dying in a drowning embrace

Passion burns and she gasps
Earthshake quivering over a rigid rising
when he pulls the pleasure from her belly
Rhythmic motion of riding the ocean sighs

He watches desire rise from her chest
It’s a tsunami of tangled bodies
Her cries rise like a bird in flight
Both clinging to love
like a life preserver
While dying in a drowning embrace


©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Rolling the Beautiful Bones – coming soon to Fear Front Publishing

The Sane Sanctuary

Thirty-two: there are thirty-two and they hang on the wall. What you ask?  My collection of grisly souvenirs, the last one is barely a month old and frankly, it’s starting to show little signs of decay  and putrefaction.  No matter what I use, I can never stop that first biological rebellion that would keep them perfect.

The walls are pristine white, at least they were once, but now they are marred, stained and marked by the drippings and droolings of crimson that remind me somehow of Dali.  Not that I care about much than the fragrance it leaves behind.  It is art, and it is gorgeous to me.

Am I insane? Perception counts for much I suppose.  We are all beasts, extent hominina and we were given teeth for a reason; to rend flesh from bone and ingest the delicious plasma proteins that sustain life.   Are you any different? I know that you eat too.  Are you better than I? Anyone would do what they had to, to survive if they were starving.

Granted, my actions would be frowned upon in boring polite society.  They would call it cannibalism, but I call it, living.  It is not society’s opinion that matters to me, and it never has. The only judgment that I fear comes from the ones whose thoughts of me really matter and they are the only ones who have the right to judge. Who? Those whom I grilled and gormandize, of course.  They sacrificed their lives to feed me.  And they stay in here, where I come to pray at their feet and beg for forgiveness.

This is my sane sanctuary, my quiet place and the only space of reflection that I have in the world.  Only here can I be myself and lay myself bare before those who know me best, and beg forgiveness of the ones that are a part of me.  Everything about them was delicious; their memories, their minds and their bodies.  They were so tasty and the recollection makes my mouth water.

They aren’t all unknown.  Several, admittedly, had people who loved them and that I will regret til the day I die.  I wonder, though, did they have the same concern for the steak they ate off the grill on Sunday afternoons? One doubts it.  The majority, however, have never been reported missing, or have had people on television with tearful eyes pleading for their return. Sad, isn’t it?

The first one though, she is my favorite, my best girl and I mean that.  We lived together for years while I hid my all but rabid desire to devour her.  My Love, she was so beautiful with her laser beam eyes that always managed to melt my defences.  All she had to do was put her always cool fingers on my cheek and smile into my face and I would turn into a puddle of goo.

My Angel; I met her when I was already dead and her life had just ended.  At first, she never seemed to stop weeping, and all I could do was wrap her in my arms and wait for her sobbing to slow and her bright bright eyes to meet mine in a clear and direct manner.  Eventually, the weeping ceased and her clear stares eventually became something of a signal to her desire.   Not that I complained, and never to her.

Now, her eye sockets are empty , devoid of the once vibrant colour that sparkled there. It happens with decay, but I didn’t let them dry and roll back into her empty noggin.  I couldn’t do that to her.  The holes leave a vacant glare that shivers my spine. I hate when she looks at me like that.

She watched me suffer, disgusted and horrified as I suppressed that need, when died inside night after night laying next to the woman I adored and smelling the luscious scent of her sleep warm flesh.  I smothered my desires while I loved her, and chose to bite and never to tear flesh.  I drew blood but I never drank what I spilled, although sometimes the urge was so overwhelming that I would shake with the paroxysms of bottled passion.

My Angel, I miss her so much that I swear I can still taste her on my lips.  That night, I tried to be gentle and I succeeded, at first.  I devoured her with my eyes until she was the one quivering.  I remember the way her skin ran with goose-flesh and her breasts quivered and the way she looked up at me with those wide eyes that always made me wild with need.  And then, she whispered inconceivable words that both stunned and made my fly a little tighter.

My Love, I had never truly wanted to – never her; I wanted to taste her but I couldn’t live without her.  There was no other option and I clenched my fists and howled at the ceiling.  Angel insisted I explain, allowing me to pull her into her arms and sit her nude on my lap while I stumbled through the horror that I had been holding back for so long.

Only then, feeling my anguish, did Angel see the error of her ways and her thoughts, and she repeated the same words she’d said before, this time with that sweet, secret smile that made my heart throb in its cage.  She gave herself over to me, willingly as her final act of love, as my first meal.  Angel lay back on the bed with her legs spread slightly and waited for me to begin.  She volunteered herself to my strong jaws, and smiled as I nibbled and licked along her inner thighs and screamed when bit into her supple skin, tore into it and buried my tongue as though it were her forever wet well.

She screamed in pleasure at her ecstasy and mine, begging and pleading at first then just howling nonsensically.  It was getting a bit much, the noise and she came alive beneath me when I punctured her eyes, and sucked them from her head like some rare delicacy.  They were as delicious in my mouth as they had been watching me from her beautiful face.

The release was too much for her, the delicate flower that she was, and her heart staggered its last beats like a trapped bird in a cage while her too white hands danced a final pas de deux in the air over my heart.  Ah memories.

You never forget the first, and she, my fragile Angel, was the first taste of freedom that I had savored.  Just as her kiss had been the one I based all others upon, the flavour of her young, lean healthy muscle was one that all others have paled in comparison of.  Angel, her hair was like spun glass, and she tasted like spring after a long, hard winter.  Her blood was reminiscent of early morning dew, so much so that imbibed it like a fine wine and the vitality danced on my tongue for hours after the fluid had been digested.

Gently, I filleted her lean flesh from her bones, and carefully wrapped her so that I could ingest her piecemeal over time, and I made her last as long as I could, until there was so little left that I cried when she was gone.  Angel was no more, in life but she still lives on here, hanging on the wall. She, though Angel’s head does not hold grey matter, not now but it is certainly not empty.  She had the most amazing mind and now her skull holds a secret, a hidden treasure.

Small jars, not quite canopic although I did get the idea from a documentary I watched on the television a few weeks before she gave herself to me.  It took sometime to find them, and eventually ordered a large number with the future in mind.   The first ones I filled with portions of her puréed organs and her exquisite, perfect brain.  The rest I ate in a stew with spring vegetables that turned out so well, I have used it repeatedly.

No other woman has come close to Angel, yet.  Some have resembled her, but that only occurred when I was missing her desperately.  Not one was her, or even had the same flavor.  They have all have tasted tainted, spoiled somehow, and the last made me vomit for days on end.  I had to dispose of the meat as I suspected that it was poisoned and nearly ended up in jail when a pissed off police officer decided my car looked worth inspecting.  It worked out for the best, however, and I convinced him to come home with me for a beer and a home cooked meal.

Perhaps, this one will be different.

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Rolling the Beautiful Bones – coming soon to Fear Front Publishing

Home Fires Burning

Once i was home.

i was home to my family
my body housed life and suffered death
i lay in solitude, listening to him breath
listening to the quiet ticking of the clock.

it was Tuesday, late when
he staggered to our bed
still wearing that damned fedora
and her perfume
and nothing else

i was lonely, and miserable that night
crying in the dark with my eyes closed,
while he rode the waves of pleasure
and i could smell her all over him

i felt so small
my fingers tracing the scratches she left behind
when he came, it was inside me
calling her name and
it scalded like tears
when he rolled away,
murmuring her name again
as he drifted to sleep.

i lay alone, last Tuesday
shivering in the lightness room
in an effort to be silent, in mourning
i just wanted contact
i needed to be warm
i needed to feel something
other than the numb cold

stuck struggling with the knowledge
that he was elsewhere, often
wondering why i’m not enough
trapped here, while he snores

it is Tuesday evening, again
i pace the gleaming wooden floors
eyes on the clock on the mantel
eyes on the front door.
I made this hell a home

there are no children
to fill the empty hallways
the long empty days last forever
and when night falls,
the cobwebs flutter and
the ghosts flitter through
the in-between spaces

they dance and knock on the walls
sometimes they cast shadows on the glass
they become people with the endless chatter
endless opinions
endless questions
unable to grasp my sorrow
but with a solution

so today, I hid in the darkened parlour
choosing to stop the insistent fight
and let my sanity skip and slip
I drank champagne and ate oranges
danced barefoot on the thorny line
where my sanity capered and
cried until I laughed

i’m still laughing

he begs and pleads from the bed
wearing that stupid fedora

there, where I said my last goodbye
where I painted it with my tongue and
carved my name into his flesh
when he filled me with his tainted seed

the air is heavy
with the scent of fire, and ringing screams

Outside the sirens wail and
inside, he thrashes and writhes
burning in our bed

i watch him struggle
fingering the stem
of my champagne glass and
lift my other hand
placing it under my chin
in thought and reflection

then pull the trigger with a smile

The Statue of She

She sits in silence,

her eyes closed with a

sweet distracted smile on her lips

Oh, she pretends to blend in

with the crowd and fails

He says that she wasn’t meant to

but stand out like a glorious statue

in the middle of a war-torn slum

And she is so blissfully unaware

of the watchful, covetous stares

they do not register, only his does

At the mention of her name,

the sapphire lasers flicker open

blushing at being caught

with her mind wandering

Her eyes bore holes into his

with a flicker of laughter

embarrassed she looks away

with a sigh and a flush

Closing her pretty eyes again

as though her actions are

an invisibility cloak

He can’t understand how

she can’t see that she is beautiful

That insecure creature with a

masque crazy glued in place

She doesn’t understand that when

the masque lifts, and the

makeup is washed way

That she shines like the devil

dressed in Angel’s wings

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Misery loves Company – A Love Story

I first saw her reflection in the shop window of that absurd little doll store.
The one on 5th and Main?

