Animals

by Jonn Skipp; Craig Spector

  From then on, there was no turning back.

  The first rush hit him like a velvet sledgehammer, knocking him back in his seat as his hands fought to grip the wheel. It became very hard to concentrate. The road before him wound wide to the left, then right, then back; it had become an endless wiggling string of convolutions, with steep cliffs that yawned panoramically at every twist and turn.

  He felt suddenly like he was gliding on one of those Disneyland bumper cars that ran on a jetstream of compressed air, floating almost magically above the world. It was hard to believe that there were actually tires under his car, making contact with an actual world that would open up dramatically for him if he missteered, careening off into a worst-case scenario that he could picture only too clearly. The car, firing off the edge of the cliff. The first full somersaulting scream. The moment of truth, as the roof caved in and the whole thing erupted in flames, rolling down and down and down in a consummate mangled meatgristle epiphany of screams. . . .

  No no no, he heard her say, as if she were in his head. No no no. His vision swam back in focus, and he recognized the topography ahead. He was driving just fine. He was driving just fine. He had driven this road a million times. It occurred to him that he had been drugged somehow, but he failed to see how the information helped. Then her tongue was back in his ear again, and he gave in to the sensation.

  When it was time to turn, she helped him believe it could be done.

  You're okay. She whispered the words in his ear. He was astounded by how powerful they sounded. You're doing fine. He saw the mountains give way, settle into flat-lands and streetlights, the tight clusters of buildings and driveways and stoplights that signaled civilization. He turned the car right, went straight, turned right again. Lights streamed past, their colors glaring overhead: reds and yellows, lurid greens and ghostly blue-white hues, all garishly bright.

  Somehow he found his building, pulled to a stop, parked. He practically had to crawl to the door, but it was okay; she took the keys and she let him in. And it was so great to be inside, surrounded by familiar smells as he ascended the stairs, made his way to sanctuary. At last the front door opened, closed magically behind him. He was home. He knew where everything was.

  But his clothes were making him crazy. He just didn't understand how they worked anymore. He was so grateful when she helped him peel them off, litter them across the floor. Sometime between a second and a century later he collapsed onto the floor, writhing, unable to tell which were arms and which were legs, and how his limbs coordinated.

  And Nora was there, sweet centering guiding force. When she ran her hands down his chest he felt the skittering universe suddenly calm, become manageable. She touched him again and his cock swelled and slapped his belly impatiently. She kissed him, ran her tongue and teeth down the length of his torso, found his erection, and took it into her mouth.

  He began to growl.

  Not only because it felt so incredible, but because he could smell her now, and it was the most amazing, most absolutely all-encompassing scent he'd ever known. She changed positions, straddling him and lowering her hips to his face. She was hot, astonishing, dripping with life. He snuffled at her as she started to moan, a deep guttural rutting cry. Her hands gripped his hips, dug in, pulling him closer. His hands came up to peel her panties down . . .

  . . . and then he was burying his tongue inside her, feeling it strain as he lapped at the folds, aching to reach deeper within. Her body lost control. He could feel it move around him, pressing down until the world disappeared and only her pussy remained, wet dark triangle framing the axis around which the universe madly swirled.

  And her pussy unfolded, her pussy revealed, her pussy was the gateway to the center of the earth. It was like giving head to all creation. It made him feel like a god. She made noises he couldn't believe; he answered with a voice he'd never heard before.

  Syd lost himself in worship, gave himself over to her power.

  And it went on all night long.

  12

  SYD AWOKE FROM a dream of dying, to the sound of the front door's slam. No segue. No newsreel. No Warner Bros, cartoon. One second, he was screaming as he watched his slick red abdomen unzip and disgorge; the next, he was staring at the pool of warm drool collecting on his pillow.

  "Hrnngg," he intoned, wiping a stringer of saliva from his lips. He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. The light in the room felt all wrong: the sky outside was slate-gray, its sombre hue draping the walls and the sheets with long shadows that crawled.

