All characters involved in this story are of at least 18 years of age. All characters involved in this story are original creations of the author. Any resemblance to any real person, place, or event is purely coincidental. Please do not post anywhere else without author permission. Thank you!
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It had become clear to me that getting the girls out of my life would be very difficult, possibly dangerous, task. Not once, but twice at least one of them had entered my home without my knowing, the latest event when I wasn't even present (although I was witness to the events that went on in my bedroom). As pleasurable as both invasions were, I wasn't so naive to think they would stay at this level forever. Sooner rather than later, the girls would ramp up their involvement in my life, bring me into more risky behaviors and eventually I would be caught or worse. So the first step was removing them from my class, a feat I had failed in achieving by speaking with Mr. Daley, the principal, but there are higher ranks to speak to in the world of school administration, such as the superintendant. More research into how to make that happen would need to be done, as I highly doubted I could just walk into the superintendant's office like I had with Daley. Still, it was a route worth pursuing, as I had heard this new superintendant was the person to speak to in order to get things done.
I was plotting my next move as I graded papers. After a point, a teacher can more or less double task when grading papers, even ones like the short stories I was grading now. Improper grammar and syntax would jump out at a trained eye, and after so many red marks I knew what grade to give. Perhaps it would have done the students' a better favor if I were to actually read through all their prose and thoughts as some may hope I would, but I could barely spare the focus. One paper did demand my attention, however.
I had come across Vivika's paper, and I don't know why the prospect of reading what was on her mind sent a chill up my spine, but as I would find I was not wrong in being anxious. The assignment was an open-ended writing prompt, just something for the students more so to practice proper sentence structure than share their unique thoughts. It no doubt would have been better to give more restrictions, force the student to work within the confines and get creative rather than have so much free range that they become intimidated by the endless possibilities, but I didn't think that would be an issue for my students.
Vivika's handwriting was immaculate, elegant and obviously practiced. It was like reading from an old manuscript, from the days before the printing press. She titled it "Intruder," and I shuddered to think it was about how she broke into my home, either time. From the first paragraph I could tell this was an entirely different event she was describing, although whether or not it was fiction I could not yet tell, and I dreaded my name appearing anywhere else besides where it was at the top of the paper, along with the date and class number.
The night is not black, not really. When the sun leaves, and the lights dim, yes there is a darkness, a looming shadow that casts itself over a world we understand and leaves a landscape of mysteries, horrors, and delights alike, but it's not black. The night is blue. Different shades of dark and light, affected by the moon and its many phases, sometimes hidden by clouds, wispy or thick. The night is not black, it is blue, but that creature, that creature is black.
No, perhaps not even black. Black is too easy to understand, too familiar and common. It's a shade, half of a binary world, along with white. The creature that visited her is darker than that, darker than anything she had ever known or have come to know since then. Make no mistake, he's not evil from this darkness. The shadowy presence is a product of necessity. This creature must be shrouded, be hidden. Its existence is based in things we do not allow ourselves to see so it must remain unseen. But that night, that blue, seductive night, she saw it.
She was alone in my bed, as she had been every night before then, and few nights since. She was no doubt a woman, fully matured in her body, lusciously full, but lacked the spirit to treat her body as obscenely as men would wish to see. She was innocent and naive. Afraid. Yet, as she would learn, she was just merely waiting for the right teacher.
When he came upon her, she was afraid, but with a blackened finger to his lips he silenced her, like a spell, and calmed my heart. The blood had already pumped through her. She blushes easily with her pale skin, and the red shone out against her cheeks and the tops of her breasts. They heaved, trying to leap from her sheer negligee, which did nothing to obscure their size and form. He enjoyed them, cupped them in ebony hands. Fingers, almost like claws, pressed into the milky flesh and palmed the pebbles beneath satin.
She mewed in such a way that spoke of her vulnerability and pleasure in equal measures. His long tongue slithered out between moist lips and encircled her freed nipples. He managed a grip with just his wet muscle, and pulled up on her breast, pulling and pulling until the woman gave him the octave he craved and he released. The blankets pushed aside, her long legs pushed and pulled at the fitted sheets, tugging them loose from the corners. Around his hips she locked herself, desperately pulling him closer, begging for a new intrusion. Obviously, he was suited just fine with the foreplay, cackling against her full tit, amused by desperation.
A creature of pleasure can't ignore pleas for more for long, however. Those ebony-stained digits dragged down her torso, cutting into the fabric and letting it naturally part to expose her quivering stomach. Her wish was fulfilled by his expert fingers. His blue and black body moved, sliding to her left and resting by her side while he worked. His lips suckled at her ear lobe while her lips pulled on his fingers below. Pale white thighs were spread obscenely, exposing the sexual skills being practiced on her. Her legs would close only when she cried out at her loudest. At her cries, the puddle-stain she bounced her ass upon would grow wider from her juices.
While he watched, he grew. It was not her body that aroused him, it was watching her fall deeper and deeper into a sexual frenzy. More than enough for any woman lay against her thigh. She could no longer form any new words of desire, he pulled himself from out of her and slowly sucked the juices off one finger, savoring them before sharing his other two, wet, fingers with her. Happily she tasted, obviously knowing herself in that way for the first time.
With inhuman speed and grace, he moved her, laying her on her stomach, facing the foot of the bed. Gripping her hair, he pulled up, forcing her to look at the mirror by her bedroom door. She gasped at the sight. When her hips rose to meet him, what she saw did not deter her desire. The creature admired his reflection, his muscles illuminated by the moonlight; crowded and rising against his pale blue flesh. After moving a strand of long dark hair from his face, he admired himself once more with those glowing blue eyes, and then entered her.
Instantly she came again, soaking his hips as they pounded against her ass. She wanted to lay her chest against the bare mattress, but he pulled her back up, so her large breasts would jump with her movements. He wanted her to watch herself in the mirror, see how her body moved and reacted to a sensual touch, and understand what a body like hers was for. No doubt he also wanted to watch himself, to view himself dominating this one fragile thing and witness her steady descent into her new perverted nature.
Though kneeling, the creature of the night was in no means a submissive pose. The bruised hand prints on her creamy hips and thighs, matching the red marks on her buttock, were testament to his control of the situation and the new worshipper to his cult of sex. Back straight, he seemed to be angling himself to the moonlight to better admire himself in the mirror. Flesh was blue like the night, but his hands were black, like his feet. It was as if he had plunged his hands into a deep, dark, oil; if he had, it had been done so quickly that the liquid splashed against his forearms and shins, creating a creeping pattern from his wrists and ankles and upward, gradually disappearing the further from his digits it rose.
