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In the Flesh Part 7: Free Story in Progress. Enjoy!

psyche_et_lamour_327x567Happy Friday Everyone! And the plot thickens with part 7 of my dark paranormal story, In The Flesh. Angels and demons, gods and monsters, sex and terror; when the boundaries are not clear, the journey can be deadly. But can the price be worth the paying?

In the Flesh is a dark and sexy story that has had several incarnations in its shorter form, but never quite worked because it needed space to grow. I couldn’t think of a better place for it to grow than on my blog. In the Flesh is a blend of paranormal erotica and almost, but not quite … okay, quite possibly … horror. It’s had seven exciting weeks to unfold now, and it’s as much an adventure for me as I hope it is for my readers.  I know what’s happening only slightly before you do. Episode 7 is both the most chilling and the most sexy to date. That’s the writer’s humble opinion, of course. Read it for yourself and you decide! 

Happy Reading! 

 

 

To read the story in its entirety up to this point, follow these links to  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 & Part 4 Part 5Part 6

 

In The Flesh Part 7

“You’re an angel. The sculpture in the garden at Chapel House, it’s you, isn’t it?” The fact that the question sounded rose imagestotally insane seemed irrelevant considering the way the weekend had gone so far.

He shrugged and I watched as a blush climbed his throat spread across the tightening of his jaw and up his cheeks. “I’m retired,” he replied without looking at me. Then he added quickly, “The sculpture’s old. A friend of mine did it a long time ago, taking the piss really — especially by putting it there in that particular garden.” He ran a large hand through the fall of damp hair. “It’s her way of reminding me that I’m grounded now, tied to the earth just like every other mortal. No matter what I was, at the end of the day, I’m dust, and I’ll return to dust, if I’m lucky.”

“Wait a minute, angels can retire?’

He shot me a quick glance. “Well, it’s all a matter of semantics, isn’t it?”

“Then you’re not a builder?”

“Oh I’m a builder alright, and a damn good one,’ then he added as an afterthought, “Jesus was a carpenter, after all.”

I squinted hard in the fading light studying the lines of his face, the plane and slope of his strong upper body, the slow, deep rise and fall of his chest as he took in and released each breath. But I could find no distinction, nothing that would give away the fact that he was an angel and not an ordinary man. Oh he was nice to look at, he was interesting to look at, but he wasn’t beautiful, as I thought an angel would be. Obviously the nose had been broken since the sculpture was made, and he seemed thicker through the shoulders and chest. Perhaps that was all down to hard physical labor in lieu of playing a harp and mooching his way around the pearly gates. There were several white puckered scars just below his ribs. Two looked to be puncture wounds of some kind. The other was an angry gash that surely must have all but eviscerated him. Without thinking I reached out and traced the long pale arc of scar tissue that followed the shape of his lower left rib and disappeared in the shadow under his arm. He tensed beneath my touch and the skin along the path of my finger goose fleshed. “I had to force the issue of my retirement.” His words were barely more than a whisper, and his gaze was locked on the logs in the fireplace, laid, yet unlit.

“Christ,” I whispered. “Why? I mean why the hell would you give up immortality to be one of us?’

He covered my hand with his and held it against his side. At last he raised his gaze to meet mine. “I would have done anything to get away, and at that point, I didn’t care if I lived or died. It felt like it was all the same.”

“Are you a fallen angel then?”

This time he laughed out loud. “Stupid term, fallen angel. Truth be told, gods are bastards – all of them, any religion, any mythology, they’re all arrogant, megalomaniacal bastards. They want control, and when they don’t get it, well, they’re even worse bastards. The woman who made the sculpture, she knows that at least as well as I do.”

“Is she an angel too?”

He shook his head and looked away again, the smile slipping slightly from his face. “No angel, a pawn really. At least she started out that way.” His eyes flashed bright in the fading light and the smile returned. “But sometimes even the pawns thumb their noses at the gods and get away with it. It cost her. It cost her dearly, but no one controls her now.”

“So what, she was a sculptor, and the gods didn’t like her work, was that it?”Graveyard angel 1

He released my hand and knelt to light the fire. With the sun setting the chill of evening came on fast. “Oh she’s not actually a sculptor. That’s just a part of her cover. She’s a thief, stealing back things the gods have taken that don’t belong to them.”