  He groaned. It was warm in the room; he was sweating under the covers. He stirred, stretched, and instantly regretted the move; it felt like every muscle and ligament in his body had been wrenched in the wrong direction. The smell of sex was everywhere: in his nostrils, in his hair, all over the bedding. He was naked and caked with pasty, half-dried secretions. He was also more than a little disoriented; his brain felt spongy, sodden in his skull. Syd squinted at the clock. It read ten to six. Too early to be awake, that was for sure.

  Then he heard the footsteps in the living room, coming toward him; and in the moment before she opened the door, it came back to him.

  Nora . . .

  "Hey," she said, breezing into the room. "Move over, you nasty man." Winking as the door creaked shut behind her. She had changed clothes since last he'd seen her, but he barely had time to register the fact, because she started peeling them off upon walking in.

  Peeling was something that she did extremely well. She was certainly built for it. Her body was both lean and deliciously curved, with a narrow waist and round, inviting hips; her breasts were small but full, with high dark nipples and just the right amount of sag. As she slid out of her jeans, it struck him with a kind of stunned remorse that this was the first time he remembered seeing her naked, despite all the obvious physical evidence to the contrary.

  What the hell had happened? He barely remembered driving home. He wasn't accustomed to blackouts, and it kind of flipped him out. On the other hand, he wasn't accustomed to doing shots, either, or getting his brains fucked out by beautiful and mysterious strangers. He guessed it was possible that the two were connected somehow.

  Then Nora was upon him, slithering up the length of the bed, wrapping herself tight around him. Any regrets or reservations wilted in the heat of her embrace, were completely vaporized by the long, penetrating kiss she pinned him with, the sultry spiced scent of her skin. The kiss was at once deep and urgent, timelessly luxurious: as her tongue went wild inside his mouth it sparked a fire in his brain that spread down his spine, sent shock waves of ecstasy reverberating through to his toes.

  All in all, it was a great way to start off the morning.

  The only problem was, by the time they came up for air Syd realized they had been utterly swallowed by darkness. The dawn should long since have burned off the shadows. This had him confused, until Nora pointed out the moon rising outside the window. He looked at her, shocked.

  "You let me sleep all day?"

  "Well, we were up pretty late last night," she countered, "and besides, you were crashed." Syd had to admit that that was true: the second part, at any rate. Nora cuddled into him, slid her hand down to wake his rousing cock. "Plus it gave me a chance to go get some things," she added. "I hope you don't mind."

  Syd nodded, not quite sure what that meant. "Yeah, it's fine," he said. "I just . . ."

  "Oh, shit," she said suddenly, cutting him off. "Before I forget . . ."

  She let go of his penis and jumped up, exiting the bedroom. Syd watched for a moment, perplexed. When she didn't come back he pulled himself creaking from the bed, followed on unsteady legs.

  In the living room was a battered suitcase, plunked down in the middle of the floor; from the kitchen came the clinking and rattling of bags being unloaded. Syd rounded the corner to find Nora lit from the open refrigerator, a package wrapped in bloody butcher's paper still in hand. Eggs and fresh produce graced the interior shelves; on the kitchen
counter were two more bottles of Southern Comfort, plus some tequila and a couple of bottles of wine. From the looks of it, she'd taken the State Store and the farmer's market by storm.

  Syd watched her work, his tracking still a little sluggish.

  He asked how she'd gotten around. Nora gestured to the window. Syd peeked outside; there was a frisky-looking little Camaro with Louisiana plates parked out front. He nodded, then asked how she'd gotten out to pick it up. She said it wasn't real hard to get people to take you where you want to go, if you just knew how to ask.

  Nora went back to unloading groceries and Syd watched her, not knowing exactly how he felt. On the one hand, there was a Play Misty for Me kind of presumptuousness to her sudden domesticity that took him more than a little off-guard. On the other hand, there was the sight of her naked backside as she leaned into his fridge. He thought about it, tried to phrase the next question as neutrally as possible.

  "So are you just passing through, then," he said, "or will you be hanging around for a while?"

  "I'm gonna have to keep moving," she said over her shoulder, "sometime in the next couple of days or so."

