Inside Bill’s Shorts
by Bill
compiled and edited by Susan Strict
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2006 Bill & Susan Strict
Published by Strict Publishing International
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Fire
She stared, leaning back on her elbows, her legs slightly bent with her feet up on the marble and her beautiful ass between him and her. It was one of those moments that seems to last too long. He said “hi” to her, of course, but she never said anything.
Maybe, he thought, he was mistaken and her eyes were not on him. He turned his head and looked across the fireplace, to see if she were staring at anybody else. She wasn’t. And the party raged on, just a noise of high-class talk that came out low class garble and formed a wall between them.
The sweat began to cool his forehead, not wanting to talk to him, not wanting to look away from him. She was a very pretty woman. Blonde, a little skinny, with long, beautifully boned bare legs and a bare foot that was so close to his head he could smell it.
The polite grin on his face subsided as he turned his eyes to meet hers. A silent exchange of thoughts or maybe just of hormones. Not a word. Then calm and cool as can be one leg moves away from the other and the slight movement of her hand just below her hip tightens those exposed hotpants into no more than a thong: less than a thong. Bare flesh stares.
Eye level, she slid on that polished marble stone, a clean slide, gently walking herself closer to him. He lowered his head, sunk into her, and she wrapped her legs around him.
And all of a sudden the room went silent.
* * * * *
There was one woman in a beautiful dress and with her long, black hair tightly propped up who stared so intense, her jaw dropped open like a thing you could distinguish between fear and ecstasy. A shock to her system, a captivation from which she dare not look away. Her glass of champagne began a quiver that made you wonder if it would drop on that beautifully white-carpeted floor.
The man standing next to her, though highly intelligent, was an impressionistic dolt. Moments hit him broadside and in the forehead, and his eyes locked. His face turned to marble; a fixed, statuesque expression of chiseled horror and disbelief.
It was like riding a pony. She had crawled down from that marble mantle and locked onto his face like a heat-seeking missile. It was a screw so intentional, so precise and so far beyond embarrassing that it pulled them both down to blocking the fire’s view. A pair of hands that seemed to push the back of his head too hard, and a breathing between the fabric caught in and against, and rubbed with a friction that burned as hot as the dancing flames...
The life of the party. And the soul.
Their breathing seemed to strike their audience like fists, especially hers, a breath like a sprinter’s who had to always change her mind to find her second wind. She seemed a belch that would blow wind in everyone’s eyes...
In a way, they were clumsy. The fireplace was split level marble off the floor, but that did not seem to bother him as his bones bent under her weight. He was a thing that seemed to mold to the hardness like a jelly until she rolled around on her back squeezing his head with her hands and her thighs, and folding around her legs around him, around him. He followed... yielding.
The fire popped behind them, making some lady in the cheap seats shudder and scream. It was no more than background noise.
As she screamed a man screamed too, strangely and inexplicably. A few people knew him, people in the corner of no consequence. A businessman or something, important in his own shallow way, and it was a scream of anger. No one knew why. No one cared why. Few even heard or listened, and it did not bother the two performers; an average scream from an average man.
His bushy eyebrows coiled down in a snarl, his face turned a deep, deep red and for a moment or two it almost looked like he was going to go over there. But he stopped, and stared that way through the trees of pillared people oblivious to him.
Time went on. Time stood still. His sexy grip around her hips began to loosen and you could sense the tension and the wonder in the room. Somebody even moaned as his hand, the left one, plopped down to the floor with a slap of dead weight... exhausted.
I don’t even think they knew what they were doing. They just did it... whatever “it” was. Bored, I guess... A boredom that took everyone by surprise, all but one.
Some of the silent watchers wanted to make her flip around back on top and have a caring sympathy for the stranger. When a woman, any woman, is propped up like that over top and she gets sympathetic, it is the sexiest of things. A caring caress on his cheek with her hand, and a relaxing. Together.
Some of the silent watchers wanted to make her stand up, with her smaller than normal naked breasts poking huge nipples out her shirt, and then strip off those hotpants. Then she would stand over top of him, above that man nearly half-asleep and staring at her with eyes so captivated. She would look at everybody in that high class room staring right into their eyes and not give a damn about what they were thinking, not even caring that they were there, just blankly acknowledging their presence and telling them she did not give a fuck about them.
