Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

  “I tested you.”

  She shook her head. “You touched me because, despite whatever rules you function under, you couldn’t help but touch me.”

  “I touched you, Juma”—I used her name as if she’d given me permission to do so—“because just like every other woman out there that I’ve fucked, you need to be touched, you crave it, and will lie to get what you want. So this is me telling you I’m not that guy—seriously. No joke. My hands will not caress your face and tenderly touch the outside of your breast, our lips will never meet, and I sure as hell will never want to hear any words coming out of your mouth. I just want to fuck you, that’s it.

  “And I can tell,” I continued, “that’s not how you do things, that you’re not one of those girls. I can tell men take their time removing your clothes, revealing you inch by inch, probably trailing their tongue down your throat and over your nipples until they’re like rocks and your back is arched and your lips are parted and you’re begging them not to stop and they don’t because your pussy is wet and they can smell your desire and so they kneel before you and slowly peel off your jeans and then press their noses between your legs to inhale the sweetness that is you.

  “I can smell that sweetness right now. Just listening to me speak about all the ways you like to be touched has your panties soaked and useless. Because you know after those men press their noses between your legs, what follows are their lips, because they’ve gotta taste you and suck your clit and fuck your pussy with their tongues and all of this extracurricular touching is before they finally pull out their dicks and fuck you, long and slow and hard, while they’re kissing you and you’re running your hands over their backs and their asses and up around their necks and through their hair and calling out their names and telling them it feels so good.

  “That’s you, Juma, in a nutshell. And it’s not me in any way, shape, or form, so go find one of those guys and leave me the fuck alone.”

  For a second she didn’t move, as if my words did more than just stun her into silence but also paralyzed her simple motor functions. Then, without a word, she stripped off her shirt, pulled off her jeans, removed her bra and panties, and stood in front of me totally nude. Her nipples were hard and her pussy was glistening and she was ready.

  “No touching,” she breathed, “just fuck me. Like you like it.”

  My eyes ran over every inch of her body because it couldn’t be helped. She was stunning and she knew it and she knew standing there open and naked and inviting would leave my brain a useless mess of clicks and zaps and blips and all I would be thinking about was fucking her, hard, my dick so far up in her pussy it would get lost. She stared at me expectantly and waited, so I did precisely what she wanted me to do and spun her around, slammed her against that locked front door, with every intention of pulling out my dick and getting lost in the warmth of her pussy, hoping each thrust would diminish the strange hold she had over me, would ease my desire to kiss that spot on her right shoulder where freckles pooled along the blade, would kill the aching need to feel her arms around my neck and her lips against my ear, whispering that she was mine, whispering that she was coming, whispering that she loved me. But I did nothing of the sort.

  I didn’t fuck her hard, pressing her hands above her head, holding her in place, my dick moving in and out of her, thrilling at the feel of her tight pussy and the small sounds of satisfaction that escaped her lips, no matter how hard she tried to be quiet. I didn’t feel her tighten around my dick because she was about to come, nor did I release one of her hands and touch her clit because it felt so good being buried deep inside her and the part of me that wasn’t dead and black and decrepit wanted her to feel the same. And there was none of that wanting to scream when my fingers found her clit and circled and teased, but restraining herself and instead bucking and heaving and shaking in silence as she came all over my dick. I had no idea if it felt like nothing I had ever before experienced or if I exploded inside her pussy, wave after wave until we were both dripping in each other and enveloped in silence.

  I didn’t know if I pulled out of her and zipped my jeans, because I did not fuck her.

  I wanted to but I didn’t do it. I couldn’t. Not like that. Not ever. Because I was tainted and dark and foul and she was none of that.

  I closed my eyes and moved into her and almost against her and we were so fucking close and I inhaled, long and deep, so I would always remember that scent, her scent, and then, against everything I held dear and true, I pressed a long, drawn-out kiss to the back of her neck.

  Because she was right—I couldn’t not touch her.

  I then gently nudged her out of my way, opened the door, and escaped into the night, wanting nothing more than to forever forget the woman who in one chance meeting came so close to breaking down each and every barrier I had spent so much time building around myself, determined never again to step foot inside Ralph’s lest she be waiting.

  I rushed through the deserted city streets, reveling in the chill of the night air, and then I remembered that fucking envelope and I stopped dead in my tracks in the middle of Warren Street. I fished around in my pockets until I found the offensive piece of mail burning a hole in my gut, shredding me. I turned it over and studied it in the dim light of the night, wondering as to its contents, curious why the name inside was chosen for me.

  Lighting a smoke, I inhaled deeply, exhaled, and for a moment the envelope disappeared in a cancerous cloud. But only a moment—two seconds later it was back in my face, demanding my attention, laughing at my plight.

  And just like that, I said fuck it. I held my lighter to the corner of the paper, ran my thumb over the discs and flint, and called forth the flame. The fire danced before my eyes, the smoke some of the sweetest I had ever smelled, and as I watched those ashes fall to the ground, I felt a thrill like never before.

