THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES: Erotic Encounters with the Undead

by Christian, M

  As the titeholders are called to the stage, I brush ghostly fingers across her nipples and murmur into her ear that she is but chattel, forced to show off her wares to potential buyers. She looks around, nervous and excited. She recognizes my touch and voice from her dreams, and her breath quickens. When her name is called, she walks not like a proud empress staring down upon her lowly subjects, but as a potential slave, eager to please her potential owner.

  After the titleholders are allowed to leave the stage, the Levitt girl tries to find me. I cast my reflection in a mirror, surrounded by admiring faces. She heads in that direction, and I let her hear my voice among the sounds of laughter and engagement, and she changes direction slightly. I am very purposeful; I draw the Levitt girl as close as I can to the one who had brought me into this world. When the Levitt girl spots her, she hesitates, and tries to turn away. I keep her feet cemented to the floor.

  Aviva is with her friends; they are exchanging news in their community: who had they seen recently, who was now whose slave or master, whether they had done anything worth talking about. I am once again reminded of the shtetls, the women gathered for a community holiday. Some traditions continue, I smile to myself, as I watch a descendant of Yiddish-speaking peasants gossip with her friends.

  And what about the Levitt girl? I asked, mimicking one of the voices. At the sound of her name, my victim trembles, certain that she will feel the full impact of Aviva's wrath cast upon her. I brush the back of the Levitt girl's neck, and I know this moment of confrontation frightens and arouses her. I am ready to press her body to the floor, to create a dramatic scene of anger, repentance and eroticism. I am saddened that my time on earth is about to end, but eager to create this scene. I know that the Levitt girl will only need a gentle touch, and she will drop to the floor of her own accord. The timing is perfect.

  But it was not to be. Aviva tilted her head, as if trying to remember who I was referring to. Her eyes scanned the room, even passing over the Levitt girl without recognition. She finally shook her head. "I think I saw her earlier tonight, but I don't really remember. I just don't think about her very much anymore." And then she is on to gossip about someone else.

  I was taken aback: how could you forget someone upon whom such a potent curse was laid? But as the conversation shifted to other names now familiar to me, I understood. These were a people who had forgotten the power of words. Lashon hara ruled their lives. Having brought a demon to life, Aviva felt no responsibility for me. Indeed, the changes I had wrought onto her enemy were barely noticed. These kibbitzers lived only for the community event, the next scandal, the next topic of gossip.

  And yet, I had fulfilled my contract. Zayn mazl zol im layhtn vi di levone in sof khoydesh. Her luck should be as bright as the new moon. 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%). I had done far better than just 10%. I had not only taken Aviva's target from the center of attention to below her notice, I had awakened her latent desire to be someone unworthy of attention. Indeed, I could see the blush on her cheeks still burning at Aviva's words, and I knew her juices were flowing.

  Thoughtful, I cupped the Levitt girl's breasts lightly, and whispered in her ear. "You are nothing." I felt her nipples harden immediately at the thought. Freeing her feet, I headed her out of the event, ensuring that she brushed past the men she found least attractive. I made her catch their attention, and then drop her eyes to stare hungrily down at their belts. "You want somethin', missy?" one of them challenged her, his breath foul from coffee. She opened her mouth to say no, but I answered for her instead. "I want you, Master. Will you be at the club tomorrow night?" He grinned, showing his nicotine-stained teeth, and nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow, little slave girl." He pinched her cheek, and she blushed prettily before we headed out and to her apartment. I made sure her thoughts remained on her potential Master, and what the next night might bring. As for me, I was focused on the freedom I was about to experience. Until a rabbi noticed me, and had the power to exorcise me, I would not be banished back to Gehanna. But I am a dybbuk; I live to implement the curses humans place upon each other. What to do, what to do? It is indeed a demonic dilemma.