Tragically gorgeous in that B Movie kind of way,
I couldn’t take my eyes from her curves and edges.
The porcelain perfection of her complexion and those lips.
full and pouty – red in that almost garish porn star way.
But on her it was fresh cherries from the tree and
I was willing to bet that they tasted as good

And there I stood,
stunned into silence with my cock at full mast and
holding a half-naked children’s toy in my hand.
It felt like I was smiling but likely I was leering
and be goddamned if she didn’t return my lustful stare,
flicking her tongue out like some living thing
to taste the right of the lollipop she’d been playing with
before pushing it slowly between her wet looking lips.
She never dropped her eyes once.

I thought I had died, just then when she smiled at me and
called me forward with one black tipped finger.
And I came, then went to her with burning cheeks and
the front of my jeans beginning to show a dark spot.
I wanted to run but she put her hand over it
and put her mouth on mine.
I was sure I was in Hell but man it felt like Heaven.

When the shopkeeper cleared his throat,
she stopped licking my teeth to look at him,
with her hand squeezing my tortured dick.
Heaven.

She nodded and released me, whispering in my ear,
“come see me if you want company.”
Hell.

The man snickered and finally guffawed before
staring me soberly in the eyes and shaking his head.
“Take an old man’s advice,” he said,
lighting his match with a worn fingernail and holding it to his home rolled cigarette.
“She loves company. Don’t be her next conquest.”
I handed him the doll I’d ceased fondling
while embarrassingly thanking him for his sage advice and his time.
Turning to leave, I saw the most amazing thing in a small room off to the side.

Full sized dolls, dressed in 50’s clothing and
so realistic I laughed in spite of myself.
The shopkeeper chortled grimly, “remember what I said.”

I didn’t listen, of course.
I followed her home in my old green pickup
and watched her struggle with her playthings,
cursing and spitting vile and deviant admonishment.

It shocked me, intrigued me
so I jumped out of my truck and ran to her rescue
like some brain-dead Lancelot.
She smiled and kissed me full on my mouth and
pressed her firm breasts to my chest.
But all the while, I could hear the shopkeeper’s raspy words in my ears.

I wondered about how much company she kept.
I wondered what her name was.
I wondered how the old man knew.
All this as I stepped through her front door
That was forever ago, just before I discovered that I loved her.
My Captor, my Daemon. My wife.
And my questions were eventually answered in
far more detail than I care to remember.

Mustn’t frown!
She wants smiling happy people.

My father-in-law, you have already met, albeit briefly.
You really don’t want to make his acquaintance or hers,
because it’s like Pops, the Shopkeeper says, my wife,
Misery?

She loves company.

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Vacant Rose

It’s easier in the dark.
Alone doesn’t feel quite so isolating
wet cheeks go unnoticed
Somehow, the bleakness seems a comfort
Not unlike a pair of warm arms.

She doesn’t know I’m watching
Lost in her rain cloud
I’m positive that she’d prefer an embrace
To the cold silence

There she sits
Cross-legged, nude,
Tragic beauty she cries, face in a pillow
The mirror covered in linen
I know she is wishing for the strength
For the courage set right the horror show
That she sees in the mirror reflection

But, much like me, she’s a coward
A loser done up on codeine and weed
Practically paralysed, poor thing
And all in an effort to achieve peace
Much like me, she’s achieving nothing close to it.
These are the nights I can’t help but hate
Because what other choice is there
I can hardly barge in, now can I?
Invading her misery by pulling her close
I want to take it away, if she’d let me
If I could,

Instead I watch her turn it inward
It’s a simpler method to live with
Mechanisms to emancipation
I write the steps to her freedom

It’s all about weights and measures
The balance is off
The telemetry is fucked
Knowing so doesn’t calm a racing heart
Or stop the tearing desire to howl

Soon, so soon, Impatience cries
I’m sick of waking each day
Gasping because I’m dying of suffocation
It all comes from bottling
The anticipation is agony

She rises, long and lean
Her lips rippling as she chants the same ugly litany
Telling herself;
It’s stupid to be in fear of nothing
idiotic to be afraid of long dead monsters
What are you, 12?
Trembling with like a child
No desire in the dark
Are you so desperate to be swept away?
Just take the pills and shut up

Pacing, bare flesh flashing
Her hair flies static
Staring out at the street below
Tonight its defenestration she battles

I know how she thinks
i know all this as well as I know my own heart
The idea of that beautiful body
Splattered like red velvet vomit
Horrified and aroused

Blood spilled spells oxygen.
The weight of biology is lifted
Swiftly slipping to press against the glass
She stares, pondering and
My temperature burns hotter
The daemon salivates,
Its venom fills my mouth
Such a glorious gluteus maximus
It calls my palms with a sirens wail
So long she’s teased me
Pleading for release from her glass tower
Tonight her prayers are answered
Blood is life.

I’m so tired of bleeding.
Now it’s her turn

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Erect Thorn, Bare Windows

Fearsome.
You are fearsome, lady,
from those eyes that hide some kind of
beautiful brain that coincides perfectly
with the savage monster you hide inside
oh I pretend that I don’t notice
or care but I do and I want to not be
like all the others but baby,
you’re killing me here
It isn’t just my blood pressure that rises
whenever you walk by, ai, I can’t help but stare,
Gods…that derrière,
Yeah stop looking at me like I’m
some kind of prédateur, mon amour,
You have no worry from me, you see,
All this is secret, trapped in my mind,
Because I can barely breathe when you’re near
Let alone speak, or meet your eyes
other than the occasional glance in
The mirrored reflection, it’s distracting

God I wish I could say hello.

@MelanieMcCurdie2016

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The Swollen Man

The voice in my head is incessantly whining at me;  Don’t start.  Stop Crying.  Big girls don’t cry.  You’re stronger than this. Gods, shut up already.  I’m not stronger than this, not remotely.  Perhaps once upon a time,  when I could breathe and move without scrutiny and suspicion, and without resignation, maybe then,  I was stronger.  Now,  not even close.

I know that tears are a waste.  I know that they are a weakness and that they get you hurt.  Whatever entity lives up there knows that I’ve lived enough lessons in my life to know that’s a fact, Jack.  There are those that will shake their heads in disbelief or in disgust at my words, likely wondering if I have finally blown a mental gasket and if I am leaking sanity.  I’m neither out of my head nor crazy;  things would be simpler if I were, but no, this is all just result of environmental poisonings, experiences and far too many teachings from the fist.  One learns early on how to bottle and I am old hat at that game. I’ve forgotten more about self-preservation techniques than most should ever know in their lives.

People are so blind.  They have little clue about how it feels to sit and shout at yourself you must not be weak sister every single time tears threaten or how it feels to know that you are going to fail. I doubt most of them could survive if they couldn’t find a Starbucks.  I wonder if any of you  can comprehend being torn apart by your own mind, over a few tears?  I don’t think that the majority could, and I pray that they never learn how.

It’s a dual existence truly, learning how to shatter on the inside, and while smiling on the out.  Sometimes, some nights it gets to be too much and the pressure can’t be held any longer.  No matter how one tries, no matter how one berates oneself,  those tears are going to fall.

No one likes to be made fun of as they are falling apart; the beatings I give myself, the fear that I can taste in my mouth when that dam breaks, the shame of crying because I can’t stop, is agonising.  To be poked at and told to stop and denied release when it’s an impossible to hold back that tidal wave with what amounts to a drink umbrella  is more than unfair.  It’s cruel.  The words just add a sting, when warm arms would’ve been a softer place to land.

In attempting to be all that everyone requires, one loses oneself in the demands.  It’s difficult to juggle, but I like to think that I do it well.  But it is difficult to be that tough supporter for those I care for, love while I starve myself.  The needs of the many and all that.   My life is micromanaging the undefinable, and making it work is all that much harder, and I manage while balancing that fine line between function and fulfilment.  Existing in a loud, large bubble is no way to live.

