by Scott Baron
The heavy steel door buzzed open, revealing another equally large man inside, a well-maintained submachine gun visible hanging across his torso inside his blazer.
“Gentlemen, this way please,” he said, then led them into the depths of the dark building.
The space was dimly lit with an amber hue, and while the exterior had been nondescript, the overall feel of the interior was quite lush, if a bit old-fashioned and small.
Some might even call it intimate.
Blissed-out men and women alike were sprawled across deep red velvet divans as attendants saw to their needs. They all seemed quite high, their shiny wide-pupiled eyes just partly visible beneath half-closed lids. Their air of pure ecstasy and contentment was almost tangible. Jeremy had never seen anything like it, and he seriously doubted that had he not been so fortunate in befriending his wealthy new cohort, he likely never would have.
“Jeremy, come on,” Derek hissed. “This isn’t it. Not yet.”
The armed man led them through a thick metal door, then down a short hallway to an even sturdier one mounted on a steel frame. He paused at the sealed threshold, standing there motionless like an imposing statue.
What’s he doing? Jeremy thought before noticing the small camera mounted high above the door. A moment later, the door swung open with a rumble.
Jeremy and Derek were given a seat on a small, plushly cushioned sofa and offered refreshments by the stocky attendant. Jeremy noticed none of the staff were women, and all had a distinctive ex-military or perhaps mercenary vibe to them.
“So what exactly is this place?” Jeremy asked, a slight hint of concern tinting his query.
“Something new,” was Derek’s reply. “Something wonderful.” He was subconsciously licking his lips in anticipation. In the relatively short time Jeremy had known him, he had never seen Derek’s veneer of cool slip. Whatever it was, this was going to be good; he could feel it in his blood.
Blood. What an appropriate choice of words.
A deep red door, thick with soundproofing, opened, and a gray-suited man, tie askew and eyes glazed, was gently led out by yet another large, armed man. The difference was this attendant was wearing chain mail gauntlets on his arms and a biohazard respirator. Jeremy looked at Derek, concerned, but his friend didn’t even notice him in his anticipation.
Derek anxiously got to his feet to meet his attendant, likewise dressed in metal sleeves and respirator, and stepped towards the door.
“See ya on the other side,” he said to Jeremy, then stepped through the threshold, the door closing solidly behind him. Only five minutes had passed when he was led staggering from the room, pupils wide, eyes glazed, a look of sheer bliss on his face. He didn’t even notice his friend as a stocky man guided him out of the waiting room to one of the divans in the gallery.
A muscled attendant stood at the door, waiting. Hesitant at first, Jeremy finally rose to his feet.
Hell, you only live once, right? he thought. Game face firmly affixed, he followed the man into the next room, the door locking solidly behind him.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The oddly textured walls were painted black, and after a moment, he realized it was soundproofing material, though for what purpose he had no idea. The room, he soon noticed, was empty but for a tall, metal coffin-like box bolted upright to the far wall. The attendant double-checked his mask, then slipped a thick harness around Jeremy’s torso.
“First time?” he asked, his voice muffled through the respirator.
Jeremy nodded.
“Don’t get too close,” the man intoned. “If you do, I’ve got you with this.” He tugged the rope fastened to the harness. “But let’s not have that happen, alright?”
Jeremy had no idea what he’d gotten himself into, but he nodded once more and was led toward the shiny silver box, stopping a few paces behind a thick red line painted on the floor nine feet back. He noticed some fine metalwork on the lid now that he was close to it. An ornate crucifix, delicately carved into the metal. He also thought it looked like actual silver, not steel, though why anyone would spend that much on a box that size out of a material much less sturdy than stainless was beyond him. Then the attendant nodded to a camera on the wall and the lid slid open.
The creature’s eyes burned with an unnatural fire. Her pale skin was smooth as an alabaster sculpture but pulsed with vitality and a barely restrained energy. Her hair was pale blonde, and her firm breasts strained to be admired through the thin muslin she wore, accentuated by the sturdy chains binding her in place. Jeremy felt blood rush to his groin, a surge of desire washing over him as he took in the sight of the woman. Her intense eyes, her delectable pale white skin, her lustrous hair, her deep red lips… and the fine pointed fangs peeping out from between them.
He should have been terrified. Somewhere in the depths of his animal mind, he knew that he was the tiniest of prey in the presence of an apex predator, but by then the pheromones had taken hold.
The ancient stories of vampires hypnotizing their victims to do their bidding were not all that far from the truth when you got right down to it. Sure, it was a chemical process rather than actual hypnosis, but like the venom of a certain species of spider, so was the pheromone emitted by a vampire when it needed to feed. It calmed the prey into a docile meal, one which need not be killed or damaged in a struggle, but rather utilized for a meal, then turned loose again. It was a highly efficient system, evolved over millennia to preserve a food source rather than wipe it out with every feast.
Jeremy felt himself awash in wave after wave of pure ecstasy as he stumbled closer to the beautiful yet deadly woman. His pulse raced so hard he could feel it pounding against his chest, his manhood fully engorged and rock-hard, throbbing with desire and increasing bliss. This was all he would ever need, all he ever wanted. Perfection, if only he could just get a little closer…
The sharp yank across his abdomen nearly took him off his feet.