Slowly then, she would squat back down and have the sloppiest, most erotic, most pissing fucking meticulously sexy orgasm anybody had ever seen. Some even wondering if he were dead...
One lady fainted.
Knees. It is all about knees, fainting. I know. In the military once George Bush Senior came to make a speech. He said he wanted lots of blues there so they asked for volunteers. Like a fool I raised my hand and we stood at attention for so long listening to that speech in a grassy field in the hot sun. Then I heard them; I felt them in my feet as their bones hit the ground. I even remember thinking to myself: “How cold are you, Mr. President?”
They tell you not to lock your knees, because when you lock your knees you trap the blood and you faint, kerplunk, with a tiny tremor in the grass. One by one they fell.
That lady fell; knees locked.
Watching amazed? Wishing? Envying that blonde’s bravery, and now ecstasy. She could not possibly be embarrassing if she had tried.
Her knees locked she stared... she squinted! At how she so lovingly wrapped that vagina bare, naked and slobbery wet around his face in a determination so public... She did not even breathe. It is amazing how long you can go without breathing.
And there was a man, a macho man, a man of war, who said: “Oh my God!” In high-pitched whisper under his breath, pretentiously trying to hide his curiosity, unsuccessfully.
Another woman seemed to have a wonderful glow on her face. She could not help herself... squeezing herself in, and swaying in a silent, solitary dance. Buttcheeks under proper and luxurious dress bulging and blossoming to be set free. She grabbed her partner by the neck and kissed him on the cheek... a kiss, not a pucker, but a wet one that left spit stringy behind. He did not even notice what she had done. You saw her breath; an icy cold.
When it was all done and the orgasms were over wonderfully slow, she stood up, put her hotpants back on, and went to get another drink.
She just stared out the window, as if nothing had happened.
Rising Sea
“It’s a needle.”
“A needle? What for?”
“We don’t know yet. To inject something, I suppose.”
“Inject what?”
“We sent it to the lab...”
Jan McDonald walked over to the window where a huge cargo transport floated by, quiet and scary with its secretive mass... as if out of nowhere, but passing in a few seconds to once again reveal the beautiful yellow sunset.
“Is she some kind of biological experiment?”
“What? You mean like a government weapon?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t know... I suppose it’s possible. All I know is I wouldn’t want her on top of me.”
“I still don’t understand why she didn’t put up a fight.”
“That’s another thing,” the lab technician said, scrolling through the papers in the folder he was carrying. “I think she did.”
Jan turned, another weird look on his face. “What?”
But the technician looked uncomfortable about what he was going to say, even apologetic. “You’re gay, aren’t you?”
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
“We found an unusually high level of pheromones. I think she did attack you, and you didn’t realize it.”
It felt like I was on fire when she touched me. It felt as though every cell in my body had burst in an agony I cannot describe.
Her love... My horror... And she is one of many.
* * * * *
Jan hated police reports. Paperwork. Far too much paperwork. His job was out in the field, and yet the captain was all old school. No shorthands, no shortcuts, everything had to be hand written in full, and meticulously documented.
That was why he decided to leave the part about him being gay out of the report until he knew more about the case. Captain Dufree would go on and on about it, being the asshole that he was and, although important, it was a distraction for now...
“I heard you had some excitement?” Doug Pitson asked, leaning over from the desk next to his as though afraid to move too far from his computer terminal.
“Excitement isn’t the word,” Jan said as he picked up a black and white glossy from his desk.
“Holy shit,” said Doug. “She’s something special. Shame isn’t it?”
“Shame isn’t the word. That’s a god-damned tragedy. What did she do? Pull out a gun or something?”
“No,” and Jan finally dropped his archaic pen to give Doug the attention he was demanding. “She was sitting on a guy...”
“Sitting on a guy?”
“Sitting on a guy. Naked, sitting on his face.”
“What?”
“...and eating his flesh...”
Doug stared at him, losing interest at once and not listening any more. “You’re an asshole, Jan.”
“Thanks, shithead.”