Every question he answered raised a dozen more. That what we were discussing sounded totally nuts wasn’t lost on me either, and yet neither was the fact that it was all either very real or I was still asleep dreaming in my bed, a cherished possibility diminishing with each passing moment. We both watched as the logs caught fire from the kindling, and flame blossomed turning shadows of ordinary things into ghouls and ghosts that writhed and dance on the walls. Once he was sure of the fire, he stood to close the balcony doors. “I work for her sometimes. When she needs me. She uses me when what I do as a builder dovetails with whatever job she’s on at the moment.”

I shifted in my seat to look up at him as he returned to settle back on the chair arm. “So you’re trying to steal something from Chapel House? What is it, a flaming sword?”

He laughed. “Not anything that obvious. Chapel House and I have a long history, as you might have guessed from the sculpture.”

“Annie really did hire you to do the renovations at Chapel House?”

He nodded. “All a part of the plan.”

“It must have thrown a monkey wrench into your scheming when she fell in love with a demon, or whatever he is, and told you to bugger off.”

He shrugged, raising one well-muscled shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. I seldom let something like that stop me.” He pulled a shirt from a peg next to the door and slipped into it. “I’ve brought your things in, and I would imagine you’d like a shower. Then we’ll see what we can scrounge for dinner. If that’s alright.”

The shower was more of a wet room really, big and luxurious, clearly designed to fit the man who used it. I wondered if he’d built the house himself, planned it all exactly like he wanted it. The bed was big, the rooms I’d seen high ceilinged and spacious, all with views of the fells. The shower was built of large sandstone tiles that made me feel more like I was standing under a waterfall on a wild river in some hidden desert canyon. Ghosted fossils of fern leaves made lacy patterns on the rough dun slabs. He must have selected each slab of sandstone carefully. The shower, with its stoney artwork and it’s multiple heads, even its ledged seat that looked as though it were only a rocky outcropping in a cave, were all well thought out, beautifully designed by someone who loved and appreciated the out of doors. Yes, Jesus was a carpenter. Perhaps building and creating was a part of the psyche of divine beings. Was Michael still a divine being, or had it been necessary for him to learn his craft by practice and training, like ordinary mortals did? He’d said the sculpture of him in the garden was very old. Perhaps he’d had a long, long time to perfect his craft.

I shivered at the thought and reached for the soap. It was slightly rough like the sandstone surface and felt Bernini Hades and Persephone close uptumblr_lg4h59T3z31qe2nvuo1_500
good against my skin, reminding me of the gentle scritch, scritch of a lover’s fingernails over bare flesh. It had that same woody scent I woke up to in his bed, down between his sheets, though it lacked the base notes of clean perspiration and sleeping, dreaming male. I wondered if angels – retired angels, that is – did dream, and were those dreams ever the kind that brought the pungent earth and ozone scent of male lust to the forefront in that masculine olfactory cocktail. I breathed in the smell, fresh and woodsy, and moaned at the soft rough scritching against my naked skin, wondering if Michael’s hands would feel such. He was a builder after all, surely those calloused hands were rough enough to make delicious shivers up my spine, and any place else he touched me. I imagined the feel of Michael against my flesh, the feel of his large hands moving over me, cupping and exploring, the feel of his mouth tasting mine. That he had created such a sensual space, and I was now certain that he had, made my imagination wild with images of the two of us beneath the waterfall, and the smell of my own lust peaked.

At some point in my ruminations about Michael, my fertile imagination sent me seeking pleasure with my own hand, fingers moving of their own volition while I lathered my breasts with the rough scritch, scritch of the soap pebbling my nipples and making my tender heaviness tingle and ache. The realization of just how needy I was came as a surprise after the experiences of the last twenty-four hours, but then it shouldn’t have, should it? I’d practically lived the whole weekend in a state of arousal — at least when I wasn’t terrified out of my mind. And really, almost every horror film I’d ever seen coupled sex and terror, even orgasm and death, so closely that the two bled into each other. One always expected the couple’s sexy encounter in a horror film to end in gruesome bloodshed or worse. In the garden this afternoon, even as terrified as I was, I was just seconds away from orgasm. I shivered in spite of the cloud of steam rising around me. I had researched stories of the gods seducing mortals and taking them as lovers. That was certainly an archetype, but what I had failed to consider was that the monsters also sought out mortal lovers. Hadn’t Frankenstein’s monster wanted a bride? Didn’t King Kong steal away Faye Ray? Didn’t Dracula seek out his Mina? Beauty came to love the Beast. Even Psyche herself was taken to the domain of the monster she was told never to look upon for fear of certain death. The revelation that the monster was the god of love himself cost her dearly. But it was a price she was willing to pay.

