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Authors: Jeff Gelb

BOOK: Dark Passions

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“Gonorrhea. What are you talking about?”

“It can cause the baby to go blind, or have a joint infection, or even a life-threatening blood infection.”

He put down his beer. “This is stupid,” he said as he tried to get up out of the chair. He fell back.

“Yeah,” she said. “It is stupid. As stupid as fucking around without using a condom and then coming home and fucking your pregnant wife.”

He was blinking his eyes and trying to stand up. “What did you do to me?”

She smiled and continued tapping my head into her palm. “Not much ... yet.”

I felt the thrill of anticipation. I wasn't sure if it was hers or mine.

She had grown strong while building the nursery. Still it was a struggle for her to strip off his clothes and lift him. She tied him to a ladder, then propped it up in the doorway of the new nursery. The baby kicked and turned inside her.

The first nail was the most difficult. She wasn't used to the soft feel of flesh being penetrated by steel, and she was rocked by horror and doubt. But I fed her my strength, and we drove that first one home.

Waves of pleasure swept through me with each blow. And when my head met the flesh, that pleasure spilled through my shaft and into her hand. She gasped. Revulsion and desire created a tumultuous sea of whirling emotions. Her child shifted inside her. Anger once again rose to the surface and ruled. She drove a second nail through the wrist of his right arm.

We used five-inch nails that went deep into the wood, pounding the protruding part of the nail over and down so he couldn't pull himself free. The final nail pegged his feet to the oak flooring. She removed the ladder when she was finished and let him hang there.

Her husband woke with a moan. He tried to move but was held fast. His eyes fluttered open, muddled and unaware. She watched and enjoyed as understanding flooded into them.

He struggled, trying to pull himself free as he screamed in pain and fear. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She stood in front of him, tapping me gently into her palm. Waves of delicious anticipation rolled over us.

She walked up to him and ran my claw down his chest, pressing a little as it reached a nipple so that I scraped until he yelped and bled.

“Baby, please,” her husband begged. “I'm sorry I cheated. I ... I don't know what got into me. I promise I'll never do it again. Please ...” He was crying, snot dripping from his nose and across his lips. “Please ...”

“Cheating I could have lived with,” she said as she brought me back up the side of his chest to the other nipple.

“Oh fuck, stop it, stop it,” he screamed.

“But you did more than cheat, didn't you? You didn't use a condom.” She pulled me back and brought me down hard on one of his fingers. It cracked and smashed into pulp. I shivered with a building desire.

He screamed.

“I thought you cherished us. I thought you loved us.”

A second finger collapsed under my head.

After the scream, he begged. “I do. I love you both. I didn't mean to hurt you. Please, please let me go.”

“I could have lived with you hurting me,” she said.

A third finger went. Her breath was coming in excited pants.

“Stop. Oh please,” he wailed as more tears and snot ran down across his face.

She once again stroked his chest with my claw. His skin tried to crawl away from my cold steel, but I reveled in its warmth. She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear.

“You endangered our child. Our miracle.”

I ran down the outside of his thigh, then up the inside. He must have known what was going to happen, because he started to writhe.

“Oh God, no.”

The child inside her womb began to kick as she tickled his balls with my claw.

“Please, baby, no.”

She ran me between his legs ...

“No! Stop! Nooo!”

. . . and back between his cheeks.

“And endangering our child is something
you
can't live with,” she said. He screamed. The baby punched at her womb as if trying to escape. She jerked me forward so that my claw hooked on his balls and tore them from their home. Warm, wonderful blood spurted on me as the useless sacks fell away. The sticky wetness poured down my shaft and onto her hand.

He continued screaming, but neither of us cared. Desire ruled us both. She lifted me high, bloody rivulets running down her arm. His skull caved under a stroke we'd perfected together, and I entered the soft gray matter beneath.

His screaming stopped as suddenly as her orgasm exploded upon us.

“Only we exist,” she gasped, breathless, her hand resting gently above our child.

M
ood Eleva
tor

David Benton
and
W. D. Gagliani

T
he brownstone's exterior was classic, if a bit tarnished, but from the moment Susan and her husband entered the lobby, she didn't mind at all. Each of the five floors had been split into two apartments sometime in the past forty years, but it didn't matter because, even so, now they would have more Manhattan space than any three of their friends combined. The rent was steep, of course, but now that Artie booked regular gigs both with his band and as a solo act in Village coffeehouses, and her own salary had recently risen to a more comfortable level, they would make it.

Susan sighed as they waited in front of the elevator for the building manager to show them around. He was late, which didn't inspire much confidence in his managerial skills.

