pubic hair, the extensive swelling of the labia, the dried pink line. His penis began to swell. He thought it might hurt to put his penis inside her, she would be so dry. He bent over to kiss one nipple, and still she did not move.
“Angela! Angela!” he screamed. Her eyelids shot open. She started to cry, and he kissed each one of the tears, tasting them, lifting them with his tongue. “Angela . . . ” He entered her name into the air as she guided him into her.
They could move only for short, vigorous periods. They rested for an hour or so between tries, always pressed together, their skin painful to the touch, but so painful not to touch. The fire of pain was a part of them both and could not be isolated. The sex was strong and desperate both inside and outside their dry, flaking skins. He entered her wherever he could find an opening, but there were never enough openings to get all of him inside. “I want you closer,” she pleaded again and again, but her mouth seemed misshapen, the words malformed, although he understood everything she said. “I can’t get . . . inside you,” she said and beat her fist against his chest in one spot over and over as if to force an opening.
When he woke up she had a kitchen knife in her hand, moving it back and forth across her tongue. He looked down at his belly. She’d started building a hole there. Not “making,” he thought. More than that. Building. She was building a bridge between them.
He suddenly wanted to urinate, but he couldn’t get up. He couldn’t remove her mouth and tongue from him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to the bathroom. But he knew he had. He couldn’t remember the last time he had left this bed. And perhaps he hadn’t.
“We animals, we worship meat. We worship our food,” he said. “It brings us back to where we came from, and after such a long, lonely journey.”
She had her tongue in the hole. She looked as if she were trying to get her entire head in there. He wanted to tell her that she couldn’t, that it wouldn’t work. A physical impossibility for human beings. He wanted to be the voice of reason again. For her. He thought she needed it. His life, his body had no more room for reason.
After a time he opened his eyes. She was covered with him.
“Close to you . . . close to you . . . ” she murmured. She tasted just like him. He thought it must be the taste of her that kept waking him up.
He woke up again. “Close to you,” she repeated. She kept jabbing him to wake him up. It hurt. She kept putting her finger into his hand. “Here,” she said. Her sharp finger. He looked down at the knife in his hand. “Here,” she said again. She pulled his head down until he could see the pubic hair. He tasted himself. “Here.” She drew a line down from her pubic hair, down from her vagina. “They do it so babies can come out easier. ‘Episiotomy,’ they call it. So babies can come out. And never go back. Not ever.”
Dully he looked at her. He just wanted to lie down. Inside her. “Here,” she said. “Here.” And helped him guide the knife.
The Nunc Dimittis is the traditional Gospel Canticle of Night Prayer (Compline). It begins: Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace.
(Now you are releasing your servant, Master, according to your word in peace.—Luke 2:29)
Nunc Dimittis
Tanith Lee
The Vampire was old, and no longer beautiful. In common with all living things, she had aged, though very slowly, like the tall trees in the park. Slender and gaunt and leafless, they stood out there, beyond the long windows, rain-dashed in the gray morning. While she sat in her high-backed chair in that corner of the room where the curtains of thick yellow lace and the wine-colored blinds kept every drop of daylight out. In the glimmer of the ornate oil lamp, she had been reading. The lamp came from a Russian palace. The book had once graced the library of a corrupt pope named, in his temporal
“Angela! Angela!” he screamed. Her eyelids shot open. She started to cry, and he kissed each one of the tears, tasting them, lifting them with his tongue. “Angela . . . ” He entered her name into the air as she guided him into her.
They could move only for short, vigorous periods. They rested for an hour or so between tries, always pressed together, their skin painful to the touch, but so painful not to touch. The fire of pain was a part of them both and could not be isolated. The sex was strong and desperate both inside and outside their dry, flaking skins. He entered her wherever he could find an opening, but there were never enough openings to get all of him inside. “I want you closer,” she pleaded again and again, but her mouth seemed misshapen, the words malformed, although he understood everything she said. “I can’t get . . . inside you,” she said and beat her fist against his chest in one spot over and over as if to force an opening.
When he woke up she had a kitchen knife in her hand, moving it back and forth across her tongue. He looked down at his belly. She’d started building a hole there. Not “making,” he thought. More than that. Building. She was building a bridge between them.
He suddenly wanted to urinate, but he couldn’t get up. He couldn’t remove her mouth and tongue from him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to the bathroom. But he knew he had. He couldn’t remember the last time he had left this bed. And perhaps he hadn’t.
“We animals, we worship meat. We worship our food,” he said. “It brings us back to where we came from, and after such a long, lonely journey.”
She had her tongue in the hole. She looked as if she were trying to get her entire head in there. He wanted to tell her that she couldn’t, that it wouldn’t work. A physical impossibility for human beings. He wanted to be the voice of reason again. For her. He thought she needed it. His life, his body had no more room for reason.
After a time he opened his eyes. She was covered with him.
“Close to you . . . close to you . . . ” she murmured. She tasted just like him. He thought it must be the taste of her that kept waking him up.
He woke up again. “Close to you,” she repeated. She kept jabbing him to wake him up. It hurt. She kept putting her finger into his hand. “Here,” she said. Her sharp finger. He looked down at the knife in his hand. “Here,” she said again. She pulled his head down until he could see the pubic hair. He tasted himself. “Here.” She drew a line down from her pubic hair, down from her vagina. “They do it so babies can come out easier. ‘Episiotomy,’ they call it. So babies can come out. And never go back. Not ever.”
Dully he looked at her. He just wanted to lie down. Inside her. “Here,” she said. “Here.” And helped him guide the knife.
The Nunc Dimittis is the traditional Gospel Canticle of Night Prayer (Compline). It begins: Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace.
(Now you are releasing your servant, Master, according to your word in peace.—Luke 2:29)
Nunc Dimittis
Tanith Lee
The Vampire was old, and no longer beautiful. In common with all living things, she had aged, though very slowly, like the tall trees in the park. Slender and gaunt and leafless, they stood out there, beyond the long windows, rain-dashed in the gray morning. While she sat in her high-backed chair in that corner of the room where the curtains of thick yellow lace and the wine-colored blinds kept every drop of daylight out. In the glimmer of the ornate oil lamp, she had been reading. The lamp came from a Russian palace. The book had once graced the library of a corrupt pope named, in his temporal
Similar Books
