Anthology - Dark Whispers Part 7

He began: "There is pleasure, there is pain, and there is more. There are doorways within us that fade and reappear, windows that show glimpses of things that their panes, clearer and stronger than gla.s.s, prevent us from touching. There are veils, and there are barriers; none are permanent.

What is necessary is to divert your mind from its purposea"your protection. If you want to know what is beyond the veil, you have to rip it aside. Man's most powerful instinct is survival; your body will not allow you to pa.s.s the veil. You need a key.

Pain will work. Pleasure will work as well. In combination, they are more effective. There is another key, a truer key. That key is total release. Your mind protects you, your soul s.h.i.+es away from the truth. You must let it go, if you want to see ... if you want to know."

TOBY STARED AT the screen for a long time. He had no idea where the words had come from, nor where they were heading. He had no urge to write more, not yet. It would come. He feared that it would come in an avalanche, burying him so deeply that he'd never claw his way free. He did not erase any of what he'd written; he also did not save it. He watched, and he waited.

She came after six, small cartons of Chinese food she knew they'd never get to in a brown paper bag and an innocent smile with no depth painted across her lips. The scent of the food wafted across the room, itching at his starved body. He shut it out. He did not rise.

She came to him then, sensing the difference, feeling the subtle changes in the aira"the ether. Kneeling, she read over his shoulder as he continued to stare at the screen, ignoring her.

"What turns you on?" he asked. He didn't turn to her, nor did he move, just the words announcing his acknowledgment of her presence.

She didn't answer. She moved in closer, sliding her arms around him from behind and letting her hands roam across the emaciated skin of his chest. She did not speak, not to question, not to answer. Her answer was her silence.

He could feel his flesh respondinga"heat growing without fuela" burning out. He felt curiously detached. Something had clicked in his mind, drawing him sharply inward, distancing him from the moment.

She wanted him. Not his body, exactlya"not just his body. Not his love, certainly. She wanted his paina"this he knew. She wanted his pleasure, as well. The words slipped back from the screen to haunt him, turning ghost tumblers in the locks of his mind. She wanted him to find his answer, and she wanted to be there when he did. At that moment, when the veil parted and he truly saw, that was her goal. She wanted to feed.

He could feel her need, palpable, burning through her desire to singe his consciousness. "How do you know?" he asked her. "What makes you so certain that we will reach my threshold first, that it will be my vision. How do you know we won't find out what turns you on? I'd like to see thata"would you?"

As he spoke, he turned to face her, running his fingers down her face gentlya"like a blind man searching for something hidden in braille. He dug in with his fingers suddenly, rending soft skin and feeling it roll back beneath his nails. She flinched, but she did not cry out. She did not pull away. Instead, when his fingers slowed their descent, when the pain should have stopped, she twisted her head slowly, dragging them onwarda"offering up her skin to his nails.

He sought her eyes. They were the windowsa"the keys to her thoughts. She moved ahead of him, only enough to prevent contact, only enough to insure that he would continue to follow. Their bodies blended, blood mingling with blood, tongues and fingers tracing hotter and darker pa.s.sions across one another's skin. He fought the sen-sations, fought to control thema"to bend them to his own will.

The veil would part if he could concentrate. His physical form, his conscious mind, both were linked to the sensations of the momenta"to her sensations, her probing control. He needed to control that deeper placea"that place where things not seen might coalesce. He needed to sidestep his self and cross the border. He needed to know she couldn't follow.

He galvanized the decrepit frame of his body, pressed it into service beyond it's limits. He grabbed her firmly, pressed her back and took control. She was using the physical as a union, a joininga"he needed that to belong to him as well. He needed to control her.

She trembled beneath him, but she no longer struggled. Her eyes sought his, fought to grasp at him, to convey her need, to twist him from his focus. He ignored them, moving slowly toward his goal, roughly manipulating her flesh, dragging at her own control with the bite of his nails and the tearing of his teeth.

As easily as she had controlled his body, he held hers. Every motion she made he countered, every a.s.sault she made on his flesh he ignored with the growing force of his will. She moved to the pain, not away from it, sought a path beneath his controla"an entrance to his mind. He barred her way, concentrating.

Moving quickly so she would not sense his intentions, he spun her over, straddling her and twisting the sleeves of her blouse around her like a straight jacket, pinning her arms to her sides and tying it off in a quick knot. Leaning very close and pulling her hair aside softly, he whispered his question into her ear, breathed it so that the breath would join with the rhythms of her own thought.

