THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES: Erotic Encounters with the Undead Read online

  The chill fingers once again returned to that triangle between Joyce's legs, and what would have been a scream became a wail of despair as they sank into a flowing wetness that gave betraying testimony to Joyce's impossible arousal. They dipped and penetrated, two, then three, then four, and Joyce gasped as she felt herself stretching wide, welcoming those icy invaders.

  "You would take all of me and all I commanded to use you, and still cry for more," Rina taunted. "I could bare you before a host and still you would yearn for my voice, my touch, the pain only I can give you!"

  "Oh, God, oh Jesus, yes, yes, My Lady, yes!" Joyce shook in tremors of shame and ecstasy, images called up from Rina's teasing making her buck her hips up, enveloping Rina's fingers, hungry for them. When they withdrew violently, scraping her, she wailed again, and when her wail was stopped by the forceful slamming of those wet, oozing fingers into her mouth, she came.

  It was like being sucker punched – there was no warning, no preparation. It was just like her entire lower body compressed around her aching and wounded clit, and she bucked and gagged on the jabbing, punching fingers, and breathed in the scent and taste of her own essence. She moaned, and licked, and panted and clutched her legs together, aware of every muscle and joint in her body.

  "You are a cat in season, a vixen to be mounted," Rina said, an amused edge to her voice. "There is no pain I can force upon you, no moment of anguish which will lessen your slavish devotion to your own destruction. And I shall destroy you, my sweet victim. In time."

  Joyce blabbered, "Yes, yes, My Lady, yes," and fell back, shuddering as the cool fingers wiped themselves off on her breasts. Her nipples ached. Her wrists throbbed. Every line on her body seemed edged with fire.

  And then, there was silence.

  It took her about ten minutes to remember how to undo the clip that joined the cuffs. She sat up slowly, carefully, waiting to hear another word from Rina, a giggle, a growl, a tiny little, "was that what you wanted?" But nothing came. Finally, she pushed the blindfold up and off and saw that Rina was on the bed, face down and breathing as though she was asleep!

  Wow, Joyce thought, trembling as she struggled to her feet. Must have knocked her out to do all that role-playing! Quietly, she made her way into the bathroom, where she stood in front of the mirror and examined her marks.

  Now, this was something to boast about! Her legs and ass and even her chest and belly were all marked with angry red stripes, unlike anything she ever had before. Well – not that she'd been marked before. She looked like someone had ridden her hard – and she swelled with inner pride and contentment.

  How do you like that? she thought, wiping herself down. I was ready to give up on her, and she was preparing all of this! God, I love that woman.

  She went to bed and cuddled up close. Rina's hands were nice and warm now – she was probably so nervous while she was playing that she was driving herself bonkers, Joyce thought. That's okay – I'll assure her tomorrow that this was the BEST SM we ever did.

  * * * *

  But the next day, the marks were gone, and Rina seemed surprised when Joyce got effusive over breakfast. At first, she was glad that Joyce had such a good time. But when Joyce mentioned how wonderful the "new attitude" was, and where did Rina hide the new whip, there was only puzzlement and a moment of confusion.

  Rina insisted that she had done no role-playing at all.

  And there was no new whip.

  She's still playing, Joyce thought nervously. I can go along with it.

  "Never mind," she said, buttering her last piece of toast. "I guess I was working up a really hot fantasy in my mind."

  "That's great," Rina immediately said, nodding. "That's really healthy."

  * * * *

  The next time they played, Joyce stood impatiently through the gentle warm-up and the teasing and the swishy feeling of the lavender whip, and then waited for My Lady to come out and play. But she didn't make even a token appearance – Rina worked her way up to where she felt comfortable, and let Joyce down from the cuffs as usual, and they went to bed, one satisfied and one thoroughly confused.

  * * * *

  The next day, Rina once again insisted that she never, ever played any kind of role with Joyce, especially one that required a title. "We haven't negotiated that," she said petulantly.

