by Christian, M
He orgasmed into her belly. She giggled afterwards as she lapped him clean, that she was no longer hungry. She had fed on his spunk.
Clara had the ideal mouth for sucking cock, Allan reflected. He loved to see her lips stretched around his thick erection. Once, she'd pulled away, just as he orgasmed. His spunk splattered into her face. Allan was mortified, and felt that she was justified in ordering him to clean her face with his tongue. A woman in control was a new situation for him. He liked it.
They'd left for the small village of Castleton the next morning. It was remote, surrounded by high, forbidding peaks. But their spirits were lifted. They were almost in reach of their destination.
The day was fresh and bright; the sun glanced off the grey peaks. They had new horses, and their mounts sprang forward eagerly.
They made good time; they reached the inn at Castleton by mid-day. If only, Allan thought afterwards, they had not decided to tarry. If they had shown discretion. Changed out of their luxurious clothes. If he had enquired quietly the route they must take to the Peak Forest Chapel; instead Allan had purchased ale, for the local drinkers. He was in a mood to celebrate. The Landlord had explained to Allan that they had to travel the gorge through Winnat's Pass. A forbidding range of rocky hills, beset by robbers, who would kill unwary travelers for a piece of gold. Allan scoffed at the suggestion. He was from the mountains of Glencoe; he'd dealt all his life with the threat of ambush and attack.
He should have been quieter; not drawn attention to their journey.
They'd left mid-afternoon. The summer sun, still bright on Clara's auburn hair. She'd been smiling her wonderful smile, her teeth white and bright, her cheeks dimpled. She was so happy.
He should have been prepared for the ambush. They were about thirty minutes into Winnat's Pass when it came. Five or six burly men, wielding axes and clubs. Their blood curdling shouts echoing through the hills. The men from the Inn. They brought down their horses, the beasts screaming in terror. They threw Clara over the pack horse; jeering as her skirts and petticoats lifted in the brisk wind, exposing her white thighs. Allan, they tied, and marched him back the way they'd travelled.
They were taken back to the Inn at Castleton.
When they were kicked down the damp, stone cellar steps, Allan knew that they were done for.
The robbers took their money. Two hundred pounds. Allan would have given it gladly, for their lives. He pleaded for their lives; exactly as Clara had told him he'd pleaded in her dream. They gashed his neck with an axe. His blood spurted from the wound; he sank to his knees. He watched, horrified as they beat Clara to death. They hit his head with a pickaxe. Just before he slipped into unconsciousness, he heard one of the men remark that they would have some fun with her.
They found her at the bottom of an old mine shaft, some four months later. She was ragged, but not yet rotting. The cold had preserved her body.
They buried her, quietly, in the grounds of the little church where they should have been married. There was no headstone. Just a wooden cross. Allan kept vigil at her graveside.
It was November. The ground not yet frozen into its winter chill. When it was dark, black enough for privacy, Allan picked up the shovel and started to dig.
When the shovel clanged against the coffin lid, Allan stopped. He opened the coffin lid. She lay, wrapped in her dirty muslin shroud. Her lips pulled back from her white teeth in a snarl. Her fingers clawing, her fingernails snagged, and broken.
She came to him later that night, scratching at his window pane. Allan knew it was her.
It seemed to him as if he were asleep and in asleep, dreaming. But he felt wide awake.
His shoes were still muddy with clods of earth from the grave. He opened the window and let her in.
His Clara. Beautiful still.
Icy wind blasted through the open window, flecks of snow flickered in, whirling around her.
Her cold, dead fingers clung to him. She knelt, whimpering, clawing at his erection. Allan unbuttoned his fly. She wrapped her shrunken, dead lips around his cock. Her rotting tongue lapped him. He let out a bestial roar, as she sank her teeth into his erection, biting down hard. She bit right through; his cock, dangling, attached by just a few thin threads of membrane. She chewed through the vein in his groin.
They found him next morning, dead and cold. His blood soaked the rush matting. The window open, snow on the sill. Allan lay on the floor. His fly undone; his cock bloody and chewed; gnawed. Something unholy had happened here. The serving maid fell to her knees and prayed to God.
