Christopher Golden - The Monster’s Corner - Stories Through Inhuman Eyes

Who am I?

You don’t know? Odd, you’ve mentioned me often enough.

No? Well, maybe it’d be better if you asked what I am. Ooohh, furrowed brow. Okay, here’s a little hint; in Latin my name means “To Lie Under,” and that’s exactly what you’re doing now.

To lie under.

Another thing I am is … I am exactly what you would want for your ultimate fantasy.

No reason to be shy, just admit it. I know what you look at on the Internet; I’ve seen what you like. You store the images in hidden folders, blondes, brunettes, redheads, so many pictures … Thousands. Dominatrix, gay, eighteen and older …

… under eighteen.

Oh, don’t worry about me! I’m not the Judge.

But I do know what turns you on. Long hair turns you on; long red hair really turns you on. The redder the better, isn’t that what you write, Mister i-1-2-do-U at livemail-dot-net? And hey, you’re in luck! I have both, long and red!

How’s this? Is this red enough for you? No dye jobs here. This fire is all me.

Come on, feel it.

Yeah, I know, I’m kneeling on your arms. That’s what happens when you’re saddled and straddled. Here, feel it on your face, then. Do you like how it feels? Oh, I think you do. I just felt Mr. Happy jump up and nudge my ass.

Here, feel my …

… you’re looking at my tits.

It’s all right. Take your time and enjoy the view. I’ll tell you what, this black leather is so confining, let me unzip, that way you can feel them, too.

Oh yeah, your hands. Well, you really don’t need them right now. Let’s just reposition them down here a bit. Look at that, perfect for holding my ass.

Now tell me, aren’t these the breasts you like best? D-cup. Dee for delectable? No silicone, no saline, just soft, perky pleasure. Feel it on your face? Hmmm. You like it playful, don’t you?

Oh! You’re a nipple man! Can’t refuse, can you? Oh, and you like to bite, you devil! I love the teeth. Oh yeah, a little harder, that makes me want to … I want to grind … in.

Can you feel my heat? I feel yours, even through leather. Undo the snaps. Can you feel them, right where I’m hottest? That’s right, open them. Oh, huh, oh, that’s good. Use your fingers in … me. Ohhh … do you feel that?

Wet.

Wet helps when … it’s time to … slide you in … slooooowwwly.

So hot.

Hmmm, I think you like it, you certainly like something. Is it the heat, the intense fiery … or is it when I squeeze you like this …

Wait. Slow down, not so fast, baby. It isn’t time yet. Just settle down and feel me on you, around you.

Mmmm, you like it when I bite your ear; when I whisper?

Let me tell you a secret. I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. Wow, the way you just grew inside me … throbbing. You want that, don’t you?

All right, here’s another secret. I’m going to fuck you … to death.

Yeah, that’s right, and you won’t even try to stop me. I’m going to rip you inside out, and you’re going to beg for more.

Awww, you’re dwindling. Not a problem, I’ll give you a special little clench from inside me … and I can grip you tighter than any human hand.

See? You’re back with me … completely. Aren’t you, preacher man?

Oh, you’re surprised that I know who you are, Mister Holy? At least that’s what you tell them, your followers.

No, you can’t pull away.

Try.

See? Not once I have a hold on you. Not when I can make you feel this good. I own you. Feel me milking you, massaging you from inside me, like little tongues licking you all over.

If your herd only knew you, your mindless minions. If they knew your sins and your weaknesses, all the ones you have always blamed on me. All the lonely wives you used, the clueless little boys, the whores, the needy runaways, all of them your toys.

Now you’re my toy … my toy to ride.

You called me the seductress. You even told them you met me face-to-face and defeated me. You had no clue. You took me for granted. You saw me as a joke and you didn’t believe. I thought you were a man of faith.

Well, here I am, and it seems … I’m winning. I’m sucking the life from you, and you can’t resist.

Hold me to you. Hold on to me while I kill you. That’s good. Good little preacher. Hold me tighter and wrap your arms around me.

Can you feel them? Feel the wings?

What? You’re disgusted? But you can’t let go, can you?

Do you feel your soul being torn from you? Isn’t it amazing how giving up your life feels so much like pleasure, how giving up your soul seems like ecstasy?

You’re dying, holy man. I grind into you faster and faster, but what if I … were … to … stop?

Stopping will save your life. But you can’t stop; can you? Even when I stop, you keep going.

Even when I reveal myself, when I lose the flesh, you can’t resist. Oh, the terror in your eyes, it’s delicious … and that, my dear, that’s what turns me on.

Beg. Let me hear you beg and I’ll finish you, you dog.

Good, very good. Keep begging.

But I’m going to play awhile. I’m going to bring you to the edge, and then ease off, again and again. I’m going to dangle you over the cliff until the need to release guts you and nearly drives you mad.

And again …

Again …

Now let it go. Feel it leave you. Feel it being torn from you, like a thousand rusty blades slashing inside of you, yet you still buck and thrust deeper into me, so willing to die.

So willing to be possessed.

So willing to succumb.

And now …

I have you.

Roll over, preacher.

Roll over and hold your wife. She’ll be pleased to know you reached out to her in your final moments, even though she knows you’ve never loved her. She’ll be pleased to know that you had nothing else to reach for.

And all that is left is for me to kiss you …

A soul kiss …

And a breath …

Good-bye.

A TINY SILVER NEEDLE, sharp point. My large fingers had grown nimble over years of practice and delicate concentration, and I could glide the moistened end of the thread through the needle’s eye on the first try, then pull the strand tight. I completed the first stitches, neat ones, no excuse for clumsy black sutures such as a mortician would use after an autopsy.

The needle dipped into the end of the torn arm socket, then emerged, and I pulled the strong thread through, binding the detached arm to the shoulder. I immediately saw that I should have used white thread, because it would have been less conspicuous. I made certain the ends were neatly aligned and continued my stitching.

I sat in my dim tailor shop in the ghetto of Ingolstadt. Some called the place cramped; I found it cozy. I was accepted here, though I wasn’t Jewish — what religion would accept someone like me? The people welcomed outsiders, understood them, and did not ask awkward, probing questions. It was 1938, and I’d been here for many years. I did not look forward to the day when I’d have to move on again.

I finished stitching around the stump of the arm, then snapped off the thread after tying a solid knot. I turned toward the little girl with rich brown hair and a bright mind who sat watching me. I handed back her repaired rag doll. “There, little Rachel — all fixed.” I propped up the doll, moving both arms with my fingers. “She doesn’t hurt.”

Rachel Schulmann was far wiser than she appeared. “She doesn’t hurt because she’s just a doll, Franck.”The child sounded as if she needed to explain to me. “She’s made, not real.”

“Of course.”