  "Oh," he said, instantly disappointed. It was not the answer he wanted to hear; he wondered what was. Syd moved over to the kitchen table, picked up his cigarettes.

  Nora stood and closed the door; suddenly they were illuminated only by the streetlight's blue-white glow. As she turned, her eyes locked on his, and Syd felt his heart begin to free-fall. He lit a smoke and leaned against the table, trying to keep his voice steady, feigning nonchalance, failing utterly.

  "So, um," he began. "So while you're in town . . ."

  ". . . I'd like to stay here with you," she finished the thought for him. "If that's okay."

  "Not a problem," he said. Nora closed the refrigerator door and stood. She was naked and magnificent and two feet away. That was two feet too many. Nora beamed, looking quite pleased, if not entirely surprised. She closed the narrowing distance between them, enfolded Syd in a steamy embrace. They kissed again, long and sweet, tapping very deliberately into each other's soul-fire.

  "You know," he said, when the kiss finally broke, "you're welcome to stay a little longer. If you like."

  "Mmmm," she murmured. "On the other hand, you could come with me."

  Syd just stood there for a second, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nora's gaze upon him remained fixed and steady. His heart's free-fall lurched to a shuddering halt, hovered uneasily in midair.

  "Yeah, right," he said.

  "Yeah," she said. "Right."

  There was a pause. "You're serious," he said. She nodded her head. Either it was true, or that shoe was taking an incredibly long time.

  "I couldn't do that—"

  "Why not?"

  "Well, for one thing . . ." he began. And then he stopped.

  And it dawned on Syd that he couldn't think of a single good reason. And that surprised the hell out of him. It was as though his entire internal map had spun one hundred and eighty degrees in a heartbeat, showed him a possibility he'd never really considered before.

  "I just couldn't," he reiterated.

  "Why couldn't you?"

  "Well," he said, turning away from her, starting to pace now. She watched him. "Umm." Running this new equation through his head. "Well, let me see." Still wary. "Are you going anywhere in particular?" She shook her head. "But you've got to get there right away." She nodded, emphatic. "Right. So I guess we're talking a Jack Kerouac, Easy Rider-kinda thing."

  Nora let a cryptic little half-smile slip out, gave a little hand-wiggling gesture. Sorta kinda. Close enough.

  "I don't know," he said, slipping into his best young Jack Nicholson, "I was never really a drop-out-and-find-America kinda guy." He laughed. She smiled. "I mean, I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance when I was fourteen, but that's about the extent of it."

  She watched, said nothing.

  "I've kinda got roots here."

  "I noticed."

  "And, to be real honest, we barely even know each other."

  "This is true."

  "And I've got some questions about how you live without a steady job . . . "

  "You mean how I live?" The invisible walls came up, for the first time since the bar.

  "No, no. I mean how a person lives." It was amazing how quickly the sweat glands responded to tension. "Like how anyone lives. Like how I would, for instance."

  He realized that he had stepped near a tripwire, logged it, couldn't help but wonder what it meant. She just stared at him, abruptly intense, her vulnerability a thing of the past. Suddenly, his own extreme nakedness disturbed him; he realized it was because it no longer felt safe. He'd gone straight from relaxed to extremely uncomfortable in the time it took to generate a bead of sweat.

  "I don't know . . ." Trying to talk his way through it. ". . . I've always had kind of a wild streak. But it always comes slamming back into my practical side. The part that wants to know how everything works, and needs to know that everything's taken care of." He looked at her again. Her face remained unchanged, but her body untensed minutely.

  "You still haven't answered my question," she said.

  Syd paused, laughed nervously. "This is crazy . . ." he said.

  She nodded, said nothing.

  "I mean, I just met you. We don't even know each other. You know what I'm saying?"

  "What are you saying?"

  She was still looking at him, unraveling his defenses with the directness of her gaze. He was beginning to feel a little like something in a petri dish. "What am I saying? I don't know! I mean, I hate my job—fuck, I have no job, when you get right down to it. And I really have no home, either. But I'm kinda settled in anyway . . ." She just looked at him, giving away nothing. ". . . and this is where I am.

