Liquid Love
Jeremy Mac
...the Claxton death toll has reached an astonishing number within the past five months and is steadily rising at the rate of...
...epidemic may potentially put Claxton on the map as the murder capitol of the United States, and the majority of the murders have been eerily ascertained as being victims of...
...police officials say that these murders are not gender-bias, though the majority of these murders do lean toward...
...that most were patrons to the night life of Claxton’s underground street world...
She turned away from the row of televisions in the steel-caged glass window display, away from the rock of enormities, and to the teeming street behind her. Opening the pearl-encrusted purse hanging low to her hip from a thin gold chain, she took out a pack of Salems and a gold lighter, lit one, then stuffed the pack and lighter back into her purse. She exhaled a long stream of minty smoke up into the warm Claxton air as she watched the pulsing life of Grand Avenue thump rapidly into the night.
“It’s the devil!” declared a gaunt crone standing close to her.
All eyes swept over to the old woman. Her hair was a frizzed rat’s nest beneath a dirty brown toboggan, and her clothes were a legacy of dumpster dives, torn and tattered rags draped over her cadaverous body. She clutched a carpetbag tightly against her abdomen with bony, white-knuckled claws as if defying anyone to try and take it. Wrinkled lips retracted to reveal jagged yellow and brown stumps embedded into paling pink gums like rotted tree stumps protruding from the calm surface of a murky swamp.
“He’s come to claim us all!” She glanced around jerkily, targeting one after another with maddening dark eyes. “Armageddon is here and we shall burn in our sins. Any one of you could be the next. Any one of you...” the crone’s gaze fell upon the woman with the Salem. “You could be the one to fall into his hands tonight.” Her eyes descended the length of the woman before her in a lazy survey that gradually grew more and more disapproving until she looked back up and met the green eyes that held her gaze.
The wrinkled lips slowly closed over the crone’s snaggled grill, and she seemed to lose herself for a moment. Quickly she rebounded, passing her eyes over the crowd, she said, “The city’s night is shrouded within evil. It’ll will snatch you up and –”
“Shut up, you old hag!” a bleached blond punk wearing a sleeveless death metal shirt scoffed in a British accent. His face was adorned in a painful array of piercings, his ringed top lip pulled into a snarl.
Chastened, the old woman glanced at the punk and then to each bystander as if she’d been unjustly reprimanded by each one. Two Lady Gaga look-alikes standing closest to the window display gaped at her with revulsion, as if they’d just found a cockroach in their hamburgers. A black man clad in dark leathers and sunglasses stood facing the indignant woman with hands stuffed casually into his pant pockets while sucking teeth with his tongue. And the blond Brit’s chum, who was completely bald with neatly trimmed sideburns swathing across his cheeks and ending at sharp points near the corner of his mouth, stared at the old woman icily.
The row of televisions in the background were now showing topographical maps of the state, the surrounding states, and then of the entire country, while smiling meteorologist’s forecast high nineties for tomorrow. “So turn up that A.C., ‘cause it’s gonna be a scorcher out there.”
Finally the crone proclaimed, with the conviction of a grim prophet who had just seen the beast in all its mad glory, “You’ve all been warned.” She glanced at the woman standing next to her, looking back at those emerald eyes for one quick, unsettling moment, and then scuttled away like a hunted mouse.
“Crazy old bag,” the blond Brit said aloud, watching her recede into the street. “I’ve got somethin’ for Ole Scratch if he happens by me.” His eyes glazed with a film of lechery when they fell upon the green eyed woman, a mischievous grin playing on his crooked mouth, suddenly remembering why he and his comrade had stopped here in the first place.
“A little justification?” The bald comrade inquired in a low gravelly voice, reminiscent of a young, malicious Jack Palance.
Blond Brit whipped around, seizing his crotch with both hands in a perverted out-thrust toward Bald Comrade. “An iron rod to cool his hot arse!”
Bald Comrade lunged forward and shoved Blond Brit back at the shoulders. “Bent over hell’s gate, ay?”
Blond Brit stumbled backward, righted himself in two steps, and, repaying the shove, said, “Bloody right!”
Both men jumped towards the other, slamming their jutting chests into one another in midair and barking like mad dogs upon impact. After several slams they careened down the street, whooping and hollering and slapping the hoods of cars.
The twin Lady Gagas began debating in giggling, high-pitched voices which of the spectacle had been craziest. Black Leathers finally freed the annoying remnant of dinner from between his teeth, then spun on boot heels and ambled away as quietly as he had come.
As the crowd melted away, the woman with the Salem began a debate with herself – not on who had been the crazy, or the craziest, for that matter – but if it was time for her to move on. The reasons to do so were apparent, and although the move was inevitable, it was a matter of how long she could stay. Along with the negatives there were many positives here, and in her perspective that was merit enough to prolong her stay.
Claxton was a wild town, no doubt about that. It was what had drawn her here in the first place. There seemed to be more of every kind of bar, strip club and nightclub anyone could think of than there were homes. Sex City it was once dubbed, but was now leaning more toward Blood City.
But no matter how perilous the media publicized Clayton’s nightlife to be it wouldn’t change a thing. The two jugulars of this city, sex and drugs, would always be plentiful and have a market. If you want to buy it and try it, we’ll hail it and retail it, was a popular catchphrase.
Life here for the past several months had thus far been a good one. Due to her job description, it had given her the easiest living she’d ever had. Though it had been some time since she’d started doing it several towns ago, she quickly learned how less arduous it was to the feed that voracious need and less worrisome of how and when she’d get her next fix. It had been here, in Claxton, she seemed to have become more alleviated.
Damned addiction.
But she liked it. Hell, she loved it! There was no denying it. She had even perfected a way to hide those conspicuous, livid marks. The method, as ludicrous as it was, made life somewhat easier. From the look of things these days that seemed to matter very little. Perhaps she did it only for her own peace of mind.
Maybe it was time to move on. Thinking of staying longer than necessary just on the strength of easy living could be grave danger. In becoming too comfortable, anything could happen. She’d been warned about that, about becoming too relaxed anywhere unless it’s homeland, but homeland was clear across the other side of the Atlantic, and even it wasn’t safe anymore, with what happened to Father...
There were other neighboring towns she was destined to hit where the nightlife was rumored to be just as freaky but the chill of murder wasn’t as extreme. And with her new found freedom from a ferocious feat, provided by the killer endowments she bestowed, no matter where she went they’d always be coming, supplying her with an infinite meal ticket.
She took a last drag from her cigarette and then dropped it to the ground, crushing its glowing red cherry beneath the toe of a Stiletto, pivoting heel side to side. She blew out a thick cloud of smoke through pursed lips as she looked over at the two Lady Gaga’s still there. Noticing them staring at her, she winked lewdly and licked her lips slowly, causing the young girls to quickly look away as they flushed with embarrassment. She smiled at herself and sauntered off in a wonderful, exaggerated sway of the hips, leaving the two girls speechless with secret fantasies.
