Musings from the Left Side

Short Stories & Poetry


Of Camphor and Sunsets

The night was thick and sweet with the smell of asphalt and pine. Sunset had just fallen 15 minutes ago and the night's sky still wore the sun's menses upon heaven's sky. With colors of crimson and purple and the trees were thick of camphor and sunsets.

He walked from the parking lot, across the street, and headed to the entrance of the club. He was tall, dark of complexion with strong arms and narrow waist. His gate was sure and long and with a flip of his head, moved his shoulder length hair back into place. He was beautiful and sure of himself. Plus there was something else that drew my eye on to his form that night. The odor of sex and violence.

Composite of me and a image by Brom

It was heavy on him and I could smell it from across the way where, in shadow, I watched him present his license to the doorman and enter Numbers this night. I was intoxicated, with him, and knew that he was the one tonight. I followed and when completing the ritual of identification, entered into a sea of human bodies moving to rhythms of angry guitars and primal drums. My interest was nowhere to be seen but I knew where he was going by the intoxicating scent that had caught my attention earlier. Upstairs, on the overlooking balcony, he stood over looking the dancers with disinterest and boredom. At least until something caught his attention and made him roll his eyes in distain.

She was running from the entrance and up the stairs towards him yelling "Jonathan". To which is reply was to hurriedly turn his back and walk quickly away. She continued up the stairs calling his name and followed him into the men's bathroom, where I stopped at the door to wait a moment before entering. Quietly I opened the door to see her on her knees begging and imploring him, and crying how she did not understand why he had struck and left her.

Neither had noticed my quiet entrance and maneuverings behind a stall to where I could see but not be seen. He laughed at her and through curses that she would never be a real woman and that she was lucky to have had someone like him even grace her with his company and that she should were his mark with pride because that was all a "shemale" was good for. To be fucked and beat was her lot in life and she should be grateful he even considered using his dick and fist on her. It was when she looked up that I noticed that which my nose had already ascertained, blood. It was coming from the corner of her lip and running from her nose intermingled with the tears from two swollen, blackened eyes. Her words were chocked and she pleaded to him as one whose sins were about to take them straight to hell, would plead to their father confessor for salvation. She held to his pants and offered to him, her dark god, sacrifices and alms, what ever he wanted as long as he would stay with her.

Then his eyes grew dark and a cruel smile crossed lips, which knew nothing of mercy but knew how to melt a cruel November's snow to get what he wanted. Slowly he unzipped his pants, just inches from her face and with a quiet voice said but three words, "suck it, bitch".

With a look of defeat and yet hope she slowly reached her hand into the opening of his pants as one reaching into the hole of a snake. With trepidation and excitement she with drew her hand, filled with the largeness of his phallus and slowly opened her mouth to receive him. She started slowly, up and down his shaft and I saw his face look as if Beelzebub himself has just closed a deal upon her very soul. Quickly her paced started to pick up and she suck hungrily on his cock as if it was the only thing that would save her from hell's hounds, that nipped on the heels of her fears of self-worth and denigration. Soon his thighs tightened and he released himself into her mouth and as she looked up to him as a child would look up to a teacher in hopes of praise, with his cum mingling with her blood, he smiled and drew back his fist.

While he dragged her body into the stall, I removed myself from the bathroom and was downstairs when he came out onto the balcony, afresh from his violent passion. It was now I knew he was to be mine tonight.

I walking out into the dance floor and played my body to the rhythms dancing so macabre that men entranced, divined from my gait that an angle had stepped from a pedestal and had won remission from fate by alighting to darker spheres. Delighting as I held sway, for I was not unlike a goddess to whom the wolves bay. Whilst envy glanced daggers from the dancing maidens, abhorred, who whispered in sects of suspicions abroad. That this unknown bitch bewitches seeing, how even now, this whore casts her spell upon the men and even more, upon my Black Count, who now my eyes already held fast.

As I finished my dance, he met me and using the same smile that wracked such violent overtures on a broken puppet, who now laid with strings cut and lifeless eyes that still held terror. He introduced himself as Jonathan. "Theresa", I said with eyes looking upward, from underneath, my brows, and wearing a smile that invited endless possibilities. He then started to weave a spell of words designed to bring a maiden to enthrallment and on any other would have had them wet and wanton of his lust and I, as he expected, gave over to his offer to take me home.
We drove down Montrose with the top down taking in the nights air and the fullness of the pregnant moon that's light gave eerie countenance to the shadows of trees as I had him turn east on Dallas.

"Stop here" I said after a few blocks and bounded out of the car, just as he brought it to a halt. "This is my home, for at least tonight" said I, and turning walked into the old cemetery. His face was befuddled but for a moment, then I perceived the change as the wolf entered into his thoughts and sadistic possibilities fancied themselves in his eyes and smile.
Dancing I lead the way deep into the heart of the place where the dead sleep in necrological dreams ready to witness, under Luna's light, the fate of two, interlocked in fate. Turning in time to meet his mouth hard on mine.

Tongue onto tongue swept on tides with out care, in passion ensnared. Phantasies sexed when his eyes, moonstruck, met mine and down was I laid on the marble slab of some crypt that was to be come our conjugal bed. Opening my skirt as a wolf opens the belly of its kill, he was taken aback by the site of a phallus where maiden's loins should have been. Only for a moment, then I saw libertine urges wash over him as he pulled his clothes off and stood astride over me.

Kneeling he brought his serpent to my lips and I took him deeply into the womb of my throat. Tasting her on him, I worked my tongue like a violinist's fingers on a violent fugue to awaken some dark god sleeping. Feeling his lycanthropic lust rise he pulled away and positioned himself between my thighs. His manhood touching the opening of my anal-vagina, sending electrical thrills through me and eliciting a deep moan from me. His face in anticipation of the pain he would bring as he thrust him self all the way deep inside of me was, instead surprised as he entered me, already wet and wanton and easily accommodating of his cock. Disappointed he started to violently thrust into me only to bring forth ecstasy and be greeted by my hips thrusting back in abandon. Our bodies entwined in a ballet of flesh, he moaned in pleasure as he experienced the way I milked him and raked my nails across his back. So much so that he never noticed that I was now on top, riding him as harpy in flight to hell.

With each thrust of my hips his loins felt as if his inside were being pulled from him and all he could do was lay there and experience the bliss that soon turned to terror as I smiled down into his eyes and let him see my fangs.

Oh how his fear and cum filled me with such orgasmic violence, as I but said only four words, "her name was Beth" and bit deep into his throat, feeling his heart fight against my assault to only ebb and grow silent.

As I lay there, in my necrophilic lover's arms, heady from the feeling of his hot blood and cum flowing through my body, as a murder of ravens in fugue, I drank in the wind through the trees with the smell of camphor and sunsets.

Theresa