Beastial · Erotica by Redbud
“So. Haven’t seen you in a while, how have you been?”
“No – I mean, really, like, I never see you with your boyfriend?”
“We broke up.”
I shrug. I don’t want to talk. The door to the house opens behind me. A girl and guy I’ve never seen before squeeze past me. The hallway is crowded. The music is loud. Plastic beer cups float from hand to hand. I just want to be around people. I climb the stairs beyond the entry door. The house is an old farmhouse at the end of a dirt road. The night is clear. The stars are out. By the time I’ve climbed to the top of the stairs, to the end of the hallway and found a couch to sit on, away from the voices, away from the dull thud of music, I can hear what nobody else can: the fields, the wind in the burnt corn, the pop of tires on gravel, miles away, and five minutes later, the taste of dust through the open window.
There’s another couple in the den, on another couch.
I don’t look at them or watch them. I don’t have to. I know the girl is sitting on her boyfriend’s pelvis, straddling him. He’s stretched out. He wears jeans and she wears jean shorts. She’s smiling and slowly, like nobody is supposed to notice, she swivels her hips, letting him know she feels his hard-on. They giggle. Out the window, the stars are painful pin pricks.
“There you are!” The first girl finds me again. She lives here. This is her house. Her brother is my new boyfriend; but she doesn’t know it. Then again, maybe she does. She’s bringing me a cup of beer. She sits in the upholstered chair next to the couch. It smells dusty, the way old furniture smells. The floral patterns are threadbare at the arm wrests and seat cushion; and the wood of the legs is nicked and bare. She curls the old Persian rug between her sandals and stretches out her bare legs. “So – what happened?”
“He didn’t cheat on me.”
“Was he going to?”
“Did you cheat on him?”
“Ok,” she sits back, as if solving a mystery. “You met somebody else.”
“Would it be alright if I stayed here tonight?”
“Yeah.” She answers too quick and blinks, like she already wishes she said no. She bites her lip. “You can stay in the den.”
She hesitates. “My brother’s not here tonight.”
“Just so you know.”
I want to explain everything. Isn’t it obvious? Instead, I take the cup and drink. I flinch.
“No, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing – I’m ok.”
“Good then,” she says, “I’m going back down to the party.”
I hear locusts scrawling in dirt, their thrumming bones, the drumbeat of wings, then silence, then the drumbeat again. I don’t want to hear any of it. Nothing. I thought I wanted noise, people, and music, but all I want is silence. I want the stars to go away. I want clouds. Two girls and a guy walked into the room. They laugh. The girl on the couch moves off her boyfriend. They’re talking to the three who have just come in. I leave the room. I go back downstairs.
Midnight, I’m scared, I’m buzzed, and I’m wondering if this is a good idea.
“Why you here?” she asks.
“Remember?” I shout over the music and voices. “I want to spend the night,”
“No.” She’s drunk now. Drink makes her mean. “No. I mean: Why are you here?”
“I just –“ I lie. “I didn’t want to drink and drive.”
“Dad’s going to be home tomorrow morning,” she says it like she was daring me.
“I know.” But I don’t know. “Is it ok?”
She grips my shoulder, arm straight, and looks at me the way drunks do. I can smell her. She lets go of me. She walks backwards the way she’s seen actresses do it in movies and TV. She turns around and pushes her way through the mill of partygoers. I can still smell her. I know more than she knows. I can feel a shudder in the floorboards, the roots of tress, a gust, starlight burning in their leaves. I ache too. I want to grip the earth like they do.
I can’t sleep. The house is quite and reeks of beer.
The couple have made love, not on the couch next to me but downstairs, out of site. I heard them, the thumping that grew harder and quicker until she screamed, then the blissful silence. I’m sitting on the couch, staring out the window. My finger is between my thighs, slick with my own moisture. The moon just begins to rise above the rim of the fields. I push my skirt down and race to the window, shutting it. I race downstairs. I hear the lovers stir and maybe they wonder who’s thudding down the stairs. I bolt the front door. I go room to room, making sure the windows are shut and latched.
I hide in a corner.
The moon begins to sear the room. I run upstairs.
