Andrea the observer watched with the satisfaction of those whose mastery of the baton produces the heart-pounding crescendos.
She submitted to his coercion and pressed her lips against his cockhead. Aaron had no idea just how in her area of expertise he was. She varied the use of her lips, her tongue, and her teeth in the cause of the desired effect, and employed her hands with the finesse of a concert musician. She made all the right sounds, moaning and whimpering, gagging audibly as he butted the back of her throat, the submissive willing to choke for the master’s pleasure. She glanced up at him with just the right look of wanton lust and humble servitude to feed the hungry ego that could never be sated. She worshipped, with smoky eyes, the unsuspecting condemned man savouring his last meal.
When she knew he was approaching the point of no return, she stopped and moved sinuously up his body. He muttered an agonized protest at the cessation of her attention to his painfully rigid penis and tried to push her back towards it, but she did not relent.
She nuzzled his neck and murmured, “I have something very special that I can do for you. It isn’t like anything you’ve ever felt before.”
She slid off him and reached over the edge of the bed into her tote bag. Her fingers closed around the prepared object of her search and deftly obscuring it from his view, she kissed his mouth hungrily, distracting him. Over the past month, she had practiced her moves repeatedly on a life-sized, padded dummy until they were smooth and flawless.
With the same swiftness as a spider lunging at its captured prey lest it escape, she moved her hand towards him, held the needle point firmly against Aaron’s neck, pierced the flesh, and pressed the plunger without pause, emptying the syringe.
She raised her head to watch as his eyelids flew open, and held him down fast feeling his body convulse against hers once in surprise then a second time in feeble protest. Within seconds she felt him fade.
Andrea was leaning over him when he regained consciousness. A satisfied smile spread across her face as she watched dawning comprehension.
“Oh, Aaron, if you could just see the look on your face.” Andrea paused then said gaily, “Oh, wait, you can,” then in a singsong voice, “Don’t go away,” as she headed to the bathroom. A moment later, she returned holding a large hand mirror.
She paused briefly standing beside the bed to watch him lying motionless. The shallow rise and fall of his chest and the terror-brightness of his blue eyes were the only visible signs of life.
Smiling she held the reflective surface over his face, adjusted it this way and that, and spoke conversationally.
“I know your whole face looks a little slack because that’s what the stuff does. But the eyes are still so expressive. They really are windows into the soul, aren’t they? Assuming one has a soul, of course. See the shock in yours . . . like this couldn’t possibly be happening.” She took the mirror away and set it on the bedside table. “But I assure you it is.” She paused then stared into his eyes and said deliberately, “Oh yes, Aaron, it is soooo happening.
“You know what’s really funny right now? I can actually see your mind racing. ‘What’s happening to me? What’s she doing with me? Who is she?’
“Oh, yes. That last question is the kicker, isn’t it? Who am I?”
Andrea casually caressed her breasts and toyed with her nipples closing her eyes and drifting away momentarily with the sensation, performing for her captive audience. She murmured a long mmmmm, inhaled deeply then sighed audibly.
Her reverie ended abruptly and she stared at him unblinking.
“Well, for starters . . . my name is not Arachnia Webb. I can’t believe you actually bought that. Well . . . perhaps I can. After all, it is rather unusual and noteworthy and would certainly appeal to your sense of being entitled to all that is unique.”
Andrea went over to the alcove beside the bathroom and hefted a large, black sport bag from the luggage bench. She dropped it with a thump beside the bed then sat down beside Aaron’s inert form.
“Now you’re probably also wondering just what that stuff was. Well, it’s kind of a long story. I could make it shorter, I suppose, but what the hell? I do owe you something and we have.” Andrea peered at the glowing green digital display on the clock radio. “. . . well, a bit of time yet. So, I’ll give you more than just the little blurb you’d read in People magazine, but less than War and Peace. Think of this as the Reader’s Digest version.
“The name is Andrea, my dear Maestro. Andrea. And once upon a time I played cello at the Royal Conservatory right here in this fair city.”
She watched as the gears ground then saw comprehension anew.
