Deadliest of the Species

by Michael Oliveri

  Then, a feminine chuckle. “Well, awake at last.”

  Oh, shit. The words passed through his mind rather swiftly, but would not pass through his lips. Try as he might, he found he could not even open his eyes.

  “Don’t bother,” the woman told him, her voice painfully familiar. “Your muscles are still paralyzed from the spell. It’ll be a few more minutes before you can move.”

  Shit shit shit.

  He heard her move closer, the vanilla scent growing stronger. He felt the mattress sag as she took a seat on the edge of the bed. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along.”

  Blackhair! the voice in his head screamed.

  She reclined on the bed and pressed her body into his left side. Her fingers traced through the hairs on his chest. It dawned on him that he wore not a stitch of clothing. She felt warm and soft against his flesh, and he realized she must be naked as well.

  Shit shit shit shit!

  “You know,” she whispered into his ear, “I am so glad that you aren’t a fat slob like the rest of the men in this pathetic little town.” Her hand traced its way down his belly, this time teasing his pubic hair, “Not a flat slob, yet so big!” She seized his member and caressed it, and despite his paralysis he could feel blood surging into it.

  FUCK! He managed a soft moan this time.

  She propped herself up on one arm, leaned across him and lifted his right eyelid. His vision adjusted swiftly to the dim candlelight, and he confirmed his suspicion of her identity as she leaned close and peered into his pupil, turning her head like a doctor examining a patient.

  “I didn’t catch that. Was that a moan of pleasure? Pain? Or did it have an interrogative tone to it?” She let his eyelid drop again.

  She straddled his hips and leaned forward, pressing her chest to his. Her breasts felt soft and full. The scent of vanilla became almost overwhelming. His heart pounded and, involuntarily, his penis hardened. “Almost there,” she cooed, planting kisses at the base of his throat and the back of his ear.

  Again he managed a soft moan. His eyelids cracked open, his right forefinger twitched. He managed to move his jaw enough to wet his lips with his tongue.

  “Just in time,” she purred, leaning forward and pressing her mouth to his. He gave in to the sensation, his tongue mingling with hers inside his mouth. She lingered, her hands massaging his chest and shoulders.

  He forced himself to break off the kiss, managing to turn his head away though he could not yet move his arms to push her off of him. “Who the Hell are you?” he managed to whisper.

  “Why ruin the moment? Let’s talk later.” She reached down between her legs to work him some more.

  The vanilla, the warm press of their bodies, her probing tongue, and finally her dexterity all coerced him in her favor. He gave in and felt himself come fully erect. He twisted his hands, his arms moving slowly, as if hesitant, as he rubbed her thighs. He wondered how many other men she did this to and rashly decided he didn’t care. He moved his mouth down her chin. She cooperated, leaning forward to allow him to kiss her neck. A few seconds later she leaned further and dangled a breast over his face. He took her nipple into his mouth eagerly.

  “That’s right,” she told him. “Just relax and enjoy it.” She purred seductively.

  With a great effort he moved his hands up her thighs and over her hips, then up to her breasts. He kneaded them softly while he moved his mouth back up and along her jawline. She felt so warm and soft, so…exciting, he thought as she continued to stroke him. Laura never took the initiative in foreplay like this, and it excited him even further. Of course, near the end she probably already got her satisfaction elsewhere.

  The dark-haired woman leaned back and took him into her. She settled her hips against his and rocked back and forth. He suddenly forgot all about Laura. He found her rhythm, and together they gasped and moaned in ecstasy. In moments his climax neared.

  “Wait…I’m gonna…” He said, holding himself back as pre-marriage memories of back seats and no rubbers and last-minute pullout birth control crossed his mind.

  She sat up and rode him hard until he could stand it no longer. He thrust deep into her, moaning and gripping her thighs as he released. She giggled, then suddenly her own orgasm overcame her. She let out a long “ooh” of pleasure and lightly raked his abs with her fingernails.

  She leaned forward and laid across his chest and he enjoyed the press of her body against his. A wide grin spread over his face as he unwittingly caressed her back. He reluctantly let her go as she sat up suddenly and rolled off the bed to her feet. She pressed a long finger to his lips before he could speak.

  “Hush. Get dressed and come on upstairs. I’ll make us some tea.” He watched the sway of her hips as she crossed the room and climbed the stairs.

  Several moments passed before he was actually able to get out of bed. His muscles felt weak, and he could not be sure whether the paralysis or the intercourse caused it. He stood in the center of the small room, stretched a few times, and rubbing the kinks out of his joints.

  As he did so the full gravity of his situation weighed in on him.

  He stood in the basement of the woman who more than likely was responsible for Father Mike’s murder and the burning of the rectory. He recalled the chase through the cornfield, the women closing in on him, and finally the dark haired woman and the strange glow in her hand. She could easily have killed him by now.

  Instead she fucked his brains out.

