Izabelle

She giggles, invading his house
with her cutting-edge gadgets,
the same ones she conceals in
a Victorian tote with a photo
of her favorite author.
He watches her undress; vintage
tea gown embroidered with inset
lace falls off her shoulders, past
hips, to delicate white ankles.
Two black cats hiss in unison,
their fur standing on end. Classic
Countess boots strut, synchronized
in their movements, purposeful
in their intent. He finds parallels
to her in his own life;
he’s under her influence, turned on
by her malevolent mind. She’s in
her bra and panties, nearly nude,
sucking in her lower lip; she nods,
constantly keeping an eye on him.
There’s a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver
he keeps locked in his nightstand. He
thinks about it as she climbs into bed.
He smells the faint, primal odor of her
femininity
as she straddles him, her hands sliding
up and down his naked body in a game
of shared physical chemistry. Her teeth
scrape across his chest; he bleeds from
multiple bites and scratches,
his body throbbing, pulsating between
passion and pain. A faint smile then
taunting smirk causes him to have a
momentary jittery, unsettling feeling,
but he likes the way
her dark eyes mock him. His heart races,
skips a beat, as she displays a leather
satchel. He braces himself; the sound of
cold hard steel, sliding, metal on metal;
a straight razor
glistens in the moonlight from an open
window. Titillation turns to terror; a
small, smooth, serene slice rakes over
flesh, sweet fluid to sample. She licks
his cheek, kisses him deeply,
forcefully, his own blood mixes with her
essence. She gently runs the backside
of the razor across his shoulders, to the
center of his chest, slowly down past his
stomach,
stopping just above his excited manhood.
She looks at him, letting out a lascivious
laugh, smacking his face, removing her
panties, holding them up playfully. Leaning
in, her erect breasts across his
bare chest, she stuffs her underwear in his
mouth. Half a bottle of Bacardi Rum follows,
he gags; her fingers touch his lips,
shhhhhh. Silken brassiere sways on the
headboard he's tied to. Lemongrass from a
small carafe makes contact with open
wounds, igniting a firestorm of anticipation
in death's caress. A breeze ruffles her
light brown hair as he penetrates her. He can
feel as she disengages psychologically from
him. Panic sets in before the climax.
She's learned that making love to a man doesn't
mean he will have any love for her, and she's
willing to rectify her mistakes. His ending
is a predictable one, while her name and true
nature, remain a mystery.

Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be witch and a poet. (within the horror writing community).

Find more by Theresa C. Gaynord in the Author Index.

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