Alison Tyler - Alison's Wonderland

“Those were new!” She said the words with wild displeasure, but her legs fell open for him and she shivered with fresh whorish delight.

“Tough shit. I’ll buy you another pair,” he responded, his mouth buried between her breasts. His tongue darting into her cleavage until she held his head to her chest like she was drowning. “I can’t breathe,” he said.

“Right. Sorry.” She let him go as he dropped to his knees, growling and grumbling about her bitchy nature all the way down. Her fingers flitted over his soft flannel shirt as he put his mouth to her thigh and began kissing. It was as if all her dirty fantasies had come true. “You smell nice and sweet for such a bossy prude,” he growled, and put his mouth over her small satin panties. The heat of his mouth bled into the fabric like a stain.

“I’m not a prude,” she managed to say, plucking at his wide shoulders.

“Yeah?”

She nodded, silent but gasping for air. He tugged her panties and she arched her hips for him. Would her heart give out before his mouth finally touched her? No. Because there it was. On her pussy, licking and pushing at her until she threw her head back and let him eat her any way he pleased. This was better than being in control.

“You don’t scare me.” He pushed his fingers deep inside her and curled them. The room swayed a bit.

“I know.”

“You’re bossy but not scary. At least to me.” Curl, curl, curl went his fingers. Flick, flick, flick went her cunt. Heat flooded her limbs, her hair swished.

Close. So very close.

“You don’t need to be that way so much. Calm down a little. Unwind.” Oh, she would unwind, all right. Right here. Right now.

“Yes, you’re right. Yes, yes, yes!” Philomena cried. She did not need to be so rigid. Looser and more relaxed could be good.

She tugged this big Billy up and attacked his zipper. “Look, I’m not a closet sex person.”

He nodded. Helped her trembling hands.

“But you…You are…what? Magical? Brave? Maddening? Whatever. I’ve been having dirty fantasies about you, and now…” The pants were down and she took him in hand. Big, hard, warm.

“And now what?”

“Now let’s do this.”

He laughed softly and kissed her again. His mouth tasted like vanilla and mint and her. He moved between her thighs, pushed at her, hooked her leg around his waist. Slid in effortlessly and started to move. Philomena had to grit her teeth not to come right there. “See how soft you can be?” He pushed into her harder.

“Yes.”

“See how flexible you can be?” He thrust higher, faster, holding her bottom in his big hands. He angled her, and the head of his cock bumped her G-spot perfectly. Philomena was grateful for his size, because her knees sagged and he held her up.

“Yes, I can be. I do see. I need to…”

“What?”

“…ask you…”

“What?” His mouth settled on her—kissed her, bit her just a bit too hard and in the perfect way.

“Can you fuck me harder?”

“That I can do, Ms. Troll.” And he did. Harder, faster. He drove into her until she scratched at flannel and stubble and man and came hard. Again. Heart racing, lips kissing.

“Philomena,” she said.

Philomena did not care that her dress was crooked or her hose were ruined when she left the closet. She did not care when a clod of dirt fell on Mrs. Tasselmeyer and her knitting books. She did not care when Small Billy walked over her. Or Middle Billy. Or Big Billy, who stopped to smile down at her and wink. Tapped his watch. A few hours and they’d go out for drinks. And then maybe food at her place. Or him at her place.

When they started the sander directly overhead and her patrons complained, Philomena just smiled her secret smile, because she might not be scary and she might be small, but big had definitely been the right word for Billy. Big Billy.

It’s hot today. I have a problem with the heat because I sweat and my sweat is pink. Pink sweat attracts notice, forcing me to flee to another town to preserve my secret. But damn it, I like this place and I want to stay.

When I was mortal over forty years ago, I was a woman who lived for parties, sunshine and attention. I would dance barefoot on beaches on warm summer evenings, and late at night I’d still be there, laughing around a campfire with my beautiful friends, hippies in beads hoping to save the world through sex, love, peace and hashish. I look at my generation now and wonder if we couldn’t have tried a little harder.

But no matter. They’re not my generation anymore.

My sweat is pink and it’s a problem.

A passerby tosses a coin onto the cloth at my feet. Quite a pile I’m getting today. It’s the sun, you see. It brings people out, makes them loose with their cash. And this loose cash is making me feel loose with my morals.

I stare blankly ahead. I’m coated in white body paint and wreathed in a toga, my hair coiled high and dyed a bright chemical pink. My arms are held in an elegant curve, chin angled to the left. I am a busker, a living statue, and I’m very good at my job. Crowds gather. They stare and smile. A few will move tentatively closer. “It’s like she isn’t even breathing,” they’ll whisper.

And of course, I’m not. I am dead.

My hairline starts to prickle. If it weren’t for my pink sweat, I’d still adore the sun, though I realize that makes me atypical. The heat clings like memories, taking me back to those sticky nights of tangled sheets when my cunt would throb with lust for another. Oh, to be vital again! To be fucking someone for the sake of fuck alone, not fucking them with thoughts of their blood in my throat. Or, best of all, to have someone fucking me, to have them holding me down, fearless, brutal and strong.

Because, to my shame, that’s what I crave: a man to overpower me. Once when I was alive, I asked a boyfriend to act as my kidnapper. “Tie me up and gag me,” I explained. “Use me as your plaything. Take no notice of my screams.” But he said he couldn’t do that because sexual expression through violence contravened his pacifism and he viewed our lovemaking as a cosmic union of souls and in this I was his sister. Sister? If you ask me, that’s far worse than what I was suggesting.

A bead of sweat trickles down my back. That’s fine. They can’t see under my robes. To my right, I hear the soft click of a camera. More money clinks into the collection. Two hundred seconds later (Christ, it’s boring being on a pedestal), I twist my shoulders and turn my head several degrees. A murmur of delight ripples across the crowd.

He’s mesmerized as if my stillness is infectious. He’s big, beautiful and rough looking, an arrogant young bruiser with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s wearing a suit, but he’s no businessman. His tie is askew and he clearly doesn’t care about preserving any neat lines of tailoring. He watches, fascinated, contempt curling his lip as if he’s thinking of all the sordid things he could do to me, irrespective of my wishes.

I cast him a glance, wondering if I can snare him. Unfortunately, I attract the wrong sort of guy. Maybe that’s inevitable. I know my place in popular culture and the assumption goes because I’m a monster, I must also be an aggressor and a sadist. But the truth is, I’m a sexually submissive vampire and, if you’ll forgive the pun, that sucks.

It sucks because I feel I’m letting the team down. My kind are predators and they tend to be on the toppy side. But it’s not as if I was ever going to fit in anyway. Ever since my sweat turned pink, I’ve been shunned by my peers. I was once an ordinary monster, happy to get along, but then something went wrong inside me. When I feed, I can’t use all the blood. It seeps out through my pores, making me a liability, a freak in danger of exposing the community. I’ve no choice but to be itinerant, keeping my head low, because there are many who would rather see me dead. Truly dead, not undeaddead.