Thor'sday Night - Paranormal Erotica

by Maria Isabel Pita

  ‘Not good enough.’

  She is so close to an orgasm that she has to stop touching herself, yet it is still a struggle not to come just imagining how good it would feel to have his penis comforting her crying pussy. ‘I want you to put your dick inside me, Jay, please.’

  ‘Where inside you, Carmen?’

  ‘Oh, God, anywhere, please…’

  ‘You’ll have to be more specific again.’

  His detachment makes her want to cry it is so cruel, because at the same time it turns her on almost more than she can bear.

  ‘Where do you want my dick, Carmen?’ he asks politely, pumping his erection quickly and lightly.

  ‘In my ass,’ she whispers fervently, and closes her eyes in shame. But the answer flowed out of her excitement unbidden; her mind had nothing to do with it.

  ‘Well, I think I can do that.’ He steps towards her.

  She collapses across the bed as if stabbed by how violently she desires him.

  ‘Bring your knees up to your shoulders,’ he commands.

  Her mind utterly blank with need, she does as he says.

  He dips a finger into her hot cunt, and transfers some of its rich moisture to her dry orifice. Then he grips her behind the knees. ‘Help me in, baby.’

  She reaches down and takes hold of his rigid penis with both hands. She is sorely tempted to pull him down into her pussy instead, but she wouldn’t dare, and much as it makes no sense, she really does want him in her ass again. But the angle feels wrong, potentially excruciating, especially when his helmet knocks on her backdoor and pain immediately radiates through her. Nevertheless, she clenches her teeth and begins struggling to let him in. ‘Oh, no, no,’ she whimpers, ‘I can’t, I can’t!’

  ‘Do it,’ he says tightly.

  He doesn’t have to threaten to punish her if she doesn’t obey him. The thought of not feeling him anywhere inside her at all is threat enough, worse than any possible pain. So she closes her eyes and makes a desperate effort to relax. It was easier when he forced himself on her; it is much harder having to willingly hurt herself. Yet she does it, she gets his helmet inside her, then lets go of him and clutches her comforter as he slowly pushes his way into her. The profound satisfaction she experiences is worth the torment, which is only a shadow cast by the intense pleasure as he forces his whole engorged dick swiftly in and out of her tight space, thrusting deep and hard as if intent on raping some deep, dark virginal part of her. And even as her eyes fill with tears, she loves the feel of his erection selfishly stabbing her ass. She loves it so much all she has to do is touch her clitoris again to come harder than she ever has in her life, or even in her dreams.

  *

  Carmen decides to kill the first endless half of Sunday by cleaning her apartment from top to bottom, including all those little nooks and crannies she usually ignores. Thoroughness is the only answer for her restlessness. If her friend, Carol, hadn’t moved up to New York six months ago, she might have spent the day shopping for clothes with her while fantasizing about Jay Westgate stripping them off her. She could have confided in Carol, tried to describe the storm of feelings going on inside her like a broadcaster pointing at a satellite picture of unstable weather fronts. Carol wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it, but just getting it all off her chest would have felt good.

  As Carmen efficiently pulls out all the necessary equipment and chemicals, she toys with the idea of calling Carol, but they are not as close as they used to be, and what she is experiencing is at once too intense and too subtle to try and express. It is as if a bomb went off that night in the Grove that is still spewing desires like shrapnel and hopelessly clouding her mind.

  She begins with a thorough vacuuming. It has been snowing cat hairs over her rug all week, and she wants to make the atmosphere of her home a bit less poisonous for Jay.

  Will had kissed her goodnight without getting out of the car as politely as if they had never stopped anywhere between her apartment and the gallery. He had invited her to the wedding he was attending today, an expensive affair out at Viscaya Palace for a daughter of the Chief of Police. She had politely declined, and he hadn’t insisted, just promised to call her sometime during the week. Then he teased her with another, deeper kiss, pulling her close to him on the seat and pressing her hard against him before he casually let her go again, and drove off.

