Poison In Purple

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Guy meets the woman of his dreams....or so he thinks

“POISON IN PURPLE”
A short story
by
Declan J Connaughton
Jeffrey hoped he wasn’t being too obvious.
She was sitting opposite, staring out the window, her eyes holding a far away aspect.He hoped the intense focus of his own eyes has not become noticeable.Not yet.
She was about thirty; dark hair with a red tinges flicked through here and there, and he liked the way the lights of the restaurant bounced off them, like tiny pin pricks of hell fire.Her face was painted pale, which gave her maroon lips an exciting and dramatic promise.Jeffrey watched, fascinated, as she blew cigarette smoke through those moist and young lips, the way she exhaled after a night of fucking, he thought, wishing she was blowing that smoke into him, smothering him.
She turned from the window, just as he began appreciating her crossed legs, underneath her table.They seemed to dangle themselves one across the other, like too spent lovers lying criss crossed on a bed, naked in the middle of a heat wave, the knees protruding like daggers from beneath her short and tight purple dress, folded in such a way indicating it was not a question of keeping prying glances away, but stopping some glorious confection from escaping; it’s carnal promise so devastating and overpowering in it’s wrath and fulfilment.
She drew the half empty coffee cup to her mouth and drank briefly.He could see the liquid sliding down her delicate neck, and watched her breasts move and heave, the touch of heat winding it’s way through her system making them rise like a living thing unto itself.She wore no bra, and Jeffrey wondered if she could be a prostitute. Not an ordinary one.Would it bother him?No. He would gladly pay for what wicked treasures lay beneath her cosmetic attire, and commit illegal acts to get to them.
She lit another cigarette, and drained the remains of the cup, holding it in her hand where her equally maroon coloured finger nails grasped the handle tightly and then let go, allowing it to clink upon the saucer in consummation.She checked her watch and inclined her head in towards the restaurant, as though waiting for someone.
Jeffrey felt disappointment; that was it, she was waiting for some dark prince to come and take her to wherever it was that she splayed in dreams never meant to be articulated.
Then, she smiled at him.Directly.
His arousal was immediate; where it had percolated on standby from the moment she had sat down, it now assaulted him, his heartbeat roaring through his ears and his hands beginning to shake with the brutal force of an instant adrenalin rush.He smiled back, the meekness of his reaction making him feel a coward, destined to fail, expecting her to drop her eyes and break the trance, like a despot dismissing a slave, casually, and without much interest or attention.Fleeting glances.
She didn’t drop her eyes, but was on her feet, coming towards him.Jeffrey was self conscious: his face was too flush, sweat stinging his forehead, running down his back, encircling his groin, like a tide rushing over a dead man’s head.
‘Hi, I’m sorry, but do I know you?’ she asked, not defensively, as he would have expected. Jeffrey didn’t know how to respond for a second and she continued.
‘Just that I thought you looked familiar.
‘I thought I recognised you too’, the lie springing to his lips without any stress or strain, in the true tradition of the professional con artist.
‘Love to.Let me get a coffee’.
‘Let me do it’.Jeffrey raised his hand, signalling two coffees to the waiter behind the bar.She seated herself opposite him, pulling herself into the chair without any semblance of embarrassment or awkwardness.She wanted him to watch her.Placing her small purse on the table she smiled again.
‘Well, not meaning to be conventional, but what shall we talked about?’ she asked.
‘First things first, my name’s Jeffrey’.
‘Ophelia.Dad was a big Shakespeare addict’.
Ophelia.He liked that.Jeffrey laughed.
‘Suits you’, he said, as the coffees were placed on the table, and paid for.
Jeffrey put a small drop of milk on top of the dark beverage, stirring it like an analogy.
‘Were you waiting for someone?’ he asked, praying that her response would be negative.
‘Actually, no.Just came in for a sit down’.
He felt what a gambler might experience when his horse comes first passed the post, after playing everything he had in the world to win.
‘Same here’.
‘Where do you think you know me from?’ Ophelia said after a moment.
