“Perfect!” She clapped her hands together. “Let me just let him know.”
She ran back into the restaurant, and he stayed in the parking lot, watching her.
Either she was playing him, or she was just as excited to get fucked as he was to fuck her. Maybe it had been a while for her, or maybe she’d had a bad relationship, and she needed to feel safe before taking that step.
Maybe she was a virgin.
He hadn’t considered that last option until just now. Maybe this was going to be her first time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Some guys jumped at the chance to pop some virgin cherry, but he wasn’t really comfortable with that. The whole deflowering thing didn’t excite him. In fact, it kind of creeped him out. Had she given him any clues that she hadn’t had sex before? Had she mentioned any past boyfriends, or girlfriends? He couldn’t recall anything, but he wasn’t surprised. He knew jack shit about her personal life.
The fact that she had been stingy with the personal details was starting to make him a little uncomfortable. Most of the girls he dated loved to talk about themselves. Gina didn’t. He couldn’t think of any time she had outright avoided a subject, but looking back, he did recall her usually giving him the ‘Oh, I’m not all that interesting’ line a few times.
Before he could take his line of mental inquiry any further Gina was back, her smile as bright as ever.
“He says it’s fine.” She reached out her hand.
He took it in his own, and they started the short walk to her apartment building. It turned out to be just as far as she had said, only a block, and before he knew it, he was up the elevator, and sitting on a plush leather couch in her candle lit living room.
They were kissing, his hands wandering across her flat belly, her right leg wrapping around his waist. She was pulling him closer, not pushing his hands away. He kissed her neck, then her collarbone. He started to pull at her top, to free her breasts. She stopped him.
“Come on. I don’t want to do this here.” She took his hand, pulled him to his feet, and started him towards a room at the back of the apartment. “I want it to be special. I want it to be just right.”
She might actually be a virgin, he thought to himself. A small part of him wanted to put on the brakes, but a big part of him, the part that was straining against his zipper, had decided otherwise. This was going to happen, no matter what.
Still, he had to ask. He had to know. If this was her first time, he wanted to make sure he did it right. As much as he thought of himself as a player, and sometimes as a bit of a pig, he wasn’t always a bad guy. He always wanted to make sure that his partner was enjoying herself.
He stopped, gently tugging at her hand. “Hey,” their eyes met and he smiled. “You’ve done this before, right? This isn’t your first time?”
She laughed. “No! Oh God, I… no, it isn’t my first time.”
That was a relief.
She continued. “I wouldn’t say I’m super experienced or anything, but I’ve been with a few men.” She pulled him close, her lips gently brushing his cheek, her body pressing against him. Her free hand gently massaged the bulge in his khakis. “And a few women, too.”
She turned from him, pushing open a door to what he assumed was the bedroom. The room on the other side was almost completely dark, only the light from the street lamps below giving any kind of illumination.
The room had an odd smell to it. Antiseptic. The floor felt funny under his feet, too. It was kind of slick. Not hardwood. Tile? It seemed to crinkle slightly as he walked. Warning bells were starting to go off in his head, but then she moved. She was on her knees in front of him, his cock freed in one simple motion of her hands. Her mouth was on him, working him, and his brain went all but blank. The only thing he could focus on was the amazing pleasure that came from the sensations her tongue created. He let her work for a little while longer, but then he pulled his dick from her mouth.
“Slow down. I don’t want to come yet.” His voice was breathy and excited.
He heard her giggle.
He gently helped her to her feet, and kissed her, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths. He began pulling at her clothes again, and this time she aided him in their removal. Soon she was standing before him in her bra and panties. The streetlight through the window only gave him small glimpses of her pale, perfect skin. It was enough to drive him crazy. He wanted to feel her, to kiss her, to taste her. He wanted to fuck her so badly. But he wanted to take his time and savor every moment with her. He wanted to explore that perfect, lithe body of hers.
