Smiling at the memory, he began tidying the mess on the desk, sorting books and papers, and sticking bookmarks in the open pages of El’s research volumes, and finally, recapping a host of highlighters. Judging from the notes and reference materials, it looked as though El’s new book might be about witchcraft. He scanned the various titles at the work station and his eyes landed on one in particular titled “Sex Magick.” Now that looks interesting. Later, I’m going to have to check that out.
Stepping away from El’s desk, a wave of dizziness hit, sending him sagging onto the couch. Damn! Not again. He’d been working too hard, that had to be it. Ellen always called him: “My little workaholic.” But if it was work-related, he didn’t see how he was supposed to stop. His father, a factory worker, had instilled his work ethic within him at an early age, ingraining the truth: Work isn’t what you like to do; it’s what you have to do. What being a man is all about.
His father had worked 15-hours a day, six-days a week throughout most of Martin’s childhood, right up until the heart attack that killed him at age 45. Martin couldn’t say he’d totally embraced the man’s philosophy, not with the way he enjoyed his job (a truth that made him a bit guilty whenever he thought of his father), but he did feel the weight of being responsible with his job. Hell, maybe I do need to slow down a bit. Lately, he’d been suffering from these out-of-the-blue bouts of dizziness, headaches, and persistent fatigue. It had to be from general exhaustion. But what to do about it? He’d just had a physical two months ago and checked out fine. Even his cholesterol was good; a nod to Ellen’s healthy cooking. Whatever the cause, he’d have to figure something out, and soon. With the vertigo finally easing its grip, Martin turned out the lights and went to bed.
* * *
Sunday morning dawned bright and sunny. Martin donned his sunglasses as he drove to the airport to pick up Ellen. She was full of excitement and chattered away on the drive home. As usual, Martin listened with half an ear. He didn’t really mind the chatter, it was just that she was always talking and sometimes it got to be a bit much.
“So then—”
“Strange dog,” Martin interrupted.
“What?”
“I said, ‘strange dog’.”
“What dog?” Ellen looked around.
“The one back there by the mailbox. It’s been there every time I’ve passed for the last week.” Martin stared at the spot for a moment. “It shifts position just enough each time that I know it’s not dead. That’s what I thought at first, that it had been hit, and someone had moved it from the road to the grass by the mailbox.” He noticed Ellen giving him a funny look.
“I didn’t see a dog.”
“Big black lab, lying just back there by that mailbox?”
“Um, no. I didn’t see it.”
With Ellen continuing to look at him strangely, Martin started to get annoyed. “Do you think I’m making it up?”
“No,” Ellen said. “I just didn’t see it. That’s all. I’m sure if you say it was there, it was there.” She didn’t sound sure at all.
“Well, maybe if you talked a little less, you’d notice a little more!”
Martin’s cheeks grew flushed. Ellen looked at him in surprise. Rarely cross, he wasn’t quite sure what had come over him. Ellen turned away in wounded silence. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m just tired.”
Leaning forward, Ellen put a hand on his knee. “Still?” A pause. “You need to see a doctor.”
“I just saw the doctor two months ago and she said I was fine. Let it go. I’m sure I’m just working too hard.” Martin pulled into their parking spot. “Maybe I just need to take a few days off.”
“Sounds like a good idea. You can lie around the apartment and let me baby you.”
* * *
That night, eating spaghetti by candlelight in honor of Ellen’s homecoming, Martin knew he needed to do something. Ellen had been unusually quiet all day and Martin was sure it was because he’d snapped at her. “So, we went to see that new psychic on Friday.”
“That’s right. I almost forgot! How was it? Tell me everything.”
“Well, it wasn’t what I expected, that’s for sure.” He poured her more wine. “She was so normal for one thing.”
“What did you expect? A wrinkled old crone in a turban?” Ellen laughed. “Silly, that only happens in movies.”
