I am in-between projects, having sent off first stage edits for my novel, Riding the Centipede--should be out in May, if all goes as scheduled; I'll be posting teasers and what-not before its release--to my editor/publisher last week. So, in these times, I sometimes wander through works in progress and even go over some finished work for amusement. I believe I have found the main piece to work on now, with perhaps a couple of backburner pieces to dip into as well. Anyway, that's when I re-read an older tale, "Mosquito Dance."
It was originally published in a tiny, pocket-sized magazine called, Wicked Hollow, about 11 years ago. Often when I go back and re-read stuff, it might bring a smile, but it's usually not where I am now. But this one, amid a world getting wet and/or sticky over the Fifty Shades movie--I have no interest; I like my erotica in a more hardcore vein--might bring amusement to those of you into erotic horror. Especially since it veers into BDSM a bit.
I'm going to post it as is, though if I were to do some touch-up, I would definitely get rid of many of the semi-colons. Probably more work than that, but I'm not really going back, I'm moving forward.
So, for your amusement, arousal...and revulsion, here's "Mosquito Dance."
(And, yes, apparently 'amusement' is the word of the day...)
***
Mosquito Dance
By John Claude Smith
Propped on the
ridge of his ear and scattered on his pillow, they did not attempt to draw
blood from their sleeping host. They had
grander designs. As he slept, eyes
darting under fleshy shields, deep in the throes of some imagined adventure, they
extended the parameters of all known rationale as they attempted communication. Rubbing insect bodies and converging as one,
purpose honed, motivation aligned, they opened lines of transmission subtle yet
intense: subliminal. Connected on a
level of sounds unheard by the conscious mind, they suggested, they persuaded patterns within his
unrestrained mind. At optimum mental
vulnerability the “message” (tampering)
slithered into a cavern of sub-consciousness, planting a seed. It was their first controlled exertion, their
success contingent on many installments, nurturing and prodding into fruition;
into action.
#
“Not again,” Stacy
said, stepping into the shower, the sharp definition of her lithe figure
shifting through kaleidoscope-like distortions via the ice crystal glasswork of
the shower door. Roger was oddly
mesmerized.
“Roger?”
“Yes, again,” he
said, snapping like a slingshot back to reality. Another night, just like the previous two
weeks’ worth, of weird, indecipherable dreams had left him groggy and
reticent. Dreams that vanished the
moment his eyelids flickered open, the residue of which would evaporate in a
swirl of meaningless mind dust down a drain in the back of his brain, replaced with
iron rod stiffness in his muscles and joints, and a prevalent, all-encompassing
hunger--a relentless need for food. On
every occasion he’d gotten himself breakfast (and a feast at that) before Stacy
had even arisen. The weirdest part of
all, though, was how on at least three occasion it almost seemed as if he’d
awakened in the kitchen gorging himself.
“Poor baby,
“interjected Stacy from the shower, steam adding a foggy, television version of
dreaminess to the proceedings.
Her condescending
lack of true sympathy pricked his ire.
He conspired to envision her mock demise in his head. Stretched and stripped on a rack, he
vigorously lashed at her with a whip, raising welts and blood—
Whoa!
Where did that come from? He
shook his head, jostling loose the absurd debris. He slipped out of his shorts and into the
shower, unexpectedly aroused by the perverse fantasy: the descent into
sadism.
“Oh,” started
Stacy, eyes drawn to his sudden intrusion and beaming erection. “I don’t think there’s enough room in here
for the three of us,” she said, trying to regain her composure. Roger pulled her close and kissed her hard,
her slick, soapy body teasing his flesh.
The bar of soap slipped from her grasp.
Composure would have to wait.
#
The memory of the
morning lingered in his thoughts throughout the day. Not the shower sex, though it had been quite
inspired, but the peculiar prelude. The
mental retreat into bondage and discipline had touched him in a way he would
never have thought possible. He
contemplated long on the subject, realizing that the key for him was not so
much the infliction of pain as the tantalizing theft of her mobility, her
freedom; she was rendered less than slave.
