Hot Blood: Seeds Of Fear Part 18

Sure, I'm curled up behind stone-washed jeans and briefs so old they're barely attached to the waistband, but I have ways of finding things out. For instance, I know Joe's chin is about twelve inches closer to the bar than it was about an hour ago, thanks to three whiskey sours.

It's almost Zero Hour at The Wail-Eyed. The beautiful people have already paired off and headed out for the Jacuzzis. The remaindera"Joe includeda"are trying to decide just how desperate they are. Scan the options. Christ, what are we still doing here? Catch the bartender's eye. Things'll look better through another highball. Is it worth the night's warmth to wake up with someone you'd cross the street to avoid in daylight?

No, she's never gonna grace the cover of Cosmopolitan, Joe thinks, but when was the last time you were out with a model, huh? I try to tell him don't bother, it won't work, but does he listen? Of course not, he never does.

Back at her place, they clink gla.s.ses, dim the lights, and pull back the bedspread. She steps out of her slacks. Revealed are thick pasty-white thighs that would look better in front of a Greek temple. I don't want any part of this. As a matter of fact, I try to crawl back up inside.

"It's okay. We've both had a few. Let me see what I can do," she offers.

She starts working me with her hand. I suppose it's good enough for the moment, because I stand up at attention. But it takes too long, and when she pulls away I begin to wilt like an hours-cut blossom on a hot afternoon. She stretches back against the stacked pillows. Joe positions himself between her knees. Both of them move with the exaggerated care of a lush trying to walk a straight line under the trooper's steely glare.

Talk about loose lips that could sink s.h.i.+ps! I mean, let's face it. Great s.e.x boils down to the gradual buildup of friction. Without something to work against. . . well, forget any fireworks. For all the friction these two have, they'd be better off trying to start a campfire by rubbing two bars of soap together. It's like diving into a spongea"no, worse, more like sinking into a platter of Jell-O.

Joe closes his eyes, tries to conjure up the face of the little nymphet in the skin flick he jerked off to last night. No good, his head is making him feel like the mattress is turning barrel rolls. She squeezes his a.s.s, but I'm already in retreat. Joe slumps to the side with a groan.

"S'all right," she murmurs, rubbing his shoulder. "We'll try again in a li'l bit."

Luckily they curl up and let their eyelids shut. Within minutes they're snoring in each other's face. By the time morning arrives, I'm ignored, quickly tucked away like some embarra.s.sing old uncle who drools uncontrollably out of the corner of his mouth. They politely blow each other off and scurry to work.

I've got to do something. I can't go through that again. It's time to take charge, for Joe's sake as well as my own.

I wait until the following evening. Fortunately he didn't try to hit the bars; too much to do the next day. I let him drift into REM sleep. I despise looking in on his dreams; they're so predictable, I can't even get a Peeping Tom thrill out of them. Oh greata"his mother, in a see-through negligee, pirouetting in front of him. Gimme a f.u.c.kin' break.

I begin forcing the tissue I'm made ofa"the corpus spongiosuma"back up into the rest of Joe's body. The spongiosum contains cavities I can engorge with blood a"that's how I pop a b.o.n.e.r when I need it. I begin supersedinga"supplantinga"the normal muscle tissue with my own.

It's easy as far back as the s.c.r.o.t.u.m, the a.n.u.s, and the seminal vesicles. But all that's familiar territory. It's more difficult once I reach the lower abdomen. The deep abdominal muscles set up some resistance. I realize I can't encompa.s.s them entirely. I'm going to have to settle for a less-than-total takeover.

Deep within his Oedipal fantasy, Joe feels something moving up inside him. His stomach churns, and he draws his knees up toward his chest. I have to be careful. I don't want to make him so sick he wakes up. All I need is for some doctor to discover penile tissue running throughout Joe's body. Joe groans low in his throat and turns to the other side.

It's slow going up through the chest cavity and along the spine, but it gets easier with practice. By the time I'm spreading down through his arms and legs, I feel like an old pro.

It's a lucky thing the body works as a democratic unit.

I have the majority vote.

