Entrance to Heaven or Doorway to Hell.  Cellars of the Damned An erotic adventure

  When I arrived, Rio De Janeiro was raising her skirts for another swinging night, but after checking into the Casa Torre and nursing a couple of Caiparinias in the hotel bar, I decided to save the swinging until after my assignment was completed. One vital point I had learned since working as a freelance specialist was that my kind of business doesn’t mix very well with a hangover. I’d need a clear head the following day to pass myself off as a metallurgical engineer. And with that in mind, as well as a few more enticing reflections of Connecticut and Mona, the next conscious thoughts I had were at seven AM when my bedside Ben woke me from near coma.
 

When they finally left me, taking along the lanterns two of the giants had carried down, the blackness was suffocating. I found myself laid out on my side. My arms were free, cradling my splitting blood-caked head, but my feet were secured by a set of leather restraining straps. I couldn’t believe I was actually stuck in this cellar. That wasn’t all. When my eyes adjusted to the stale darkness, I noticed the small slits of light licking through the ceiling vent and was able to track around, getting a vague glimpse of the place I was in. This I could believe even less. The bastards had locked me in a cage about the size of a large dog kennel. The ceiling was high and seemed to be the upstairs floor where I heard the thud of pacing footsteps, and I wondered what their next move would be.

When the girl saw I was alive, the tin cup she rousted me with fell from her hands, and she warily retreated to a safer distance from the cage. She had set her lantern upon the dirt floor beside a tray of food, and now pushed the tray closer to me with her bare foot. The same strands of ivory beads which hung loosely around her slender neck to rest upon her firm breasts, were coiled tightly about her shapely ankles. The only other thing she wore was a pale blue sarong wrapped snugly around her delicious hipline. The last enchanting asset my stunned gaze drank in through the soft haze of lamplight, was her coal black hair which hung past her tiny waist encasing her fine features like a satin veil. She couldn’t have been more than twenty and was an exotic knockout, built like a sculpted bronze goddess. Through my pain, I drooled with excitement. But since my life was at stake, I managed to curb the hard-on.

 Past, Present or Future . Can you find your way out of The Spiral? . . or are you forever lost….  Entrapping Sci Fi journey thru time.

It was probably Tuesday. But, Jackson knew, it made little difference. Calendars and clocks were no longer relevant. In the spiral, time had no meaning. To be sure, he could think of what had happened as the past, what would happen as the future, and what was happening as the present. But he could just think that. It really wasn’t true. The future or the past could bleed through at any time and become the present, or what he was accustomed to calling the present.

“What do you think of the new sofa?” the woman’s voice was soft.

Jackson stared at the screen. A time blip. Common in a spiral. Although the woman was vaguely familiar, he couldn’t quite place her. He hated the ambiguity. If he could place the person, he would know if he or she was from the past. But the vague ones, he never quite knew.

Before his struggle resolved, another image flashed onto the screen. A child — a boy of ten or twelve — stared at him. He was dressed in a long black robe and his hair, black as the robe, fell to his shoulders, vanishing against the cloth.

Jackson froze in shock as the boy stepped out of the screen, walked across the control room, and halted in front of a large silver cylinder.

“What’s this?” the boy asked and glanced toward Jackson.

“It — it’s an escaped module.”

The boy laughed. “It wouldn’t work in a spiral, would it?” He had a high, musical voice.

“I — I suppose it wouldn’t.”

“Do you recognize me?” The boy’s piercing black eyes were fixed on Jackson.

“No, I can’t say as I do.”

The boy sighed. “What a pity. Perhaps the next time.” He smiled and vanished.

In one convulsive motion, Jackson jerked the abort lever. There was no reassuring jolt, signifying that the ship had left the spiral. Instead, another image appeared on the screen. A man and woman were arguing.

“This is absurd!” she screeched. “You can’t expect me to live like this.”

“What about me?”

She turned abruptly and walked out of the screen.

“I can’t take it anymore,” she said to Jackson and sat down on the couch across from the control panel.

Lend him your ear . . . and he'll tell you a secret . . . a secret to die for!  Ear Words of Wisdom     Fact or fiction?  Preachers aren’t always saviours.  

The newspapers named him Van Gogh because he sliced off the right ear of each victim and took it with him. The headlines were larger than the stories after two years elapsed between his first kill and his seventh. The public lost interest in Van Gogh when it was revealed that his victims were all prostitutes.
 
