For The Love of Love

Title: For the Love of Love

Word count: 4,238

Author: Tim Wilkinson

Contact: Tlmntim59@gmail.com

For The Love of Love

 

Tim Wilkinson

 Published in, The Path, Literary Journal-Volume 3 No. 2, Winter 2013

Publication date Jul 1, 2014

 

 It was a night to remember, a night of dreams come true, a night of ecstasy…and nightmare. Lust, sex and murder, they always are, memorable. Don’t you think?

  Yet looking back on the events of that night and all that followed, it’s not difficult to see the error of my ways. Yes, my decisions were flawed, my motives impure. The results certainly prove that. Likewise there can be little doubt that my schemes and deceptions were the cause of my downfall and the end of my marriage. Murder, well that I did not foresee. Yet neither did I resist it when it came to be.

However, despite what may seem obvious to some, I can truthfully say that given the same set of circumstances, even now, knowing well the price of my indiscretions, I doubt that I would act any differently.  For what I sought and found that night, and the gift I in turn received, might well have been worth ten times the cost.

For you see it was love, and only love that spurred me on. As it was love, and only love, that caused my fall. Yet what better reason for a man to fall, I ask, than that of love? After all, isn’t that how this whole shit pot began, the love of one man, for one woman? Yes, it was love I found, or rather it that found me and love that yet guides my steps, even this night.

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. I haven’t yet told you who I am, who’s blood stained the dingy, yellow spattered sheets of that rent by the hour hotel room, nor why. So let me begin by introducing myself. My name is Wayne, Wayne Wilkes. I am fifty-four, married. Well I used to be–married that is. I still am fifty-four but…What I mean is that…Well I am fifty-four, I am still married, yet…Oh never mind. My seeming confusion will soon become clear enough.

I married, for the last time, rather late in life, at the age of fifty-two. It was my third attempt as well as my last, to find the elusive charm of wedded bliss. My wife, an immigrant to this country, and I, well we shared a comfortable, easy marriage. Of this I have no complaint. Yet romance and ardor, of these we had little enough? Sure, we shared a sex life of sorts. Yet it was rare, and mostly void of any real passion, variety or excitement. No, ours was a relationship of ease and familiarity, one of routine, contentment and yes, dull complacency. I must also add, if only to augment your understanding and perhaps to ease your sure disapproval, ours was a marriage of well-practiced avoidance, a routine we both came to share and employ.

The point I am trying to get at, and I do hope I’m not exposing too much, nor being unduly crass or cold when I say these things, is that soon after we married I learned that my new wife… How else may I put this without being blunt? She did not like being touched. Now don’t misunderstand me, it wasn’t that she found my touch, a man’s touch, necessarily unpleasant. It’s only that it gave her no particular pleasure. To her, sex seemed no more urgent nor pressing a need than that of a friendly kiss or a passing embrace, never a thing of urgency, intimacy passion or desire.

Nor was it that she had any qualms about doing her wifely duty or making every effort to please her husband. Quite the contrary, as the word no, an option of neither her culture nor her temperament, was a word she seldom used. Yes, my wife did her duty. That was her way, her tenet and desire. Yet sadly, she never found it satisfying and therefore neither did I. No, I do not believe my wife ever had a moment’s pleasured release in her whole life. I can add to that by saying also that she didn’t believe it possible, for a woman that is, to experience such moments, believing such to be the stuff of novels and fiction, the whole notion little more than purposeful lies other women used to comfort and bind their men.

Be that as it may. For her beliefs, or lack of them changed nothing for me. You see, as I’ve said, I had been married before and had a good number of girlfriends in my youth, and well–I knew better. Therefore, it wasn’t long before I grew to miss that aspect of sexuality and miss it sorely. Neither was it long before I felt the need to revisit these pleasures, with or without my wife. Simply, if bluntly put, I lusted for the type of tangible, sexual familiarity I had known before our marriage. And to whom I turned as the object of my desire and the recipient of my fervent longings, ultimately seemed of little concern.

