Dead Roses for a Blue Lady (17 page)

She paused in front of an elaborately carved wooden door at the end of the second floor hallway. "This is my room," she said with a smile. "Come on in." She opened the door and stepped inside, motioning for him to follow.

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) He followed, moving cautiously into the darkened room.

"Hey.. .where did you go?" he said with a nervous laugh. All of the sudden he was aware of the fact that nobody knew he was miles from the city, in an isolated house occupied by strangers whose last names he didn't know.

"Wait a second—I'll get the lights." Phaedra's voice came out of the darkness, behind and to one side of where he stood.

The lights came on with a sudden flash of brilliance, enough to make him wince. The first thing he noticed was that the walls were the color of spilled blood. The second thing he noticed was the huge mirror mounted on the ceiling, which reflected plush carpeting a shade lighter than the walls. The overhead light fixtures and wall-sconces were shaped like gilded cherubs armed with cornucopias. In the mid-die of the room was a king-sized circular bed outfitted with red satin sheets. Heavy crimson velvet curtains covered the windows.

"We can do whatever we like without disturbing anyone," Phaedra said. She was still behind him, near the light switch. "All the bedrooms are sound-proofed."

He turned to face her, but whatever he was planning to say never found its way past his lips. Phaedra was leaning against the blood red wall, stark naked except for her shoes. Her dress lay in a pool at her feet, as if it had melted off her body.

"You like?" she smiled.

Unable to find his voice, he nodded vigorously.

She gave a little chuckle and did something with the light switch, and the room abruptly dimmed. "That's better," she said, stepping towards him.

He began to remove his own clothes, but his fingers kept fumbling because he couldn't take his eyes off her. Her skin was as white and flawless as an alabaster statue, her hips shapely and inviting, without a hint of cellulite. Her belly was flat and her pubic hair carefully trimmed. She smelled of sex and expensive perfume and did not want to discuss children, in-laws, bank balances, mortgage payments, or any of the things that defined the confines of his life. She was young and desirable and available. And the knowledge that he was none of these things made his penis so painfully rigid it vibrated like a tuning fork.

He was breathing fast and his mouth was open as Phaedra approached him. She stood facing him, close enough that he could feel the heat from her body. She looked into his eyes, then down at his penis jutting forward from underneath the swell of his middle management paunch.

As Phaedra's hand wrapped around his erection, his wife's face shimmered across the back of his eyes like a summer haze, then was gone. Phaedra began to rub his cock up and down with sure, practiced strokes. He gave a choked little cry and placed his hand atop her own, staying the movements.

"That feels too good," he whispered hoarsely.

"But I
want you
to feel good," she purred. "I want you to feel better than you ever have...or ever will again." She pressed herself tightly against his body, rubbing her breasts against the naked expanse of his chest. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To make yourself feel good?"

With a sly smile, she gracefully dropped to her knees before him. He gave a groan of approval and tilted his head back, staring up at his reflection in the mirrored ceiling.

As his cock slid into her ready mouth, his vision grew blurry around the edges and a groan

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) of intense pleasure escaped him. Phaedra's lips glided over the shaft, her tongue exploring every inch of him. He'd never felt anything so incredible in his life; neither with his wife or any of the co-workers or call girls he had used over the years. At first her movements were slow, but quickly picked up speed and intensity. He could feel her fingernails dig into his ass cheeks, urging him onward.

That was all the encouragement he needed to surrender to the urge that had been gnawing at his loins all night long. He dug his fingers tight into the hair at the back of Phaedra's head and began fiercely pumping in and out of her mouth. Even if she had wanted to stop, there was no way he was going to let her. He wanted—no,
needed
to cum in her mouth more than anything in his life. He needed it more than a promotion, more than food and shelter. Somehow, everything that was wrong and dull and empty in his life would be set right, if only he could reach orgasm with this woman. And at that moment he was willing to sacrifice everything he had ever held dear—his wife, his children, his career—if it meant he could empty himself between her blood red lips.