They called in the visiting preacher. He spoke of the devil and evil. Of the dead being raised for depraved purposes. He spent the night in the room to pray to God, for cleansing. He emerged in the morning, pale and trembling.
When the serving maid cleaned the room for the next occupant, she found six tiny, white, sharply pointed beads scattered on the floor.
She stared at them curiously.
The serving maid, whose name was Emma Louise slipped them in her pocket. The surgeons would pay good money for them. Once she'd worked as a lady's maid, to a wealthy spinster. The wealthy spinster was toothless. Her surgeon had made her new teeth, fashioned from the teeth of a dead woman.
THE GHOST IN THE MACHINEKAREN TAYLOR
What's my kink, you ask? I have many. I am quite versed in the use of whips, knives, and rope. I can also boast of my prowess with lovers, driving them to ecstasy, leaving them sated or begging for more, whichever best suits me.
But my true kink, the thing that draws my attention more than any, is the clever turn of a phrase.
Balthazar Dantalion Shelemoh Malachi is my full name. A rich, spicy mouthful for anyone. In these contemporary times of 140-character commentary, I use nicknames, or just my initials. Surrounded now, by people who rattle off my initials thoughtlessly, I retain my presence with very little effort. That thoughtlessness brought me here.
It happened in a leather bar. There, during a new moon, marking the shifting from one ancient month to another, a curse was shouted.
And oh, such a curse! Dredged out of her memories of bedtime stories from her bubbeh, a sloe-eyed high-cheekboned Jewess spat Yiddish at another of her tribe, a curse last heard uttered with that vehemence in Góra Kalwaria, Poland.
It was a long and descriptive curse, a luscious mouthful beginning Zayn mazl zol im layhtn vi di levone in sof khoydesh. Her luck should be as bright as the new moon. And the end: Zol es im onkumn vos ikh vintsh im (khotsh a helft, khotsh halb, khotsh a tsent kheylik). Let what I wish on her come true (most – even half – even just 10%).
You need something that pithy to bring forth a dybbuk.
We are souls, hovering between the quick and the dead, our punishment for lives filled with malice and evil intent. Once in a great while we can be freed from our torment when called by a living being to wreak our havoc. We cleave to the one cursed, until exorcised by a rabbi. Yes, we are Jewish undead, bound in a demonic relationship with our Jewish mishpocha through the centuries.
The last time I was called up, it was simpler. People believed in dybbuks then, and it harder to hide our presence. Drawn to mischief, we made our victims sleepwalk, spout Aramaic, dance licentiously, and generally embarrass them until a rabbi would perform an exorcism. But in this modern world, where Jews live next to non-Jews, where Jews call themselves spiritual while never learning the morning prayers, we dybbuks are few and far between.
However, when we are called, we can stay a very long time.
My first foray into the contemporary was tossed in impeccable Yiddish at a leather community titleholder contest. Aviva, the aforementioned descendent of a rabbinical family from Poland, was the culprit. A luscious zaftig woman, wearing a corset that contained and accentuated her assets, Aviva and a half dozen other women were being paraded before an appreciative audience, being expected to demonstrate their intelligence and beauty and be judged upon it. It brought to my mind the story of Esther, of the Purim tale, brought for
th before the King. But Aviva was not the one chosen to wear the crown (or, in this case, a leather sash studded with the name of the bar). That reward went to a honey-haired girl named Levitt wearing scraps of silk and glitter. Her grey-green eyes narrowed in the pleasure of the applause as she preened and strutted the stage. The other women on stage gritted their teeth as she passed before them again and again, never acknowledging their presence. Finally, Aviva stepped forward to offer her hand in congratulations. The Levitt girl stared at it as if it were diseased, and hissed "get out of my way, you worthless fat cunt." In that mysterious way that such things happen, there was a lull in the crowd noise, and the hiss was heard quite clearly. Aviva turned an ugly shade of red, then purple, before spewing out that delicious curse that pulled me up from Sheol to Baltimore.
