She got in the car with him, and they drove the short distance to this abandoned parking lot, one whose entrance is somewhat tucked tightly between two buildings, very easy to miss if you don’t know the way. He’s been here before, driven down the cheekily referred to “Lovers’ Lane” to enjoy some private time with the lady of his choice.
This lady has shown to be a good choice. She’s not even making him wear a condom, and the feel of her talented lips moving up and down over him is about to make him burst much sooner than usual. He pushes back against the inside of the front door of his car, having turned sideways to give her better access and send him to heaven, the windows down enough to let in the outside air but not so much as to invite undue intrusion.
She stops, looking up at him, and he opens his eyes, moving his gaze to her.
“You like it?” she asks, almost pleading with that doey look.
“Yes, yes,” he says, quickly, “Don’t stop.”
And she doesn’t.
He moans as she gets back to it, her head bobbing at his crotch.
The parking area is decently sized, though not huge by any means, surrounded on all sides by buildings. It sometimes sees use during the daylight hours for more legitimate purposes, but it now has largely given over to these less legal pursuits, transitioning as it has become forgotten.
There is no one else here now being serviced, the other working girls just down the street, hoping to find some clients and have their own excursions in the parking lot. Things have changed lately, too many girls, too many choices, having to try harder. Certainly the many deaths of young ladies, even the serial killer preying on a subset of those, ought to enter their minds, but it doesn’t. Not all of this information has even been shared with the general public, and even if it has, not all of these ladies partake of such outlets.
Though the two in the car, the driver tensed up and about to blow, and the girl working diligently at getting him there, may be the only here engaging in such transactions, they are not the only ones in the parking lot. Another has snuck in, unseen, bent on secret observation of the goings-on, perhaps even more.
The car moves on its shocks, creating a noise like a large metronome, the man’s steady grunting muffled from within but still an extra instrument to the unusual symphony. The other watches them, waiting, taking it all in.
The man tenses further, the muscles of his legs going taut, and a deeper, longer noise emerges through his bared teeth. One hand shoots out and grabs the steering wheel, moving it, locking it in place, the other grips the top of his seat. The girl’s humming adds to the noises, encouraging him to arrive at the tune’s crescendo.
His eyes bug out as the sensations hit him strongly, and he knows that boiling culmination is near. He’s already seeing things, flashes of bright light, images popping into his awareness. This girl is good. He keeps his eyes wide as his moaning rises in volume, his hips lifting off the seat, those eyes seeing nothing, everything … something?
Whatever it was is lost to his concern as he ejaculates. The girl moves her mouth away just before this happens, experienced enough to know when a john is about to blow, and she pumps rapidly with her hand, and she feels a generous splash of fluid, then more, and it doesn’t take long for her to realize it is too much.
She looks up to see a horror, something that should not be, something that doesn’t quite register in her mind. The guy’s head is gone, cut or torn away, and the stump of his neck spews blood in time with his struggling heartbeats, the convulsing of his body, even as his climax continues, the involuntary clutching at his loins, expending him.
She sees something else, a shape, a movement, but it is dark and fast. She releases her hold on the guy’s spurting, twitching member and brings her hands up like claws, rising up from her tucked in and bent over position, and she prepares to let forth a huge scream. Hardly any of it gets out before she feels a vice-like grip on her head and throat, and then she is also dead.
If anyone else is there watching, they certainly wouldn’t remain much longer after that.
The police are out in force, responding quickly, searching, dropping a figurative net over the area. They feel confident this time. They’ve never gotten a call so soon afterwards, and they have a description from a witness. Someone happened to be walking down the street that runs near the narrow turn into the parking lot, and they heard the noise, and then shortly after, saw a large, dark-skinned man running out of the parking lot, heading away down the street, running fast, not caring of his surroundings.
The witness had gotten only the barest glimpse of his face as he peered in their direction, then took off the other way. Clean shaven, short hair, probably about 1.9 meters tall, hard to tell with how he was sort of flailing as he ran, clearly distressed and in a great hurry. He’d been wearing a green jacket over a white t-shirt and jeans, white athletic shoes.
The police scour the area, looking everywhere, knocking on doors, asking everyone they can. This is the break they need to stop this serial killer. They have an eyewitness description of a suspect. They have to find him.
“Sir?” the patrolman in the passenger seat calls out from the slowly moving car as it brakes to a stop, shining a flashlight at the man’s chest, trying to illuminate him but not blind him. “Sir?”
The man looks over, squinting his pale blue eyes, left hand brought up to block the beam, the raised hood of his gray jacket covering the unwashed disarray of his very blonde hair.
“Yeah?” he says, speaking in a noticeable accent that seems somewhat singular even in this cosmopolitan city.
The beam of the policeman’s torch moves over him. The man is obviously Caucasian, very thin, doesn’t match the suspect’s description.
“Have you seen a black male, approximately …” and the officer lists off the aspects, hoping to get a hit from this guy.