With a nod to the camera, the attendant pulled Jeremy toward the exit while silent pneumatics slowly closed the lid to the silver box.
Before it shut, Jeremy turned and caught a final look, a glimpse of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen as she stared at him longingly, then was gone once more into her metal tomb.
It had taken hours for him to come down, and as Derek silently drove him back toward his condo, Jeremy could still feel the lingering effects of the woman’s presence.
The first visit had been Derek’s treat, and since he knew the owners, he had arranged a discounted rate for Jeremy should he want to return.
Should he want to return?
That was a laugh. It was far better than any drug imaginable. He would have sold his mother to feel the powerful flood of the mysterious woman’s energy again, even if but for a minute. Soon he was a regular, spending several nights a week recovering on the plush divans after seeing the woman, the creature he was quite sure he loved. Unfortunately, he also started burning through his resources far faster than he was earning. As he quickly discovered, to experience such a rare high, the price was extraordinarily steep. But he was already hooked.
Soon he began selling off assets to pay for his visits. First some artwork, then his watch collection, then, finally, he liquidated his retirement account. The line was crossed when he was caught skimming from trades to pay for his fix. It was an embarrassment, one that could hurt the hedge fund’s public reputation, so it was decided it would be kept quiet just this once, swept under the rug to save face for the company, but that reprieve came with a cost. With his now-former friend watching his disgraceful banishment, Jeremy was escorted from the building and told never to return again, lest he face criminal charges and imprisonment.
The rest of his story is pretty typical for an addict. He borrowed from anyone he could, burning many bridges and ruining many friendships in the search for enough money for just one more fix. He stole when he had to, sinking lower and lower, eventually winding up on the str
eets, where he scraped and scrounged until finally, he found himself where he stood today.
The building was nestled in the bad part of a bad part of town, but so long as the heavily tattooed doorman was at his post, that would be all the security the establishment needed. The neighborhood toughs knew better.
Jeremy had paid a pretty penny to acquire this address. The secret was guarded. Closely guarded and very costly to come by, but it would be worth it. There was no way he could remotely afford to see his true love, not in his current state, but if he could just get one more fix, just enough to get him through, he knew he could get back on his feet and find a proper job, one that would pay him handsomely for his skills. Enough to see her once more.
For now, this would have to suffice.
Jeremy shuffled to the door, hands in plain sight as he approached the deadly looking gatekeeper.
“Whatchoo want motherfucker?” the man challenged, his hand slipping under his coat, fingers tickling what Jeremy knew was surely a weapon of deadly caliber and bloody history.
“I’m here for a lemonade.”
The man’s posture changed. “You know lemonade don’t come cheap.”
Jeremy slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of cash. The doorman sized him up silently. Jeremy felt the adrenaline leaking into his bloodstream as the man stared at him. What’s to stop him from just killing me and taking… He didn’t get to finish the thought when the man gave him a nod, reached out and peeled a hundred off the roll, and stuck it in his pocket, then opened the door for him.
“Don’t you go making no fuss now.”
And with that he was in.
Unlike the high-end digs he was accustomed to, this place was a shithole. Filthy walls, floors sticky with Lord knows what nastiness, several strung-out looking men and women flopped down on the leaking beanbag chairs and threadbare couches haphazardly spread about the room.
At the far end was a man watching a football game on a small TV propped on the desk next to a metal door. There was a hole in the door, no bigger than a fist, with a rope running through it.
“You just gonna stand there?” the annoyed man called out to Jeremy. “Come on, halftime’s almost over. I ain’t got all day.”
Jeremy stepped over a blissed-out woman with gold teeth and made his way to the sweaty man.
“Cash money, up front. Let’s see it.”
He forked over the wad and watched as the man counted it out. It had taken him weeks of borrowing, begging, and even thieving to scrape up enough, and for the briefest of moments, the thought entered his mind that he should take the money and use it to get back on his feet again. It was a sizable enough amount, but his primal, addict brain overruled that fleeting thought.
“Okay, you’re good to go,” the man said, rising to tie a rope around Jeremy’s waist. “Don’t make me yank your ass outta there.”
The door opened with a squeal as the old hinges protested the strain, then he was in the room alone. The rope around his waist fed out through the hole in the door, held by the attendant as he watched through a narrow metal slit at eye level. No fancy respirators here, they were doing it old-school.
“Come on motherfucker, get it over with. Games’s starting back up,” the attendant impatiently urged.
Jeremy smelled the man before he saw him.
Across the room, chained to the wall.
No beautiful silver box.
No perfectly dimmed mood lights.
Just a foul creature standing in its own filth. Soiled rags dangled from his emaciated frame, wild, unfocused eyes darted about the room, peering out from under the greasy hair hanging in front of his face. Jeremy took a step forward. His foot made a sickening sticky peeling sound as it moved. He steeled himself and took another step.
“Yeah, that’s right!” the man outside the door shouted at the TV, startling him. “First down, bitches!”
The rope went tight around Jeremy’s waist as he took another step. “Hey, some slack here!” he called out to the preoccupied man.
