Resist Not Evil (MF not rom)
The haft of the arrow had been feathered with one of the eagle's
own plumes. We often give our enemies the means of our own
destruction.
Aesop (The Eagle and the Arrow)
~~~~~~~~
The cover was hand-tooled leather, gold filigree print on the
spine, hand-sewn linen pages. I couldn't see the title from where
I was standing, although the author's name, "S. Morgenstern," was
clear on the spine. I arched an eyebrow suspiciously. I've never
actually seen anyone reading the Morgenstern version of the book,
and I rarely saw it on store shelves, but it had to be that one.
After all, "The Princess Bride" had become popular in the last
decade or so, what with the and the abridged in print.
But, damn, was she actually reading the original? I risked a
surreptitious glance over the rim of my coffee mug. I watched her
eyes move down the page, and the corners of her mouth turned up
with the slightest hint of amusement as she turned the page. I
was impressed. From watching her, it didn't seem as though she was
reading to impress someone like so many of the "classics" readers
did. Reading it to be able to say she had read it. No, she
appeared to be completely oblivious to those people sitting around
her, although most of them at one time or another had watched her.
Who could help but watch? She appeared to have been created by
some marvelous, omnipotent being expressly for the purpose of being
watched. Her hair was beautiful; deep mahogany brown and shining
in the soft light of the bookstore coffee shop. Carelessly tied
atop her head, loose tendrils fell behind her ears to her
shoulders. And what wonderful shoulders! The lightly tanned skin
of her neck, smoothly disappeared under the seamed collar of her
dress and rounded down to perfect arms. The muscles of her arms
were softly etched, although not in a way that suggested strenuous
gym workouts. No, this was a natural perfection. Soft, delicate.
In other words, impossibly perfect.
Her dark-blue summer dress was modest, short sleeved and long
enough to reach mid-calf, rather than the more obvious thigh-high
hem and spaghetti straps so fashionable these days. However, the
effect was remarkably Victorian, and I would have given away a 17th
century King James Bible to see her naked. The fabric clung to her
breasts and rolled with each breath. As I watched, she shifted
her weight in the cushioned armchair and pulled her legs (ah, what
legs!) under her hips, leaving her sandals on the floor beneath the
chair.
The hustle and bustle of the coffee shop didn't seem to be
intruding into the world of her book, but she did look up
reluctantly as a store clerk approached. He leaned down to speak
to her in that obsequious way of a clerk not wanting to offend a
potential commission sale.
She placed her finger on a page and raised her face to stare fully
at him. Dark lashes framed darker eyes, and the clerk visibly
weakened as her gaze came to rest on him. With lips made for
something other than mere speech, she spoke softly to him, seeming
to plead with those deep pools of color that were her eyes.
Although her actual words were lost in the background noise between
us, they appeared to have the desired effect upon the clerk. He
backed away and returned to his post behind the cash register.
I couldn't help but chuckle softly as I watched him. Something
about her had obviously bit deep into his psyche. He seemed almost
dazed, as though he couldn't quite remember actually speaking to
her. A few minutes later a manager - a substantially more effete
man -- approached. This time the exchange was louder. Apparently
this employee wasn't quite as concerned with offending the lady.
"Ma'am. I'm sorry, but I simply must ask that you either pay for
the book, or return it to the shelf."
Then I heard her voice. I don't remember her words. But can one
actually hear the words spoken by angels, or are they simply the
chimes heard in the passing wind?
Regardless, the employee was unfazed. Which, of course, lent
credence to my initial impression of his sexual preferences.
His voice cut across the room, bringing a silence over the patrons
as they turned to watch. Ah, we are a society built upon the
silent enjoyment of the pain of others, are we not? "I'm sorry,
Madam, but this is a bookstore. Do you plan on buying that book
today? If not, might I suggest the public library from now on?"
Her lips parted as she let out an annoyed sigh. Noting the page
number marked by her finger, she closed the book and carefully
placed it in his outstretched hands. She stared at him, as though
silently challenging him to say something further. He looked
pointedly at the floor and her empty sandals, and then he nodded
towards the outside door.
She shrugged prettily and slipped her feet into her sandals.
Seemingly immune to the stares of the other customers, she gathered
her bag from beside her chair and moved to the door. Unable to
control the urge, I quickly collected my own purchases and found
myself following her to the parking lot.
I hadn't quite figured out what I was going to say to this
creature; in fact, I wasn't at all sure why I was following her.
I've never been what one would consider "impulsive." Boring,
staid, predictable, yes, but not impulsive. I was about four steps
behind her when she turned, pulling me up short in my stride. I
stumbled backwards slightly, sure that she was turning to unleash a
fury upon me for stalking her. In fact, I was so busy mentally
preparing a defense for my indefensible actions that I completely
missed her first words. It was her smile that told me that any
transgressions I had made were forgiven.
That smile! Had I ships, a thousand of them would have been
launched. As it was, my voice caught in my throat, my breath
stopped, and my heart hammered against my rib cage. I stammered
something incoherent and prepared to beat a hasty retreat, but her
hand on my arm stopped me.
