"A man is never alone with a woman except that Satan is the third." (Al-Tirmidhi)
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What is it you leave open at night that lets the demons in? Door, window, heart, imagination? Do they know when you've fallen asleep with your legs apart? Do they hear the whispering buzz of a vibrator, or see the swirl of fingers moving between your thighs and take it as an invitation? Do they know when you've been alone to the point of exhaustion or when you miss someone to the point of fantasy? Where does it start? How does it end?
...She pushes back from the keyboard and rearranges herself to sit on her left leg instead of her right. What should she tell him? She reaches for a glass of Cola and sips; surprised to find it flat and warm though she thinks it's only minutes since she poured it. She looks around her room at the photos of her family, the suitcases that she lives out of, and the piles of books, these few things that define who she is in real life, where she comes from, where she might go. Perhaps I should give up and go home? Back to the world of the sane, she thinks. She sees her landlady's cat asleep on the back of the couch; she sees her panties on the floor a few feet away from the desk. Her cheeks dimple as she smiles ...she took those off sometime in the last half-hour, typing with one hand and working them down past her hips, her knees with the other. Whose hand did she imagine it was, the one not doing the typing? She wraps herself around the hard grey plastic of the computer and begins typing.
Several hours later, she turns off the monitor and gets up slowly, shakily from the chair. Her legs are numb and tingling, and her back is a little achy from sitting there for so long. She smiles to herself as she turns on the light beside the unmade single bed then walks across the hall to the bathroom to get ready for sleep. She doesn't turn on the bathroom light for fear of what she'd see when she looks at herself in the mirror, she doesn't want to see the fatigue lines or the dark circles beneath her eyes. She takes the scrunchy out of her hair, letting the soft black weight of her hair fall to her shoulders. She quickly brushes it out feeling guilty that yet again she's too tired to wash it. I shouldn't be doing this, she thinks; it plays havoc with my life, but still it's always fun online with him. Her lower belly still seems to hum and throb. Yalah, it was nice.
In bed with the lights out and the curtains open, she looks out at the faint glow of streetlights on low cloud. She thinks, "I wonder who he really is? It's almost as if he knows me in the real world." She lies on her side, her hands under her head, knees drawn up, listening to the occasional traffic sounds and the distant whistling roar of aircraft swooping down through the clouds to land at the airport. She gets up and opens the window so that she can feel the early morning breeze. Slipping back into bed, she starts to fill in details, fleshing out her electronic mystery man. Height? Taller than me, broad shoulders, strong arms; definitely! Size? Mmmm... Batuta ni Drakula? Heeheehee.... Ohh yesss yesss yesss... make it a big one please!!! Hair? Short, dark, almost black but not on his face or chest. I want a smooth chest. Eyes? He should have two... She closes her own, smiling and starts trying to picture her cyber-kabit.
His eyes close to hers; they're deepest darkest brown, looking into her own eyes, his hand reaching out to caress her face. Her own hand reaches up to caress her face. Then it slides slowly down and comes to rest on her breast. And he's relatively normal, she thinks. He's not overweight, but he has mass and substance. He doesn't need to have washboard abs. Her hand skims down her torso, feeling her smooth soft belly through the thin fabric of her nightie. He has a long tongue. And he has long, delicate fingers like a piano player. She slips her own fingers between her legs and rolls over onto her hand, pressing down on it with her weight, then letting off. She can almost see him. He's strong and funny... He listens well. His lips are so soft... Again, she pushes her hips down onto her hand, forcing the bed to push her fingers back up and between her legs to the place where he is.
There he is! She rolls over wide-eyed, spellbound. In the quiet darkness, the line between waking fantasy and dream is erased, the border crossed. She falls asleep. The room is just light enough for her to see him come in through the door. He's exactly as she had imagined he would be - big and hard-muscled, moving with the power and grace of a tiger. He walks slowly to the foot of the bed and starts to unbutton his shirt. She lies there, not moving, not sure if she's really asleep or just pretending sleep, but watching him, watching as he flings his shirt into the corner and unbuckles his belt. He steps out of his pants, pulls his boxers down past his thighs and kicks them off. She can't help herself. She takes in a deep breath of air and holds it, waiting, waiting as he pulls back the sheet and crawls onto the bed.