She often left in her wake naked desire on faces, and should she happen to see these faces reflected in store windows, they only left her amused. Even more amusing were the frozen expressions on some of her customer’s faces after she finished with them, fixed into some of the oddest of looks. Sometimes she couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Some might think her unethical and immoral, but who cared. She enjoyed herself and besides, she hadn’t had any complaints thus far.
As she strolled along she soaked in the bustling life of Claxton’s Westside Streets. There was an energy here all its own, like Vegas and Reno, minus the casinos, yet maintaining a euphoric mental orgasm when walking them. The sidewalks were wide, allowing room for the throngs of pedestrians promenading before an eclectic number of establishments. Twenty-four hour movie, music and electronic shacks publicized new releases and urged sales in digital and computer animations amidst the flamboyant broadcastings of eagerly awaiting, pole-spinning exotics and tickle-me lap-Lucies flashing their “Girls, Girls, Girls” and “Table for Two’s” in glowing neon of every gaudy color imaginable. Bright effusions of white fluorescence and gold-bubbled bulbs bathed fabricated signs announcing disco, techno and thrash metal tango, and the music swept into the streets like Christmas and Fourth of July shaken in a bag-o-tricks and then opened and thrown into an endless New Year’s Eve. For easier spirits there were jazz lounges and blues clubs that could be found squeezed into the decadent splendor here and there, less showy from without, much more laid back within. The cheap, rent-by-the-hour, no-tell motels were prominent, with the Habib and Chan entrepreneurs having their greedy hands in the till along with the rest.
She didn’t use the motels. If a trick claimed to already have a room he might be a pig with his little piglets waiting in the next room for an easy bust. It happened all the time, cops making quota.
Little sigh.
She’d hate to leave, but she had to. At least for a little while. The only daunting thought was having to find the ideal residence in the next town before leaving Claxton. Preferably like the one she had now; a large flat in a high-rise complex on the Eastside, the more sedate part of the city. She was the only resident on the penthouse level, which made it ideal for someone in her circumstance. Confrontation was avoided if prevention was foreseeable because it usually meant having to participate in some sort of friendly conversation for the sake of good camaraderie between fellow neighbors, and harmless conversation had tendency to casually delve into personal life and she wasn’t apt to talk about hers so freely. Though she was a good manipulator, years of experience, it was best to avoid it all around. Out of sight, out of mind, the less known, the better off things were.
She thought of the first time she’d stumbled into that particular situation in the complex where she now lived. She had practically run right into one of her fellow tenants in the hallway on her way in from a fantastic night of, well, work. Dawn was setting in, and the only thing she had on her mind was a quick shower and then sliding into the bed cushions and falling into a well deserved coma, but she didn’t want to be so rude and brusque as to spawn a wondering mind upon herself, suspicion was to be kept at a bare minimum, so she spared a little chit chat. And be damned if he wasn’t just all that, olive complexion, nicely built, young, the hot blooded Mediterranean breed she liked so well. If it had been earlier and if she had not been so blissfully sated already, plus if they weren’t residing in the same building, she definitely would have liked to have had some.
“Oh! Excuse me,” he’d said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming around the corner.”
She smiled wanly, struck by her own clumsiness. “I didn’t see you either. Sorry. I was just coming in.”
He took a quick glance at her five foot, four inch frame. She’d dressed into something a little more modest before heading back to the Eastside, to her complex, but even dressed in what she now wore anyone could tell she carried an immaculate body. “You must be new in the building?” he’d said.
“Yeah. Moved in a few weeks ago.”
“Then allow me to introduce myself, I’m Dyson. I’m on the sixth floor.” He offered his hand and she took it, giving a brief but firm squeeze.
“Nice to meet you.” Not offering her name.
“I’m just getting in myself. Burning the midnight oil at the office. I work at Vladric, supervisor there, the paper and plastic factory just on the outskirts of town.”
“Would this be the same factory that’s smogging the beautiful skies of Claxton?” She grinned roguishly.
Noting the genial sarcasm, he smiled back. “Oh, no, that’s the paper mill. But it’s not too far off base, unfortunately. So, you coming in from the back?”
“Yeah, I’m just coming in from work myself.” Neither wanting nor feeling the need to explain why she had come in through the back way.
“You must have a pretty demanding job as well.”
Buddy if you only knew. “No. I work the night shift at a twenty-four hour department outlet on the Westside.”
Arching eyebrows. “Ah, that’s a pretty wild part of town, isn’t it?”
She crinkled her nose cutely. “It’s not so bad.”
An awkward moment passed; he seemed to wonder off into her eyes. To break the moment she started to say something. At the same time, he was about to say something as well. They stopped. Regrouped. And again spoke at the same time. Both laughed at themselves. This time she waited for him to speak first. “Would you like to join me for a drink, maybe a cup of coffee?”
“No thanks. I’m really beat so I’ll have to pass. Besides, I don’t think my boyfriend would like that too much.”
Fortunately, that’s all it had taken. A mention of a boyfriend had its venom. Normally it snuffs out other proposals such as “Maybe some other time” or “How ‘bout tomorrow night?” After all, she got plenty enough to satisfy her. Although having one recumbent in bed, asshole naked, didn’t sound too bad, and if she ever had Mr. Dyson that’s exactly how she’d want him. Serve ‘im up real nice, it’d been awhile. But she didn’t need the hassle of a persistent man much less a nosy one. Maybe before she left town she’d invite herself over – a tiny piece of lingerie underneath a chinchilla coat – and have a little taste of his goods. Just a taste. She’d consider it.
When she came to the corner of Grand she stopped and waited for the walk signal of the crossing sign. Once it flashed she crossed with several others. Cars idled up to the wide white line of the pedestrian barrier. A black sports car revved its muscled engine as she passed. Off in the distance a horn sounded off. A second later a stronger horn accompanied the weaker one. Verbal warfare broke loose.
The life might be like Vegas, but the traffic was very much like New York City.
She went straight ahead, continuing on the never-ending stretch of Grand. The street hustlers were abundant as always, putting a price on paradise, stationed in irregular intervals along the walks, steadily on their Ps & Qs careful not to piss in the wrong territory. Some sported Guccis and gold Rolexs for regal authenticity of higher expectations and other’s in more casual attire of cheaper designers for lower intimidation and easier approach, all out for the quick buck. Street ho’s of every sugary brand – Fruity Pebbles, Cocoa Puffs, Cinnamon toast Crunch, plus a few generics who’s hidden inside surprise could bring out the frightened Tiger in you – graced the field in their finest, or nastiest – they’re one in the same here – threads, milking Trix by the lure of their Lucky Charms. The majority of these hourly pets were under the iron fist of a Hochie Daddy, whom if wasn’t out making the rounds, checking progress, was working the club scene, mackin’ and eyein’ for new recruits.