"Careful," she said liltingly. "Wouldn't want you to yourself."
I was awestruck. Her accent wasn't strong, nor was it easy to
place, but it brought forth images of azure waters, tile-roofed
villas, and golden sand. The connections between my brain and my
mouth fizzled, and I struggled to find a coherent sentence among
the gibberish forming on my tongue. She rescued me.
"I usually get a bit further in the book before someone catches
on. I thought for sure I'd finish it today."
I got lost somewhere between her throat and her collarbone as she
shrugged her perfect shoulders again.
"Perhaps it's time to take his suggestion," she gestured
disdainfully at the store clerk who was still watching from his
perch behind the tinted glass wall of the store. "No one at the
library cares if we sit for hours with the same book, but it's not
the same. All those books, all those other hands all over those
books. It's as though I'm being forced to touch fingers with
everyone else in the city when I read the library books. And those
chairs! They were made for study, not for," she paused just
slightly before finishing, "pleasure."
My tongue loosened, and my throat again began to form words.
"Well," I began, "I just happen to have a first edition in my own
library. You're welcome to read it in an environment more
conducive to pleasure reading."
I mentally slapped myself. It's been a while since I actually
thought to try any variation of "wanna come to my place? I'd love
to show you my etchings?" It didn't work a decade ago, why would
it work now?
Her next words, coupled with the burning touch of her fingers on
my wrist, nearly sent me into apoplexy.
"You know what? I'd love that."
I somehow managed to regain my composure during the brief walk to
my home. My hand was steady as I turned the key in the lock and
opened the front door for her, allowing her to pass in front of me.
Chivalrous, yes, but practical as well. The view from behind was
as perfect as the view from in front of her.
"A drink?" I cleared my throat and started again. Damn, I'm
never short of words. Why now? "Can I get you a drink, a glass of
wine maybe? Then I'll show you the library."
Shit, now I sounded like a snob. A library? Since when do I have
a library? It's a room. It's full of books, a chair, a fireplace,
and a desk, but it's hardly a library. She's going to think I'm an
idiot. Surprisingly, she didn't seem to find my comment at all off-
putting.
"That would be perfect. Something white perhaps?"
"Wait here. I'll be right back." I rushed to the kitchen,
praying silently that the wineglasses were clean and that I
actually had a decent bottle chilled. "Don't move!" I called,
then tried to will my mouth to shut up before I said something else
ridiculous.
I ran two glasses quickly under the tap to rinse the dust from
their handles and found a 1998 Kallstadter Steinacker Riesling
Eiswein in the back of the refrigerator. Pouring as I walked, I
called back down the hall to the living room, where I hoped she was
still waiting. I experienced a brief moment of crushing panic when
I realized I was hollering into an empty room. A dark flash from
the 'library' caught my eye, and I followed, realizing that she had
found her own way to my books.
I set the bottle down on the small table and cradled both glasses
between my fingers. I was fascinated watching her finger my books.
Long fingers, tipped with perfectly manicured nails, traced lines
over the rough leather spines. A beautiful hand trailed along the
stacks of paperbacks perched precariously on the edge of my desk;
her touch so delicate that their covers barely moved as she swept
slowly by them. I could feel her fingers with my mind's eye as
they brushed over each title. My skin tingled under her imagined
touch, and I could feel the scraping of her nails over my chest.
She murmured softly to herself as she examined the books on the
shelves. I could see her eyes reflecting off the polished surface
of the shelves' brass trim. Even in that wavering reflection there
was something I could only describe as lust. With each stroke over
the book covers I became more and more convinced that she was
yearning for something within those pages. What woman comes to a
stranger's home to examine his library?
I let my attention focus on watching her. She gave a small cry of
discovery, and I could see the muscles of her back shift as she
reached up for my first edition Morgenstern. My body shuddered
with imagined pleasure as my eyes traced the curve of her hips, up
past her ribs, to the gentle curve of her breast. She twisted,
slightly off balance, and I caught a brief glimpse of her straining against the fabric of her dress. My cock strained at my
jeans as I let myself imagine her nipple hardening under her
clothes.
I dumbly held the glass out to her, futilely offering a drink to
her turned back before I could clear my throat and speak without
croaking. My eye was caught by her distorted image through the
pale golden liquid in the goblet. Something about the light, the
placement of the bookshelves, or the curve of the glass gave this
beautiful creature an almost sinister aspect. The dark fabric of
her dress melded with the deep finish of the shelves to put black
wings upon her back. I shook my head and lowered the glass as she
turned her head, meeting my gaze over her shoulder.
"Ah, you've discovered me," she said, and there was something in
her voice that was teasing, mocking.
I found my composure and my voice. "You're doing just fine. After
all, you came here for a book, right?"
"Did I?" Her voice surrounded me, filling my brain. Those two
words held the answer to questions I didn't realize I had until she
answered them. I didn't know how to respond. Was she offering what
I think? I didn't even know her name. How do you ask someone
something as basic and mundane as her name once she's just implied
that you're about to quickly move past the point of mere
introductions? What the fuck do I say now? I decided on honesty.
