... die... there and then... | By: Peter Hunter | | Category: Short Story - Novel Bookmark and Share

... die... there and then...

… die… there and then… Peter Hunter … I wasn't sure if I was alert - or fumbling in semi-reality… maybe still dreaming - or the transition between the semi-conscious intoxication of not wanting to - not having to wake up and face hard cold fact… but Bobbi, her slim body was - and had been - very real… … of that I was certain… … her full breasts, the swell of her nipple filling my palm as I cupped one in my hand - her small round bum - the warm, moist patch at the hinge of her endless thighs… … they were at least an aching, almost painful tingling reality - as were her kisses and above all the soft, sensual feel and slight pleasant aroma of her skin… … again reality why, I thought, did so many people wear things like night clothes and such, in bed… did they not realise how much they were missing? … the almost searing sensation of exciting warmth where parts of me touched her … but… Bobbi had not been relaxed… … she wanted more and more… more of what I had done… more than I was at this moment capable of giving her… 'Bobbi…' I suspected, she'd think my tone serious '… what on earth do you see in me - a man more than twenty years older than you? … You're beautiful, successful - a celebrity, and have so much going for you?' Bobbi laughed in that delicious husky chuckle, hinting at some arcane knowledge. 'Trakka - don't be so naïve… I have had lots of men - too many to count - most of them not worthy of being called men. But you… the others? How many of them have your skills, seen and done what you have. I know you could look after me… … whatever the emergency… Have you any idea of how attractive that is - the sexual effect of the power you have… … real power - the power of life and death…?' We agreed that… as I was lacking in energy or enthusiasm, at least on her terms. I would stay in her flat and she would go out alone for the evening - for a drink at one of her regular haunts… … a seedy subterranean wine bar in Mount Street, Mayfair. As I slid into the greyness of hopeful sleep, I thought of the history of the location of the flats… St Georges Fields was built on five acres of what had been a large cemetery, not just where they had buried the cadavers of the unfortunates hanged at nearby Tyburn, now modern Marble Arch… … but which had earlier served as a plague pit - a mass grave for thousands. Earlier - whilst leaving my Land Rover in the underground car park, I had been very conscious of that fact. Did the earth around the cavernous car spaces still contain bones I wondered - or had they removed them before building the gardens and the three hundred flats above them…? … and were their ghosts still there - as when parking in the empty small hours they appeared to be… Now I seemed to be rapidly spinning… … down - down -down, through a steep black spiral into a deeply pointed vortex below - some sinister whirlpool taking me helplessly into I know not where…? I saw myself as clearly a baby… a tiny baby… somehow I could tell I was only a few hours old… … and my mouth reached out towards the reassuring dimpled pinkness of a nipple only an inch away… except it didn't taste of milk - it was like some sort of filthy vinegar… … my mother must be poisoning me - delivering it from her own breast - but I could not resist the strange fluid, as it trickled into my mouth, slightly acid but fatally exciting… … and slowly - ever so slowly I died… End © Peter Hunter 2012 Extract from … death of an Eroticist… Amazon and Kindle

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