The Stalker – Chapter 7
If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man
You win some, lose some, it's - all - the same to me
Lemmy, in all his Jack Daniels fuelled wisdom, has decided that my skull is to be the venue for Motorhead’s latest gig.
The pleasure is to play, it makes no difference what you say
I don't share your greed, the only card I need is
And as the black, leather-clad, skinny jeaned trio launch into ‘Ace of Spades’ the audience of Heffalumps stomp frenziedly in the mosh pit of my temples.
The Ace Of Spades
The Ace Of Spades
Causing the washer drier, constantly revolving in my stomach to hit 'spin' and a fountain of bilious liquid to surge up to fill my mouth.
Playing for the high one, dancing with the devil,
Going with the flow, it's all a game to me,
Where it mingles with the 16 different, previously unknown, fungi that have taken up residence there whilst I was asleep.
Seven or Eleven, snake eyes watching you,
Double up or quit, double stakes or split,
To form a noxious liquid that, with plentiful snorting and gulping, I manage once more to return to the churning pit of my stomach.
The Ace Of Spades
The Ace Of Spades
But only just.
Body contorted in foetal agony I bury my face back into the curiously different smelling, fabric conditioned, pillows beneath my head. Pools of saliva slosh about my mouth behind my tightly sealed lips; my entire skin simultaneously flushed and burning yet cold, clammy and shivering beneath the strangely lightweight duvet.
I am ill. I am beyond ill. I am Judas Iscariot trapped in the Seventh Circle of Hell, my body tormented for all eternity.
It has been ten minutes since my stinging eyes blearily opened to survey my surroundings; ten minutes of incomparable thumping nausea; ten minutes of peeking blankly from beneath the duvet at the never before visited room in which I find myself; ten minutes of convulsing and swallowing knowing that soon, eventually, I will need to crawl from beneath the soft security blanket I am hiding under and drag my shaking limbs off in search of a bathroom.
Lightweight curtains remain pulled shut across the small window but there is enough light seeping through the unlined fabric for me to inspect my locale as best I might without moving the pulsing bowling ball of pain that sits atop my shoulders.
The Ace Of Spades
The Ace Of Spades
Vomit rushes upwards from my stomach as I gulp frantically in a desperate attempt to prevent the deliciously scented bedding from being coated in my bile. My entire body twitches and convulses spastically as unbearably painful cramps ripple repeatedly through my clenching stomach. I am poisoned. I am dying. I am going to die here; die in this unknown bedroom, lost and alone and some unfortunate innocent will find my unbreathing stiff body, my face a mask of contorted agony, dried tears coating my cheeks, a pool of vomit beneath my chapped lips.
The Ace Of Spades
The Ace Of Spades
I fall from the bed to the floor; limbs tangled, uncoordinated, arms and legs useless as I attempt to will myself upright, to become a biped once more; awareness of my utter nakedness permeates the thunderous storm clouds of my brain and sends a flush of embarrassment throughout my already heated, shaking body.
Somehow I attain the vertical; somehow my feet trip their way across the room to the blurred image of a door; somehow I navigate my way through the unfamiliar living area beyond without crashing repeatedly into the random assorted objects of another person’s life until, eventually, on hands and knees, hair falling forward to hide the hideousness of my face, I submit to the insistent contractions and spew the contents of my stomach into the porcelain toilet bowl where I have buried my head.
It is not pretty. I am not pretty. I am just another lost soul suffering the consequences of their own actions.
For the next two hours I am caught in an endless cycle of repetition; abed shaking and foetal, bile rising unwelcome and unbidden, desperate for sleep but unable, the eventual inevitable stagger across well-worn carpet to heave emptily over the toilet bowl before taking a few delicate sips of water to cleanse my mouth of the bitter, acrid aftertaste and then crawling back to the soft, warm comforting grasp of her bed.
“Her bed” … her only bed. I may be ill, I may be dying, I may be alcohol poisoned but I am a creature of curiosity and if I am never to leave this place then there are things I wish to know.
I have no memories; despite my best fuzzy, throbbing headed efforts I cannot recall a single detail of arriving. There was an off-licence, a second bottle of vodka, tears and a park bench but beyond that blankness. I have no clothes and no shoes. I thought of leaving, of finding my bag, my pretty diamante heels and the thigh length coat that I used to sheath my naked, shameful, disgusted body and fleeing to the soiled sanctity of my own home … but they are nowhere to be seen because everything that is here, everything that surrounds me, is her.
Sweet, nervous, damaged, Clara.
Delicious little Clara, her delicate hand quivering beneath mine as I closed my fingers over it during lunch, her doe eyes watery and adoring as we nibbled our canteen food and exchanged pleasantries uncertain of what bond, what desires our morning meeting had awoken in our same sex bodies.
I crawl back into her vanilla pod infused bed, her tentative smile and involuntary nibbling of her lip projecting itself onto the cinemascope screen of my retina. Curling, kitten-like, I allow my weary eyelids to close as I command the memory of her hot, wet mouth suckling and slurping on my thick, stiff nipples to quiver delightfully across my alcohol damaged hippocampus.
She comes to me; sneaks beneath the covers behind me, the mattress adjusting to our twin weights, the duvet sliding off my heated skin, part revealing shaking trembling me as with firmly closed eyes, open mouth and gently panting breath, I feel the soft weight of her breasts pushing against the curvature of my back.
Warm used air trickles from her mouth to quiver about my sweat dampened and frizzed hair before caressing the sensitive freckled skin atop my shoulders and up the graceful, swan-like elegance of my neck. A small whimper gets lost somewhere in my still painful trachea as I wriggle my pert bottom back, aching to press myself against the inviting smoothness of her pubis, wanting to feel her stomach and thighs squeezed against me, needing to be separated from her only by the thin film of dirt and self-disgust that coats every square millimetre of my skin.
Her arm drapes across me; trapping my own where it lies slanting down across my torso, my hand pushed between my tightly squeezing thighs, fingers delving into my soft, hidden flesh. My eyelids flicker; half-opening as trapped whimpers become soft panting moans, as I feel her fingers running along the underside of my pathetically small breasts and I forcefully swallow the disgustingly flavoured fluid that once again is pooling in my mouth.
Lips descend; soft delicate, lightly coated in coral lipstick, barely touching my trembling skin as the perfect half moons of her manicured nails close about the stiff throbbing nubs of my nipple. Between my thighs, fingers dance across my flesh; nails running betwixt unyielding thick labia, seeking out the soaked dampened core of my gloriously receptive pussy only to find it aridly uninterested.
Harrumphing I roll onto my back; dampened hair sticking about my face, thighs flung wide, a finger and thumb combining to tweak and tease a nipple as I run two fingers repeatedly along the bone-dry crevice of my nether lips. Arching my back I offer the small pancakes of my breasts up for Carla’s attentions, beg for her to close her lips about them, to pull their insignificant flesh into her soaked, wet and dripping mouth. To suck and suckle. To close her teeth about. To mark with perfect indentations of her dental uniqueness. To cover with love bites. To bruise my pallid alabaster skin; to leave it glowing purple from the persistent and blessedly abusive touch of her gorgeous mouth.
