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Moira Gillen

A little bit of darkness to brighten your day

Say Ahhh

Nick shifts his weight, staggers, leans against the cement wall. Bruce had been right; the tequila here is waaaayyy stronger than the watered-down tourist-juice they’d been overpaying for. The cement is still unpleasantly warm, radiating the heat it has absorbed over the day, making his shirt stick to his lower back. He scans the area again, unable to decide whether to chalk the sense of disquiet up to being watched, or just the booze.

An overpowering scent of shit and garbage pervades the trash-strewn alley, and he rides out of wave of nausea. Swallowing the rising sourness at the back of his throat, he takes another hurried drag on his cigarette, eager to get back before the big-titted blonde dye job gets bored and moves on to someone else.

Leaving the pair of them with Bruce had been a mistake, he decides; the dark-haired one with the gold hoops -- What were their names? Juanita and Margarita? That couldn’t be right -- was the one Bruce has been chatting up all night (her skirt’s shorter) but that doesn’t mean he won’t switch his attentions to whichever seems most drunk and willing.

The evening air hasn’t provided the respite he’d hoped from the sardine-cramped quarters inside. Damp but not cool, the breezeless night is close, oppressive. His queasiness makes him balk at the thought of returning to the bar’s sweaty interior, but the throb between his legs is more convincing than his nausea. He crushes the cigarette under his heel and is about to head back in when movement at the corner of his vision makes him double-take.

There is someone else out here; he hasn’t been imagining it. He squints into the shadows, takes a few steps out from the circle of illumination provided by the bulb above the bar’s back stoop, and waits for his eyes to adjust.

Across the street, another flicker. He squints, rubs one eye, half wonders why he’s even bothering when it’s probably just a stray. Then it shifts again and a figure comes into focus.

A girl. A woman? She takes one gliding step forward into a brighter patch of moonlight. Even from this distance, he can tell she’s hot. Well… maybe hot’s not the right word. Beautiful? Striking. He walks a few feet forward then hesitates, not wanting to startle her, and looks again. Black hair curtains her downturned face to end just above high, pert breasts. He can’t exactly make out her features – her skin seems to glow in the moonlight, but he knows that’s just the tequila – but he can see enough – big eyes, full lips – to know she’s sexy. Who cares about the details?

She raises her gaze slightly to make eye contact, and he feels his cock jump.

“Hey, what’s your name? You habla the anglaze? C’mere, I —"

Silently, she raises a delicate finger to her lips and shakes her head.

Confusion wars with irritation and arousal. His head is starting to throb and he considers just returning to the easy blonde, ripe for the picking. Then her finger leaves her lips to curl, beckoning.

“Listen, I’m not gonna pay you, so if –” He stops when he realizes she’s backing away from him, disappearing into the shadows, shaking her head again.

Raising his palms placatingly, he stage whispers, “Okay, okay, hold on.”

She continues backing away but more slowly, and as he starts toward her again, he sees the hint of a smile quirk those deep red lips, still pressed firmly together.

Hesitation forgotten, he follows, speeding up when she turns and quickens her pace, to make sure to keep sight of the slight but appealingly curved figure at least a dozen steps ahead. Even as he struggles to keep up, he catches himself admiring her tight little ass, and distracted, almost trips over the debris strewn all over the dirty streets. He steps in something that makes an unpleasant squelch but doesn’t take the time to investigate, afraid he’ll lose her.

She disappears around the side of a building, her light steps unheard beneath the sound of his own pounding tread. By the time he reaches the corner, she’s gone. His pulse thrums in panic; he can’t explain his lust, but neither can he deny how badly he wants her. Needs to have her.

Then he catches sight of her in the shadows half a block away, and his stomach unclenches in relief. As soon as he’s seen her, she vanishes, there and gone in a blink. He crosses the deserted street at a jog, skirting parked cars and what smells like piles of chicken shit. Even in his haste, he finds time to marvel at the quiet of the night streets, so different from the bustle and noise of twelve hours ago. Then he’s there, in the darkened alcove, staring at the waist-high yawning hole where three boards – now at his feet, upturned nails waiting wickedly for a careless step – had been removed.

As he bends to peer in, he begins to feel ridiculous. Lust fading, he opens his mouth – though whether to summon her or to announce his departure, he hasn’t quite decided -- when something white darts out at waist-level from the shadowed interior.

He can’t quite suppress the yelp, even as he realizes it’s just her arm, startling in the moonlight. Her hand motions again for him to follow. Follow her into the darkness of this house -- if you could even call this falling down, boarded-up building a house – in some strange city in some strange country…

This is stupid, he thinks. By far, the stupidest thing he’s ever done for a lay, even if you include Crazy Christina. He should just go back to the bar and find Bruce and but as he’s reciting this in his head, he’s climbing through the jagged hole into the bowels of the building.

It’s even darker inside, but the cracks in the haphazardly-boarded up door and window let in enough light that, once his eyes begin to adjust, he can make out her shape at the end of the hall.

She cocks her head, inviting him, and slips into an opening halfway down the hall. He’s quick to follow, floorboards creaking under his eager tread. The bedroom he enters seems brighter, enough that he can make out a cheap metal headboard, moonlight glinting off brass. He stops short when he sees the dark, irregular stain in the center of the bare mattress, recoils instinctively.

He collides with something.

Somehow, she has gotten behind him. He turns and sees her up close, and forgets his disgust. He’d been right, she is striking. Huge eyes stare at him; fathomless pools of blackness in an already black room. Those dark, dark lips – everything is so dark compared to the white of her face – curl up at the corners.

His desire makes him shudder.

Her hands are on his shoulders. He’s leaning forward to kiss her when, instead, he finds himself flying backwards at her shove, the mattress complaining under his unexpected weight.

He swallows his grunt of surprise, turns to leer at her eagerness, when suddenly, she’s straddling him. The slim thighs on either side of his hips make him instantly harder than he’s ever been, his erection straining painfully. Fumbling, he’s reaching to free it when her chill fingers beneath his chin tilt his face upwards.

Her face fills his vision. Her lips part. He licks his own in anticipation, but instead of leaning in for a kiss, her mouth continues to widen, black-red lips pulling back to reveal, not teeth, only more darkness.

Wider. Her jaw stretches impossibly, larger than his fist, larger than a baby’s head, no longer a mouth but a gaping, hungry hole. He tries to scramble backwards, but she’s still straddling him, pinning him to the mattress.

And then, from the corners of her mouth, smoke. Black curling wisps begin to trickle, slowly at first, then heavier, angry storm clouds billowing. The dense fog that starts to creep up his body no longer resembles smoke. Tar-like, sticky against his skin, it just keeps coming from that chasm where her mouth should be.

As it crawls up his neck, he can’t help himself; he tries to keep his own lips clamped shut but the animal scream forces its way out of his throat. The second his lips part, the thick, oily tendrils snake inside. Eager, they explore, expand, skimming over his teeth and coating his tongue with the taste of burnt hair. He gags, gags again, but the smoke feels solid as it burrows down his gullet.

Chest heavy, he half-coughs but his lungs seem to have given up. The last thing he sees through wild, wide eyes is that gaping maw, closing in to seal around his mouth and nose in that long-awaited kiss.

Image: 2017-09/dark-girl.jpg

Written by Moira Gillen

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