“Ah-ha! There you go. Your reputation for being a genius remains untarnished. Total recall. You’re just so fucking clever.
“You were right, you know, when you told me I would never be a world-class cellist. I don’t know if I actually started out aspiring to be one. I just wanted to play the cello, but the thing is, after you enlightened me as to my woeful lack of talent, it never occurred to me, for years afterward, to be quite honest that being world-class wasn’t the point. I wanted to play the cello. I know now that I’m responsible for my own actions, but back then . . . your opinion made all the difference. Do you have any idea at all how much your opinion of me counted? Well, probably not, but you will.
“The point is, my brilliant maestro, I really loved playing the cello, but you made me feel that I was wasting my time if I couldn’t make it on the world stage, or be as perfect as you, or as perfect as you thought I ought to be. Certainly not as perfect as Diane was in her chosen field. I found out all there was to know about Diane and she was pretty good. Lovely soprano, but not exactly world-class either. For a while, I even followed her career, brief though it was. Shame when she did that accidental overdose, eh?”
Andrea saw Aaron’s eyes go blank.
“Oh, God, you don’t mean you don’t remember her, either? Christ, Aaron, just how many women does a guy like you have to fuck over before their names and faces start disappearing into the mists of time? I guess being a genius means never having to remember who you’ve screwed.
“Well, I don’t want to wax philosophic. Sands through the hour glass and all that. No, the fact is that I do owe you for a couple of things. First of all, a heartfelt thank you for enlightening me as to the nature of men. I really do enjoy them, you know, but so much more for knowing what makes them tick. And second, for letting me know up close and personal the one thing I did have a knack for.
“You once said I needed to find my own niche, and thanks to you, I did. What I discovered, much to the delight of my pragmatic and somewhat mercenary self, was that what you so enjoyed me giving you for free a lot of other men were more than willing to pay for. So instead of becoming simply a mediocre cellist, I became a world-class cocksucker . . . in the truest sense of that word. I’ll tell you, Aaron, they paid a lot more for that than they would have paid to listen to a cello concert. So, in a sense, I owe my fame and fortune to you.
“Still, you were such a shit and, honestly, I do wonder how different my life would have been if I’d pursued music.” Andrea sighed, bent down, and unzipped the bag. After a moment of theatrical rummaging, she withdrew a translucent white plastic container, snapped it open and set it on the bed beside Aaron. She carefully picked out another tiny syringe from the box and a small, dark brown bottle and held them up so Aaron could see them.
“You’re probably wondering, or maybe not, but it doesn’t really matter – I’ll tell you anyway – you’re probably wondering what I did do instead of keeping up with the cello . . . I mean besides starting up Blow Jobs R Me. After all, you can’t suck cock twenty-four-seven, can you? Well, I guess you could, but it’s hard on the jaw and would probably get a little tedious. Anyway, when I wasn’t raking it in for paying lip service to a lot of rich guys, I dabbled. I ended up doing all kinds of stuff. I’ll bet you never realized how bright I was. I just never was very focused . . . not like you at
all.”
With her right hand, she waggled the bottle in front of Aaron’s face.
“This, Aaron, is a fascinating little substance consisting of neurotoxins and myotoxins. Do you know what those are? No? Well, isn’t it nice to know you’re not a well-rounded genius.” She lowered her right hand. “In simple terms, they are the main ingredients in the venom most commonly found in poisonous snakes and almost all spiders. This is spider venom, of course. Only appropriate, I think. I whipped it up myself. I’m rather brilliant in this particular arena. You should know that. First I harvested it – and let me tell you, that wasn’t easy – and processed it, distilled it to a highly concentrated form, refined it so it would do exactly what I want it to do, then diluted it to administer. I know you’ve always felt privileged and you should do now as well because I did this just for you. Now the shot I gave you was rather mild and mixed with just a wee drop of a potent little tranquilizer. You were actually out cold for about half an hour. I had some other stuff to get ready for you and no reason I shouldn’t let you rest up for it.
