Posted by nigel1 on May 30, 2002 at 11:41:39:
It was obsessive, and therefore hopeless. When he felt the tic at the lower left corner of his lip, there was nothing to do but sit back, in his mind, and watch himself recede while the flesh performed unspeakable acts. Why did women like Lurabelle seek him out? What could it be but a death wish? She saw that tremor, and he, as he retreated, out of space, out of time and out of mind, noticed her pupils dilate. This was the invariable sign. "Ah! Loo-loo-lllllooooraBELLY!" He said that, growing impetuous. His left hand swam into view, and caressed her left tit. He mumbled something, but he tried not to listen to himself. It was painful, hearing the vile oil, the oleo of seduction, in his voice.
One, he thought that an obsession could be worked to death, that he could exhaust it by giving it its head, groan, and attending meticulously to every detail. Famous writers used this method sometimes, when they needed help, and couldn't afford a shrink or didn't trust shrinks. At the end, they found themselves with several thousands of words, several pages covered with close writing in their spidery hands, and relief. Then everything could be thrown away, or one could preserve it, and add to it on other occasions, as needed, for years if necessary. Was it true that this had ever really worked for anyone? Just thinking of all the effort involved, especially all those tedious details, made him weary. He was worse than weary, he was close to nervous exhaustion. Looloo, for instance-- where had she come from, and what did she really desire? The first question would be impossible to answer. All one could say was that the world seemed to have an ample supply of women who wanted, needed, to be victimized, and they made themselves available to him. Perhaps their respective Angels led them to each other. They were rarely as attractive as Looloo, though. She was an anomaly. She was rather exotic-- kinda European, he thought; tall, slender, graceful, but nicely curved in all the right places. He loved that phenomenon of female curvature, concave here, convex there, and soft, soft! She could have been a model, or a reporter for Rolling Stone. She had the good sense that he liked at least partial anonymity, therefore she kept things sketchy. Now that he was alone with her, in her apartment, now that the preliminaries were done, of conversation and wine, in which proclivites were established, he could attend to the details.
She wore faded levis, with cute embroidered flowers here and there, one on each maculate buttock. She wore a white blouse, pulled up and knotted in such a way that it left her midsection bare. There was no bra. He poked and pried enough to be sure of that. She'd helped him by being prone to sudden fits of bending over, which exposed an unobstructed cleavage, not to mention throwing her ass into high relief. Her breasts were not particulary large; in fact they would probably turn out to be sort of droopy, "banana tits". That was OK. It would add a little garnish of raunch to the festival. He removed his hand from her tit, and instantly forgot what it had felt like. Then he put his face close to hers, and before he kissed her, he thought he saw her smile, "faintly and ironically". They twisted their upper torsos so as to be more nearly face to face, and he ran his hands over her cool, bare, flanks. With his thumbs he probed and caressed her midriff. Sometimes he wondered whether his foreplay might not be a little bit dumb, not to mention eccentric. Dumb or not, it was the only foreplay he had. They could damn well take it or leave it. Maybe they appreciated his clumsiness and crudity in a twisted way, adding it all to the quota of torture, of pain. Besides, it was really the aftermath they wanted, the "sweet release".
She truly did have lovely skin. Her pants, even when she'd been standing earlier, had revealed nothing of her navel. That had been somewhat disappointing. It was always something he craved to see. But, by probing at her belly with his thumbs, running them beneath a small roll of fat just above the tight waist of her jeans, he found it, just an inch below the snap closing. It was round and deep. Going a little lower, he found no trace of panties-- probably bikini syle, his favorite, and very light, or maybe even no panties at all. Either case would be good. He withdrew his thumbs, and the kissing paused for a few seconds. She was hot. She touched his chest, and they kissed again, while he fumbled with the snap, and her zipper, slipping his fingers inside again for a touch of lower belly. It had a nice swell to it-- her waist was very narrow but her tummy curved out nicely below, carrying the little navel at the top of the swell. That, and her ass, was what made her especially suitable. It was always a kick to speculate, because you could never really be sure until they were naked, what the ass would be like. Particulary he wondered about the length of the cleft between the buttocks, which would determine the size of the ass. It ought to accommodate the full length of his penis, later, when she lay on her belly. In some cases the seat of the pants had been filled mainly by the flat lower back, the flat of the girls sacrum, instead of a good double handful of rubbery blubbery butt, with a fine deep cleft between the loaves of flesh, as he liked it. Loaves was the word for him. This girl looked promising. and he felt that she was ready to give it all. So he called himself back from that remote place in his mind, not because it would help him maintain control, but because this was the time when he wanted to fully experience loss of control. Feeling surged into his fingertips. She was so smooth, with just a hint of cool taughtness, of feminine muscles sheathed in fat, stretching slackly over guts. There was shit in there, urine, liters of rich red blood, a womb.
