by Christian, M
"You mad at me, Dita?"
"Damn straight I am," I said, throwing another handful of peas into the bowl.
He took off his hat and I could see that he was clammy and pale. He sat down across the table and sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. His blond hair, which he usually kept as slick as patent leather, was twisted up like shocks of corn.
I stood up just to put some distance between us, and I stared hard out the window. It was real glass. He had bought it four months ago.
"Dita, baby, I..."
"They shot you, Tucker," I said flatly. "They shot you eight hours ago in Detroit. I heard it on the radio."
"Maybe they shot someone else they thought was me."
I looked straight at him then, and he couldn't meet my eyes. Murderer or not, dead or not, he could never lie to me.
"You're dead, Tucker. Go on and get out of here. You're dead."
I put my face in my hands then, not to cry, but because I just didn't want to see him anymore. He was dead, and whatever brought him back to me was no good thing.
He stepped up close to me, and under the flowery smell of his cologne, there was the smell of gunpowder and burnt cotton. Tucker put his hands on my shoulders, and even though they were cold, they felt good.
"Not all dead," he said, and he put his lips to my forehead.
I helped my dad bury my mother and my grandparents. We wrapped them in winding sheets, and I sat on the coffins to help hold down the lids when my dad nailed them shut. I know when a body's dead, and Tucker was.
Still, he started kissing my face, and I put down my hands to let him. I'd loved him too long to turn down a kiss while I could still take it.
"Oh, you pretty girl," he sighed. He reached back to pull my hair out of its bun, letting it spill down my back. "Pretty black-haired girl..."
He pushed me back against the edge of the table and kissed me right, with his hands in my hair and his tongue pushing inside my mouth. Tucker was dead, but he warmed up just fine. I could feel his pecker push hard against my leg, and I rocked up against it.
"You been gone too long," I hissed, grabbing him roughly through his pants. It made him growl a little, but then he was biting my neck just the way I liked. I spread my legs to let him stand close between them. Then we could both smell me, hot and wanting him so badly.
"Take this off," I muttered, tugging at his suit jacket. I wanted all of him, all of that skin against mine, but he shook me off.
"You wouldn't like it, Dita."
That almost stopped me, but then his hand was sliding underneath my dress and between my legs, pulling my panties away so that he could dip his fingers inside. I felt my feet slipping out from underneath me, but he got his hands underneath my ass and hoisted me up on the table.
He pushed his fingers in and out really slowly, pausing every few seconds to circle my clit with his thumb. My head rolled back and I let him do whatever he wanted, which was pure hot heaven until he stopped.
I looked up, and he was licking his fingers, hungry as a starved dog.
"God, Dita, you always taste so fucking good..."
In another second, he was down on his knees, and his face was shoved underneath my dress. I nearly yelped when he found my slit. His tongue was cold at first but it warmed, and then he showed me just how well he knew my body.
I lay back on the table, one hand tangled in his hair and yanking hard, and that just made him happier.
"You goddamn bastard," I heard myself whimpering, "I fucking hate you..."
I hate you for getting yourself shot, is what I meant, but that didn't come out, not while his tongue was lapping my clit and three fingers were buried deep inside.
I came with a long wail, like it was being pulled out of me, and then he was standing up.
That's when I knew for certain sure that he was dead, because even though his breath was coming hard, his lips were tinged with blue.
"Dita," he whispered, "Can I?"
My panting slowed down and if I calmed down any more than that, I would start to bawl. Instead I nodded and watched him pull his pecker out of his pants. It was already hard, and he pushed it inside me easily.
"Fuck, Dita," he whispered. It sounded like a prayer, and I reached up to pull him down against my body. The old table shook but it held, and soon he was shoving inside me fast.
"You think it's a race?" I muttered in his ear. "Slow down some."
"Don't got much time," he grunted, hauling my leg over his shoulder. "Gotta ask you..."
"You gotta ask me now?" I said, moaning on the last word as he hit me deep.