As harsh as this must sound, and recognizing the indifference with which I speak, one must also face the truth of such matters. And the truth is this; Men yearn to please their women. And regardless of the cause, whether it’s the man that cannot do the pleasing, or the woman who cannot be pleased, it is only a matter of time before one of them looks elsewhere, and thus I did. For the fact is that by the end of the first few years of our marriage, while otherwise content, I grew increasingly faithless in my lusty imaginings, even lewd in my lonely despair.

I know it must sound insensitive, even unkind of me, and certainty it–was. Yet my sincere hope is that you will not judge me too harshly, if only for my frankness, as I am attempting to be open and forthright and to accept the fallacy of my wandering thoughts and to bear the full responsibility of my actions. For any denial of my culpability and guilt, or any lame attempt to cleanse my blood stained hands with stammering, pathetic excuses would be neither truthful nor noble. No, the truth is that I chose my own path and I walked it willingly, having little regard for any save my own desperate and selfish hunger.

Was I shameless and self-centered, wounded, and fulsome? Of course, I was all of these things, and more. Yet who can deny the sincerity of my emotions or the depth of my longing, however tawdry or lascivious? Is it truly so bad to want such as I? For what man does not wish to please his wife? What man is not broken, scourged and emasculated by such a failure?

Yes, the plain truth is this. I grew to be a horny, licentious little man, desperate and famished, starving for the sound, the sight, the feel of a woman’s pleasure. God knows I loved it, needed it, as do all men, yet no more than most and no less than all. God must likewise know how hard I tried to illicit this response from my wife, how often I turned to her, finding no relief. For sparking such an interest in her proved fruitless at best. And as any man, I, after a time, well I simply gave up.

Surrendering myself to this fate and accepting the immoral certainty of my design and intent, I soon began to notice the variety and number of pretty faces and beautiful figures surrounding me. I began to fantasize and to yearn, to imagine and design my pursuit. Seems at every turn I found myself face to face with my lusts, finding in every face a charm, every lip an untested kiss, every smile an invitation.

These budding interests only grew and matured, daily fed by my mounting obsession with female pleasures and the joys of budding youth, soft whispered sighs and the honey-tainted lips of satisfied women. So after fully accepting the reality of my plight and succumbing to the actuality of my decision as to what I would do, these imaginings and longings filled my every waking moment, invading even my sleep and my dreams.

And as my single-minded obsession grew and flourished, it wasn’t long before I began to see in my young Asian neighbor, a married woman with two small children and a doting husband, an outlet for my lustful cravings. It was then I knew that I must act, lest I make some outward, ill-conceived expression I should long regret.

I hope I need not explain, nor defend every action that followed, as if I were tacking some preset course. For I had no plan, no expectations and no grand design; None save that of staring into the eyes of desire and watching her writhe in the throes of delicious, gasping delight, pulling her close, and tasting the sounds of her joy.

* * *

We met online, Sable and I. Yes, I know, Sable? Well that was her name, at least what she used in her dealings with me. Yet I thought it sexy, yes–even beautiful. Besides, I did not care if it was untrue, nor if her name was nothing more than a porn star tag or an alluring alias for the vulgar stage. No, that mattered not to me. I knew her as Sable, and Sable she remained.

To me her name was music, the sound erotic, sensual and extreme. How the syllables slid from my tongue, caressing my lips, becoming but one more thing I was soon to love. Even now, the sound of her name thrills me, exciting the corporeal hunger within. For you see, what I needed was a lover. What I sought, a mistress. Yet what I found—Oh what I found was far, far more.

* * *

I, being a writer by choice if not by trade, had many connections through online forums, social sites, blogs and the like. And it developed that through these lines of access and my connections there, that I began my search, seeking and hoping, eager to find a willing soul, ready and able to begin my illusive, illicit affair. I began by reaching out through these connections, seeking new contacts and links to new possibilities, focusing exclusively on the females, and then only the attractive ones.  Within a short while my online presence, once but an outlet for my writings, developed into a tool for my search, an electronic finger, probing, testing the pulse of the lonely, the ignored and perverse, ever hopeful of finding the one, willing and lustful soul eager to take my bait.

My correspondence with Sable began with only a few lines of greeting, a couple scant hellos and bogusly exaggerated, welcoming replies. It was she who took the first initiative, as I, despite my zealous neediness, remained fearful and shy, expecting and receiving mostly rejection and ignorance for my efforts, except from Sable. From the first she treated me with kindness and understanding, her responses and questions seemingly interested and genuinely concerned. She too seemed lonely, in search of something passionate and true, eager to replace a thing once lost; or so I then believed.

From there it took but a few sparse weeks before I found myself, late in the night, sitting alone in my darkened office, admiring the ad hoc images of Sables supine and naked, white fleshed form. God forgive me, I was entranced. I have never seen nipples so pink, skin so satiny and pearly white. Her body, long, lithe and curved, filled me with an ever-deepening hunger, an appetite insatiable, and a thirst haughty and unquenchable.

In these images, filling the space of my glowing screen, her hair, deep and black as her eyes, shimmered reflectively in the soft light that illuminated her bare figure. Flowing across her shoulders, it draped lazily across her front as she lay on one side, facing the camera. It streamed down and onto the velvet, crimson toned swath covering her bed, as if a river of silken shadow set against the pale of her taught, muscled throat and the pearly, glossy smoothness of her rounded bosoms and pastel pointed tips. Her mane shone translucent, its inky darkness intensifying every inch and lurid curve of her pallor hued flesh. And as I stared at the glossy, miasmic flesh of her inner thighs veiled in softest shadow, to the center of her darkest, secrete core, my soul faded into midnight. It was then that I knew…I knew that I was hers, my ultimate demise lacking only the fatal plunge of the sharpened, well guided blade.

I sat for hours that night, and on subsequent nights to come, gaping hungrily at those images, my soul electrified, my imagination energized, my desire inflamed. My God, it is true. I will not deny it, cannot! I pined for her touch, ached to know the taste of her lips, the feel of her tongue, to savor the delicate flavor of her breasts and the succulent pinks that drew my eye, downward. God I wanted her, needed her.

And in those fleeting, night shrouded moments as I sat alone, impatiently contemplating my sins to come, Sable became the sole object of my desire, the final focus of my entire existence and the recipient of all my ardor and attentions. It was then that I began my sentence–no longer free, imprisoned and snared by her beauty and the promise of her intoxicating spell, trapped and bound by the incense of her image and the cloying sweetness of her promised kiss. Yes, I hungered and I craved, my insides churning with angst and desire, a desire quenched only by action and scurrilous deed.

Yes, it was also then that I knew my marriage was over, my future and destiny forever changed. It was then that I knew there was no going back and that I would give anything, everything to have her, to know her, to watch her squirm and writhe in ruckus ecstasy. Yes, I would have paid any price to possess her, to hold her–to love her. And that is exactly what I did. I gave her my all. I gave her my everything. And she took it, thirsting for nothing, but more.

* * *

We met in a dingy, sordid motel, a few miles off the interstate and between our two homes. Sable lived but little over an hour away, yet had she been across the sea it would not have mattered for by then my course was set, my will determined. Sable would be mine, her and all her soul would bear.

It was a cheap and dirty place, the type frequented by whores, addicts and welfare sponges. Yet I didn’t care. Nor did she seem to mind the dismal atmosphere or notice the vulgar flashing neon or the semen stained sheets. What I sought was seclusion and secrecy, be it tawdry, dirty or raw, remaining indifferent to the location, the day, or the hour. I had to have her, and have her I would, never suspecting that in the end it would be her who would have me.