The quintessential piece of meat; more an object than a human, an object
he could use, abuse, pleasure, or punish at his own discretion. He’d always thought himself a straight arrow
when it came to sex, never deviating from the established norm. Fantasies, especially something of this
extreme nature, had never played a major role in his canon of mental
stimuli--he was plenty aroused by the promise of flesh to even consider such
macabre inventions. And yet…
He scratched for
reasons: despite feelings to the contrary, maybe he was bored. One year with
the same woman (and monogamous, too), this was definitely his longest
relationship to date. Maybe his body and
brain craved something else. He
deliberated the possibility of having an affair to abate his desires but ended
up batting that option right out of the ballpark. Stacy was all he’d ever wanted from a woman:
intelligence, humor, and a body to melt Antarctica. A superficial want, but nonetheless, one he
catered as necessary.
So what was the
deal?
Through the
compounding confusion, he aligned the possibility of adding some spice to his
sex life, seasoning it with a pinch of bondage.
He stared at the pencil he was tapping on his desk, entranced by the
clockwork rhythm and stunted pendulum swing, oblivious to Miss Crockett’s
buzzing, his concentration a prisoner, shackled by shadows in limbo, impervious
to anything but the tap tap tapping tick tock tick tock tick tock--
And just as
abruptly the insistence of the buzzing, a call from the real world pulled him
back from his mental hiatus. He punched
her in.
#
As they undressed
for bed, Stacy moved in and pressed against him, raising goose bumps and a
twitch in his loins.
“What got into you
this morning, stud?”
Roger played the
idiot. “What do you mean?”
Stacy
harrumphed. “You know exactly what I’m
talking about. Don’t play dumb with me.”
Roger implied
innocence and ignorance through a façade of wide-eyed naiveté.
“Oh, you weren’t
playing?”
Their unabashed
laughter confirmed their genuine contentment in each others’ company. Contentment was swiftly banished by the wily
maneuverings of lust. They kissed, a
fusion of mouths and tongues that further enlightened nerve endings, appealing
to the erogenous fleshscapes their bodies presented. Unbeknownst to himself, more as a reaction than
an action, Roger held Stacy’s wrists tight against her sides. A surge of animal aggression, of something
primal, surfaced to dictate the path of the evening’s endeavor, a more physical
manifestation of the fantasy that had coaxed him to arousal this morning. Roger’s hands secured her wrists behind her,
his fingers locked like fleshy handcuffs.
She struggled, but in earnest her struggling only served to enhance her
anticipation, as evidenced by the plying of her lips and legs. He worked her toward the bed, shifting her
immobile arms from behind to above; their bodies tumbled in a heap of tangled
flesh. He rubbed the meat of his thigh
against her moistness; her legs embraced him, demanding more than feeble flirtations. She wanted nothing less than the full
embodiment of his passion in her. Roger
promptly fulfilled her desperate gesticulations, and yet felt as if he could do
as he pleased.
Or could he?
There was
something deeper that drove him, an internal chain of command that seemed most
elusive, evading his conscious prying by dipping him in and out of conscious
control; he was driven to perform, but not totally of his own volition. His muscles clenched, his will lapsed,
fluctuating between his rule and the subversive inclinations of…something else. It did not hinder his mobility, the act of
which he was indelibly bound, but it escorted him for seconds and minutes to a
mind stripped of character, an ebony wasteland--a fugue state--that, despite
its scoured, lifeless soul, he found rather intriguing … when he slipped back
to conscious control.
(tick tock tick
tock tick tock tick…)
Well into the
morning they finally ceased and slumped together, sweaty and spent. Sleep was swift to upend them.
#
If joy was a part
of the progression their insect bodies would have danced a jig; instead, they
lit on Roger’s ear and pillow, flitted above his head, and danced with
determination. They’d evolved, but that
evolution was hinged on a purpose.
Somehow they’d learned and understood the sublevels of communication, of
language, of manipulation; but they were insects, and as insects there was only
one objective they harbored as important, only one conceivable obligation any
purpose could hold. The insect world’s
politics and proclivities are geared toward the simple cadences of instinct and
urge; of survival. In their world,
survival meant food.
Dance they would,
until it was time to dine.
#
What followed was
a sojourn into the heart of carnal depravity; an odyssey of saliva, sweat,
semen, and strength. It was an excursion
into the musky loins of sexual obsession, sexual addiction.
Before, their sex
had been satisfying, or so they thought.
Now it was necessary, Stacy’s wanton aspirations transforming her into
the perfect whore. Roger was outwardly
her equal, but inside … oblivious--but driven.
They were selfish, unapologetic in their individual quests, not for the
imminent orgasm, but for the one that followed.
