The Third Floor
Or the Tentacle in the Clawfoot Tub ~ by Will Crimson
The proprietor, Ms. Temperance, climbs the steps.
The heels of her tight, mid-thigh, leather laced boots clap the wooden steps in perfect time. She is tall. She wears a tight dress, a heavy beige cloth, buttoned from the back of her neck to the hem at her calves. She carries four white terry cloth bath towels, perfectly folded, at her solar plexus, one hand beneath and one on top.
She climbs to the bed & breakfast’s third story, takes four evenly paced steps, and halts at the open door. She stares.
“Help me!” says a girl. Or, at least, to Ms. Temperance, who is gray and whose eyes and lips are lined, the young woman is just a girl.
On the third floor of the bed & breakfast is a single room which is half the attic. Beneath the curved roof of the old Victorian is a hardwood floor, a free-standing tarnished brass towel rack and a large Victorian Tub. The tub is in the middle of the room. It is six feet long, ivory in color, with a thick and smooth porcelain lip.
The girl, for that is how Ms. Temperance considers her, is peering over a blanket of suds and bubbles. Only her head is visible. The dark brunette hair at the back of her neck is matted. She gazes at Ms. Temperance who still hasn’t moved. The older woman’s lips grow smaller and tighter. The young woman speaks again. “Please,” her voice shakes, “help me.”
The older woman’s eyes narrow. She strides calmly, deliberately, to a wooden chair next to the bathtub. The girl’s clothes are flung over the back, her jeans, her tight cotton top, her panties, sport socks, tennis shoes and iPod. Ms. Temperance sits in the chair, gracefully, knees and ankles forced together by the tightly buttoned dress, and places the towels in her lap.
She pushes the girl’s clothes onto the floor before she sits.
I admit I’ve been frustrated lately by the lack of comments (and also the lack of income as a writer). The problem is that I do enjoy writing for the blog and I do not regret the wonderful readership, comments or not, that I’ve already gotten. I’ll continue to write stories for your enjoyment and ask for nothing in return, but I would also like to transition just a little.
I’m going to change the password to Alien Earth, taking it out of Obsidian Lens, and each new chapter will have a new password. I ask for one of three things in return. If you would like to read the erotic story, then send me an E-Mail. You can either agree to contribute by making a substantive comment, pay 50 cents into my Paypal account, or wait until the first three chapters are published as an E-Book.
You can find my E-Mail address under Contact.
November 5 2013 : William Crimson
♦ This story has been knocking around in my head for over a year now, but for some reason, I was afraid to write it. Now that it’s out, I can’t say why. It was not meant to be a theme story, but it so happens that I finished today, on All Soul’s Day. How uncanny. – X
It’s a long one, so whip up a mexican hot chocolate, get comfortable, and get ready for a hell of a ride.
She prayed fervently. Her knees were raw and red, but she welcomed the pain. With trembling fingers, she pulled something from the condom she had retrieved from the trash. The red string was sticky and fragrant with his semen.
The little room where the altar stood was clean and neat, while the rest of her apartment showed signs of dissipation – the crumpled and sweaty sheets, the broken champagne bottle by the bed. Her foot still oozed blood. She wrapped the string around a smaller version of the ornate statue in front of her. The base of the white plastic statue was slashed with red. Her lips moved in prayer. Her eyes trembled underneath her eyelids.
See my heart. Feel my desire.
She unconsciously sucked her fingers clean, then scratched at her injured foot. Her fingers came up bloody. She looked at them with a dazed expression, then smeared the blood on the statue’s forehead. The molded skull underneath the cape looked gristly.
Make him trust me. Take me away from this life.
She looked up at Her. She had spent a whole month’s salary on the cloth and jewels she had dressed Her with – she had made sure to spare no expense. There was more rolled up bills below in a celadon dish, both American and Mexican. A small glass vial filled with meth crystals. A couple of choice buds. A bottle of Anejo. A vase with brightly colored paper flowers.
For my future. For me.
She wiped a tear away. Her family had sold her to the cartel years ago after catching her kissing another woman. Her father, a businessman who had been born devoid of a conscience, had given her in exchange for his business after he had made a bad deal. It had not worked out for him – he had been tortured and decapitated shortly after. Her mother and her sisters had woken up to see his fly-blown head stuck on a spike in the wrought iron fence that had surrounded their compound. Her mother’s tears had dried just as soon as she found out that he had left them all with nothing.
Before her father’s mutilated carcass was cold, she was already turning tricks. She was a beautiful young woman, and the cartel had made sure to put her in the best position to make money. She was no street walker – she was trained by an old campaigner from Spain who had stayed after falling in love with Mexico, and cartel money. She had long ago stopped turning tricks, but had consented to show her all that she knew after one look. She was old, but not dead.
Her lips curled in a smile at the memory of the first time she – her name was Encarnación – had seen her naked.