The Minotauress (29 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
Dicky mounted the landing as quietly as a clumsy fat redneck slob could, then edged toward the door.
A clock kept ticking but along with it he heard moaning, or at least he thought he did. Could Cora be right? Was there really a naked woman in there, masturbating? He didn't know what to make of the "painted black" part but—
I'se'll just barge right in there and bust her in the chops,
he resolved. Dicky was, for the most part, a monumental coward, but he wanted to make Balls proud.
I'll show him I'se got what it takes, too...
he resolved. Dicky was, for the most part, a monumental coward, but he wanted to make Balls proud.
I'll show him I'se got what it takes, too...
But before he could summon the courage to actually do it, a voice seemed to float out of the room, a quiet yet wanton
woman's
voice...
woman's
voice...
Come in, young man, and bestow me...
Dicky really didn't know what "bestow" meant, nor was he terribly convinced by the nature of the voice. It was more like words in a dream, not words actually detected by his ears.
How could this be?
Bestow me with your youth... and your surging virility...
Dicky froze against the wall.
I can smell your manfulness, I can smell your sperm...
Dicky didn't realize it but the bizarre flutter of psychic vocalization had put him into a trance. Like a fat zombie, then, he pushed the door open and stepped in.
Lamp light raved, overly bright, like the bulbs burning too hot, and of course it never occurred to Dicky now—in his half-wit trance—that there could
be
no lamp light in a house with the power shut off.
be
no lamp light in a house with the power shut off.
I am the Night-Mother and the Queen of the Labyrinth,
a shadow rising from the bed informed him.
My cunt beats with your paltry heart, and your soulless lust and my evil are predestined to fuck...
a shadow rising from the bed informed him.
My cunt beats with your paltry heart, and your soulless lust and my evil are predestined to fuck...
Kind of an odd thing for a maid to say, but then Dicky saw that it was no maid that rose smokelike from the high, four-poster bed. But it was a woman, all right, as voluptuous a woman as he'd ever seen, even in
Hustler.
High melon breasts; protruding, poker-chip nipples; a flawless hourglass contour. Long sleek legs rose to a hairless pubis dark and shiny as chocolate icing, and the flat stomach seemed to shiver around the slit-like navel. Yes, like the body of a
Hustler
centerfold save for one quirk:
Hustler.
High melon breasts; protruding, poker-chip nipples; a flawless hourglass contour. Long sleek legs rose to a hairless pubis dark and shiny as chocolate icing, and the flat stomach seemed to shiver around the slit-like navel. Yes, like the body of a
Hustler
centerfold save for one quirk:
She was as black and shiny as newly poured road tar.
Dicky could sense more than see her face; it was more of a symbol—an enigmagram—something that existed in an unglimpsable state. Hair just as black and wet as her skin seemed to
radiate
that same blackness.
radiate
that same blackness.
It has been eons since my infernal womb has gulped human seed,
the voice flowed.
the voice flowed.
As she moved gingerly from the bed across the room, the electric lamp on the Edwardian nightstand began to dim, but as this took place, her
blackness
seemed to glow within itself, as though she were composed not of flesh but electrified darkness.
blackness
seemed to glow within itself, as though she were composed not of flesh but electrified darkness.
I need to be filled.
A sleek hand that was hot and cold at the same time traced Dicky's fat cheek. He began to blubber like a baby, and with no volition on his part he dropped his dungarees to reveal a thumping, prong-like erection that felt so insanely hard he feared it might split like a hotdog in a microwave.
A sleek hand that was hot and cold at the same time traced Dicky's fat cheek. He began to blubber like a baby, and with no volition on his part he dropped his dungarees to reveal a thumping, prong-like erection that felt so insanely hard he feared it might split like a hotdog in a microwave.
Give me succor,
the voice fluttered in his head.
Let my night-cunt be the vessel for your lust,
and then Dicky seemed to float backwards to the floor, levitating, until he lay on his back, his erection spiring.
the voice fluttered in his head.
Let my night-cunt be the vessel for your lust,
and then Dicky seemed to float backwards to the floor, levitating, until he lay on his back, his erection spiring.
