Etched Deep & Other Dark Impressions

by David Niall Wilson

  As he came abreast of her, she called out in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. "You want a date, Mr.?"

  He stopped, pretending to hesitate, as though eager to move on.

  "What did you have in mind?" he asked, his throat dry. She was even more enticing up close and he saw her gaze drop to his crotch, then return to meet his own, a smile planted firmly on her deep, red lips. Her eyes were alight with the energy of youth, but there was a wisdom in those depths, as well–a strength that nearly made him turn and walk away. There was a hunger there to match his own.

  "Let's say I'm a bad girl," she purred, moving closer, so close that her nipples brushed the front of his jacket and the scent of her perfume wafted up to confuse his thoughts. "I need someone to . . . punish me."

  Bookheim closed his eyes and reached deep for control. Too much. It was too much, too soon, and they were still on the street, vulnerable. Why did these damnable little whores insist on meeting on the street? It was like a long, drawn-out, sinful dance, and even after years on the dance floor, he could be manipulated here as easily as a school boy.

  "How much," he grated.

  "You a cop?" she countered quickly, sliding an arm around his back and turning him so that they were walking together down the street.

  "No," he said gruffly, shaking his head, "of course not."

  "I've got to ask, you know," she said, letting the tip of her tongue brush his earlobe as she whispered into his ear. "One hundred, seventy-five for me, twenty-five for the room."

  He nodded. It was high, more than he'd ever spent, but he had to have her, and she knew it. The trembling in his shoulders must have given him away. He had no patience, or time, for bickering. She was bad, alright, evil incarnate, and he needed her like he'd never needed anyone, or anything in his life.

  They rounded a corner, and another neon sign came into view–The Shady Cove Inn. The "o" in cove was burned out, and the braces that held the entire sign sagged away from the wall, giving way slowly to the drag of gravity. Bookheim imagined the weight of all the sins that had been committed behind those walls weighing down on it, burying it, pressing it toward its inevitable place in the kingdom below. He imagined his own sins at the top of that pile...his breath quickened, and he pulled her ahead more quickly.

  She didn't protest. She had melted to his side the moment he'd nodded at her price, her motions coordinating themselves with his, their steps synchronized, their flesh molded together at every possible angle that did not prevent forward motion. He felt like a moth, or a fly, trapped in the silken web of a beautiful, but dangerous spider.

  They slipped through the door of the Shady Cove Inn quietly and into the dusty, smoke-drenched interior. As they passed beneath it, Bookheim flinched away from the blinking sign. He felt its weight on his shoulders, felt the weight of the sin on his soul. Brushing it aside, he stepped into another world.

  They passed through a nearly deserted lobby. The furniture had faded to unknown colors with dust so deeply imbedded in the cushions that it rose to hover in small wisping clouds above the cushions like smoke.

  One old man sat in the corner, dealing cards into a solitaire layout. His eyes were fixed on the smoke-crusted front window. His hands moved mechanically, the only sound the soft whisk of the cards sliding over one another, that and the creaking of the chair in the other corner of the lobby.

  As the girl released him momentarily to lean forward over the check-in desk, he turned toward that sound. There was a woman seated in the chair, her eyes glassy, staring at and through him at once. There was a thin string of drool extending from her top lip down to her chin. Her lips were moving, mumbling, and endless cascade of words he could not hear–did not want to hear. There was something about her that he knew, something he recognized.

  She rocked back and forth slowly, like a macabre metronome. He felt drawn to her, hypnotized. His mind spun through dark fantasies–was she a demon? Was the dark one come to haunt him, mocking him with open acknowledgment of his sin? He strained, trying to make out what she was saying, trying to be certain that there was no light of recognition in her vacant eyes, no accusation in the twitching of her lip.

  "Hey," a soft voice whispered in his ear. She was back, as closely knit to his form as if she'd grown there, as natural–and evil–as ever. "You see something you like better, or are you ready to go?"