He told me that he was going home to check on the animals and to put gas in the car.  It would have been believable if it weren’t for the fact that it was quite difficult to drive without the keys to the vehicle,  and he hadn’t asked for them since he tossed them into my purse when we arrived. He had planned to drink. Again.

Tonight, after the community bonfire that we had no choice but to attend, I saw him there in the shadows of the commissary. His eyes were full of brimstone and bite, lustfully gazing on the youthful wife of our Mayor with his dick in his eyes.  I saw how she undulated slightly when her eyes met his, and the way she changed position with a gasp before excusing herself with a small smile and a flush.  His eyes followed her all night, with his hand rubbing at his crotch absently and his tongue tracing his lips over and over, likely wishing they were hers, while I stood there embarrassed and growing angrier.  It didn’t matter, because  I wasn’t there, or rather, was and would be invisible until she turned him away.  It was all about her.  I thought he’d cum in his pants when she brushed against him, and I watched her hand brush against his erection with a smirk in my direction.  Whore.

There they are; they think that they are hidden from view they way that they’re greedily groping each other.  The Mayor’s wife and the librarian’s husband, who would’ve thought,  wanking one another off in full view of anyone with eyes. “Does he have it on him?” a low male voice mutters in my ear, startling me out of the morbid mental happy place that I was in and I feel the smile spread across my lips. The warm meaty hands on my ass make me want to vomit but I nod and shudder when those thick fingers graze the sensitive skin on my inner thigh.  I can’t do more than nod.

The cock that Rodney is so proud of is out for the night, twitching in the cool night air and I can hear the crackle of wrapper from here.  He shoves her to her knees and slips the rubber from the package and over his dick. “Keep quiet this time, Deena.  I didn’t get to finish last time,” Rodney growls and plows into her with a laugh. Last time. He bucks his hips into her and she moans loudly then squeaks when he falls against her in quickening paroxysmal convulsions. The man behind me chuckles and his large hocks squeeze my ass once more before moving away with a suggestion that I make myself scarce. What a chicken shit.

Rodney lies jittering on top of Deena,  his overly swollen glans trapping Deena as much as his dead weight does and she can do little more than pant shallowly when I step quickly into the light of the fire and again into the darkness of the commissary shadows where she writhes in the dirt. “Please?  Help me! I’m sorry.  Can’t be seen.  Here.  Like this,” and I laugh to myself at the tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. Her cupid bow lips fall open in shock and dismay when Rodney bucks and blows snot into her chestnut hair.  “Rodney! Dammit, get off of me!  What the fuck did you do to your dick? It hurts!”

“Shut up whore.  He didn’t get to finish last time, didn’t you hear?  How lucky for you that he gives a shit enough to tell you that you don’t matter.  Hear that?  You were so anxious to have him inside you that you blew him in public where anyone could see you.  I did.  Your moans need work by the way.  Not believable in the least.”  The first voices of the other attendees are getting louder and I titter darkly from around the corner, remembering to stay out of sight. Rodney gasps again, choking bile onto her shoulder and she sobs like a twelve-year-old with a rash.  He’s not dead. What a pity. He whined into my ear often enough about how he was trapped living with me.  Now he is truly trapped. by the pussy he couldn’t live without.   Perhaps he should have looked closer at the wrapper.   His are purple, latex free.

“Hey Deena,”  I chuckle as I spy the first flashes of lanterns headed this way, “I found this old video on the web.  Robin Bobbin? Original.” Closer still and I crouch closer to whisper “Soon everyone else will know what you are too. Virgin bride, my ass.”  Deena’s pretty eyes close in submission to fact and I dart from my safe place to spit into her pretty, filthy face,  and this time I kick her in the side of the head.

The first lantern bursts through the darkness just as I make my escape and the horrified shouts of the Mayor and his entourage reach my ears much like an applause track in one of those old sitcoms.  The next morning the paper from the towns in the surrounding areas will tell the tale of the Mayor’s not so virginal bride, the Mayor’s Right Hand Man and the Missing wife.  Such a small town scandal that won’t soon be forgotten.

As for me?  I was paid handsomely for my participation and one never knows what the next sunrise will bring.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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La petite mort de la Folie

I didn’t mean to kill her.

They,

they were paintings on the wall, just collateral damage;

She, Folie, with those bottle green eyes,

I meant to kill her and with intent.

It wasn’t intentional, more like a premeditated mistake –

an unplanned surgical strike.

She begged for rebellion and Folie followed the shadows

With her unflappably bright smile that fiercely shone

from her heartsblood stained lips.

Everyone said she was tasty,  an irresistible sweet treat,

and they were correct.

Writhing, she tasted of wine

Whining, she just tasted dead, and

Folie, with her green eyes shining, laughed,

no she didn’t cry out when the shadows caressed her,

but she sighed with an inferno in her late smile

and promises Hell and more when I returned to her tonight

©MelanieMcCurdie

Marley

There she sits, this Goddess
in a Marley t-shirt and plain black panties
The way the shirt is plastered to her small frame
it accentuates those perfect breasts
the chill in the room as plain as the
nipples poking through the thin fabric
Supple, slim, my hands itch to touch
The smooth porcelain of her flesh
and feel her long legs quiver under the
Flats of my palms while they travel down, then between
All that is nonexistent in the regard
To the eyes that stare holes in my soul
This Goddess creature dressed in commoners skin
I forget that she shuns the comparison
Beauty believes she is the beast

©MelanieMcCurdie

The Clangers

Truly, I wasn’t sure he was real at first. Those wide guileless eyes, so full of truth; oozing sweetness and youthful innocence. Full to the brim with unfulfilled potential that it makes me ill. That alone is suspect. The confused cocked head, much like a disoriented puppy married with a glazed gaze that is meant to convey stupidity does the exact opposite. No one is really that naive, not in this century anyway. How could one remain so when a world of debauchery and horrors can be found at the simple click of a mouse?

I think he is so much prettier than she was and that annoys me for some reason. Why that is I’m not sure, nor do I care. Maybe I care a little. It’s that stuffed toy expression, or the fantastic lack of personally that somehow fits perfectly with the former; I could rattle his chains some, enough to cause him to drop the act. Perhaps it’s all just one of those things not meant to be explored. Jesus, that blinking blankness is unnerving me and he knows it. Calculating bastard; you can almost see the wheels turning behind those false front soul windows of his.

He’s obviously intelligent; that, paired with the devastatingly handsome features is a heady mix and a dangerous one too. Lucky bastard. I’d be jealous, if it weren’t expected effort that I can ill afford to expend.

Such a high maintenance exposure as well and for what? To put myself in the forward momentum of a killer, whose cradle of purpose is solely to separate Spirit from Soma. I wonder if Siobhan Clanger had had any idea about the monster that she gave herself to. I wonder if it was a wiling sacrifice.

“Why did you mutilate that lovely young woman, Frankie?” I ask offhandedly, tapping my pen against the metal table top In a less than legal beat. In some circles I’d be lynched already.. Across the table, Francis Oliver Marrs narrows his oddly coloured eyes and frowns slightly. Point for me. There is no response, and I chuckle under my breath. “We found your fingerprint Frankie Boy. You’re clever, I will give you that, but not that clever. Dr. Jeckle down at the morgue is a bit of a strange duck, but his experiments work. Says he found your print on her eyeball. On her eyeball Frankie? What kind of sick malarkey is that?”

The room is quiet but for the steel fan that keeps us from dying of the heat, and the occasional squeal of a belt that desperately needed replacing. Francis sits still, his eyes on mine with no expression on his smooth features. I got plenty of time. My wife left last year, took the kids and the dog and left me in an empty house. I haven’t bothered to replace the furniture or the woman but I do miss my kids. I can wait all day, as long as there is a pot of Joe on the brew.

“C’mon Frank. We have your print, her blood was on your hands and on your underwear. I still can’t understand that. What kind of sicko are you? You cut her up and then wet your willie? Huh Frankie?”

“Please stop with the pen.” I’d been tapping it insistently on the table top during this whole one-sided conversation, knowing full well it irritated him. I don’t stop.

“Answer the questions, and I’ll think about it.” Marrs just sits quietly with his head down while I up the tempo into an epileptic beat that I can see is irritating  him as much as me, but his fists are clenched tightly on the table and his jaw is too. Another point for me. A knock on the door breaks the tension, and he laughs just a little under his breath. “Funny stuff eh Frankie Angel? You like banging dead twirls? Like it when they’re not fighting you anymore huh? WHAT?”