At the end of the day, maybe there really wasn’t that much difference between the gods and the monsters. Even Graveyard angel 2da8f31cc622c5a47d15ff0c4f1e114abin the horror films more often than not, terror gave way to a different kind of lust, a much more deeply rooted lust, a lust as closely connected to death as it is to procreation and pleasure, a lust lost in time and well connected to monsters and demons and blood and the fear of childbirth, at the same time, all bound up with the desperate need to form the monster with two backs. Christ! The lust for the monster was as much a part of our psyche as was our terror of him! I wondered, would I have been able to hold off, would I have been able to resist the monster’s advances, if Annie hadn’t chosen that moment to use me for knife practice, if Michael hadn’t shown up when he did and whisked me away? And would I have cared if they hadn’t? Would I have been perfectly happy if I’d been left to rut against the paving stones with such a powerful being, who was maybe both monster and god? He had promised me the mind of god, the ultimate creative force that was the absolute Holy Grail for every writer. He knew exactly who I was, what I needed. I was reminded in a rush of heat that he could take me to places sexually I couldn’t even imagine. Monsters could do that, and their lovers were willing to pay any cost for the experience.

I rinsed off quickly and stepped out of the shower unsteady on my feet and still unsatisfied. As I picked up the towel to dry a wave of anguished lust clawed its way up from my center and spread like fire over my chest all the way to the crown of my head. In an instant it burned everything away but raw aching hunger, leaving an abyss that surly could never be filled. How the hell would I survive this? Surely Annie would not, could not, and I hated her for having him, even as he used her up and tossed her aside. I hated her for having what should be mine, what was mine. No one could appreciate what his affections could offer like I could; no one could translate his lust, his power like I could. He knew it, and I knew it. For a terrifying moment, I pictured myself with the butcher knife. I pictured myself sneaking into Chapel House while Annie was in a post coital stupor. It would be easy to do, and I knew he wouldn’t stop me. In fact, he would welcome me, help me do away with the body, help me escape the suspicions of the police and the investigations that would follow.

I caught my breath in a gasp, only just remembering my need for oxygen, and I relaxed the white-knuckled fist clenched painfully around the hilt of the knife I imagined using. I came back to myself standing in front of the mirror. The towel had fallen to the floor at my feet; water still pearled on my hot skin. My reflection was obscured by the steam. The image on the other side of that thin film of condensation could be anyone. I could be looking at his face, not mine, the face I’d never seen and yet, like Psyche, suddenly, desperately longed to see. I should have stayed. I shouldn’t have questioned when he wanted me. I should have taken his gift. I could have taken the knife from Annie, as weak as she was, and Michael had said himself he was just dust. The scars proved he bled just like anyone else. I could have finished it right there, and if I had, if I’d had the courage, it would be me in his arms now, me lying beneath him, letting him fill me with the wisdom of the ages, with the creative power I hungered for. I ached to know what it felt like. I longed to know who he was. I staggered, and nearly fell against the sink, and then I was myself again. With a curse that felt gut deep and a quick swipe of my hand, I cleared the mist from the mirror and yelped and nearly jumped out of my skin at the reflection of Michael standing behind me.

“You were crying,” he said, “I called out. I pounded on the door, but you didn’t answer.”

“I … I couldn’t hear you.’ The room tilted slightly, then righted itself. “Oh Christ, Michael, he was here, how canSt Teresa BerniniEl-extasis-de-Santa-Teresa4
he be here? I wanted to be with him. I wanted to do things, horrible things.”