No particular type was singled out. One was tall, one short. Black, Hispanic, old, young. So the whores still worked their corners, a little leery but willing to get into a car if the john looked all right.
 
Tonight Van Gogh thought he may have found his next victim. An Amazon of a woman with long, supple legs and honey-colored skin. She wore silver platform shoes, a gold nylon mini skirt slit to the waist, revealing a firm rounded hip, and a black halter top that barely covered her small breasts. Her hair hid under a shoulder-length silver metallic wig, which reminded Van Gogh of tinsel dangling from a Christmas tree, and as he drove by her a second time the wind played the tinsel against her head, allowing one large-lobed ear to peek through.

She holds on for the ride of her life . . . but can she go the distance without falling? For him or off the bike?  Full Throttle

Just how did I end up on the back of James’ bike?  I laugh, thinking how James always refers to his motorcycle as a bike.  To me bikes are non-motorized, two wheeled modes of exercise and transportation, yet, here I am whizzing about on a bike, with my eyes closed to the world and my ears deaf to all sounds except the whining roar from this 1200cc engine. That’s James’ description. I’m not sure what 1200cc means besides loud, large and fast.  The numbing of my sight and sound only serves to heighten my remaining three senses; my touch, through my fingertips and the burrowing of my cheek, explores the soft, intricate weave of James’ shirt, the fragrant lingering scent of his bodywash mixing with the floral essence of clothes detergent commandeers smell, and my taste remains stimulated by the mint gum flavored “before we left” kiss. Yet, fear reminds me that my legs are the only physical connection with this vehicle and, of course, the ancillary joining of my arms around James’ waist. I wonder how fast we really are traveling.

From my straddled seat I sense the vibrations relaxing, the engine’s outcry diminishing and my right eye ventures a narrow peek as we come to a stop. James tries to turn around, but my interlocked fingers have made a formidable coupling, and even I am having difficulty loosening them, it’s as if during the ride, they became welded by the combination of my fear and the ragged air that rippled over them.   James is laughing as he untangles my fingers.  They are numb, so, he rubs them, and the odd, pinkish color, from lost circulation, fades.
 

Do the undead really Dream?

The sky was an azure blue with white puffy clouds floating by quietly. A restful scene interrupted only by the sounds of children playing and birds singing. Looking around from the blue sky, she saw the robust green grass and a dozen small yellow flowers dotting the meadow. This was heaven.
 

An off-duty cop tracks a killer- but who's hunting…The Innocent Lamb

I don’t know how much more of this I can take. She’s getting to be a first class pain in the ass. Marriage. Who needs it? Being a cop in this city is tough enough without listening to your wife always complaining that you’re really married to your job. And I don’t like the way she’s been acting lately, either. What’s with this silent treatment stuff, and then sometimes the funny looks? What’s that all about?

  
And suddenly it was around my neck, cutting into my flesh as I struggled to turn. I tried my elbows, my heel, everything, but he seemed to anticipate every move. He pulled tighter and I was having difficulty breathing. I could feel his hands twisting the cord, cutting off my air supply. Blackness was coming down over my eyes. My head felt as if it were going to burst. I tried reaching behind me to get at his face…but it was no use. The blackness was dropping faster. My legs gave out….

What you can't see can't hurt you . . . or can it?  Rest Stop -  you may never rest again.

George Shaw rounded the turn on Route 55 south and sped into the long straightaway. “Will you look at that,” he said to his wife, Rebecca. “Not a car in front of us, and no one behind us. How often does that happen coming back from the mountains on a late Sunday afternoon?” He pressed down on the accelerator, relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and turned up the music.

“Weird,” Rebecca said. “Should be bumper to bumper.”

“Let’s enjoy it while we can.” He patted her knee and smiled.

Halfway through the straightaway, George heard a whooshing sound, from behind, over his left shoulder, and he checked the rearview mirror. Nobody there. What was that noise? He snapped off the radio.

“George, slow down. Some maniac wants to pass. Hear him coming up on us?”

“Nobody’s there,” George said. “Must be the wind.”

When your mother told you not to speak to strangers . . . she meant HIM!  Andy Warhol's Stolen Wig  step inside the mind of a murderer.