  When she pulled the vacuum cleaner out Sage shot under the bed, and the minute she turned it on the kittens joined her. For a while Carmen gratefully drowns her thoughts in the vacuum’s roar, her restlessness somewhat assuaged by the rhythmic back and forth motion. Yet the vacuum’s beastly noise is still not as loud as the echo of Mike’s voice in her head saying, ‘Let’s do lunch.’ He has never asked her out to lunch before, and the invitation coming so soon after her transgression in his office… but pursuing this thought feels as dangerous as throwing gasoline on a fire. It is a threat to the present comfortable structure of her life, because if she gets involved with her boss, she will be out of a job.

  Part of her feels so guilty about betraying Jay last night, and then Will with Jay, that she can’t even think about it. Her sexuality suddenly feels like a fire being dangerously stoked from every possible direction.

  Jay left a little before two o’clock in the morning. She had wanted him to stay, and had made this clear by clinging to him. Curled up naked against his black coat she was as pale as her own ghost in the dark room. He had brushed her off as easily as snow, and gotten up to go. She asked him why he didn’t want to stay, and he coolly explained that he was in no mood to cuddle. He then said, ‘Be good,’ and left. Her gut instinct had been to follow him to the front door and secure a goodbye kiss – an official seal on everything that had been said, the joint signature of their lips on the contract of a relationship – but she resisted the impulse by vicariously fulfilling it through Sage, who let out an annoyed meow when he apparently left without petting her goodbye.

  Once she stores the vacuum back in a closet her felines slink cautiously out from under the bed. She then puts three CD’s into her player, presses Random, and starts cleaning all the glass in the house, from the TV screen to the mirror over her medicine cabinet. Next she polishes all the wooden surfaces, even going so far as to remove the books from the shelves where they might as well have taken root. Then she cleans the bathroom sink, the toilet and the bathtub.

  It is after one o’clock when Carmen falls back across her bed, utterly worn out but satisfied with the result of her efforts.

  She closes her eyes, rolls over onto her side, and curls up on the angel’s wing of her comforter. Thousands of feathers stuffed between two sheets help her forget how heavy her bones are, and how tightly her muscles cling to them… they ache to let go, but she is too afraid of the darkness waiting beyond this frail skeletal fence around her soul…

  Moaning, she shifts restlessly over onto her other side, trying to get comfortable…

  …She can’t forget that flaming arrow. She has seen it a thousand times in her dreams, just before she lands on the solid shore of her waking mind again. The burning shaft arcs beneath the white sky of her skull as her heart races with an awe that betrays her. She has never managed to stay beneath the surface of consciousness long enough to see land curving beneath the cold white fur of the fog, like the pale hips and shoulders of a woman sleeping with her back to the world… a cruel and beautiful goddess at odds with the compassionate warmth of the sun, and of the one God who offers salvation to all men except these…

  Carmen sits up abruptly, and a tidal wave of blood drowns her thoughts. The rush is so intense she holds on to her head as if it might float away. Finally, she is able to focus on her room.

  Through the open door she sees sunlight flooding her small living room like molten gold being poured into a mold.

  She makes an effort to remember what she was dreaming about, but the harder her thoughts try to grasp the emotionally powerful images, the faster they slip like water be
tween her fingers, eluding her.

  Her body is refreshed by the brief nap, but her brain feels as groggy as a sodden sponge, and a strange feeling of unease is trickling down her spine. It is at once imperative and impossible for her to remember what she was dreaming.

  She gets out of bed, splashes cold water on her face, and brushes her hair. She needs to get out of her apartment for a while.

  She quickly peels off her cleaning clothes, slips into a pair of tight black shorts, and tucks a short-sleeved white cotton shirt into them. She puts on her black-and-white sneakers, pockets a handful of credit cards along with her keys, slips on her sunglasses, smiles at her sleeping cats, and steps out into the radiant afternoon.

  For an instant that separates itself from the flow of time like a water drop, her ability to do whatever she wants to thrills her. She has finished her chores, and now she can just enjoy herself. For some reason this freedom strikes her as a miracle, like a golden baby chic in her hands, a precious pocket of time she should cherish, not kill.