  Bookheim ripped his gaze from the old woman's form and turned to her, anger flashing in his eyes, dying in the cool wash of her beauty. She caught the flash, but she was not afraid. She drew him in, drew him along, and before he knew what was happening they were moving past the clerk and up the dingy stairs to the next level.

  As they passed the counter, he averted his eyes, slouched a bit and moved furtively. He hated this moment, the moment of control granted to the owners and managers of these cheap little dives over those who frequented them. He could be exposed, he could be refused. He could be ridiculed, made sport of by a man who, though he had little money, no future, and a dead-end job, was in control of his life for a few precious moments. He didn't pay for his fantasies, didn't hide away from those who might recognize his face. He belonged here, it was Bookheim that was the outcast.

  The stairs creaked beneath their feet, and dust rose from the aging wood, making him sneeze. Somehow it didn't matter. Her perfume mingled with that dust, transformed it, and it became part of the experience. Where her skin brushed his it burned like fire.

  Hellfire a voice whispered in his head.

  Where her breath dampened his skin, her tongue tickled at his earlobe, was the chill of ice. It shivered through him, crashing against the walls of heat she'd created and shattering his resolve. She knew what he wanted, damn her, and she wasn't going to give him even a chance to tell her.

  They stopped before one of the identical, faceless doors, each opening to its own world of depravity and darkness. The empty hall was a gateway. He knew this, and all those others who found what they needed in such places knew it as well. There was the real world, his congregation, his faith, and there was this world–the dream world. The world where a little money could bring him the things he'd never been able to find for himself, where happiness, in small bursts, could be bought and paid for–where flesh was a commodity amd sin was the law.

  She slipped the key into the lock and it turned silently. The door opened and they entered, never separating. The door closed behind them with a soft snick, leaving them in darkness, and she turned him to face her, pressed herself into his body and drew him down so their tongues could meet.

  He ran his hands down the length of her dark hair, felt the shudders begin deep within him and burst toward the surface. Felt her swallowing him whole.

  "Come," she whispered, drawing him across the room. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light, he saw that there was little furniture in the room, a dresser, which was cloaked in shadows, a sagging bed, and a small table with withered flowers in its center. Two chairs.

  They moved to the bed, and she seated him gently on the edge of it, pulling free of his embrace. He felt the mattress drop lower under his weight, felt the press of rusted springs from within. The whining creak of protest from the frame echoed in the silence, hanging in the air like a last accusation–a cry to his soul. He shivered and sweat coated every inch of his body. He didn't reach up to brush it from his eyes, but allowed the stinging, saltiness of it to blur his vision, blinding him to his surroundings, creating of her a soft, curved silhouette of desire...his desire. It was not about her, after all–he'd paid her to enter his little world, to become his little world.

  She moved before him, slowly. There was no music, but he could almost hear the notes behind her motion, could almost feel the rhythm, the pulsing backbeat that moved her, invading his mind. As she swirled and gyrated, her scent rose with the dust, swirling about him and robbing him of a bit more reality. She was dragging him down. He imagined that he could hear the devil laughing, calling out to him, and welcoming him.
He shook his head and concentrated on her, only her. The guilt, the repentance, they could come later.

  Her clothing disappeared piece by piece, drawn seductively over smooth skin and tossed aside, fluttering to the dusty floor, revealing more and more as she continued to sway and grind. Her eyes were locked on his, the intensity of her gaze defining his emotions. For a moment he considered leaving, jumping up and running until his legs would no longer sustain the effort. None of the others had been like this.

  They had been dead inside–hollow. On the outside smiles, condescending endearments–playing a part. They had been adequate easy to distance himself from afterward. This was different. She was teasing him into her game, urging him to levels he'd only dreamed about . . . levels he'd never dared to attempt with any of the hollow women. Levels of depravity for which he feared there might be no redemption. She wanted his soul, and he was granting her wish–willingly.

