Four writers for the price of one blog
I will paint you a picture. I will try to be brief, but please don’t skip anything.
You don’t know why she’s gone downstairs. Maybe for a glass of milk? But if so, she never made it to the kitchen. She is on the floor.
But first let me describe the stairs. In this moment, this brief vision, they are behind her and to the right. They are Victorian stairs. The wood is a darkened oak. The newel post is a thick square post, divided, top and bottom, into two narrow panels. On the top of the newel post is a solid round wooden ball. The railing is also wooden with elegant balusters underneath, three to a stair, and individually turned.
A brown and rust red carpet is tacked to the center of the stairs and turns, with the stairway, to the left, above and further behind the girl. You guess, perhaps, that she had just walked to the bottom of the stairs or that she had been in the hallway and was about to climb the stairs.
A closed and tall paneled door is also to the right of the girl and at the bottom of the stairs. It goes into a room you can’t see. Maybe it’s the living room? The left of the girl, and across from the closed door, is another one. It’s open, but from your perspective you can only see the white, painted jamb and the worn, bronze strike plate. The room to the left is dark. There is another door to the left and further down the hallway.
As the hallway itself: the walls are plaster and white. A single dim lamp, which you can’t see, lights the hallway somewhere
directly above the girl. There is a painting on the wall between the two doors to her left. The subject is difficult to see, but you can just make out waves, a three masted ship, and the menace of the foam, great plumes of foam, breaking on rocks.
The girl herself is beautiful.
You guess that she is young but also old enough to be in this story. She faces you as though she crawled toward you. One hand is in front of the other, but you can see that she finds no purchase on the hardwood floor. The elbows and hands of both arms are flat to the floor. You notice that the neck of her white night-gown reveals her right breast. Her nipple almost seems to touch the floor. The curve of her breast is beautiful and smooth. The skin of her aureole is just a little darker than the breast, and the delicate nipple is darker still.
Her hair is brunette, her eyes are green, and her full lips are red. Her skin is pale.
What did you say? You think that her hair should be braided? Two braids? Yes, that’s very innocent. I agree.
Remember that she is flat on the floor. Her belly, which you can’t see, is also flat on the floor. You imagine it, perhaps: it’s tautness and the dimple of her belly button. You imagine how the single muscular line of her abdomen vanishes smoothly at the V between her legs and maybe you imagine a little more. Her left knee is visible, almost at her left elbow, as though she tried to crawl forward, to raise herself on one knee. But there is something pulling her.
Now you see it.
There is a tentacle wrapped around the ankle of her right leg. It pulls her away from you. It pulls her toward the dark and open door, the door that I haven’t described yet, at the end of the hallway, under the leftward turn of the stairs. There is a Persian carpet that has been crumpled upward and behind her by her efforts to pull herself away from it.
Just to the left of her slender neck, and behind her, you see that her frilly nighty has fallen away from her buttocks. Her ass is lifted by her failing effort to rise to one knee. You can see the lovely curvature. You see that other V that makes a dark cut between her heart-shaped buttocks. You imagine that if you could see behind her, you would see her pussy, the entry between her thighs, dark, raised and vulnerable.
You would think she would close her legs.
But perhaps she doesn’t see or never saw the other tentacle, muscular, rising like a powerful S in the black doorway. The bulging tip, like the head of an eyeless snake, already drips. The giant, broad head is already slick with clear and white semen.
She looks at you. Her forehead is creased. Her eyes plead. Her parted lips are rounded into an O of – what is it? – shock, exhaustion, desperation? What is it about her agony that reminds you so much of another kind of agony, one that will make her eyes turn upward. The difference is so subtle that you can almost imagine her after she has been pulled – how long will it take? – to the giant tentacle in the shadowy doorway.
I leave you with that image.
I leave you to imagine whether she will crawl away afterward on hands on knees, hand on her belly, thighs dripping, head bowed low and lips apart; or whether I will pull her into the vile creature will pull her into the stone cellar to hang her from a dusty beam, to fill her, as only a young woman can be filled, over and over again.
But surely, you know, what is erotic is not the same as sex. What is erotic is the bare ankle, the frilly nightgown, the braids, the slippery hardwood floor, the black doorway and the giant, dripping tentacle that awaits her unsuspectingly parted thighs. And yes, the pull, the unstoppable tug and tug, the long and the slow pulling toward the inevitable.
Why don’t you help her?
Oh, I know. No need to explain. There are some readers who imagine they are the girl.
And there are readers who imagine you are the girl.
Do, please, enjoy.
(Or With, as you tasty beings like to call it, Love.)