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Authors: John Farris
Tags: Horror
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around the still sinewy but aged body of my father; I heard the crunch snap buckle of bones. The demons of the hearth chased Corrie from the flames. She watched, in a brown study, eyes intolerably broken, Clipper's tupping gallop between her knees. I cried out for relief for all of us.
"But nothing's there," Nhora said, bending over me, the green silk robe peeling dryly from her body. She had a smaller bust than I'd imagined, demurely teated.
"Look," she said. Just for a moment there were two of Nhora, one kissing me with, a flickering tongue, the other a mirror image standing before the hearth, where the fire had gone to char and ashes, this Nhora undraped to the waist like a marble goddess, looking pensively over one shoulder at our intimate alliance.
My trousers had been opened and my blouse was unbuttoned. Nhora was delicately astride for all her size, somewhat finicky and hesitant about my vigorous protrusion, prigging testily, recoiling, then with a wisp of breath going down and relaxed as if into a soapy bath, saying, "I'll be careful; won't hurt you," as she mistook  my own sharp intake of breath for an expression of pain. Instead I was light-headed with desire.
In the palm of my hand I weighed the suspenseful fullness of one breast and then the other. I said, "I thought you were havingâ"
"It stopped. Don't worry, let me make love to you. Lie back, don't do anything. I'll do it for us."
So I dreamed again but not dementedly, this time from the center of my groin, the pleasure being deep and all the more enjoyed for its casual wickedness. Nhora swayed in the tree house of my manly trunk, eyes like caged deathbirds brightly tuning, her hair let down to drape my thighs, navel coming unraveled as it gave suck, viny limbs arustle and wrapping me to the bed. Cunning nails traced all the long bones, studied the smoky running of my veins, hands cold but neat oval nails colder still and whitening out in my brain like fish gleam in heavy ice, like stopped comets. Splitting then at her demand, first with difficulty like a virgin rosebud then a ripe splashed apricot yielding up all fruit, blood, plasm, marrow to fill the dark and quiver everywhere around us, a dense cold cloud in which our collective breath burned like radium.
Long afterward, stretched full length in a drowse upon me, her breasts flattened on mine, she licked my ears. It felt strange, and tickled. But I liked it. I liked whatever Nhora wanted to do to me.
"Now," she said, laughing, "you'll hear the thoughts of animals. Like Melampus of the legends, you'll always understand their language."
I kissed her humid lips. "Do you?"
"Sometimes," Nhora said, and sighed. Her beating heart made a warm spot on my chest, but the rest of me was moldering cold.
When she slept for a while I returned to my rooms and took a hot bath, hot as I could stand it. But the chill returned as soon as I was dry. I had so little vitality I could barely move about. A shot of whiskey helped, but I think I may never be warm again. Nor in a state of grace. My mind turns to images of sere landscapes, ice-burdened seas. Only Nhora'a heart has warmth. Only her passion matters to me.
She has come naked into the sitting room, a hairbrush in one hand. She smiles faintly without looking at me. She goes to my bed and sits where I may see her through the door, just by lifting my eyes.
Nhora brushes her hair, hazing it down over her breasts.
Her lovely bosom bobs and weaves.
In a moment she will be finished, and wanting me.
And I'll go.
II
Â
HAWKSPURN MARSHES
Â
Yorkshire, England
June 16, 1942
T he ancient estate of Hawkspurn, three miles south of Nuncheap village and on a hill overlooking the placid marshlands, boasts an extensive Georgian house with a façade of magnesian limestone, maintained gleaming white by the action of rain and scouring winds from the not-too-distant North Sea. There is a domed roof considered to have architectural significance, and a
"But nothing's there," Nhora said, bending over me, the green silk robe peeling dryly from her body. She had a smaller bust than I'd imagined, demurely teated.
"Look," she said. Just for a moment there were two of Nhora, one kissing me with, a flickering tongue, the other a mirror image standing before the hearth, where the fire had gone to char and ashes, this Nhora undraped to the waist like a marble goddess, looking pensively over one shoulder at our intimate alliance.
My trousers had been opened and my blouse was unbuttoned. Nhora was delicately astride for all her size, somewhat finicky and hesitant about my vigorous protrusion, prigging testily, recoiling, then with a wisp of breath going down and relaxed as if into a soapy bath, saying, "I'll be careful; won't hurt you," as she mistook  my own sharp intake of breath for an expression of pain. Instead I was light-headed with desire.
In the palm of my hand I weighed the suspenseful fullness of one breast and then the other. I said, "I thought you were havingâ"
"It stopped. Don't worry, let me make love to you. Lie back, don't do anything. I'll do it for us."
So I dreamed again but not dementedly, this time from the center of my groin, the pleasure being deep and all the more enjoyed for its casual wickedness. Nhora swayed in the tree house of my manly trunk, eyes like caged deathbirds brightly tuning, her hair let down to drape my thighs, navel coming unraveled as it gave suck, viny limbs arustle and wrapping me to the bed. Cunning nails traced all the long bones, studied the smoky running of my veins, hands cold but neat oval nails colder still and whitening out in my brain like fish gleam in heavy ice, like stopped comets. Splitting then at her demand, first with difficulty like a virgin rosebud then a ripe splashed apricot yielding up all fruit, blood, plasm, marrow to fill the dark and quiver everywhere around us, a dense cold cloud in which our collective breath burned like radium.
Long afterward, stretched full length in a drowse upon me, her breasts flattened on mine, she licked my ears. It felt strange, and tickled. But I liked it. I liked whatever Nhora wanted to do to me.
"Now," she said, laughing, "you'll hear the thoughts of animals. Like Melampus of the legends, you'll always understand their language."
I kissed her humid lips. "Do you?"
"Sometimes," Nhora said, and sighed. Her beating heart made a warm spot on my chest, but the rest of me was moldering cold.
When she slept for a while I returned to my rooms and took a hot bath, hot as I could stand it. But the chill returned as soon as I was dry. I had so little vitality I could barely move about. A shot of whiskey helped, but I think I may never be warm again. Nor in a state of grace. My mind turns to images of sere landscapes, ice-burdened seas. Only Nhora'a heart has warmth. Only her passion matters to me.
She has come naked into the sitting room, a hairbrush in one hand. She smiles faintly without looking at me. She goes to my bed and sits where I may see her through the door, just by lifting my eyes.
Nhora brushes her hair, hazing it down over her breasts.
Her lovely bosom bobs and weaves.
In a moment she will be finished, and wanting me.
And I'll go.
II
Â
HAWKSPURN MARSHES
Â
Yorkshire, England
June 16, 1942
T he ancient estate of Hawkspurn, three miles south of Nuncheap village and on a hill overlooking the placid marshlands, boasts an extensive Georgian house with a façade of magnesian limestone, maintained gleaming white by the action of rain and scouring winds from the not-too-distant North Sea. There is a domed roof considered to have architectural significance, and a
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