“No, no, I haven’t,” he replies, hands now stuffed in the front pockets of his hoodie, bloodshot eyes narrowed against the beam, staring at the cop car.
“Are you sure?” the patrolman persists. “You haven’t seen anyone that looks like that, maybe running, looking distressed. Heard any unusual sounds around here recently?”
“Around here?”
“Yes, around here, maybe in the last twenty minutes or so?” the cop reiterates, moving the beam of the flashlight about as though encompassing the potential area, though one would assume he means a much larger vicinity.
“No,” the guy says.
“What’s your name? Where’re you from?” the cop tries.
“Ernst van Zyl,” Ernst says. “I’m from Port Elizabeth. South Africa.”
“Aaah, so that’s the accent,” the cop nods.
Ernst just looks at him.
“Alright, well … just be careful.” The car pulls away; the two cops exchange words about the guy’s obvious appearance as a drug user, but they have a bigger fish to catch right now – a shark.
Ernst turns, watching as they drive off.
If you could see the things I see, Officer, he thinks, hear the things I hear. It doesn’t matter how careful you are, they’ll find you, anyway.
*****
“There’s been an interesting development.”
“Oh?” he speaks into the small, mostly unobtrusive earpiece, opting to not use the visual component during this conversation with his mother.
“Things are heating up there.”
“I know that.”
“We received a request for assistance,” she finally reveals.
“What?” comes his genuinely perplexed reply.
“A City Councillor, Dominik Keller, has put out a call for aid that has been relayed to us through one of our channels.”
“Why did this come to us?” he asks, and she cannot help but make note of the question.
“There has been a rash of young women there turning up dead, most attributed to homicide, and what with that beastly serial killer on the loose, it triggered enough criteria for us to be not
ified. You know we’d rather be safe than sorry.”
Of course, he knows this, he’s had a hand in modifying those protocols.
“Well, I am already here, obviously, so-,” he begins.
“But you’re busy with the book, which is taking a lot of time, so I wondered if you might need some more help.”
He waits a moment, feeling like he is being set-up. He loves his mother, dearly, but she can be overbearing sometimes, even manipulative and judgmental, and he also notes her little jab at his continued lingering here in study of the tome.
“I can easily run some checks to see if there is any reason why we’d need to get involved.”
“Well, yes, but I wondered …” she begins, letting her voice trail off in a very characteristic lure of hers.
“Yes?” he bites.
“If we did get involved, maybe helped with this problem, that Councillor would likely feel grateful, and maybe he could help influence a very liberal loaning of the book to us, if not an outright procurement?”
“I don’t want to take that route.”
“Why not?” she throws back, sounding exasperated.
“I have very good access to the book right now.”
“Yes, but what if someone else manages to snatch it away? You know Denman isn’t there to polish up his lecturing.”
“I know.”
“You seem distracted, Skot,” she says, “Is everything alright?”
“I’m not distracted,” he replies, trying to sound calm, “It’s just that figuring out the book is taking more effort than I had imagined.”
“Well, how could we have imagined at all how much effort it would take?” she posits. “Which is why we need better possession of that book. If we had it in our collection-.”
“That would be optimum, yes.”
“Then maybe this councillor can help us, if we help him.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Well, here’s something else to keep in mind,” she begins, and he can hear it in her voice, her rising upset, her disappointment at how he has reacted to her idea, “You know we are not the only ones there that want that book. You know how crucial it is to get that book and not just for its secrets but to keep it from the others.”
“Yes, I kno-,” he speaks, his own exasperation evident, though his is more resignation than indignation, yet he still gets cut off.
“May I finish, please?”
“Yes, Mom, please do.”
“Thank you,” she clips. “The book is there, you are there, Denman Malkuth is there, and the city is also suffering from that serial killer, and now there have been enough dead girls that this Councillor has sought help through national and international channels. Have you been paying attention to the news? There is a serious problem with that city being the focal point for sex trafficking. “And there is that vigilante.”
He lets the silence linger, making sure she is done before he speaks again.
“Yes, I have been paying attention to the news,” he says, feeling like he has had this conversation before.
“Do you really think it is coincidence that all of this is happening there, right now, in that city?”
“No, I do not.”
“Well?” she pitches into another lengthening silence.
“I tried contacting Nicole, but she has not returned my messages.”
“Hmph,” she somewhat snorts, “That’s not unusual. If I see her, I’ll have her call you.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” he asks, for his mother is still staying with her as the new manor is being readied.
“She’s very busy.”
He knows that is not an answer, but he does not press.
“I could send David there. You know he’d go if I asked. He’s always looked up to you,” his mother suggests.
David, his first cousin on his mother’s side, a stalwart member of the family, nine years his junior, and definitely suited to certain situations.
“I really don’t think it’s come to that,” he opts.
“He could just be there in case something happens. Wouldn’t that be better than you needing help and having none?”
“It would.”
“Good, then I’ll tell him-.”