Many a time these masked vultures had propositioned her, but she had no use for any of them.
A gray early eighties model Plymouth pulled swiftly to the curb several feet ahead of her. The driver’s side window rolled down and a pock-faced man with a disheveled mop of gray hair and Dexter coke bottle eye glasses perched on the bridge of his button nose peeped his head through, looking back at her. “Need a lift honey?”
His big eyes, comically enhanced twice their normal size by the thick lenses, danced shamelessly up and down her body, mainly zeroing in on the amply filled white top she wore. He reminded her of a pesky rodent peeking around a corner cautiously, yet studiously, scoping out the great wide open before emerging. She never started the night out with one of these dirty old geezers, if she had them at all. Though at one time she did not discriminate so quickly, she now had the good fortune to pick and choose as she pleased, and her fastidious tastes ran more along the lines of the younger, more vigorous types. They seemed to have fatter wallets as well. So if she did settle for one of these old farts it was later in the evening. Much later. And she had to be damn near desperate as well.
“No thanks, maybe later.” She kept walking.
His gaze never wavered. “C’mon sweetheart. Fifty bucks says you’ll change your mind.”
Still stepping, she cocked her head over at him. “Maybe later.”
He tapped gently on the accelerator with his foot, creeping alongside the walk, keeping up with her pace. “What, my money’s not good enough for you?”
Becoming irritated, she said, “I said, maybe later,” and putting stern emphasis on the last two words.
“Later might be too late,” a pleaful edge to his nasal voice. His eyes gobbled up her heart shaped ass tightly gift wrapped in white spandex. No panties, he was sure. Aieee Chihuahua.
She quickened her pace, forcing him to press harder on the gas. “Then if it’s too late, then there’d be no loss, right?”
He rolled his eyes in frustration. “Aw, c’mon sugar, that’s not what I meant. I meant I might be busy elsewhere later. I’m lookin’ for something nice now.” Jeez, the whores these days. Who’d ever thought you’d have to sweet talk ‘em into layin’ ya?
“Pops, I’m doing you a big favor anyway, because you’re gonna need your money, and energy, otherwise.”
“Well I couldn’t imagine spending my money or energy on anything else right now and if –”
In his haste to persuade her he didn’t see it parked several yards up the curb ahead of him, and by the time he did, he slammed on the brakes two seconds too late. Its wide back tire made a hollow thud against his front bumper, followed by a slow motion-like decent of its monster frame, ending in a cringe of chrome and stainless steel crashing to the asphalt.
The behemoth owner, standing in the midst of his biker buddies loitering the front entrance of a music store, parted bodies like the Red Sea with arms and paws equivalent to that of a grizzly. His face slowly contorted into something beyond rage; eyebrows drawn together like curtains, nostrils flared like parachutes, upper lip curled like a sardine lid at the sight of his pride and joy lying on its side
The old fart’s eyes blew up like two huge balloons at the sight of the titan of denim, leather and chains approaching in the slow, fist clinching, pissed off gait of a proud biker who had the twerp who’d ran right into his beloved hog with his car dead in his sights.
Smiling, she never broke stride.
He turned onto Vic Boulevard, his eyes locked and loaded onto the sidelines, hungrily scanning the faces, the bodies. He wanted a good one tonight. The last one had left him with a kind of emptiness. He hated that. The demon need swelled all the more when unsatisfied, making the next more an act of vengeful quenching than for malicious pleasure. Although it always had the same outcome no matter how fulfilled he’d become afterwards; a temporary relief until the demon became aroused once again.
Inevitably.
But tonight was the night he’d get his worth, what he needed – what he deserved.
Heh, that’d become quite the unsuccessful goal lately. So many he’d had over the months. So many. Claxton had been a lot different than the other towns he’d wandered through. Here, it was easier to get what one wanted – needed – without all the average worries. People tended to create a funny blindness toward anything that didn’t concern them. Yet he’d failed in finding the ultimate.
He needed it.
A good bitch.
Yes, a very good bitch.
Preferably a bitch, anyway.
Pain was on the agenda and tonight there was going to be a lot of it, a rite he had earned, and drawing it out as long as possible, the squirming, clinching, screaming, begging, was the key to his ecstasy.
Punishing.
The thought of it got his juices flowing like a mad river, an untamed beast striving to be loosed from its chains.
Of course he took some head before anything, an appetizer before the main course so to speak. He’d hate to think, after all had been done, that he’d missed out on some of the best K. F. C. (Killer Fide Cap) he’d ever experience.
He carried the pint bottle of whiskey up to his mouth and tipped it, taking the last swallow. He sighed a sharp air of liquored satisfaction and then carelessly pitched the empty bottle over his shoulder and into the backseat cluttered with relics of fast-food wrappers, soda cups, CDs, and dirty clothes. He reached over to the glove compartment and retrieved a new bottle. He broke its plastic seal, unscrewed the cap and took a healthy slug of the sweet–sour liquid. He’d taken his eyes off the walks only for a second. He kept the car moving at fifteen miles per hour or slower depending on traffic, keeping a systematic sweep from one side and then to the other; sniper’s eyes taking a thorough examination of the field, forbidding any mark to be missed. The next notch to be made was to be the one.
Up ahead at the corner of Grand and Tepes were four prostitutes pompously posted up in ensembles of fishnet, latex, and plether. Their pimp, fashionably decked out in a butterfly collared, dark green blazer, matching slacks, and a navy blue silk shirt purposely unbuttoned at the chest to reveal the two, thick, gold chains hanging low from around his neck, supervised in suave nonchalance several yards away. She ebbed up to the curb about thirty feet away from the street corner, yielded a foot from it, and stationed herself facing the street. She lit a cigarette and waited.
And as she predicted, it only took a matter of seconds.
“Mmm-mm-mh, Angel, you are lookin’ too fine.” Ambling toward her in his limp-legged, cool cat swagger, he smiled coyly, proudly displaying a mouthful of gold with diamond faces, a toothpick tucked into the corner of his fat lips.
Angel looked over, totally unamused. “Hello Blackjack.”
Blackjack sidled up next to her, keeping enough space between the two so he could hold an impish eye on curves to kill. He sighed as if in pity and said, “Angel, when are you going to come to your good senses and oblige my services that I am so generously offering you?”