As Doug went back to his own work, Jan decided that Doug’s reaction would most likely be what he would also receive from anyone else.
“The Captain wouldn’t be much different,” Jan thought.
“She was sitting on his face sucking his fucking life away like a god-damned soup,” he said aloud.
“Shut up.”
And Jan went back to his work...
* * * * *
While cars and trucks and people movers float past the windows in mid-air, Jan goes on with his work. He is a cop, and yet he is not a cop. It is his job to look out for the unusual, the potentially dangerous, and anything that might threaten to tear the thin fabric of society.
When Jan uncovers something that makes the most bizarre sexual perversions look like child’s play, it is all he can do to convince anyone of its reality – and its danger.
They cannot believe him, at first, because it is unbelievable. A whole secret sexual fetish group of mutated women whose vaginas have become “essence suckers”, paralyzing any man who is sexually attracted to them, taking strength from their desires and eating them by fucking... sucking them up. Sex is not sex any more for them. Instead, it is an eating, and between the woman’s legs is a mouth for a stomach, but a stomach of a totally different kind.
Although these women look completely normal outwardly (with or without their clothes), part of them is a lot like a jellyfish with its many stingers, and each needle of those stingers is some kind of a transferal organ. It takes whatever that man is and feeds from it, like a tiger would eat a antelope.
And this guy Jan finds virtue in his homosexuality for a kind of immunity to the weird milky atmosphere they can, at will, pull over their victims.
His captain does not believe it. He thinks Jan is bullshit. Jan knew he would think that.
* * * * *
It is a war, a war of seduction because one of the mutants has made up her mind that she is going to have Jan. Like a serial killer, she is totally confident that nothing can stop her. No man has ever escaped her before.
She finds the task irresistible, as though she has just discovered a deeply buried pot of gold and she is determined to dig it up. It is a hunt, and she is sure that the kill will be inevitable once she has trapped her prey. It is a dance of seduction, but more than that it is the pursuit of the unattainable – unless Jan has another side to him underneath his homosexuality.
And Jan will win? Or is there really any winner?
Or is it no more than porn, a playing of the hormones for the readers’ benefit?
* * * * *
She came from out of the darkness like a cat on the prowl, pouncing on a mouse and determined to sink her claws into him. He clambered up, fighting the fear and fighting the milky darkness swirling over him to take him beneath it and beneath her. His world flickers, threatening to desert him.
He climbs, sweating. It is a battle, without so much as a single slap or punch, a single hold or knockdown. Still he remains conscious, and he knows he has won. Face to face now, and such a shiver never was unless in madness.
There she falls. Collapsing in terror is that mutant creature who never knew fear, and even now does not know the fear that itself has brought her end.
And there is the twist, because there has to be a twist. Homosexuality triumphs, naturally, because that is ‘politically correct’. That is not the twist. There is far more to it, or far less.
There is more to life than just sex. It hits you between the eyes, like a breath of fresh air at first – and then like a hammer of disappointment.
Chemical Dependency
There is a new kind of aphrodisiac. Like ecstasy, this is a dopamine brain agent that, when a woman slips it into a man’s drink, makes him dive to no end... a slave. Her slave.
Like that song “jagged little pill”, the lucrative underworld of sex finds a way to get even for women... turning men into monogamous, hopeless sex slaves... unfortunately with the side effect of not being able to get hard.
“You won’t need it,” one woman tells another. “Just slip this in his drink and you have him all night.”
“How does it work?”
And after a long pause she comes up with an analogy: “You’ll think he were dying of thirst, and that you were the only well in the desert...”
It was torturous, the anticipation. She waited, her mouth always opened... and salivating... for the party to be over and for them to be alone together. And like a witches potion the tablet dissolved in bubbly excitement at the bottom of his cup.
She knew she was too obvious too... that her acting was flawed... that her face wore like a mask the expression that she wanted to eat him alive. But he drank it anyway. A toast... and down on his knees the spit dripped from the side of her mouth in a fantastic stare at what she had done to him... slowly pulling up her skirt.
“See?”
The hardest of concrete... the coldest of floors... becomes a cotton baton world... rolling... enjoying... stealing away the monotony... the walls between them. Rolling around like he were a plaything...