Once inside the drab, dismal room, we wasted little time, my mouth and hands discovering the full wonder of her body and delicious youthfulness. Her kisses were forceful, long and sweet, her appetite exciting, her fervor intense, wielding her tongue as a tool, deftly and with practiced, gaudy skill. She had me in minutes, straining, poised and perched on the edge, and there she kept me, careening, balancing, struggling for control, wanting nothing but surrender and welcome release.

Her flesh felt cool and strong to my clumsy, zealous touch. Her fingers, her touch, deliberate and vigorous, controlled my every deed, leading and encouraging me. Never have I known such tender, cold marbled joy. Her breasts, womanly and full, knew well my mouth, surrendering wholly and completely to my hunger. Her sighs and the giddy, girlish sounds that escaped her parted lips, thrilled and excited me, burning themselves into my brain, branding my memory with their delicate, enticing cords.

I could stand it no more as she guided me on.

“Take what you need,” She purred. “I will be your all, and I will be your last.”

I wanted to die, right here, entwined between her legs, my need hidden deep within the slickened cool of her hallowed, inner depths. And I did just that.

God she was strong, powerful, and so completely in control. I reveled in her embrace, her long legs wrapped tightly about my back, her arms enfolding me, crushing me to her chest.  Her lips consumed me, her kisses intoxicating and consuming. The sounds of her whimpered moans sapped my strength. My spine shivered with shooting shafts of blazing fire, delight surging through my flesh. Whispering gently in response to my every movement, sigh or breath, she smiled and coaxed.

“I love you,” I gasped.

“I know you do…I know,” her brief reply.

She let me continue, guiding me quickly to my finish with a rawness and an aching affection the likes of which I had long forgotten. She was everything I had hoped for, loving, eager, affectionate and real. Oh God, how I loved her. In that moment, that one instant, she was the world, the universe, my God and my soul.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Casanova, no great lover nor specially endowed with indescribable talents or physical prowess, yet she voiced no complaints, returning my every appetite, move and perversion with flushed and aching delight. Lord how beautiful I found her, how incredible her form, and I so needful, excited and shamelessly lost.

I let go, filling her with all I could spend. Her grip tightened. Her legs, like iron bars, wrapped about me, pulling me close, her arms but bands of woven iron. Her eyes locked on mine, her smile genuine and true.

Kissing me softly about my lips, coaxing my last, she spoke, almost whispering, her long fingers weaving through my hair. “I’m sorry about your wife. I don’t understand. If I were alive, as you are, I’d…”

”What?” I asked, spent and consumed; my ears hungry for every word, my lips, my hands desperate, starving for each offered crumb. “You’d do what?”

“No,” she answered, “I’m sorry I said that. It’s too late for you, and I. We cannot change the things that are, but only hope for what is not.”

“No, no please,” I begged. “I need you. I…We?”

“Shhhh,” she soothed. “I know my love… I know what you need, and I have given you that. Now it’s my turn. Now you must give me what I need. And then I must go.”

“Go! No Sable, please! You can’t go. I am where I’m meant to be, now, here with you. No, I’ll not let you leave. Why, after finding you would I ever let you leave? No, I’ll not go back to her. It is you that I need. Me and my wife, we are finished.”

“Yes, I know. You are right. Your marriage is over, yet not for reasons you yet understand. Yet we have now, only now, as you soon will see, then…then I must go.”

“But why, what are you saying. Why must you go, where?”

 She only sighed.

“I’d rather die.”

“And you will my love, you will. Now Shhhhhh,” she breathed again. “Quiet my love. Let me have you.”

She drew my face downward, her grip firm and hard, squeezing me tightly between her legs, forcibly expelling the air from my chest. Her lips dropped to my throat, lightly kissing, tasting. Then excitedly licking the flesh of my neck, she bit me. Four elongated, slightly curved fangs, slid easily through the surface of my flesh. I flinched as she struck, wincing as she forced them downward through the taught muscle and into my surging artery.