  * * * *

  My Lady didn't make another appearance for two months. And in that time, Joyce went back and forth wondering if she had in fact made up the whole thing, or if maybe Rina felt so bad about it that she had instantly forgotten the incident. But late at night, when Rina was asleep and Joyce awake and horny, the sound of Rina's harshly whispered voice, and the chilled feel of her slender fingers came back to her, and in the dark and the silence, Joyce touched herself and moaned in the memory.

  Hurt me, she silently begged, spreading her legs carefully, pinching her own nipples. Frighten me, take me, please, My Lady, please.

  But there was no answer.

  * * * *

  The answer came when Rina had Joyce spread out on their bed. Joyce tugged against the bonds and felt them give and relaxed back in her eternal frustration. Always the same...

  "You're all mine tonight," Rina giggled. It was the closest she came to role-playing since the appearance of My Lady. "I can do whatever I want."

  "Hurt me, Rina," Joyce said out loud. "Please, I need it so bad – I want it from you so much!"

  The answer was a pinch of one nipple – sharp enough to make Joyce gasp, but not hard enough to make her cry out. "I'll do what I want to," Rina said happily. "And you can't do anything about it."

  That's for sure, Joyce thought, enduring yet another hour of teasing and pleasure and gentle torments. The worst moment came when she found herself actually faking an orgasm – how embarrassing, and how sad! – just to end the scene. She went to the bathroom, leaving Rina to clean up, and stared at herself in the mirror. There were no marks, no bruises, no cuts...

  It happened when I cut myself on the cuff, she thought crazily.

  Now what made me think of that? was the very next thought. I'm bad, if I'm thinking up magical tops.

  But the shaving razors were right there on the shelf. It would be so easy to make a tiny little cut...

  She moved without thinking. The plastic handle turned in her fingers as she figured a way to expose more of the blade. If there was a rational voice in her, it was buried by the frustration and hurt and guilt that tumbled around her brain like dice in a cup. She turned her left hand around, and pressed the blade against the swell of flesh behind her thumb. At first, it didn't seem like she had managed to cut her skin. Then, as she twisted her hand to look, the flesh parted and a little thread of rosy moisture beaded up and out, to trail across her hand.

  Hurt me, frighten me, take me, please, she thought, watching the blood move sluggishly out from between the skin. Please, My Lady, please.

  * * * *

  She was struck the minute she walked out the door, blotting her hand and feeling foolish. Her head snapped once, hard, and connected with the wall, and then she was dragged back into cold arms, against a cold body, and she relaxed, and sighed even as she whimpered and fell into the embrace of My Lady.

  "Idiot wench, to keep me waiting so long," the voice that was Rina's and not-Rina's said. "You will beg me to end your pain before I have yet begun to show you your errors. You will crawl on your belly and wash my feet with your tears before I leave you to your pathetic existence."

  "Thank you," Joyce cried, looking up into Rina's eyes. That was a mistake.

  Because they were not Rina's eyes. Rina's eyes were soft and hazel and round and they needed glasses. These eyes, the eyes of My Lady, were hard and cold, like green fire, with dark slivers of pupil that were elongated like a cat's, and when they locked onto Joyce's eyes, they hit her with the force of whip and threw her down, hard, onto her knees. They were not only unloving, they were unliving; preternaturally phosphorescent like fungus on a hidden grave.

/>   Joyce felt something give way inside of her, and barely knew that she was pissing down her own thighs. All she knew was that Rina was not there – and someone – something – else was.

  "Thank me for attending to your hungers, my naked, yearning toy. Thank me for not tearing you apart for forcing me to wait upon your pleasure. And thank me for the pains you will beg for, and the ones you will beg freedom from. You will utter nothing save thanks to me tonight."

  And trembling, shaking, Joyce inched forward and kissed the top of a cold, cold foot, and let her tears of terror drop onto it. When the hand came down again, she cried out in what might have been a protest, but soon turned into a sound much closer to ecstasy.

  * * * *

  Joyce woke at noon, and wondered why she had not gotten up for work. She moved, and knew. And lay still, afraid to move again, until she was sure she was alone. Then, she carefully made her way from the bedroom to the bathroom, and looked into the mirror.