  I tossed what remained of the envelope into the gutter and headed for my bed.

  Fuck those motherfuckers at The Gate.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JUMA

  I fell in love with a man tonight

  without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

  He sat with the weight of the world

  on his shoulders

  And all I wanted to do

  was unburden him

  He growled and clawed and hissed

  And I moved to the rhythm of those sounds

  He needed

  but would not dare ask

  And I knew this

  because I’ve been there before

  He stunned with his masculine beauty

  which sounds like an impossibility

  but is not

  And I was drawn to him

  like so many before

  but knew I was like no other

  I fell in love with a man tonight

  without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

  He cursed me with dark eyes

  so full of anguish and hurt

  And I smiled

  and tried to ease his pain

  He suggested all sorts of wickedness

  with his carriage and demeanor

  And I wanted to be wrapped in him

  even if it meant going against my nature

  He attempted to disabuse me of any preconceived notions

  And when I told him I had none

  he laughed

  He needed to be touched and kissed and held

  but could stand nothing of the sort

  And so I let him touch and kiss and hold me

  the only way he knew

  I fell in love with a man tonight

  without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

  He claimed a black soul and all kinds of evil

  but his voice hinted at the opposite

  And I imagined him in his youth

  full of light and love and wonder

  He wrapped his long fingers and perfect hands

  around his glass

  And despite his warnings

&nb
sp; I foolishly imagined them wrapped around me

  He cursed me up and down and sideways

  while his eyes begged forgiveness

  And I knew

  I stilled his heart and captured his breath

  He filled me

  until I could take no more

  but wanted so much

  And I surrounded him

  with my slick heat

  and untamed desire

  I fell in love with a man tonight

  without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

  He smelled of bourbon and death

  and his lips were such a tease

  of all kinds of danger and mayhem

  And I could not resist them

  or stay away

  no matter his warnings and predictions

  He spoke to me of truths

  and desires and needs

  as if he knew my body without ever knowing me

  And my breath hitched

  and my lips parted

  and the heat was unbearable

  He grinned but there was no happiness in his eyes

  And I wanted to do nothing more than change that

  He laughed but there was no happiness in the sound

  And I wondered what music he might make if he was light

  and I wanted to make him

  make that music

  I fell in love with a man tonight

  without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

  He set me on fire as our bodies slammed into each other

  and he swore he would not

  but he did

  And I exploded

  and died a little

  with the simplest of touches

  He laughed at my predictability

  my commonness

  And yet I knew he knew

  I was anything but

  He tried his best to push me away

  And yet he could not leave my side

  He begged me to find another

  And I laughed at the odds of doing such a thing

  He rushed at my body with a burning hunger

  And I knew he had never trembled so

  or cried out

  or yearned

  I fell in love with a man tonight

  without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

  and can only hope he will not be the death of me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JUMA

  I could have gone to the bar tonight but it was too predictable and after so many nights of checking in and trying to be casual about it, I gave up. He would not be stopping by to see if I was there, because he was not interested in a girl like me, one who needed to be touched and sucked, and had said as much while he almost-fucked me against the door that night.

  And it was fine—if anything, I appreciated his candor. It was my own damn fault if I read something in his eyes, his voice, his kiss; the kiss that he swore he could not abide and then did anyway, pressing his beautiful lips to my neck. I’d made myself come so many times since then simply thinking of his mouth on my skin.

  I didn’t even know his name, and maybe it was better that way. He was just another beautiful face in a sea of faces that had glimpsed my body, nothing more, nothing less.

  And yet.

  He was unlike any of the others.

  I had glimpsed him as soon as I entered the bar. Our had eyes locked for a fraction of a second, because he was impossible to miss—the stranger from the subway station—so much darkness in that corner, fuming and smoldering and so fucking alive. Everything about him had said stay away—the hard set of his jaw, the chill of his eyes, the tension in his arms.

  And yet.

  I had been drawn in again, just like that first time I’d spied him from afar.

  I had found him difficult to ignore and as I sipped my drink and chatted away, my eyes had constantly sought his corner, his darkness, all of that danger. The despair rolling off him called to me, begged for my attention, craved my everything. And for once in my life I hadn’t fought it. I’d welcomed it, allowed it to own me, to seep into my bones and find a home in my blood.

  But I had shit to do and mooning over some man was not on my schedule. Picking my way through the dark subway tunnel at Herald Square, I found the nine hundred and thirty-seventh foot of track, held my breath, and stepped, prepared for the initial chill but shocked by it nonetheless. The lights were dim and the bar was somewhat crowded, but there was no music so I was able to easily pick out familiar voices.

  Death.