The rope loosened.
Eight steps in, it hit him, the first warm rumbling in his groin, his face flushing with that familiar sensation. “Oh God, yes,” was all he could manage to say. He knew he couldn’t get too close, but it just felt so good.
Just a little closer, he thought as he took another step. The sensations strengthened, his pulse pounded, and all worries began to melt away like a piece of ice dropped on a hot desert highway.
“Come on, pass the damn ball!” Jeremy barely noticed the man’s voice from the other side of the door. He also failed to notice the lack of tension on the rope around his waist.
One step closer. Too close. The rope was still slack, but he didn’t care as wave after wave of bliss rushed over him, bathing him in indescribable pleasure. He’d never been this close, felt this good. It was perfection. He never wanted to leave.
The emaciated creature’s distant gaze shifted, his randomly darting eyes settling down, narrowing as they focused on the man in front of him. A spark flickered behind them as Jeremy met his gaze. Yellowed fangs peeked out as a smile slowly spread across the creature’s face.
“Yes, okay,” Jeremy mumbled as he took one more step. “Just one last fix.”
The Lesbian Farmers of Quagshire
Far from the gleaming and cramped cities, packed hundreds of stories high and chock-full of humanity in all its many forms, was the quiet throwback to the past, the Township of Quagshire.
Out in the distant hills of Quag, near an area that was once known as Wales, the air lacked that visceral electric buzz the big city folk had long ago ceased to even notice. No airships or hover-cars buzzed the skies, nor did trip-hopping youth blare out their psych-fusion rock from embedded media devices. Indeed, for all intents and purposes, it appeared that way out in Quag, the wheels of progress seemed to lack the basic social-technological lubricant needed to keep up with the rest of society. While the throwback way of life had certain benefits, it had several drawbacks as well.
The day was like most others in the region this time of year; the skies dotted with clouds, the weather cool and a wee bit damp, but not particularly rainy.
Tamara Baird was minding her own business, as was her way, working the land that had been in her family for more than two-dozen generations. On this particular day, she eschewed her usual flowery dress in favor of a pair of well-worn dungarees, the faded denim rippling gently against her curves as the smooth material easily shifted to fit her familiar shape, the fibers softened over many years of wear and hand-washing.
The faint hum reached her ears while she dug in the modest carrot patch out back of the main house, a smudge of loamy soil decorating her cheek like an old-time soldier’s war paint. The hum grew louder, and Tamara put down her small shovel and stood tall, her hands on her hips as she watched the shiny black hover car approach.
Only a few people in the area had them, most preferring (or only able to afford) terrestrial means of transport, but as the vehicle drew near, she didn’t even need to see the license plates to know full well that this particular conveyance belonged to the firm of local developer Rutherford Corning.
The blowhard foreigner was nothing if not persistent in his attempts at her familial plot, his repeated legal assaults and character attacks not gaining traction in a region none too fond of interlopers. Still, his money was much coveted by some on the Township Council, and that made him dangerous. Dangerous, connected, and wealthy. Just the sort of challenge she welcomed.
On this particular occasion, she noted as the passengers exited the vehicle hovering inches above the ground, he appeared to be joined by none other than the local Council Chairman and moral busybody, Reverend Donagh Howell.
This should be interesting, she thought.
“Ms. Baird,” Corning called out as the men approached, treading carefully in their expensive shoes as they walked over the damp soil. “I’m back, and before you do anything foolish, I’ll have you know
that this is official Council business, conducted with full backing of the Council, and the parish as well, I might add,” he said, gesturing to the frocked man at his side.
“Aye, and what new business have ye here this time, ye toupéed twally?” she asked, throwing him some shade in broad tones for a laugh.
“You know why we’re here, Ms. Baird,” he replied. “You are living in an amoral state, in direct violation of local parish rules. As such, your lands are subject to forfeiture and seizure by the Township under the local moral turpitude provisions.”
“Och, you’re going to use outdated laws to take my farm, are you?”
“Indeed.” The man flashed a smug and smarmy grin. “We know you’ve been living in sin with another woman,” he said, pausing to see the shock register on her face. To his disappointment, she batted nary an eyelash. “As I was saying, the practice of sapphic acts is explicitly forbidden in local ordinances, not to mention being an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.”
She looked him over coolly.
“You don’t strike me as much of a moral man, Mr. Corning. In fact, I seem to recall hearing something about your most recent trophy wife having been in some racy photo sessions back in her modeling days. Of course that’s why you pick the ones from the Slavic areas, eh? Getting gold-digging foreigners to do the jobs none of your country’s own women want, I suppose.”
“Now that’s quite enough!” Reverend Howell hissed, his cheeks red with indignation. “Mr. Corning is a valuable investor in our Township, and his plans will be a boon to the region!” The nasty little man took a breath, then changed his tone. “Look, this doesn’t have to be such a difficult process. I’m sure it’s trying on you. This sort of thing can ruin a person’s reputation, so perhaps you’d be happier foregoing this unpleasantness and simply accepting Mr. Corning’s generous offer for your land. We needn’t dig into your personal life any further, but if you force us to proceed, any results of this inquest will be immediately binding and public record for all to see.”