Martin frowned. “Well, since the movies are the only place I’ve ever seen a psychic, I guess that’s where I got the idea. Not everyone is as familiar with the bizarre as you are, you know.”
Ellen smiled. She seemed to take the comment as a compliment. How annoying.
“So what did she say?”
“The usual baloney. Susan’s going to meet someone important. Nancy might have a baby. And John’s going to get his heart’s desire.”
“And you don’t believe it?”
“Sure, I believe it; you just don’t have to be psychic to pick any of that up.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Susan is the PR representative for our firm; she meets important people all the time. Nancy’s newly married and obviously of childbearing age. And John could have his heart’s desire if he ever gathered up enough courage to ask Susan out. Any idiot could predict these things.”
Ellen picked up a wineglass, took a thoughtful sip, then waved it at him. “But maybe it’s all in the interpretation. For one thing, the psychic doesn’t know these people like you do. And for another, maybe that’s not exactly what she told them, just what they brought away from it.”
“I guess,” Martin said. “But she sure asked a lot of damn questions for someone who’s supposed to know everything.”
“But that’s just it.” Ellen leaned forward and set down her glass. “She doesn’t know everything. Psychics aren’t all-knowing. I mean, maybe some are, but the majority only get impressions, then it’s up to them to interpret the meaning behind whatever they’ve gleaned.” She sat back as though she’d made her point.
Martin raised an eyebrow. “How do you know so much about it anyway?”
“Research for a book I thought about writing.” Ellen grinned. “I might even still write that one. Hey, you haven’t told me what the psychic said about you yet.”
Martin sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Well, it was a bit confusing. She said I have a brown aura.”
Ellen wrinkled her nose. “Brown? What does that mean?”
“Apparently, it means that I’m trustworthy, loyal, and considerate.”
“Funny,” Ellen said. “She pegged you pretty good.” She smiled and leaned across the table as though about to make a confession. “Mine’s purple, you know.”
“Really?” asked Martin. “And you know this how?”
“Saw a psychic in Omaha once, a couple of years ago.”
“Omaha, huh?” Martin chuckled. “Psychic capital of the world?”
“Very funny.” Ellen rolled her eyes. “She was reputed to be quite good. And I don’t think it matters a bit where your psychic lives. Anyway, purple auras are special.”
“That’s what Zena said.”
“Oh?” Ellen raised an eyebrow. “It’s Zena, is it? You didn’t say the two of you are on a first-name basis?”
“We talked for quite a while. She was concerned. Said my aura had some dark spots.” He stood and began clearing the table. Ellen picked up her wineglass and followed him to the kitchen.
“What does that mean?”
“She said something about me having my energy drained. Like when a person’s sick, or abused, or having a crisis.”
“Well, lately you haven’t been feeling too well. Maybe—”
“Don’t start with the doctor thing again, Ellen. I’m just tired.”
“Okay. Okay.” She rubbed his back. “It just seems coincidental, that’s all.”
Martin started the dishwasher and turned off the kitchen light. “Let’s not talk about it right now.”
“You’re right.” Ellen smiled, wrapping her ar
ms around his neck. “Let’s not talk at all.”
* * *
Doing something he’d only done once during the past five years at work, Martin called in sick. He’d woken with the muthah of all headaches. Even worse, the damn thing only pounded all the more when he tried lying back down.
Ellen, albeit reluctantly, had to leave. A kiss, a hug, a whirlwind of commotion, and she was gone. Martin stood there in the hallway for a minute staring at the closed door. The headache was subsiding some, thanks either to the two double-strength Advil he’d taken, or the chamomile tea Ellen had made.
Despite the slight reprieve, he felt restless and bored, and he had that funny disconnected feeling again. Finally, after drifting through the apartment doing boring chores: cleaning the kitchen, straightening the couch, making the bed, Martin’s eyes glanced at Ellen’s desk and tome lying on top: Sex Magick.
Three hours later, Martin threw a bookmark between pages, yawned, then touched the clock on the VCR, stunned to realize how much time had passed. The book was equal parts amazingly interesting and decidedly crazy, with its base premise that two people engaged in intercourse generated a powerful amount of spiritual energy, and how—if one was in the know—that energy could be harnessed and used. Outlandish, yes. But intriguing all the same. God, I’m always exhausted after sex. Staring at the book for another moment, Martin laid it down and went to bed, where he awoke with a start, head pounding, and the room in a spin. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He’d been dreaming, yes. A nightmare. But he couldn’t remember any details; instead, they floated just beyond reach, teasing the edges of his mind before dissipating like smoke. Glancing over, he saw Ellen standing in the doorway.
“Awake, Sleeping Beauty?”
“Um, yeah—just.” Martin rubbed a hand over his face. “What time is it?”
“About four,” Ellen said coming over and sitting on the bed. Martin noticed that the room had darkened considerably since lying down.
“Damn! I didn’t need to sleep so long.” He sighed. “Now I’ll probably never get to sleep tonight.”
“Well,” Ellen said, smiling and running fingers down his chest, “I could wear you out a bit….” She leaned over and kissed him, her hair tickling his face. She smelled of jasmine and roses, and while he didn’t think he was in the mood, having just woken from a nightmare, parts of his body were inclined to disagree. He reached up and grabbed her arms, then rolled so that she tumbled onto the bed beneath him.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She smiled up at him. Martin replied by deftly undoing the buttons of her blouse as he returned to kissing her. Ellen molded her body to his and moaned into his mouth as he cupped her breast through her camisole. She reached down and slid her hand beneath the elastic of his pajama bottoms and boxers to stroke him. Hardening even more in response, he pushed the blouse from her shoulders and raised her camisole to reveal her naked breasts.
Ellen rarely wore a bra. He bent his head and took a nipple into his mouth. Ellen moaned, louder this time, and squeezed him reflexively. She sat up and removed both the blouse and camisole, then pushed him over and straddled him. Her short skirt rode up on her thighs revealing the flesh at the top of her stockings. Martin loved that little strip of flesh. He loved that she only wore thigh-highs and how that little strip of bare flesh between their edge and her panties was always waiting there for him. He put his hands on her thighs and squeezed.
“Martin,” Ellen said, her voice husky and her breath coming in soft pants; she ran her hands over her breasts and down her stomach to the bottom of her skirt, “I’m not wearing panties.”
Martin nearly lost all control. Goddamn, Ellen was glorious. She bent over, licking and nibbling at his neck, and his hands returned to her breasts as she ground herself down on him. She licked her way down his body until she reached his navel. Then, in one quick motion, she hooked her thumbs in his pants and swiftly removed his bottoms and boxers, before climbing back up the bed and lowering herself onto him.
Fifteen minutes later, Martin was lying on the bed, utterly spent. He looked over the chaos of tangled sheets and bed pillows and caught Ellen smiling at him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Ellen said. “I just love you, that’s all.” Kissing his cheek and springing from the bed, she headed down the hall—naked. Martin didn’t think he could move. He thought again of the sex magick book. They’d generated a lot of energy. More than he had apparently. He rolled over. Ellen came back in the room to put on some pajamas.
“Are you getting up?” she asked. “I’m going to make some dinner.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said, knowing as he said it that he wasn’t even close to getting up. Wear him out, she certainly had. Just as he drifted off he thought he heard her say thank you. Thank you?
For what?
* * *
Martin awoke the next morning feeling groggy, nauseous, and with a headache pounding away in his brain. And again, those unattainable wisps of half-remembered dreams drifted through his awareness. This time he was sure Ellen had been a part of them. Getting out of bed, he stumbled to the kitchen to start some coffee, the whole while trying to reach that one coherent thought lurking at the edge of his mind. If only he could—
“Good morning.” Ellen padded into the kitchen, startling him from his introspective search. She looked adorable in the mornings, her dark curls tousled from sleep, fresh faced and innocent. Quite a contrast to the woman she’d been last night.