A week later. Joe's back at The Wail-Eyed. He tried to line up a date for the evening but hit bottom like a diver belly-flopping into an empty pool. I'm doing my best to keep him from drowning himself. He knows he came in here wanting to get blotto drunk. But now, three hours later, he's still on his second drink and doesn't even have a buzz on. He's been making eyes at this brunette, but she's hanging out with a bunch of her friends. Besides, she's not any better-looking than Miss Hand Job. As a matter of fact, I'm surprised she doesn't have a wheelbarrow beside her chair, to help her cart that a.s.s around.

No, I didn't go to all that trouble so we could judge a dog contest. I'm more interested in the blonde in the corner booth. She's almost too beautiful to be in here. She's wearing a short floral print dress with a low scooped neckline. Her hair is piled on top of her head, with golden ringlets spilling down either side of her ears. Her legs look as if they were made just to wrap around Joe's waist.

Now, of course, Floral's playing footsie under the table with her date, the Missing Link. He's so broad, he nearly pushes her out of the booth. Joe took one look at him before and promptly filed Floral in the drawer labeled "Ones That Got Away," but I've got ideas of my own, and now I've got the means to carry them out.

The brunette is raising her gla.s.s. Joe is about to walk in her direction. But Floral and her date are getting up, heading for the door. I have to make my first overt move. It might as well be here, in front of a crowd. This way, Joe can't afford to freak out. Since I now control the spongiosum tissue in Joe's body, I can make him walk wherever I want. He's the new Pinocchio, a marionette without strings. I swing him in behind Floral.

For a moment, Joe continues to face the brunette. He can't understand why he's walking toward hera" yet her face is getting farther away. Then he realizes he's going in the opposite direction. "What the f.u.c.k?" You got it, Joe. He begins to reach for the bar, a table, to stop himself, but I force his arms to his sides.

We step outside, several yards behind the first pair. We've got to walk half a block to the munic.i.p.al parking deck. Joe is swinging his head left, right, down, up, trying to make sense out of what's happening. He's not making himself walk, he didn't want to leave the bar, so what the h.e.l.l is going on?

The parking deck is old, and the city fathers, in their infinite decrepitude, have never seen fit to install adequate lighting, which is just fine with me. The pair had to park their sports car in one of the shadow-cloaked corners. Joe's heels sc.r.a.pe against the concrete. I can't help it; I haven't had enough practice yet. The Missing Link looks up and squints. "Help you, buddy?" That's what he says, but what he really means is, "You wanna turn around and walk the other way fast, a.s.shole."

Joe shakes his head. He still doesn't know what he's doing here. "I'ma"uhhma"I'm sorry . . ." Let him mumble, I'm already moving. First I kick the car door. Its metal edges slam on either side of Link's fingersa"those little bones just above the first joint. Link bends and clutches his hand, howling (suitably enough) in primate fas.h.i.+on. I'm already lifting my foot again, catching the bridge of his nose with my boot's steel toe. There's the sound of a twig snapping. Stuff leaking from Link's face darkens the pavement.

Floral is screaming: "Nonono!" Joe's shouting too. "I'm sorry! I'm not doing thisa"I'm really not doing this!" I clamp down on Joe's jaw muscles. I don't want him alerting all downtown.

Floral hesitates. She isn't sure whether to check on the Missing Link or turn and run like h.e.l.l. In that moment of indecision I have Joe grab her wrists. Her bones are thin enough I can grasp them easily in Joe's left hand. I pin her arms above and behind her, on top of the sports car's roof. With Joe's right hand, I reach into his coat pocket and withdraw a roll of electrical tape. Earlier that evening, while he was reading the newspaper at his desk, I made his hand reach into the side drawer and pull the tape out. He never even knew he put it in his pocket.

Floral manages to get out one or two good screams, but using Joe's right hand and his teeth, I get the tape around both her wrists and her mouth. She's wrench-ing her entire body from side to side, but I've got too good a hold for her to break free. I work her dress above her waist and yank down her panties. She tries to put a knee in Joe's face but only succeeds in grazing his temple.