“What?” Someone mutters, wakes for a moment, then goes back to sleep.
I can hear him. I’m not where he thought I’d be, but he can smell me. Now he knows. I go to the window. I bite my hand until I bleed, tasting something that’s not my own and that is. I fall to my knees, I open them, I arch. I hold the rug in a fist, my fingernails piercing the nap. My other stretches in front of me, leaving marks in the wood. I move back and forth as though he were behind me. I exhale and force myself upright, palm to the floor, then a knee, then a foot.
“What are you –“
I run to the door of the den and shut it, slam it.
“What are you doing in there?” It’s her, my boyfriend’s sister. She fumbles drunkenly over the words.
“Let me come in.”
“No,” I gasp, looking at my hand, struggling.
“You don’t sound right,” she says from the other side of the door.
“I think you should go.”
“I want you to go.”
“I can’t drive.”
“You ain’t drunk!”
“I can’t drive!” I shout.
“Then I’ll fucking drive you!” she snarls. But I’m already at the window. The room’s lit. There’s a flicker of heat lightning. His weight is on the porch. I can hear the dust turn under his heel. I can taste his humidity, the smell before the storm in the dead of summer. I know what he wants. The doorknob rattles, not the door downstairs but the door to the den. My fingernails cut into my palms, trying to stop what I can’t.
The door bursts open. She sees me. I don’t move. I don’t dare. She turns white as a sheet.
She’ll leave me alone now. The pin strikes the floor next to her ankle. She almost drops the hammer. No, she drops it. She’s too drunk to know better. She screams when something powerful slams against the entry door. I run at her. I can smell her piss running down her knees and ankles before I’ve thrown her back into the hall and slammed the door.
I can hear their voices downstairs.
They went for the guns but I locked them too, to protect them, not him. The house shakes with another collision. They’re throwing chairs, pushing desks, whatever they can find against the entry door. I fall to my hands and knees, cheek pressed against the weave of the rug until skin burns, knees parted and lifted. I’m like an animal, struggling to run, but unable. They think he wants them, but I know what he wants. The frame of the house trembles with another powerful blow and the door splinters. I hear their shouts and screams. They’re hiding. Doors slam.
I hear the door splintering and the ping and scrape of his nails on hall floor. He smells – one long intake of air. My own ribs expand, inhaling, and my nipples brush the rug’s rough threads. The girl, the lover on the couch, whimpers somewhere downstairs, terrified. Her boyfriend puts his hand over her mouth. He knows where they are, but he’s not looking for them. He knocks a chair over, a plate shatters. I know what he wants.
A stair takes his weight, once and powerfully. Then he’s on the second floor. He’s on the other side of the hall door. I wait. I wait and when the door moves so do I. I throw him hard against the hall wall. I taste his blood and my own. I could kill him, a nail across the throat, or a deeper wound that tears flesh, but I’m still. Maybe I’m like every woman who could have killed a man, but doesn’t. She wants to know, for an instant, that she could have – and that he would have let her – before she gives herself to him.
My shoulder bangs a bookshelf.
Books tumble and a shelf strikes my ribs. Now he holds me in the den. He’s huge. His massive shoulders ripple. He forces my head down, my neck between his jaws, and my ass up, my knees apart. His paws, the span of two men’s grown hands, settled just in front of my knees. His powerful forearms hold me by my waist. I cannot move. I wait for him. The first thrust is a mutual cry of pain, pleasure and size.
His second thrust drives the air from my diaphragm.
I widen. I drive my fingers into the jointed floorboards. I grunt, staring at the wall, never more female, my slick reservoir beginning to coat my thighs like it already coats him. His teeth begin to make their mark in my neck. His thrusts quicken. I struggle to stay on my knees, to lift my waist, to aim my opening at his thrusts, to be ready. My own belly stiffens and his maw closes on my windpipe. I come, wild, unrestrained, the blissful beat of my womb one and the same as my heart. I cannot breathe. I only dimly feel the powerful pulses filling me, his heat flow into me as I begin to loose consciousness. I lift my womb behind me. I try to receive all of him before my knees fail.
Air floods my lungs.
