Posted by critmk on May 14, 2003 at 10:57:09:
To view the PICTURES that go with this novel, open a new window to my briefcase at
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Sisters
a novel by critmk
Chapter 11: Falling in Love with Make-Believe
Barbara wore a black bra, black seamed stockings, lace garter and G-string, high lace-up boots and black choker. She removed her white blouse as I entered the motel room.
She was the toned ideal of a woman of 40. The bra pushed her undoctored breasts up into half-moon mounds. Her eyes spoke of avid sexual hunger. I wanted her.[barb2,jpg here.]
She didn’t bother to say hello.
“Pretend you’ve come to kill me,” she said, in that low, Bacall baritone of hers. “I don’t know it. You’ve dated me to gain trust and I’ve fallen in love with you – but you’re a cold-hearted hitman. When I embrace you and tell you that I love you, stab me in the back. Then throw my dead body on the bed and fuck me.”
My mouth went suddenly dry with sexual tension. Even if I could have thought of anything to say, I couldn’t have said it.
She rolled her hips sensually as she walked toward me. She unbuttoned my shirt and ran her hands across my chest, met my eyes, turned her head back and invited a kiss. I accepted. She flattened herself against me; I felt the heat emanating from between her legs.
“I love you,” she said. “I love you, Jack.”
Her eyes and mouth widened as I drove an imaginary steel shaft into her back.
“It’s an ice pick, my dear,” I improvised. “You can pick one up at any liquor store for $1.99.”
Barb swallowed hard. Her eyes flashed. Feebly, she made as if to push away from me. She was quite an actress. A small, squeaking gasp escaped her lips as I “stabbed” her a second time in the back. She started to slide down my body. I flung her roughly onto the bed. Her face flushed and her eyes dilated. I could see juices glistening at the downward point of her neat triangle of blond pubic hair.
Without really breaking character, she instructed me further: “Put your hand over my mouth so I can’t scream, then stab me in the pussy. Finish me with a half-dozen in my chest.”
The world’s most accommodating murderer followed instructions. The results took my breath away. Barbara writhed and moaned and screamed into my clamped hand, then settled into a horror-struck death stare as authentic as those of any of the women I – we – had actually killed that day.
Mad with desire, I yanked her bra down and stroked and sucked her tits. I licked and kissed my way to her deliciously slack mouth. Then, in a long, slow traversal, I traveled down the center of her throat and torso and pushed the flimsy panty aside to get to her moist and swollen labia.
She twitched and giggled at the first contact of my tongue.
“Sorry, sorry – I’ll try harder to stay dead.”
“Well, Mrs. Laufer, if any part of your corpse is to stay in working order, that’s the one I’d choose.” She laughed again, then went back into blank, dead character.
Barbara worked hard to stave off orgasm as I worked my tongue between her legs, but I could feel the tension building in her “dead” body. I turned her facedown, put my hands under her hips and stuck her round ass in the air. I slid into her from behind and fucked her in long, slow strokes.
Her breathing was audible now, but otherwise she persisted in her dead act. She didn’t give it up until I reached around to the front and stroked her clitoris with my middle finger, in rhythm with my gliding penis. Seconds before our simultaneous orgasms, she came to convulsive life.
We rested a moment, then started over, driven by talk of the day’s events. She stroked herself and me as I related each murder in as much detail as I could recall. She told me of her excitement at killing the Koncharova sisters and the women at the law firm. Through the telling of our personal Grand Guignol story, we sucked and fucked and stroked in long episodes of rising and falling excitement until at last we came again, in each other’s mouths.
I fell asleep and into the Kennet and Sikes law office. All of the women were alive and bustling about their tasks and paid me no mind. In the blur of activity around me, I recognized a victim’s face here and there; but unless I focused on a face, they were anonymous. Feminine chatter filled my ears, but I couldn’t make out a word.
The place fell suddenly silent when one woman stopped and addressed me, with curiosity: “Will you do it?”
I drew a blank and had no answer. The young blond was naked but for high black pumps; funny I hadn’t noticed that before.[insert dreamblond.jpgs here.]
“Will you do it?”