All the while Joe's saying, "Please! I'm not trying to hurt you! I don't want to do this! I don't know what's happening to me!" I let him talka"but not too loud.

She doesn't listen, she can't be listening, she's tossing her head from side to side, her hair coming loose from its barrettes, whipping Joe across the cheeks.

"I can't help it!" he cries. "I can't make myself stop!"

I use Joe's hand to loosen his belt, his pants, tug down the Fruit of the Looms, and I'm driving between her legs, and I realize it was worth it, all of it was worth it, every second, she's already damp because she'd been antic.i.p.ating the Missing Link's primordial p.r.i.c.k but now she's got me, her c.u.n.t shudders with fear and revulsion, yes, all of them should be terrified of their lovers, I'm not gonna last long, but what it lacks in duration it's gonna make up in intensity, and anyway this is only the beginning because, because Now I am not just Joe's p.e.n.i.s.

Now I am Joe.

WHAT YOU SEE.

Paul Dale Anderson.

Who do you want to be tonight? she asks herself. Sandra? Marsha? Cynthia?

Cynthia, yes. Cindy for short. Cindy is s.e.xy, sinful. Full of fun. Tonight she wants to be Cindy.

Hurriedly stripping off her daytime persona to leave behind a scattered trail of discarded business attire and conventional undergarmentsa"nylon half-slip, panty hose, bra, white cotton pantiesa"littering the plush hallway carpet between master bedroom and bathroom, Cindy softly hums the theme song from Gypsy. She flings the brightly colored plastic shower curtain aside, her playful mood quickly escalating to near mania. She steps into the tub, adjusts the water temperature, yanks the curtain back into place, twists a plastic k.n.o.b to divert the flow of hot water from spigot to showerhead, and luxuriates in the sheer sensuality of thousands of tiny needles pounding her shoulder blades and stinging her naked flesh like a cat-o'-nine-tails.

Her nipples instantly harden; her inner thighs become slippery and wet; a warm flush flutters her tummy as soapy fingers caress her tendermost spots.

After bringing herself to multiple o.r.g.a.s.ms with erotic daydreams of the night yet to come, Cindy shaves both legs and carefully trims scraggly strands of curly hair from her pubic thatch with her father's straight razor. She rinses off and towels herself dry.

Gaudy makeup comes next: eye shadow, eyeliner, and lipstick. Then she selects a long, blond fall, one of dozens of expensive falls and wigs that line her makeup table like trophies line the huts of South Seas headhunters. She expertly shapes and blends the soft synthetic human hair into her own closely cropped natural hair with the consummate skill of a professional hairdresser.

Nipple rings? Should she wear nipple rings?

She rummages through her jewelry drawer to find a pair of delicately crafted twenty-four-karat two-inch-diameter gold rings, pokes thin hypoallergenic wires through tiny holes piercing the center of both nipples. Delicious thrills sensitize her body as she tugs both rings to be sure the wires are securely seated.

On impulse, she spreads the lips of her v.u.l.v.a and attaches a third ringa"this one a long, slender, razor-thin piece of jeweled metal that clamps tightly to her c.l.i.toris like the jaws of a vise.

The image that stares back at Cindy from the full-length mirror on the other side of the room is extremely beautiful, too beautiful to be believed. Didn't Mother always say Cindy was far too skinny and sickly looking for her own good? On closer inspection, she grudgingly admits Mother was right. Without an inch of fat to spare, her image appears delicate, fragile, easily fractured. Like a porcelain doll that will shatter to thousands of sharp shards if touched by human hands. Her skin, too, seems unnaturally pale; there should be telltale tan lines decorating her chest like military campaign ribbons, but there aren't. And her firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s, though more than ample for her height and slender frame, are neither as large nor full as the cover girls that pose for Cosmo or Vogue.

She makes a mental note to visit a tanning salon. A few more pounds might add an inch or two to her bustline, hopefully without ruining the rest of her figure. Why should she settle for anything less than perfection? Mother would insist she shouldn't.

And Mother is always right.