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Someone is still rapping at my chamber door and it’s a seriously inopportune moment. The door opens just a crack and a voice full of femininity and fight asks to enter. “Relax kiddo. Let me see what’s what and I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere no, hear me Francis?” Stupid bitch, interrupting me when he was about to break. Closed doors mean do not disturb, everyone knows that.  There is a stunning blonde at the door, complete with a vacant smile and tearful doe eyes that would make any man weak in the groin. She is the spit and image of that  dead ginger, Siobhan, the one that Marrs and I are discussing, complete with the beauty mark below her right eye and that monumental rack. Jesus, I’d give my right nut to face plant between them.  I can hear Francis fidgeting behind me, and the small clink of the chains that he is in. A quick glance shows me that he is thrown off kilter as well.  Good; maybe this is a blessing in dusguise

“What can I do for you sweetheart? We’re kinda in the middle of something here.” Her smile is angelic, sweeter than a surprise visit to the candy shoppe Sunday morning instead of church, and admittedly my zipper on my pants is getting a little tighter. Maybe after this is done – “C’mon beautiful, I got work to do. What do you need?”

“Your keys, Detective, and one … more … thing.” Her hand  on my crotch and incredibly warm as it squeezes and releases.  Taken by surprise at her boldness, I back into the room with my hands in her hair  and sporting a throbbing whistle like I haven’t experienced in since my wife left   Francis is sitting with his mouth hanging open, no longer pulling at the shackles but open mouthed shock. “Just one small thing, Detective, and you can get back to work,” she whispers in my ear with a painful nip on the lobe that somehow makes me harder

“Yeah, what’s that? I don’t mind an audience, honey, and he’s not going anywhere.” Blondie just smiles and keeps playing rub and tug.    I can’t help myself and make a grab for her luscious melons while attempting to pull her close with the other  in hopes of getting my hand at that snug skirt    She is bare underneath, judging  from the lack of lines on her ass, and this is something I intend to make use of.  Holy Hannah,  this woman has no inhibitions and spreads her stems enough for my fingers to slip between her ample thighs. The squeak of the fan makes this all the more unreal but it’s been too long since I’ve gotten my wick wet and she is ready to make the scene. “Detective, that one other thing,” she gasps as my index finger slides into her moist warmth, then another “before we continue.”

“It can wait.” Her body is a playground and my hand is having a ball. I can feel her small palm sliding along my shoulder as her hips move hard, and the wet sound of her pleasure is almost louder than that stupid fan. Francis is quiet, but I can hear his short aroused heaves when I push her against the wall and cover her mouth. Her hand is fumbling at my belt and I shove it away, releasing the beast with ease. It’s been so long since I’d felt this burning and she is so near, I can’t help myself from shoving he skirt over her hips and impaling her onto the wobbly warhead.

She quivers as I pound into her body, the soft sighs making the familiar sting of close climax ache at the nape of my neck, like it does every time it’s very good. Her legs are strong, crossed over my ass and pulling me deeper with each thrust and that burn is almost too much to bear. It’s agony in my head and in my balls when she screams against my hand and I unload inside her tight cavity. It’s heaven and then hell. The burn isn’t backing off, as it always does after, and my knees aren’t holding me up either. What the hell… I pull out of her as my body hits the floor. The burn isn’t pleasure but breath stealing pain and all I can do is lay on the floor and stare at her beautiful face while she yanks her skirt down with a smile.

“Sorry Detective. You are a very good lay. It’s a shame that we won’t see each other again, but I know Francis appreciates the opportunity to continue his work. My sister, Siobhan, was an experiment, and no great loss. You underhand, don’t you? My name is Gwen Clanger, by the way.” I can see a long drip of my seed making its way down her thigh as she stands over my face and takes my keys. “The knife won’t yield any fingerprints but yours. I took it from your pocket. How sad for your family that your death will be unsolved. And in a police station too. Tsk tsk.”

Francis is on his feet and rubbing lightly at his wrists. Gwen smirks at him then kicks me hard in the ribs before stepping away and out the door with a laughing Francis in tow. I can’t breathe enough to call out for help, the pressure is like an elephant on my chest. All I can do is move my hand to tuck my shame back into its place, and am doing just that when someone shouts in horror at the door.

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©MelanieMcCurdie2016

http://www.melaniemccurdie.com

Proof of Death

*from the upcoming book,  Stories from the Slaughterhouse, coming soon to digital and paperback*

The thunk of the gun on the table in front of me holds such a finality that I am stunned into stammering.   Had I truly come to a point in my life where all my troubles could be bought away by the uttering of a name and the pulling of a trigger? Apparently so – I had to consider my situation carefully and had relatively no time to do it. “That’s the deal, sweetheart. One name, and one bullet.” The man behind the weapon wears a smile that seems more predatory than genuine. It’s odd how predatory fits  best with those pointed teeth of his.  The smile is not reassuring in the least.

“It all sounds a little too good to be true, and you forgot about the lifetime of guilt and nightmares,” I snark back, more out of fear than anything else. A big hand lands like a wet blanket on the butt of the gun and I realise that I was lashing out at the one person who was willing to give me what I needed. No one ever said that I was smart.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wolf. I suppose that I’m nervous. This is a big decision to make, you know?”  The hand vanishes as quickly as it came and I inwardly sigh relief. “So who is it? I need the name before I turn you loose. It’s one of the rules.” Who, indeed? There really were so many I could choose from, but whose death would everyone’s world best benefit from? “You already know, don’t you?” I shake my head, because I did and I didn’t want to admit it. I’m a horrible person. A monster.

A monster, but I don’t mean to be, and I try so hard not to be. “Yeah. I know who, and you won’t be needing that gun, either, thank you. I could use a priest and maybe a team of exorcists though, if you know of any.” A bullet will do no good and so the gun is useless, unless I want to blow my own brains out my ear with it. If he takes it with him, It’s sure to happen to him; I am not ready to die, yet,  and I’m positive that he isn’t either.  It’ll happen, though.   It has before.

I am unwell, or so they say and I would normally agree but my point of view has changed drastically.  There are  some things that one simply cannot unsee  or pretend they are untrue   Last summer, while I was in a bad way, I  voluntarily did a short stint in the local mental hospital.  What my family called a sanity sabbatical.  I met someone there, a strange and wonderful man who shared so many of the same things in common that for the first time in my life, I began to be happy right where I was.

His name was Piotr and he made me feel like a normal woman, someone with worth, worth the time and I fell in love, hard. From the moment I saw him, he became hypnotic and all-encompassing.  Our romance grew in the shadows and in empty doorways, finally resulting in the consummation of our love late on the 13th of June.  We found each other in the darkness of the abadoned north wing and on a bed he had thoughtfully set up for our first romantic endeavour he took the only thing I had to give.

There was something – a presence – about him that made me drool with desire every time he came near. The intoxicating scent of the one I adored was more delicious than anything else and my head was full of him when he peeled my clothing off and spread my legs. He kissed me, there, then, and I shivered when his tongue began tracing its pattern; up and down and round and round. My slit was wet but I wanted him in my mouth first and then between my legs, but he refused one and laid me back onto the thin mattress.

I could feel the hot throbbing head of his sex against my virgin opening, and it probed deeper as his tongue did my mouth. There was so much pleasure that I forgot about the pain and spread my legs wide, begging him to pierce my maidenhead and then fuck me til I screamed. No greater pleasure experienced in one’s life than that first time and so it remains the greatest pleasure of my years. The stars in my eyes masked the truth in reality and though he was everything, I had forgotten about the chains of responsibility that come with rapture.

Weeks later, I learned that I was to be a mother, on the very day that I was to be released from my sanctuary,  torn away from Piotr and dumped back into hell. I had written him a note after repeated failed  attempts to pull him into a private corner to tell him the news. The nurses thwarted me at every step, and I finally resorted to paper and pen; my love left bleeding on paper and handed to a trusted friend to deliver after my departure.

My room remained the same as it had when I was a child, thus relegating me to the child they saw me as.  I hated it,  chafed at the social collar that I was forced to wear.  The only saving grace is that when Poitr was finally free, it would l be easy for me to slip out of the window and into his arms. For a time, it was easy, for maybe a month or so after I received word that he gained employment and was living in a rooming house nearby. The first time, we planned to meet at the gazebo at the local park. It was our first public meeting, and I was a nervous wreck, with my hand caressing the slight bump of my belly as though I would a talisman.

Poitr appeared on the path leading up to the partial secluded building, his eyes on the ground until he reached the stairs; then, nothing existed for a while but our bodies and hearts meeting and beating together. The sound of his knees hitting the wood and the feeling of his soft lips on the slight bump of my belly was more erotic than I ever imagined. The sensation of the hardest part of him resting against my ready slit and then sliding forward was delicious and I arched my back with a groan. I remember that, but the rest is lost in a haze of my own making. It’s for me.

We met that way as often as time would allow, with me climbing from the bedroom window and shimmying down the drainpipe to walk half a mile to the gazebo. It was perfect until I was unable to see my toes, and then we knew we needed to find another way. Piotr proposed on a Friday, in our gazebo. It was raining and the world was draped in mist from the river. The baby kicked hard when he kissed my inner thigh and produced a beautiful small diamond. Of course I said yes and we lay together on a blanket he had brought with him, his hand on my belly and his lips on my ear, telling me about how it would be when we were married and our little one was here. He made it sound so plausible.

