobbled up Frank. Poor old Frank, he was such a good friend, even though he was a frog.

He tries to blank out the memory of Frank's skinny shanks poking like broken reeds from a pair of monstrous jaws. Twitching, jerking.

An icy feeling washes over him. His blood is turning to frost, fast. He tries to squash himself even flatter against the window frame. He's got to make himself look like one of those sticky pieces he sees sometimes on the footpath outside. The ones that have been stepped on so much you wouldn't even notice them if it wasn't for their colour.

And now that gobbling female is looking straight at him! Just his luck! Those big eyes are pinning him down again! Oh dear! Bad bad bad! That paw will come back for him! He'll be caught, and swallowed up, just like her mate, except it won't take as long, for he is so small, so small. How on earth did she spot him? He was tucked away so neatly on the side. He was keeping such a flat profile. He doesn't understand. It does not make sense. But this is something to figure out later. His head is hurting too much anyway. Too much thinking, too much. Time to scram.

Sandra frowns as she watches the tiny house gecko dash across the window pane. Isn't that the same one she almost caught the other day? Cheeky little gate-crasher. And how did it get in this time?

The creature has scampered off behind the potted plant.

She must remember to get rid of it when this is finished. She likes to keep her space clean and ordered. And anything that licks its eyeballs or squeezes through paper-thin cracks has no place in it and should keep out of her hair. Stay out there in the bush, where it belongs. And where she definitely does not.

No, the bush is not her thing. The bush is messy, prickly, unpredictable or downright gross. Not for her the weekend hikes into the wild, battling the flies and all manner of itchy stuff. Nor is she given to gushing over pigmy possums in some secluded sanctuary. As for that tree-hugging nonsense . . .

That's not to say she is not fond of her plants and bits of green. Of course she is. And she enjoys the sun on her face and the wind in her hair as much as the next girl. And some sand between her toes when the chance arises. Who wouldn't? But one
has
to have one's creature comforts. One's little luxuries.

So yes, she likes a good long shower after a swim. She likes her cranberry pecan salad served just so in a boutique café. She likes some polish on her nails and occasional gloss on her lips.

And she also likes her bit of fun in the bedroom with Mark.

Now and then.

And as long as it's on
her
terms.

A voice rises from between the pillows behind her.

‘Can you move faster?'

Her eyes flick down to his legs, half covered by the quilt. The sight is not a great turn-on and she looks up again, trying to spot the gecko behind the plant. No sign of it. She gives a small sigh, then notches up her tempo.

Yeah, the sex with Mark was never great but, she reasons, she has managed to skew the bedroom rules in her favour. Adjust their love meter to her rhythm.

With her on top. Setting the pace.

That's how she likes it. And intends to keep it.

Predictably, Mark tried to argue the point when her taste for the high ground grew more entrenched. He was a traditional bloke, he said. The classic missionary type. Said he did not mind a bit of variety but it couldn't be good for his ego to be mostly stuck on his back — much as he enjoyed free-fondling her breasts.

She would listen to him with a vague smile but take no notice. Not the slightest bit. She just had to have her way. Follow her clock — tick tock. And she resented it if he insisted on switching back. Oh yeah, she made sure she ruined it for him if ever
that
happened.

She knew what to do then. She would squeeze him without warning, hard and fast. She was very good at that, for her pelvis muscles were ruthlessly strong — courtesy of her tri-weekly workouts at the club. Or she would lie flat and bored and motionless, stifling yawn after yawn as she stared up at the ceiling or gazed at a picture on the wall. Or examined her nails with ostensible interest. That usually did the trick and his cock would deflate faster than a punctured rubber tube.

Or if that did not work, she had one or two comments in reserve: ‘How long is this gonna take?' Or ‘Jesus Mark, you're wheezing like an old lady, you should take out a gym membership.'

Her conduct on the mattress was not beyond reproach, she freely admitted, but who said you had to be honourable when it came to bonking? All was fair in sex and war, right?

After a few collapsed attempts at regaining the upper thrust, Mark capitulated. Unconditionally. She got what she wanted. No more missionary for him. No more butterfly either for that matter. Or spooning, saucy or otherwise. And she had never let him doggie-style her anyway. Never ever. Not her thing.

‘Please, Sandra, a bit faster.'

She has been cowgirling him in reverse lately, to be spared the look of his comical face when he comes. She has realised for some time the spark has gone out of their relationship, but is making no plan to break it off with him anytime soon. Why should she? She finds their routine very comfortable. She has designed their intimacy around her own parameters and is happy to keep it so.

As Mark's lungs inflate behind her back like a pair of noisy bellows, she lets her eyes wander over the stunning harbour scene spread out before her. The outline of the Opera House is blurred in the morning haze.

‘Stay still,' she chides. ‘Let me do the moving.'

The frustrated groan of the man under her brings a smile to her lips. She enjoys the hold she has over him.

On top. In control. That's the way she likes it in the bedroom, in her love life. She makes no apologies for that.

And that's the way she likes it at work.

Her smile stretches as her thoughts swerve to entrepreneurial matters.