For weeks after, the community bound itself up in lashon hara, gossip – an activity forbidden by the rabbis, since its only purpose is to generate bad feelings and controversy. This community world even had its own written commentary, which, while not nearly as traditional as the Talmudists, was certainly more entertaining. Across backlit screens and LCD displays, I read line after line of poorly formed opinions and badly spelled accusations. People known only by false "scene" names or internet monikers felt compelled to testify regarding the Levitt girl's arrogance. Others – also hiding behind false names – claimed that Aviva was well known for her bad temper. It mattered little to me; I was called by Aviva, and so to the honey-haired Levitt girl I cleaved myself.
Enacting the curse would prove quite simple. The Levitt girl was a self-centered little princess. She reveled in the power she could wield as a beautiful young dominant, and would often appear at local play parties with her own entourage of hungry submissives. Clad in a red latex catsuit, she might lock one or two of her followers in a cage, then stand just out of reach as they hungrily thrust themselves at her through the bars. In her Edwardian costume, all ruffles and lace, she would choose one of her entourage at random to take position on a spanking bench, ass raised, where they would beg for the Levitt girl to take her rattan cane to their flesh. Or she would saunter through the dungeon in a brilliant Chinese silk brocade corset and tight black leather pants, then seat herself, allowing her supplicants to take turns kissing her boots. If any of them missed their cue or, worse, their attention wandered, the Levitt girl would curtly dismiss them with a rude word or humiliating comment.
But I could see into her deepest dreams, her darkest desires. I knew that I could bring them into prominence, and fulfill the curse's obligations to dramatic effect.
I began by insinuating myself into the Levitt girl's dreams. I would take her to a place where she would be worshipped. Sometimes she was a Greek Goddess. At others, she was a Renaissance empress. After a kink event, there were fragments from the party that decorated her dreams. As she would settle into these dreams, a smile on her beautiful lips, I would curl around her, trail my hands down her breasts and hips, and whisper meaningless but intriguing sounds into her pretty ears. She would arch in her sleep and push a hand between her thighs, sinking deeper into my thrall. I would creep through her dream, staying to the shadows as her admirers would kneel and crawl before her – but wait, they seemed to be looking elsewhere! I would offer a murmured reassurance, and the craven's hungry desperation would turn to joy. Of course, the Levitt girl would try to turn her head to see who the intruder was, but I would only appear as a foggy shadow in her dream. Sliding my hands off her body as the slaves in her dreams turned their attention to me, I could feel her ache with the loss.
The Levitt girl continued in her usual habits, but I was beginning to wear on her. She would walk into parties and bars, her usual entourage following, but instead of assuming they would be in her wake, she would now, from time to time, look back to assure herself they were still there. She would attempt to shake off this uneasiness, but it would make her even more abrupt. She was slipping from haughty to merely rude.
More and more frequently, her usual followers would beg off requests for their attendance with excuses that grew flimsier every week. Defiant, the Levitt girl would keep her chin up until she returned home. Then, alone with me, she would doze in her chair, and my face would flicker on the television screen, whispering to her: "you are nothing." She would start awake and flip through the channels, but could not find me that way. She would stumble to bed, and I would slide between the covers with her. The Levitt girl would toss and turn in her dreams, her honey-kissed hair tangling on the pillow as I pressed myself down on her, crossing her wrists above her and holding them away as I brushed demon-kisses down her breastbone. "You are nothing. I am the one they want." Growling with desire and need, the Levitt girl would thrust her hips upward, fighting to awaken and see her tormentor. But I am stronger than any mere mortal. I drew her into a series of sexually-charged dreams (torn straight from her teenage memories of favorite romance novels) where the Levitt girl, in her guise as Greek Goddess or Renaissance Princess would challenge me, fail. She would be paraded through the streets, her gown torn to shreds, revealing bruised flesh. To the sound of the dream-crowd shouting catcalls and insults, I would kiss and suck her clit, and tease her nipples, drawing her darkest desires into sharp relief I would loom over her, magnificently created from fragments of her deepest secret fantasies.
The Levitt girl tried her best to fight me off. Grabbing her vibrator, she would attempt to settle into a fantasy where she would come out the victor. But her batteries would wear out, or she would develop an uncomfortable itch. After a few attempts, she threw the vibrator aside in frustration.