She cut knowing eyes over at him, an I’ve – already – heard – it – before – and – have – told – you – before – already look. But Blackjack, the persistent bastard that he was, had been pursuing her ever since he’d laid eyes on that immaculate body working these wild streets several months ago, and saying no to Blackjack was like trying to shout a starving coyote away from the chicken coop. He wanted Angel more than he’d ever wanted any piece of ass he’d had before in his entire sex drenched life, as much for himself as for business, the former being the concrete foundation of his services that he was so generously offering.
A beat down white Impala swerved dangerously across the street and over toward the corner where the four prostitutes stood, causing several coming and going motorists to break abruptly and punch their car horns – punctuated by endeavors of finger art – at the thoughtless idiot. Mechanical clinks and clanks clarified in rickety vehicular doozies as the car pulled to the curb. A beefy arm poked out from the driver’s side window, extending an index finger at the one wearing a beige skin tone body suit that left absolutely zilch to the imagination. Her hair was long, thick, and black. Similar to Angel’s wig. Angel had it stashed somewhere with a more modest pair of clothes for when she ventured back to her place at night’s end, in case she were ever seen or had an unexpected encounter with someone while entering the complex, as like what had occured with Dyson, she’d appear as being a more modest individual. Nothing like being a streetwalker of the Westside. And why wear a wig during the majority of the day when, for her, it could be a hassle for obvious reasons? Long haired blondes tended to attract the best ones anyway, and Angel’s natural blond was the kind that looked like the mother of everything blond.
Angel shifted her gaze back into the street before her, deliberately acting disinterested in anything Blackjack had to say, and while suppressing a grin, brought the cigarette up to her sulky, blood red lips, pursed them provocatively around the white filter and drew in the minty smoke with a long inhalation of the mouth, her smooth white cheeks collapsing inward by the suction.
Blackjack shifted the toothpick over to the other corner of his mouth, trying like hell to stabilize buckling knees. “Angel baby, Blackjack’s gonna take care of you. Baby I have so many wonderful plans for you.” He held a loose fist into the palm of the other hand, occasionally separating the two in a listless, theatrical gesticulation while flaunting fingered diamond and gold opulence. “And you,” his eyes roamed over her body, shaping every luscious inch of her, “just aren’t the average come and go. Angel, you are something very special and a fine lady as yo-self should have the support and guidance from a man as myself to surmount the rigors of our lives. And once you realize this, Angel, you will see that if it doesn’t make dollars it doesn’t make sense. And that is what it boils down to. I’ll take you to the top, baby.”
And blah, blah, friggin’ blah. The harangue was always the same old, typical, pimp daddy, jargonistic bullshit. It might’ve differed in verbiage from time to time in his strain to uphold an intelligent demeanor upon himself but the point was always the same. She got a kick out of it because there was always that not so clearly heard beg lurking behind his words.
Little tease. But hell, the only thing he really had to offer her was veiny sweetness, and he would be close to the last on her list for that. Not that she didn’t like dark meat, on the contrary, she’d had many, they seemed to be more pliant than their white counterparts, it was the simple fact that Blackjack was somewhat of a notorious figure on this side of town and if anything was to happen...
She blanked him out as he went on and trained her attention onto a trio of rollerbladers weaving themselves in and out in rambunctious speed through Claxton’s night-breed on the walk on the other side of the street. Everywhere the eye rested were minds laden with the essence of their passions; burdens that keep them ticking, yet enslaved, by the uplifting thought of its crippling pleasure as their promenade led them to the final destination of freedom. Hers, a freedom of a different breed offered by the profound power of flesh and blood – the profound power of an insidious animal in all its deceiving beauty on the hunt for the fruit of pacification.
Pacification – ambrosia – warmth in a cold shroud. The declining pump of a flesh engine, squeezing every last drop of crimson oil from its feeble machine, gushing in syrupy tidals and relinquishing a bitter northern dry autumn. Basking under gaseous, ethereal colors flagging in freeze frame across an ebony curtain, awaiting the eternal night of autumn. Ensconced by its dark blanket, to wander out in the open by choice instead of when allowed by the absence of a golden god. The dream. To feed and cleanse in baths of fervent –
Chills. A goosy shiver just beneath the skin, unseen, but she definitely felt it. It snatched her back from the brink of her sea of wanton thoughts. She needed to get on with it before the malaise became stronger and the need became too overbearing.
“...and I know a fine lady as yo-self –”
“G’bye Blackjack.” She flicked the cigarette into the street and turned to leave.
He sprang into step with her. “Well, if there is anything, and I do mean, anything, that you need, you come see me. Blackjack’s gonna take care of you, baby.”
Angel sensed the snotty glares as she passed the three left at the corner. Nothing unusual. She would have thought it abnormal if they had done otherwise. She had felt vindictive vibes from all the girls ever since the very first night she had shown herself to the Westside streets of Claxton several months ago, and it wasn’t necessarily on a business tip, tricks were a dime a dozen here, but a seething jealously of natural perfection which they obviously did not possess, and wherever she went Angel flaunted hers with the haughtiness she deserved.
Feeling their eyes searing holes in her back, just before she rounded the corner of Grand to switch course onto Tepes Drive, Angel added a little jauntiness in her swing as she casually reached around to the upper backside of her leg and pinched the spandex material at the bottom of her micro-skirt between thumb and forefinger, stretched it outward several inches from her right ass cheek and then released it with an exaggerated flick of the wrist, letting the material snap back into place. A boast. Concisively done but they were sure to catch the arrogance in which it had been designed to inflict.
Bitch. Yes, but they were envious of this bitch, and if she so desired she could have any one of them, and while in their persistence to outpour a loathing toward her, partially for the next woman’s benefit, if ever in that lone predicament with her, Angel knew that their snotty deliberation would quickly dissolve into something more along the line of, say, complete submission.
It’s just like how Father had told her it would be. Father, how distant he now was, yet so close in heart. He had educated her in the ways of the world, bequeathed her priceless knowledge, old and new. He taught her the ways of man and the destruction they lay upon themselves, the weaknesses of mind and body, their wide extent of naiveté. Father wasn’t the mad animal he was marked as being. The others, his children – the disloyal bastards they were – gave him a bad rap. Not to mention being forsaken in his oath against the Divine Wine, or “so called” divine as he liked to say.
“Ever since the great fall, the birth of our sins,” Father had sarcastically said, “it has been the undoing insatiable gifts that the flesh offers, the sole source of all sin, to appease oneself with.
“Pride was the eve of the fall. Slowly it manifested into infatuation, but without infatuation there can be no envy, and without envy there can be no hate, and without hate, love cannot exist and is it not love, the love of another that stimulates pride, the instigator of our so called sinful, eee-vale ways?
“Malarkey! Unjust bullshit! Without any of this what is there? Death? One could only be so lucky.
