taken hold and
carried him along until, frighteningly, an intense fire began to
rush through his veins. Behind it came an avalanche of pain that
blasted through his heart and up into his skull.
It hit like a botched lobotomy. Jackhammers
pounded on his chest and drilled into his head, pulverizing his
world into senseless, quaking rubble.
Oh, Christ. Somebody, please help!
Amid the shocks and jolts, Svoljsak heard
voices. Other people were in the room. Desperately, he tried to
make them aware of his distress. He shouted, then louder, but
succeeded only in biting the tip off his tongue.
His body involuntarily strained and
convulsed. And continued to orgasm. Distorted cheers washed in from
a distant shore, and from somewhere far below came a sporadic,
almost primeval, grunting.
Every cell felt ready to combust and hot lava
began to flow along his spine, sweeping before it every sound,
every thought, every feeling with a volcanic roar. He was in the
volcano, the volcano was in him, and Stanislaw Svoljsak realized
that soon his flesh would melt, his bones would dissolve, and the
agony would end. It would happen soon—but not soon enough.
== == ==
With Durrell she had played it safe and
remained on top. This time she’d wanted to experience the full
force of her lover’s death throes. Arms splayed to the sides, heels
cratered into the bed, Reis continued to grind and writhe beneath
Svoljsak’s dead weight. The warm press of unyielding flesh, both
exciting and frightening, extended the climax. As it gradually
faded, her tempo became erratic until the need to expand her lungs
with air took priority.
Her body continued to tingle and involuntary
muscle pulses made her thighs squeeze and relax against Svoljsak’s
hips. The violent fornication, however, had moved them up against
the headboard and now, unable to push on his shoulders to slide
out, Reis had a bit of a problem. She squirmed sideways and managed
to work a hand under his chest. Using the bedsprings to amplify the
motion she started to rock until a frantic heave and pelvic thrust
finally rolled the lifeless bulk over. Only a cat-like move
prevented her from going off the bed with it.
Unsteadily, she searched the floor for the
hypodermic and found it in front of the night table. Hot water
rinsed away the residue and she reassembled it back into a
hairclip. Stan had landed on his left side so Reis pushed him onto
his chest. It took close scrutiny in the dim light to locate the
puncture wound. A wider nail scratch would disguise it.
There was vomit mixed with blood on the bed.
It was on her too. She began to shake and headed for the bathroom
where the scalding shower had a cathartic effect without triggering
any latent emotion. Reis toweled, dressed, and then wiped down the
few places she might have touched. The drink glasses were washed
and placed in the sink to dry.
A quick search of the unit before she left
seemed prudent—just to see if the old boy had kept anything back.
She started with the pockets of his clothes. The billfold contained
just over two hundred dollars and a torn piece of a phone directory
page. She stuffed the cash in her bag and dropped the wallet on the
table; just like any reasonably honest working girl would do if her
trick seized up.
She upended the wastebasket.
A page of lined paper crumpled into a ball
rolled out. The handwriting was rough, and there was much crossing
out. It was the draft of a letter. She looked again at the
wastebasket and this time noticed an adhesive label clinging by a
corner to the plastic liner. It had an address on it. That of her
postal box.
She went back to his pocket for the torn bit
of phone directory. Three pieces of paper, one story, and she
wasn’t liking the gist of it.
“You deceiving bastard!” She delivered the
corpse a sound kick to the hip.
Svoljsak had mailed the package, but not to
her. The name at the top of the draft matched the one on the torn
phone list.
“I suppose whoever you sent
carried him along until, frighteningly, an intense fire began to
rush through his veins. Behind it came an avalanche of pain that
blasted through his heart and up into his skull.
It hit like a botched lobotomy. Jackhammers
pounded on his chest and drilled into his head, pulverizing his
world into senseless, quaking rubble.
Oh, Christ. Somebody, please help!
Amid the shocks and jolts, Svoljsak heard
voices. Other people were in the room. Desperately, he tried to
make them aware of his distress. He shouted, then louder, but
succeeded only in biting the tip off his tongue.
His body involuntarily strained and
convulsed. And continued to orgasm. Distorted cheers washed in from
a distant shore, and from somewhere far below came a sporadic,
almost primeval, grunting.
Every cell felt ready to combust and hot lava
began to flow along his spine, sweeping before it every sound,
every thought, every feeling with a volcanic roar. He was in the
volcano, the volcano was in him, and Stanislaw Svoljsak realized
that soon his flesh would melt, his bones would dissolve, and the
agony would end. It would happen soon—but not soon enough.
== == ==
With Durrell she had played it safe and
remained on top. This time she’d wanted to experience the full
force of her lover’s death throes. Arms splayed to the sides, heels
cratered into the bed, Reis continued to grind and writhe beneath
Svoljsak’s dead weight. The warm press of unyielding flesh, both
exciting and frightening, extended the climax. As it gradually
faded, her tempo became erratic until the need to expand her lungs
with air took priority.
Her body continued to tingle and involuntary
muscle pulses made her thighs squeeze and relax against Svoljsak’s
hips. The violent fornication, however, had moved them up against
the headboard and now, unable to push on his shoulders to slide
out, Reis had a bit of a problem. She squirmed sideways and managed
to work a hand under his chest. Using the bedsprings to amplify the
motion she started to rock until a frantic heave and pelvic thrust
finally rolled the lifeless bulk over. Only a cat-like move
prevented her from going off the bed with it.
Unsteadily, she searched the floor for the
hypodermic and found it in front of the night table. Hot water
rinsed away the residue and she reassembled it back into a
hairclip. Stan had landed on his left side so Reis pushed him onto
his chest. It took close scrutiny in the dim light to locate the
puncture wound. A wider nail scratch would disguise it.
There was vomit mixed with blood on the bed.
It was on her too. She began to shake and headed for the bathroom
where the scalding shower had a cathartic effect without triggering
any latent emotion. Reis toweled, dressed, and then wiped down the
few places she might have touched. The drink glasses were washed
and placed in the sink to dry.
A quick search of the unit before she left
seemed prudent—just to see if the old boy had kept anything back.
She started with the pockets of his clothes. The billfold contained
just over two hundred dollars and a torn piece of a phone directory
page. She stuffed the cash in her bag and dropped the wallet on the
table; just like any reasonably honest working girl would do if her
trick seized up.
She upended the wastebasket.
A page of lined paper crumpled into a ball
rolled out. The handwriting was rough, and there was much crossing
out. It was the draft of a letter. She looked again at the
wastebasket and this time noticed an adhesive label clinging by a
corner to the plastic liner. It had an address on it. That of her
postal box.
She went back to his pocket for the torn bit
of phone directory. Three pieces of paper, one story, and she
wasn’t liking the gist of it.
“You deceiving bastard!” She delivered the
corpse a sound kick to the hip.
Svoljsak had mailed the package, but not to
her. The name at the top of the draft matched the one on the torn
phone list.
“I suppose whoever you sent
Similar Books
