Richard Laymon - Flesh

He touched the handcuff key which dangled from a thin chain around his neck.

His hands shook badly as he peeled off a six-inch strip of the broad, metallic tape and sliced it off the roll with his knife. He stuck one end of the tape to his chin. It hung down like a strange beard.

He lowered his jeans and stepped out of them.

This time, there would be no problem of blood on his clothes. He would leave them down here and put them on again after showering. He would be clean when he left the house.

I’m learning, he thought. I’m getting good at this.

He sat on the sofa again, picked up his jeans, and pulled the belt out of its loops. He put the knife case back onto the belt, then stood and buckled the belt loosely around his waist. He folded the knife, slipped it into its case.

Now, he would have both hands free for cuffing her and taping her mouth.

He liked the feel of the cool belt and the weight of the knife against his side.

A naked savage.

Drape a cloth over the belt, and he would have a loincloth.

Better like this, he decided.

He slid a hand down the length of his engorged penis, then picked up the cuffs. He stepped around the end of the sofa. His feet were silent on the carpet. He heard only his thudding heart. He began to tremble. With each step, the tremors grew. He wasn’t cold; he wasn’t frightened. He was shaking with excitement, with delicious shivers of anticipation.

At the bottom of the staircase, Roland shifted the cuffs to his left hand. He curled his right hand over the railing. Slowly, he began to climb.

The staircase was black. But a patch of gray showed at the top.

A step creaked under his weight.

He stopped and listened.

His throat was making an odd, dry clicking sound with each heartbeat. He swallowed, and the sound went away.

He began climbing again. After a few more steps, his eyes were level with the floor of the attic room. The blanket lay heaped on the floor at the foot of the bed. The top sheet hung off the side of the mattress, almost at the end, but still on the bed, ready to be pulled up in case Alison should grow chilly in the middle of the night.

Roland was still too low to see Alison. He climbed. The bed seemed to descend, and there was Alison, sprawled on her back.

He crouched until he could no longer see her. Staying low, he made his way up the final stairs. On elbows and knees, he crawled over the carpet. He stopped close to the side of the bed.

He listened to Alison’s soft, slow breathing until he was certain she was asleep. Then he stood and looked down at her.

She was bathed in a glow of moonlight. Her nightie seemed glossed with silver except for the areas over her breasts. There, it had no sheen but was transparent. He could see the creamy skin of her breasts, the dark flesh of her nipples.

Roland licked his dry lips.

He could almost feel the nipples in his mouth, almost taste them.

Alison’s pillow rested crooked against the headboard as if she had found it too hot under her head, and shoved it away. Her face was turned toward the window. A few wisps of her hair curled over her pale ear. Her left arm was extended toward Roland, her hand at the very edge of the mattress, palm up, fingers curled. Her other arm lay close to her right side. Her long, bare legs were spread, feet tilted outward. The moon-slicked nightie clung to her thighs.

He bent over, caressed the slick fabric between her legs, pinched a bit of it and lifted, drawing it gently upward.

A hot surge suddenly ripped Roland’s breath away. He shuddered with an agony of need, tugging briefly at the gown before it slipped from his fingers. Alison moaned. Her head turned.

Roland, quaking and fogged but somehow alert in spite of the ecstasy, made a quick grab for her left hand. He slapped the cuff around its wrist. Her arm jerked, yanking the other cuff from Roland’s grip. Gasping, she rolled for the other side of the bed.

He grabbed her shoulder and hip, stopping the roll, pulling until she was on her back again. He threw himself onto her. He straddled her hips. She bucked and writhed beneath him. He caught her right hand as it lashed at his face. He pressed it to the mattress. He tore her tight left hand away from his throat and forced it down. She flung her head from side to side. She crashed a knee into his back. Roland grunted from the impact.

He jerked her cuffed hand down, pinned it under his knee to free his right hand, and punched her hard in the face. She jerked rigid beneath him, then stopped struggling. She made soft whimpering sounds as she gasped for air.

Roland peeled the duct tape off his chin. He pressed it across her mouth. The sounds of her breathing changed to a frantic hiss as she sucked air through her nostrils.

He should cuff her other hand now.

But Alison wasn’t fighting anymore, and he could feel the mounds of her breasts between his thighs. He put his hands on them. The fabric felt like netting. Her skin was hot beneath it.

He no longer heard Alison’s hissing struggle for air.

She was silent.

Roland squeezed her breasts.

Her right hand rose off the bed slowly. Suspicious, he watched it. It pressed his hand more tightly to her breast and held it there. She squirmed a little and moaned.

My God, Roland thought. What’s going on? Does she like it?

Her hand moved upward, caressing his arm, curling gently over his shoulder. She stroked the hair on the side of his head. She stroked his cheek.

The shriek drove spikes into Alison’s ears. Her wrist was grabbed and forced down and her thumb popped out of his eye socket with a wet sucking sound. He didn’t try to hold her. He clapped a hand to his face and swayed above her.

Alison thrust his knees upward. He tumbled onto the mattress between her legs. She rammed her feet against him, turning him and shoving him away, then kicked a leg high over his body and flung herself off the bed.

She ripped the tape from her face as she backed away. In the moonlight, Roland’s naked body looked gray and cadaverous. He was writhing, clutching his face, digging his heels into the mattress and thrusting his pelvis up as he squealed.

Alison whirled around. She grabbed the railing and rushed down the dark stairway. At the bottom, she tried to call out to warn Helen but her voice came out like a choked whisper. She ran through the hallway, rounded the corner, threw open Helen’s door and slapped the light switch.

“Helen!”

Helen, under the covers, didn’t move.

Alison hurried toward her. “Quick! We gotta…Roland’s upstairs…attacked me!” She jerked the covers down and Helen stared dull eyed through crooked glasses. Her face was torn, scraped, and swollen. Her chin had a crust of dried mess. Alison squeezed the dull, gray-blue skin of her shoulder.

“Helen!” She shook the shoulder. Helen’s head wobbled slightly. Her huge breasts quivered. “Helen, come on!”

Alison let go of the shoulder. The skin stayed dented where her fingers had been.

Numb, Alison backed away.

He’d killed Helen.

No. This was some kind of a sick joke. Helen isn’t dead. Not Helen. It’s a joke.

She’s dead.

Alison backed through the doorway. She looked toward the dark hall. “You bastard!” she cried out.

And heard quick thuds of footfalls on the attic stairs. They triggered a blast of white-hot fear that sent Alison running to the door. She flung it open, lunged outside, slammed it, and fled down the stairs. The painted wood of the steps was wet with dew and slick under her bare feet, so she slowed down, dreading a fall that might give Roland a chance to catch her. Four steps from the bottom, she leaped. She dropped through the chill night air, her nightgown bellowing up, and landed staggering over the flagstones and grass.