And he was.
He was...
* * * * *
“How was it?” She asked... And, sipping on a straw, her lips could not hold in the suction any more... they were smiling.
“Some times it hurt though...”
And her friend immediately replied: “Oh! You’ve gotta tame them... You’ve gotta climb on top and smother them... Take away the energy. It can get a little rough...”
“Tame them?” she said sipping the rest of her drink. Smiling. It was not really a question.
* * * * *
The guy wakes up in her bed... 2 o’clock in the afternoon... a morning guy too... Always up by 6. His head is pounding with a headache he cannot begin to describe. Not even remembering the night before, he picks up the phone and calls in sick. He goes into the strange bathroom and finds some aspirin. And then she comes home...
She walks in the bedroom door expecting an empty obligation, but he is there, and she is only slightly irritated. But when she sees him properly and the expression on his face, then she is concerned.
“He’s sick.”
She runs over in a panic to the side of her bed. Now you see him clearly, a strange sadness in his face. A distance... a crying. He puts his head in her lap. “Wha?...” And he goes at it again.
Worried... a little. Caring, like a mother... She opens up her legs and rests her hand on the back of his oily hair. And she sniffs. It is an all too casual: “What have I done?’
The doctors will diagnose him mentally ill...
So? It has to be the quick fix for psychosis. Have a pill. Truly American, and neutral. A chemical is a chemical is a chemical, and it does not care who or what you are. I just... I just am.
And you may think you are a man. You may think you have what they call “manhood”. You don’t. All it takes is a little bit of feminine lust to hook you backwards, to make you worship, to make you totally dependent. Like a child. A whirlwind of uncertainties about what you are, about who you are, and about what you should be. Should you be something? Should you be anything?
She loved that man so much. She loved him for so long... sometimes? She loved him so hard it seemed as though it was not even real, that it was one of those special effects things... like Godzilla versus the monkey man or something, until, finally, she lost interest. An orgasmic pimple-pop of puss that once gone left nothing but a hole... and a man sick, psychotically so, and damned to a life of psychosis.
She felt guilty about it for a while, but she finally managed to forget it after a lot of support from her friend... who did it quite routinely.
She called it: “Revenge.”
Her friend? Yes her friend. Don’t forget her friend.
Is she strange? Maybe she is strange in a real sexy sort of way. She cannot be perverted. I just do not know. Something put the notion into her head that she was special. Because she was a woman she was different, and because she was different she was not bound by the constraints of society, of man’s society. The rules did not apply to her. She was woman.
Her fetish is not really facesitting as much as it is motherhood. She loves the notion that a man treats her like a mom, depends on her. And she has these intoxicated hideaways of these men. Men? Man? Some? Many? Many.
She has paid them to stay with her, to please her. As soon as she walks in the door this guy, sometimes two... run at her and hug her lower body, just like a child would. That is what she paid them to do, but now...
They are not children to the observer. What are they? What is she? Is it a motherhood insanity? Whatever it is, she finds it irresistibly sexy and intimate.
She is a rich, beautiful woman slipping through the feminine cracks of acceptability. She is a woman of many secrets. She is...
Interestingly enough, she is impotent. It is not the wrong word. I am not explaining it. Work it out for yourself.
* * * * *
She pities them... a lowered eyebrow... a downward stare... and a smirk on her face as she slides forward and buries them underneath her.
Using them... degrading them? Her sexual stimulation is sinister and diabolical... like only a mother could know about as an imposter.
She will grab them with her thighs, outstretch her back and hold up her arms to adore the distance between them, bobbing their heads in her lap with her distant screw.
A sick third tit...
And then a pull on these leotards... wrapping up their skulls like she was putting on their fucking diapers.
Holy shit... if she was not so hot looking, I’d puke.
The Eye of Satan
Stem cells are extremely fascinating, and particularly fascinating to the drug industry that, by the way, lacks no resources for research. If you think that a law regarding regulatory ethics is going to stop some greedy, rich bastard already intent on finding the fountain of youth, you had better think again. If you consider for one moment there is one of them who would give up a monopoly on a cure for everything ranging from the common cold to cancer, you are completely crazy. They write those laws for the little people like you and me, not for people like those.