She stepped away from him, and sat down on what he thought was the bed. The light from the window backlit her, turning her into a shadow. She spread her legs, her body an erotic silhouette. Her hands moved towards her crotch, and it appeared that she had pulled her panties to the side, exposing her sex. He wished he could see her, see all of her, but he didn’t want to waste any time looking for a light switch.
“Then do me?” Her voice was deeper now, but still tinged with sweetness. Her arm was moving, and he could only imagine her fingers working her sex, probing inside of herself, getting ready for him.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he lowered himself in front of her, his head positioned between her legs, and went to work. His tongue lapped at her, searching for her clit. He… he was actually having some difficulty finding it. That didn’t slow him any. Her moans and gasps were enough to tell him that he was doing something right, even if he was having a little difficulty adjusting to her equipment.
He heard a gentle snap, and then felt the fabric of her bra gently brush against the top of his head. He reached up, his fingers wiggled under the sides of her panties and pulled them down.
She was completely naked.
“I want to see you.” He pulled back, resting on his heels. “I want to see all of you.”
“Are you sure?” The shadowy outline of her head had turned down towards him. Her voice sounded odd. It sounded like it was coming from in front of him, and not above.
“Yes.”
He could see her silhouette reach over and flick on a lamp. The room was suddenly filled with bright, white light.
Her face, or at least, what had once been her face, was now smooth, unblemished skin. The flesh on her breasts, completely smooth and nippleless, parted, exposing two large, swiveling brown eyes. Instead of a belly button, two even slits on her stomach that vibrated when she took in a breath.
Then his eyes wandered between her legs.
Two red, swollen lips parted, moving as a mouth would, revealing several rows of sharp, uneven teeth. Clear ooze dripped down the bed in front of her, and the mouth snarled at him.
“Like what you see?” said the mouth. The voice was Gina’s.
He backed away quickly, his hands trying to find a grip on the floor, but there was none. He slid, landing hard on his back. He looked around the room.
Everything was covered in tight, plastic sheeting.
“What the…” He sputtered, trying to get to his feet. “What the fuck are you?”
The thing that was Gina crab walked off the bed, the two eyes watching him, the mouth between her legs twisting into a sick smile, and then it spoke. “I’m your dream girl, honey. I’m your innocent little Gina. And honey,” she paused, “I’m real hungry.”
The Gina thing crab walked quickly towards him, the mouth between its legs snapping wildly at him. He scooted backwards as quickly as he could. His back hit the wall, and before he knew it, Gina had him pinned.
Her legs were on both sides of his head, and that mouth, that horrible, snarling mouth was inches away from his face.
“Oh God,” he muttered, tears welling up in his eyes. “Please, don’t do this… please…”
The mouth smiled. “You know what I really want to do, honey?” It inched closer, and the skin on the sides of its belly turned a slight shade of pink in a sick mockery of a blush. “I want to sit on your face and wiggle.” It cackled. A tongue shot o
ut from between the two, drooling lips, and pulled his head forward.
The last thing he saw before his face was devoured was Gina’s smooth, milky thighs and those sharp, uneven teeth rushing at him. Then there was a brutal, crushing pain as the teeth dug into the flesh of his face, the warmth of gushing blood, and then… nothing.
A few nights later Frank sat behind the bar. The news was on as usual, and he was watching with interest. The reporter was talking about another missing man, a sixth victim. His name was Brad Wheeler, age thirty-six. He had missed work for a few days, and when his friends tried to reach him the calls went to voicemail. After checking his apartment, and a few regular haunts, it became clear that the guy had vanished.
The picture they showed of Brad was familiar. Frank had seen him sitting at the bar a few nights earlier. He seemed nice enough. Then he’d left with the girl, and that was that.
Frank helped her move the car the next day, and they torched it, then he called their usual clean-up crew to deal with the wreckage. They had gotten good at covering their tracks. The whole hive had. They had been among the modern world long enough to understand the importance of destroying evidence. They needed to keep a low profile. Exposure would not end well for anyone.