  She decides to walk to Miracle Mile, and on the way she passes a large park with a baseball diamond in one corner. The whack of a bat hitting the ball carries so far in the crisp November air that she almost feels the impact in her chest. It is followed by screams of encouragement, drowned out by the urgent rush of a sports utility vehicle speeding by like the cry of seagulls lost in the crash of surf…

  …The sea. In her dream she was on a ship. She recalls the contrast of dark planks with the intangible whiteness of mist…

  Her own cry snaps Carmen back to reality in the form of a Rottweiler’s bared teeth. He growled and ran straight at her, but fortunately a chain yanked him back, intensifying his frustration at not being able to rip her throat open for daring to come so close to his territory.

  A few more blocks bring her to the playground behind the Coral Gables Elementary School. The beautiful old trees that surround portions of the Spanish style building were recently trimmed, meaning half their branches were hacked off in a landscaping version of a buzz-cut. It still hurts her to look at them. She hopes whomever ordered the mutilation had a damn good reason, because they didn’t appear to be threatening the school’s structure, and the long vines hanging from their branches had probably inspired many a young Tarzan. Maybe that was why the silent, regal life forms had been crippled – to protect the young of another species from their dangerous hunger for adventure, to curtail a human child’s natural urge to explore dark and twisted pathways in their dense green brush.

  She turns right at the school, then left on Ponce, and finds herself in the heart of the Coral Gables business district, deserted on this glorious Sunday. At three o’clock in the afternoon no one is entering or leaving one of the many little restaurants. Once she passes the open doors of the Colonnade Hotel’s shadowy bar and reaches Coral Way, however, she becomes just one of the many bodies out to enjoy the day by spending it inside stores.

  Her destination is her favorite bookstore, and a cup of coffee. She hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast, just an English muffin with strawberry jam she wolfed down before the god of housekeeping possessed her, so she believes she will treat herself to a cappuccino with lots of whip cream…

  Like the mist in her dream, roiling, endless. She can still feel its cold caress penetrating her dark brown cloak…

  Suddenly finding herself on the other side of Miracle Mile, she glances back at the rushing current of traffic, concerned by how completely unaware of it she was.

  The brisk walk has warmed her up, which makes her glad of the arctic air conditioning inside the bookstore.

  She buys her coffee, then walks leisurely towards the History section. She knows exactly where it is even though she has no idea what she is looking for.

  All sorts of intriguing spines catch her eye: Of Gods Graves & Scholars; Egypt In The Time of the Pyramids; Daily Life in a Medieval Castle; Serpent In The Sky. She needs to read more. Growing up she was always reading something. Now it seems she doesn’t have time for anything except working, exercising, shopping, cleaning and cooking. Her family no longer does most of these things for her. She is on her own, and as a result of the last few days, suffering an identity crises.

  Being the only one in this particular aisle, she is free to stand there sipping her coffee while gazing at all the books she will probably never read, and wondering what exactly makes her who she is. When she was a little girl, it was all the dreams she had of the future that embodied her unique identity. Now, dangerously close to thirty, she has been reduced to a statistical skeleton. In the eyes of the world she is just another female Hispanic-American college graduate employed as a secretary, single and childless. At least she is an attractive statistic, but not forever. One day, she will be just another old woman.

  Then she sees the spine she has been looking for, thin and black, with two italicized white words at the top: The Vikings. It is the only book on the crowded shelves devoted to the fierce Norsemen whose gods still live in the days of the week all over the English speaking world.

  She grabs the heavy paperback, and goes in search of a chair.

  She finds half an empty couch, sets her paper cup down on the coffee table, and settles down with The Vikings.

  She flips through striking color photographs of jewels and artifacts, ignoring the glances of the man sitting in the chair across from her. He doesn’t seem to be doing much reading, but then again, neither is she. Her attention span isn’t what it used to be. She can’t help thinking about everything that has happened to her in the last few days, and that doesn’t help her concentration much either. It seems all she cares about at this point in her life is men.

