Seeds of Fear

The handcuffs are a new refinement, $16.95 at The Survival Store, on Sunset. They are loose on Suzee's wrists until he clamps them down, and cold against his belly as he reams her ass. It adds a little something extra to the dress rehearsal, this time.

Better.

He can start to work on new positions, for the main event. With both hands free, all kinds of new refinements come to mind.

The very thought of Karen, helpless, stiffens Larry's cock. Say no to this, you snotty cunt. Just try.

He rolls her over, stubby nipples pointed at the ceiling. Blue eyes staring up at him. A captive audience.

'You love it, don't you, bitch?' He smiles. 'Cat got your tongue? Okay. We got all night.'

* * *

The old apartment house stands one block south of Pico, sturdy willows ranked outside the six-foot wall of cinder blocks that rings the parking lot. A nod to privacy. No sweat for Larry, scrambling up the middle tree of five with leather gloves on, cheap binoculars around his neck. The now familiar perch is waiting for him, on a level with the second floor.

The drapes are open wide, as usual. No sign of Karen on the first sweep, but the lights are on, and Larry knows the bitch is home. He cannot see inside her bedroom, but the broad glass sliding doors provide a clear view of her living room and tiny kitchen. The binoculars put Larry right inside there, like a cockroach on the wall. With any luck, he may catch Karen in her bra and panties, like the last time, wandering around the flat, oblivious to prying eyes.

A private show.

He spends a moment checking out the empty rooms and taking inventory. On his right, directly opposite the couch, a Sony Trinitron, the twenty-six-inch con sole model. Copper knickknacks hanging on the kitchen walls. Above the couch, a reproduction of a painting Larry knows he ought to recognize by name, but doesn't.

Something different, on the glass-topped coffee table, wrapped in plain brown paper, resting on a saucer flanked by stubby candles. Are they black or navy blue? No telling, from a distance, and he doesn't really give a shit. The knife seems out of place, though. Something from the kitchen, maybe, six or seven inches long.

He is considering the items, frowning to himself, when Karen makes her entrance from the hallway on his left. She wears a plain white terry robe, hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. Getting ready for the shower, maybe, since her hair is dry, feet bare of slippers.

Larry curses when she kills the kitchen light and blacks out the apartment. Wasted time and effort, if she turns in now, without a single glimpse of flesh.

But no.

He tracks her silhouette as Karen moves into the living room and kneels before the coffee table, with her back to the TV. The bright flare of a match as she leans forward, lights the candles. Soft light on her profile, like a trick shot from the movies.

Larry feels his Jockey shorts begin to shrink as Karen slips the robe off, dropping it behind her. Candlelight and shadow on her perfect body, breasts defying gravity, strong muscles rippling on her flank and thigh each time she moves.

He finds it difficult to focus on her hands as Karen reaches for the parcel on the coffee table, peels the wrapping back, distributing the contents. Nothing he can recognize, offhand: some kind of gnarly root thing; reddish powder in a tiny glassine envelope; a six-inch strip of something that resembles jerky. Karen sprinkles powder in the saucer, spreads it with her fingertips, then slices little flakes of root and jerky into it. The knife looks sharp.

She proves it with a move that startles Larry, opening her left palm with the blade. She splays her hand above the saucer, dribbling crimson. Stirs it with her index finger.

What the hell?

Her lips are moving, Larry wishing there were some way he could figure out what she is saying. Screw it. Focus on the tits and ass, his boner hot and cramped inside his jeans.

She makes it easy for him, standing up and turning you are, and I don't wanna know, okay? Just take the shit and go.'

A tapping on the nightstand makes him crack one eyelid, coming into focus on a wooden stick. Some kind of handle. Is it…? Sure, the fucking toilet plunger from his bathroom. Fingers wrapped around it, near the suction cup.

The fingers look familiar.

Both eyes now. He tracks the wrist, arm, shoulder. Curve of naked breast and hip. Blond pubic hair. Smooth rubber thighs.

'What is this shit?'

It comes to Larry that the prowler is manipulating Suzee like a puppet, using her to taunt him. Crazy fucker. When he cranks his head around, though, looking for the stranger's hands, he can't find any. Suzee standing on her own, for Christ's sake, no visible means of support.

Concussion, Larry tells himself. I'm losing it.

The whisper-steps resume as Suzee backs away from him and takes the plunger with her. Gentle pressure as she crawls up on the bed, beside him.

No.

Some kind of fucking nightmare, as the rubber hands slide underneath him, fumbling at his belt and zipper. Cool air on his buttocks, as the jeans and shorts inch down his thighs. Somehow, impossibly, her touch is warm against his ass.

'You love it, don't you, Larry?' Sounding breath less, like a dream voice in his head. 'I know you love it. Let me hear you say it.'

Right. So this is what it feels like when you lose your mind.

The plunger handle brings him back, a cautious probe at first, then piercing, burning, filling him. He strains against it, wriggling like an earthworm on a fishhook, feels the scream exploding from his throat before the pillow smothers it.

Same whisper in his ear: 'Cat got your tongue? Okay. We got all night.'

FIVE SECONDS J. L. Comeau

Jane Hodges sits knitting furiously behind the wheel of her parked rental sedan while a tedious patter of autumn rain pummels the slick gray streets of downtown Washington, D.C. Intermittently she looks up from the flashing aluminum needles to dart a glance toward the dripping Spector Building, a ten-story Gothic monstrosity where her current lover is em ployed.

Lover. A sweet tingle spreads through her chest, making her vaguely sick with its intensity. Dorian.

Jane's fingers tremble at the thought of him, and she has to put her knitting down before she botches the intricate cable pattern of the sweater she is making for her sister's child, Patricia. Jane is childless, and knows that a niece is as close as she will ever come to maternity. She adores children, and tries her best not to be jealous and bitter; truly, she does try.

Jane turns her thoughts back to her lover, her beautiful Dorian, and wonders what kind of child they might have produced together. A son, she imagines. A tall, rugged boy with wavy dark hair and a strong jawline, like his father. Blue velvet eyes, quick smile. Dorian's features, not hers. Never hers.

Jane would not want a child like herself, no. Not a child who would be teased and ridiculed, shunned by other children. No, no, no. She knows what that's like. In her bones, she knows what that's like.

She squints through the lenses of her thick trifocal glasses at the large black numerals of her Timex wristwatch. Almost noon. Almost time for her tryst, her assignation, her affaire. Within minutes Dorian will emerge from the revolving doors across the street and she will be with him. In just a little while, she will become his entire world.