  By the time we got home, the Levitt girl was a bundle of arousal and shame, and I had my answer. Exultant, I walked her into her bedroom, and had her pull out her toy bag. Nothing, I encouraged her, helping to slide her dress from her shoulders so she could fasten clamps on her rock-hard nipples, affixing a chain between them. You are nothing, I crooned as she breathlessly stepped out of her panties. I urged her to her elbows and knees on the floor, next to the floor-length mirror in her bedroom. I slipped the chain affixed to her nipple clamps into her mouth, and whispered there, my little puppy, hold your leash. She moaned as I flickered into being in her mirror, looking like her potential Master. Almost. My primary cock was demon-ridged, a brutal object that throbbed as I stroked myself. Below it was a smaller one, nubbed and spiraling and made of horn. The Levitt girl whimpered, and closed her eyes. I grabbed a fistful of her golden hair and jerked her head back. Her eyes flew open in surprise and pain as the chain in her mouth tightened cruelly against the nipple clamps. "You have no right to close your eyes to me," I growled to her. "You are nothing, nothing." As I expected, the repetition of the word excited her, and I fingered her pussy lips. "That's right, nothing," I crooned, and she flushed with shame and desire as I stroked my monstrous cock. "Fuck yourself on my pricks, and see if you can gain my attention, you worthless fat cunt." The Levitt girl whimpered at my choice of words, but showed no recognition beyond the humiliation that she now craved with every fiber of her being. She backed herself onto my cock, her pussy spread painfully to take the ridged wide head of my cock into her. I heard her animal grunts as her ass puckered open for my corkscrewed horn and I warned her "Keep that leash in your mouth, you worthless cunt." She moaned pathetically, her teeth obediently clamped together. I reached forward with supernaturally long arms to hold her still and vigorously jerked myself off, the heads of my cocks spreading her open. I filled her with demon-seed through her moans of humiliation and ecstasy. Tomorrow, she would be free of me.

  As the Levitt girl slept that night, I settled at her computer, easily calling up the various accounts and passwords to her social networks. I read through the postings to her favorite community sites, taking note of those posters with the most frequent and venomous posts. I followed their electronic signals back to the people themselves. Limited as I was to Jews, some of the posters had to be discarded early on, but that left quite a number to choose from.

  You forget yourselves, I chuckled to myself. You who claim honor and pride in your so-called community, yet you allow for this malice to blossom and swell unchecked.

  But who am I to complain? If it weren't for the short attention spans and thoughtless twitterings of humans, I would not be thriving among you.

  DELIVERANCEJAY LAWRENCE

  The young man had been a long time traveling through the seemingly endless forest. The fir trees looked as if they were huddling together for warmth in the stillness of the December days. And the days were short, so he rose as soon as the pallid winter sun appeared above the horizon, and made camp when it slid beneath the mountains in a fiery glow. He traveled on foot, his stout boots crunching a regular rhythm in the crisp light snow. At night, the sound of distant wolves made his heart beat faster and he stoked his campfire and fingered the long knife that was his only protection. Each day his pack became lighter as he used up his provisions but it only seemed to grow more burdensome. The bright lights and gay amusements of the city were far behind, as if in another world.

  His fingers and toes were lightly frostbitten, his hair a wild and tangled mass and he had not shaved since leaving home a week before. He spurred himself on, like an ailing horse, with thoughts of hot roast pheasant and wine. He could almost taste the rich succulent flesh of the fowl as he marched on through
the gloom. He imagined tearing it apart with his aching fingers, relishing the savory oily juice that would coat his desiccated lips. The claret would warm his throat from tongue to belly. On and on he stumbled, because there was no turning back. He had a message to deliver.

  On the afternoon of the eighth day, he came upon a beautiful but sadly neglected house. It was perched upon a vast granite outcrop, facing the setting sun, and almost seemed to grow out of its rocky foundation, as if it were one with the harsh terrain. The young man wandered about the deserted mansion's grounds, growing vaguely uneasy as he sensed that he was observed by hidden eyes. Yet every time he glanced up at the windows of the desolate hall, all that could be seen was the dusty darkness within. He fingered the knife, stroked its razor-sharp edge. It was getting dark again and he was so desperately cold. The young man decided that, ghosts or no ghosts, he would find a way into the sad old house, make a fire in the grate, and have shelter for the night. The sun was setting as he kicked against a crumbling door, its distant wintry rays reddening the windows of the hall as if there was a fire within.