A sweat broke out all over his body as his balls jerked up to the sides of his cock, flooding her mouth with their warm, bitter cream. His head dropped back, his mouth open, as his hips continued to thrust blindly forward. A deep groan escaped him, and then his hands let go of her head as he stepped back on numbed legs, his wilted penis sliding free of her lips.

He was light-headed and rubber-kneed, as weak and vulnerable as a freshly foaled colt.

Phaedra was still kneeling before him, wiping spittle and sperm from her lower lip with the back of her hand. There was a distance in her eyes he had not seen before, or at least had not allowed himself to notice. Although less than five seconds before they had been as intimate as two humans could possibly be, it was as if she was miles away.

"I-I need to pee," he stammered.

Phaedra pointed silently in the direction of the bathroom door. He staggered away from her, glad to be free of her thousand-yard stare. She was probably thinking he was a jerk for coming so soon. He meant to apologize, say something about her being so sexy he couldn't hold back, but he couldn't work up the energy to bother with it. Besides, she didn't seem so much disappointed as kind of dazed. Maybe those Bloody Marys were finally catching up with her, after all.

The bathroom, in keeping with the rest of the house, was much larger and far grander than anything he'd ever seen in a private residence. The walls were mirrored, casting myriad images of his nakedness into infinity. The floor was ceramic tile, embossed with starfish and crustaceans painted in Mediterranean blue. The oceanic theme was continued by a wash basin fashioned from a gigantic conch shell and solid gold fixtures shaped like medieval dolphins. As impressive as those features were, the
piece de resistance
was the huge, oval-shaped marble tub that sat atop its own dais in the middle of the room. The bathroom looked like something you might expect to see in an old-fashioned movie star's home...or a high-class knocking shop.

He climbed up the steps that led to the tub and gazed down at it. It was easily the width of a child's swimming pool, and twice as deep. The sides were worn smooth from use and sloped steeply towards the drain, which looked somewhat rusty. Still, he couldn't help but feel that there was something not quite right. Then he realized there was no faucet anywhere in sight. Perplexed, he looked upward, thinking there might be a showerhead set in the ceiling.

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) There was something overhead, but it wasn't plumbing. As he stood gaping up at the ceiling, he was dimly aware of Phaedra having joined him in the bathroom.

"What the fuck is that doing up there?" he asked, pointing at the old fashioned block-and-tackle suspended over the tub.

Phaedra's answer came in the form of a baseball bat connecting with the side of his head.

The first thing he felt upon regaining consciousness was the congestive pressure of his own blood in his ears. The second thing was pain from his broken jaw. He tried to open his eyes, but his right one was swollen shut. Still, he didn't need both eyes to know that he was hanging upside down by his heels over the marble tub.

"That didn't take long."

He recognized the voice as the Contessa's. He caught a glimpse of her in one of the mirrors, her wheelchair parked in the open door of the bathroom.

"Thank God for small favors. And I
do
mean small," Phaedra sneered. She was seated on the toilet, smoking a cigarette. "I prefer it when they come in my mouth. I hate it when they stick it in me." She shivered in revulsion at the very thought.

"Yes, my dear. I understand all too well," the Contessa said sympathetically. "The penis is such a
tramgressive
organ."

He tried to open his mouth and demand that they let him go, but the pain from his shattered jaw turned his shout into an agonized moan. The two women glanced up at him as if he was nothing more than a chiming clock.

"He's awake," Phaedra said, flicking the cigarette into the conch-shaped wash basin.

"Good," the Contessa said, tossing aside her lap blanket and levering herself out of the wheelchair. "Let's get this over with."

Compared to the rest of her body, the tubular metal and carbon filaments of her prosthetic limbs were frighteningly sturdy. She wavered like a young tree in a stiff wind, then took a step forward, the hydraulic knees and tendons hissing and popping like steam-driven pogo sticks.

Phaedra moved to meet the Contessa, helping the older woman to remove her garment.