  A horrifying sight gazed back. Her hair was a twisted mass of tangles, and she knew that it had been wet with blood and cum and piss when she finally collapsed into her fitful sleep. One of her eyes was blackened and swollen – and she recalled the moments of kissing and licking the hand that struck her, another series of desperate expressions of gratitude that forced her lower and lower, until she could do nothing but whine and squirm.

  Terribly, she felt her cunt respond to the memory. Her nipples were tight in their twin erections, despite being covered with scabs and bruises – one line of bite marks went entirely up her right shoulder. Several red lines were still on her thighs – feeling behind her, she could feel the cuts on her ass as well.

  This time, My Lady had left lasting souvenirs.

  What am I going to do? Joyce asked herself, sitting on the toilet seat in shock. I can't let Rina see me like this, she'll wonder what the hell happened!

  But what the hell did happen?

  I thought that cutting myself would make her come – and it did. And I don't think for one minute that was Rina – it was something else.

  Something inhuman.

  She groaned out loud. Inhuman in many, many ways. Not only in the way she took over the sweet young woman who was Joyce's lover, but in what she did, and how she did it. Inhuman in the casual way she wielded pain and terror; inhuman in the way she laughed at agony and flicked ecstasy into being without a moment of attention. Inhuman in the way she always knew when to stop one particular pain and begin with another – like when she finally stopped whipping Joyce and attacked her with long fingernails instead, or stopped biting long enough to bury Joyce's face in her icy loins, laughing again as Joyce struggled to breathe, struggled to please.

  Joyce groaned again, and resisted the urge to touch herself, She turned the shower on full blast, and as she stepped under the needle spray, had a physical memory of My Lady leaning over her, cold, dead fingers locked around Joyce's throat, whispering, "Your life is mine, sweet slut, mine to take, mine to give" She sank to her knees in erotic agony and under the pounding water, she touched herself and came, screaming herself hoarse, giving herself to My Lady once again.

  * * * *

  She told Rina that she hit herself in the eye with a door, and undressed in the bathroom, and tried not to think. Tried to work, to eat, and to go through the motions of living. But every time her mind wandered, her body would recall another cold touch, another harsh blow, another soft breath – and she would tremble with need and ache with desire and freeze in terror. She shook her head the next time Rina offered to play, and Rina nodded in her understanding way.

  I could control her, Joyce thought one day. I can call her up once in a while, maybe once a month. No, every other month. And then, I could have – that – and still have what I always had before. It doesn't hurt Rina; at least it doesn't seem to.

  Jesus Christ, what am I thinking! It's a fucking monster, and I want it to inhabit my girlfriend, because it gets me off!

  I don't know whether I'm the monster or My Lady is, she thought miserably.

  * * * *

  No solution suggested itself. Rina was slightly confused by Joyce's continued resistance to SM play, but they went to bed and held each other and loved each other the way they used to, and that was more than enough. If Rina didn't realize that Joyce was thinking of a much colder embrace, or a much harsher way of pleasure, then so much the better. Joyce jerked off almost compulsively, fighting off the powerful urges to shed her own blood that came upon her like waves that could easily sweep her away. But the images never went away. In her dreams, she tasted the musky sweat of My Lady, so much sharper than Rina's sweet saltiness. In moments of reverie, she felt the scratch of My Lady's long, sharp talons along her back, so unreal next to Rina's carefully trimmed fingernails. She found herself shivering and sensing the warmth of piss when rain splattered the roof, and tensing with the thought of another blow across her back when she leaned against a wall.

  I have to do something, she thought.

  * * * *

  Hurt me, fuck me, take me, scare me. She gave herself to her pleas, and drew the edge of the blade against the inside of her arm. Come to me, My Lady, and take what is yours.

  "You do not learn quickly, my wicked slut – or is it that you desire my wrath as much as you have begged for my whims of pain and pleasure?"

  Joyce didn't look, couldn't bear to see those eyes again. "I am unworthy, My Lady," she said, already terrified. There was a chill in the very air that night, as though the creature inhabiting Rina's body was bringing a rising mist with it. Joyce's heart felt like it was beating against her ribs. She clutched at her bleeding arm, sliding her hand across the blood. "Please – help me."