  With the book on the Vikings splayed open on her lap, she reaches for her coffee. The whip cream has dissolved into the muddy brown liquid, which is only lukewarm now and a little too sweet.

  She studies a picture of a dagger with a rough, corroded blade…

  She had never seen a man beat another man senseless.

  She had never let a man slap her. Violence. Forceful, politically incorrect men. Will’s badge was taken away when he inadvertently caused the death of three innocent people. Jay is seriously into Bondage and Domination. Mike, let’s face it, is probably harming the environment. He is vice president of a company that owns dozens of oil rigs and hundreds of ships, so God knows how many animals and plants and marine life he is indirectly responsible for killing.

  Is this why she is looking through a book on the Vikings on a luminous Sunday afternoon? So many other people attended church today, got in touch with their compassionate, spiritual sides. She, on the other hand, is thinking only about men and sex, violent sex, with more than one man.

  She tosses the empty cup into a wastebasket behind the couch, closes the book, and moves out of sight of the man who finds her legs more interesting than anything else going on in the world.

  Her sudden interest in the Vikings can be explained by the exhibit at the art gallery; Mike and Will were both there. And when she first interviewed for the position of Mike Peterson’s personal assistant, she remembers thinking he looked Scandinavian. That, and her vivid imagination fueled by her knowledge of history, can account for why she saw those spilled toothpicks as runes. Obviously, her subconscious mind is always hard at work weaving things together in intriguing ways.

  She buys The Vikings and heads for home.

  *

  She has just finished dinner – linguini with fresh clam sauce accompanied by half a bottle of Kenwood Sauvignon Blanc while flipping through The Vikings – when the phone rings.

  She deliberately takes the time to wipe her mouth and drain her glass before getting up to answer it.

  ‘Hello?’ she asks in her sexiest voice.

  ‘Hey there.’

  ‘Hi, Will.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. How are you?’

  ‘My, aren’t we formal this evening.’

  ‘Actually, I’m a little drunk,’ sh
e admits.

  ‘I’ll be right over.’

  She laughs. ‘I don’t think so.’

  He asks mildly, ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, I’m really tired.’ This is actually true. ‘All I’m good for now is a hot shower and bed.’

  The silence on the other end of the line has begun to feel dangerously bottomless when he finally says, ‘I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, I’m just tired. How are you?’ she asks again.

  ‘All right, I suppose. Good, actually. I won’t be a locksmith much longer.’

  ‘Really?’ She pictures him in full uniform, and her voice becomes a little huskier. ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He pauses for a heartbeat before asking, ‘When can I see you again, Carmen?’

  She has no idea when Jay is planning to show up again. ‘I’m not sure, Will.’

  ‘Look, if there’s someone else, just tell me and I’ll stop calling, okay?’

  She says quietly, reluctantly, ‘I already told you, Will.’

  ‘Then why did you suck my dick last night?’

  Now her silence is the one they fall into for a long, breathless moment.

  ‘Good bye, Carmen.’

  His tone jars her like hitting bottom. ‘No, Will, wait…’

  ‘Wait for what, exactly?’

  This time her silence comes off as open and promising.

  ‘I’m not going to put up with this much longer,’ he warns.

  ‘I know. Can you call me at work?’

  ‘What’s the number there?’

  She gives it to him.

  ‘Fine, I’ll call you.’

  He hangs up with a click that feels like a gun being cocked directly against her heart.

  Sage gazes at her from the couch with a sphinx’s profound indifference.

  Carmen sits there for a while unable to get Will’s deep, serious voice out of her head. She might as well be trying to fight gravity. Up until that moment she had been thinking of him as ‘just a cop’, and it hits her now how unfair that is. She is beginning to sense a depth to his firmness she had assumed wasn’t there because she was treating him like a stereotype, like a handsome and violent, and probably not that very well educated or intelligent, cop. Yet when Jay was beating her, and she was drowning in waves of pain, she was holding on to the thought of Will like a lifesaver – her lifesaver. She has been taking him for granted, as if he’ll always be there to bail her out of trouble. But he won’t be, not if she keeps treating him like this.