“In a nutshell all denominations are sharpened down to that same ignorant edge and the simple synopsis for what that infamous book tells you, orders of you, inspired by a bloodthirsty hypocrite, is to strip naked, run off into the woods and die without fault. And to die without fault means to live and die miserably. That book and some of the ridiculous commandments that go with it is for those who have nothing, seek nothing, and enjoy nothing and believe that everyone else should live as miserable as themselves because it is supposed to be so damned righteous to be forlorn of worldliness and needy of a thing that cannot be seen. And those who rebel against it are seen as possessing black hearts because they seek to know their world. They want to take advantage of it all because it is there to be had, to be felt, to be experienced, and to be tasted. We live off the core of those who live off the root of others for the sake of pleasure and survival. To live, my Angel.
“In the old country men reigned upon the land like mad predators from the shores of the Black Sea and abroad, scouring the country side, plundering all who were suspicious, cleansing the world of wickedness, shedding blood out of ignorance and leaving it to stain the earth in the name and glory of God Almighty. Driven by fear they were, claiming it was savage beasts of darkness being slaughtered all the while wrapping the entire farce within a shroud of religion to sanctify themselves. It is the same today and will continue to be for generations to come. They will envy you and admire you and lust for you in there esoteric minds, but they will also hate you and hunt you while shading themselves under that same cloud of idiocy. You must learn to use that weakness for your benefit. Your beauty is only half the advantage. To get what you truly want and need and to survive in this world, it’s up here, in the mind, where your most powerful weapons are. Learn to use them, and use them wisely. And remember, do not hate them but appreciate them, nearly to the point of love. For what they do, for what they provide.
“Know this, and keep this, Angelica, my Angel: It is not us who need to be rectified, we are merely playing with the toys that have been laid before us.”
She’d unconsciously stopped in front of a small inside/outside confectionary and miscellaneous junk food store on Tepes Drive; queues of drooling customers lined the outside bar pointing to multi-colored chocolaty sweets and cheesy slices of pizza and beanie burritos and juicy franks, busying the two clerks behind the bar, her back to them while blearily gazing off into nowhere. The memory of Father, her teacher, her mentor, vividly in her minds eye. It seemed like only yesterday she was walking the sugary beaches of Mamaia with the crystal blue water lapping at the shore, the feel of hot sand smooshing beneath the feet, between her toes, the sultry heat of the last Roman sun gracing the face, sweat trickling down into the concave of her back...
“A rose for a pretty lady?”
She looked over. He was a human bouquet of roses; the stems tucked and pinned into small holes of his jacket, and the collar was a wreath of red, pink, and white buds. The bowler hat he wore was embellished with petals of love-me and love-me-nots. His benign face was mapped with wrinkles, his lips curved into a sickle of a smile. He plucked one long-stemmed, red rose from the bundle he held with the other hand. “Is it love your heart desires?”
She didn’t speak nor move, only stood there pensively encompassing the rose.
He withdrew a pink rose from the bundle and held it with the red one. His eyes glinted beatifically as he said, “Perhaps its happiness you seek?”
A car horn bellowed from the street, but it seemed to come from a cavern somewhere far away, echoing in her ears.
“Or...” he carried the two roses back to the bundle.
Disembodied voices bounced of the deep walls of that same cavernous place. “Watch where the hell you’re goin’, asshole!”
“You weaved in’ta my lane, you fuckin’ idiot!”
He looked the rose assortment over, keen eyes scrutinizing perfection.
(Beautiful)
He was beautiful. The image of him in all his mystical wonder silhouetted before a deep, diamond studded night. Her mind’s eye roamed through the dark evergreens, crossing chasms as if bridged; forbidden Brasov Hills...
“Up yours!”
“Kiss my ass!”
Hands so strong, so powerful, gripping her, threatening to never let go, to never end the deadly kiss. Total calm blanketing her in a velvety cloak, submitting to the taking, but the offering was soon, an offering of her kiss, to create a new life...
“Suck it ya... damn burn out!”
Eternal screams and cries piercing the night, searching for the mercy that was not there, now at rest under silver crucifix and withered ivory bloom from head to toe over black lacquered mahogany...
(...damn burn out...)
She yearned to look upon the clash of wills, love and hate, light and darkness, life and death, to rake away the seals of his dormant cell, to live again...
He withdrew its crisp pureness from the center of the bouquet. His face contorted with sinister felicity.
But her own will could not withstand the blistering shield of his prison...
(...damn burn...)
She would miss him.
(It burns!)
He held the rose out proudly before him. “Is it purity of the heart you wish to share?”
She teetered back on heels, faint. Stepping back she sighed. “No, I ...”
He moved closer to her. “No charge for a pretty lady.”
She flinched impulsively, a thin layer of heat suddenly washing over her. “NO!” she shouted. “I –I, thank you but no.” She turned and stole away.
Baffled by the woman’s strange behavior, the rose vender shrugged his shoulders and slid the ivory rose back into the bouquet.
She went two blocks before she found a deserted alley. In its darkness she slouched against a building wall, jittered. Her brow was beaded with perspiration. She opened her purse, withdrew a handkerchief and patted her face dry. There was no makeup to smudge, she only wore lipstick.
Damn-it! What the hell was she thinking? How could she have allowed for that to happen? She was famished, but that’s no excuse. Shit!
Regrouping quickly, she went back into her purse and took out a tube of bloodred lipstick and a compact mirror, there was just enough light to see. Deftly she smeared the lipstick over her lips, rubbed them together, then carried the round mirror up and kissed its face. The print was perfect. She rubbed the kiss off with the handkerchief and stuffed them back into her purse. Calmer now, she huffed a laugh: What a way to go stupid.
A shadow moved from the corner of her eye.
She looked over.
“And what’s a sweet doin’ all alone back here?”
“I was just leaving.” She made a move to go.
He shot forward, slinging an arm in front of her, bracing a hand firmly against the brick wall, trapping her. “Not till I say so.” He towered over her, hanging his head low to meet her eyes. His dark hair was ungroomed, a sneer was on his gristled face, and his breath smelled of cheap alcohol. He wasn’t a bum but a street thug up to no good. His voice was thick with menace when he said, “Are you working, or playing?”
Angel manufactured a confident smile. “To me, both are one in the same.”
A sadistic grin curved the street thug’s wormy lips. He brought a hand up to her neck, touched her, slowly traced the left cord of her neck with a finger down to her collar bone, pressing harder as he came to her chest, found a breast and cupped it. “I guess we’ll just hafta see about that, huh?”
He applied the mouth of the bottle to his own and took a strong belt of the whiskey, becoming smoother going down. He was beginning to feel cozily lubed. Right on time. He could feel it, it’d be soon. He’d made up his mind on a blond. A nice blond bitch. Like the first one. He remembered it well. It’d shocked him at first, when it began to happen, thinking he was twisted and demented for getting such a thrill out of it. Thrill hell, it was sheer bliss. So that feeling of self vice-delusion quickly passed. He wasn’t twisted and demented, he knew what he liked and was going to do what he liked and no one was about to stop him. He’d been going strong for months now. Though none could compare to that first one.