“Oh, one thing I did while you nodded off . . . I wheeled the dinner cart into the hall and hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, so you don’t have to worry at all about us being interrupted. The rest of the night is ours.
“Anyhow, the signature attribute of these charming potions is muscle paralysis and the general destruction of organic tissue.
The toxins in the venom allow the female spider, once she has incapacitated her prey, to keeping it alive so she can suck the life out of it at her leisure. An evolutionary coup, don’t you think?”
Andrea held the tiny syringe a little higher so Aaron could see it clearly. His eyes had taken on a wild cast.
“Shortly, I will inject this into you because the initial dose will start to wear off. I made the first one weak because I didn’t know how much you weighed. By the way, you still look fabulous. But I’m sure you’re also still a shit, so how you look doesn’t really count for anything. I’ve prepared a few doses to last us for a spell. I have to be very careful, because too much at once could kill you and we wouldn’t want that to happen too soon, would we?”
She replaced both the bottle and the syringe in the plastic case, but didn’t close it. Shifting her position so she could access his crotch, Andrea fingered Aaron’s now limp penis. She flip-flopped it back and forth playfully.
“How the mighty have fallen,” she said yanking on it a few times then letting it plop down.
“You know, this thing is looking pretty pathetic. It just isn’t right. To your credit, Aaron, although you are a first class prick, you also have a first class prick and you just don’t look like yourself without a good, stiff hard-on.”
She got off the bed and squatted beside the sport bag, rooting around in it once again. She stood erect and proudly help up “The Boy”.
“Ta-daaaaa!”
She grinned broadly and said, “Remember this guy? Of course you do. You gave him to me so I wouldn’t forget you while you were away. Something to remember you by. Well, I remember, Aaron. I remember all of it. Every . . . single . . . thing . . . even if you don’t.”
She leaned over him and pressed his legs together tightly. As expected, there was no resistance. She wedged the base end of the dildo between his thighs so the head pointed toward the ceiling. The ebony contrasted sharply against his pale skin and blond pubic hair.
She stood back and admired her handiwork.
“There. That’s better. That’s more like the real you; a prick with absolutely no feeling at all.”
Sitting down on the bed, Andrea picked up the syringe again.
“I think we can give you a little more now. Don’t want you getting up and walking out on me.”
As she again stabbed him with the tiny needle and slowly pressed the clear liquid into his system, she chatted as would a nurse attending her patient.
“So, where was I? Oh, yes, dabbling. I’ve always liked entomology. Although I wasn’t completely honest with you when I was pretending to be someone else, I was serious about my mother being an entomologist. Just an amateur of course . . . and not all bugs. She certainly didn’t fancy spiders at all. She was a lepidopterist. Actually, she was a real bitch, too. I think that might be why she took such pleasure in catching butterflies, killing them, and pinning them to her little boards.”
Andrea withdrew the needle from Aaron’s neck and rested her arm on the pillow. She was looking at Aaron, but not seeing him. She gazed into some distant past.
“It was rather bizarre really. I caught her once – she didn’t see me watching her – I caught her pinning a live one down. She was smiling. She watched it struggling, trying to beat its wings, legs flailing uselessly, and she just smiled. She enjoyed it you see, capturing this beautiful winged creature. It wasn’t enough for her just to kill it and keep it as a trophy. She wanted it to know it was caught and would never fly free again . . . that it would die without ever soaring on the wind one last time. I’m not even sure how old I was . . . maybe ten or eleven. What I saw her doing horrified me. At that moment, I wished more than anything that I could go back, just a few minutes, and instead of stopping at her study, just passing right by it and doing something else, anything else. I have never wanted a do-over so badly in my life as I did that day. I left without her knowing I’d seen what she’d done. I went to my room and took out my cello and started playing, just playing and playing. I have no idea how long I kept at it. It could have been hours. Probably was. The room was light when I started. It was dark when I gave up. I played till my fingers bled. I started with Haydn and Dvorak then just made up stuff. Not anything you’d recognize, just notes and chords . . . and really loud. I just wanted the sound and the pain to drown out the vision. It never really did. I can still see that butterfly with its beautiful, useless wings and pawing the air with those spindly, weak legs in utter futility. And I can still see that smile, that satisfied smirk. Fuck, I hated it.”