When the black woman sighed, the walls seemed to buckle. The cleft of her pubis parted as if by a specialized musculature until it gaped, and then she sat right down on Dicky's groin. His spectrally hard penis sunk deep.
This otherwordly intercourse generated sensations that Dicky would never have thought possible. To him, a nut was a nut—the old Southern Boy Credo—and they all pretty much felt the same, whether he was raping a hot sixteen-year-old, having a go in a cow's backside, getting fellated by his uncle, or jerking off. But this?
His brain seemed to turn to baby food from the intensity of the sensations: it was like a hundred wet, hot tongue-tips cocooning his penis simultaneously as the cocoon slowly rose up and down. When he looked up bug-eyed at his unlikely lover, he saw that her desire seemed to gorge her breasts even more, pushing the nipples out till their tips leaked a glistening black fluid. All the while more fluids at her groin gushed.
My name is Pasiphae...
Her breast lowered to his chest, then she rolled him over onto her, the black legs spreading wider to invite deeper penetration.
Fill me now, fill me to the brim...
Dicky's body froze up and his jaw locked open. His fat stomach heaved and then his eyes seemed to roll all the way back in their sockets until he was looking at his brain. He gibbered as he came, sperm rocketing up out of his penis as if by a hand-pump. The orgasm did not abate but instead magnified; it was as though he were taking a long hard beer-piss but with sperm instead of urine. His rotund body continued to quiver on top of her as his glands kept kicking his semen down into the hot satchel of her sex. Eventually he caught a glimpse of her eyes but saw only lidded holes through which could be glimpsed an insane, smoking city which smoldered beneath a red sky and black sickle moon, and when her lips parted to release a final blissful sigh, Dicky saw only a sparkling black chasm that went on without end. Black crystalline drool trickled from the corner of her lips, and then a black tongue lolled.
Her soft hands gently pressed up against his fat-cushioned chest, and—
THUNK!
—she shoved him off of her body as though he weighed no more than a straw dummy. He collided with the wall. A painting of a woman named Elizabeth Bathory fell down and hit him in the head. Dazed, he looked on...
Now she lay painfully spread-eagled, her tight buttocks actually arched up off the floor several inches as she masturbated fervently. Wet, slick clicking sounds filled the room as her black fingers plied the sexual fissure. More sighs of desperate pleasure rose up and up, until Dicky thought he could actually
see
those sighs, like rampant spirits amid the impossible black light...
see
those sighs, like rampant spirits amid the impossible black light...
Good Gawd!
Dicky thought.
Dicky thought.
He scrabbled around on the floor, pants still down, until he found his flashlight and snapped it on. He shined it on the mysterious woman...
The desperate masturbation continued, her hand a blur at her genitals. At a critical moment, then, her pelvis tensed as two fingers V'd open the abominable vagina, then the swollen black vulva puckered like grouper lips and began to spit out foot-long loops of some viscid fluid.
She's comin',
Dicky observed in the utmost shock,
but like a dude!
Dicky observed in the utmost shock,
but like a dude!
Indeed, the ejaculatory spurts did not abate until at least a dozen had transpired, collecting in a great glistening splotch between her legs.
The woman's body tremored one more time, then fell still.
Now I can die again,
flowed the voice.
Again and again and again...
flowed the voice.
Again and again and again...
The room fell into utter darkness and for a moment was filled with a sound like a hundred rattlesnakes.
She lay limp and quite dead, her sink-hole eyes half-opened and black tongue still aloll from the dead mouth.
Dicky dragged himself up, shaking, his penis shriveled to a mushroom stem from the toll that his abyssal orgasm had exacted. When he'd retrieved his breath, he took a closer look at what the woman's genitals had expelled on the rug: what had to be several gallons of sperm-marbled
slop
.
slop
.
The fuck in tarnations is goin' on?
The woman's body began to erode in the air, until it had disappeared completely.
Dicky didn't even pull his pants all the way back up when he barged out of the room.
(VI)
The Writer and Balls both froze with boxes in their hands when Dicky plunged down the stairs into the mire of candlelight.
"You bust her up, Dicky?" Balls asked.