"Well, you've left me speechless." And, with the exception of
that sentence, she had.
"Speechless? You don't strike me as someone who is easily left
without words on his tongue. Perhaps your tongue has other
intentions?" She took the glasses from my hands and placed them
next to the wine bottle. She reached up and wrapped her hands
around my neck, pulling my mouth down to hers.
My body was held rigid with conflicting energies. My cock was
drawn by the heat emanating from her body, but some primitive,
instinctual part of my brain suddenly screamed at me that this was
wrong. Something was terribly wrong. There was no reason for the
beautiful creature to be coming on so strongly. It happened in
stories, but not in real life, and the rational part of my brain
reminded me that if a situation appeared too good to be true, it
usually was.
Against the protests of my more intelligent side, my arms wrapped
around her waist, pulling her tightly against me as I pressed my
lips to hers, my tongue searching out the warmth of her mouth.
With swift, sure motions she pulled her dress from her shoulders
and let it fall to the floor. Her fingers opened my jeans and
pushed them down over my thighs until they too fell to the ground
and I could step from them.
My hands were pulled to her naked breasts, but where I expected to
find warmth my fingers encountered only a soft coldness. A
frightening cold touch. Too cold. Unnaturally freezing.
My eyes shot open, and I stared into her face. My god, how had I
thought that she was beautiful? How had I found those eyes exotic?
Instead of the warmth and mystery I had imagined, I saw a cold,
malevolent emptiness. I saw dangerous caves rather than deep pools
in her gaze. What I had seen as perfectly tipped fingers had
suddenly turned to sharply honed claws, digging deeply into my
upper arms. Her brow had furrowed and hardened, deep ridges
forming above her eyebrows, and those loose tendrils of flowing
hair that had been so softly framing her face had seemingly taken
on an independent life, winding themselves stiffly around her head
and writhing like newly hatched snakes searching for their first
meal. The creature holding me tightly, my lust, was not
the same perfect woman who was just examining my literature. My
knees buckled and I sunk to the floor as she pushed against my
shoulders with more strength than any ten women should have.
Her mouth locked to mine, stifling my protests although I screamed
volumes through her insistent lips. She straddled me, and I willed
my raging cock to soften. How was I still hard? Why wasn't my
dick getting the message?
I tried in vain to struggle as she straddled me and locked her
legs around my hips. An unearthly coldness surrounded me as my
erection was drawn into her. Her hips ground against me, forcing
her into harder, faster, thrusting over me. I found myself
unable to turn my eyes from her face, but where I would expect to
see pleasure in her eyes, I found only a cold smugness, a knowledge
that I was helpless to resist.
I was not a partner but a victim, and she took from me what she
wanted. With no urging from me, my cock began to twitch inside
her. I felt the pulled from my body, not with the accustomed
pleasurable release of orgasm, but with the painful, unwanted
suction of her cold body.
Her eyes locked on mine, and her lips were drawn back in a snarl.
Her voice was nails on a chalkboard, foil on a filling. "This is
what you wanted, isn't it? This is why you invited me here. This
is why you offered me your book. So, enjoy this because it's the
final fuck of your worthless life."
Her body spasmed and I felt her muscles clench around my still-
hard shaft. She shook, and her hands planted on my chest vibrated
with each hard, final thrust. She threw her head back and cried
out, a bird screaming to her mate.
Abruptly she stood, and with my fading vision, I could see wings
unfurl. Her body darkened, the softly tanned skin becoming hard,
scaly as I watched. She looked at me with disdain evident in her
eyes as she spoke.
"Was this a fantasy fulfilled? Is this what you dreamed about
when you heard the word 'succubus?' You thought of a whore, didn't
you? A slut with whom to play out your desires? An insatiable
plaything coming to you in your sleep? Ah, the wondrous power of
misconceptions!
"You see, I'm forced to wander, finding refuge only in a place to
which I've been invited. But unlike so many of my peers, merely
inhabiting a home -- and a -- has become for me tiresome.
Kiss, thrust, cum. Kiss, thrust, cum. It's a never-ending, rarely
varying cycle. Wonderful for the first thousand years or so, but
then it become tedious. Then, I discovered the joy of your books.
Stories, here for the taking!
"I realized that I couldn't have them. I couldn't enjoy them at
my leisure." She stretched her wings to their full length and held
her arms out to her sides. "Where would I put them? Then, I
realized something else. I didn't have to put them anywhere."
My sight was fading faster than my erection. Through my haze, I
could still feel the hardness between my legs, jutting up from my
body like a ridiculous flagpole. She looked down at my still-
evident desire and laughed almost ruefully. "See? That's what I
mean. Predictable and reliable, but boring. This," she gestured
with an outstretched hand, "this is where real excitement is."
She moved away from me, crossed the room to the armchair near the
fire. As the light faded I watched her pick up a wineglass in one
hand and the Morgenstern in the other. She wrapped her wings
around her body, and began to read.
|
|
