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He was inside me, thrusting deeper and deeper, harder and harder, as if he could literally split me in two with his dick. I arched my back and increased the intensity of my own response, encouraging him, encouraging both of us. His hands roamed from my ass along my back, then down to squeeze my breasts, my nipples. I could feel his sweat and mine intermingling, could feel his cock growing as he neared his orgasm.
My own was approaching as well. I hardly noticed as he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back, my attention totally focused on the rising wave of ecstasy rushing through me. Then we screamed, he as he came inside me, me as I felt the knife slash across my throat. I looked down; blood dripped off the serrated blade, blood streamed down my breasts, my stomach, onto the sweaty sheets below. I tried to scream again, but blood was filling my throat, my lungs, drowning me. I collapsed as his fingers began to tighten around my throat. As the pain and blackness began to overwhelm me...
That's when I woke up.
"Christ, Greg, what is your problem?" the sleepy voice beside me demanded.
I couldn't answer; I was still gasping for breath, still reaching at my throat, trying to remove the choking hands. "Damn." I fell back, awash in sweat and terror.
Marilyn turned and glared at me. "What is going on?"
"It's that dream," I managed to gasp. "That fucking dream."
She appraised me with her eyes and breasts. "Are you going to be all right?"
"I don't know." I threw the sheets back and sat on the side of her bed. "I just need a few minutes. Oh, hell." I staggered to the bathroom and rancold water into the basin. The man in the mirror was not a pretty sight. I splashed water on my face and chest, trying to remove the imaginary blood. I was still standing there, shaking from the cold and fear, when she entered.
She saw my erection and misunderstood. "Is that for me?" she asked, seizing it.
"No, no." I shook my head emphatically, pried her hand loose and stepped away. "I can't. Not now."
"We don't want to waste it, do we?" she whined while she grabbed me again.
"Damn it, no!" I slapped her hand away and walked back into her bedroom. That's the trouble with fucking married women; once they get their husband out of the house for a few days, they're as randy as a teenager. I began searching rapidly for my clothing.
"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" She stood silhouetted in the bathroom door, arms crossed, legs spread, the light emphasizing the curve of her breasts, the promise of her box.
"I have to get out of here." I zipped up my pants, tossed on my shirt while she glared at me.
"You leave, don't come back. Ever."
"Fine." I sat on her bed and pulled on my boots.
"You're one crazy motherfucker, you know that?" Her voice, however, was soft, coaxing. She started toward me.
"Yeah, I know." I didn't kiss her good-bye or any of that sweetheart shit; instead, I ignored her curses as I ran down the stairs, out the back door and down the alley where my Mustang was parked. "We don't want the neighbors to get curious," she had said. Fuck the neighbors; I laid rubber as I roared down the pavement and into the night, scattering stray cats and trashcans. I needed a drink.
Bambi's was still open. I ordered a Beam and a beer, downed the Beam. immediately, ordered another. I was still shaking when I tried to light a cigarette. That dream, that fucking dream. It was the fifth night in succession I'd had it. The first few times it had been mildly interesting. But every night, it had grown in intensity, in detail. Tonight was the first time I had felt myself die.
"Buy a lady a drink?" a familiar voice whispered in my ear.
"Yeah, sure, Ed. Have a seat."
Ed O'Banion sat next to me. Tonight, he was in an attractive chiffon outfit, cruising for dykes. "What the fuck you doing here? Thought you were banging that Malcolm bitch."
Copyright © 2006 Patrick Welch.