“Good morning, yourself.” He couldn’t help grinning.
“Sleep any better?”
Martin saw no point in worrying her. “Yeah, but I’d already taken the day off.”
“Really?” Ellen smiled mischievously. “Then we could always go back to bed.”
Martin raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re becoming insatiable.”
“Is that a problem?”
Martin took in her too-white t-shirt, bare midriff, and flannel bottoms. “You could wear a guy out, you know.”
She grinned. “Like last night. You were out like a light when I checked on you. So are you complaining?” She looked him up and down and Martin felt himself twitch in response to her gaze. She noticed, and he watched her nipples harden with a response of their own.
“Not a bit.” He scooped her up, laughing, and carried her down the hall to the bedroom where he set her down long enough to remove both of their clothes. He caressed her smooth naked skin and she sank to her knees before him. Looking up, she licked her lips just before engulfing him. Martin groaned and sank his hands into her hair. There was still something so vulnerable about having her mouth on him. It was like giving up a part of himself, turning over his power to her. Power. Ellen. Sex.
Next he knew, he was seized by a violent wave of dizziness. Wrenching himself free from Ellen, he sank to the bed.
“What’s the matter?” Confusion and concern warred on Ellen’s face.
Martin lay silent for a moment, an arm across his eyes. “I just got dizzy, that’s all.”
“Oh, baby. Are you alright?” She crawled up on the bed next to him.
“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”
“Do you still want me to … you know?”
“NO.” The word came out more forcefully than intended. “I think I’ll just lay here.”
Surprise registered on Ellen’s face. Surprise and hurt. “Okay.” She lay there quietly for a moment. “Is there something I can get you?”
Martin racked his brain. He wanted her to leave him alone for a minute so he could think. Sure he’d made an important connection just before the dizziness had hit, he now couldn’t quite put it back together.
“Yeah,” he said after a minute. “I’m out of Advil. Could you get me some?”
Ellen stared at him, cocked an eyebrow. “You want me to run to the store? Right now?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
Shooting a look of disgust, Ellen got up and threw on a pair of jeans and a top. “D
o you mind if I have a cup of coffee first?”
“No, but I’m just going to lay here.”
“Fine.” Ellen headed for the kitchen and Martin heard her opening a cabinet and getting out a mug. She banged it on the counter and cursed. Martin knew what was wrong—she felt rebuffed. Angry. He hated to treat her like this, but he had to think! And he needed her out of here. There was a connection he needed to make. What was I thinking before getting dropped? Something about giving Ellen power? No, that can’t be it, can it? That’s ridiculous.
Thoughts started racing through his mind. About how after sex, he was always exhausted, ready for … NO, needing a nap. About how Ellen always jumped up, ready to take on the world. Her body energized. And when exactly had she become such a nympho? They’d always had a great sex life, sure, but lately she was all over him. What was that about? When had it started?
More and more thoughts raced in. Hadn’t she said she had a purple aura? Wasn’t that supposed to be the magnetic one? What if she were taking pieces of his aura every time they had sex? Draining him and energizing herself. My God, am I losing it? This can’t be real. This is crazy. And yet everything was falling into place.
Martin heard a door close. Ellen had left. Finally, some privacy.
He jumped up and pulled on his pants. He raced to the phone and fumbled for the psychic’s number. He dialed and waited.
“Future’s Foretold?”
“Zena?”
“Speaking—”
“This is Martin Caswell; I was in Friday with some friends. Remember, I had the brown aura, the dark spots.” He was babbling.
“Whoa, slow down there, Martin. I remember you.”
“Well, I was wondering, what about sex?”
“Um, well, you were really nice and all but—”
Of Devils & Deviants: An Anthology of Erotic Horror Page 26