For an instant Makeeb debates how to pistol whip his wife – and for how long. She is too straight for him, like the rest of the world is. Tragedy of Realism, he decides. Her coincidental “adultery” is bourgeois, he decides, as in international cinema: the opposite effect of the intended. Law of the downtrodden. He slashes her right cheek with the gun barrel, a moment of athletic power both supple and profound, as incidental as kissing her would be.

Tears mixed with blood are what Makeeb will always hate: for she did not believe his is the ultimate, did she.

The motel room, seedy and forever faux-contemporary, is perfect. Bringing in the bundled corpse like large laundry from the car trunk, he places the nude remains at the side of Ms. Smeya’s bed, which forever she’ll sleep in – two corpses made one? The decree of blind karma. There are prayers escaping like dust motes from her lips. But all the while Makeeb realizes he needs Marise’s help, and decides then not to shoot her. He tries to bring her back with a wet towel on her forehead, stanching her crimson cheek wound, remembering ages of lovers in the very brief history of mankind, American style. Her wound disappears, and Makeeb acknowledges he is now demigod-like.

I’m your saint come to impregnate you with some Fellaheen savior of the world. Jesus is dark like sin within you. The true poetry of love’s power, he exclaims.

From the floor the corpse smiles up at them with death’s perpetual grimace. It takes Makeeb only a second to shave away – perhaps scalp, rather – the victim’s blond ponytail.

Every girl’s dream…a Blind Date with a rock star!

“What are you doing after the show?” He was so close now she felt her lips touch his shoulder, the lipstick adhering her lips briefly to the orange satin.

“What do you want me to do?” Did I just say that out loud?

“Good answer. Come to the stage when we’re done.” Without pulling back from her, he slipped from her side and was gone.

“This last set will be the best.” Jason was back beside her. “I got you draft.”

She took a drink and searched the crowd for an orange shirt.

Jason leaned in toward her and smiled. “I’m sorry about the crowd. When they said invitation only, I pictured a more intimate setting. But then, I guess, intimate is not what you get with “Nit-Picking”.”

“No, not exactly.”

“I don’t even know if you like this kind of music. Your sister was kind of vague. Managing the Music Loft like she does, she has a pretty broad range of taste and thinks everyone else should too. Do you like it?”

“I’ve just recently come to like it.” A flash of orange on stage caught her attention. “Who’s the lead singer?”

“His name is Lude Love.” Jason laughed. “His reputation lives up to it.”

“He doesn’t look like a lewd…like a rock and roll screamer.”

“Ah, looks can be deceiving.”

Lewd Love. Lewd Love. Sipping beer, Rachael felt both her nipples come to attention. She choked.

“Are you okay?” Jason lightly tapped her back.

“Yes.” Clearing her throat, taking a deep breath, she nodded her head. “Sorry. Funny name. I guess it caught me off guard.”

“Would you like something else besides beer? Water?”

“No. I’m fine.” The lights on stage came up, glinting off the orange satin. Rachael took a smaller sip of beer as she watched Lude turn his back to the

Rachael looked around him through blue dimness to see a naked girl sitting in the middle of the bed. Bubbles caught in her throat as she gasped. Lude turned, releasing her, and she wobbled, knees buckling, back against the wall, landing on her bottom with a thud.

“Janice! What the fuck?” Lude strode to the bed.

“Come on, Lude baby. You said tonight. Three’s a party, remember?”

“I said…”

Rachael would never know. The door suddenly swung open, the rush of light obliterating words, nakedness, and nausea with one blinding intrusion. Jason stepped into the room.

“Whoa! Excuse me. I…excuse me. Rachael? Are you okay?”

My breasts are hanging out.

Jason was standing over her, his voice loud. “Am I interrupting something?”

Absently she nodded her head and pushed an explosion of bubbles back

Was she abandoned or was he abducted?  Steer clear of the Breeding Ground.

One night, Greta Geiger realized she was alone in this world, and that was the last night anyone saw of her. Shylock was on her mind, as she pulled up to the security gate of her apartment building. It was two a.m. and she’d spent the last three hours driving, along Mulholland and down the serpentines of Laurel Canyon, squinting at high beams, and realizing it was time to give up younger men for good.