She pondered their situation. Sure, she wasn't burning up the advertising-business ladder or anything like that, but her boss at the agency had taken a liking to her, spotting her talent and nurturing her past several peers. Well, true, Susan had taken to wearing tight sweaters and short skirts, often made of supple black leather, but that was her style, and she was finally able to afford it. And if she tended to leave a few of the top buttons undone on her blouses, that was because the office was always boiling hot, wasn't it? The lacy black bras she sometimes wore under those light blouses were just as much an advantage with clients as they were with Harrison Stims, her boss, whose ad agency had developed a reputation for quick and innovative work. Susan was part of that reputation, and she was proud to have her hard work rewarded with more money and a better office, right next to Harrison's. Thanks to her advancement, this apartment wasn't out of their reach anymore.

She took Artie's hand in hers and squeezed it, raising her eyebrows and hoping to turn his perpetual frown into something like a smile.

“You should be happy,” she whispered. His rough hand in hers didn't respond to the pressure. “This is a great place.”

“We can't afford it,” he said. “We're going to have to stop eating out. And we don't cook.”

“I'll take cooking lessons.”

“Sure. Right.”

“We'll manage. My star's rising at Stims, so it'll get even better.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You'll get more gigs.”

Artie frowned. They both knew he could gig more if he was willing to join a cover band. He wasn't.

Susan shook her head. He just didn't get it.

There was no going back to their old studio walk-up, where you could sit on the pot and make yourself coffee at the same time. Where the heat was more clanging sounds from the registers than actual hot air. Where their friends had to visit in stages because there was only room for a small couch and an armchair (thanks to Artie's pile of equipment, which took up half their living room).

Susan sighed.

Artie made a huffing sound and started tapping his toe.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, you must be the Blanchards, you're gonna love the apartment, let me get my keys.”

Susan turned toward the rapid voice, imagining a geeky stringbean type with a frayed sweater and maybe a weak attempt at a mustache. She was shocked at what she saw when her eyes focused.

“Sorry about that, and my motor mouth,” he said, extending his right hand and smiling. “I'm Mark Anthony, manager and sometime plumber.”

With his left hand he pushed the elevator call button slowly, almost sensually.

Susan gulped and smiled, dumbstruck.

“I'm Art, and this is my wife, Susan,” Artie said. The annoyance was still evident in his tone, but he held out his hand.

She let her eyes rove over Mark's fine features as they stood, awkwardly waiting.

Mark Anthony. Yeah, right!

It was either a stage name or his parents had one hell of a sense of humor. But he did look vaguely like she imagined a Roman centurion mightâpowerful, healthy of body, and possessed of the most limpid dark eyes she'd seen in a long time. Dark hair cropped close to his scalp and yet seeming to flow, lion-like, over his shoulders. His nose had that Roman look, almost too prominent but then not quite, dominating his face but calling attention instead to the full, cherubic lips below. His smile was brilliant and natural, his eyes lighting with sparkles as he shook their hands, Artie's first, then hers, lingering a fraction of a second longer after caressing her skin with his.

Or was she just imagining that?

Either way, Susan hated letting his hand slip away.

The doors suddenly slid open with a slight creak, the car having arrived noiselessly.

The buttons were rounded in the old-fashioned way, three-dimensionally, set in two short parallel rows of three (five floors and the basement, Mark explained). She pushed the top right button and stared at herself in the mirror set just above the panel, noticing that her face was flushed from the heat. At least they wouldn't freeze in this building! Her blouse was opened almost down to her breasts, but her light leather blazer kept her look businesslike. She smiled at her reflection and let her finger linger on the floor button, feeling it yield beneath her pressure. Her breathing quickened.

Mounted on the wall of the car, perpendicular to the controls, was a hinged contraption that appeared to be able to swing down. It was perhaps fourteen inches in length, metallic like a lever but encased in opaque rubber.

Susan felt vaguely unsettled as she examined the lever surreptitiously. When she looked up, she realized that both Artie and Mark were looking at her as if she'd spoken. Or as if she'd flashed her boobs like she had once during Mardi Gras in the pre-flood French Quarter.

A droplet of sweat down the center of her back tickled until it was absorbed by her blouse.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Her lips seemed fuller when she pursed them. Colorful patches dotted her high cheekbones. Her eyes flashed. Behind her, reflected in the mirror, the delectable Mark Anthony was talking to Artie, his hands gesturing.

Susan suddenly wanted one of those hands on her breast. She wanted his fingers to pluck her nipple as if it were a grape on the vine. She raised her hand and caressed the buttons on the board. They were nipples, and she felt them harden under her touch. She placed her other hand on the mysterious lever, encircling it with her slim fingers, feeling it throb as if blood flowed in its veins. It swelled, and she moved her fingers over it teasingly until she thought it would burst. Or she would burst.

“How are the neighbors?” Artie asked.

Susan dropped her hands quickly, guiltily, and turned around to face the two men. Her fingers retained the feel of aroused skin, and she felt wetness between her legs that wasn't sweat.

But she
was
sweating. Another cool trickle seemed to sizzle down her warm back. She shook her head, hoping to clear it.