"A man..." He caught his breath and started again. He had his rhythm now and no matter what he's doing, Tucker can talk.
"A man came looking for me after that business in Detroit. He's got a job for me."
"A job? Tucker what kinda..." He pushed inside me hard again and I wailed.
"A good one. Things I know how to do. Some talking, some shooting."
"Tucker, you're dead." I got it out before he bent down to put a suck mark on my neck, making me squirm like a live fish.
"Yeah, and this gentleman ain't real lively either." He was breathing hard, and suddenly I figured out his game. He had talked me into plenty of stupid things when he had his dick inside me and I knew the hook was coming.
"It's a job," he muttered. "Not heaven, not hell, but just a job..."
"Goddamn you..." I grabbed his head and pulled him down for a kiss because then he couldn't talk to me anymore.
Tucker didn't say anything else, but he kept pushing inside me, speeding up and whimpering into my mouth. He came and I was crying. Tucker wanted to go down on me again, but I wouldn't let him. Instead, I went out and pumped a basin of water so we could both wash, and I turned away when I did it.
"Dita, come with me."
There it was. I shook my head.
"No place for me where you're going," I said, swiping hard at my eyes. "I'm not coming along for a trip like that."
He didn't have anything to say to that, and as the sun went down, we sat on the porch steps, watching the road. Tucker lit one of those fancy French cigarettes and we shared it as the sky darkened and the shadows deepened.
When the last shred of orange was gone from the sky, a big black car came down the road. It was driving fast, and it didn't have any lights on.
"That's my ride, baby girl."
He stood up and put his hat on.
"Dita..."
"Go on, Tucker. The man's waiting."
He planted a last cold kiss on my forehead and walked down the long drive to the road. I watched as he opened the car door and got in.
When the car disappeared down the road and the crickets started up again, I finished the cigarette and went back inside.
MONSTERNOBILIS REED
Georg took his wife's arm and hissed in her ear. "Dolores! Stop this! Now!"
"Why?" She glanced at the uniformed man across the room as he forcefully pulled darts from the dartboard with his good hand.
"Because it's unseemly for a woman who's supposed to be my wife to be flirting with a guest. He's here because the villagers are suspicious about my experiments. We have to put him at ease!"
She gave the inspector a wink as he turned around. "Oh, I know a wonderful way to put him at ease."
Her husband, fuming, made a short bow in their guest's direction. "Excuse us for a moment, inspector. My wife seems be having something of an off night. I'll be back momentarily."
He pulled her unceremoniously from the room. She could have resisted, but the moments when he acted like a man were so few, she decided to let him drag her down the hall to the kitchen.
Igor sat hunched over the center table, carefully spreading icing over a small chocolate layer cake. He looked up, glanced at his master and mistress, and studiously went back to his work.
Georg spun her around and waggled a finger in her face. "You will control yourself. I can't have the Inspector deciding he wants a tour of th
e castle. You heard all the remarks he made about my ancestors. He's very suspicious!"
Dolores wasn't listening. Instead, she rubbed her body against his. "Oh, Georg. You know how it affects me when you get forceful." She put her hand over his crotch and squeezed.
"Enough!" He shoved her back against the table. "Compose yourself!"
Igor frowned and shook his head. He picked up the cake and took it to a smaller, more well-protected table to write the inscription.
Dolores smiled wickedly, panting. "What's the matter, 'Master'?" she said with a sarcastic lilt. "Has your creation gotten a little out of control? A little more than you bargained for?"
He just scowled and glanced back in the direction of the drawing room.
She tossed her wavy mane of jet-black hair, then cupped her breasts through the thin fabric of her gown. "If I'm uninhibited, it's only because you made me this way."
He turned back, a shocked expression on his face. "What?"
"Oh, yes," she said, tweaking her nipples with delicate fingers, "I've read your journals. Read about the parts you collected. Read about the brain you chose – and the surgery you did, before the reanimation."
Georg growled through gritted teeth. "Igor! Get her down to the laboratory and keep her quiet."