The girl was starting to become a risk, though. She was picking meals that were too easily missed. Sure, they didn’t have family; but they had friends and they had active social lives and jobs. The news was picking up on them. The city was paying attention, and their food was becoming aware that something was amiss. One of the first rules of the hive was that the food could never become aware that they weren’t at the top of the food chain.
He would talk to her later, before the hive decided to intervene. If they stepped in, things would not go well for her. He had seen them destroy others for much smaller infractions. She was still young, which is why she was feeding so often, and the hive was being patient with her; but their patience only went so far.
For now, he needed to worry about himself. He hadn’t eaten in weeks. He decided it best to keep his head down until the girl’s feeding frenzy died down. It would soon enough. The hunger would level out, and soon she could enter into a more normal feeding schedule. There was the added bonus of being able to blame the girl if anything went sideways during one of his feedings, but he wasn’t banking on that.
He was starting to need a real meal. He had his eye on someone, and just as luck would have it, his meal walked through the door.
“How’s it going Frank?” asked Mr. Wilson.
“Not bad,” Frank looked away from the news, and focused on his customer. The man was becoming a regular, and Frank was certain it wasn’t because of the quality of the drinks. “Slow night, but I always welcome a friendly, and handsome, face.” He winked.
Mr. Wilson gave a friendly laugh and took his regular seat. At the moment, they were the only two in the bar.
Mr. Wilson had been coming in for a couple of weeks now. He had a pretty regular schedule, and showed up, like clockwork, every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. He was married, or at least had been married. The wedding ring gave that away. That didn’t seem to stop him from flirting with Frank though.
“You know,” Frank said, leaning against the bar,”my shift ends in thirty minutes. How about, when I get off, you and me go get a bite to eat?”
Mr. Wilson leaned in, his voice low. “You trying to pick me up, Frank?”
“Maybe,” he replied. “Unless you aren’t interested. Then it could just be a friendly meal.”
“I’m interested,” he said, brushing his hand over Frank’s. His wedding band gleamed in the bar’s amber lights.
“Good,” Frank smiled, “and I’m famished.” Frank bit his lip.
After tonight, Frank thought to himself, he wouldn’t be hungry again for a long while.
THE END.
IDOL OF ZITA by Jeffery Scott Sims
I entered the verminous no-name bar in the heart of Laupo village just off the railroad station, feeling a little beat from the long ride on that antique train down from Nogales. The journey had been decent enough, considering the locale, but the noise and the smell of that dirty coal-fired engine, and the ever-present reminders of the primitive crudity of life in those parts, had gotten to me. That was a wretched land of stark, stony mountains standing as barriers to the spread of civilization; dark, bottomless canyons gouged out of the bleak granite over a million years by laughably trivial, intermittent streams; desert plains that baked the flesh and fried the brain; pathetic, squalid villages, huddles of decrepit huts squatting at various points for no obvious geographical reason. Laupo was one such, a flea-bitten patch of near nothingness surrounded by craggy, broken hills, no industry, nothing to recommend it except, I suppose, the no-name bar. The blasted train had stopped at every village along the line, usually to no purpose. Laupo was, in every respect, the end of the line. The rusty rails ran out there. I could not conceive of a wholesome reason for visiting the place. Nevertheless, Laupo was my immediate destination. I came to search for the Idol of Zita.
I needed a drink. The bartender, a fat, sun-scarred fellow with a hard face torn out of a wanted poster, announced himself as Pedro, asked me what I wanted as soon as I passed the door. There wasn’t much company in there, a handful of the local crowd, farmers or gangsters for all I knew. I skirted their table, with rucksack on my back and satchel in hand, sat at the counter and ordered. Pedro grinned, handed me a tequila-- not what I asked for-- I guessed that was what one got. I paid too much, gulped it down, and demanded another.
I made small talk, feeling out the situation, checking my information. I let on that I came to his land for sightseeing. Pedro spoke only Spanish, and a native dialect at that, but I could get by. No, one didn’t see many tourists down here. No, the drug runners didn’t plague this territory; nothing in it for them. Visitors of any kind, outside of harvest season, were few and far between.