"What turns you on?"

He held her, and she struggled. Her power was in her flesh, and he had slipped the noose, removing her advantage. She squirmed, rubbing herself shamelessly against any bit of his skin she might reach, fighting to turn and meet his eyes, grasping at the control she'd lost.

He watched her, rode his growing arousal, but only on a distant level. It was no longer the focus, no longer the point of control. It would not bridge their minds. He was able to hold her easily. Every struggle, every bid for freedom or control he was able to easily counter with a caress, a bite, or a slap. He watched, entranced, as white images of his hand appeared, then disappeared into a fading redness on her skin.

He reveled in the momenta"the discovery of control. He molded her movements, orchestrated the sounds that emanated from her throat. Her flesh was hisa"his tool. He would push her to the edgea"the edge she'd been ready to cast him from such a short time before.

She stretched herself, pressing her face into the carpet as he pressed her from behind, slamming back into him, then away again as he rode the swells. He could feel the climax that was building, about to burst from him in endless waves, but he did not release it. Not yet. He waited, forcing his tortured, weakened flesh to obey him, denying it completion.

She cried out at last, the sound primal and soul-rending, erotic on levels he'd never dreamed existed, within or out his mind. Still he held on. He gripped her tightly, twisting her head so that he could find and meet her eyes, diving within them fearlessly and digging for what he sought, digging for her answers.

Gretchen shuddered against him, quivering with each spasm of release, gripping him with her bodya"arms and legs stretching up to confine him, to seek the control now denied her, begging him to stopa"and not toa"all in one sounda"one breath, begging for release. Still he held on.

He searched her eyes, deeper than he'd ever ventured, and he saw a flicker of lighta"of something beyond the hollow pits they had beena" something alive and vibranta"fleeing as he pursued. He dove deeper. Dimly he was aware that his grip on her facea"his hold on her hair had tightened, but he ignored it. The visions were coalescing, becoming clearer.

He felt her movements becoming more heated, liquid. She slid over his flesh, collapsing so completely against him that her entire being seemed to give itself over to his control, to release it's own tenuous hold on reality.

He grasped again at the visions, pressing his advantage, diving deeper. Comprehension inflated within his consciousness like a balloon, nowhere to goa"threatening to explode. Too late he felt the vacuum inside here, the horrible, gripping power. Too late he regretted his concentration on her flesha"on physical control.

She wanted his mind.

He came. His climax was beyond his mind's ability to comprehend, beyond his failing bodies ability to compensate. She drew him inward, her very supplication a trap, her pain a decoy. He felt himself releasing, a giant mind-f.u.c.k e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, and he felt that release draining him away, swirling down the twin drains of her eyesa"stolen.

He fell away from her, small tufts of her hair still gripped in weak fingers, but his mind could not pull free. It was beyond the eyes nowa"she had her claws imbedded in his soul. There was no sound, no breath or beating of his heart, only her mind, slamming into place around him like the walls of a prison, trapping him within her essence as completely as if all prior existence had ceased to be.

She rose. Toby rose. She pulled her arms free, draping the s.h.i.+rt haphazardly across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and b.u.t.toning enough b.u.t.tons to hold it in place. Then her pants. She moved slowly and deliberately, as if feeling the pain and the bruises for the first time, as if she had never, until that moment, been aware of the physical world that surrounded them, or the man she'd lain with.

She turned to him for the briefest of moments, mocking him with her new eyes, eyes filled with s.h.i.+ning light and intelligence, with creativity and wonder. They danced with promises he would never see fulfilled. Toby turned away.

As she took her things, retrieved her Chinese food, and left, he seated himself before the immobile cyclopic eye of his computer screen, staring into the void that was words he could not comprehend. The hole she'd left was immensea"a void beyond his capacity to fill. The words mocked hima"the answer strobed with the cursor, and he ignored it.

He sat there for a very long time.

CHARLENE LEANED BACK against Toby's chest with a purr. He was soa"different. Every touch, every probing, sensuous movement of his tongue, drew desire from her like a vacuum. It was almost scary.

He wound his arms about her from behind, fondling her nipples and distracting her from his words. "Why do you paint this stuff?" he asked.