‘Not sure.Could be anywhere’.
He felt her eyes appraising him.They said she knew he was lying, but didn’t care.Maybe she was lying too.
‘What do you do to relax?’ she asked.
‘Not the typical things, I guess’ he replied, sipping from his cup.‘Reading and music mostly.Go to the cinema the odd time.Very boring’.
‘Wonder what your partner would say if she, or he, saw you sitting here with me.Chatting me up’.
‘There’s no he, or she, for that matter.I’m single, not attached.Probably all my fault’.
Something clicked in her expression, like a cog falling into place.
‘What about you, Ophelia?’
‘No.Same.’.
Jeffrey shook his head.‘That’s hard to believe’.
‘How’s that?’
He had come to the now or never part of the conversation.
‘Someone as attractive as you, I mean’.
There was a silence.The connection had been made.His intent.They stared at each other, almost locked in mortal combat.
‘Thank you’, she said blinking the moment away.
‘Did you think I was gay?’
This time it was Ophelia’s turn to laugh.‘Never know these days’.
‘True.Although I believe in sexual neutrality, myself’, he ventured.
She leaned forward and took his hand suddenly, unexpectedly.He felt the potent electricity of her touch flowing into him, seducing him.
‘You want to know if I’ve made it with girls?’
He didn’t need an answer to that question.He knew.He was imagining in now.
‘I can read your mind, Jeffrey’.
He wanted her, now, this instant; and wouldn’t care if others circled around them as they pounded each other on the restaurant floor, witnessing their x-rated side show.
Ophelia reclined back in her chair, allowing those legs to part and come up for air.
‘I’ve a place near here’, she said, running her tongue over her lower lip.
‘Then lead me to it’, Jeffrey said softly, rising, feeling his crotch the size of a beach ball, afraid he might explode, here and now.
‘I assume that’s for me’, she said, leading him out.
The walk went by in a blur for Jeffrey; such was his anxiety, his need to get there, like an insomniac desperate for even ten minutes of sleep.His lust ran deep, the kind that was dangerous.
They didn’t speak as they walked along by the river which snaked it’s way along this part of the city.The area was mainly flat land, and seemed eerie to Jeffrey.Maybe it was just the location, he reasoned, but an indefinable darkness asserted itself, and made the river appear mournful and cold, all of a sudden.An image of dereliction and decay flickered into his head, even though the residential buildings appeared respectable and fairly well maintained.
‘Just here’, Ophelia said, taking a key from her purse.
It was a three storey building, with a Georgian outlook, painted white, not exactly modern.Jeffrey looked behind him briefly and then up towards the top window, feeling like a thief, checking to make sure he wasn’t noticed and all was clear.
‘Many tenants?’ Jeffrey asked, crossing the threshold.
‘No.Own the place outright.All mine’, she said, throwing the key on to a table by the door.‘Only use the ground floor and first one’.
Jeffrey felt himself relax.They were alone, no danger of interruption.
‘You make yourself comfortable in the sitting room.There’s a drinks cabinet’.
He went through the aperture she waved him through, and was standing in a very spacious living room.Jeffrey surveyed the décor and was impressed: tasteful, comfortable, but minimal.The wooden floor was highly waxed, with a large white rug in the middle.Jeffrey had always hated naked floor, but this didn’t irritate him, for some reason.The cabinet was set over in an alcove beside the mantle piece, which had a large mirror hanging over it.A television stood sentry in a corner by the window. The mantelpiece was ornate, and, like the rest of the room, was painted virginal white.Jeffrey scanned the few picture frames which rested on it’s top.An elderly couple looked back at him, which may have been her parents. He didn’t like the way they were staying at him.He turned the frame sideways towards the window, so that they wouldn’t glare down at the couch ‘Sorry about that, folks’, he muttered.
Beside them was a picture of Ophelia with a young boy.It looked to have been taken at an amusement arcade.Jeffrey could see the gaudy lights of a carousel behind them.Blackpool, maybe?He looked closer.An aura of unease suggested itself back at him.It seemed to permeate the emulsion of the photograph itself.No happiness, no joy.The blankness on the boy’s visage unsettled Jeffrey, but he couldn’t say why.Something…..
