Beautiful Damnation

Another story from the same series as "Mock Orange Blossoms" and "Chocolate and Honey" this time from the perspective of a different character. It was something new for me to try.

This was virgin territory and he was flying blind. It wasn’t just his favorite pastime of sex. This was different. She. Made. Him. Feel. The press of those curves, and the swing of her hips, combined with ripe cherry lips and dark sultry eyes. He was temptation dripping with sin, and she made him seem saintly. A paragon of virtue by day, no one saw the truth behind her kind smile. He’d seduced whores and nuns alike, but she made eternal damnation a delicious reward.

 Her hips swayed to the music, slowly grinding against the warm body pressed to her back. The feeling returned, stronger, and he rubbed a hand against his aching chest. She tipped her head back exposing her neck. Licks, bites, she purred. Chest constricted, throat closed, clenched fingers bruising, he quivered in agony. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

It should be him.

Across the dingy bar Cecily St. Ange, instigator of the feeling, was with another man. He watched as the man smoothed a hand down her thigh; touching, teasing, tasting. He didn’t know the taste of that skin, but he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to. But the man on the dance floor; the ignorant, scum-sucking, jerk off, felt every sweet part. It was unacceptable.

She rocked her rear against the man, and his eyes couldn’t help but follow. Bitable. Her ass was bitable and delicious, even with that redneck’s beer gut pressing into her. She was a little misguided. Had to be since she was with a guy wearing a baseball cap, a straining, stained t-shirt, and ratty blue jeans. She wanted that instead of him. It was insulting. His jeans made his ass look bitable and the t-shirt showed his abs were firmed not gelatinous. And yet. The beautiful girl with blue eyes and honeyed curls, in a strapless dress snug on the breasts and smooth on the curves was with that slack-jawed knuckle dragger.

She must have seemed like a sign from God, he mused, leaning against the sticky counter as Beer-gut whispered dirty nothings in her ear. It had to be dirty because nothing clean could ever come out of a mouth as disease ridden as that. It didn’t help that she flashed a smile and put a hand on his ass. Beer-gut was rubbing against her as she whispered back. Honestly, there wasn’t enough scotch in the world to make that okay. Of course, this bar only served scotch that left an after taste paint thinner would envy. Not that it mattered as he downed another glass and paid his tab. She was leaving with Beer-gut and judging from the friendly squeeze of his hand it wasn’t for a handshake at the door.

Time to follow her home and kill the fucker. If he wasn’t allowed to touch her in deliciously naughty ways, Beer-gut wasn’t. She would live, of course, the inspiration for the feeling. That suffocating ache in his chest that made him burn with anticipation for murder. Bloody, sadistic murder.  It must be love for him to feel this way.

He kept a sedate block and a half behind Beer-gut’s rusty Chevy, reading fluorescent yellow bumper stickers that proudly proclaimed “Girls wanna ride in this truck, better know how to suck” and other charming sayings that further convinced him Beer-gut’s demise would be a blessing to the gene pool of humanity. They pulled to the side of the road and Beer-gut got out, pissing in the bushes. At three-thirty in the morning the roads were deserted and he kept driving. He knew they were headed for her house. It was the same every time she brought a man home. He wasn’t worried. It would be better if he came after they started.

Forty minutes later he broke into her dark suburban home. She’d be upset that he’d made copies of her key, but it was worth a little anger to see Beer-gut perish in a grisly fashion. He walked through the basement to a windowless room of brick and stone. Carefully, he removed the thirteenth brick from the left, reached out and pulled on a hidden handle. A concealed doorway pulled open revealing an insulated, sound proof, bomb shelter. Her playroom.

Beer-gut was lying down, arms and legs strapped in place, in nothing but yellowing formerly white briefs. She stood to the side, brown hair pulled back, wearing a tank top and jeans, poised above Beer-gut with a bloodied exacto knife held expertly in her hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’ve gotta help me! This bitch is insane,” Beer-gut hollered. Well, he assumed it’s what was said since she’d already removed the offensive redneck’s tongue. Terrified moans were so hard to translate.

“Did I say you could watch?”  She asked, irritated, cinnamon eyes meeting his gaze with a glare.

He preferred her like this, free from her façades, candid, deadly, and poised. Although, it could be fun to get her back in the bar outfit for an hour or two. He’d leave out the contacts to see her real eyes. Speaking of which, he noticed her glare became a look of amusement at his lengthy lapse. With a careless grin he closed the door and walked towards her.

 “You’ve been driving me crazy all night, lover, that’s not very nice,” he answered, voice husky. “The least you could do is let me watch. I’ll even sit in the corner like the good little boy I’m not.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a masochist,” she purred, closing the distance until their bodies almost brushed.

Neither moved as their warmth mingled and they breathed each other in. His body was thrumming, sizzling with heat as her tongue swept out and licked her lips. He leaned closer, fixated, and she stepped away.

“There’s a chair by the shelves, don’t touch my things,” a staggering arrangement of blades, toxins, and instruments of torture, “and you can tell me about your day while I work on our friend here.”

It was endearing, he decided, lighting up a cigarette, to see her so happy. There was a warm flush of life in her face as she lovingly pierced hot needles through Beer-gut’s finger tips. Her delighted laugh, as the man keened, brought an ache to his chest that could only be love. She was radiant, humming contently, an echo of lost childhood harbored in her eyes. He adored every monstrous beat of her heart. To the rest of the world she was a quiet, almost fragile woman. But he knew the truth. And she would kill him one day. He didn’t share her hobby and she didn’t love him, but they were irrevocably connected. He knew, as he watched her peel back strips of Beer-gut’s skin, that they’d never make it to Heaven. Eternal salvation couldn’t compare to seeing her like this.