“He wasn’t here.” He bent and picked up the towel, swaddled me in it and lifted me into his arms, which was just as well, I’d completely lost the will to move, or even to stand. With me clinging to his neck, sobbing against his shoulder, he carried me to the wing back chair, settling in it himself holding me on his lap like a child. “He wasn’t here, Susan. Trust me, he wasn’t.’ He pushed the damp tendrils of hair away from my cheek and wiped tears with a large, rough thumb. ‘But you were with him, he’s touched you, been inside your head. You’re now connected to him, and you feel the pull of his lust.’

I sat for a long time nestled against Michael’s broad chest listening to his heartbeat, like an anchor keeping me in my body, keeping me in my right mind. I wondered how an angel’s heart differed from my own. I wondered how his struggles and his desires differed from those I lived with. At last I found my voice “I feel … so empty.” I felt the tears sliding down my cheeks again, tears that I’d barely been aware of while I was in the bathroom, as though they were such a small representation of the way I felt His absence that they were barely worth my attention.

“I know. That’s exactly what he wants you to feel.”

“He said that he’d show me the mind of god, that he’d share all he knows, that he’d be my inspiration and help me write it all down.”

“He knows your deepest desire. That’s the first thing he ever finds out about those he seduces. He learns their darkest secrets, their most private longings, and their deepest fears. Anything he promised you, he’ll deliver, Susan, but what he doesn’t tell you is that once he’s has you, once you’ve been with him, everything that mattered to you before will be meaningless. You live for him, and you burn with emptiness when you’re not with him, as though you’ll die if you don’t have him.’

I wiped viciously at my eyes. “Oh god, Michael, what am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do?”

“You’re going to fight him, that’s what you’re going to do, and I’m going to help you.” His lips brushed my ear as he spoke, and involuntarily I squirmed to get closer to him, realizing with a start, that I was still horny as hell. But I couldn’t take advantage this way. I couldn’t. It was lust of such magnitude as I’d never felt before, and it was dark and horrible and terrifying and, fucking hell, I wanted to be consumed by it. But that wasn’t Michael’s problem. To drag him into it was not an option. Besides, I barely knew the man.

“I … I should get dressed,” My voice sounded breathless and distant. I tried to push my way off his lap, but he held me there, hands gentle but firm. It was then that I felt him, hard pressed with his own lust. He sat very still. I held Psyche and Erosmy breath.

At last he spoke, still careful not to move, even his lips barely formed the words. “Susan, I know what you’re feeling right now. I understand it, believe me, I do.” His gaze met mine in the firelight. “I know what you need, and unless you’re completely daft, you have to know my response.” This time he shifted slightly and I caught my breath in a tight little gasp and with it inhaled the scent of his lust, lightning and ozone, dark damp earth. He slid the flat of his palm down to rest on the small of my back and the towel fell away. “If you let me,’ his breath came heavy and quick against my cheek, ‘I can make it easier for you.’ He moved a splayed calloused hand up over my ribs, and we both groaned. ‘If you let me, I can help.’

 

Another One Rides the Bus

This time of year everything is decorated with brightly coloured tinsel and fairy lights, Christmas music blares from every shop and every street corner and the town centres are transformed to a hive of frenetic activity. On the other hand the days are short and the nights are long, the weather is bleak and the natural world seems dead all around us. All that hurts, all that aches, all that’s raw stands out in stark contrast against the bright lights and frenzy. Sometimes though, there are moments that break through the tinsel and the music and the commercialism, moments that stand out as true magic in the space between the celebrations and the sorrow.

12340460-urban-sketch-sign-with-image-bus-stop-and-manI had one of those moments yesterday. I was coming home from town and the downpour that had started about the time I left the house had me drenched to the skin. The wind was just strong enough to make my umbrella worthless. I decided to take the bus home. Sadly, as is often the case when the weather’s bad, the busses were late and the one I usually take was broken down, so I knew it would be at least three quarters of an hour before another one arrived. I decided to take a bus that has a similar rout, if a little circuitous, one I’d never taken before. Bus number 10 was filled by the overflow from the busses that had been delayed or just not come at all, and the poor driver was a bearded man who looked slightly panicked. There was good reason for his nerves. He had just finished his training and because there was some shortage of drivers, he suddenly found himself thrown in at the deep end, driving a route with which he was unfamiliar, one that took him through some of the most narrow, winding streets of town.