The office dissolved around us into a white space without dimension. Now it was just I and this woman – a girl, really – small breasted, perfectly formed, with a manner so blunt and flat it verged on haughtiness.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“A killer. Who are you?”
“I’m here to save you.”
She stepped close and embraced me and I realized that I, too, was naked. I closed my eyes and kissed her and my brain began to spin pleasantly. Then she released her kiss and looked into my eyes but saw nothing. She sank to her knees. A golden knife was in her back. Blood streamed down the center of the field of white flesh, disappeared between her buttocks and reappeared on the white floor between her knees.
Barbara, all in white -- heels, hose, panties and bra -- stood smiling a few feet behind the kneeling, bleeding girl.
“She’s too young for you,” Barbara said, smiling.
I raised the girl’s chin and took a good look at her pretty face. “But it’s a dream.”
Barbara said nothing. She took girl’s head in her hands and pushed her mouth over my penis. The girl’s tongue, at least, was very much alive. She swallowed my cum. Barbara slid the blond’s head back from my crotch and lightly shoved her to the floor. The girl started to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood between her legs.
I turned to ask Barbara where the girl could be going in all this whiteness, but Barbara was gone, replaced by a dozen or so of the white-clad women from my previous dream. They were transfixed on the knifed girl behind me.
“Are you angels?”
They all looked at me when I spoke. The one closest spoke but didn’t answer: “Finish her.”
The victim was just a few yards away, but it took a long time to get to her. When I did, I sat down exhausted. The dream women were barely visible in a hazy distance.
I grasped the girl by the ankle and pulled her toward me. The golden knife looked heavy and large between her shoulder blades.
“I am your angel, not hers. My death is not death, but your warning, pleasure and salvation. Kill me,”
I lifted her into a sitting position beside me. I did not ask her name because I knew, somehow, that she had none. I twisted the knife sharply and pushed it deeper into her back, until the golden tip broke through the inside curve her perfect left breast. She arched, spasmed and went limp. Her dead eyes were deep, dark green amid the whiteness, and then her eyes dissolved and all was white, impenetrable white.
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Barbara had only her blouse to put on when I awoke. I got up and embraced her, but she wasn’t interested. I took her by the shoulders and made her look me in the eyes. I heard myself say:
“Barbara, I love you.”
Her sharp laugh shocked me, but not as much as her miming stabbing me in the back, just as I had pretended to stab her during our first love game the night before.
“Well, aren’t you going to play dead?” she said, with an edge of sarcasm.
“I wasn’t playing – I was serious. I love you.” Now the words felt false on my tongue.
“Don’t talk to me about love. It’s soft, it’s pointless. We’re murderers; we can’t love.”
Her voice rose and became more vehement as she went on: “Do you want to know how I got into this? I was a whore, a street hooker at 18. The old man – my future father-in-law -- picked me up one night. He asked me to play dead for him, and then to die for him, and I liked it so much and was so good at it that he called me night after night. He set me up in an apartment. Sometimes I’d bring a girlfriend over and he’d kill us both, or the two of us would kill and fuck her.
“Are you starting to get the picture, lover? He sent me to college and set me up to marry his son, just to keep me around. He promised me control of the company when he died, which I hope to God will be soon. And then I turned 40 and he threw me over for those two Russian sluts.”
“What about your husband?”
“That fool never had a clue. He’s weak and contemptible, and easy to manipulate. I got him to hire you in the first place.”
“And now he’s taking the fall.”
“Yes, unless you screw it up. It’s been fun playing with you, Jack, but the bottom line is this is a business relationship.”
I sat down on the bed and tried to gather my wits and my pride. She buttoned her blouse.
“In that case, Barbara, where’s my $200,000 for killing the lawyers?”
“You’ve collected the $35,000 from David for killing the Koncharovas, and I did that for you, if you’ll recall. That will have to do. And Jack, don’t contact me until after David is safely in prison and I have control of the company. It could be months, or even years. If we’re seen together or overheard on a phone tap, it could be bad for us.”
She threw a wad of cash – a few hundred, I figured -- on the dresser. “That’s for last night. You were great.” Then she was gone.