  "At least until I go somewhere else."

  He finished up, waited for her reaction shot. She was cool, no doubt about it, but there were a few chinks in her ego armor. When her eyes flashed at the word home, Syd caught a glimpse of her need.

  It was every bit as great as his own.

  He could tell that she knew that he knew. He could also tell that she hated having slipped, even a little.

  "I guess I'm gonna have to think about it," he said. "I gotta admit, though, you kinda caught me by surprise."

  "Get used to it." She smiled ruefully. The walls inched down.

  "Believe me . . ." Taking a step toward her. ". . . there are a couple of things around here that I'd very much like to get used to."

  "Ah." Again, the dirty laugh. They were back, at last, on familiar ground. He took another step toward her, weighed the space between them for evil vibes. They had been dispersed. Hallelujah, amen. Nora stood before him, defiantly inviting, with her high breasts and tight belly, long legs and extravagant hips. The streetlight transformed her, made her pale flesh seem to glow, rendering her a hungry spirit in human form, come to claim and be claimed by him.

  He pulled her close, felt her body press into his. She was cold fire; Syd, a moth to her flame.

  And all, for the moment, was right with the world.

  13

  THE MOMENT WAS perfection; one might even go so far as to use the word blessed. The kind of moment that you could spend a lifetime searching for, and once experienced, spend the rest of your life trying vainly to equal. It was wonderful, magical, absolutely unprecedented.

  And, like all perfect moments, it was utterly doomed.

  In Syd's case, it lasted long enough to get them from the kitchen to the bedroom. He paused just long enough to let her grab one of the bottles of Comfort, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her through the living room, his cock bobbing like a divining rod.

  The bed appeared before them like some mythical island paradise. Syd laid her down across its white expanse, slid his right hand between her thighs. She was incredibly, gratifyingly wet: his fingers dipped and figure-skated along her slippery length, teasing her to frenzy before burying
themselves in her depths. Her reaction was overwhelming, his every tiny motion provoking an avalanche of response. He used his hands and mouth to send her over the brink and back a half-dozen times before they could stand it no longer.

  But when Nora went to pull him up and astride her, Syd's brain suddenly kicked in.

  "Hang on a sec," he mumbled, then reached over to the nightstand and began fumbling with the drawer. Just as he opened it Nora pulled his hand back, placed it on her breast, and thrust her tongue deep into his mouth. Syd lost himself in the onslaught; it was with great effort that he tore his hand away, resumed his search.

  Nora squirmed in protest, grinding her hips into him. The resulting wave of ecstasy threatened to submerge him completely, and it was all he could do to speak, no less remain even marginally rational. With his last ounce of will he broke the spell.

  "Wait," he said, as he reached into the drawer, extracted a little foil packet, started to tear it open. When she saw what he was doing she pulled back and looked at him like he was out of his mind.

  "What are you doing?"

  "What do you think? I'm gonna use a condom."

  "Not with me, you're not." She plucked the packet from his hand, tossed it across the room.

  "Very funny," he said, and reached for another one. Nora leaned forward and nipped him on the arm. "Ow!" he yelped. "Cut it out!"

  When he went for the drawer again, Nora grabbed his hand. Syd twisted out of her grasp. She wrapped her legs around his waist. "Nora, stop it," Syd said, trying like hell to outmaneuver her. "C'mon, baby, I'm serious. . . ."

  "So am I," she replied, a fiercely wicked grin on her face. She squeezed her thighs together, locking him in a fleshy vice-grip: Syd squirmed, surprised both at her strength and the relentless quality of her resistance. As he struggled the horseplay burgeoned into an impromptu erotic wrestling match.

  They whipped back and forth on the mattress, a manic tangle of limbs: her legs squeezing his midsection, his hands scrabbling to pin down her arms. As she reached for him again Syd grabbed her left hand, pinned it to her right. Leaning into her with all his weight, he twisted toward the nightstand, managed to snatch another rubber from the drawer . . .