Mothballedby Elizabeth Engstrom Among over sixty short stories, articles and essays in print, Elizabeth Engstrom has edited one anthology and written six books: "When Darkness Loves Us," "Black Ambrosia," "Nightmare Flower," "Lizard Wine," "Lizzie Borden" and the soon-to-be-released "Monochrome Love." She is a sought-after teacher, panelist and keynote speaker at writer's conferences and conventions around the world. Currently she resides in Eugene, Oregon, where she teaches cla.s.ses in novel writing and holds workshops for women on writing erotica. She is always working on her next novel.

THE GIRL WAS a little bit too drunk to be in a rowboat, and Danny hadn't realized it until she stood up, bottle in hand and tried to make her way back aft, to where he was.

"Sit down," he hissed at her. "Sit down and be quiet."

"Oops," she said almost losing her balance. She giggled as she regained her center, the boat rocking, then she sat down hard on the bench. "Sorry."

"You have to be quiet." He took another long pull on the oars, and soundlessly, a giant chain appeared from out of the fog and pa.s.sed within a few feet of their boat. Strands of seaweed clung to it all the way up to the high tide mark, and barnacles bred clumping colonies right at the water line. Each link was as big as Danny's head.

The girl's eyes grew solemn as saw this mysterious chain that seemed to tether the ocean to the heavens, and then the s.h.i.+p, big as a walled city, darkened the fog.

Danny s.h.i.+pped the oars and put his hand out just in time to fend off. The big gray monster was cold.

"Wow," the girl said with reverence.

"If we get caught," Danny said,"we'll both go to jail. Do you understand?" He could barely see her from four feet away, the fog was so thick, but he saw that headful of blonde curls bounce as she nodded. He also saw the glint of the bottle as she upended it and drank the last of the Southern Comfort.

Perhaps this wasn't the best idea he'd ever had.

"I'm cold," she said.

"Okay." He took off his jacket and handed it to her, then picked up the grappling hook from the floor of the rowboat.

He moved as far from her as he could, and then he began to swing it, around and around, letting out more line every time, knowing that landing this hook would be an incredible long shot. He gave a mighty heave, saw the rope disappear into the fog over his head, and then heard a loud clang.

He ducked, expecting the hook to come speeding down toward him, barbs first, but it didn't. It held. He waited a minute, listening for the sound of a motor and to be pegged by a searchlight. Nothing. The fog had m.u.f.fled the noise.

"First try," he said, smiling smugly to himself. He tied the rowboat to the end of the grappling hook's line, shrugged into his heavy backpack, put the coiled rope ladder over his shoulder, put on his leather gloves and kissed the bimbo on the cheek.

"I'm going to go up there and let down this rope ladder. You climb up it, okay?"

She nodded, subdued by the cold, gray monolithic wall next to them that rose up and disappeared into the mist.

Danny took a hefty grip on the knotted line and hand-over-handed. He was a little drunk himself, and though he'd been thinking about this adventure for almost a year now, he hadn't really thought about how it would feel to actually climb up a rope again, sneakered feet walking up the wet, slippery side of a s.h.i.+p. In the dark. Hands freezing.

But once he was twenty feet up, he couldn't stop. He didn't have the strength to climb back down. If he fell, he'd crash through the boat and it'd take less than a minute for them both to drown in that ice cold seawater. He had to go ahead. He was in shape, but not this kind of shape. He felt his strength waning, the rope was burning into his hands, but he had to keep going. He had to keep going.

And he did. Below him, the rope disappeared into fog. Above him, the rope disappeared into fog. There was only him and the segment of rope right in front of him, and the slippery gray side of the s.h.i.+p next to him, and the heavy rope ladder and backpack that he was carrying. The backpack got heavier with each pa.s.sing minute. Its straps bit into his shoulders, it banged his back, throwing his balance off. If he was certain he could miss the rowboat, miss the girl, he'd jettison the blasted thing.

Instead, he kept going.

He should have trained for this. He should have spent some time in the gym, climbing a rope.

But that would have meant preparing for a felony. This was just spur of the moment stuff.

Sure. He just happened to have a grappling hook in the boat and a rope ladder over his shoulder. And a backpack full of the proper tools for the job.

His head b.u.mped something, taking him by surprise.

Catwalk. The hook had snagged the catwalk.

Danny grabbed it, then heaved himself up and onto it. He lay there, gasping for breath, feeling his hands ache, the muscles in his arms and shoulders twitched and burned.

The network of rusting metal sketched cold artwork into his skin.

He'd actually made it. Fooled you, you stupid, useless hunk of metal, he whispered.

After resting for a moment, he heard a low whine coming up from the rowboat. The blonde.

