Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes (16 page)
Read Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes Online
Authors: Claude Lalumière
My back arched. She grabbed my waist and turned me around. She lay down on top of me, her breasts pressed against my back, her hands caressing my hips.
She slid downward and kissed the fleshy cheeks of my butt, lingering there. Then she moved up to my back and licked it methodically, until her tongue had tasted every millimetre of its sweaty skin. She kissed my nape, then she slipped her hands under me, grabbed my tits, and lifted me up.
I faced her, and we guided each other’s hands toward our swollen cunts. I came almost immediately. Dizzy with pleasure, I sat behind her, put my arms around her, and pressed her back against my now tender breasts. Cupping one of her tits with one hand, my other hand moved down to between her legs. She was prodigiously wet. While I played with her nipple, I masturbated her. When she came, her body seemed to melt into mine.
She laid her head down on my breasts, and I enfolded her in my arms. We stayed like that until sunup, which wasn’t long in coming. We had fucked nonstop for more than twelve hours.
She gave me a final kiss, put her clothes on, and left without a word. My skin tingled deliciously. I touched myself: my voluptuous breasts had vanished, my chest hair had grown back, my vagina had closed, and cock and balls had returned. My penis was raw and my ass was sore, but even the pain felt good. I never wanted to come down from that nirvanic post-multiorgasmic stupor.
But less than five minutes later, the landlord pounded on my door, yelling for me to open up. So much for serenity. I quickly slipped into my outerskin and pulled on some clothes, then opened the door. Immediately, he chewed me out for making such a racket all night. Said this wasn’t a brothel. Said he’d throw me out if it happened again. As if I could let myself have sex here again knowing now that he and his wannabe porn-starlet wife could hear everything. Betcha they enjoyed the audio show. After all, they hadn’t interrupted us. He slammed the door shut when he left.
My outerskin was itchy, suffocating – alien. I couldn’t bear to keep it on.
While I had breakfast - I was ravenous; I ate three times as much as usual – I heard them fucking upstairs, with their customary overrehearsed rhythm of call-and-response moans and screams.
~
I have shed my outerskin – forever. It’s obsolete technology; my body can now defend itself. Adapt as it needs to.
It’s an easy task to mold my flesh so that it appears like outerskin to prying eyes.
Around campus, everywhere I glance, there’s desirable flesh. Girls and women of all shapes and sizes. Long-legged elegant women with sinuously lithe bodies. Petite elfin girls. Giggling girls. Chubby girls with wonderfully plump butts. Brash tomboys. Fashionistas more lovely than any cover model.
...And the guys. Broad-shouldered and classically handsome. Bearish, with comforting bellies and strong arms. Athletic and tautly muscled. Absentminded, lost in their own worlds. Unabashedly macho. Ambiguously androgynous.
All kinds of beautiful bodies – I fantasize about peeling off their outerskins, about tasting their sweat and juices. About smearing my juices on their naked flesh.
I come to realize that I release pheromones that attract the uninfected to me. Pheromones that their outerskins fail to filter.
In other people’s bedrooms I mold and reshape my lovers’ bodies to the ebbs and flows of my desires, my own body transforming itself in response to their unleashed fantasies. I free their flesh, their identities.
I understand now that our entire economy is based on the fear that without outerskins or ecolocks we would all die.
I understand that there are interests – powerful economic interests – that will not allow this to change.
I understand that I am now a terrorist.
~
I’ve moved upstairs, gratefully abandoning my small, dark apartment. Trying to weasel out of paying the monthly rent I surprised even myself by seducing my landlord and his wife. The playful tenderness of our threesome astonishes us time and again, but never more than that first time.
Fondling his own big breasts never loses its charm for him. She laughs hysterically whenever she fucks either of us in the ass with her cock, which she has learned to mold into different shapes, which further amuses her to no end.
All You Can Eat, All the Time
So, like, my hair is freshly dyed, as black as I can get it. All the clothes I’m wearing are black, too: scarf, leather coat (with a lacy bustier underneath), leather gloves, skirt, fishnets, and boots that go mid-calf. Then there’s my skin. I mean, I’m, like, pretty pale to start with. But I smear white makeup all over my face and glam it up with white glitter. It makes my skin almost glow in the dark. Last touch: white eyeshadow, plus some black eyeliner and glossy blue lipstick. I am, like, stunning. Out of this world. Otherwordly.