I fall to my side and he falls behind me, his huge breathe at the crook of my neck. I press back against him. His knot remains inside me. The bristles on my back and arm slowly begin to disappear.
“Oh my God!”
I wake and pull my torn dress over me. His mother stands in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth. She turns. I hear his father downstairs, cursing. Sunlight fills the den and his sister is looking in the doorway. She doesn’t stay.
“What the fuck?” his father is screaming. “What the – Jesus! What happened last – where the fuck are they?”
He’s coming up the stairs. I turn. I shake you. You’re so different now. You’re small. You’re thin, almost frail, but you’re strong too. You open your beautiful eyes. You see first, then you see where we are. Your father is standing in the doorway. I want you to wake up. I want you to see what’s happening but you only look at me.
“You little bitch!” You’re father yanks me off the floor by the arm. He slaps me. I taste blood, human blood.
“Bitch! Little whore!” He slaps me again and I don’t know but he would have hit me; but you’ve pulled him off of me. You pull him back and you both stumble against the wall and door. I cringe on the couch. Your mother’s watching, her jaw set; but she’s scared. She’s never seen you defy anybody or anything, but then that’s why I’m here. You’re quicker than your Dad. When he tries to get up you raise your fist and that stops him. His jaw clenches but he won’t do it. He gets up slow and on one knee.
“D-d-,” you stutter. “Don’t you ever! Don’t you hit her again!”
He looks at me, then he stands up. He leaves the room. “Get out of here,” he says, his back to us. “Both of you. Get out. Where’s my daughter?”
I like the flat country. I like the long roads. I like the heat and I like sitting with you in you’re old pick-up. The hot hair whips my hair – long sandy hair. The truck windows are open. You glance at me, like you wanted to stare with the kind of love that’s better if I don’t describe it, but you can’t. You’re driving. Instead, I stare at you. I can’t take my eyes from you. You’re beautiful.
“What do you think?”
“Y-y-you just wrote that?”
“What do you know about that?”
“It’s beast—beastiality. You can’t write that.”
“I—I’m just sayin’”
“I might be pregnant.”
You look at me. I want you to keep looking at me like that. Stop the car, but I don’t say that.
“We couldn’t help it, right?”
“Sometimes it just comes over you.”
“Right,” you say again. “S-sometimes it just comes over you.”
“I’ll tell the story this way. I’ll tell it like it was a fairy tale, like I was a seed that a witch gave to a childless couple.”
“Read to me as you write.”
“We all have ways of telling stories,” I say as I write. “Some of us tell the truth, some lie. Some tell in-between. If I tell you that I live in a small village on a hill with a witch and a troll, you must be believe me even if I don’t mention the troll again. If I tell you that my parents were once young and beautiful, you must also believe me. If you believe me, then I will be able to tell you about a terrible wolf who fell in love with me and saved my life. ···”
William Crimson • March 20 2012
- I decided to remove the little fairy tale from the end of the story; but here it is for anyone interested:
“Then what happens?”
“She gives them a magical brush. She fells them to give it to me when I become a little girl. She says: “Whatever she paints on the wall will come true, but you must never tell her what to paint. You must not confuse your own future with hers.” But my parents become greedy. They want me to paint a castle, then a town, then townspeople, There is one thing my parents don’t like me to paint – a wolf.
“My parents tell me I should be afraid of wolves, so I stop painting him. But as I grow older, the townspeople begin to disappear. I watch them disappear. In the middle of the night a were-wolf appears and eats the townspeople one by one, then the houses, then the bridge and then the castle. He comes to them like a fearsome shadow. In the blink of an eye he swallows them whole. This happens every night until my parents are left with nothing but their little hovel and their little garden.
“They are frightened that the were-wolf will eat them next. I tell them that if they let me draw the wolf, then the were-wolf will go away. They agree. I draw the wolf. The next night, the were-wolf eats my wolf and turns into a beautiful young man in a crimson vest and golden shoes. The very next day a beautiful man in a vest and golden shoes came to the hovel of my parents and asks to marry me. We marry the next day. I use my brush to fill my parents’ garden with vines and fruit trees. We live happily ever after.”