From under the bed Anri pulls out a large dusty suitcase. She starts looking for things she doesn’t want to leave behind. Gripping the girth of the dildo the girl rams it in deep and hard. She hears Jason Winter’s cry and reads pleasure and pain. Moving the dildo fast she moves it in and out, she stabs him with it ruthlessly.
“See, he isn’t such a hard man,” Anri remarks chirpily, giving the girl a quick fond glance. “No more the all-powerful master. Doesn’t the dildo up his arse suit him? Well that’s what happens when a man thinks he can take on two women and win.”
“Anri – you are a total goddess. You rule! Jason, you’ve been such a retardo pain,” the girl observes, making him grunt with rapid thrusts of the dildo. “Like, so difficult to deal? I knew you were like so above yourself. Like so out of your league?”
“Girl, you’re going to regret saying all that,” Jason declares vociferously.
“Only he’s the only one who doesn’t know it,” Anri comments, grinning as she looks up at the dildo going in and out of Jason’s asshole.
“You laugh?” he hollers at the girl, trying to turn his face. “I’m gonna rip your face off!”
The girl reacts by quickening the pace of her dildo jabs.
“See if there’s anything you want to take, I think I’ve got anything I want from here,” Anri says, giving the room another sweep anyway.
In under a minute Anri swaps plain jeans and vest for a diaphanous-black lace dress - dark flower patterns covering her nipples – the skirt short, ruffled and black, sheen black diamond-patterned tights and three-buckled-strap black shoes. It is going to take at least an hour getting the big TV and VCR, all her books, videos, CDs, PC and accessories, things from the kitchen and whatever else she fancies, into the car. If the car were big enough she would leave him nothing. That’s how she feels right now.
“Where do you think you can go?” Jason Winter scoffs. From facedown, he tries to turn his head. She isn’t saying anything. “Okay, you’ve had your little fun. Maybe you’re right, I have been a little too hard on the girl. You know what it’s like. C’mon, let me go and we’ll forget about it.”
“We ready ...? Good.” Looking over to the bed for her last time Anri grins, seeing the half-in, half-out sex toy sticking out of his ass. “Well, I hate good-byes. Maybe someday we’ll meet again, who knows.”
“Guys, this is bordering on the loony. Come back! Please come back. I forgive you, I mean it, I forgive you and the girl,” pitiful cries follow them down the stairs, and echo off walls. They are the kind of unnerving, frightened pleads that seem to last for an eternity.
Chapter 9
“Empusa? It’s Tony calling,” the shrill hyper upbeat voice says cloyingly.
“Tony, Tony, Tony. Where have I heard that name?” this accent straight out of South California, light and engaging – not the tough bitch governess voice the caller presupposed.
“No, come to think of it, I don’t believe I’m one of the privileged who can say, Empusa knows me. Maybe if I said Jason Winter, star of Vampire Terror, I might get you to remember maybe?”
“The freaky camp vampire?” Her eyes pop open. She leans back in her chair. Heavy traffic noises travel up from twenty stories below. Out the tall window she can clearly make out the commercial logo and markings of a jetliner in the distance on its way in to the city’s main international airport. “He really was awesome, I really do mean that. The movie was hilarious. But he had something, y’know, that campy Vincent Price type of presence.” A pause, a perplexed look, which is gradually beginning to understand, on her attractive face. She purses her glossy lips. “You’re saying you know the guy?”
“Tony Garrison, from Garrison, Levy and Mann Limited. I’m Mr. Winter’s personal agent in England. And I must say I genuinely admire – and I’m not just saying this – I really genuinely admire what I’ve seen of your work. You were so convincing in Empusa’s House Husband,” Garrison gushes.
“You’re shitting me, of course.”
“I wouldn’t dream of shitting the great Empusa – much as the thought of being your slave seems so appealing, but getting a visit with those nasty big birch sticks in your hands: rain check time, I think. Honestly, your performance was immaculate.”
Empusa howls. She controls enough of her laughter to say, “Not a hard part to play, to be honest. That kinda thing comes naturally. Like your boy can do the spooky eyes and the spellbinding voice, without breaking sweat I can imagine. It doesn’t come that naturally to me – but I suppose guys are concentrating more on my boobs for it to matter much.”
“Right, but you can’t knock it,” Garrison frantically taps his desktop with a cheap biro. He grins lewdly, like he’s picturing her large naked breasts. “If I was your agent I’d be saying: Use all your assets – because I like talking in clichés. And this time round I’d be right. On a professional level, you understand, your bosoms are the real deal, the top of the bill. Can I ask you something?” he says cagily, shifting his hams in his seat. “Your breasts, are they real?”
“Whaddya say?” From an adjoining apartment beat-heavy Latino music awash with brass comes through the wall, the intensity of the noise muffled only slightly. But enough so she doesn’t have to shout down the line. “That was either ‘Are they for real?’ Or ‘Are they real?’ As one of the most FAQs is the second, I’m assuming that’s what you said. No, they’re not entirely real. They’re saline implants.”
“Really?” Garrison intones dubiously. “They really do look genuine.” Though she reckons he’s BSing her, his voice sounds reasonably convincing. “Most you can tell straight away. But yours … You’re joshing me, no?” he asks.