He ignored her and listened to the water lap at the edges of the s.h.i.+p, heard her old steel plates creak and groan as she moved sluggishly against her moorings.

He secured the rope ladder and let it down.

"Okay," he whispered loudly. "C'mon up."

He didn't think his voice carried all the way down, but he saw the rope ladder tighten, and it swayed a bit with her weight. Little moans of terror wafted eerily on the breeze that ruffled his hair.

Wind inside the fog.

Then he grabbed her jacket and helped her aboard, tears of fear moistening the corners of her eyes. She brushed them away with tiny red fingers that protruded out of the long sleeves of his jacket. "What are we doing here?"

"This is my old s.h.i.+p," he said. "I wanted to show it to you."

"You were in the Navy?"

Danny looked around at the mist-enshrouded deck. Faint moonlight shone through the fog. "Yeah. I lived aboard this c.r.a.ppy d.a.m.ned s.h.i.+p for four f.u.c.king years." The deck was slick with salty moisture. Rust bubbled the paint everywhere. He scuffed the deck with his shoe and the gray flaked off. "C'mon." She clung to the back of his s.h.i.+rt as he made his way forward.

He expected to find all the doors and hatches welded shut; he'd heard that they sealed up the mothballed fleet pretty tight. But the first door he came to was ajar. It seemed to invite him in, and that made the hair on his arms p.r.i.c.k up a bit. "It'll be warmer below," he said, and pulled a small flashlight from his pocket.

He shouldered the door open another few inches with screeching difficulty, wincing at the noise. Then he slipped through the squared-oval opening. "Watch your head."

"Danny..." she whined, but he was beyond her now, the memories overpowering him with that unmistakable Navy s.h.i.+p smell. s.h.i.+pmates. Foreign ports. Exotic women. Puking bad booze. He shone his light down a ladder, then ran down it as if he had been doing it right up until yesterday. His body remembered this s.h.i.+p, too.

"Danny!" He heard her hesitant footsteps following him in the dark.

He shone his flashlight briefly on the ladder so she could see, then he flashed it around. The s.h.i.+p looked weird, with all the useful stuff gone. It had been gutted. The corroded ends of wires hung out of walls and down from the ceilings, where their fixtures had been removed. The farther forward they went, the drier it got and the more preserved the paint, but somewhere, water dripped and echoed tinnily. Even their breathing echoed in the vast emptiness which used to hold hundreds of exuberant, sweating, cursing, working men.

"What is this place?"

"They mothball the old s.h.i.+ps.The Navy is superst.i.tious about scuttling them, so they just leave them out here to rot. They're worthless. Useless."

"Superst.i.tious?" The girl touched the wall with a reverent fingertip.

"Yeah, the Navy's full of ritual and history that they think is so important, but it's just superst.i.tious c.r.a.p. *The s.h.i.+p never forgets,' they say."

"Forgets what?"

"Forget it. It's stupid."

They walked through pa.s.sageways, the light of his small flashlight showing the way, ducking through the short heads.p.a.ce of the doors and stepping over their lower edges. Then down through another hatch in the floor, down the metal ladder, ever deeper into the belly of the s.h.i.+p.

He could navigate the interior of this s.h.i.+p in total darkness. He had done it in total darkness.

He could do it in his sleep. He still did it in his sleep.

"Here," he said, s.h.i.+ning his light into a small empty room. "This is where I slept. With thirty-nine other guys." Unbelievable. This room was way too small for that. He shone the light up to the number stenciled on the I-beam. Sure was. This had been his berthing room.

"Let's go," she whined.

"C'mon, I'll show you the galley." Danny felt strangely euphoric. He felt as though he was putting something over on the Navy, something he had never felt before, not really. He'd sabotaged a few gas masks, sure, and slept through a few watches, but nothing like this. He was trespa.s.sing on their property, and they didn't know about it, and they couldn't do anything about it. He was free to go anywhere and do anything, and there were no officers or chiefs to stop him.

He could even go into officer country.

Officer country.

The thought took his breath away.

Another level down, through long pa.s.sages, a dozen doorways, across a few rooms, and there they were: officer country. Sacred ground, or so they would have you believe.

It looked exactly the same as the rest of the s.h.i.+p. Even the Captain's quarters, while roomy for only one man, was small and cramped. The paneling had been removed, and the walls were bare gray metal, just like everything else. The wardroom was small, too, not like the area where the enlisted peoplea"the working men, the guys who ran the G.o.dd.a.m.ned s.h.i.+pa"ate.