At night, my dream-demon self would ravage her as she fought against bonds, until she ground her hips against me and begged for release. But I shifted their context over time. I would cup her nether regions in my warm hand, fingering the nub of her clit as she slid into my thrall. I would move the dream's setting so that she was on display to a group of ugly, roughly dressed men, and talk about her as a piece to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Deep in the dream, the Levitt girl would respond to my commands to cup her breasts and play with her nipples, or bend over and spread her asscheeks for the hungry crowd. My demon fingers flicked against her clit and I would sink knuckles inside her as I fed her the humiliating scenes – and ensure she would come over and over again, awakening to find her nipples sore and her thighs slick with her own juices.
I knew I was succeeding when the Levitt girl began jerking off to her true fantasies. Rather than leaning comfortably back against pillows, a vibrator against her clit, she was now sliding a butt plug into her ass, then rolling onto her elbows and knees, and humping the sheets as she now imagined herself as the Greek slave girl, being roughly fucked by Roman gladiators. Rather than becoming the Renaissance empress, she became the unfairly denounced thief who was fucked by the sheriff and forced to walk through town, straw and manure decorating her rags, then locked into the village square stocks where women would toss rotted fruit at her face and men would lift her skirts to take her from behind. I would watch the Levitt girl squirm and pant through these fantasies, pleased at my success. Now, rather than pushing her body into orgasms, I would make her fingers slip, or tighten a thigh muscle almost to cramping. The Levitt girl incorporated these moments into her fantasies, heightening her erotic frustrations, and when I allowed her to finally orgasm, she would come hard, shuddering for long minutes afterward.
My work would end at an event that was taking place six months after I was called into being. The Levitt girl was required to attend, because of her community title. I was a little saddened, as I always get in these moments. It's so delightful to be called into being, to do my work, and to watch the final results. But we have a limited time in this world. We do our work, and then we are exorcised. And we wait for the next curse to bring us forth. Even as I feel saddened and bitter that it must be this way, I resign myself to the cycle. It is the life of a dybbuk.
Thus, I was dutifully preparing the Levitt girl. I began populating h
er dreams with the faces of people who were most likely to attend this event. In one dream, her former entourage descends upon her and drags her to a post, where they bind her and beat her mercilessly until she is sobbing and begging forgiveness. In another, she is bound tightly in a kneeling position, wearing a sign that reads "fluffer." Men are stopping by and shoving their cocks into her mouth for her to suck and tongue until they are hard. And then they pull out, her saliva slick on their shafts, and head off to fuck someone else. Once in a while, I bring forth images men the Levitt girl despised as part of this endless line of men. They are the ones who jerk themselves off into her hair or onto her breasts.
In the week before the event, I bring Aviva into her dreams. The Levitt girl now dreams that her former entourage grab her and, after fastening her to cross, Aviva is the one to beat her with a knotted whip as she begs for mercy. On another night, she is wrestling with Aviva, who pins her down. As she squirms helplessly, Aviva bites at her nipples and throat, driving her into ecstasy as a crowd raucously cheers Aviva on. I then have the Levitt girl dreaming of kneeling in front of Aviva, begging for forgiveness and kissing her boots, then getting kicked away to jeers and applause. The night before the event, the Levitt girl dreams of begging to please Aviva to prove her sincerity. Imprisoned between Aviva's thighs, she desperately licks and sucks while the sloe-eyed rabbi's daughter alternately gives instruction and derides the Levitt girl's efforts to please her.
Finally, the day arrives. I help the Levitt girl choose her outfit, steering her eyes away from aggressive boots and peacock-colored bodices. She and I agree on a black dress with a simple line, low heels and very little jewelry. The only spots of color are in the sash she fastens over one shoulder.
We arrive at the event, and I take over. Helplessly, the Levitt girl hears herself complimenting women she never deigned to notice previously, and flirting with the men she finds unattractive. I listen, amused, as the emcee drones on and on about honor and pride and other catch-phrases that this community seems to idolize. Little do they know I am about to throw those words of power back at them, before the evening is over.