  He sat back on the bed. “What kind of mess have I gotten myself into,” he muttered. He felt like crying. He laughed instead. He tried to stifle it but it did no good. He laughed so hard that, in the end, he started crying after all. Tears streamed down his face as the danger and irony of the events of the past few weeks replayed themselves in his head. Out of the clutches of one evil bitch and straight into the claws of a hundred more. If only he listened to the old nutcase at the gas station. If only he took more notice of the warning signs at the diner that first day. If only Father Mike warned him properly and got him out of town.

  If only, if only, if only. What could he do? If only it were all a dream.

  Yes, that had to be it. A nightmare, from which he would wake up soon. A nightmare gave in to an erotic wet dream created from the pain of losing his family and the loneliness he felt as he laid down for bed every night since.

  Yes, he would wake up any moment, a sticky stain in the front of his briefs and a feeling of relief more intense than any orgasm he ever felt in his life. A hot shower, a hot breakfast, and he would hop back into his Camaro and head off in search of a new life.

  Yes. Any moment now. He pinched his forearm for good measure, then slapped his cheek.

  “God damn it!” he nearly shouted. He wondered what the bitch upstairs thought when she heard it, then decided he didn’t care. “God damn it!” This time, he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  “Ahhh, to Hell with it.” He wiped the remainder of the tears from his eyes and looked around the windowless room. The bed sat in one corner, a large vanity in the other. Two large candles burned on the vanity’s bare surface. White-painted concrete formed three of the walls, while fake wood paneling covered the fourth. A set of stairs ascended in the near wall, the stairwell and steps constructed of finished wood. Light streamed in through the slightly ajar door at the head of the stairs. Another door opened away from him next to the stairs.

  Tim cracked the door open and peered through it. Enough light came through the single window on the opposite wall that he could tell he stood in a basement. Bare concrete showed on the outer walls in this room, and the studs of the paneled wall stood exposed. Various boxes and bits of debris lay strewn throughout the room, and a washer and dryer squatted beside a rickety metal shelf in the corner. To his left a set of concrete stairs rose up to a double door that no doubt opened onto either one side or the back of the house. Light streamed through the gap between the doors, momentarily blocke
d as a shadow passed by. A guard?

  He stepped from the cold, bare floor back into the bedroom, warming his bare feet on the thick brown carpeting. Resigned to whatever cruelty he would next be subject to, he sat down on the comer of the bed. He found a set of clothes draped over a tall rocking chair near the foot of the bed. The jeans, now clean, looked like his, but the black T-shirt looked new. He knew the boxers were not his, for he normally wore briefs. It took some adjusting before he got used to them. A comfortable-looking blue robe hung from a knob on the back, but he opted for the jeans and t-shirt. Finding no footwear, he went upstairs barefoot.

  As he reached the top and grasped the door handle a shrill whistle sounded and startled him. His feared he set off an alarm, but rational thought returned quickly and he realized it was the call of a boiling tea kettle. He pushed the door open and saw the dark-haired woman pick up the complaining kettle and fill two coffee mugs.

  “I was starting to think I was going to have to come down after you, Timothy,” she said, not bothering to turn around.

  “Yeah, well, I decided things might be a little more interesting up here.” Across from him the kitchen opened directly onto the dining room. He could see the back yard through a sliding patio window on the right. He walked past her and took a seat at the oak dinner table and chairs. He sat with his back to the wall and the window to his left. In the back yard, two women paced back and forth. They chatted, their words almost intelligible through the screen door. They did not look threatening, unarmed and dressed in clothes appropriate for a warm summer day. Tim shook his head. He never imagined guards looking like that. If not for the events of the past few days, he never would have been afraid to attempt an escape through them.

  She nodded as she stirred the two mugs of tea. She tied her hair into a ponytail and wore an oversized blue robe like the one down on the rocking chair. Only her bare feet showed beneath the hem of the robe as she carried the steaming cups to the table. Because of the robe’s size, the front hung open and revealed enough flesh for him to guess she wore nothing but the robe.

  “Here you are,” she said, setting one cup down before him. “Careful, it’s hot.”

  He hooked his index finger through the handle and inhaled the steam. It smelled of cinnamon and apple, with a hint of something else not quite identifiable tickling his nose. He thought about poison, but why kill him now? He blew cool air across the surface of the tea.

  “You people pack one hell of a welcome wagon,” Tim said as casually as possible. “Blow jobs. Stealing. Burning houses. Murder. Sex. And I still don’t know who you are.”

  She chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is a bit much to expect from a humble little town like ours. But what can I say? We like visitors.”

  His eyes narrowed and he hid his irritation as best he could behind the mug. The tea tasted just like it smelled, again possessing that unidentifiable quality. It warmed him as it went down, but not just from the temperature of the liquid. It felt rather good, but all the same he set down his cup and frowned at it.

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop being so sour.” She extended her hand across the table. “My name’s Alexandra.”

  He shook her hand briefly, the gesture feeling awkward after the intimacy downstairs.

  “Well, Alexandra, I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

  “—but you will anyway. You want to know what I plan on doing with you?”

  He wasn’t going to put it so nicely, but she had it right. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Well, if it’s any comfort, you’ve already begun.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve already begun.” Tim felt her foot rub against his calf. “All I want is you.”

  “I don’t get it. You’re in love with me?”

