Posted by nigel1 on August 10, 2002 at 11:12:18:
Cries in the dark, source unknown: NACHT! NACHT! Auditory hallucinations? Maybe so. It didn't matter. Lentil could not wait for the fall of Night's vast apron-- his headache tormented him and he roamed from room to room. He found Arthulia praying at a little homemade shrine or altar, kneeling and mumbling with her back turned to him. She might not have even been aware of his gaze on her. She burned votive candles. He smelled sandlewood incense and lilac water. She must have just bathed. She wored a thin, loose robe, white and almost transparent. She squatted on her haunches, so that the robe stretched tightly over her butt-- defining her butt crack nicely. Arthulia might have been a skinny black lady, but her ass was round and inviting. Her belly rounded nicely too, a good little soft convexity of flesh. Lentil, observing quietly from the threshold, wanted to feel his penis thrusting between the twin loaves of Arthulia's divinely womanly rearend. It seemed to him that he had always wanted that. Of course, it couldn't be true-- there must have been innocence, once. His headache, he thought it must be a migraine, interfered with his vision. Little flashy zigazags cavorted at the corners of this eyes, it seemed, and the pain was so enormous it was hard to think straight. If his head popped open, right at the crown, and disgorged a fortean object, like a frog or doily, he wouldn't be surprised at all. He was obsessed that day, as it turned to dusk and then to night, with the need to plunge a knife into a soft, female, belly. In fact, he had just the knife, and carried it with him at that moment, a perfect knife he'd found in a battered trunk in the garage. Mabye it belonged to his father. He didn't know. His mother certainly could not have told him. It was a slender-bladed weapon, double-edged and sharply pointed. A plain, functional, bakelite grip invited the hand, and a sturdy metal hilt made one feel secure, holding it. Instead of going off to school that day, for another round of torment, he played with the knife, spending much of his time sharpening the old blade, testing the edge, then re-sharpening as it became clear to him what he would do with it. He needed something that would not cut or slice so much as puncture. The blade should go in easily, slide easily and intimately into a woman's intestines, through her bellybutton, but then seal the cut in the skin as it penetrated further, cutting internally, yes, but holding the blood in until withdrawn. And perhaps he would wait for death, before withdrawing. A blade like that could be inserted, held, wiggled about, withdrawn partway, and thrust in again along a slightly different angle or path, the first stab perhaps penetrating straight in, the second angling up a bit, a third and last, angling down, each stab eliciting a fresh moan, or cry or gasp, a plea for mercy, but very little blood, only a trickle oozing around the blade, while the woman's belly cavity flooded with rich red liquor. He spent much of his time that day imagining as vividly as possible stabbing and killing a woman with his knife, and realized that he would like to leave the knife in the body, in her belly, and if she died or lost consciousness sprawled on her back, rolling the naked woman onto her side, so that her belly would relax and protrude with the knife sticking in it-- sticking out of it. And her breasts would splay out on the killing floor, pressing against each other. Then the temptation would be great indeed to pull the knife out, letting blood flow at last, freely, from the dead or dieing woman's ravished bellybutton, and stab through the soft breasts, skewering them both. But certainly it would be better to restrain that impulse, leave the breasts pristine in death as prizes to be fondled and sucked upon, leave the knife plugging her bellyhole, and roll the unresisting flesh completely over, butt up, with the knife still sticking inside her intestines, to twist and slice.
Lentil began to whisper Arthulia's name, so quietly at first that she could not hear him at all, then louder, and still louder, until at last she heard, and looked over her shoulder. She saw Lentil naked, leaning casually against the door frame, looking at her with lust in his eyes. She took in the knife, his erection, and made an instant decision. She rose slowly and gracefully to her feet, maintaining eye contact all the while, turning slowly as she rose, to face him. She stood before him in the semi-darkness, in the flickering candlelight, and slowly, slowly, opened her robe, revealing her dusky nakedness: firm, high breasts, still perky, though she was a mature woman; gently rounded belly, with a low, deeply rounded bellybutton; pubic thatch, and slender but shapely legs, spaced widely enough to allow an alluring gap to appear between her thighs. She shrugged off the robe. It fell around her bare feet. She lowered her gaze then, as Lentil approached, looked down between her breasts at her belly, and realized that her sexy belly was about to become even sexier-- that SHE would soon become as sexy as she could ever hope to be! She trembled, feeling the wetness in her, anticipating.