‘That’s my brother, John’.She was standing behind him and he jumped at her voice.
‘Sorry, was just looking’.Jeffrey replaced the frame on the mantelpiece.
‘That’s okay’, Ophelia entered the room and went to the drinks cabinet.
‘What’ll you have?she asked, taking two glasses from it’s wooden casing..
‘A whiskey, if it have it.Anything will do’.
Jeffrey seated himself on the couch, taking the offered drink.She sat beside him.
‘Well what do you think of the place?’
‘Nice.Must be hard to upkeep’.
‘Not really’, she replied, ‘I’m here most of the time’.
‘Do a lot of entertaining, do you?’
She laughed at this.‘Sometimes’.
Ophelia stroked his hand with her finger.Again he felt that electricity, that powerful kinetic surge, then his lips were tasting hers, his hands on the smooth flesh of her legs, and then between them.Jeffrey half expected her to jump up or pull back, but she did not, enjoying the pleasure he was giving her.She returned his touch, stroking him, but carefully, not wanting him to come to fruition.Her hands were delicate, like the practised pianist, knowing precisely how to caress the ivory notes and elicit just the right response.
His hands were in her hair, and then stroking the top of her breasts, which poked mockingly from her purple dress.He was right - they were living, breathing.Jeffrey wanted to utter words, to swear into her ear, but his breath was stolen away, evaporating as soon as it was born.Ophelia kissed his ear and then bit the lobe.
‘You want me now, Jeffrey.Right now?’
‘Yes’, he managed, straining under her control
‘The bedroom would be better’, her voice intoned into his ear.‘Much better’.
Ophelia rose up like the Phoenix, releasing his body; the loss of her touch and feel causing an unbearable withdrawal, worse then heroin.
She stood in front of him and with one graceful movement her purple dress was up over her head, then flung across the room, falling to earth in a useless, discarded heap.
Ophelia stood out of her equally purple shoes, kicking them aside.She was now naked, except for the black panties which clung enticingly beneath her waist, the same fabric his hands had feverishly felt and tried to penetrate a moment before.
Ophelia turned away from him and towards the staircase and began climbing it, the shape of her panties a talisman for which he now had the key.Jeffrey gulped the contents of the drink before him and then stood to follow, feeling the dead weight of his arousal almost stopping him from moving, like a block of concrete intended to bury him for all his sins in this life.
He walked slowly out into the hall and stood at the bottom of the staircase.
He was trembling, as he began to ascend.At the top of the stairs there were two doors: left and right.He glanced towards the right door, which was open, and saw the bathroom.The left door was closed.She was in there, waiting for him.For a second Jeffrey almost felt like knocking, then his hand turned the knob and it opened.
The bed seemed enormous.Ophelia was opened out on it, like a sacrifice to some insatiable demon.Jeffrey closed the door behind him.
‘Draw the curtains first’, she said, indicating to the window and the natural light peering through it.
Jeffrey moved silently and drew them shut.There was a snap and two lights on either side of the bed were given abrupt life.He paused, looking at her, believing that fantasies really do come true, sometimes.
‘Stand in front of the bed and strip.I want you to do it there’.
He moved to where she had commanded him; for she was in command now, of him, of all of him.There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.
He removed his jacket and then shirt, feeling her eyes boring into him.Then his jeans, shoes and socks.
Jeffrey felt himself begin to wither under the pressure of her stare.
‘Don’t be shy, Jeffrey.Take off the rest.Then you’ll be free’.
The vest was gone in an instant, then the underpants.His body could exuded perspiration, the pores spiting out their juice which his clothes had kept repressed.He could play his games without hindrance, like a child in an empty meadow on a summer’s day.
‘Take my panties off.Pull them the fuck off me. I want to feel you tear them’.