I mean, really, it’s time I got laid already. I’m in Montreal, for fuck’s sake. Sin city of the East Coast, blah, blah, blah.
I mean, it’s fucking great here. The nightlife. The music. The bars. The cute girls. The hot boys. The even hotter men. It’s, like, all you can eat, all the time. But I haven’t brought anyone home yet. And I haven’t let anyone take me to their place, either. I mean, I’m no prude. In rural Manitoba, where I’m from, there’s nothing to do except sex, even if, like, there’s no selection to speak of. So you do it, because it’s marginally better than not doing it.
But here it’s overwhelming. Paralysing, in fact. With so much to choose from, how do you choose? Plus, the truth is, before tonight, I wasn’t sure that I was ready. I mean, I’m not entirely sure even now, but enough is enough, you know? There’s so much to take in, living in the city on my own. I don’t want to lose myself in anyone yet. I just want to find out who I can be in all this wonderful, beautiful noise happening all around me. But I’m beginning to feel like a nun or something. So tonight is the fucking night.
Sometimes, sure, I let some boys and girls kiss me when I go out. Even feel me up a bit if I’m really into them. But I’ve never let it go farther than that. Not yet. Especially, I’ve never let myself get within grabbing range of the men. You know the ones I mean. The ones with the irresistible wolf eyes; the ones who move like they own the space around them without being arrogant about it; the ones with the strong hands you know would just make you willingly submit.
No, them, I’ve stayed away from, because I know that’s exactly where I could lose myself the most, the deepest.
~
So, like, almost everyone I see is out in groups, laughing and chatting it up and shit. Me, as usual, I’m wandering through all this solo. It’s like I’m a spectre – an undead shade haunting the Montreal nightlife.
I, like, go to my favourite club, BizBiz Bizarre. It’s in the Plateau, not too far from where I live, and the people there tend to dress up in all kinds of weird funky ways. But I look so amazing right now that, even among that crowd, I should stand out.
But for some reason it’s totally boring tonight. The music is, like, totally 1990s. I mean, Red Hot Chili Peppers – really? The crowd is kinda thin and so obviously straight. What is this – like, frat night or something?
Suddenly, there are three guys dancing around me. They keep bumping into me and laughing. They’re all of them freaking tall and buff. And the cookie-cutter way they’re dressed – they’re so obviously rich kids. The type who become doctors or lawyers. Their laughter gets meaner and meaner. I try to wriggle away from them, but they’re fucking herding me, slowly boxing me in tighter and tighter. Aside from that, though, they’re, like, totally ignoring me. But they know I’m there, alright. I can feel their boners when they grind into me.
Enough is, like, fucking enough.
I, like, scream my fucking head off – loud enough to be heard over the music. Like a fucking harpy from hell. It creates enough distraction that I manage to escape. I don’t look back. I’m outta there in a flash, out on the street, just running away as fast as I can.
~
So, like, I’m an idiot. I could at least have been running toward my apartment. But, no. I was too, like, flustered. A fucking helpless, hysterical victim. This is so not right. Anyway, I’m not that far away from my place.
Fuck. Walking home alone. Fucking alone. Again. I am such a wimp. Such a loser. What a fucking disappointment tonight was. I mean, I’m totally disappointed in myself. I know it wasn’t my fault, but, fuck, this is so not what I wanted.
Suddenly I feel the hair at the back of my neck rise, and a shiver goes down my spine. And I’m hemmed in again. It’s those same fucking guys from the club. They shove me into an alley, behind a dumpster. Invisible from the street. Yeah, a cliché, but fucking scary nonetheless. I know better than to wait. I make to scream right away, but, before any sound can escape from my lungs, rough, stinky hands cover my mouth. I try to bite at the flesh of the dude’s palm, but my jaw is immobilized. This guy is way too strong for me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I struggle – this can’t happen; I am not a victim. I refuse to become a victim. But I can barely breathe and I’m too fucking weak.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Then I hear a few strangled gasps ... I feel a sharp burst of wind, like a mini-hurricane or something ... Followed by a few hard thuds ... And I’m free.