Working for Globalscope certainly catapulted her to the top — to the higher reaches of the business stratosphere, or close enough to it. She almost chuckles at the thought of her meteoric rise to executive heaven. Carrying the flame for a large import-export company, enjoying the luxury of waterside living in the best-looking harbour in the world, making more in a year than a barista would in twenty lifetimes of pumping lattes . . . When she started out, she would never have dreamed all this could be achieved so quickly. The recognition, the rewards, the perks.

Naturally, it's not just about the money. It never is. She loves being, as she sees it, at the centre of it all, shaping the world of tomorrow. An ongoing, engrossing pursuit, requiring vigilant market trend analysis, and sometimes bold new moves.

The legs under her make a bold move, too. Definitely too bold for her liking, and she gives Mark an abrupt, unequivocal squeeze. The legs stop moving, and another frustrated groan floats up behind her.

She resumes the unhurried swing of her hips.

She is thinking of work still. Thinking of how hard she had to push, over the last few months, to develop the firm's fledgling aircraft sector. That didn't come easy. It took all of her hawkeyed vision to spot that opportunity, and all of her lobbying skills to sell the idea to the grey heads on the board.

But she got there in the end. She has this way with older men, she knows. With all men in fact. But it's the older ones that count. That call the tune. That have to be won over. And this time, they came round again to her way of thinking. They always seem to. She knows she can find the right words. The right look. She can make them
empathise
. And they empathised all right when she told them she'd been working on this deal with an Airbus subsidiary in France. She made them see the potential. The wonderful new horizons.

She is still hugely excited about the whole thing — her first major operation, her brainchild. Which is good for her mood in general, but also good right this second, because there is a little something finally warming up between her legs. Not Mark's little something, mind you, which she always has trouble feeling properly, even when it is fully charged. No, her very
own
whatsit, which she would describe — if she had to — as a warm hillside breeze. Or a dreamy ride on a garden swing.

She begins to rock with increased appetite.

Her mind flits back to the job. Not the bedroom job. The other job, the serious one across the harbour. She is thinking of that cherry on the cake. She is thinking about heading the team that will be sent to the Midi-Pyrénées to negotiate the last details with their French partner. To smooth out the last wrinkles on the road to cooperation. An excellent career move, which could lead to the next rung on the ladder — with a bit of luck, she might land the European account before the year is out.

She salivates at the thought. So does her crotch, at last. She smiles again and sways on, impervious to the heavy breathing and muted groans behind her.

Of course, being picked for the French assignment took its own bit of manoeuvring. Assiduous emails, persistent corridor conversations, more grooming of the old men sitting like possessive sphinxes at the apex of the pyramid. She reminded everyone that mattered she had all the qualities required for such a task: a quick, keen mind; a fierce determination to advance the interests of the company; excellent negotiating skills and a great command of French.

‘A great command of French,' she mouths silently, almost like a prayer.

Under her, Mark is also mouthing a plea that she roll her hips a bit faster. He is getting close.

Her eyes glaze over, then regain partial focus before drifting to the distant spikes of the Opera House. From her Kirribilli apartment, she can see the bright, bold signature domes almost head on. They curve up against the sky like two sets of giant sails poised between water and land. At least that's how she visualises them when she is in a maritime mood. Ships under full canvas, ready to launch into the future.

But right now, she is not in a maritime mood. So right now, she does not see two sets of sails. Or the curves of giant shells. Or surf about to crash on a golden shore. Or the helmets of forgotten marine gods. No, through eyes mellowed by her steady, comforting arousal, she sees a pair of wings deployed for flight. Wings that spread out in powerful sweeps over the Quay. Wings that rise with eagle-like grace into the azure, conjuring up whirls and gusts, swelling the calm harbour waters.

And through her haze, she contemplates the sleek body of the horse soaring with them. A white stallion, glittering, flamboyant. Rearing with equine ebullience.

She presses her hips into her lover, her eyes locked upon her dream. Her smile broadens as she spots the rider on the horse. A golden girl, naked, hair flowing behind her in long blonde spirals. A warrior, brandishing an Amazon's sword above her head. The figure turns towards her and her mind zooms in on the distant face: striking almond eyes, delicately chiselled cheekbones, top lip arching appealingly over its lower twin.

Sandra is staring at her own reflection.

She utters a soft moan in sedate approval.

The sword sweeps in graceful arcs above the horse's head, splashing streaks of rainbow colours across the sky.

She sways with more vigour, to the rhythm of the blade. She is floating up, rising with the golden rider. The glow between her legs has turned into a moist mist. A mist, a breath, drifting up in the tinted ether, dampening the flanks of the climbing horse.

And then, as the arcing sword draws another crescent of muted pinks, her chest heaves up in one long sigh and contentment blows across her loins like a gentle zephyr.

She savours this genial, discreet climax.

This will have to do
, she tells herself. She does not remember when the earth trembled for her. When it properly wobbled and shook. But she does not mind. She likes it this way. She likes the smooth, aerial feel of these brief ascents, for she is in charge. On top. Setting the pace.

She pivots on her hips and glances behind her. Mark's face, almost hidden between the pillows, has that familiar crumpled look. He too has just come, apparently. Lucky, for they usually don't peak together.

She rises onto her knees without a word and his half-swollen cock slips out noiselessly, before collapsing on the curve of his stomach. Semen is oozing from its tip. She steps into the en-suite bathroom, also dripping a little of his gift.