And so forth. The circle spun
tighter, each feeding off the other’s ecstasy, always wanting more.
Sex had become a
pure, visceral religion of which they worshipped with uncompromising
fervor. Their pulpit was a mattress
adorned with stained, drenched sheets.
They explored a vast array of sexual deviations, all within the
shameless sanctuary of their condo, much to the delight of leering, salivating
gods. Their meshing was flagrant,
aggressive by design, forsaking caution in the clinch. Fingernails, teeth, bruises (hickeys
discreetly hidden now creeping above collars and below hemlines), spanking,
hitting; anatomical acrobatics better left unsaid.
And there had
been…light bondage.
A prelude of
things to come: a culmination of insect insistence.
#
(tick tock tick
tock tick tock tick…)
Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, ThursdayFridaySaturdaydaydayTuesdaydaydayFridaydaydayday--the days
had lost their importance, had in fact lost their individuality. They were to be endured, running on the
exhaust of reflex motions to give an air of effort while Roger and Stacy
recharged their mental and physical batteries.
But when darkness dripped they lapped it as if it were an elixir,
revitalizing their souls and the impetus therein. The endless nights continued, their existence
defined by the fathomless forays into total sex.
(tick tock tick
tock tick tock …)
It happened
swiftly, a natural step up the ladder of their ever expanding repertoire. Stacy didn’t mind in the least when Roger
gagged and bound her spread-eagled to bedposts and frame to better facilitate
his assault, his desecration; crucified for the watchful gods dancing in the
shadows.
A sacrifice.
(tick tock tick
tock tick …)
The walls shifted,
sprang to life, a miasma of insect activity and agility cultivating the
improbable. They fluttered and danced,
engulfing Roger’s head in a swarming fugue both inside and out. Revulsion knotted at Stacy’s throat but she
managed to ebb the flow before it reached the silk scarf stuffed in her mouth,
her face awash in shock and disgust. The
scene before her teetered on madness: the walls had, in their own strange way,
carried out the function she had curtailed, vomiting insects from the paint and
pores, nooks and crannies, wrenching them from unseen mouths. Ominous shadows, deeper than the night,
convulsed
(tick tock tick
tock …)
into life. Her nakedness, her complete nakedness, the
flesh in which she found refuge and expressed passions, was laid open for the
whim of whomever or whatever wished to trespass. Under these conditions all the headway she
had made disclaiming inhibitions crumbled by the wayside; she felt dirty,
obscene, and very vulnerable. She caught
a glimpse of the glimmer in Roger’s eyes amidst the tumultuous black cloud, like
a motel’s neon declaration of the heart and conduct within its leering walls:
vacant. She almost thought he was
blind. Or worse…
Roger rose from
his perch on her, the mosquitoes crackling with intensity, weaving frenetic
currents around him. In the darkness
(tick tock
tick …)
that had become
their cohort in corruption, Stacy could vaguely make out the astonishing
commotion addressing Roger. She watched
him listlessly slip into his jeans, a shirt, and sneakers, his movements the
antithesis of the swirling turbulence.
Terror embellished her as futility settled in. She was helpless, made to watch Roger’s
trance-induced pantomime, as if he was
(tick tock …)
hypnotized,
brainwashed, under foreign influence, his control…gone.
(tick …)
He left.
Death would have
been kinder.
( …)
#
The harsh fluorescent
lights bled into the gloom, pulsing ever brighter; layers of light peeled away
the darkness like idle fingers picking at a scab. Disorientation meandered in to grab him by
the shoulders and shake him, not willing to relinquish its transient existence
yet. His initial thoughts were of
searing discomfort, followed by a roll-call of questions. Where was he?
How did he get here? What was he
doing here? Where’s Stacy? His heart pounded furiously, his blood
surged. He squinted, eyes
adjusting. He was parked on a
nondescript side street. On the
passenger seat was a half empty box of chocolate donuts, an unopened bag of
tortilla chips, and a six-pack of generic beer, of which three were drained. He remembered the inspiration for none of
this.
He raised his arm toward his face but his
wrist was oddly naked; he never left the condo without his watch. He glanced toward the dashboard, eyes still
blurry, finally focusing on the digital clock there.
4:35 a.m. Where had all the time gone?
What was going on?
Urgency implored
haste. He had to get back to the condo,
had to get some answers. He pressed the
pedal floor-bound and screeched from the curb, scattering the refreshments from
their roost in the passenger seat. He
didn’t care. He had to get home, had to
get there soon.