I nearly got off and in favour of braving the rain and walking on home anyway, but I stayed, perched on the edge of my seat, wondering if I’d made a mistake. The first bit of the journey was through the main streets, so that was easy enough, even for the newbie driver. But as he headed off into the bowels of the town on streets that were barely wide enough for a car, let alone a bus, something amazing happened. Someone up front said. ‘Just turn left here, and you’ll see the bus stop just up the road there. See it?’

The driver thanked the passenger and made the first stop. Then the road got properly narrow and I could almost hear everyone holding their breath as the poor driver maneuvered the hulk of a bus, with windows threatening to steam over, between two tight rows of cars on either side of the street. I closed my eyes and held my breath. I think I wasn’t alone in this act. But the driver had been trained well, and once we were through the obstacle course unscathed, there was a collective sigh of relief and a murmur of encouragement to the driver as another woman took up the role of satnav directing the driver to the next stop.

By this time, I had no idea where we were, as this was not my normal route. I was totally dependent on the collective navigation skills of the 10034270-london-england-dawn-breaking-over-the-city-of-westminster-with-the-clock-tower-of-big-ben-over-the-lother passengers, who were now in open conversation, guiding the driver to take a right at the next intersection, go straight to the top of the hill, then take a left, encouraging him, telling him he was doing just fine.

By the time we got to my stop, there were only a few people left on the bus and the driver’s route back to the main station was a relatively straight shot. Everyone who got off the bus thanked him and encouraged him, and I realized what I’d seen was a bright spot in a dark day. It had been a time when we could all have been grumpy and short. But everyone had to work together if anyone were to get home. And when I got off the bus back into the pouring rain, I felt a lot more cheerful and a little more immuned to the dark day.

Because busses are on my mind, I’m sharing a hot little short story with you about a bus ride with a little extra. The story is vintage KDG and shared in its entirety. Enjoy!

The Night Bus

9522133-vienna-austria--december-09-vienna--empty-bus-stop-in-viennas-first-district-by-night-on-december-09I boarded the coach and made my way toward the back squinting in the darkness.  It was the 01:30 to Zagreb coming up from Dubrovnik.  The few people already on board were contortionists attempting futilely to transform coach seats into beds.  I found a place and stowed my bag, sorry to be leaving the sea, but looking forward to time with friends in Zagreb before returning to London.  With my head leaning against the window, I watched as the village lights faded.  The man behind me groaned softly and shifted in the unforgiving seat.  His movement stirred the scent of sandalwood and something more earthy masking the prevailing odours of motor oil and stale summer sweat.

The exotic smell only enhanced my agenda for the journey.  I planned to come.  I have my reasons for travelling by coach whenever possible.  I long ago discovered that if I position my bottom just right while on a bus, I can come with no further stimulation than the vibration of the engine through the seat, a feat I can’t quite manage on any other mode of transport, though I have tried.

My favourite ‘sex with a stranger’ fantasy combined with the delectable thrumming beneath my pussy were just beginning to work their magic when I felt a hand on the back of my arm rest near the window.  Fellow travellers sometimes violate personal space in search of the ever-elusive cat-nap.  At least the man wasn’t snoring or drooling on my shoulder.  He sighed deeply and slid his arm farther up the rest between my seat and the window, between my arm and my body.  I could have pushed him away, but the heat I was already generating made his closeness intriguing.

His head now rested against the corner of the back of my seat and the window, close enough I could hear his breath. He was awake.  I struggled to keep my own breathing slow and even.  He shifted again cautiously, no doubt trying not to wake me.  I felt an almost imperceptible touch next to my T-shirt close to my ribs, a touch that made my snatch even hotter against the seat.  There he paused, perhaps for courage, then his hand migrated upward snaking hypnotically, fingers curving furtively to cup my breast.

My heart pounded in my chest, which no doubt, he could feel, and I noticed he was feeling me rather nicely.  This was too good to be true. Was I dreaming, or had fantasy suddenly become reality?  I feigned a sleepy sigh and squirmed closer allowing him easier access, rhythmically contracting the right muscles to intensify the delicious friction growing between my legs.