A black cat creeps along the fabric-foam back rail of her sofa. About midway it stops, gives Empusa an empty look, and settles down. Smiling, Empusa gives her pet a four-fingered wave. Near the comfy cat hung on the pink wall is an Eric Stanton original drawing of Empusa.
She’s bare-breasted – they look slightly smaller than they are in real life and in the coloured drawing her nipples are more pointy – wearing a leather corset, black panties, fishnet stockings and spike-heeled shoes. Her hair is a long glossy black, draping down to the small of her back. In a typical pose she brandishes a riding crop; beside her a bare-assed man, head first over a chaise longue draped with a leopard skin rug. Furniture and fittings in the frame are drafted in detail. Like the grandiose chandelier, each of the many pearl-like crystal bulbs is intricate, catching and throwing light in an individual and different way. Looking back at the observer, atypically – going by her movies to date, but presumably not how she acted whenever the late fetish artist was around – Stanton’s Empusa smiles charmingly. It is the dearest smile.
“Boy, you sure do flatter a girl,” she says in porno girl breathless style. She shifts, throwing her chunky, all-woman legs over one side of her chair. Her gaze swings past B-movie mock-up posters in the brash colours used in the Fifties and Sixties, with Empusa as the featured star. Empusa as the leather cat-suited spy, the leading man’s sultry and exotic love interest, the Fifties SF doll from outer space, totally human-looking and in scant plasticky undies, the classic toothy vampire bitch. Most of the time with her long black hair, the ends close to her waist and dangled at her sides, black pencilled eyebrows, sharp red lips and bluish eye shadow, and a pale face. Dense uptown traffic rattles windows a few stories below. She picks up the vibrations. “So what’s the situation with your boy?”
“Very impressed by you, he was.” Garrison starts tapping the biro on his knuckles. A mischievous grin comes on. “I know he’s going to kill me for saying it, but I think he’s besotted. But I reckon you get that all the time, with your profile. Men, men, men, each wanting to be your slave. Tiresome, huh?”
“Is it the tits again?”
“They don’t do you any harm, Empusa dear. No, I can’t say what it is with Jason, but h
e’s sure got the hots for you,” Garrison says, stretching his last word within the vocal range of a hoot. “He’s so big on this movie he’d literally have it in his contract, ‘I am willing to have my ass spanked by Mistress Empusa on a daily basis’, if it means he can work closely with you on this one.”
“I find that hard to believe.” She glances toward a full-length mirror. “I see him more as a dom type.”
Garrison presses his back in his chair and rocks gently. His smile is wide. “Isn’t that what Freud said, every sadist is also a closet masochist?”
“Not me, dear. Anyway, Freud knew shit.” She looks up at the mirror.
In a single instant she catches sight of a crinkled-up hag. There isn’t a smooth spot of skin on her face, yellowed, brown and lined like a dry parchment relic. The sunken, bloodshot eyes are glazed over and the whites are yellow; the pupils have dissolved into the irises. In places the creature’s flesh had putrefied, resulting in the loss of an ear, the tip of her nose, and much of her lips. The few rotten teeth that remain, discoloured brownish gums and a good part of the mandible are all on view.
She is bald, but for a few woolly tufts, the puckered surface of the skull, prune-like. Chinless and appearing to be without a neck, wattles, like the heavy folds of an ancient tortoise, connect her head to her bony torso and shoulders.
Her spine crooked, the hag hunches low, her head bent forward. The arms and hands are just bones and joints sheathed in a leathery husk; the main veins not only show through, they bulge prominently. What were perhaps once muscles are shrivelled sacs; without biceps tissue and fat melding smoothly to the joints her elbows protrude strikingly.
The T-shirt over her scrawny torso looks Ultra Extra Large. Empusa crosses her legs and smiles at herself; the leg just in view is a stick.
“I’ll certainly take you at your word!” Garrison remarks in a squeaky voice. Empusa’s head between his thighs, thick black hair curling around his flanks, she chomps on his penis, taking a bite out of it: the mental image flickers clearly in his mind. His shoulders bunch up, he quails. The last details he recalls are sharp teeth gnawing on a portion of his penis skin and then roughly tugging it off; gripped by her bloodied teeth the strip of flesh is stretched out like a stick of gum before it is shred from his member. In a matter of two heartbeats blood fills in the raw patch where the skin once was and then overflows, dripping off the shaft and onto her clutching fingers. Garrison shrugs off the frightful images – where did they come from? - and says, “Now what were we saying? Oh yes, the movie, my dear. I understand you’re already signed up. I can see sequel all over this project, and neither of you die. Which is good.”
“It never did the other Jason any harm,” Empusa replies, “dying I mean. He just keeps on coming back, no stopping. And Michael Myers? Lost his head in the Jamie Lee Curtis Halloween: H20 and they still make another.” Empusa pauses. Checks herself in the mirror. Her 36D bosoms stand firm in her tight T-shirt. She puckers up her full lips, puts her long and sharp fingernails through her curtain heavy hair. She blows a kiss at the mirror, eyes half-closed. “Is it official? Is your Jason definitely gonna be in our movie?”
“Oh definitely, that’s guaranteed,” Garrison promises gaily. “You looking forward to meeting my guy? Gets the creative juices running, doesn’t it? When you two guys get together that sure is going to be some performance! Yep, of that I’m sure.”
“Yeah, cutting the crap I think you’re right: we’re gonna rock!”
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