“Is it safe? Nadia? Is it – if we -” He was so nervous and I nodded against his neck, nipping my teeth along his collarbone when he growled. “Easy, Poitr, you must go easy,” I gasped when he shoved me onto my back and flipped my skirt up over my hips. I hadn’t worn panties, as he’d requested and his fingers were stroking my already ready slit in a rougher manner than I’d experienced before. “Poitr,” I whined, trying to push his hand away but he chuckled and slipped three of his thick fingers firmly inside my tunnel, wiggling them in a manner that made me squirm in pleasure and discomfort. Baby was active and seemed to be struggling inside of my belly.

An enormous agony tore through my back and up my spine when my juices drenched his still thrusting fingers, easing with the first shriek from Piotr and the frantic wriggling of his hand deep inside of my body.  The world stopped, and for a while, so did I, lost in a fog of numbness and the shrieks of the man I loved.

When the mists had cleared, Piotr was gone; his eyes had flies in them and  his hand was gnawed away, through to the stub of white gleaming in the red.  My belly was empty, and  felt empty too, until I felt the warmth of two tiny hands st my breast and the sharp nip of pointed teeth.   I was a mother. My son’s first meal had been his father.

That was six months ago   Piotr was found shortly after our son wax born by an off duty officer on his morning run.  There were no suspects and the papers said it was an isolated animal attack  He’s an animal alright, of a sort, my fallen angel who sleeps now in his toddler bed nearest the window.  He will wake later so that he can sit up and admire the moon.  He’s grown fast, feeding while I sleep and crawling beside me warm and content as the sun rises each morning, waking me the same way he did the day he was born   His teeth are sharper.

I miss Piotr, dreadfully.  Our child looks so much like him that it makes me ill.  I can’t look at him anymore, especially not now   He is rapidly losing his grip on what little  humanity he’d been born with.  I knew that it would happen anyway but I’m frightened by how soon it has occurred.

What brings me here, at this point in my life?  Two nights ago  I found a man in my house.  I just stood in the doorway stunned at seeing a nude stranger it my bed, and the sweet face of my should be infant boy buried hairline deep in his guts and grunting like a boar.  The man was still shrieking in agony when I crept away from the open  bedroom door and drove away.  I haven’t been back.

“Hey beautiful, what’s the word? Going to give me that name?”  I really detest this asshole, but he is exactly what I need to get the job done.  Raising my eyes to his, I smile and push a folded scrap of paper towards him, and brush the cool metal of the gun in the process.  “Gideon.  There is the address. I’ll wait for the call.”  Mr. Wolf scanned the information I’d carefully  printed on it and refolded the paper, placing it in his left breast pocket.

“Okay Ms. C.   Give me 24 hours and I’ll have good news for you.” He traipsed away without a care, and never glanced back once.  I’ve  been waiting for that call, the text, something with the proof of death to secure my freedom for almost 48 hours   That is a full day longer than the amount of time that he committed to, but I am loathe to leave yet.  This is my child, after all, my son that I’m awaiting word from after all.  I afraid that things went terribly wrong.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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The Lonely Succubus

Yes.
I want to feel your hands and lips
Fingertips
I want to ride you like a bike I stole
Hard and fast as I can
You think you could keep up?
Many have attempted and failed
I doubt you’d survive
I do wish you’d come closer though
It gets so lonely on my side of hell
Trapped here in need of warmth
And companionship
Someone to share my fire
Dare you, handsome
Dare you to try

I’ll bleed you dry

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

Author_Melanie_McCurdie

A Grim Affair

The bubbles crackle like the fresh falling snow
on the fire burning out of control just across the road and
this she replayed in her mind as she watched the fire dance
sparkle with the shadows on the ceiling of the bathroom

oh the sensation of flying, so sure she is flying
the sensation of pleasure so intense that she bites her hand
he’s gone but his hand is her own as he fucks herself
she writhes against it in abandon shouting his name

no shame
– no nothing but the need fulfilled then she cries in silence
at the storm inside because she knows it’s only her mind
and not his hand not him, it can’t be ever again. he’s gone

he’d left her
abandoned in a new definition
she is alone and for always

but she swears she can smell his cologne on her pillow
feel his hands on her hips
lips on her lips
hips
tongue

it feels like him and she can’t help but moan in protest
he’s dead she still wears his blood on her hands and her face
he promised she grinds alone in her mind she stutters
paces in places well-worn in her padded visceral cell

but his tongue in her, cobwebs and cunnydust
and his fingers scrabbling like creatures
full and gushing eyes shut tight riding the waves

denial
desire
vernal
carnal

then a new a fullness, a new warmth, a tsunami
but he’s gone and sunk deep in pieces where I left him
while her body dies over and over
she sighs over and over

axe then chainsaw
I cut him
it’s he
him

She smells his blood
sex, earth and hell

oh my god
what the –
no
get off
get out
it hurts

it hurts but delicious
his movements are vicious and he’s dead but inside of her

the swell and the ocean
his groans
animals feasting

she remembers the reason she feels him so close
then she laughs out loud with release

I ate him

Girl 2

© MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Satisfaction

I hit him. I balled up my fist and hit him square in the sniffer. I’ve always said that if I had the chance,  if I were ever in the perfect time and at the perfect place, I would punch Billy Sharp just once and make it count for everything.  It didn’t happen that way, though, and you know what they say; once is never enough.  I wish I could say it was only twice or thrice but no, it was many, many more than that.  I regret nothing.

It was bad enough that I was in certain company and that tossing a table,  attempting to murder what would appear to be an innocent man with my four-inch stiletto would be entertaining, but poor form. Still, the moment alone in my head with a mental movie of him screaming in agony with my Jimmy Choo treasure sticking out of his left eye and the toe of my shoe keeping time with his tuneful yelping was almost hysterical. I actually fought the urge to laugh out loud lest it give the douche the idea I was happy to see him.  Yet there I was, with a spoonful of crème brûlée frozen halfway to my lips and that motherfucker standing there in front of me smug and sporting a smirk.

The crème brûlé needed work, but it dampened the dangerous tinny gall that filled my mouth. Wiping my lips delicately on the cloth napkin, I stood, giving the fellas to each side a glance at the skull-and-roses embossed nylons I wore on what my besties call da pinz. They didn’t match my business attire but c’est la guerre.  I didn’t care what they saw as I returned Billy’s smirk with a grin,.  I didn’t even mind the feather touch of a warm palm sliding along my inner thigh as I stepped around to the other side of the table and punched that dicksicle in the face with every ounce of coiled rage I possessed.  One punch. Make it count. I rang his bell hard enough to make him stagger.

The first hit hurt my hand and broke his nose. I felt it crunch under my knuckles like eggshells, and admittedly, I liked the way Billy squealed in surprise. Like s stuck pig. Fucker didn’t see it coming and how could he? He was so busy watching himself in the reflection of the coffee shop window to realise my fist was hurtling towards his handsome face.  I could hear the muted voices of several of my cohorts, ranging from stunned gasps to aroused horror.  I liked it.  He collapsed to the ground like a sack of hammers and I landed as hard on his chest with my fist still pumping like a piston.   I liked that too.  The horrified sounds made me hotter and the melon thunk of my fist in his face fed that ragefire in my stomach that I couldn’t drown except to smother it in this current activity.

So I did it again. And again. And again. And again. Billy’s squeal of shock turned into a dismayed cry, then became a choked  moan that punctuated each wet smack. He begged mushily for me to stop and I did, for a few seconds; for a fraction of a heartbeat, and in an intake of breath, I actually considered ceasing, dropping my fist to my side while he sobbed my name and squeezed my ample tits with a gurgly chortle.  Another old but apt principle,  an object in motion stays in motion; my arm swung forward and my favourite red stiletto heel was stuck into his left eye and it did in fact slap in time with the gyrating and writhing Billy was doing.  It was an oddly tuneful song that I didn’t find offensive in the least.

I know what you are wondering and the answer is no. I felt nothing more than absurdly horny and that carnal hunger intensified every time I heard that thud. I should have felt something, in retrospect, other than the urge to get myself off on his bruised and battered lips. Considering who he was, it’s ridiculous that I even registered that desire.  Still he was good for something, at one time, in some way. At least at the start, the sex was unfuckingbelievable. Billy was heroin and I needed a fix. I wanted him constantly and he was more than capable of providing, then.