I should run while I can, but I feel safe. And curiosity wins over caution. I look around. All three guys are on the ground, on their backs. At least two of them are, like, totally dead, their throats slashed, their chests and bellies ripped open. There’s a figure hunched over the third guy. A man with his face buried in the guy’s neck. Like he’s eating or something.
I really should get the hell out of here, but I’m, like, totally mesmerized.
I don’t want to make a sound, but, just like a stupid little girl, I gasp.
The man turns to look at me, and I, like, totally recognize him. Before I can say anything, though –
poof!
– there’s this dark mist, and he’s gone. Like he hadn’t even been there in the first place.
But I’m not the one who tore open the bodies of the three dead guys who are still right there at my feet, with their insides oozing out.
I am so outta there.
~
So, like, men? Older guys. Right? Stay away from them. Especially the one who lives across the hall from me.
I don’t know his name. Don’t know anything about him. No, that’s wrong. I know two things. One, he’s way too fucking sexy for my own good. I mean, fuck. His eyes are so dark and strong that I swamp up my panties every time I get even the merest glimpse of them. Plus, he’s freaking tall. Like, close to seven feet or something. His long hair is the colour of a particularly dark red wine, with only a hint of grey. And he moves like a panther. Quietly, confidently, but ready to pounce at any moment. Also, I know that he can kill and disembowel three buff guys in the space of a few seconds.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
~
So, like, it’s a week later. And in that whole time I haven’t seen him once. Not a single time. I know he’s there, though. Because he, like, listens to music 24/7. And the walls here are shit. Good thing I don’t ever have anyone over, because, like, everyone could hear the sex show.
The old dude’s got weird tastes. It’s like, one minute it’s hardcore punk rock, and then some avant-garde clangy shit, or like really melodic chamber music. Often he binges on crap like Anne Murray or Barry Manilow.
Why the hell am I scared, though?
I mean, he saved me, right? If he’d wanted to, he could have had me as dessert. I’m sure I taste way better than those frat dudes did. Maybe he’s just into guys?
For the, like, gazillionth time, I stand in front of his door, my finger millimetres away from the doorbell. But I chicken out and run back into my room. I always do.
~
So, like, I go to work. Boring. I go out. Boring. I stay out all night long. Boring. I get drunk. Boring. I get high with anything I can get into my mouth, my lungs, my nose, my veins. Boring. People flirt with me. Boring. Movies. Please – so boring. Everything is boring. Even eating is boring.
And when I masturbate?
What do you think? I see one thing and one thing only: that man from across the hall, blood and gore dripping down his face, looking at me. Seeing me. I replay that over and over again. And I know what I saw then and can still see in my mind: concern.
But why the fuck should he care?
And I come so fucking hard.
~
So, like, I don’t usually follow the news. I don’t even have a TV. But somebody left this newspaper on the table in the lunch room at work. And the headline says
, Woman in Wheelchair Saved. Assailants Brutally Killed.
So, of course, I know right away. I read the whole article anyway. It mentions other incidents suspected to have been the work of the homicidal vigilante: a little boy rescued from a limousine (three men dead); an old man saved from a drunk driver (only one death that time); a twosome of armed robbers eviscerated while threatening a cashier at a convenience store (but the cameras only picked up a blur); a gang of teenage boys who had been torturing and killing neighbourhood cats were torn to pieces. According to the paper, my own trio of would-be rapists seems to have been the first incident. I never reported anything, but of course the bodies were found.
But this time, for the first time, they have a description. This idiot in the wheelchair, like, rats on him. She’s a little vague, but it’s close enough. Does she want the police to find him? I mean, he saved her. People can be so fucking ungrateful.
~
So, like, this time, I’m so determined I don’t even hesitate. Not for a nanosecond. I press the buzzer for the third time, but still he doesn’t come to the door. I know he’s in there. I can hear the music. (Although I wish I couldn’t. I mean, the Carpenters – really?)