Jeffrey climbed up onto the foot of the bed and took her legs in both his hands, running his hands along until they reached the black nylon, pausing to caress the feel of the fabric against her skin, liking the tightness of it, and then wrenching it, like a rapist or a maniac.
They came, not without a struggle, as though determined to deny him his prize at all costs, just continuing to tease and frustrate him.Then they were gone, and he could see
what lay beneath.Total committal, a surrender on her part, but a selfish one.One that demanded that it’s fires be stoked again and again, never quenched; that kind that would wear out a young man, and kill an older one.A writhing furnace.
Jeffrey climaxed many times and still she wanted more, her extremities screaming that he generate more power, even as she emptied him of every drop, refusing to wait until he refilled his exhausted body to carry him on.Ophelia was a general waging battle before her troops could reload.Then, it was over.
They fell limply against each other, sweat bathing them in a slick torrent, wetting the sheets and staining the mattress.The very act of living was in the balance.They had come close to burning it all up.
‘Jesus, Jesus’, he kept repeating over and over again, every part of his frame in pain.
Jeffrey looked up into her face, the maroon lipstick smeared like a grotesque whore, her hair lying across her forehead like black dead flowers.He could smell their agony and ecstasy; the pleasure of their sin together.He rolled painfully off her and felt a twinge in his back, but didn’t care.He was spent, unable even speak to her.That would come later, but now he felt sleep begin to drift into his brain and then his body like a great quilt made of serenest darkness. He let the black narcotic take him.
Jeffrey swam towards consciousness with an epic effort.Every sinew and fibre tried to hold him back as if to say his body was on a strike, which would take a long period of negotiation to overcome.
His eyes opened like troublesome, battered shutters after a long period of disuse, and he had to remember to breath.The room was as before, the lighting on either side of
the bedmaintaining their vigil.He was alone.Turning his head towards the curtained windows, Jeffrey knew the blackness of night lay against them, heavily.
What time was it?He raised his arm, but found it unable to move only a few inches.He blinked and tried again, but it held fast, refusing to budge.
His brain sent out it’s signals, but his naked body refused to acknowledge them.
Ophelia appeared in the doorway, like a gothic spirit.A dark silken slip draped the contours of her body, and she had corrected the ravages of their passion on her face, applying her make up as before.She didn’t say anything for a moment.
She came further into the room.‘How do you feel?’, she asked.
‘There’s something wrong.I can’t move’.
She stood at the foot of the bed.‘I know.It takes time’.
‘What’s going on?’
She moved her body onto the bed and then on top of him, straddling his stomach.
‘Poor darling.Just relax’.
Jeffrey couldn’t feel her sitting on him.He tried to bounce her off with his legs, but they refused to yield.He was totally paralysed.
‘Answer me, Ophelia.What’s going on here?’
She leaned over and kissed him gently, but he was numb to her warmth.Then she stroked his hair, holding it in her fingers a moment, then letting go.
‘It’s your blood, we need it.I didn’t want to cause you pain.That’s why you can’t move.I’ve given you something to help’.
‘Psycho bitch, let me up!’
She began kissing his chest.‘No good, sweetness.I’ve put a few tubes into your veins.Shouldn’t be too much longer’.
She kept kissing his chest and licking his nipples.
‘My brother and I.He’s waiting upstairs.We need it to feed……stay alive’.
Jeffrey tried to rock back and forth, even to push himself onto the floor, but it was useless.Ophelia stretched her body out fully over him until they resembled an obscene parody of the crucifixion.
‘Don’t struggle, angel, don’t spoil the day we’ve had’.
Ophelia lay in that position until his body had given up every last drop of his life essence and the bottles beside the bed were full of their dark and precious theft.She kept kissing him, stroking him, even after death, but once Jeffrey began to stiffen and grow cold, it lost it’s appeal.
There was a banging from the room overhead and she knew her brother would break into a tantrum at any moment.
‘Coming, angel.Don’t panic, darling’, she said.
© 2009 Declan J Connaughton


Submitted: August 22, 2009

© Copyright 2020 Declan J Connaughton. All rights reserved.

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