"I—"
Balls smirked at Dicky's half-pulled-up jeans and limp-as-a-the-pinkie-finger-of-a-rubber-glove penis.
"What the fuck you doin' standin' there with yer dick out? You punch the maid's ticket or not?"
"I-I— Well, ya won't believe it, Balls," Dicky jabbered, "but Cora were right, there
was
a nekit lady up there so's I-I-I—"
was
a nekit lady up there so's I-I-I—"
"You
what?
" Balls yelled.
what?
" Balls yelled.
"I fucked her... "
Balls frowned.
"And then-then-then—she got's ta playin' with her pussy a mite fierce, and when she got herself off, she-she-she—"
"She
what?
"
what?
"
Dicky's eyes bloomed. "She ‘jacker-lated... "
"The fuck!"
"I'se swear, Balls! While's she were comin', her pussy was squirtin' out a bunch-a goo—"
"Goo?" Balls infuriated.
"No lie. She come just like a fella, only with her cooze. Squirted a giant nut out on the carpet—there's a big puddle of it."
"A puddle of
what?
"
what?
"
Dicky fidgeted. "Well, it looked like all'a my cum mixed up with a bunch of this black...
goo.
"
goo.
"
Balls frowned harder. The Writer thought:
This is some high-brow crew.
This is some high-brow crew.
"Writer? Balls stood with his arms crossed. "Git upstairs'n see what the hail Dicky's talkin' 'bout. Shee-it. This here is gettin' blammed ree-dicker-luss."
"Oh! Oh!" Dicky exclaimed. "She tolt me her name!"
"Yeah?" Balls challenged. "Lemme guess. Everclear?"
"Her name's... Pasiphae," Dicky blurted.
"Pasiphae, huh? You're more fucked up than that meth-whore with the hairy armpits." Balls' glare dug into the Writer. "Git on up there ‘fore I start carvin' me some college-ed-jur-kated cold cuts."
But the Writer had been taken aback. By the name Dicky had mentioned:
Pasiphae
.
.
"Go on!" Balls' knife snapped open. "Git!"
"As you wish, Mr. Balls," and with that the Writer mounted the steps.
Pasiphae,
he thought, climbing.
Greek mythology.
He thought briefly of Nancy's phone conversation earlier, the mentioning of a dream-baby with a bull's head.
he thought, climbing.
Greek mythology.
He thought briefly of Nancy's phone conversation earlier, the mentioning of a dream-baby with a bull's head.
But why would a rube like Dicky make such a reference?
The Writer couldn't hypothesize.
His hand slid up the bannister as he moved toward the second-floor landing, the darkness seeming to magnify as he ascended. On his palm he felt odd but regular bumps in the vanished wood, and when he shined his flashlight, he frowned, noticing triplets of sixes finely engraved.
Lucifer's cliché,
he thought. The first thing he noted upstairs was an exquisite oil painting, tinged by age and very Rembrandtesque in its style: horned demons with skin spotted like slugs pushing aside the boulder which sealed Christ's tomb on Golgotha, as peasants moaned.
Yeah, Crafter's really got the occult bug.
The Writer found it amusing.
The only supernaturalism that truly exists is math,
he knew. But Crafter's trite fanaticism notwithstanding, the Writer found it uncanny how the man could fill the disguised house with priceless antiques, busts, and art but not have a single bookshelf in view. Crafter was a cliché in and of himself; surely an "occultist"—especially one with money—would have a veritable library full of pricy occult tomes.
Lucifer's cliché,
he thought. The first thing he noted upstairs was an exquisite oil painting, tinged by age and very Rembrandtesque in its style: horned demons with skin spotted like slugs pushing aside the boulder which sealed Christ's tomb on Golgotha, as peasants moaned.
Yeah, Crafter's really got the occult bug.
The Writer found it amusing.
The only supernaturalism that truly exists is math,
he knew. But Crafter's trite fanaticism notwithstanding, the Writer found it uncanny how the man could fill the disguised house with priceless antiques, busts, and art but not have a single bookshelf in view. Crafter was a cliché in and of himself; surely an "occultist"—especially one with money—would have a veritable library full of pricy occult tomes.
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