"But, Master," he grunted, waving his hand vaguely over the cake.
"Do it! I don't care what it takes. Shut her up!" Georg stomped over to Igor's table, grabbed the cake without noticing that the incomplete inscription read "Not raising the d."
With a sigh, the hunchback set his icing aside and hopped down from his stool. "Yes, Master."
Georg rustled around for plates and forks, then hustled back the way he had come.
Igor scuffled up to his mistress and extended his knobby, calloused hand. "If you would kindly step this way, mistress?"
She grumpily crossed her arms over her chest.
"Please, mistress."
She turned away from him, her nose in the air.
With a frustrated groan, Igor reached up, clamped one hand around her mouth and wrapped the other around her body, pinning her arms to her sides. Her breasts bounced against the heavy fabric of his sleeve as she struggled, but Her shapely limbs were no match for his thickly corded arms. Step by step, he dragged her down into the lab.
* * * *
Dolores lay on her back, clamped against the steel lab table by heavy steel straps. She could move, a little, but there was no way she could get free as long as Igor was watching her. Her dress had gotten torn in the shuffle, and one leg was left completely bare.
Faintly, the sound of violin music could be heard filtering down from the upper floors. A shaft of moonlight, the only illumination in the room, fell on a hobnailed boot near the door, tapping lightly in time with the music.
"Igor," she said, "Why do you always take his side in these things?"
He shrugged. "He's the Master."
"Don't you have hopes and desires of your own?"
"I'm a simple man, Mistress. A dry place to sleep, good food, and scientific progress. All a man like me really needs."
"And that's... all?" She raised an eyebrow in his direction.
Igor's eye – the one that tracked right – traced over her body.
"Well..." he grunted. "Looking like me, a man has to accept that certain things are too unlikely to bother trying for."
"Some women can see past a minor skeletal defect, and you've certainly got several factors operating in your favor."
"Hm?"
"Well, for one thing, you've got excellent manners. And those muscles ... woof!"
He rolled his eyes. "You're just saying that."
"I mean every word. When you took me in your arms tonight, I felt myself go weak at the knees."
He stood up and walked over to the narrow window and looked out. "I don't think any of the girls in the village would take well to being dragged off into the night."
"The village isn't the only place with girls, you know."
He twisted his body around to look at her, past his crooked shoulder. His face betrayed no emotion as three breaths filled his lungs and emptied them again. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky. "The Master could come back."
"You don't want to get caught? Fine. Then wait until after he's in bed."
The door creaked open, throwing a flickering wedge of candlelight across the floor. Georg stumbled in, his hair and clothing in disarray. "Well, that was masterfully handled, if I do shay sho myshelf," he slurred. "Took a little branny, but I managed to convince the inshpecker that everything was jus' fine at the ol' castle onna hill." He clomped his assistant on the shoulder. "Well done, Igor."
"Are we going to let her free now, Master?"
Blearily, Georg regarded his wife then grunted and turned back towards the door. "Leave her onna table. Maybe a nigh' down here will cool 'er off. I'm not up to havin' her immy bed tonigh' anyways."
When the door boomed closed, Igor shuffled over to where Dolores lay, and looked up and down her body.
She squirmed. "See? He's drunk as a lord. Let me up."
"Master said to leave you on the table. So you stay on the table."
"Well... he didn't say anything about these straps, did he?"
Igor grunted and the beginning of a smile twisted the corner of his mouth. "I'll have to stay close, then, to make sure you don't get up." He pulled out the heavy iron pins that held the straps in place, and pulled them away, letting them fall slack on their hinges. With a husky growl low in his throat, he drank in the sight of her.
She rose up on her elbows, mirroring his crooked smile. "Igor. You know what I want. I know what you want. Why do you hesitate?"
"Tell me," he said. "Say it."
"Very well – Igor, take off my clothes."
He moved to her side, reaching for the buttons along the back of her gown.
"No, Igor. Take them off. Rip them. Don't be gentle."