But after the newness rubbed off, his wandering eye came alive and was down the cleavage of every woman from late teen to fiftyish. If not there, then his virtual hand was down the gusset of each said female he made contact with.  Even with me stand there feeling the fool.  That son of a cunt practically panted when the neighbour’s nubile seventeen year old granddaughter came to visit and to cut the lawn.  He stood at the side window rubbing at his crotch and sweating while he watched her push the mower in her short shorts and bikini top. Then the punishments for crimes I hadn’t committed began again. Finally, through some kind of divine intervention or because I suddenly grew a set of balls and a backbone, I ran from him and emerged from Hell into freedom and into a new kind of fear. Battered, I had to rebuild the temple of Me from foundations. I survived and vowed that one punch. Once for all.

My hands hurt badly, and they throbbed like my starving sex for relief. His face is a pulpy patchwork of blood, eyes and teeth and shoe. He’s quite repulsive and my desire to fuck him while cutting his throat had mostly passed. Thankfully. One place Billy Sharp will never be is inside of me again.  In any way. The voices are louder now and I sense another male close but far enough out of reach of my one track mind and aggressive fists.  “You’ve proven your point.  End it or compose yourself.  They are watching,”  a familiar voice stated in a cold, understanding tone that contrasted sharply with the heat of fingers playing along my spine like a xylophone.  He was right and from my boot I pulled a small handled, sharpened spoon that had been a gift from an old friend.  I made it dance in front of his remaining frightened eye.

“You loved seeing me suffer didn’t you, fucktard? Guess what Billy? I’m sharing the favour. You’ll never have a woman again, unless she’s blind.”

Oh he knew then and bucked his bulk around under me hoping to knock me loose, or judging from his hardon, trying to ram his dick up inside of me.  He couldn’t even decide between sex and self-preservation. What an idiot. I have very strong thighs and he failed. I did however extract my pound of flesh, so to speak, and composed myself while bidding my colleagues adieu.  His eye I left floating in the glass of bourbon he had been sipping when I made good on my vow. Sadly for Billy, no amount of skin grafts can fix the ugly face that now matched his ugly soul.

That was five years ago today. I’ve been in hiding since the jury exonerated me and for good reason. His family resents me and this I comprehend their reasoning, sort of. I’d feel worse if I didn’t know the apple was rotten inside long before it fell from the tree. I  had a long hard laugh over my coffee this morning when I read that he that he had blown his head off in the night during rush hour traffic. What a fucking drama queen.

“My goodness people are crazy in those big cities!” Ginny, my waitress exclaimed as she refilled my coffee cup, “I feel sad for him though Eloisa. He must have been miserable.” She smiles into my eyes with her innocent glazed stare focusing on my own with a fire I hadn’t seen in a long time. She would make a sweet treat for my tounge later.  I feel my smile widen and I chortle with delight at her stunned and pleased expression as my hand slips under her uniform and strokes the cleft of her perfect ass,  “I hope so Ginny darlin. I sure do hope so.”

Ah. Sometimes you can get some satisfaction.

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©MelanieMcCurdie2016

The Burbs cover art by Palko Designs LLC
The Burbs cover art by Palko Designs LLC

Listen to The Burbs here

Available now
Available now

Quietude

Shhhh
No talking
Voices spoil the reality
Passion brought us here
Let’s not waste words discussing
A not so secret desire
Human, you are so warm
Close enough to taste the salt of your skin
So just kiss me and again
So I can feel something
Feel anything but this gnawing disquiet and
The distance that grows wider
With each lecture on prowess
Each pointed verbal finger
That highlights the reasons why
Guilt should be paramount
I don’t care about the reasons why
Rather, I care about the closeness
The flesh contact and eye grip
Instead of the sinking depths
That come under the definition
Of Love

12311285_10153669923140851_5453216581517975899_n©MelanieMcCurdie2016

Body Bliss

Suggested Musical Accompaniment

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SiK3YH4k1p4

I stand at the window, the opaque red curtains blowing in the night air, pressing their meagre weight against my bare flesh, moulding against it. The breeze is delicious, like chilled hands running over my body, teasing my nipples til they stand taut. The fire burns inside me, throbbing like a wounded beast striving for its end, making me gasp as I run my fingers against my clit. I’m thinking of you, the images conjured behind my eyes bringing a jolt of pleasure with each passing moment, slow moments pushing me closer to release. I can almost feel your breath on my neck, the implied warmth of your body rising a wave of pleasure that screams through my veins. I feel the release as it breaks, my muscles thrumming as wetness bursts forth when you touch me. I’m afraid for a moment, I thought I was alone, and find I like it, and crave more.

You rub my shoulders, your rough hands soothing as they travel down the long length of my spine, moulding them to the form of my ass before sliding back up, and around to cup my breasts. The touches ignite the small flame into a roaring fire animal, clawing its way free. Pinching my nipples as your lips caress my skin, stopping to linger on the tattoo on my shoulder.

feeling-of-lust

Still sensitive, I shiver and attempt to pull away, an effort halted before it begins. Your hand finds my throat, gripping it firmly, the other hand slipping down my abdomen and across my mound of Venus pushing my hand away and settling on my clit. You aren’t gentle, turning into a demon with the sweet somethings you are whispering into my ear, all the things you wil do to me, making me gasp for air, in pleasure and anticipation as you strum the tender nub.

I lean into you, placing my arms over my head and around your neck as you pull me hard against you, breath heavy on my neck as your hand finds my sopping pussy, roughly shoving two fingers inside me and hammering as I hoped you’d do with your dick soon. I rock my hips against your hand, breathing fast as I begin to shiver. I cum in an explosion, monaing as I drench your fingers. Your grip on my throat relaxes and I gasp as your pull your digits free.

Turning around, I press my self against you, and feel your arms close around me as I stare up into your green eyes, barely visible through the soft cotton mask you wear. “Hi. You’re back early,” I whisper, reaching up to lick your lips and you shake your head, leaning away. You point to the floor and I raise my eyebrow, a slow smile curving my lips as I shake my head and take your hand. You follow without a word, openly watching my progress with blazing eyes that move all over my back and behind. I stand you in front of the lazyboy, and push you backwards into it, before placing my knees on either side of your hip, raking your hair with my nails.

I can feel your arousal through your jeans and wriggle against it, relishing the way its length feels against my fold. Still you don’t touch me and I feel a frenzy building in my centre as I lean down , my long hair covering our faces and take your lower lip in my teeth with a low growl. I feel you twitch beneath me as I begin to suck on your lip, my tongue tracing the inner length and probing to gain entry, desperate for your touch and becoming frustrated. I lean back and stare at you, before smiling and sliding off of your lap, letting my breasts trail down your chest and feeling the jersey of your shirt tug at my hard nipples. Pulling your belt free, I tear open the button and slide the zipper open, placing my hand over the swaddled erection and hear your sharp intake of breath.

Sitting back on my heels, I invite you to unsheath your beast and you snarl at me, coming at me from your seated position and grabbing my throat kissing me hard, while yanking down your pants. I grasp in my fist, fingers overlapping but a little and begin to move my hand up and down and feeling it grow harder yet in my hand. Your hand finds my hair and you pull it gently, tilting my head back and biting at my colllarbone. Lightening bolts of pleasure send shivers through by body as I feel your lips on my breast, sucking hard on the nipple and making me gasp. I hold your head tighter to me as I increase speed on my movements. “Stop.” and I do at the tone of your voice, a little afraid and exhilerated as well.

You rise to your feet, still with your hand in my hair, and pull my towards your member, forcing it into my willing mouth with a groan. It’s hot length makes my mouth water and I devour it, tightening my lips around the shaft as I take you deep. while gently massaging your balls and scratching lightly. Dragging my teeth along the shaft I pull back, I flatten my tongue against it, the feeling of it slide and pull slightly along the contures until your tip is just inside my lips. Back and forth, in and out, I lick and suck your raging arousal like a lollipop and your moans of pleasure do litle more than encourage, relishing the way you are fucking my mouth with abandon.

“Stand up” I flick my eyes up to you, and bite down slightly, enjoying the fleshy feeling between my teeth. You yank my hair, forcing me to my feet before scooping me up in your arms and striding to the bedroom. THe room is dark, the red walls look like they are bleeding in the candlelight as you place me on the bed and tear off your shirt. The look in your eyes excites me and I back up slightly as they narrow, your tongue slipping out to lick your lips with an expression that makes me feel like food. Slowly you climb on the bed, your hands running up my thighs to my waist and pressing hard against the small of my back, pulling me closer before dipping to lap at my pleasure centre, making me shiver. I feel my lower lips swelling with the fluids of my desire as your tongue dances along my folds, and you delve inside me, once, twice and all the way in as i draw in a breath before pulling your head tighter against my honeypot.

I writhe in your hand, rocking my hips against your mouth as you torture my clit ruthlessly, and insert your fingers inside me, fucking me as you lave my sensitive button until I scream and cum, and fill your mouth with my pleasure. You don’t stop and my body begins to shake as you tease my ruder spot with your thumb as you thrust harder, nearly violently, growling as you pinch my clit. “cum. Now” You snarl, biting down gently and inserting a third finger inside. I explode again, my breath gasping in my lungs as you give a final thrust and pull your hand away.

