Harriet Daimler - Darling

A man sat next to her, busily removing his coat, then reaching into his pocket for a cellophane- wrapped package of caramels. He held them out before her, and she shook her head. The man' s face was indistinct in the darkened room. She could barely make out his profile. On the screen, a bunch of thugs were pounding Marlon Brando' s face, and a skinny blond girl was looking agonized.

Maybe he' s a stevedore. I should go to the docks early in the morning, and look for him.

The man next to her rapped her shoulder again and stuck a bag of popcorn in front of her nose. " No, thanks," she said. " I' m not hungry."

But the man didn' t take his hand from her shoulder. It rested lightly against her, and the contact intensified the yearning in her body. He moved his hand down her arms, deliberately brushing against her breasts. Her soft cashmere sweater welcomed the caress. His fingers circled one breast until they found and formed the hard outline of her nipple. His thumb and forefinger pinched it gently and her body buzzed from breast to cunt. Then he moved closer to her and reached his arm across the back of her chair. His other hand found the other breast, and four fingers worked with sure mastery. Her head fell back into the curve of his arm and she gasped incoherently as he luxuriated over a pointed stiff tit.

The moisture, in drops, began to flow down her thighs, and the man seemed to sense that she could stand it no longer. His hand moved to her skirt and touched her bare knee. He moved up to wet thighs and kneaded them roughly. Then he slid beneath her panties and touched the burning fold of hidden flesh, his fingers darted eagerly, deeply into her. The orgasm began coming and he cruelly removed his hand. She screamed with horror at this denial and saw that Marlon Brando was now a bloody pulp. Someone in the audience laughed, thinking her cry was one of sympathy.

The figure next to her undid his pants, and she said, " No, not here," with desperation.

His voice was a harsh, guttural growl, as he commanded, " Just go down on me."

" Don' t leave me like this," she cried. " Please."

" I' ll finish you, baby," he whispered. " I just don' t want to be left too far behind."

His prick was the only spot of whiteness in the dark balcony. She bent her head to her task and mixed tears with the few drops of sperm that already lubricated the rigid pulsating flesh. His cockhead was hot and velvety as she began to bob her head up and down along the length of the shaft. Her tongue was frantic, and she heard his groan of pleasure. The flesh in her mouth beat uncontrollably and she felt it grow stiffer. Then, like an over- inflated balloon, it seemed to burst in her mouth. The thick liquid streamed in behind her teeth. She moved her head hastily to the side to spit it out, but some of the sperm had already trickled down her throat. It had a musty, exotic taste. Curiously, she swallowed a bit more, and then curved her tongue upward to keep the strange serum in her mouth. There was something disgusting and yet elusive about the flavor. She wanted to throw up and began to gag. But her lips pressed together tightly, and soon her mouth had emptied its load into her tense throat.

She sat quietly clinging to the sensation. Her unknown lover was down on his knees before her. He lifted her skirt and buried his head against her thighs. His tongue leapt out and skillfully sucked her enraged mound of damp hair and the sensitive flesh it guarded. He made deep swallowing noises. For a moment, she felt delirious and separate from the animal at her feet. " Good as caramels?" she wanted to ask. But her tongue would not cooperate with her sardonic thoughts.

He continued to press his head against her; his teeth, biting gently at her pussy lips, seemed to close her into a hidden world of inexhaustible sensuality. She moved her hips contentedly against him, and then a rush of energy along her limbs freed the orgasm. She panted with excitement, wanting him to go on forever. But he lifted his body and sat heavily in his vacant seat.

" Let' s get out of here," he implored. " Let' s get something to drink."

She did not turn to him, but watched Marlon Brando walking heroically toward a blurred building. Some fat idiot was waiting in the doorway.

" No," she answered. " No drink. No nothing. Don' t look at me. Just get up and leave the theatre. I' m going to watch the coming attractions. And I don' t want to see you when I leave, or I swear I' ll call the cops."

" What' s the matter, baby?" he asked. " Didn' t you like it? I got a million tricks to show you."

" I liked it fine," she said sarcastically, " but I don' t believe in repeat performances. I haven' t got time to go around the world twice."

" But, lady, we haven' t begun to go anywhere yet. Believe me, the next part of the trip is better."

" Leave now," she repeated, " or I' ll complain to the manager. I' ll tell him I' ve had to change my seat twelve times. I' m serious. I don' t know exactly what you look like, and I don' t want to know. If you look for me, or wait for me, or follow me, I' ll have you arrested."

" What' s the matter, kid? You got a jealous husband?"

" Yes," she said wearily, " and he' d kill both of us."

The man sat quietly for a few seconds. " You win, lady. I think you' re nuts, but it was a good show." He slipped her a printed card. " If you ever get lonely, ring me. Just mention Brando' s name."

Fifteen minutes later, she dropped the card on the floor and walked back to her empty apartment.

She spent a few days feeling completely insane. She walked the streets of Greenwich Village for hours looking for the man whose face she had completely forgotten. What was most frightening was the thought that he might never have existed, that she had created him out of an incredible lust and sickness inside herself. As long as he was not her creation, she could live, searching for him and trying to recreate, for the final time, the experience he had given her. If he did not exist, she was already dead, and it was a shadow that her lovers embraced.

Gloria had changed in the two weeks of her debauch. Her face wore the exhausted and strained look of one who waits. Her hands strayed nervously across her neck and face with spinsterish aimlessness. Sometimes, in the morning, she felt liberated. But a glance in the mirror revealed her agony and would send her down into the streets, peering into bars and passing automobiles for her appointed victim. She was completely dedicated to one idea… to kill him. Some women, she knew, chose to live their subjugation. They discovered the chastised, tormented creature they were and lived to feed their own suffering. They searched for a master to punish them, to sate their craving for punishment. It became a sick dream – to be punished enough. Punished for what? For forgiveness, for a reprieve, for the sins of fathers and mothers and aunts and uncles and cousins. And finally for the sins of rage and appetite – the combined sins of all.

There was no human pain to touch her. She was incapable of repentance; all she wished was vengeance.

Yes, revenge is vanity. My vanity is so great that nothing can penetrate my wall of self- love. Or is it self- hate? How fantastic to adore oneself, feeding only on gratification. And how could I despise myself, if I did not worship myself? Somewhere, somehow, I promised myself glory that I could not achieve. I am my only god, my only creed, my only disappointment, my only devil. Did anyone ever live in such a closed world? Nothing outside of me, except what I siphon in with bitterness and revenge. I understand the confessions of witches. I am a witch, and it would be my triumph to be burned. What a moment of ecstasy, to have the flames cut into the flesh and know intensely that the possession was over, the warped prisoner was tortured out of the body. It is a small sin to sacrifice the body.