  She held back a chuckle, showing only a wry smile. “No, no. Nothing so romantic. I just need your body.”

  “You just want to have sex with me?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Bingo.” She took a deep drink of her tea.

  Tim expected Rod Serling to come around a corner, already halfway through a monologue on the on nature of man’s libido as he gestured with a half-smoked cigarette. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “Oh, calm down, Timothy,” she said in a motherly tone. “It’s not as strange as it sounds.”

  “Not as strange as it sounds?” he shouted. “You steal my car, kill a priest, and chase me through a cornfield to have sex with me?!” Alexandra raised a hand and whispered something. “This has got to be the stu—” His words stopped suddenly, but his mouth kept going. He felt an uncomfortable pinch in his throat, and though he could breathe he could not speak.

  “I asked you once, politely, to calm down. Now please, sit back, relax, and I’ll tell you all about it. Okay?”

  Again he tried to speak and could not. He waved his arms, slapped the table twice, and still nothing. He sat back and crossed his arms with a deep, soundless sigh of resignation.

  “Oh, don’t pout about it. We’re both adults.”

  At a loss for anything better, he held up his middle finger and thrust it at her.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that was mature. Drink some more tea. It’ll help you relax.”

  With a sour face, he snatched up the mug and drained it. He slammed the mug down hard on the table. “Happy now?” he asked, and jumped at the sound of his voice.

  One corner of her mouth stretched back into a half smile. “Extremely.” She sipped the remainder of her tea and took both mugs into the kitchen for a refill. “Now, I still owe you an explanation. You can obviously tell that you weren’t necessarily wanted here at first.”

  “Obviously,” he replied with a grunt. She didn’t appear to hear him over the rapid clinking of the spoon as she stirred the tea.

  “In fact, Timothy, we don’t necessarily want any more men here. You see, we own this town. This is probably—make that definitely—the only place in the United States, possibly the entire world, that is a matriarchal society. Women own the businesses, run the households, and even have our own church.”

  “Coven, you mean,” Tim said sarcastically.

  “If you will. Why should we worship a male deity and His son? Doesn’t it make more sense to acknowledge the Earth Mother? With no female, no womb, how can there be birth?” She returned with two fresh mugs of tea.

  “That’s just like the chicken and the egg. You still need a male for conception, yet the male can’t be born without the female. It’s a classic paradox.” He could not tell if he argued just for the sake of the fight or if he actually took offense to her views. Either way, he determined to make it a good fight. He accepted his tea and took another sip. In the back of his mind he acknowledged the spread of the tingling sensation. It seemed to pool in his chest and groin.

  “Even the lowliest animal can partake of asexual reproduction,” she continued. “If Mary’s virgin birth cannot be recognized as a spontaneous act of nature, and men have to rationalize the event to say that a masculine God mysteriously impregnated her to maintain their egotistical superiority and to reinforce and dependence on their genitalia, then they have no business—”

  “Male seahorses carry children, you know.”

  She stopped, her eyebrows furrowed. “What did you say?”

  “I said male seahorses carry their young to term.”

  “That’s irrelevant.”

  “You’re the one who brought up the ‘lowliest animals’ and their breeding habits.”

  She shook her head as if to discard an annoying thought. “No matter,” she said sharply.

  He did his best to suppress his grin. Victory!

  “See, it’s just like a man to say something like that!” Her voice rose, and the women in the yard turned to see what was the matter. “And they wonder why we do not let our sons attend the school!”

  “And why’s that? To keep them stupid? So they don’t question the shit that you shovel them?” He kept his voice calm, and deep down he enjoyed
himself.

  But, sure enough, it didn’t last. She made that little gesture and whisper again, and again he felt the pinch at his throat. “Now shut up!” she added.

  He threw up his hands in an “it figures” gesture and smiled.

  “Now, like I was saying, you men and your egos—”

  Timothy turned away discovered he could still whistle. He whistled as loud as he could, belting out “The Ride of the Valkyries” and hoping she would pick up on his little bit of sarcasm.

  He could almost feel the heat off her face as it turned a deep red, the contrast obvious in her fair skin.

  “You men are so impossible!” she shouted again.

  He stopped whistling and looked at her with feigned shock. He pressed his fingertips to his chest and mouthed “We’re impossible?”

  “Oh, spit it out,” she mumbled, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture.

  The pinch went away. “We’re impossible?” he repeated. “We may tune you out, but at least we don’t turn you off!”

  “And that’s the whole basis of the problem! You tune us out! You don’t acknowledge our presence. Why did it take a Suffrage Movement to get us a vote? We should have had it since the beginning of time, just like you!”

  Tim swirled his tea around his mug as she spoke. He waited a few beats until after she finished, then looked up suddenly. “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” He knew he pushed his luck, but damned if he was going to sit back and make things easy for her. Sex or no sex.

  To his amazement, her face turned a deeper shade of red. She drew in a deep breath and Tim could not help but wonder if she prepared to breath a huge gout of fire and burn him into a cinder. No longer able to contain it, he burst out laughing. Obviously she had grown accustomed to men being meek little sheep.

  “You know what? Forget it. Just forget it! Drink your tea!”