She fell silent, lost in the memory then jerked back to the present and said brightly, “Well, how’s that for a little trip down memory lane? You never asked me much about myself. It was always about you. You and your genius intellect and your awesome talent and . . .” she gave his flaccid penis a kittenish bat with her free hand, “your formerly splendid cock.”
She straightened, replaced the syringe in the plastic case, closed the case, and tucked it into the bag saying, “Won’t need this for a little while.”
Searching the bag once again, Andrea said, “But I do have something else in here that you’re just going to love.” She gripped the prize in her right hand.
She sat upright again and fixed him with a serene smile, keeping the occupied hand out of his line of vision. She adjusted her position then used her left hand to rake her nails lightly across his chest and down his belly to rest in his pubic hair. With a dreamy nonchalance, she twined and untwined a lock of the blond curls around her index finger with the help of her thumb. She pulled on them absently each time the strands were twisted.
“I really do love cocks, Aaron. Hate you, still love your cock.”
With one smooth flourish, Andrea held up the Bowie knife in front of Aaron’s face and laughed out loud when she saw the expression in his eyes.
“You know what I really hate these days? Package deals. Like those satellite dish packages. There’s like, what, maybe ten channels you actually watch and enjoy and the other hundred-and-forty are basic shit that no one would pay for if they weren’t included in the sixty bucks a month. And they won’t let you do it à la carte either. It’s all or nothing. You’re almost like one of those package deals, Aaron. There’s like three good pieces of programming with you and the rest is crap. You have this breathtaking musical talent, which I truly admire. I love music and what you do with it almost too much to take it away from the world prematurely. You also have that supreme gift of gab and I will be the first to compliment you on your riveting lectures.”
“And you have . . . this,” she said, pointing to his penis, just barely touching it with the tip of the gleaming seven-inch stainless steel blade. She heard him sucking air through gaping lips.
“That little anecdote about my dear mater? I told you that so you’d understand that I come by my love of bugs honestly. My preference is to study them live, though. Under natural conditions is nice, but under controlled conditions is my specialty. I wonder if bugs feel anything that equates to emotion. Love, hate or fear perhaps? It wouldn’t seem so, but you never know. I realize I anthropomorphized with that butterfly, but who knows? Maybe it really did know what was happening to it. What do you think, Maestro? Love? Hate? Do you feel either of those emotions? God, I wish you’d speak up. You always had so much to say and now I can’t get a word out of you.
“Well, I guess I’ll never know about the love or hate. But I do see fear. You are a genius, Maestro, adding two and two and coming up with fear.
“I had a truly spectacular collection of bladed weapons. Sold it just recently for an obscene sum. This is the only one left. I have a great fondness for it because it was my first, just like your cock. Your cock was just the first blunt weapon in what turned out to be a very lucrative collection of blunt weapons. The blade collection, like the blunt objects, outlived its usefulness. Shortly, this blade, to which I have a sentimental attachment, will be retired.” She smiled at her own unspoken conclusion. “I can’t take it on the plane and don’t want to chance it in the luggage either.”
Andrea tapped the glossy black dildo with the steel.
“Well, at least that’s good and hard . . . still plenty useful.”
She drew the knifepoint along Aaron’s thigh. She heard him gasp as she pressed the point into the meaty flesh.
“Entomology, biological toxins, bladed weaponry. Tip of the iceberg. I studied some basic anatomy and medicine, too.
“You know what you did to me, Aaron? With surgical precision, you excised my harmless little dream. That cello was all I had, it was all I knew how to do, and for no reason that I can think of, other than your need to inflate your own fucking huge ego, you pinned my wings to the board. You were such a prick. And then that last time before you left for Europe . . . you may as well have been smirking at me watching me floundering like some helpless bug. There I was giving you the only thing I had left to give and . . . you . . . weren’t . . . in the mood?!”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7 Page 11