"Yes, Mistress." His grin grew broader, and he clambered up onto the table to stand astride her body. She saw color coming to his usually pallid cheeks as he bent down to twist the fabric of her neckline in his heavy fingers. With a massive wrench, he pulled her gown apart, reducing it to two ruined scraps hanging from his hands. Dolores gasped as her body was briefly lifted from the table by the force of his grip. She could feel little scrapes and welts where the material had dug into her flesh as it failed.
He paused a moment, licking his lips, then did the same with the flimsy negligee underneath.
Bared to his gaze, she stroked his sleeve, feeling the taut muscle underneath. "Yes, Igor. Good. Now, kiss me. Hard."
He dived onto her, pinning her shoulders to the table with his hands. His mouth met hers, driving her head down against the table. Dolores wanted to gasp but her mouth was filled with his tongue, her senses filled with is scent. His body smelled of dirt and chemicals, and his mouth of sherry. It was like inhaling his entire existence in one breath.
He was wasted in Georg's service. So much more could be done with this man! Even knowing him the short time that she did, she knew that Igor was a man of subtle intelligence. He was the practical one that kept the castle running smoothly, the one who bought supplies in the village, the one that straightened up the laboratory and repaired equipment after Georg's experiments, the one who cooked and cleaned and did the laundry.
And yes, he was a man of passion as well. He rutted against her like an animal in frenzy, the smooth wool of his clothes and the hard edges of his buttons and clasps a contrast of sensation, all underlain by the power of the body underneath. This was a man worthy of the term.
Dolores laid a gentle hand on Igor's cheek, and he pulled away from her mouth, panting with desire. "What is your will?" His voice had devolved into a throaty croak.
She stared at his face, watching his eyes dart from one landmark of her body to another. "Grope me. Bite me. Leave. Marks."
He chuckled, and his breathing turned into a frenzied pant. "Yes, mistress."
His hands shifted from her shoulders to her breasts, scooping up their generous weight and squeezing them between his calloused fingers. His teeth closed around one protruding nipple, causing her to cry out yet again, giving voice to the pain and pride coursing through her.
It was like riding the fastest horse in the world, full of danger and power but leashed to her will. Making love with Georg had never been like this. She laughed to herself at his feeble attempts to please her, his elaborate toys and techniques, his focus on what he thought she would like without ever asking what it might be. Treating sex like an experiment. That's all she'd ever be to him, an experiment.
Igor's hand shifted to her pussy, forcing his fingers past her clean-shaven lips to grind and pull the tender tissues within. His knobby working-man's hands were rough against her skin, bringing new gasps to her throat. "Yes! YES! Igor!"
She didn't want technique. She didn't want science. She wanted raw, animal lust. "Take me! Fuck me now!" she screamed.
"Yes, mistress." His hands left her body long enough to pull the knot out of the rope holding up his trousers. When his hands came back they were under her hips, and his knees were shifting between her thighs. He easily lifted her body up to his, impaling her on what felt like an enormous cock. She let him do the work of thrusting into her and holding her in place while she squeezed her nipples between her fingers. Being both completely in control and so completely taken was a perfect paradox, a marvelous mix of control and release.
But she wasn't quite ready to climax. When she saw the glazed look beginning to come over Igor's eyes, she put her hand on his chest. "Stop." She pulled out of his grasp, turned over onto her elbows and knees. "Take me this way."
His assent was no more than enthusiastic grunt. With his hands around her waist, he drove into her with ferocious abandon, pushing her cheek into the metal table. It had become slick and warm with their sweat, and her skin squeaked against the smooth surface, adding a third voice to the cries echoing in the vaulted stone chamber. She reached under her body with one hand, rubbing hard on the hood of her clit and Igor's heavy shaft. Her breasts danced on the table, her nipples just grazing the surface. A groan built deep in her belly, gathering force as it climbed up her spine, emerging as an orgasmic shriek so fierce she felt it would rip her asunder.