Ongoing now for the past several years, there has been a laboratory super secret experiment with this fascinating progeny: a tiny little cell that is capable of just such a “miracle”. But with something so powerful socially, ethically and morally, comes side effects. Perhaps they are not as powerful in and of themselves as the cure, but they are damn close especially to people like us who do not know a “we don’t nation build” from a billion.
“Fresh meat, that’s what they told me. A step back and a new direction, unclouded by anything that’s gone before, I guess, quite unclouded by even considering the ethics of it. No committees to answer to because no one even considered it a possibility. They just stumbled upon it...”
James looked towards the ceiling, as if begging a higher power to give him the right words.
“It is quite incredible! Magic! Lieutenant, I am a man of science! I don’t believe in God and the devil! But what we have here...” He shook his head in disbelief.
“I know about stem cells, Doctor.”
“No! No! Not just stem cells! There was a power there! A real, tangible power!”
“A tangible what?”
There was a long pause, and then Doctor James Tillman went off into an incoherent gibber.
“What do you do when the cure is worse than the disease? We were so close! So close... and then, like out of nowhere this... THING! This... presence! Took control OF EVERYTHING! OF EVERYONE! Irresistible feeling...”
Lieutenant Brock turned and stared a sarcastic stare to his colleague standing next to him, a sergeant in the San Diego PD, who had his gun drawn. And sniffed.
“Doctor Tillman? You’re under arrest for the conspiracy of murder of Jack Becci, Reginald Long, and Randy Seevers. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“It’s too late. YOU’RE TOO LATE! She escaped...”
* * * * *
It is hard to believe that the end of the world started in an elevator.
It is hard to believe that the one unifying power in the universe, the power that separated us all from nothing, was in her stare. All of a sudden the weight of a thousand feet was standing on his head.
Beauty was not the word for it. Power was not the word for it. All he knew was that he was to kneel while she slowly, incredibly,.. approached. His head jerked back as if invisibly struck by lightning, jerking at something nobody but he saw, and banging against the cheap plastic wood of that elevator wall.
“Please...” he cried, while her dark shadow, a tight and short flexible skirt and blouse, encroached upon his upward stare.
She lifted a leg, and he was gone.
* * * * *
You could blame the scientists, but you would probably be wrong.
You could blame her, but again you would be wrong.
In their “quest for the gecko”, the stem cell research that should be no more mysterious than discovering how a gecko can grow a new tail, they found something else.
It was there all the time, of course. The force of all life in the universe was standing right beside us all the time, waiting to be asked. And yet still they missed it, finding instead the hunger that devours life and mistaking it for life itself.
No one admits to knowing how they did it or why they did it, but you cannot blame her. Tall, dark and beautiful they created her, with all the human desires and lusts wrapped in that faultless body around the evil, devouring hunger.
* * * * *
They unleashed her on an unsuspecting world, and she unleashed something... something far darker, far more sexual, sensual, final, elemental. An imbalance?
She has no choice. It is far too powerful for her, and far to powerful for each man she meets. Resist? Not in a million years. She is human; a human mind trapped in a Life Sucker with an irresistible lust to have man after man, to devour man after man in search of the perfect orgasm.
A rush, more powerful than any drug induced ecstasy, and in true Gaian fantasy their life force flashes, sparkles and bursts to rejoin the force that just is. Gone. Absorbed into dark, into The Dark.
Husks. Less than husks. Devoid of life. Inert. Sucked dry in her predatory orgasm.
* * * * *
Who could possibly criticize their motives? To cure multiple diseases, maybe all diseases with a minor genetic change must be any scientist’s dream. And there, standing right there next to them, was one of life’s energy forces promising everything they had ever dreamed and more. Perhaps they should have realized they could not possibly control it.
She was once a scientist, once one of them. Now she has become a life eater, a sexy behemoth of seduction, Gaia herself gone mad with the power of creation and destruction from the beginning of life itself within her.
She is gone before they know it, weaving her path of destruction through man after man. Eventually they catch up with her, to overpower her and control her. They might as well have tried to stop an earthquake.
Communication, reasoning, surely she must know what she is doing?