  "Who are you?" He breathed, trying to rise, falling back weakly–captivated.

  She moved a few inches closer, so that her eyes were clearly visible through the smoky, dusty air.

  "I am whoever you want me to be," she purred. "I am whoever you need me to be."

  Though she offered him control with her words, he knew it was a false promise. As she slid over him, her naked flesh pressing into his clothing, her fingers working at his belt, lowering his zipper, he knew he was hers. He was paying her to take him, and the thought thrilled him. All of the others he had ruled, he had owned for a short time, rented from the street. This one would take him, and he found he had no strength to resist her.

  "Who are you?" he asked again.

  She didn't speak. She smiled at him, pulling his shirt aside and off over his shoulders, dropping her lips to his flesh and nibbling with small, white teeth. Her hair floated over him like the silk of his vestments, and he drank in the scent of her, strained up to meet her roving lips, to offer himself, to not let the contact be broken.

  She pressed him down again. Seemingly from nowhere she'd brought forth a silken scarf from beside him.

  "Do you trust me?" she asked, lowering her eyes shyly.

  "Why?" he replied.

  "I want to show you something, to give you something, but you have to trust me. You have to let me do what I want."

  "Anything," he said, realizing how helpless he sounded and reveling in it, "anything, just . . . don't stop."

  She nodded almost imperceptibly, then reached for his wrist and looped the scarf around it, pulling it quickly into a slipknot. Before he could protest she'd brought forth another, and it was sliding around his free arm–pulling tight. He realized that she'd been prepared for this. The scarves were already looped around the legs at the head of the bed.

  "I . . ." he didn't know what to say. He'd been ready to protest, but what would he protest? Her hands were massaging his flesh again, moving down to slide his pants toward his knees, and he moved to assist in any way he could, wriggling from the now offensive clothing, pressing toward her groping fingers and praying she would remove his underpants. He couldn't think beyond that, so he focused on it. She could leave him as he was, and the helplessness of that combined with the guilt, the obsessive need for flesh that had driven him to this seedy room, this surreal world of sin and darkness in the first place, to drive him mad with frustration.

  Then her fingers slid around the elastic band, and he felt the last remaining barrier between them falling away. He lay back against the musty sheets in sudden relief. He almost didn't notice when another scarf captured his left ankle, and a fourth his right. He was beyond protest...she had to finish what she'd started. She had to relieve the pressure she'd brought to him. If she wanted more money, it was hers–all of it–more than he'd brought, more than he'd ever dreamed he might pay. Anything.

  "Don't stop," he pleaded.

  "I won't," she breathed, suddenly beside him again, he hands working his flesh, sliding through the twisting hairs on his chest, moving slowly down to cup him. As she slid over him once more, her silken flesh now pressed to his own, the sweat of his passion mingling with the scent of her perfume, she began to speak again, softly and slowly, so quietly and quickly that he could scarcely make out the words. Each time he nearly had it–each time comprehension threatened to invade his mind, she would emphasize a word with a stroke of her hand, or punctuate a statement with the tip of her tongue, seeking his, moving away, exploring every inch of him as if she were starving for him–withering without his touch.

  "I want to help you," she said. "I want to bring you home. I am the way. I want to give you something special, something you need."

  The words were like a litany, a prayer. She slid over him, encasing him within her, and he was surprised–shocked by the warmth of her, the moist heat. She panted, and he saw that her dark hair was matted to her face, her eyes closed and her tongue constantly moving, wetting her lips, uttering small sounds that intertwined with the words she continued to speak. If he'd believed in witchcraft, he'd have thought it a spell, and he the victim, because it would not have mattered at that moment if she'd been informing him she was collecting his soul for hell, he could not have done a thing about it, and would not have, if he could.

  The hollow women had never been like this. Nothing of themselves had been a part of the bargain. They rented their flesh, a few of the better ones offered a meager acting talent, but the fantasy world was his alone. They allowed him to drag their bodies into his little world, but whatever might remain, deep inside their skewed thoughts, was off limits. This was different.

