Published for Kindle |
Copyright © 2014 Teresa Wymore. All Rights Reserved. |
Lesbian erotica | Dark fantasy |
With false fangs I spent an hour joyously scaring troublesome boys up and down the street. It was Halloween, and I felt the night breathing.
I had not seen Maria in some time. She had found me once, but I didn’t know how to find her. I told myself I didn’t want to find her.
I needed no protection from the elements, yet I wore a long rain jacket and black riding boots. I walked around Sophie’s neighborhood before entering her back yard. Through drizzled windows, a light glowed. A man sat in a chair with his back to me. Another man I assumed was Sophie’s husband entered the room, and Sophie followed. The man seemed strategic, as if staging the scene, goading the audience.
Sophie was angry. I had never seen her angry. She flung her arms, her voice loud enough for me to hear its tone though not the words. The man in the chair didn’t react to the argument before him. Sophie pointed at him once before stomping from the room. Her husband shouted, and she returned.
She rushed at him, her face red. She shook him by the shoulders. She pushed him to the floor. The chair blocked my view. All I saw were their intertwined legs.
I resisted the impulse to intrude just long enough to see her rise.
Anticipating her, I hurried to the front yard. Moments later, her automobile came into view. I stepped into the street, causing her to brake. When I opened the door to her rakish Model A, she stared at me for a long moment before gesturing me inside.
She shifted gear and swerved to miss a group of belligerent boys. She asked what I was doing out so late.
“Don’t I seem scary?”
She glanced at me. Her expression sobered.
She blinked several times. “Let me get you home.”
“Let’s go somewhere and talk.”
“I should take you home.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m not telling you where I live.”
She drove in silence for a time before parking on the street. When she opened the door for me, she said, “They have good coffee.”
A short time later, we were sitting in a diner. The place was quiet enough that I heard the speakeasy downstairs. I would have welcomed a scotch, but Sophie probably didn’t drink even before the Prohibition law.
The usual neat bun of her blonde hair had dropped a few strands. The collar of her dress was unbuttoned too low for propriety. Her forehead shone with a trace of oil.
We didn’t speak for a while.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “He doesn’t listen to me.”
“Do you love him?”
“What do you think?”
“I think that’s a question, not an answer.”
She set both hands on the table as if she were going to leave.
I touched her hand, and she eased back into the chair.
Pie arrived. After a few bites, she said, “I know so little about you.”
I smiled and wondered if Sophie’s skin would feel soft. I wondered if her blood would satisfy.
After we finished our pie, she drove us from the city. The rain had stopped. The warm air drew a fog into the fields. She kept slowing, and I kept telling her to drive a little farther. She finally stopped and pulled into the grass.
She pushed strands of hair behind her ear and turned to me. “Are you going to tell me where you live?”
The dashboard’s chrome-lined lights made her blue eyes sparkle. I should have thanked her for the ride and let her go, but desire roots deep into another. Desire embraces, surrenders, dies. Desire consumed me, but when I thought to consume her, she began to speak.
She told me about her youth, first as a blacksmith’s wife and later belonging to a soldier. Her mother and sister died from influenza. Her father was a drunk who died from syphilis. She told me about the war with Sweden that took her beloved older brother, calling the battle an “eerie grace” that gave her new life. She had been married. She had children.
I couldn’t make sense of what she was saying. I knew none of these things. I saw no children. Her husband was not a blacksmith.
I had my own tale. I squeezed her arm and said, “How many choices are weighed by thoughts of a future? What if you’re wrong and the grave is the end? If this moment is all you have, Sophie, what will you do?”
She wasn’t the first person I had asked. I asked these questions of many. I tried to liberate them from superstition. They tried to free me from desire. I was an accomplice to a monster’s decision made two centuries ago. I was the architect of a choice made every day since then.
I kissed her lips. She pushed me away. I kissed her again and felt her tantalizing heartbeat. I rubbed my palm across her soft cheek.
“Listen, Sophie,” I said. “Just listen.”
As I described the scenes of my life, she awakened to the awful truth. Though her stare was bracing, she remained calm.
I was ready to feed when she pulled me close, her warm flesh against my cool cheek. She took my earlobe between her lips and then her kisses grew hard. She murmured words that were lost on the skin of my throat. She kissed my neck and soon I began to ache, as if a fire were burning my dead heart to life.
Her mouth pressed against mine and heat filled my chest. Her tongue was soft and insistent. Her panting stirred something in me.
A rush of weightlessness sent me spiraling among crows and lightning. Feathers rained onto me like black snow. I blinked away the vision and tried to lift her dress. I tore it instead.
My hands slid under the silk of her panties, around the firm curve of her hip. I tried to draw her against me, to feel her warmth more deeply, but she pushed me backward. The door kept me propped up as she began to unbutton my dress. When it lay open, she grasped my hips and pulled me flat on the bench seat. She began to untie the stays of my corset.
My hot rush had nowhere to go while her steady fingers delayed my release. Her eyes held mine as she worked at the ribbons. The icy glint made her appear desperate. Her jaw was tight, her body more so.
When my breasts were freed, she cupped them in her hands. Her arms were slender but muscled, her hands small but strong. I marveled at the astonishing creaminess of her breasts. Larger than mine, they hovered above me. With trepidation I touched her as if I had never touched a woman before.
I wrapped my legs around her as she drew my lip between hers, sucking gently before seizing the other. She pressed her breasts against mine, and our mouths struggled against each other. She licked my cheek and bit my lip. I sucked her tongue.
Her breath was earthy, her skin moist. Her body resonated with the exhilaration of a wild horse, and I tried to hold it, to tame it, but it wouldn’t be controlled.
Her hips rocked against mine. She writhed, her rhythm driving my own. I slipped my hand between us, down her soft belly, down between her legs, reaching the patch of little curls, when she grasped my wrist.
Into my mouth, she whispered, “There’s so much pain in the wanting.”
She pulled away and sat back on one heel, her other leg balancing her on the automobile’s floorboard. My legs were spread, thighs quivering. The cold air filled the empty space between us. I reached for her and missed as she left the automobile.
I was unsteady on my feet when I went for her. She tucked one side of her torn dress in under the other and watched me fall into the grass.
Like a dog, I gazed up from my place at her feet. She peered down with a smile. The ease of that smile made a lie of the desperation I had seen earlier. Only then did I realize how much I was feeling, how much I wanted, how alive I was.
Sophie was far from the woman I thought I knew. She had entertained the darkness. She was the night.