  "I shall," My Lady whispered. "Crawl to me, pitiful little baggage, and make your reverence."

  It didn't matter what Joyce had planned to do. She dropped the knife and let it clatter to the floor and she dropped beside it, aching, dripping blood and arousal. It was useless to try to fight My Lady. She had to surrender, had to give herself to her.

  She kissed the black length of ice and flame that appeared with My Lady and kissed the hand that held it. She opened her mouth to the butt of the thing, allowing it to plunder her lips and throat until she choked and gagged and was slammed to her belly to atone for her shameful display of incompetence. She writhed in pain, and rolled for caresses both profound and profane, and lifted her breasts, her hips, her loins for pain and sharp pleasures.

  And when finally, My Lady pinned her and rode her, Joyce took all of her strength and used it to please, to satisfy, to work at pleasure until she couldn't breathe, couldn't think – and she knew when My Lady moved to caress her throat again, that there was truly death in those cold hands, those once gentle hands that belonged to the oh-so-serious intellectual who still loved to giggle and drink chocolate milk and snuggle under flannel sheets on winter nights. And Joyce opened her eyes again to those terrible fire-green eyes, and cried out a long, despairing cry that My Lady drank like she drank tears and terrors and exhalations of agony. The sight, the sensation of being so taken and devastated, worked on Joyce like the magic it was, and her body exploded yet again in a terrible orgasm that wrenched her like a doll, tearing at her joints and muscles in spasm after spasm.

  Then, unbound for once, since she had so completely surrendered to My Lady, Joyce reached up and pulled that cold flesh closer. My Lady grinned a feral grin and licked her lips and exposed those evil, triangular teeth, eager to savage, eager to tear – but Joyce bit her first.

  It was difficult, fixing her teeth into the throat of her lover – which was why she had to look into My Lady's eyes once again. Exhausted, wrung out, aching, Joyce caught a fold of flesh and bit down, hard – and twisted her neck.

  My Lady growled and spat, and heaved backward, pulling Joyce up with her. But Joyce locked her arms around her body and held on, even though she was wracked with agony from the second her teeth met My Lady's flesh. Twice more, My Lady pulled back, and each time, h
er hands dug into Joyce's body, slashing and tearing ragged wounds that bled and burned.

  But Joyce held on – and broke through. She tasted the sweetness and the heat of blood in her mouth and sucked it in, feeling it run over her teeth.

  "Mine!" she shouted, over the roaring and crashing of the creature above her. "I sent for you; I send you away!"

  My Lady broke away, her eyes wide with surprise. She lifted an elegant hand to the dripping blood from the wound and her lips curled back in distaste. "Fool!" she spat. "I will always be with you!"

  And then, those terrifying eyes rolled back, and Rina's entire body became limp and fell across Joyce's. They two of them lay there for quite some time, both of them bleeding. It took almost an hour before Joyce felt like she could move again.

  * * * *

  Joyce blindfolded Rina one night, and frightened her and hurt her and pleasured her, and Rina at last admitted that she really wanted to be a bottom, and at last they started having good SM-sex. And if Joyce chose not to use a single lash, or to do cuttings, why no one thought it odd – she was, after all, a highly respected top in all other areas.

  But there are nights when she goes out alone, and even her lovely slave Rina can't tell you where she goes. But it is true that in the darkened clubs and alleys where the polite leatherfolk never go, there is a new Lady on the prowl, an expert at cutting you down with her whip or her tongue. They say she has a taste for blood – but no one can really say, because no one speaks of her who has actually met her.

  ROBBERKANNAN FENG

  You won't hear Tucker Silas's name mentioned when they talk about Dillinger and Pretty Boy Floyd, but for a while, he cut a swath of pure hell along the Illinois-Missouri state line. Tucker robbed banks for a hundred dollars here, two hundred there, but then he shot a copper in East Saint Louis, and that was it for him.

  After that, there was nowhere he could hide, and it was just a matter of time.

  He walked into the kitchen on a cold day in September, and I didn't even bother looking up from the peas I was shelling.