“Not bad,” Mark said. “Mostly young professionals. A couple of weird artists. Me.” To Susan he said, “I see you've noticed the remains of a bygone age. The elevator operator's seat was screwed to that bracket. It would swing down from the wall so the old guy could sit on it.”

“Oh,” was all she could muster.
Was he leering at her?

Instead of feeling upset, she felt ...
tingly.

The elevator opened, and when she touched the rubber-encased doors, they were like the soft skin of a vagina.

What the hell's the matter with me?
she thought, her breath hitching in her throat.
What am I thinking?

“Fifth floor: beach wear, lingerie, and vacant apartments,” Mark said. He smiled innocently as the three of them slipped out of the elevator.

The hall seemed cool and dark compared to the intense swelter of the elevator. Susan suddenly felt self-conscious, almost embarrassed. She reached down and buttoned the top of her blouse.

Down the hall, a young woman emerged from her apartment. She wore a well-tailored business suit that showed off the gentle curves of her slender body. She carried a briefcase in one hand and her keys in the other and smiled at Mark as she passed them on her way to the elevator.

To Susan the smile seemed too friendly, and she felt an unexpected jab of jealousy surge through her.

“This way,” Mark said, motioning in the direction from which the woman had come. Artie and Susan followed.

Susan looked over her shoulder at the young woman by the elevator. She seemed to be watching them from the corner of her eye as she stepped through the doors. Or, more precisely, she'd been watching their ruggedly handsome guide.

And Susan was envious, envious of her figure, of her features, of her hairstyle, but mostly she was envious of her apparent relationship with Mark Anthony.

They reached the apartment door just as Susan heard the elevator doors slide closed.

Susan took a deep breath and sighed. She was a happily married woman! And, although she could not deny that Mark was stunningly good looking, she knew she loved Artie despite his sometimes cold demeanor.

Get a grip!
she commanded herself.

In the hall, a portrait caught Susan's attention. An old oil painting hung in a gilded frame on the wall.

“Is that Aurora DiLuisas?” she asked.

“Yes, it is.” Mark stepped back to admire the picture, a wide smile on his face. “She was known as âThe Greek Marilyn.' She's our official matriarch. This was actually her building at one time. She died in the early seventies, still fairly young. Sexy thing in her prime, wasn't she?”

“Who is this Aurora-whoever?” Artie asked.

“The actress!” Susan declared, latching onto Artie's arm. She had an urgent need to touch him, to reassure herself that things were all right between them. Or just to
touch
him. She stared at the portrait of a lovely woman, lush red lips parted in near ecstasy, dark eyes flashing below deep red hair piled in a single side-braid. “You know, on AMC. She's a late-night, B-movie queen now but might have made it as big as Melina Mercouri, if she hadn't died.”

“They say she still hangs around, haunting this place,” Mark said, mock fear in his voice. “But I've been here for three years now, and I've never seen any ghosts. It's a great story to tell your friends, though.”

Artie grunted.

Mark winked at Susan and slowly slid the key into the hole. He turned the ornate doorknob, opening the place wide for inspection.

Susan gasped. It was better than she had hoped. The floors were all bare hardwood, except for the art-deco mosaic tiles in the bathroom. She walked through it quickly. The rooms were huge, with high, vaulted ceilings and richly embellished plaster crown moldings. A fresh coat of white paint made everything sparkle. The building still used radiant heat, and there were radiators in the bedroom, the kitchen, and the enormous living room. And she instantly fell in love with the old cast-iron claw-footed bathtub. She envisioned herself in the tub, naked in a mass of bubbles, Markâ
Artie,
she corrected,
Artie
âArtie standing beside her, thrusting his erect member into her mouth. She shivered, and ... the vision faded. She'd never had
that
urge before. She shook her head.

When she looked out the windows, she knew there was no doubt they would take the apartment despite Artie's reservations because the tall double-hungs overlooked the avenue just above the canopy of maple trees lining the street. And after seeing that, there was no returning to the view of the neighboring building's back side she'd had to endure the last five years.

“We'll take it,” she blurted.

“The lease is on the counter. I just need you to sign it, and I'll need the first and last month's rent.”

Susan signed, and Artie did the same, begrudgingly. It was plain to see that he was unhappy about being railroaded into renting the place. His face was stoic as he handed Mark the check. But Susan knew just how to relax him.

“All right, well, here are your keys,” Mark said, setting them on the kitchen counter. “Would you like me to show you out?”

“No, we're going to stay for a little while,” Susan responded, giving her husband a devilish smile.

“Okay!”

Was that a leer again?

She led Mark to the door, said good-bye, and turned to face Artie.

“Damn it, Sue!” Artie glared at her.

“Come on, honey. This place is beautiful. It's just what we always wanted.”

“It's what
you've
always wanted. At least we could have discussed it before signing the lease.”