  It's so beautiful.

  He was in a vast chamber with a great fireplace. The lofty walls were draped with ancient moldering tapestries. The glass-eyed heads of stuffed and mounted game peered blindly into the echoing space. A long table of dark, almost black, wood took pride of place in the once magnificent room. On the table, as if recently abandoned, stood an empty wine glass. Somehow the sight of the glass instilled a deep melancholy in him, a peculiarly irrational sadness that seemed to have crept like an insidious miasma from the very fabric of the house.

  What nonsense. I must be more tired than I thought.

  Shaking himself like a dog just out of water, the young man set to making a modest fire in the grate. He unpacked his meager supper of dry bread and sausage and set to toasting it over the flames, whistling softly to himself, and shivering as the small blaze thawed his well-chilled limbs. He'd never felt such cold. It seemed to insinuate itself into the very marrow of his bones, despite his stout clothes. Huddled on a sheepskin rug, the young man fell asleep, thankful for one night in which he would not have to keep an ear open for the wolves.

  Sometime in the dark depths of the freezing night, he woke with a start, as if a sudden sound had roused him from his dreams. The house was silent but, to his amazement, the fire in the grate had not died down to embers as he slept. Indeed, a gay conflagration danced in the fireplace. The young man stared at the leaping flames and his heart skipped a beat. Someone had put some logs on the fire. This was not the mean little blaze of sticks and twigs over which he had toasted his bread. A soft sound from the other side of the chamber made him whirl around. There was a rustle of skirts as a small slender figure emerged from a shadowy corner.

  "Good evening, Christian."

  The voice belonged to a young woman in a deep blue gown.

  The young man was horrified. But the house was empty! It seemed he had made a terrible mistake and deserved to be thrown out into the frigid night. And how did she know his name? It was his given name, the one no one ever used, preferring a trite nickname. Had she looked through his belongings to ascertain the identity of her intruder? Christian stumbled to his feet.

  "Madam, please forgive my inexcusable behavior! I truly believed this house was abandoned and sought shelter from the cold."

  The young woman smiled graciously.

  "I understand. My home is not what it once was. Please do not distress yourself. Are you hungry?"

  Christian thought of his pathetic meal of sausage and bread.

  "I have eaten, but not well. But please do not go to any trouble on my behalf. Under the circumstances..."

  The young woman placed a delicate finger against her rosebud lips.

  "Hush now. I'm fond of eating late at this time of year. You cannot travel on with a half-empty belly."

  Christian could not disagree. What marvelous good fortune! It was odd that the lady did not appear frightened by his impromptu appearance by her fireside, but he was glad that it was so. He warmed his back by the crackling fire as he watched her set the table. Then she disappeared to some other chamber to procure their meal. Within a few minutes, she returned, bearing a laden tray, which the young man carried to the table.

  "I hope you like pheasant. And there is a nice claret. I drink so little by myself, it's a treat to have company."

  Christian stared at the delicious food that was neatly arrayed on a silver platter. It was the supper of his daydream in the frozen forest. Perhaps he was hallucinating. Slyly, he pinched himself on one thigh but the sensation seemed real enough.

  "You are very kind, Miss...?"

  The young woman frowned slightly.

  "You may call me Delphine. Now please... eat! It really would give me such pleasure to see you well fed."

  Christian ate. Everything was superb. The pheasant was meltingly tender and full of fragrant herb-scented juice, the accompanying root vegetables were sweet and faintly caramelized by roasting around the bird. The wine was excellent, as soft and round as a lovely woman's thighs. After recharging his plate and glass several times, he finally sat back in his chair, feeling more content than he could ever recall. In his haste to eat and drink, he had paid little attention to his lovely companion and, realizing his folly, he flushed deeply and muttered his contrition into his napkin.