#
The door was
unlocked. That was the first sign that
something was amiss. He never left
without locking the door. He rubbed his
bare wrist, reminding himself that normal routines had obviously been
abandoned, or perhaps altered.
Injury. The word raced to the forefront of his
sensory inquisition upon entering the condo.
The place seemed moist with frenzy; something had happened here,
something out of the ordinary. The
stench was not death, but it was pungent along the same lines.
He called out
Stacy’s name. The frenzy hesitated. He heard, felt, distinctly perceived hesitation.
Something was very wrong.
In the bedroom.
He paced toward
the open bedroom door, aware of the nausea rumbling in his gut. But he had to go on. Without as yet seeing her, he knew Stacy was
hurt. Raped? Possibly, but he sensed much more. He could taste it in the air, thick as
phlegm, clotting his throat. The input
he was receiving was totally alien. But
he had to go on. If Stacy was injured (a
foregone conclusion), he must help.
The doorway was a
passage into the gruesome, the surreal: a Gigeresque portrait of sensuality and
disease; a rift in reality. But in this
case the sensuality was a memory.
And this was not a
painting.
His throat
constricted from the putrid sight and smell, unable to scream or comprehend; a
low gurgling moan passed his lips: the whine of the mentally defeated. He wanted desperately to repudiate the lies
his vision enforced; the lies his vision brandished as he entered the bedroom.
Hundreds, maybe
thousands, of mosquitoes filled the whole of his sight, some in flight, some
resting…some feasting.
On Stacy.
She was bound to
the bed, gagged with some indecipherable material. Somehow, sifting through the debris of
coherent thought, Roger remembered being responsible for her imposed
restrictions. But not the rest.
No way.
Stacy’s body was
mutilated beyond recognition. He only knew
it was her because this was their condo, this was their bed. Any traces of the woman he loved were buried
under a range of volcano-like mounds, layers of flesh infected and swelling
from their excavations. And still the
mosquitoes drank from the frayed edges, dipping into freshly hollowed cavities,
some perched in circles and sucking from a particularly potent well while
others continued with fresh digs, like drilling for oil. Of paramount interest to the mosquitoes was
her blood engorged vagina; triggered by her earlier arousal, it was an alluring
delicacy for their voracious appetites.
Roger’s legs
wobbled, but he steadied himself with an influx of adrenaline strength. The fatter, feeding mosquitoes, the atrocious
coat of which Stacy was adorned, paused.
A message was relayed: the watchers turned their attention toward
Roger. They started to flutter madly, to
dance, a convoluted choreography of insect cunning. When the feeders joined in, Roger felt it.
A tug.
A trapdoor in his
mind swung open but he flailed and somehow caught himself before sliding down
the dark throat into a seething, cavernous belly of blackness. Still, it yawned wide below him, extending
ever wider, pushing to the limits his grasp on what he beheld as concrete as
well as the rim he gripped with the memories of clammy fingers--slipping,
slipping. Rough tongues caressed him,
but still he managed to cling to reality.
In the bedroom he
stumbled forward, fighting, reaching out as in his head he fought to divert his
descent. His fingers, for the tiniest
sliver of an instant, touched Stacy’s bloated foot. Her leg twitched, a reaction to the uncommon
intrusion of her nerve endings as opposed to the repetitious pin-pricking
assault that had grown familiar, rolling from right to left.
She was still alive.
Injury, not
death. That is what he had sensed. Rape?
Yes, a rape of her core humanity by these heinous circumstances.
Roger fell…into
the fugue, swallowed, a conscious as well as subconscious surrender, down,
down, down into the ebony wasteland. The
supervision of his self, his own core humanity--disintegrated.
His. World. Went.
Black.
#
Roger listened as
they dictated their ruthless orders. He
listened and understood and was beyond dissention. He marveled at the audacity they had embraced
to achieve their goal, the full extent of their evolution. They were his elixir, the embodiment of the
darkness that he (and Stacy, poor Stacy) had savored. The bitter elixir.
They.
The mosquitoes.
He also knew what
they wanted, what they demanded, as dictated by the diabolical machinations of
their dance.
More.
***
Delightful, eh? :-)
Was going to post the cover of the issue of Wicked Hollow "Mosquito Dance" appeared in, but blogger is being funky, so can't upload anything at the moment. Alas...