Yet, that is.
The same feeling he’d been searching for ever since. God, what a feeling that’d been. Explosive! It still came but no where near as intense. He’d nearly become desensitized – but not quite. He was sure there was still that one left somewhere out there that would send him soaring over the edge. He would find her and when he did he would hasten the moment when – Whop! – Oh, yeah, you bitch – Whop! Whop! – That’s it, thaaaat’s it, how you like me now? – Whop! Whop! – Oooo, yes, bring it all the way home bitch – Whop! Whop! Whop!
His tongue snaked out of his mouth and sloppily licked over his lips with engrossing anticipation, beady eyes shopping the sidewalks with predatorial instinct. Clubs, sex shops, snuff film theaters, cat houses, they’re nice every now and then, serving well for your mild type of guy, but for him they were too much like child’s play. Too much like work, as well. He liked to pick up and go, stop somewhere secluded and then let the games begin.
He put the bottle between his legs, snugging it against the throbbing bulge in his pants, and massaged his fingers into his palm. Warm, sweaty dampness. He wiped his hand on the leg of his blue jeans, grabbed the steering wheel and wiped the other hand over the other leg. He was anxious, more so now than on the several other past occasions. The demon fever rising to a boiling level.
He drove up to the red light of an intersection and halted at the white line of the pedestrian crossing. Other vehicles pulled up around his. He watched groups of Claxtonians as they walked by before him – Sheep herded through their fields of paradise, victims to their own mercy playing their fateful roles in his world.
The light turned green and he turned onto Bram Street.
Angel recoated her lips. Her first thought had been that the street thug was going to be a little feisty, the kind who threw in some rough play. Sometimes those were the best ones because she loved to put them in their place. There hadn’t been one thus far who she hadn’t been able to handle and whatever Mr. Thug’s intentions had been they were quickly forgotten once she’d put it to him. Like taking candy from a baby.
Now she felt totally revived, revving to go and her pulse quickened. One or two more and then she’d take to the clubs and have some real fun, paint the town red. She decided to scope out a strip she’d always done well on. A fresher sort seemed to prowl there more than the other strips, not to mention richer blood and wasn’t that what it was all about?
She dropped her lipstick and mirror back into her purse then made way up the street with the confident air of a runway supermodel gracing the catwalk in the latest vogue fashions of ultimate designers, switching ripe licking hips side to side from the twist of the balls of her toes. She felt exuberant and it didn’t go unnoticed. She wondered if she could ever be a supermodel in the big leagues. Wondered hell, she knew she could. She definitely had what it took to shake her little tush on the catwalk if you know what I mean, to do her little turrrn to the left, now turn to the right, sashay, sashay, and keep that chin up, cheeks in and shoulders back and fling that thing, and don’t hate me because I’m beautiful but even if you do it doesn’t matter because if you’re not this, this and that then you’re really nobody anyway so la-te-da-te-da.
Newwp, not her.
She could just see the trouble. Her being in the middle of all those goody-two-shoes, pretty little nose to the air, skinny virgin bimbos who were so much better than you and the only way a man could even hope to licky–licky and sticky–sticky that platinum plated cooty cat, or hell, even for them to acknowledge his existence was if the totality of his assets equated the digits of his telephone number. As if the spotlight elevated ones importance to the very tip-top of anything and everything that would ever matter and snatched the foul smell out of and potpourri’d your poopoo just like that. Trouble, trouble, there would be trouble because there’s nothing she liked better than to put such attitudes in checkmate.
Perhaps she could go for something a little less posh. Like food and drink and miscellaneous product model advertising in magazines and on billboards across America; eyes aglow, cheesing really big as if it were the bestest product ever and my life is so much more complete now and yours can be too.
Corrrn-baaall.
Better yet, something a little more up her alley, like erotica and lingerie – Oh yes, give me that look. (INSERT CAMERA FLASHES HERE PLEASE) Beautiful, yes, hot, so hot, you are on fire you sexy thang you: Lasciviously lolling back on silken pillows in a lacy red thing, her taut nipples and slightly raised mounds of their pinkish areolas puckered against and hazily shown through the transparent material, a matching thong deliciously flossing the crack of her milky white buns and tightly molding the plump lips of her sex in such a way that would make the Pope hail Mary, and the caption would read, “The untamed Angel, awaiting your love.”
She giggled.
Yeah right, that’d be the day. Though she might very seriously entertain the idea of getting into some sort of show biz someday, but currently her mind was avidly laden with something wholly different, and although it was seasonal it would be well worth the long miles traveled.
In the beginning, before any of this had taken place, it had sounded too much like fantasy – the life. Far from it. She learned how real it was the moment everything had taken full circle, and she did not in the least regret making the choice. And now here she was, no longer a mere fledging to the world, taking it on with a vengeance.
When she came to the strip she strolled until she found a spot where there weren’t too many other cats around to cramp her style. The fewer eyes on her the better.
Next to a streetlight she struck a tantalizing pose with a thrust of the hip, lit a cigarette and waited for the next.
There were other less violent ways in which to assuage these needs, he’d experienced quite a few, but none of them could compare to the real deal. The level of intensity could be too great to experience it any other way. It was always on his mind. He could be doing anything; at home watching the tube, at a service station pumping gas, at the grocery store handling the plastic wrapped packages of hamburger meat, smoothing the soft grounded redness into itself, stretching and dimpling the plastic skin with his fingers until puncturing into the juicy meat. Thoughts would begin to slither their way through the tectonic cracks of his mind, picking, probing, aiging at him. He’d fall into spellbound rapts of new ideas and techniques.
And the demon would grow, swell, and scream to be released.
The raging urge would become so uncontrolled that he could hardly contain himself until the time of his salvation and he’d have to quickly find a place in which to seclude himself so he could unleash it, freeing it from himself through something so, so...
Fucking bitch!
He drank from his bottle, wiped the dribble from his chin with the back of his hand. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel with his left hand, put the bottle back between his legs, and held the wheel with both hands spaced inches apart at ten o’clock and two o’clock. He squeezed, twisting the wheels rubber cover with both hands in opposing directions, enjoying the stretching sound of the tight rub, errr-errr,
Going to get it good tonight. Yes, real good. Damn, he felt like lashing out right now. He needed something so very sweet, so very bittersweet. He needed –
A goddess. None other. Exemplarily poised like Aphrodite herself. Her long blond hair were threads of fine silk. Her milky white skin, flawless and nearly glowing. And only one word for need in describing her body: erogenous.
It was her.