  "It seems I must make my apologies once again. I make a poor dining companion."

  The young woman shrugged.

  "A better companion than spiders and moths. I do so yearn for human contact."

  At last, Christian examined his hostess's features. She was very pale, with fine golden hair neatly parted down the middle of her scalp then swept back into a softly gleaming coil. Her eyes were an indeterminate gray blue, the kind of shade that changes with the light. There was a translucency about her, a delicate porcelain doll effect.

  Yet she must be as strong as iron to survive alone in this desolate place.

  Assorted questions sprang into Christian's mind, lingered briefly then were dismissed.

  She's so lovely.

  Suddenly, his head reeled with the rich food, the wine and the heat of the blazing fire. His blood beat in his ears and every inch of his body seemed suffused with heat after the interminable chill. He was vaguely aware of his hostess taking his hand. She spoke as softly as snow falling on snow.

  "Do you want to kiss me?"

  He didn't pause to consider her question but merely nodded and answered, "Yes." Surely she was mesmerizing him. It was a terrible impropriety but he did not care. Who would see or know? His mouth found hers and he kissed the dainty rosebud lips that tasted of wine and pheasant and something else that he could not quite discern. She was wonderfully giving yet yielding and, again, Christian imagined her as a doll. In his passion, he imagined doing with her exactly as he desired, yet, in truth, he had little experience of the fairer sex.

  "Take me as the wolves converge upon their prey, as the eagle swoops to spear a fish."

  She had read his mind. Indeed, it seemed as if she was within his mind. Moaning with desire, Christian pressed his lips upon the sweet clean skin of the young woman's throat. Something in him wanted to bite, nip, suck. He had become a predator and Delphine was willing prey. The next moment, her tiny fingers felt like steel rods in his hair, twisting and drawing his head to her half-exposed bosom. With one harsh movement, he wrenched the flimsy bodice of her dress aside and revealed her lovely ivory breasts. Again, she pushed his face towards her succulence, crying for him to feast upon her. Christian drew his mouth over the perfect mounds of satiny flesh, which reminded him strongly of two neatly molded milk puddings, sweet and creamy, wobbling on the spoon of his tongue. Delphine's nipples were pale pink sweetmeats, berry-shaped and swollen and he drew them into his mouth one by one, sucking hard, causing his hostess to shriek. He thought of her moist little cunny. It would be honey – manna to lap until she passed out with pleasure. His rod was harder than it
had ever been, pressing against his trousers like a caged animal.

  "Devour me. Make me yours!"

  There was no sense of time's passing as the feverish young man entered his partner. She felt like burning velvet as her hot cushioned passage swallowed him whole to the hilt and seemed to search for more. His fat knob met the resistance of her womb and knocked insistently, his hips grinding and bucking in a wild primeval rhythm. No one had taught him the dance and its frenzied, abandoned steps were far from the clumsy fumblings of his few past affairs. Delphine began to scream and to tear at his hair as he erupted within her depths, feeling as if every last drop of his essence had left him to become part of her.

  * * * *

  He must have fallen asleep as swiftly as a babe does. The pale morning sun cast feeble fingers of light through the dusty windows of the old house as the young man stirred. The fire was long dead in the grate and his bones ached from stiffness and chill. Slowly, Christian got to his feet, looking sleepily about him for signs of the lovely young woman. She must have retired to her chamber, wherever that was. Oddly, everything seemed strangely unmarked by their midnight tumbling. He could even see his own footprints in the heavy dust that carpeted the floor of the ancient hall, but not hers. A shiver ran down his spine, one which was not caused by the terrible cold. Hallucination? Dream? He would not think about it. He would dismiss it from his mind. Briskly, he collected his pack and left the house, horribly aware of the single dust-drenched glass that still sat on the long, ebony table. Outside, the snow was falling, as soft as the feathers in a maiden's powder puff. Two more days and, God willing, he'd deliver the message and be done with the ordeal.