  Today she was feeling social, hence the atmosphere. She spied me and winked, all memories of our last encounter pushed to the recesses of her persona. If she worried about me, she did not let on. I smiled but made no move in her direction, no longer feeling the need to constantly orbit her, exist within her sphere. I would always be hers, but she was no longer my obsession. My mouth on her pussy, her hands in my hair, my tongue fucking her, all of that cured me and now I just wanted to focus on my job, help the Deaders, and avoid my Keeper.

  “Juma!” a large-breasted, thick-thighed goddess in gold called to me, nodded her head, and turned on her heel, assuming I would follow her deeper into the crowd. Her name was Marina, she was Death’s Khat—her girl Friday—and she handled the Deaders. She listened to their stories and, with her team, pored over their case files, determining who was worthy of a meeting with Death. She held so much power in her tiny, delicate palm and yet she never lorded it over a soul. Marina understood the stakes, but more important, she was a generous soul with a kind heart, one often moved to tears during a Deader presentation, wearing her emotions on her sleeve.

  I loved her madly. No matter how many annoying Deaders she assigned me, regardless of their horrible personalities or tough cases, she was amazing. And so was her ass.

  “Stop staring, Juma.” Marina tossed a mischievous grin over her shoulder as we neared the dance floor and the crowd thickened, hundreds of bodies in tight spaces, sweat and saliva mingled. “Just touch it already.”

  “I shouldn’t,” I whispered against her neck as I ran my hands over her ass, “but I will. Just once.”

  Marina laughed as she took my hand in hers, interlaced our fingers, and continued weaving through the dead. I remained focused on her lest I catch the eye of an unassigned newbie and then spend the rest of the evening forced to listen to their story and why I should be their Poocha. Tonight I just wanted to meet my assignment and get started on their reclamation.

  That was what we called it, reclamation: the moment the Deader reclaimed their old life, seamlessly segueing back into their old footsteps, no longer our responsibility. Here and there, I checked up on my people, spying on them from afar, making sure they were okay, but not as often as I used to because sometimes the picture wasn’t so pretty and left you wishing you had simply minded your own business and not theirs.

  Of course, I learned that lesson the hard way.

  My seventh Deader was Thomas Wordsworth, an upstanding and proper Englishman if there ever was one. In his first life he was the holder of exorbitant wealth, numerous properties, a multimillion-dollar oil company, and a stunning wife. Piper Wordsworth, née Henley, was tall, dark, and beautiful, the dream of many men in Thomas’s circle, but only his reality. He wooed, won, and married her all in under a year, then spent the next ten making certain she never lacked for a thing. She was adored and adoring and they were the picture of perfection.

  More than anything, what helped Thomas to win his reclamation case with Marina was his deep, passionate, sincere love and affection for his wife. I, too, was quickly charmed by his stories of Piper and their years-long romance with each other. His reclamation was early in my career—I appreciated his faith in my capabilities and was determined to do my best by him.

  And I did.

  I worked overtime to ensure everything was perfect for his return, that all memories were properly wiped, the stories made sense, and that no one would bat an eye to find Thomas back in their midst. And no
one did.

  No one, that is, except for his very adoring and adored wife, Piper. Because she had never wanted him to begin with, had never loved Thomas the way he loved her, because she had loved another, madly, desperately. Piper never fully came under the spell of my Alighters and left Thomas soon after he and I parted ways.

  A couple of years later, while in London on vacation, I stopped by his office to learn that he no longer came to work due to crippling pain from his “accident,” so I headed for his home and learned firsthand just how badly his return had gone. I slunk back to New York with my tail between my legs, didn’t work for weeks, and swore never to repeat such an epic failure.

  Only to do so again a year later.

  It wasn’t a tale worth repeating, as it was even worse than Wordsworth’s, but it taught me to remain aloof and somewhat removed and to resist any and all urges to check in on my Deaders. They made their decision. I was simply a means to achieve that end, nothing more, nothing less, and tormenting myself about things out of my control was energy I could devote to my next assignment.

  “Sit down, Juma,” Marina instructed as we entered her dimly lit office, and I took a seat on the low-slung couch. She shuffled some papers around her desk, found what she needed, and looked up with a smile.

  “Would you like anything?” she asked. “Coffee? Tea? Me?”

  She then released her insanely loud laugh and joined me on the couch, my shocked expression causing her to laugh even harder.

  “Oh my, who knew Juma Landry, lover of all beautiful things with a penis or cunt, could be embarrassed?” Marina teased.

  I shook my head and started to protest but realized it was pointless because she had kind of done just that. “You just surprised me is all.”

  “Relax, baby”—Marina rubbed my arm as she leaned back on the couch—“I was just playing with you. I’ve wanted to run that line on someone since I first heard it and you just happened to be my victim.”

  I settled upon hearing those words, relieved I would not be pulled into her web of insane sexiness and warmth and humor and fucking her tonight, still not wanting another’s hands on my body after my encounter at the bar. Which was strange because I loved being touched and kissed and sucked and I loved to touch and kiss and suck—only now, I really only wanted to be touched by him.