A chuckle from under your breath draws me out of my bliss and I open my eyes to find you looming over me, caught by the intense green gaze as you lift your hand to peel off the mask. I shake my head, wrapping my long legs around your waist as I wrap my arms around your neck, “leave it on,” I whisper, rising to nip at your throat, “I like it.” Agreement comes as you push your prestigious rod into my hollow, making me squirm in delight at the feeling of it caressing my inner walls, making them flutter as it fills my emptiness deliciously. I rise up against you, feeling your arms around my waist bringing me closer as you bury yourself inside me to the hilt, resting in my sheath.

Tenderly, you press your lips to mine, holding me close as you withdraw from my core, the wetness gushing from my folds as you nearly pull out and drive forward again, and again, your arms holding me tightly. I feel a crescendo building, each time you thrust into me I feel it rise, and I use my nails to claw at your back, digging deeper each time. Each entry is full force, and you let go of me and grasp my nipples, pulling hard and making me scream in pain and pleasure. “Stand up” your voice is rough and full of gravel as you tear off the mask, causing a silver tingle of delight as I slide off the bed and stand before you, my inner thighs glistening in the moonlight. You lead me to the couch, and fold me over the edge before holding my hips and impaling me yet again with your member, hammering hard and fast. Moaning I tease my clit, feeling my climax rushing at me like a cannonball as you pummel my body, I feel you stiffen, and your hot cum bounces off my inner walls. It’s more than I can bear and I cum moments later, screaming your name as I grind against your groin, desperate to ride it through.

I stand up, with you still inside me, and shaking from the force of the orgasm as you kiss my neck murmuring promises of more, and I smile as you grow hard within me once again.

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Books available on Amazon for Kindle and in Paperback
Books available on Amazon for Kindle and in Paperback

The Message

The skulls waver in whispery rattles

Dead snapdragons along the white picket fence, speckled

Dusted here and there with a garish red that could only be real

I can hear her in there struggling, fighting to breath and survive me

I admire her commitment, truly I do

But it’s all in vein, all over the floor…she lays living near the door

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And I sit smoking another joint, bloody and naked

In plain sight of the surveillance camera at the gas station across the street

Knowing full well it can see me, I spread my long legs wide

Exposing my intimate place to the world and making good use of my fingers

Stroke myself off slow then fast, bringing a sober and joyless orgasm flooding

A slight breeze in the face of gale winds, euphoria and elevation reached

Legs slam shut, roach stored for later and I sigh

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Inside, my lover awaits, bound to a chair

At his feet, as before a King she lays trying as she lays dying

His expression torn between lust and desire arousal evident as he squirms in his bonds

Horrified as I dispatch her quickly and am engulfed in her sticky discharge

It tastes salty and hot, coating my face, dripping thickly down my breasts

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In his restraints, he became a beast, roaring in anger and mewling in pain

Groaning around the ballgag I straddle his lap and sink his cock deep

Rocking my hips and scratching my nails across his chest,

It doesn’t take long before he’s ready

Growing larger still as he strains, head thrown back and gag slick with spit

I slice his throat, the skin rolling back, a secondary orgasm he cums blood

Open mouthed, splattering and gurgling

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They’ll find him there, till in his chair, still in his throes

Death and pleasure, I left him naked

Her resting at his feet like a sacrificial lamb

His tongue shoved deep in her snatch

His flaccid shrivelled dick in her mouth

Rope removed, a note nailed to his chest

I missed a few times leaving embedded marks

Like the last one

@MelanieMcCurdie2015

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Majesty – Rictus

Read Majesty – Metamorphosis

My arrival in this place has left me a bit dazed and disoriented, the bright shiny people sparkled in the filtered light, not an unflawed face to be found. Dressed in my best, where once I felt fetching enough to please the eye, I’m now left floundering in a sea of couture that couldn’t be real.   Pulling my small bag behind me, camera equipment that would mean the death of everyone near and dear should it vanish, in my tight grip, I wandered down the concourse. More shiny things invaded my eye and dampened down my self-confidence further twinkled in the lights. My employer has insisted I come to this place, much to my chagrin  I would prefer to be home and in the company of those fabulous bitches, my sisters.

As I exit the concourse, I see people hugging, laughing, crying.  They fall into each others embrace, so thankful to have their loved ones back in their arms.  It won’t last.  It never does.  What sounds like an explosion shatters the joyful sounds and the bystanders scatter like quail, most screaming like fools.  A man approaches me, crouched like some Neanderthal and grunting just the same  and attempts to pull me to the floor,  I throat punched the fucker and watched his body drop like a rock.   Glancing over my shoulder, I see a  body lying in an untidy heap, the top of its head a raw mess of bloody brainmeal and bone.   A small child stands, her fists clenched at her sides as she howls her terror to the roof, the terrified thing  screaming as what is presumably her father’s blood drips down her tiny face.  Fascinated, I turn and openly observe her grief, finding the raw emotion intoxicating.  The bystanders are creeping back, their eyes wide as they take in the mess that lies before them with sickened smiles on their lips and their phone’s clicking away as they record it.   And they say I am mad. They are correct of course.

Against my better judgement, and my nature, I stride to the child and kneel down in the rapidly cooling pool of blood, feeling my knees slide slightly as I do. Taking the distraught child by her narrow shoulders, I murmur, “Darling, where is your mother?”   Her lips tremble and her eyes eat up her face, growing larger with each moment she struggles to speak.  I whisper into the pink shell of her ear, “Your mommy sweetheart.  Where is your mommy?”  Her honey blonde hair smells like strawberry and copper, and it mixes unfavourably with the scent of her anguish. She falls into my arms, her frail little body shaking relentlessly and I am taken aback.  And  a little bothered by it.  Her breath comes in a harsh sobs against my shoulder, “Dead. There is only Daddy and me.  And now I’m alone…” her small sweet voice nearly sings, the jingle of dozens of tiny bells that contrasted sharply with the gore splattered anguish I saw on her face as she lifted her head.

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A woman’s scream,  loud as the clarions of hell shatters the nearly heartfelt moment, and the child’s face freezes. She bares her small teeth in a biting smile that spreads slowly across her gore splattered lips, and becomes still and cold as steel.  Raising an eyebrow, I ask, “Your mother, Demon? Let me give you a tip.  Next time make sure your other parent isn’t in the same building. It’s more believable. ” I drop my arms from around the little monster  and rise to my feet, disgusted by the sensation of the now cold fluid sliding thickly down my legs. Meeting her mother’s eyes I smile, enjoying the way she recoils and backs up a step, and trips over her husband’s corpse,  landing on her ass with a dull thud.  I laugh at her, at her shocked and pale face, her legs sprawled over the  corpse of her husband.  It earned me some filthy looks but I didn’t care.  I grab the handle of my bag, and snatch a handful of paper towels from the cart as I passed her, heading for the nearest washroom and leaving bloody wheeltracks in my wake.  “Charming child you have.  Good luck lady. You’ll need it.”

The  washroom sink did little to remove the blood from my legs or the hem of my once pristine ivory skirt. Sadly it would have to be thrown away, and that distresses me more than the missing ride that was to meet me. My little journey into the game of a junior psychopath has delayed me grievously, and left me stranded. So be it.  I could find my own way, I thought as I exited.    A dangerously familiar voice growls at my ear bare seconds before an arm halts my movement,  causing a shiver of fear and thrill to ripple over my skin.  “You’re late”  Hot breath, on my neck sends more chills coursing over my flesh and causes me to try to twist away.  “Not my fault. Apparently the psychos per capita is high here. See? Blood on my hands. Please let me go,” I throw back, my heart racing as my mouth runs away with itself, in defence.

“The car is waiting. Come with me,” My benefactor appears at my side, an appreciative smirk on his lips as his hand falls to the small my back and propels me forward even as I hesitate  I’m angry that his is attempting to handle me, and a little afraid as well.  He is bigger than I am, but should it come to it, I could take him down. And would if I had my chance. Survival of the fittest after all.  “That child, should she survive her childhood and not be caught would certainly be one of the most prolific killers of our time.  You’d do well to keep your eye on her.  I know you had someone there.”  I bit the inside of my cheek hard, cursing myself in a filthy inner monologue that I was sure would surprise the most profane in my world, for attempting small talk with this man.

A limousine awaits us by the curb, its midnight shimmering in the bright sunlight, nearly blinding my eyes. I hiss, slapping my shades over my blues and snicker at my own hilarity. It earned me a stare that froze my blood, and made me chortle even louder. “Deal. It was funny. You should get a sense of humour.  It appears you’ve lost yours.” I smile in his direction, feeling it lie corpse-like on my lips, a rictus rather than genuine.   A large hand takes my bag from my grip, having to pry my fingers from the handle and a very large man places it carefully in the trunk, along side a bound and gagged woman, her eyes wide and pleading on mine. “I’d rather that travels with me, if you don’t mind,” I mention as I stare curiously, “Obvious reasons aside, it’s fragile and she’s desperate.” He glances at my benefactor, who nods, and removes my luggage to the inner sanctum of the vehicle,  before gesturing that I should enter. A light shove gets me moving and I climb into the spacious interior, amazed at the way it muffles the sounds of the screaming from the trunk. The door slams shut and I sit on the long leather backseat, My eyes taking in the individual before me.