“No,” he stops her, and he can feel the tension in the silence, “I don’t see the need for that now. I’ll talk with Nicole, and I’ll put out some other checks. If there is a real reason to get more people here, I’ll call them in.”
“Alright, Skot,” she gives him, and he can sense her disagreement, but he is the Head of the Family.
She stands there for a time after the call has ended, still in her fine pajamas and robe, a steaming cup of coffee near at hand, thinking. She senses there is something he is not telling her. He certainly has a huge task with not only trying to figure out the book but also in working to acquire it. That must be the ultimate goal. Knowing its secrets is one thing, but it must be kept from the others. He just seems distracted. She brings the mug of coffee up to her lips, having a sip, wondering what has him so preoccupied.
*****
They return from a lovely evening out together, the time spent in tease and tempt, smiles and flushes of skin, tentative touches, some more daring than others, all designed to produce the simmer that will not boil over until they return to the privacy of his sumptuous suite. And now they stand in the bedroom, naught but candlelight to illuminate the chamber, causing a flickering fluctuation to the accentuating shadows. They have disrobed one another in the breathless heat of still-rising passion, removing the dark, elegant garments until he is fully nude and she stands only in her high heels.
“Stop,” Skothiam bids, gently taking Lilja’s arms by the wrists, and she complies, looking at him with eager eyes.
He moves around behind her, brushing his hands over her shoulders and down her back, leaning in to kiss her on the nape of her neck. Her scent is lovely, intoxicating, but he must resist the urge to partake too quickly. She fuels and inspires him to such need, but it must be savored.
She arches her neck, a breath escaping her lovely lips, and she reaches back, her hands seeking his crotch even as he presses in, but he again takes her wrists.
“Wait,” comes the commanding whisper, and again, she pauses.
He moves away, and though she dutifully holds her place, her eyes move to follow him. He returns to her shortly, the dim lighting in the room revealing little more than their bodies. Again behind her, he raises his hands to place the blindfold over her eyes. She takes in a breath, and though it is quiet, even stifled, its intensity is easily sensed. He knows she wants this, as does he. Both of them feel a quickening as the blindfold fixes securely.
He stands there a moment, close behind her, sure that she feels his presence. Her lips are parted a bit as she breathes, an increase of arousal from the mere placing of the blindfold upon her. She has instinctively moved her right hand up.
“Caress your lips,” he says, and she raises that hand further, obeying by touching lightly over her mouth, her breath rising from this just as his own excitement increases.
He moves in closer, though still not touching, “Stop,” and she does, “Lower your hand to your side.”
He then reaches around with arms over hers, moving slowly, bringing fingertips in to teasingly touch of her breasts. She emits a soft noise, which increases as the moving digits finally take her nipples, pressing in slowly yet firmly until pinching both.
She gasps and as he does not release, a tiny whimper emerges. Her body in response to the sensation, her rear brushing against him. He then lets go, feeling a light shudder from her. He leans in to kiss more on her neck, moving slowly in the attentions until he presses in with a hard, deep kiss. She tenses, another breathy gasp emerging.
“Get on your knees, please,” he bids, and she lowers herself.
He looks upon her, moving about, taking in the lovely sight, breath kept slow, steady.
“Take hold of your heels,” he adds
, and she reaches back, carefully, her ability to control herself, her muscles, her balance, quite evident.
She is now somewhat arched as she holds the spiked heels of her shoes, her breasts thrust out. She is beautiful, strong, alluring. He lets her wonder what shall happen next, and she knows he is looking at her. Her breath continues, slightly rushed, just as her skin holds a light coloration.
“You are beautiful, Pet.”
“Thank you,” she manages, her voice touched by a quiver, accepting of the sudden nickname, and he gently strokes her bottom lip with the tip of his left thumb.
She dares to place a kiss on his finger, so he slips the thumb further into her mouth, and she suckles. He reaches up with other fingers, cupping the side of her face as she sucks, and she tilts her head, nuzzling into that hold.
After a time, he retrieves his thumb. A moment passes, her breath the loudest noise in the quiet room. He is rocked by the beating of his heart, but she does not hear that.
“Do you know what I am doing, Pet?”
She shakes her head.
“I am stroking myself as I look at you,” he tells her.
A breathy moan leaves her, so much like a sigh, a beautiful sound, and she bites her lower lip, murmuring.
“What, Pet?”
Another shuddering exhalation leaves her, and he watches as that breath moves her displayed breasts, her hold on her heels tight from arousal more than anything else.
“I want to taste you,” she pleads, louder, though her voice is still more of a forced whisper.
He steps closer, still stroking himself. She knows how near he stands, and she emits another quiet whimper. She again licks her lip, the tip of her tongue sneaking out almost as though of its own accord, tugging her bottom lip up for her teeth to again bite on it.
“Please…” she begs.
He feels her hot breath, such is his eager organ so close to her. It gives him a shock of pleasure, just looking down at her, such a salacious sight.
“You may,” he grants, then experiencing the exhilarating feel of her succulent mouth over him.
Dance of the Butterfly Page 23