Her body was so wrinkled it was almost impossible to tell what sex she was, her dried-up jugs hanging flat against her chest like deflated wineskins. With trembling, gnarled fingers, the Contessa loosened her hair, allowing it to spill down upon her shoulders like a fall of snow.

The old woman nodded to the younger one, and Phaedra began to methodically unfasten the elaborate suspension gear—half corset, half truss—that held the Contessa's artificial legs in place. When the last strap was finished with, the Contessa linked her arms around Phaedra's neck as her companion lifted her free of the legs. The pros-theses, empty of their operator, dropped to the tiled floor with a loud clatter.

Phaedra carried her mistress easily up the steps of the dais and carefully balanced her on its worn lip. Using her arms to propel her, the Contessa scuttled down the side of the tub like a pallid crab.

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) The man who said his name was John was finally beginning to figure out that whatever plans Phaedra and the Contessa had for him, they were not sexual. At least not as he understood the term. His initial indignation and anger turned to fear then panic. He tried to call out Phaedra's name, but the best he could manage was a cry of animal-like pain.

Phaedra was standing at the edge of the tub. Even though he was disoriented from the blow and able to see out of only one eye, he was still able to glimpse the knife she held in her hand. His mind was racing so fast it was standing still, unable to gain the traction necessary to escape, as Phaedra grabbed his hair and yanked backwards, exposing his Adam's apple. He didn't have enough spirituality to find comfort in faith; but he
had
watched enough TV to delude himself into thinking that someone—Kojak, maybe, or Rockford—would kick open the door, right in the nick of time.

He was still waiting on the cops when Phaedra slit his throat from ear to ear.

The last thing he saw before escaping, mercifully, into unconsciousness was the sight of his life's blood jetting forth from his severed jugular vein and carotid arteries like wine from a newly tapped keg. His body involuntarily jerked with the release, much as it had during orgasm.

The rich red splashed against the smooth marble surface with a thick, wet sound, like water gushing from a choked gutter. The Contessa thrust herself under the grisly downpour, eagerly massaging it into her thirsty flesh with obscene abandon. The stolen blood did not smear or clot upon her skin, but was absorbed, like rain falling on a sun-baked riverbed. The Contessa's withered flesh grew firm and taut, smoothing out the creases and wrinkles that crosshatched her face from within. Like ink dropped into a glass of milk, darkness reclaimed her hair. Her eyes shed their clouds, to burn as brightly as twin goblets of fine claret held before a fire. She smiled up at her companion, who knelt on the lip of the tub, watching her with the keen attention of a surgeon overseeing an operation.

"You shouldn't frown so, my dear," the Contessa said, clucking her tongue. "It leaves wrinkles. Don't just stand there—help me out."

Phaedra leaned forward and gathered her mistress into her arms, lifting her free of the gore-streaked tub. The Contessa's head lolled against her shoulder like that of a newborn child's. Rejuvenation always left her torpid. The languor would pass after a few minutes, but until then she needed to be guarded and protected.

Phaedra carried the Contessa out of the bathroom and placed her on the circular bed, carefully arranging the red velvet bolster and satin pillows against the headboard.

"The night," the Contessa said with a breathy sigh. "I want to see the night."

Phaedra nodded and picked up a remote-control device from atop the bedside table and pointed it at the heavy velvet drapes. She pressed a button and the curtains parted, revealing a picture window that filled the wall. Phaedra assumed that during the day the view was spectacular, but now it was as dark as only night on the water can be. The sky was clear, undimmed by the glare of city lights and suburban development, and the millions of stars that filled the night sky were twinned in the inky surface of the lake. The Contessa loved to stare out at the lake for hours on end, although nothing moved except the twinkling of the stars and the gentle motion of the lake's surface. At least nothing Phaedra's mortal eyes could see.

"So beautiful," the Contessa said, slurring the words slightly. She patted the coverlet beside her with her hand. "Come. Sit by me, child."

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) Phaedra sat beside her, her naked body pressed close to the Contessa's own. The older woman looked at her for a long moment, then motioned to Phaedra's hair.