“The ruins?” he replied to one artfully casual question. “Ah yes, the ruins of Zita. Most impressive, I hear, a genuine attraction, not inferior to the famous old cities of the south, nor are they far, perhaps thirty kilometers more. However, they are difficult to reach, behind the mountains by the muddy lake. The old road goes there, only no one travels there anymore since the troubles years ago. The road, you, see, is not maintained.”
It all seemed to fit. My target was lonely, isolated, wholly unfrequented. With luck, I should have it all to myself. That suited me. In fact, it was rather essential to my plans. Perhaps I should explain at this juncture. My business consisted of acquiring things, and delivering them to someone else. That was how I made my living: get stuff, sell stuff. Sounds unremarkable? Well, I didn’t care what the stuff was; I didn’t care what it took to get it; I didn’t care who’s doing the buying or why, so long as I got paid, and paid handsomely. I operated in the shadows, off the beaten track, I made up the rules of my trade as I went along, and I didn’t allow anyone to stand in my way. In certain non-loquacious circles, I boasted an enviable reputation. It was a chancy life, but a rewarding one. To see me in that hot, dusty bar you wouldn’t think much of me, but between jobs, I lived the good life, the fancy life, known and respected in all the best places of the world. I’ve heard there were other ways to get ahead. This one treated me right.
I spoke of luck. Experienced as I am, I know how fate can trip one. It’s peculiar how luck conspired to desert me that day. Right then surprising complications ensued. Stomping and clattering and a babble of mingled voices, and then a herd stumbled into the bar. Before the last change of trains, onto this God forsaken sideline, I’d been aware of what I deemed a gaggle of tourists inhabiting another car, but just now I discovered they’d kept up with me. There were a dozen at least: a tall, slender man in a cool, off-white suit, wearing a big Panama hat that hid his face, accompanied by a number of youngsters in their teens or twenties. Most of the latter were the typical, slovenly types you see these days, male and female-- they looked like college s
tudents-- but one in particular stood out from the crowd and caught my eye. She was a dish. Long blonde hair, blue eyes, with soft, classic beauty, I noticed her most because she was dressed to kill in what resembled a tan safari dress as imagined by a ritzy fashion designer. She wore a smaller hat, smart, chic, just enough to keep the sun off her sculptured white ears.
From what I could tell, they were all embarrassingly American. They crashed in chattering loudly, snickering, grumbling. My dream girl said, “Professor, I’m parched. Buy me a drink before I perish.” Her voice was music. The other youths chimed in. The man, apparently the leader of the group, spoke quietly compared to the rest, then steered them to a couple of tables. Now I saw him plainly: well into middle age, a merry smile set in an angular hawk face, with piercing dark eyes and a short, carefully manicured beard. He sat beside me, with the blonde girl squeezing onto the bench at his far side, ordered for all. He didn’t sound American, although his English was flawless.
He turned to me, glanced me over, and said with that precise, measured, slightly accented voice, “I did not expect to meet here a fellow countryman.”
I smiled tightly, replied, “That depends on the country, doesn’t it?”
“So, a voyager from across the pond? I stopped in at London last year for a conference, my first visit there in a decade.” He got that right; I didn’t bother to tell him, for it wasn’t his affair, that I had spent most of my life in the States, nor that a return to my native land could prove decidedly unhealthy for me. He went on, “I mainly travel on business. Introductions are in order. I am Professor Anton Vorchek. This delightful young lady is my assistant, Miss Theresa Delaney. These others were culled from my graduate class. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
“Jones,” I told him. “Edward Jones.”
“A fine name, that,” he conceded, nodding amiably. “Surely as good as any.” He grinned broadly, revealing perfect teeth. “Chance brings us together at the edge of the wilderness. My people and I are here for the purpose of archeological excavation. What calls you, Mr. Jones, to Laupo?”
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