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Invisible Lines (Novella)

It's Lovely. It's Horrible.

by Kathleen Bradean


erotic fictionAt some point, it stops being fun. When you grab a delicious black-haired young thing in smudged eyeliner on the dance floor of a semi-legal basement club to devour his lips and grind against his hand so he can feel the drenched heat between your thighs, then you're all hair-pulling, lip-sucking want and need groping for the fire exit on your way to getting nasty against a bin in the alleyway and you find out he's a she, at least equipment-wise, but you don't give a shit because she knows instinctively to finger fuck you with three digits at once and bang her knuckles against your clit, it's wonderful. At least it is the first ten or twenty or sixty times. But when you have to do it every night just to keep sane and even the reeking drunkard who talks to himself on the metro platform backs away when you turn haunted, heavy-lidded eyes on him, appraising his cock while you absent-mindedly smear the rest of your red lipstick across the back of your hand, that's when you tell yourself how much you hate this damned game.

That's why I won't bite you no matter how much I want to sink my teeth into your nipple and feel the pop of your flesh ripping apart before the warm gush of blood. No, that isn't why. In honesty, I won't bite you because you're not It and I won't drag an innocent into this un-merry chase.

I'm not a vampire. See? Normal human teeth. I'm not one of those head cases who thinks she's a vampire either. It isn't about blood. It's about hunger. I have it and it's eating me up heart, soul, and brain. It's all I think about.

At the tag, the hunger spills into me. Suddenly, it's my turn to be the Seeker. Exhaustion can't hold me down. And I am exhausted then, much as I am now. Tired of the pursuit; weary from catching the midnight train to Paris; the first flight to Dubai; jumping from the last rung of a fire escape in Manhattan; running, running, shouldering between the revelers thronging the streets of Stockholm after a World Cup win while my lungs sear, until It's cornered and I'm yanking up my skirt, lusting for the bite as much as I fear my coming turn.

This is when I lean forward, elbows on my thighs, chin resting on my hands, my smile working its magic on you. You know you should get up and move to another car in this train before we reach Cardiff because I'm talking crazy and there's a rip in the knee of my black stockings that reveals a scabby scrape. Dodgy, you're thinking. The collar of my jacket looks as if it’s the pelt of something that died from mange, even though it's as faux as the jet beads clattering between my small breasts-- and yes, I saw your glance. They're the color of milk, you're probably thinking. If you look closely at them, you can see the blue lines of my veins under my skin and now your mind is wandering back to the vampire question but I assure you that I don't drink blood and I can walk in sunlight. I just don't have time to get a tan because all I have is this terrible, unquenchable hunger and the ravenous need to find It. All else pales, even my skin. 

From the furrow in your brow, that admission has you worried. Ever since I plopped into this seat across from you, you've been casting glances at the other passengers to check what they might think of me, and of you. But you won't give up your seat because my eyes are wide and honest in that vulnerable doe way that brings out the chivalry in men. You're enchanted. You can't help yourself.

And aren't you just so presentable? That suit of yours is bespoke. I can spot the difference between very high end off-the-rack suits and custom tailoring. Your Italian shoes were shined this afternoon, after the rain. You're so exquisitely proper that you're simply begging to be mussed. A fine suit on a man-- has no one ever told you this?-- is like black lace French knickers and stiletto pumps on a woman. The stuff of dirty daydreams. I'll bet you've never guessed how many times your jacket has been mentally peeled from your shoulders, or how many women have imagined your long fingers gripping their hips from behind.

Oh now, I've spooked you. It isn't easy hearing that you've been reduced to a sex object. And yet, it's a bit flattering too, isn't it? I see that nervous smile. If you square your shoulders, lift your chin, and tighten that tie one more time, you're going to have trouble breathing, and I can hear how labored it is already. Acute hearing comes with the role of Seeker. I can also hear your pulse speeding up, and I know why.

Fear. Arousal. Your body can't tell the difference. Can your brain? 

Nothing like this has ever happened to you before. Your life was preordained not to include a moment like this, only now I've come along and hopelessly befuddled all that, haven't I? Your life was supposed to be unremarkable, from birth to death. Right schools, right job, right wife... or is that husband? Forgive me, I'm an American and even though I've spent the past two years fleeing and chasing all over this planet, I still miss signals from English-- sorry, Welsh-- men. And frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn because before long you're not going to care either. It's part of the game, the way I can get to you, get past your preferences, make you share my hunger. You are so bored that even with every alarm clanging inside your staid mind you can't resist hearing me out because you're proud that I picked you from all the other people on this train and you so desperately want to be special, just once. Don't be insulted. Everyone feels that way. Everyone.

 Our theory about the game is that it makes us exude pheromones, because we have no problem finding willing sex partners to temporarily quench our need. Ultimately, that delaying tactic stops working for us and we have to come together again. Have to. Want to. Desire is horrible and fantastic and frustrating and consuming. In the end, you need the Seeker so bad that even when you want to keep running you can't and the Seeker draws ever closer as you're trembling and standing on the edge of a precipice too afraid to leap even though you know the tag will bring relief. Fear. Arousal. The same thing in this game.