He knew it.
He felt it.
He placed the bottle in the refreshment holder hanging from the dashboard and excitedly reached under the seat, producing one yard of raw cowhide and two feet of stainless steel with a rubber grip, plus his “special” glove, and shoved them down to his left between the seat and the door. After a little head he’d get down to business. The element of surprise. Oh, what a jewel this was going to be.
What a dumb cunt. And the worst thing about it was that she didn’t even have a clue. Give her a bubble gum lolly-pop and she’d be the average, stereotypical, loquacious blond dits. It’s a wonder she made any money. Knowing her, she’d take a check. Or better yet, an I.O.U.
Angel continued to listen with half an earful.
“And I like told him, ‘That’s just groddy’. And he looked at me like all shocked and said, ‘Why do you say that?’ And I said, ‘Hellooo, normal people don’t do those kinda things’. And he said, ‘Who’s to say what’s supposed to be normal? Isn’t it about what feels good?’ And I said, ‘Well, like, there’s other ways to make you feel good besides doing that’. And he’s like, ‘Well, doesn’t it feel good when it’s done to you?’ And of course I’m like, ‘Yeaaah, but that’s different.’ And then he looked at me like I was crazy and said, ‘How do you figure?’ And I’m like, ‘Because I’m a girl’ And he said, ‘Well, you can’t knock it until you’ve tried it and if you go ahead and do it I’ll pay you the regular price for it and to also do the usual plus give you a tip equal to ten percent of the regular amount, and if you’re any good then I’ll come back tomorrow night – and this was two weeks ago – and he’d give me half the regular amount for the same and afterwards he’d tip me twenty-five percent of the regular amount.’ So, I’m like. ‘Wow, okay!’ And oh-my-God, let me tell you, it drove him crazy. He said I’m a natural and I should learn to perfect it. He said there are some guys out there who’d sell their soul to have that done to them. If it was done properly. He offered to teach me but said it would take a while to get it down pat, but I could do it and really get to rolling in the dough. So of course I jumped on it. Who wouldn’t. More money. Hell yeah! So like, we’ve been meeting every night now for an hour or so perfecting it. He said he’d like to have me all to himself.” She giggled bashfully. “But said he knew I had to keep making my money. He’s really a sweetheart.” She checked her neon orange Timex. “He should be here any minute now. He’s taking me to meet a friend of his tonight. He said this guy knows the secret of how I can bust a deuce. Yeah, I know, I must’ve looked the same way ‘cause I was like, ‘What the hell is that?’ And he said it was vital to learn, it was the key to proper fellatio. Whatever that is too, right?” She squinched her face. “You know what I don’t understand, though? Why do they end with lingus? Cunnilingus, analingus, I don’t get it.” She frowned, furrowing her brow in deep thought, and said, “Analingus,” as if to ponder this intellectual riddle. Lingus of the Anal. Analingus.
She shrugged. “Who knows?” Then she glanced into the street. “Oh! There he is!” She made several small jumps, boobies bouncing bralessly with an arm extended to full length heavenward, frantically waving a hand from the wrist as if it were detrimental not to be seen. “Hi, baby!” Bekkie yelled. She turned to Angel. “Bye Angel. I’ll see ya. Knock ‘em dead girl.” Bekkie skipped into the busy street – a girl prancing joyously toword her favorite carnival ride – and up to the yielding puke green LTD. She slowed abruptly several feet from the car and entered into some kind of prowess approach that looked more goofily humiliating than it did sexy.
Bekkie was too naïve for her own good. She was by far her own worst enemy. She was also the only girl working the red lights who liked Angel. She didn’t have enough sense to fully understand the emotion of hate or jealousy and the conditions thereof. To Bekkie, the world was one big playground and life couldn’t be anything less than peachy. Bless her heart. Angel wished she could wrap her up in a chain mail blanket and protect her. If not from anyone else, from herself.
Angel grinned. Imagining what Bekkie would be like if she were to give her that panacea, passing the gift on to her. Would Bekkie be the same dits or a hellion? Or both? A ditsy hellion. On the indulging tip Angel liked having females just as much as she liked having males but it just so happened that the males were much more convenient at the moment. She doubted she’d ever feel the want or need to augment her kind, or even possessed the great degree of want it took in going through the physically arduous ritual in the first place, anytime soon anyhow. So the thought of initiating Bekkie quickly dissipated with the cigarette smoke catching in the air.
Angel noticed the black Nova when it first passed earlier when Bekkie had been yapping away. The driver had looked as though debating interest. Part of the time when they look so hard they made a block for a second look or a pickup. This time when the black Nova came back the driver pulled to the curb a few feet cattycorner from where she stood. He looked over insinuating proposition.
Angel walked up to the passenger side window, it was already rolled down, and leaned down from the waist. The driver was young, late twenties maybe, medium build, healthy looking. No breakfast meat in this car. Just what the doctor ordered.
“Looking for a date, baby doll?”
For a moment he was held aback. He’d never seen such green eyes before. “A little half-n-half.”
“One hundred,” Angel said promptly.
He nodded without hesitation. “All right, hop in.”
She took a drag off her cigarette and tossed it to the ground. After she closed the car door behind her she instinctively slid a hand down the inside of his right thigh: I’m your date for the hour, sir.
After he pulled into the street, she said, “I know a place we can go.” If possible, Angel preferred to go to a place of her choosing and usually that’s where they went since half the tricks were out-of-towners and weren’t as familiar with the area.
But he already had a place in mind. He always scoped out a place before anything. He once took one back to his place but that wasn’t such a good idea anymore. Christ it wasn’t a good idea then. Nosey ass neighbors. “I know a place,” he said.
As he drove she kneaded the inside of his thigh with her fingers, slowly moving closer to his crotch. She could feel his heat on the inside of her hand. When she had first started doing this she would begin with a nice, slow sucking as the trick drove and by the time they’d arrived at their parked destination he would be all heated up like a slice of toasted bread ready for buttering. But now, with her new technique and all, she waited until they were safely parked, otherwise she could become too excited and get way ahead of herself and that was never good in a moving vehicle.
The brown whiskey in its bottle placed in the refreshment holder on the dash animated in tiny tremors from the vibrations of the car. Moving dexterously he grabbed a plastic cup shoved into the crook of the seat beside him, then grabbed the whiskey and poured a few swallows into the cup. He offered the remainder of the bottle to her.
“No, thanks.”
“Go ahead,” he insisted.
“I don’t drink,” she said concisely.