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“Why am I here?” I asked, less than respectfully and earn myself yet another hair-raising stare, and no answer. Typical. He was still staring, his eyes felt like a tongue running across my skin.  “You can’t keep it from me forever. I will find out…eventually.  And stop that.  I’m not your afternoon snack.”  That mildly threatening look had taken on a predatory glint that was beginning to make me angry. “Fuck this. I’m getting out,” I snapped, reaching across to open the heavy door to my freedom and sanity. I’d come far enough without this shit to make my life miserable.  His hand finds my throat, the palm squeezing just hard enough to cut my air by half and inflict a small amount of pain, soliciting a unwelcome groan to escape my lips and few choice adjectives to punctuate my displeasure. “You don’t get to touch me. Let me go,” I demand, and feel his hand tighten in response.

His lips brush my jawline and linger, his tongue running over the thin membrane where my carotid pulses. “I could cause you serious harm,” he murmurs then presses his lips lightly over the lightly throbbing skin. “From the feel of your heart rate, I’d say that excites you.”  I don’t respond, won’t deign to give him one, and shiver slightly before pulling free.  Impressively ballsy son a bitch he is, and I slap his handsome face. “You don’t intimidate me. Stop trying.  Now tell me why I’m here.”  He gestures for me to sit closer to him while pushing a button on the armrest. The car pulls out amid a flurry of horns and presumable irate drivers. Frankly, I wish myself back on a plane to anywhere but beside this man, but I did as he requested nonetheless.  “The woman in the trunk is to be your crowning achievement. Photographic evidence,  shall we say,  for our employer. Would you walk away from that?”

Photographic evidence. I look out the window at the busy freeway, the nondescript downtown cityscape that looked like a hundred that Id been in at the behest of my employer. The woman in the trunk could be anyone. Could have done anything. Or nothing. An innocent.   I prefer my own victimology, making my choices situation by situation. “Who is she,” not bothering to meet his eyes. His stare crawls greedily over my face, like fingers probing my expression. Silence. I despise this lack of forthcoming information and the mere fact he’d deliberately fallen speechless lights the fuse of my long-buried anger. It had been months since I allowed myself to drop the mask, and I turn my eyes to meet his. “I expect an answer. Or I’m gone and YOU can explain to the boss.” Unflinchingly I hold his attention, fully for a change, and I feel a small charge of victory as he shifts in his seat, interestingly uncomfortable. The car had taken a offramp and  is rolling to a stop when I grab my bag with one hand and fling the door open with the other. “Continue this delightful conversation on your own. I’ve heard enough bullshit,” I throw at him, sliding from where I’d sat and  rise to my feet.

I hadn’t been paying attention. I should have paid attention. My eyes meet the too wide ones of some soccer mom, her streaked blonde hair an obvious holdover from her glory days.  She’d been listening to some ear vomitus boy band, their inane tones cut off in mid harmony, thankfully. The electric window whines as she leans over, pointing. I flip her the fuck finger as I yank my bag out of the door behind me, and see her jaw drop.  A light tugging on my blouse warns me just before a hole appears dead centre in her forehead, spraying the seats behind her with brain matter and gore.

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“Get in now,” his deceptively calm voice commanded. I  barely heard him over the ringing in my head. Not a request, I realised, as the itch started to intensify at the back of my neck. He had a weapon, and I was unarmed. My desire to be through with this situation dies then with a whimper. I had no wish to be shot screaming in the street. Placing my bag inside, I climb back into the vehicle, and slam the door hard behind me. “You motherfucking idiot. You SHOT her. In broad daylight. With Witnesses. Damned close to me too asshole. What the fuck is your problem?”

“Finally, there’s the girl I know. Still haven’t forgiven me have you? Come now Princess. Say your glad to see me, and let’s kiss and make up.” His snicker at what just occurred enrages me and I slip closer to his proximity to glare into his ruggedly handsome face. No. I hadn’t.  Some things can never be forgiven, let alone forgotten. “Did you just call me Princess? Kiss and make up? Are you fucking INSANE? Let me out. NOW.”His less than respectful snickers turn into outright guffaws at my demands, and my mask slips slightly, affording him a glance at what others had only seen in moments before death. If nothing else it gives him pause, and cuts the laughter as though with a knife. To my pleasure. “I thought he was full of shit when he told me what you’d become. I didn’t entirely believe him ….apparently I owe hm $5.   Jes? Can’t we let it go? It’s been 10 years.”

Ten years. I despised my still raving attraction to the man, though less so than being thrust into this position. “You left me Zander. Your hands were as bloody as mine. And I was left holding the bag and looking like some idiotic fool to be pitied. I won’t forgive that. Now. Why am I here?” I felt those hateful tears burn my eyes, and I looked past his shoulder at the graffitied walls of the establishments that lined the street. Wherever we were going it certainly wasn’t in the best area of town. Drunken men staggered from a tavern as two women brawled on the cement. I watched captivated as one rammed a small bladed knife into the nape of the others’ neck, and bent her face forward as she pulled it free, bathing in the up splash of red that coated her face and neck. I watched from the rear window until they were all but gone, my heart beating hard against my ribs. Desire, that self-centred cunt, made me water at the mouth with want. I was hungry.

“To photograph one of the most prolific men in the world creating art in death. As he creates and causes it.” Zander says, from close behind me, his hand resting on my shoulder.  Utter disbelief floods my mind. The woman in the trunk was to be the canvas in which my employer visited his attentions. I disapproved of this. How one chooses to expedite the death of another is personal. Each kiss, each cut, each method of inflicting pain an intimate experience. “Bullshit. No artist reveals his methods until the finished product is ready. Try again.  Please stop touching me Zander.”   My cellular screams, a ringtone I found most amusing, startling me from the danger zone I was drifting into. Pulling it from my pocket, I feel a chill run it’s icy nails up my spine and spared Zander a glance before hitting the answer button.

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“Jes. Stop arguing. Accept it. Kiss and make up – this is a happy time.  Together we will make history. See you shortly.” Just those words were enough to kill the fight. The Boss had spoken and I slumped back against the seat with a sigh, frustrated and defeated.  Zander’s palm finds my cheek and he turns my head so that I am looking into the face of the one who abandoned me.  “Come on Jes.  You know you’re happy to see me. Why pretend?  I’m happy to see you.”  The warmth of his skin on mine makes my heart turn over in my chest, and I glare back at him with all the venom I could muster.  “You left me. You hit me with a fucking HAMMER and you left me.”  My fists pummel him, landing in a flurry of untimed hits, one glancing off his jawline and causing my finger to screech in flared pain.  “I fucking hate you!!!!” I try to say, my thoughts barely coherent  under the intoxication of his lips on mine.  I barely register his arms around me, or that I ‘d been moved onto his lap, lost to the familiarity of his touch and the desire.

The car slows to a stop in front of an ill-kept home on the outskirts of town, its windows sparkling in the fading light, most unusually whole.  I slid off of Zander’s lap, feeling that regretful emptiness that always comes after love, and smooth my skirt down over my thighs once again before buttoning my blouse once again.  His hands slip inside, cupping my breasts with a proprietary air, and I slap his hands away. “Enough.  It’s time to work.  You’re dick is hanging out. Tuck it in and zip it up big boy.”  He pouts in a way he always thought was sexy but only made him look like a 7-year-old denied his toys, and I snickered.  “You’re still a bitch.” I shrug, and deny nothing, placing my hand on his still semi hard cock and licking his cheek.  “I didn’t’ hear you complaining.  Stop whining and open the door.”  I could see the driver climbing the steps to the rickety front door, the woman’s limp body over his shoulder, and was anxious escape my confines.   I could almost smell it, taste it in the air.  To see the artist at work, to document his process was gold in my palm.  Zander looks out the window a moment, his hand on the door handle, before looking back at me soberly.  “Jes, have you ever met the boss?”

I draw back a little, wary at the odd question.  “I’ve spoken with him only on the phone and via email.  Written always in code of course.  Why?” I remember thinking he was like a wet blanket, smothering my excitement with this cautious tones.  This was my playground and I wanted to play. “He’s quirky.  Sorry,”   “What the fuck did you? Zander….I’ll ….” The world is cloudy as I fall backwards onto the seat, the hand I’d clasped to my neck tumbling away.  “I am sorry Jes. I’ll see you soon.”

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@MelanieMcCurdie2015

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