I bang on the door. I’m not going to let him ignore me. Finally, the door opens, and there he is. The sight of him – my first glimpse since that night – hits me hard.
“Hello, Jenny.” The dude knows my name! He looks even taller than I remember. Like a fucking towering inferno of primal power. And his eyes, holy shit. That’s some deep darkness, there. I feel like a tiny little speck of a girl, barely worthy to be in his presence. And I’m fucking terrified. In awe. Is this what it’s like to be in the presence of a god? Fuck. And my panties are, like, soaked. I’m just aching down there. Aching for him.
But, fuck, he’s not a god. Why did I even think that? Then the obvious question finally dawns on me, what the hell is he? I mean, I’ve been so tied up with lust it never occurred to me to ask myself that very basic question. I mean, he’s clearly not an ordinary person. Maybe he’s an alien, or an escaped government experiment (do we even have weird shit like that in Canada?), or I dunno the fuck what.
As if he could read my mind, he says, “I believe the best word to describe me is
vampire
.”
Okay. Vampire. Right. So he’s a deluded psycho. What the hell am I doing even talking to him? But say, for argument’s sake that, yeah, maybe he’s the real thing ... Then, I should really run for my life. Either way, time to run – like, now.
Except I can’t budge. I feel his eyes on me – like, physically holding me down, preventing me from moving.
He says, “Come in.”
And, like a fucking mindless puppet on strings, I march right into the darkness of his apartment.
I hear the door close behind me.
~
So, like, the next thing I know I’m lying down on an unfamiliar couch, relaxed as all shit, with this strangely pleasant pain on the inside of my left wrist. I try to get up, but, even though I don’t see him, I feel the old dude’s gaze, his will, holding me down, keeping me calm. I even try to force myself to panic, but instead a wave of, like, serenity washes over me. So I just give in to it. I’m totally floating in a sea of delicious numbness. It’s like after a really amazing orgasm. Only without the sweat or the chafing.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here. The lights are dim, but my eyes gradually adjust. At least the old dude’s music is turned off. Finally, I regain enough presence of mind to sit up and check why my wrist feels different. And there are, like, these two tiny puncture marks along one of my veins.
“Welcome.” His grave voice echoes like it comes from deep inside some damp underground cave. It’s meltingly sexy.
Again, a part of me knows I should be afraid for my life, but my body refuses to acknowledge those feelings.
That voice again: “If I wanted to hurt you or kill you, don’t you think I would have done it already? I couldn’t resist having a taste, though. And you are indeed delicious.”
By now, my panties must have, like, totally dissolved.
“I’m sorry. I can’t fulfill those desires.” Again with the mind-reading. Shit. And then he steps into view. And I fight this almost uncontrollable urge to fall on my knees. No, not that way (well, not just that way), but to worship him –’cause I really do feel like I’m in the presence of a god.
“I may look human, but I am not. I look upon you as you would upon a cherished pet or farm animal. You may be pleasant company or be a good source of food, but I would not, cannot, engage in sexual congress.”
I manage to say, “Some people really, you know, love their cows.” Great. I just compared myself to a cow. Way to go. I am, like, so seductive.
“I do not have to explain myself to you, but you amuse me. It’s all moot: I have no sexual or reproductive urges. I simply exist.”
I’m not that stupid. I know about vampires. I’ve seen a few movies and shit. “But when you, whaddaya call it, turn someone into a vampire—” (and it just dawns on me that he might have that in mind for me; and then I realize that, as freaky as it sounds, I now believe that he really is a vamp) “—isn’t that, like, satisfying a reproductive urge?”
He sighs. “That’s just folklore. Myth. Fiction. I cannot turn a human into a vampire any more than you can turn a cat into a human. I’ve tried. I’ve tried every way I’ve read about or could think of. It’s all nonsense.”
“Then how does someone become a vampire? How do you make more of yourselves?”
Again, a sigh, but this one is deep and sorrowful. “As far as I know there are no others. There is only me. There has always been only me.”
Hey, I know that feeling.
Only me
is, like, the story of my life.
