... die... there and then...

… die… there and then…
Peter Hunter

… I wasn't sure if I was alert - or fumbling in semi-reality… maybe still dreaming - or the transition between the semi-conscious intoxication of not wanting to - not having to wake up and face hard cold fact…
but Bobbi, her slim body was - and had been - very real…
… of that I was certain…
… her full breasts, the swell of her nipple filling my palm as I cupped one in my hand - her small round bum - the warm, moist patch at the hinge of her endless thighs…
… they were at least an aching, almost painful tingling reality - as were her kisses and above all the soft, sensual feel and slight pleasant aroma of her skin…
… again reality
why, I thought, did so many people wear things like night clothes and such, in bed…
did they not realise how much they were missing?
… the almost searing sensation of exciting warmth where parts of me touched her
… but…
Bobbi had not been relaxed…
… she wanted more and more… more of what I had done… more than I was at this moment capable of giving her…
'Bobbi…' I suspected, she'd think my tone serious '… what on earth do you see in me - a man more than twenty years older than you? … You're beautiful, successful - a celebrity, and have so much going for you?'
Bobbi laughed in that delicious husky chuckle, hinting at some arcane knowledge.
'Trakka - don't be so naïve… I have had lots of men - too many to count - most of them not worthy of being called men. But you… the others? How many of them have your skills, seen and done what you have. I know you could look after me…
… whatever the emergency…
Have you any idea of how attractive that is - the sexual effect of the power you have…
… real power - the power of life and death…?'
We agreed that… as I was lacking in energy or enthusiasm, at least on her terms. I would stay in her flat and she would go out alone for the evening - for a drink at one of her regular haunts…
… a seedy subterranean wine bar in Mount Street, Mayfair.
As I slid into the greyness of hopeful sleep, I thought of the history of the location of the flats… St Georges Fields was built on five acres of what had been a large cemetery, not just where they had buried the cadavers of the unfortunates hanged at nearby Tyburn, now modern Marble Arch…
… but which had earlier served as a plague pit - a mass grave for thousands.
Earlier - whilst leaving my Land Rover in the underground car park, I had been very conscious of that fact. Did the earth around the cavernous car spaces still contain bones I wondered - or had they removed them before building the gardens and the three hundred flats above them…?
… and were their ghosts still there - as when parking in the empty small hours they appeared to be…
Now I seemed to be rapidly spinning…
… down - down -down, through a steep black spiral into a deeply pointed vortex below - some sinister whirlpool taking me helplessly into I know not where…?
I saw myself as clearly a baby… a tiny baby… somehow I could tell I was only a few hours old…
… and my mouth reached out towards the reassuring dimpled pinkness of a nipple only an inch away…
except it didn't taste of milk - it was like some sort of filthy vinegar…
… my mother must be poisoning me - delivering it from her own breast - but I could not resist the strange fluid, as it trickled into my mouth, slightly acid but fatally exciting…
… and slowly - ever so slowly I died…

End

Extract from … death of an Eroticist… Amazon and Kindle

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