"It's time," he said. He got on his knees, clasping her hips just above the trochanters. Even her bones felt feminine!
"What should I do," she asked, breathing heavily.
"Just be still," he said. Already, he had the levis unsnapped and unzipped, peeled back and down, exposing the girl's pink abdomen, and the topmost elastic of a sheerly pale, pastel blue bikini panty. He leaned forward, her thighs spreading on both sides of him, and he touched his lips to her navel. He pressed his tongue into the sweet hollow.
"Oh!" Looloo moaned and twisted. "Oh God! It'll hurt! It'll hurt!"
"Yes!" he said, "it will hurt! It will hurt terribly! The pain will be a flame in your intestines. It will make you cry. Lift!" He needed to pull her pants down, so that they would ride around her thighs, and leave most of her ass bare. He would leave her blouse as it was, since there would be plenty of time later to enjoy her breasts. And then, exposing them for the first time, and finding them perfectly unmoved by respiration or heartbeat, there would be greater poignance. For the sake of that poignance, he tried to impress himself with his victim's humanity. She! She! A mother's beloved daughter! There would be an entire bereaved family at her funeral; he hoped for brothers and sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents too for all he knew, and surely she had had lovers, and they would think of her body as they had known it, before it lay in the coffin, and there would be male friends who had lusted for her in vain, who would never know what her delightful body had been like. There might even be female friends present, who had secretly lusted for her, who had desired those particular breasts, that ass, and those lips, no longer sweet and about to disappear into the earth, for the unspeakable ministrations of the soil. Poignance! It took all that to give him an erection. OOGELDEEBOOGLEDEE--BOO! He buried his face in her feminine belly, and blathered there, catching a few seductive digestive gurgles in the process. Now, he thought, time to make you bleed! Time to make you die! She moaned and gasped, and there were tears in her eyes. She turned away, and half-heartedly sheilded herself with her hands. That's right, he thought, get a last good feel of yourself, and drew the knife from its scabard. It was a good knife. A good knife for stabbing. The blade was sharp and stout, seven inches long, and it was sharpened over only half of its length, from the very tip to a point only half way to the hilt, from which it continued, but dully, spreading only a little in width. A slender blade. The handle consisted of two halves of yellowish celluloid riveted to the upper most extension of the steel, which gave it a sturdy backbone. It was an ideal weapon, an ideal gut poker, and boob piercer, and had taken a long time to find. At last, he found it in a hardware store, and bought it on the spot. Before the knife he'd used a silenced .22 for his sexual murders-- he'd murdered his sex-victims with .22 long rifle slugs, lots of them, fired into soft spots above and below the waist. They died slowly and he was sure they loved every minute of it. He still had that weapon, but only used it when he masurbated, thinking of the women he'd killed with it. He held it in one hand and stroked himself with the other. But he'd found that it was just too easy to use such a weapon for a casual murder, with no real passion behind it, killing women he hardly knew, and who were unwilling and uncooperative. That was no fun.
Crap! Goddamn daydreaming! He caught himself with his hand on the knife and the knife buried up to the hilt in the girls left boob, right through that blouse. She was dead already! He'd stabbed her in the heart and hadn't even had the presence of mind to enjoy her death! What the FUCK was wrong with him anyway?