At twenty-eight, Cindy thinks she can easily pa.s.s for twenty-foura"maybe even twenty-two, if the lights are right. She's young enough to be attractive, but experi-enced enough to know how to exploit a woman's hidden a.s.sets. Mother would say it's the best of all possible worlds.

She is the same age her mother was when she was born.

Toying with fabrics in the walk-in closet, she decides a red half-cup bra under a peach-colored silk see-through will be perfect tonight. A matching red garter belt, peach-tinted nylons, a magenta thigh-length leather skirt, and red patent leather pumps complete the outfit nicely.

Should she wear panties? Yes? No?

Wouldn't Mother be mortified at the thought? Not wear underwear? Mother would kill her if she knew.

But Mother isn't here now, and Cindy is a grown-up girl who can make her own decisions.

She decides to leave the panties at home.

"So this is where you live," Alex says. "Nice."

"I inherited this house when my parents died," Cindy tells him. "I've lived here all my life."

"Bet it costs a fortune to maintain a house like this and the grounds," Alex whispers appreciatively, strolling around the huge living room, examining the fine furniture, the gla.s.sed-in curio cabinets, original framed oils on all four walls. "How do you do it? Everything looks so neat, so clean, so spotless. So perfect."

"Why, thank you," Cindy beams, pleased he noticed. Most of the pretty boys she met tonight at the club wouldn't have. That's why she picked Alex: He has a certain sensitivity she finds attractive. "A landscaping service takes care of the yard," she explains, "but the house I do all by myself. My mother taught me that cleanliness is next to G.o.dliness. I've never forgotten a thing Mother taught me."

"No wonder I haven't seen you out on the dance floor before," Alex says, only half-jokingly. "You spend all your time cleaning."

"Not all my time," laughs Cindy. "I'm the chief executive officer and chairperson of the board of two international corporations my father founded. Most of my time, I'm sorry to say, is taken up by business. But I really don't want to spend all night talking about business or cleaning house. And neither do you." Cindy crooks a finger in Alex's direction. "C'mere, you gorgeous hunk, you. The bedroom's this way."

As Cindy climbs the carpeted stairs to an upstairs bedroom with Alex following closely behind like a lovesick puppy tied to a leash, she allows the short leather skirt to inch slowly up the backs of her thighs.

By now there should be absolutely no doubt in Alex's mind that Cindy isn't wearing panties.

Alex can't believe his luck. Not only is this prime-looking b.i.t.c.h h.o.r.n.y as h.e.l.l, she's also richer than Rockefeller.

A college junior, Alex was Friday-night bar-hopping with two half-drunk cla.s.smatesa""looking at girls, not for girls," they lied to themselves as they put away beer after beer in bar after bara"when they discovered s.e.xy Cindy gyrating on the crowded dance floor of an upscale nightclub out on the beltway.

Instantly smitten by the really seductive way this older woman's tight a.s.s wriggled beneath her incredibly short leather skirt, the way her half-hidden b.r.e.a.s.t.s jostled the front of the see-through blouse, the way her piercing eyes scanned and measured each of them in turna"promising heaven on earth to anybody man enough to fuel the fire in those eyesa"the boys picked a place at the bar where they could ogle the woman's every move without being obvious.

"She's not wearing panties!" Ernie relayed over the music, becoming so excited, he slipped off his barstool and nearly sprawled face-forward on the floor. "I swear she flashed me a live beaver!"

"Shut up and sit down," Alex shushed, embarra.s.sed by his friend's drunken display. Alex was acting as the designated driver tonight, carefully nursing his own drinks to keep a clear head and stay within state-enforced legal blood-alcohol limits. "No need to blow your cool, Ernie. She's probably wearing flesh-colored bikini panties or a thong." Alex squinted his eyes, scrutinizing the hem of that short leather skirt bobbing oh-so-dangerously close to crotch level, a man might imagine almost anything. "You can't see well enough in this light to tell the difference," he concluded.

"I think I'm in l.u.s.t," Ernie groaned, downing his nineteenth beer of the night, and immediately chasing that one down with a shot of Jim Beam. He signaled the bartender for another round.