  The passion of her motions, the urgency of the constant flow of her words, rising and falling in time with urgent breaths and slow, sinuous gyrations of hip and thigh, all of it drew him in deeper. Hers was a world of heat, and she shared it eagerly, wantonly. Fanatically. The monotonous chanting of her voice drowned out the sounds of the street, cut off the sights and scents of the room surrounding them. He could make out little of what she said, and yet each intonation, each coherent syllable, wove her net tighter.

  "Only through me," she whispered. "Only through me, mother . . . home."

  Everything blurred into an insanity of heat and release. The sweat rolled down his face, into his eyes, turning her swaying form into a surreal silhouette, a fuzzy-edged angel surrounded by a glowing halo of light that burned like fire. Her words brought him to a level of need beyond thought, shared that moment with him–desired it. She pulled his seed from him, drew it within her and shuddered as the touch of it released her own climax, drove her up, down, whirled her wildly about as she clung to him with digging nails and clenching knees.

  Pain blended to light, and back to pain. His body arched–released, trapped at that moment of ultimate pleasure for an eternity wherein they were one–indiscernible–joined body and soul. Released. He nearly blacked out from the snap-back to reality, draining into her in ever-weakening bursts of helpless sacrifice.

  She did not withdraw, sliding downward instead, clutching at him with muscles he wouldn't have dreamed to exist, clinging to him as if fearing she might miss some drop of him, some vital link she was unwilling to relinquish.

  Now she was silent, and the void created by that silence was deafening. He turned his gaze up to hers, feeling as if for the first time the bite of the silk on his wrists, the restraining tug of the bonds on his ankles. She didn't meet his gaze at first, and he made a small, whimpering sound. She didn't have to acknowledge him, and he feared, deep in his heart, that she would just leave him. No words, no solace, no release.

  She turned to him, though, and her smile was exalted–her features radiant. Where they'd seemed cheap and exotic they were glowing with released emotion, with triumphant abandon.

  "Who are you?" he asked again. "Who . . ."

  She shook her head quickly. She took one long, nailed finger and touched him on the throat, traced a line straight down the center of his chest–lingering to feel the trip-hammer rhythm of his heart–continuing downward to the point wh
ere she straddled him, weaving it up and through her glistening pubic hairs, then back down and up until it came to rest on his lips. He wanted to speak, to protest, but he felt the stirring of new desire in his cooling flesh, felt himself rise against her–saw her smile.

  She slid over and off of him and dropped to her knees on the soiled carpet. She clasped her hands before her and laid them softly across his chest. She laid her head down, her forehead on her thumbs, her hair cascading out and over him, tickling at his nose and chin, caressing the length of the erection that he could not control–that threatened, once again, to control him.

  He couldn't reach up to brush her hair away, and it maddened him. He turned his face to one side, then to the other, but all the motion served to do was to fuel the flames that were washing through him. He was trembling, shaking with need, and he felt–with shame–the arch of his back, the wanton press of his flesh against her supine form.

  He heard her speaking softly again, felt the moist touch of her lips coating his skin with a soft dampness, evaporating, returning with each breath. The desire was growing in strength, threatening to envelop him completely, and he allowed another sound to pass his lips–a plea–a low moan of such desire that he felt her hesitate, felt her head rise from her hands.

  She rose, stood beside him and gazed into his eyes. Her own were distant, the smile playing over her trembling lips unnerving. She let one hand fall to his cheek, turned him to face her more completely–searching for something in his eyes and apparently finding it.

  "I must leave you," she said softly.

  "No!" His outburst was sudden, jarring–out of place in the dark, wet aftermath of their lovemaking.

  She placed her finger over his lips again, and he could taste her, could feel the scent of their joining seeping into him, altering the world around them again, skewing his thoughts from their intended goal.