She knows. She is conscious, human, lucid, reasoning, and the power within her laughs at them. She knows. And the force knows. And the force overrides conscience, disabling it, rejecting such human nicety with desire. Desire? Yes, desire to take men by the face, to stick them between her legs, and to suck up their life force.
* * * * *
The eye of Satan is man’s take on the divine...
* * * * *
Incidentally, they find out through ancient myth, that the only way she can be stopped is to chop her head off...
* * * * *
Though powerful and infinite, the force she has is quite familiar with humanity... familiarity does not negate evil... and she grows. Not in size, but in the recognition of what she is doing... The black box is a place one can only go in... and the further you go in, the more able you are to understand it...
Each orgasm is a schooling, a learning. Knowledge transmitted directly to the brain, knowledge of life, knowledge of man, knowledge of the universe, and each man is one more fact that increases the awesome divinity of her devourings.
With each it takes her longer for the fingers on her hands to outstretch... and the toes on her feet to outstretch... and her eyes to close... and her mouth to open... and nostrils to flare... and for her to be lost in the orgasms. And she’ll look at them... a downward stare just before it is too much to take... and see... what she is doing. A face within a face...
In fact, the force she has is quite inviting to her. “Understand me,” it says, “I am your God.”
And she pities them... that is how she is stopped.
Hundreds of men; it might have been thousands. Hundreds of empty husks each pitied more than the last, until one rolls tiredly free.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Her mortal mind? Or the knowledge of the life force? A swirl of impossible and unthinkable emotion.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Long enough for him to grab a double edged sword and swing.
Give Them What They Want
A callgirl is like a distant planet, so hard to reach. So hard to get to. And her distance is not a thing she wants, but a thing she thinks a necessity.
“I’ve done things you wouldn’t believe,” is what she told a friend of hers once.
Things eternally segregated to the world of perversion. Men things... Macho things... Things that only someone sick could come up with and believe is somehow “sexual fantasy”. Old men... Young men... Men you would think would never or should never think about such things... I am a secret agency, she says. “I am a professional.”
And her humility makes her capable of a selfishness cloaked in feminine factor, in impossible love affaire made possible by her.”
It’s the one thing I really enjoyed,” she told a female cop, one of the many who arrested her. “It was a satisfaction unlike any other,” she said.
Picture her asking these many men what they wanted her to do, and picture her doing it. Pretending it was satisfying... Putting the expression, willfully, on her face. Consciously... again and again... and in the back of her mind coming up with one of many she found adorable.
“Didn’t you care?” asked the cop. “Didn’t you care that you were killing them in this way?”
“Oh... yes... I cared,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I cared so much...”
It was an unreal fantasy that became real. A woman, once asked to take all her distance from the men she were forced to love, and manifest it into an event unlike any other in the perverse underworld.
She was asked to murder them. Not with a gun or with a knife but with her sex, covering their mouth and nose until... well, until the end. She was asked to murder... to provide them with an ultimate fantasy that at first she could not believe, let alone understand. But she felt it more deeply and more sincerely than she had ever felt in her scattered, meager career as a high priced prostitute.
“The high price kept me sane!” she said.
“They wanted it!” she whispered a scream with a sharp look in their eyes. “They wanted it! And I gave it to them...”
They wanted their deaths...
And she gave them what they wanted.
“They were the only ones I ever loved.”
* * * * *
After it was all over... the pressure was gone. The presentation... the acting... because now she was alone... and with a dead corpse.
She wondered about it. She played with its hair. She slapped its face, certain it should react. It never did.
“What kind of a man were you...” she whispered in its ear. A time alone... A leg more comfortably propped up on a man’s chest than it had ever been before... A time of sincere intimacy. A time with Death.
And then she would feel the instrument that took their lives away... She would feel it for a long time until she no longer had the urge to feel it. And then, somehow, she knew it was a justice.
She would close her eyes and sleep her sermon... and dream... an orgasm of what a man could be. Of what her dreams used to be...
* * * * *
By the time the police had caught up with her, she had already killed thirty-two men. One by one. One night at a time...
Some were sick. Some were mad. And yet some still were just curious.
Can you imagine?