"You're always in l.u.s.t," Alex said disgustedly. But then, he mused, his eyes zeroing in on interesting shadows dancing around the woman's crotch, so am I.

When the dance ended, the woman excused herself to her dance partnera"a muscle-bound thirty-something wearing a half-unb.u.t.toned s.h.i.+rt that showed off his gold chains and steroid-induced pecsa" and headed for the ladies' room.

"Show's over," Ted sadly lamented, killing his watered-down scotch and setting the empty gla.s.s on the bar. "You guys ready to move on to the next watering hole?"

"Not me, man," protested Ernie, beginning to look a little green around the gills. "The whole room's spinning around like the tilt-a-whirl at Kiddieland. I think I'm gonna puke."

"Warned you not to mix bourbon and beer on an empty stomach, didn't I?" Ted said knowingly. "Maybe if you eat something solid, you'll feela""

At the first mention of food, Ernie lurched from his perch on the barstool and rushed straight to the john, a protective hand over his mouth.

"Guess he's done for the night," said Ted, shaking his head. "You wanna split before he comes back? Let the a.s.shole catch a cab?"

"Here," said Alex, flipping Ted the car keys. "You go. I'll stick around and make certain Ernie gets home okay."

"You sure? The night's still young. We could always. .h.i.t a few strip joints ..."

"I'm sure," Alex said.

After Ted left, Alex asked the bartender to phone for a cab. Then he headed for the men's room to check on Ernie.

And b.u.mped into the blonde.

Up close, he could see she was older than she looked on the dance floor. Suddenly he felt like an immature teenager with a crush on his eighth-grade English teacher. He couldn't move. He didn't know what to say.

"Do I have to crawl over you to get by?" she asked because Alex's solid bulk blocked the only way back to the dance floor from the rest rooms.

"You can crawl all over me anytime you want," he offered, surprised by the brazenness of the words coming from his own mouth. He couldn't believe he actually said that. He licked his lips, then literally bit his tongue.

Her eyes roamed his body from head to toe. "If I were to crawl all over you," she asked seriously, her voice indicating newfound interest, "what would you do?"

"I'd lick your p.u.s.s.y until you begged me to f.u.c.k your brains out," he said, still biting his tongue. It sounded to him like he said, "I d.i.c.k yewsy ilew egg ilew uck ur ainsout."

"Think you're man enough to f.u.c.k my brains out?" she asked.

He reached for her hand and, without thinking of the consequences, moved her fingers straight to his fly. "Think you're woman enough to find out?"

Her eyes locked his in a battle of wills as two of her painted fingers touched the tab of his zipper, tugging it down. Down past the dangerous snake uncoiling in his jeans. Down, down, all the way down. As far down as his zipper would go. A curious smile curled the corners of her eyes as the same two fingers slowlya" oh, ever so slowly!a"crept inside his open fly, around the elastic edge of his Jockey shorts, made intimate contact with his bare flesh. Made him jump. Made hot sparks shoot through his nervous system like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

"You'll do," she acknowledged, withdrawing her hand. "Let's go before I change my mind."

"Go? Go where?" Alex asked in a daze, awkwardly fumbling to zip up his pants before anyone else saw he was wide open.

"Why, my place, of course," the girl said, making him feel stupid for asking such a dumb question. "I'm going to give you a chance to f.u.c.k my brains out."

Cindy takes her time undressing.

She has already undressed Alex. He sits, completely naked, on the edge of the bed, watching her every move, a throbbing erection between his hairy legs.

Cindy loves the look of rapt attention fixing his face. He seems so young, so innocent, so expectant. So hopeful. So perfect.

He is the exact same age she was when her parents died.

She peels off her see-through blouse, drops it to the floor by her feet. Her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s, spilling over the tops of the half-cups, ache to be touched. She reaches up and touches her flesh herself, squeezes her own firm flesh as if she were kneading bread dough on a kitchen countertop. Alex is forced to watch all this from the edge of the bed. She has forbidden him to touch her until she gives explicit orders. The prolonged wait is meant to torture her as much as him.