 I'm going to get up soon. I'm going to walk down that aisle to the back of the car. You aren't going to turn to watch me even though you'll want to so badly that it will take every drop of your resolve to keep staring straight ahead. You're going to take your copy of the Financial Times out of that swell briefcase by your feet and snap it as if slightly irritated. And even though you've already read it, you aren't going to be able to remember a single word you're looking at. When you think that twenty minutes have passed, you're going to check your watch. You're going to see that it's only been seven minutes. Maybe eight. Whatever you do, you're not going to glance around to see if people are looking at you. You're going to open your paper to the second page and pretend to read it. If you check your watch again, you're going to be extremely discreet about it. Then you'll look at the scenery for a while. When twenty-two minutes have passed, you may come to the loo, or water closet, or whatever you call it where I will be waiting.

I said may, because this is entirely up to you even though you might feel as if you've been compelled. You have, but you haven't. No is a word I've come to worship. Sometimes I catch myself intoning it, "No, no, no," but by now it's a meaningless sound on my lips. It might still have power for you. I almost hope it does. And yet, while I'm still here, I'm cleverly attacking every weakness I can detect in you to get around your reservations because when you're starving, the temptation to steal a tasty morsel is almost unbearable. So please feel free to say yes.

Despite the fact that your cock is hard and you've already almost convinced yourself that it will be all right just this once to take what I'm offering to you, the moment I leave you're going to think about snakes and apples. You're going to question if a rational man would ever accept forbidden fruit especially when it appears as feral as I do. You're going to think of these things because I am putting the thought into your head. I want you, if only for a moment, to ponder the existence of God, of angels, demons.

When this first started, we called it a virus, but as the game continued, we began to speak of it as a demon. When you stop living in the real world and are driven by nothing but desire, you start to believe your existence might be hell. The need possesses us-- transferred, we assume, by the bite, which is why no matter how overwhelming the urge, I won't sink my teeth into you. We've decided that this is a game for two, even if playing it kills us, because we can't bear the thought of dragging someone else into it despite how exhausted we are. I mentioned that before, didn't I? I'm so weary that I talk in circles. But I think even if my legs were broken, I'd still drag myself across the Gobi Desert by my fingernails to tag It.

The days immediately after the tag are anguish for both of us. We stay together even though we're like the same poles of magnets; we can actually feel the repulsion forcing us apart. But we endure it so we can spend some time together before the game begins again. We sleep, mostly. We squabble over who left the lavatory untidy. We sit in cafés, watch normal people from behind our sunglasses as if we're at the zoo, drink strong coffee and pick at our food. We spread salves over our bite wounds and apply bandages. It's all very domestic.

Anyway, I was speaking of the loo where I will be waiting for you. In the movies, sex against the wall looks hot, but I've learned -- learnt?-- to hate it. You're so much taller than I and it's hard to come when I'm standing. I'd offer to let you recline on the ground and straddle you, but really, I'm in adore with your suit. Honestly. I can't bear the thought of that material touching the piss splatters and damp squares of toilet paper on the floor of that bathroom, so I'll be the one rolling in the filth. Look at this outfit. Do you think it matters to me? Or, if you're feeling overwhelmed, I'll line the seat of the toilet with paper and you can sit like a king on his throne while I take your hard cock into me because I want to keep you tidy and clean just the way you are now. I want you to be able to go home to your proper life and look as if you hadn't had an adventure. I don't want any part of this to become real for you.

Ooh. I saw the sparkle in your eye. Adventure appeals to you. You were once the nation of privateers, bawdy Elizabethans and decadent Victorians. That blood still burns in your veins, does it? Lusty boy. I knew I picked the right man. If I didn't feel so protective of you, I'd slip my hand under my skirt and douse my fingers in my juices. I'd draw a wet line across your upper lip and dare you to taste it, although imagining your tongue makes me shiver. The thought of having you inside me has my clit puffed up and stiff. One flick, and I'd come. I'm as drenched and torpid as a tropical jungle. If I spread my thighs to release some of this heat that's driving me mad, my scent will fill this car.

I see your nose twitching. You're trying to smell me. Patience. I'll unbutton your shirt and draw runes across your chest in slick cunt juice if you want me to. I'll kneel on the fetid floor and unzip your trousers. My lips will slide down your shaft with a tight grip that will remind you of the only time you tried anal sex.

Do me a favor and don't come from just that. If only you knew how good a hard cock feels inside-- or maybe you do. Tomorrow, when I wake, I want my pussy to ache. I want to know I've been fucked. I want a guilty smile to spread over my lips and a damp spot on my panties as I remember how nasty we were. Do you want to know what women really want? They want to see all-consuming desire on their lover's face. Reason wiped out by pure lust for her. They want to see that they make you so crazy that you can barely control yourself. So don't be gentle. I hate gentle. Because you have such lovely fingers, so manicured, so long, I'll face away from you and hope you'll bruise my hips with them. I'd like that trophy. Ten perfect purple-yellow fingerprints on my skin. It would help me remember you.  

Oh dear. That look on your face. Maybe we better wait thirty minutes instead of only twenty. You need time to cool down, but we don't have that long before we pull into the station, do we? Well, think of cricket, or England, or something dreadfully dull for the next twenty minutes then either come to me or don't. I hope you do. Sex is the only way to sate this hunger and I am so very, very hungry. Ravenous. It gets worse the longer the game goes on.

It's waiting for me in Cardiff. He just can't run any longer. I can feel him, every heartbeat, every fear, every longing. That's how the Seeker tracks It. This is part of our curse. It isn't love, this thing between us. Never was. We're trapped in mutual obsession. It's lovely. It's horrible. I wish it would end. I think it will kill me.

© 2012 Kathleen Bradean. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.


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