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Siren Sweet & Harpy Shrill copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter Disclaimer:
These characters were created by Thomas
Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of
admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no
profit, of any kind, is made by the creator, maintainer or contributors to this
site.
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6 of 12 PART 10 Tears sear my eyes as his mouth clamps down on my neck. His teeth, pearly, angry, feral, hold tight to my captive jugular, a thin layer of skin the only barrier between him and my death. I look up at him through the eyes of a dozen color crime scene photos. Was this the last thing they saw? Did they beg, or plead, or cry for their mother? Offer their bodies in exchange for their life? Promise to mend their ways, improve their vocabulary, tip better, anything if only…There is a blur of motion and his teeth tear up from my neck. I scream, my hand instinctively flying to my neck in a futile attempt to staunch the blood spurting from the wound. My hand makes contact, slick, warm, wet, and my stomach drops sickeningly low. Above me, his glance is calmer now, the wildness retreated back from his eyes. Realization dawns on me slowly; the skin at my neck is smooth. No mangled muscle fibers. No weeping, rubbery arterial tubing. No cricoid cartilage crushed beyond recognition. Just the slight indentation of his teeth. I slowly pull my hand away, and breath a sigh of relief as my fingers are painted with only the slightest hint of blood. He shifts slightly, redistributing some of his weights to his knees which have slipped around the outside of my thighs. He squeezes them in on me and I’m aware of a tightening in his groin. Pressed just below my stomach, a knot of flesh camouflaged in black wool slacks. I should be terrified, I am terrified, but underneath the terror, another emotion is welling up in the pit of my stomach. I stare into his red-flecked eyes, and he can see it. The look on his face is a strange mixture of desire, and contemplation. The rage has subsided, slunk off into another vector of his cavernous mind, and in its’ place, another primal hunter emerges. He reaches out and gently grasps my wrists, sliding them up and over my head, resting them on the floor. Lowering his head to my still damp neck, he buries his nose in my flesh and inhales deeply. For the first time this evening, I don’t feel like another hunter. I don’t feel like helpless prey. It’s far more disturbing than that. I feel like a mate. With a maddening tenderness, his lips brush my neck, kissing the hurt he just moments before inflicted upon me. He continues to trail a line of kisses up my neck, from collar bone to the base of my skull. He stops at the ridge of my ear, whispering kisses around it’s edge. And then his warm honeyed baritone is echoing in my skull. “When a female tiger in enters a male’s territory, Clarice, she’ll start to behave erratically. She’ll stray farther and farther away from her den. She’ll leave her scent in a thousand different hollows and caves. In other words, she’ll draw attention to herself.” He pauses in his narrative to lick a droplet of blood from my neck. “The male, on the other hand, hangs back in the shadows. He’ll follow her for days. Stalk her, observe her, scent her, bide his time.” Now a kiss in my hair line. There a kiss on my collar bone. “And as he stalks her, Clarice, he notices the changes in her, the way she moves, the way she sounds, the way she carries herself. And still he waits…She calls to him, cries to him, she has a vocalization that even sounds like begging… ” Here he pauses to lick my neck, his tongue rougher this time. “And when he smells her heat upon her, the male approaches the female. There’s much hissing, snapping, they quarrel, they fight back and forth. But slowly, over time, they move closer. They almost touch. And then they do touch, gently, hesitantly at first, until…” His hand caresses the side of my face. “He bites her neck, and mounts her from behind.” I stifle a startled scream as he thrusts his hand between my legs, warm, satin wetness coating his fingers. I blush hot in embarrassment, and struggle to get away but he’s got a hold of my hair and I’m pinned to the floor. I can feel his deep throated chuckle rumbling over me, as he slips his hand away from my startled shame. The hand encircling my wrists slackens, and my hands are free. I’d move them if I had any idea what to with them. I don’t know weather to slap him or to pull him to me. Gouge out his eyes or plant sweet kisses on their lids. Go for the throat, or, go for his lips. He makes the decision for me. With a startling speed, he’s shifted his weight again, caught me of guard, and roughly flipped me to my stomach. The sandy-hued carpet abrades my cheek as he presses me down into the floor. I have to struggle to fill my aching lungs with something other than Berber fibers. I can feel his excitement growing as my struggles caress him from below. His fingers snake up through my hair, Drawing it up, covering my face, exposing the sun-shaded skin on the back of my neck. A growl rumbles through his chest captures the scruff of my neck in his teeth. His weight is overwhelming, his desire painfully apparent against my tailbone. I’ve had guns leveled at my head by crackwhores and gang bangers, skin tailors and unwashed Sardinians, but up until this moment I’ve never truly tasted panic. It hits me, hard, mercilessly, and my body starts to shake. And then, as quickly as it came, the weight on top of me is gone. I’m down on the carpet, face to the floor, and I can’t move. But the weight is gone. He is gone. No. Not gone. I sense a shift in him. A second earlier, he was about to devour me in an orgiastic frenzy of blood and lust. Now, with gentleman’s manners he helps me to my feet. I can’t pinpoint the trigger for his sudden change in demeanor, and my lack of insight unnerves me. For the thousandth time this night, I wonder just what is going on. For the first time this night, I wonder if he knows. FIN Part 10 of 12
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6 of 12 copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter |