|JxHQ: Exploitation Show
Author: princessebee PM
Harley through The Joker's eyes - on some days, anyway. Inspired by Mistah J's Girl's poem: Blonde. JokerxHarley. Warnings for adult themes.Rated: Fiction M - English - Drama/Romance - The Joker & Harley Quinn - Words: 793 - Reviews: 11 - Favs: 39 - Follows: 1 - Published: 04-06-08 - Status: Complete - id: 4179899
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
She was like pornography, with her neatly pinned back blonde hair and the little tie knotted at her throat. With the reading glasses she'd bought at a chemist's to look more sophisticated, and her breasts pressing against the tight fabric of her collared shirt.
The way she pressed the nib of her silly, expensive fountain pen to her tongue in exaggerated thoughtfulness. The little ink stain on her lip.
A fantasy, cheap and showy, she sprung straight out of a brown paper bag, prancing and performing for all eyes to see, but in the end, only his really saw
She was so proper and she wore nasty faux-lace nylon panties in bright red. He saw it when she sat down opposite him, her suit skirt too tight to let her cross her legs without revealing. It was vulgar and made more so because it was so unconscious. It was hot, it turned his stomach; it made him smile.
The heels of her shoes so scuffed, places where the leather had worn back filled in with black marker. A faux alligator skin attaché case one more tawdry detail of her bottle blonde pretence. She thought she looked smart, she looked merely cheap.
She contrived and it showed, glinting through like the red of her bra beneath her white shirt.
He loved it.
She was tasteless but her flavour was incomparable. He couldn't get enough. He couldn't stop until she was finished.
She was positively lurid the way she'd walk down the asylum corridors with her chin in the air, peering over the rim of her glasses, textbooks she'd never read and never would in the crook of one arm. He'd watch her go and feel like he was watching a dirty movie, a blue film, a triple-x rated special feature. She affected a voice to go with her fake persona and he heard a wanton moan in every word. The fabric of her skirt made a swishing sound as she walked, the click of her heels echoed. She was too shiny. She looked like plastic.
She was obscene.
Always more vapid than vamp she continued to perform her burlesque now in red and black spandex and a domino mask. But still the same, at heart. Pure pornography.
But now it was for his eyes only, even though all the world saw.
She flitted across the reel of his life in a slippery, skin-tight costume that made her look like a clown, his very own court jester, jiggling and wiggling in a lewd display of devoted obsession; every thing she stole, every gun she fired, every life she took one more act in her no-holes-barred sleaze show to which he was voyeur and director and leading man.
But she was the star in this one, the wink thrown over her shoulder pure smut, the tinkling giggle of her voice as filthy as her reading glasses and clip-on tie had been, but nowhere near as bland. Oh she was still cheap, of course, and he still couldn't get enough.
She wore cotton panties now, when she was out of her slinky red and black and they were vulgar and delicious and he saw them when she bent over the side of the bed to retrieve something from under it and he would smile. She put her hair up in pigtails like a child and her eyes were wide blue and bubble-gum popped when she blew it. She stuck her tongue out when she fired her pop gun and collected stuffed toys that gradually grew spattered with blood. She no longer contrived to look smart, but she didn't look any less shiny.
Her costume kept having to be replaced and while she waited for the new one to be made she'd shabbily mend the other, in stitches that were never precise or neat enough. He couldn't let her walk at his ankles like that so they splashed out and got her a wardrobe full, standing next to his own extravagant display of suits. He looked at them sometimes, those lined up, shapeless forms of red and black and felt like he was looking at a dirty secret, a cupboard full of depravity. Another man would shut the doors, discomfited by his own dirty desire. He kept them open and laughed in delight.
And on she went with her show, different script but always the same role, like a flickering shadow darting across a screen, licentious and undulating, performing her little striptease with shameless abandon.
And he went on watching, chin in hands, lowered lids and lecherous grin, and marvelled to himself that there'd never been exploitation like this.