Brazenly he raked a thumb over my swollen nipple, which was already transmitting seismic tremors to my cunt.  I wasn’t lacking in the curve 10519350-light-trails-from-a-bus-passing-st-pauldepartment.  My breasts often got admiring glances.  They were full and heavy and very sensitive.  In fact, they were one of my favourite sex toys.  I played with them often, and the shadowy night bus was the perfect place for it.  This, however, was the first time anyone had kindly aided me in my covert self-pleasuring.

With my other hand, I reached beneath my T-shirt and tugged at the clasp of my front-loader releasing the full weight of my breasts for playtime.  Then I took the initiative, guiding my admirer’s hand and sliding it under my T-shirt until we were feeling me up together, stroking my breast and pearl-hard nipple with maddening, crotch-drenching friction.  I could imagine the overworked fly of his trousers struggling to contain him.  I could almost sense his growing urge to thrust, and I wondered if maybe he’d already released his cock into his other hand, a thought which made me even wetter.

I could feel the distended ache of my opening pressed hard against the frustration of knickers and jeans.  Desperate for more than the vibration of the engine to accompany my travelling companion’s kneadings, I was just about to undo my zipper for a more direct approach when, without warning, all stroking stopped.  He pulled away so quickly that I bit back a frustrated curse.  I wasn’t finished!  Had he come already?  Because if he had, I would strangle him.

I needn’t have worried.  There was a slight shuffling accompanied by a rush of pheromones, and the seat next to me was suddenly occupied.  I caught the flash of his eyes in the light of a passing car.  Windblown hair brushed the collar of his shirt, now untucked and unbuttoned.  I got a mouth-watering glimpse of dark nipples and pectorals above a hard slope of belly and a soft down of hair disappearing into the partially-open bulge of his jeans.  I barely managed a yummy feel before he shoved my T-shirt up, slumped in the seat and began to nurse, taking each of my tits in turn.  I gnawed my lower lip to keep from crying out, sliding my hand over his slender hip and into the back of his jeans to fondle the mounded cheeks of his ass, mesmerized as they tensed, relaxed then tensed again with my caressing.

Bashing his elbow on the seat in front of him, he grabbed my hand and guided it to his desperately straining bulge, holding me hard against him, as he tongued tight circles around my impressionable areole.  While his mouth did its magic, he opened my zipper, feeling his way adroitly inside my knickers and sliding eager fingers between the slick folds and valleys of my cunt, spreading liquid heat over my clit with experienced stroking.  What were the odds of encountering a man on the night bus who knew how to work the joy spot?

With little effort on my part, his cock practically split a seam escaping.  I cupped taut balls that felt heavy and full before he guided my 10051390-bus-stop-sign-on-post-pole-traffic-road-roadsign-blue-isolated-signagewandering hand back to his thick erection.  He tightened my grip with his own until the pressure was just what he needed, until my knuckles ached from the squeeze.  When my method was satisfactory, he rocked against me with tight, controlled thrusts, invisible in the darkness, his body pressing so hard against the seat that I feared he’d break it.  I opened my legs as far as space would allow sliding down low, wriggling until my jeans and knickers were around my hips and I could feel cool night air against my engorged pussy as I rammed myself repeatedly against the wet dance of his fingers.

I’m sure we stopped breathing completely as we rode the edge between pleasure and release until it was so thin, so taut that melt-down was inevitable.  Just as my orgasm exploded with an intensity I’m sure must have rocked the whole coach, he grunted and convulsed.  Warm, viscous semen flooded my hand and spurted the back of the seat in front of us.

It seemed as though we drifted in a semi-comatose afterglow for eons, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.  Finally, he slid his hand from between my legs and licked my juices from his fingers as though I were his favourite flavour.  From somewhere, he managed a handkerchief, which I took, wiping him while he watched.

We’d only just gotten cleaned up and tucked back into our clothes when the bus pulled to a stop at some unnamed village en route.  He stood slowly and grabbed a rucksack from the rack above.  As he turned to go, he dropped a warm kiss on my cheek and disappeared into the night.  Several other people got off, then the bus continued on its way.  Just before I drifted off to sated sleep, basking in the lingering scent of sex and sandalwood, I found myself wondering if I could trade in my plane ticket, if just maybe it were possible to take a coach from Zagreb to Calais and catch a ferry to London.

 
© 2017 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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