She punched the clicker on her visor, and the big, modern, ugly gate lumbered open. The super had tried spicing the thing up by draping it with plastic ivy— and wasn’t that the answer to everything in L.A.? Throw up a façade and pretend your way through it. The whole town filled with actors, and the place itself a kind of actor. And can my complaints get any more trite? Greta wondered. Jesus Christ.

From the beginning, she’d been warned about Shylock (Scott, his name was Scott). He was an actor, of course, and they weren’t to be trusted. Life was one, great, big audition room to them. He was also ten years her junior, and too wild to ever give her what she wanted—which was stability, monogamy, maybe a little hope for the future, children. “Resist him,” her friends said. “Fight him off.” Except Greta had never used her ears for more than dangling jewelry, and so she’d let Scott move in. And for several months they were happy, or content, content with each other if nothing else—until three nights ago, when Greta had come home to find Scott gone—and Scott hadn’t been back since.
 

PTA or Porn.  MAS RAIKE, PI sees them all, and wishes that he hadn't. 

I admit, I’m not very observant, but it was difficult to not notice the revolver pressed to my head. In fact, I even noticed the bullets clustered around the outside of the chambers as Ron approached me, swearing to blow my frigging head off. Life’s funny that way. I guess we all react differently to our environment; some people notice it, some don’t. Me, I’m a charter member of the latter group.

Most of the time, my indifference to my surroundings is because I don’t give a shit about those things. But Ron had my interest. His unshaven, heavily jowled face, which looked like it hadn’t been on speaking terms with soap for days, joined the gun against my temple.

“You got thirty seconds before I ventilate your brain,” his whiskey-laden breath whispered in my ear. The noise in the background told me that the bar patrons had bugged out when they saw the gun. I guess they were observant types.

“Where’s it stashed?”

YOU'LL FIND HIM , but what will you do with the missing parts?

  
Two patrol cars were idling in front of the mansion, and they sure looked out of place here. I parked my detective car and got out next to a sign saying the premises were protected by an alarm company. I wondered how a forty-nine perp could get in here with an alarm. Probably wasn’t even turned on. They usually aren’t when you really need them.

“I think she’s in shock, Diggny,” a Zone 2 cop at the door said.

“What’s up?”

“Lady here lives alone.”

“In a place like this?”

“Divorced, I think she said. Anyway, she says she got back from shopping. Was bringing her groceries in. He must have come in behind her, through the open door. That’s all we’ve been able to get out of her so far.”

“What’s the victim’s name?”

THE UNEATEN MEAL  Another ordinary morning . . . then the skies went dark

Blinding light and roaring noise shut out his world. Fire and smoke filled the entire 107th floor, screams of panicked customers and workers alike died out quickly as they were overcome by suffocation and burns. The delectable shrimp and bowtie pasta entrée was destroyed along with most of the kitchen. Neither Ian nor Chef Mike would ever know if it met the chef’s high standards. His new recipe would go uneaten, along with all the meals scheduled for that luncheon meal. Windows on the World, Manhattan’s noted and loved restaurant was destroyed. It was 8:55 and the 104th floor was incinerated.
 

READY OR NOT  You’re never too old to find new love; perhaps more than you can handle?

Scott Forsythe, Scotty to his friends, was plagued by erotic dreams. No matter how much golf or tennis he played to tire himself out, he slept fitfully. The dreams persisted during his waking hours—Cher, Madonna, a redhead clad only in a leather harness he saw in Hustler. Not that he read Hustler. It was in a stack of magazines at the barber shop.

Two years had passed since Louise had died of pancreatic cancer. They had no children. Instead they had lavished their attention on each other. And on their 1790 landmark house, which they filled with fine antiques and first edition books. He tended her garden of old-fashioned roses and their fragrance made it seem as though she were still with him.

Friends had been trying to fix him up since Louise was laid to rest. Nice gray-haired widows who matched his Presbyterian heritage and had some money of their own.

They didn’t interest him. The sort of women who did interest him were unsuitable.

For instance, he couldn’t bring himself to ask the waitress at the Forum Diner for a date, though he enjoyed furtive glances at her ample breasts and hips.

The fact was, other than Louise, Scott had only a few awkward sexual encounters with girls during his prep school days. When he met her at a Yale\Bennington mixer, he thought he was set for life. He never even felt the need some other middle-aged men had for flings with younger women.