“There was one man who’d only heard of me and found the niche so sexually arousing that he wanted to pay for his suicide. And don’t think I was cheap... because I wasn’t.”
“So you murdered a healthy man?”
“Healthy? What kind of healthy man wants a woman to kill him for the arousal?”
* * * * *
Men’s sexual fantasies are a world few women would dare to explore, often intruding into horrors that even he himself would never explain or discuss, even with himself. Yet here the object, the vehicle of their fantasies turned on them.
“Smother me,” he said. “Smother me underneath you, that’s my fantasy.”
And she did. With no option of him changing his mind.
This woman was normal.
Is that possible? Of sexual stimulation of the feminine kind being of anything other than satisfying was beyond her. Is that normal? Is that normal? Is that normal?
The “Hitler Syndrome”. Guilt manifests itself into the quest for self-destruction. Their obsession has so much control over them that ultimately they kill themselves, their actions and desires become, inevitably, their end. It was not a woman who killed them, nor a sick mind. It was a fetish, an object... a manikin.
They want it to get even. They want the perspective. Like a demon, the obsession takes control of their rationality and puts them in vulnerable positions of submission... deliberately and willfully.
She knew it. and it turned her on. She even, where the cases demanded it, suggested that they not back down... that they let her... do her thing.
When she walked into those secret hotel rooms she got so wet... it dripped down her inner thighs... The orgasm waited for the outcome.
Inside of her screamed years and years of sexual frustrations... of humilities that should never have seen the light of day... by rights. A dollar value on the insane... it screamed, like a latent feeling of incredible power in the pit of her stomach, to find vent, to find the real path.
Kill. Kill them. She had always wanted to kill them. She just had not known it.
It was not her sex appeal. It was not her lovely long legs, nor her round ass that somehow resembled a finely polished sports car. It was a wrinkle just behind the eye, a sign of age, and the reality that this was all there was...
Some dream weaver in her brain had been backed into a corner where it came up with a solution it could live with...
* * * * *
What did she see when she stared at them in those final moments, their beaten red faces tucked tight between her thighs? Not a man. Certainly not a man.
A thing. A poor, obsessed thing whose obsession was a deformity. It was a mercy to put it out of its misery...
* * * * *
“And what about Robert?” Patricia asked.
And she was surprised. Even in the gloom of that interrogation room, she showed the will to hide.
* * * * *
She stared at him unable to sleep. Her hero. The dark light, a cozy comfort and calm, her wannabe husband opposite the bed with a glow on his face.
“I’ll take you away from all this. You don’t ever have to be a prostitute again.”
He told her with everything her tired mind could come up with as being the perfect love affaire. Anyone else would have been happy. Why wasn’t she?
Is it a mental illness? The thing about perfection is that most of the time you cannot trust it. Warm becomes cold; cozy becomes uncomfortable; your surroundings rematerialize into a depression’s reality. Almost like your consciousness just slid outside itself, as if dodging all the right answers like you were playing some perverse kind of a game.
When she stared, water in her eye dripped down to the bed from the corner of it, mistaken for a tear. You could barely see a pale impression finding its way in to the look on her face. It was smooth and soft... and practiced.
“Mmmmm...” He mumbled, still sleeping as she moved him, pushing him down to where she could get her legs over his shoulders...
* * * * *
“Robert was a fool,” she said.
* * * * *
Muffled choking sounds, repetitive... like puking air from deep within the tightened cocoon of sheets she had wrapped around her torso, like some incredibly sexy pose. Tucking the slack underneath his head like a propped up pedestal. Thick and warm down-filled satin sheets covering just above the belly as she rolled bare breasted, grimacing in her pillow... Squeezing his struggles out of him like a balloon. He may as well have been in a clam’s mouth...
* * * * *
“He wanted to help you.”
The tears fell from her eyes before she said: “It would have broken both our hearts.”
* * * * *
That was probably the worst night of her life. Crying, tucked away in a dark corner of the room that only the light of the dawn uncovered were those two naked people, one dead, the other wet with tears. She held him with her back uncomfortably against the corner, his dead body between her legs, his dead head pillowed on her chest, and she held him like a dead dream, shivering cold... and with the face of a woman who had lost it all. A face terrifying to look at...