He regarded her bewildered, as if he couldn’t imagine a prostitute who didn’t drink. When offered they usually accepted. But there was a reason for his offering, when they tipped the bottle up he’d then discreetly look to see if an apple bobbed. He had his ways down to a science but sometimes if they did turn out to be of the same gender as himself, depending on how much of an aching containment was built up within him, he’d go through with it anyway. At times it had been even better. Though he still liked to know before hand what he was going to be up against, if he would have to begin by making sauce out of an apple or what. But this one here, he couldn’t see – no way could he see – this one having a pair swinging. Hell to the no. Everything about her screamed one hundred and ten percent female. Oh was he going to enjoy this one. Oooh-wee, he couldn’t wait.
He put the bottle back in the refreshment holder, drained his cup and tucked it back into the crook of the seat.
His excitement was furtive but she could feel it. She recognized the same feeling in all the others, like the rising climax of the crawl of a roller coaster just before it reached the peak of the first descent or the about-to-shit-your-pants anticipation of an intravenous blast of superb dope. She sensed this one as the kinky type, he liked a drama in his play. She’d give him some drama all right.
“Why don’t you go ahead, traffic’s slow,” he said, indicating eagerness.
“We should wait,” Angel insisted. “I’ve been known to cause wrecks.”
He leered dubiously at her. “Oh, yeah?”
She peeped her pink tongue between her lips, wetting them. “Eye twitchin’, and toe curlin’ action to die for.”
Like he hadn’t heard that one before. He drew his eyes back to the road, unimpressed. After a moment he crooked a look back at her. “You make ‘em wear somethin’?”
Rubbing.
“Wear something, as in?...” She let it hang in pretended innocence.
“A condom,” he deadpanned.
But gee mister, wouldn’t that make it so much less better?
“I like to taste what I’m working with,” Angel said, not so innocently anymore.
Well, coo coo cachoo to you. That put a monkey of a grin on his face. This one might very well send him straight to the moon...or down fifty flights. Vicious delicacy? He’d soon find out.
Rubbing.
Baiting was so damn easy. Pitifully so. Years before she never would have imagined herself being in a situation like this. It seemed like only yesterday – an innocent. In many ways, yes. What would Father think of her now? She’d been taught well but when it came to instinct one had to learn for oneself. True enough, acuity became more enhanced over time but the method of survival varied from one individual to another. You couldn’t very well instill an interest in something into someone who had absolutely no appeal in that particular thing or way of doing. They did what worked best for them and at the moment she was doing what suited her best, which was working like a charm. Innocence lost? Whatever. To her she’d been welcomed and accepted into a far more intriguing world. The ultimate panacea. The ultimate hedonism. The ultimate sin! Maybe there would be a price to pay for the choices she had made. Or, then again, maybe not.
He turned onto Magenta Lane, several city blocks away from the main hustle and bustle of the Claxton joys. The city’s life began to deepen and darken and peter out. It certainly wasn’t necessary to stray this far. In fact, she had spotted several places as they drove; back alleys, deserted lots. Probably a little skittish. She just didn’t want to have to walk all the way back. Oh well, wouldn’t be the first time.
He was surprised she hadn’t questioned him about the distance he was putting between them and the heart of the city. They normally started to become nervous by now, unsure and uncomfortable, but this one was relaxed, almost too relaxed. All the better.
He pulled off Magenta Lane and onto a side road dimly lit by high power poles. Storage units and closed small businesses flanked both sides throughout No.5 Feratu Road.
Not a soul in sight.
He went into a dark parking lot of a closed pawn shop and parked in the shadows to the side of the building where the car couldn’t be easily spotted from the road if there happened to be any passersby. After shutting the engine off he turned on the interior lights; having installed them himself they illuminated from beneath the dash and side panels of the doors, setting out enough light to see well from within but not enough to give away occupancy from afar. They wouldn’t be inside the car for very long anyway.
He leaned up, reaching for his back pocket. “I guess you’ll want the money first?”
She went for the waist button of his pants. “It’s not necessary. Let’s take care of this first, shall we?” She released him from the denim restriction, saluting to her hand. “My,” Angel said in awe. “Aren’t we blessed? Looks like I’m gonna get more than I bargained for.”
Oh you sweet, sweet bitch. If you only knew.
“You like it?” he said.
She caressed his hardness, massaging the taut skin with skillful hands. Feeling the heat within. “Mm-hm,” she murmured in a felinish purr, licking lips.
Watering.
Growing.
He moved his hips, thrusting, ever so slightly, upward.
Oh, you’re going to get it.
She bent down and took him into her mouth.
Growing.
He gasped, first feeling that split-second of warm breath and then the wet slather of her tongue, lips pursing tightly around him. Rolling his head back he closed his eyes, sliding a hand down, gripping, waiting, reveling.
Heated ecstasy.
His.
Hers.
Gently spiraling down into an abyss of white feeling. Sharp tingles prickling through every fiber of the body, seeking the sapphire tunnel to
(pierce)
paradise love.
Building up for the ultimate climax, the encore that will suck it all away. Wrenching the soul by
(draining)
pounding, like drums, two hearts pounding faster and faster, catching one another to dance in sync. The stronger heart leading the weaker, to pump as one, leaching, giving, taking.
Oh, God, she’s taking my – Oh, God, yes! Yes, oh yes, the light, most beautiful light leading the way, taking it all away.
Taking the love, gushing like an infernal geyser. Taking every last drop.
Plummeting now. Letting it go forever, submitting, to never stop, to never release his destined savior, master of masochism, mistress of his pain.
Her delectable savor; thickly rich, boozily taintly, evilly gratifying, scarlet love...
She leaned up, pinkish in color, wiping her mouth with her fingers, licking off the sweet, warm nectar of life.
“Well,” Angel said, with a devilish look on her face, “was that not to die for?”
His mouth was slightly agape, eyes glazed and blankly staring through narrow slits up into the faded interior of the car’s roof as if apex of nirvana had been successfully reached in his catatonic avidity. Skin, pale and drawn.
Compare that to a cat-o-nine tails, shoehorn and a spank-me glove, Angel thought with dark humor, regarding the tools of his masochistic pleasure tucked down the side of the seat to be used on none other than himself.
Angel laughed with wicked delight, a hint of a kryptonite–like glow just beyond the hooded eyes, darkened by the fuzzy dimness of the inside lights casting oily shadows that didn’t seem to be there before across sinister beauty. The two razor sharp fangs gleaming gorgeously in her mouth.
One more for the death toll Claxton. And what would Father think? Angel thought once again. He’d be proud. Some day she would free him from his coffin those bastards had sealed him in. But in the meantime, she had places to go and people to, well...Give it another week or two, maybe a quick visit to Mr. Dyson – mmm, yummy – and she’d head on to the next town. She’d caused a pretty big ruckus around here, time to lay off this town for a while. Plus she had a deadline to meet, she didn’t want to miss those northern lights. Now if she could just steer clear of those cursed white roses.
Alaska, sixty four days of darkness, here she comes...
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