She feels his naked legs brush against hers. And then his lips meet hers for the first time. Soft, just as she imagined. He strips the sheet from the bed with a single fluid movement. He settles onto the bed, slides onto her like a shadow. Willingly, she reaches sleepy hands to touch his head and to run fingers through places where he should have hair. He bends lower, his hard and angular face close now to her ear. "I have come for you, Mahal," he whispers. Then he kisses her hard on the mouth, his hot breath washing over her face like melted wax, reeking of smoke and sulphur. "Dream on, dream on, anak ng puta;" he whispers, suddenly biting her lip, pulling at it with his sharp teeth. Eyes closed, she smiles and licks her lips. The demon smiles, licks his own lips, and extends his long black tongue to touch hers. She opens her mouth wider. Their tongues swirl around each other, then retreat and meet tip to tip. He's breathing faster, his breath warm and smelling of ilang-ilang. Now he's licking the corners of her mouth, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth just a little with each kiss. "How does he know I love that?" she thinks to herself. She runs her fingers through his hair and pulls his head toward her. He's propped up on one arm, sitting beside her and leaning over, kissing her. His one free hand caresses her right cheek, then slides around to touch her ear, the back of her neck. Her lower belly begins to tickle, then throb. Their lips part and they pull back enough to look into each others eyes. "His eyes look amber," she thinks, but maybe it's the light. Both sets of eyes are wide open, pupils expanded, dark as sin. "I want you, whatever your name is," she thinks, her eyes staring straight into his. And, almost as if to answer, he pulls back to sit upright. He takes her hands and pulls her up beside him. Then, still staring into her eyes, he takes the bottom of her nightie with both hands and lifts it off over her head. The cool air hits her skin. Her nipples, already standing out, grow even harder. And then he leans down and takes one into his mouth. She moans, holding his head to her breast. Throbbing warmth spreads from his mouth on her nipple, to her whole breast, her chest. Ay_aaaah, she sighs.
Gentle, so gentle the touches of his hand sliding down her side, down the outside of her leg, her knee, her calf then back up again, smooth pads of his fingertips brushing over her skin. His other hand holds her breast to his mouth, where his tongue is slippily circling her nipple slowly, slowly then a rapid flutter and back to slow circling. Up comes the other hand, up her leg, her side, sliding over her other breast to her neck, fingers tracing her hairline, thumb rubbing her earlobe then back down, down over her shoulder, her arm, back to her side, thigh. Circle, circle, flick! She finds it hard to concentrate on one sensation or the other: his tongue on her breast or his hand caressing her side, her leg, coming closer to where her thighs meet each time it makes the roundtrip. She closes her eyes and moans softly. She brings her hands up to run her fingers through his hair. Slight, very slight - it's the slightest, smallest of tiny pushes she gives his head, a hint that he immediately takes. He begins to kiss his way from her breast down her tummy.
They're open-mouthed kisses, his lips lightly trailing from spot to spot, then kissing with a lovely wet sound that seems to fill the room. His hands trail behind, first both on her breasts, then her ribs, then starting to slide onto her belly as the kisses reach lower, lower. Her breathing is much faster, and yet she holds her breath, waiting for it, waiting for his mouth to go just a few more inches. The bite leaves marks, little red spots on her pale skin. The demon kneels beside her, admiring his work almost as much as he admires the smoothness of her skin, the way her breasts curve down to her ribs, the way her ribs make way for the curl of her belly. He reaches out one hand and traces lines on her skin - faint scratches he makes with two or three clawed fingers, white then faint red. Slowly, very slowly he traces lines down the middle of her chest, starting at where he bit her, winding down her sternum to the top of her belly, down to her bellybutton. His fingers part slightly so that no claw goes into her bellybutton.