“Please,” I gasped. “I am yours”

I did not fight her, could not, and would not. I would die for her, and I did. All I can remember of the next few moments is the sound of her whimpers and the hungry, needful whines as she fed. And as she sucked and slurped, her hips thrusting upward with each crimson draft, I crumpled into her loving arms and welcomed the swooning blackness of my blissful, longed for death.

* * *

As I’ve said, looking back it’s not difficult to see how very wrong of me it was to cheat on my wife as I did, to trade our lives and history, our home and future for a few sparse moments of grunting, thrusting sex with a tramp stamped whore. Whore? No, I won’t. I can’t say such things about Sable. No, I loved Sable. Oh, God please forgive how I loved her. I love her still.

Nevertheless, I’m going home tonight, after the suns gone down. I owe my wife that much, don’t you think? I know she will be quite surprised, I mean after attending my funeral and all. Yet I feel it’s my duty and the least I can do, considering, to try to explain, to apologize, and who knows, perhaps even gain a bit of forgiveness for my actions. And who can say, in the process I may recapture some small measure of my own self-respect as well.

I am a bit concerned as to my appearance though. After all, I have been dead for days now, and as you all know, as for checking my look in a mirror. Well I am sure you understand how useless that has proven.

It is funny though, just how accurate all those silly stories have turned out to be. You know all the stuff about sunlight, mirrors, crucifixes and such. They had it dead on, no pun intended, except the bit about sex. That’s just Hollywood you know. Dead people, they don’t make love, not really. It’s only an act, sex, an act with a purpose, specific and unemotional.

No, we only feed. There is no pleasure in penetration, no orgasm, and no lust for flesh or tender breasts, only the hunger. Erections, well, they are but a means to an end, bait for the prey as it were, just as my ivory-skinned lover baited me with the glory between her thighs, her kisses and feigned passions, all of which, in reality, were nothing more than a response to her terrible hunger and burning thirst. No, for the Vampire sex and lust are only ruses, the spider’s web, the trawlers lure. As for the screaming, heart pounding climaxes? Well it’s only the blood that gets us off, the rest–only drama.  We simply do what we must to get what we need. Really, if you think about it, we are not so very different from you after all, are we?

As for Sable, of course I want to believe that what she gave me, what we shared was true, her intentions sincere, and I do. I do believe that. Yet I also know how impossible it is for her, and for me, to physically enjoy the act of sex, for as I’ve told you, our sex is the blood, our pleasure the hunger, our peak the warm and crimson swill.

Anyway, I do hope I don’t frighten the wife too awfully much. She never did like horror movies. And hopefully she isn’t still angry with me, you know, for cheating on her like I did. I do hope I can explain to her satisfaction. Let’s face it, if I hadn’t been murdered and found naked in that motel room she would never have known. Seems I’m, at the very least, due a little consideration for that bit of nasty business, if for nothing else. Besides, if she’d, well you know, been a bit more interested in that department in the first place, perhaps I never would have felt the need to stray. Yet I digress? But, no, I am not blaming her for my actions. For the blame is wholly and solely mine.

Who can say though, she might even find it enjoyable. Remember what I said about erections, seems I can do that all night now, with a few sips to keep me going. So she could have her way, as long as she wants, if you know what I mean. Perhaps she can finally reach the conclusion she has hitherto chosen not to accept or believe. Yet of course I must consider, as I’ve said before, she never cared for such things. I suppose it is unfair of me to suppose that that may have changed.

I do miss having her around though. She was, no is a good wife. Yet it might just be that I shall be the one surprised. Who knows, after I clear everything up, explain what has happened and what she could become, if she wanted, she may even want to join me.

Either way, it will be a night to remember, of that I am sure. For you see, if she chooses not to join me, well that’s okay too, for I sure am hungry!

 

The End

 

© 2013, Tim Wilkinson

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