“Peter, come down. It’s time to eat!” I hear my mom yell from the bottom of the stairs.

“K,” I say while trying to finish one last game before dads router turns off moms iPad. I'm hungry cause I didn't eat lunch at school. Something smells stinky when I open my bedroom door. Mom cooked dad’s favorite food, onion fried liver in gravy. But that also means she made my favorite too, spaghetti and meatballs cause I don't like liver. I want to slide down the banister but mom thinks I might get hurt. Dad lets me do it if he can supervise. He said he did the same when he was 7 years old like me, at granddads house.

“How was school today? My dad asks.

“Fine.”

“What did you do?” he enquires while eating a piece of liver and raw onion. His breath hits my nose and causes me to sit back from the table. I tell him about the Lego tower I built, but leave out the part when Thomas knocked it down for laughs, then took my lunch.

“What did you learn?” came his next question after drinking some water. He waits for me to answer. I’m already tired of talking about school. I reach for the juice mom poured for me in my Buzz Lightyear cup and take a slow sip, then another. The sound of me swallowing trumps my rapidly beating heart. Mom eyes the two of us as she eats. She sometimes answers stuff dad wants to know for me. I give the invisible nod and she takes over.

“He learned how to add numbers 1 through 10 with Legos and subtract, I mean take away. Right, Peter?”

“Mmm,” I say, with cheeks full of meatballs. I nod yes to make sure I agree with mom.

***

After eating, I ask mom if I can play for another hour on her iPad.

“No Peter. I want you to do something else for fun.”

“Like what?” I ask. “What else is there to do?”

“Why don't you use your imagination? Kids don't do that anymore,” she said smiling at me.

***

Back in my room, I decide to play space Captain. My mom the General, has volunteered me for a moon mission.

“I’ll need a space suit,” I say. I put on my white Danger Mouse PJs, black rain boots, black gloves, and a football helmet. Pants belt to hold my tools like Batman.

“I’ll be the Captain of this ship. Who will be my fearless pilot?” I ask. I grab the fishbowl next to my bed with Godfrey the goldfish. “Ready to go on a mission with me Godfrey?” He doesn't answer, this being his first mission in all. “I got you, Godfrey. Our spaceship is downstairs in the den.”

I take the bowl down to the den, sloshing fish water on the floor as I walk. I decide to go back to get the plastic bowl cover to keep the water in and Godfrey from jumping out.

“The cover is your space helmet Godfrey,” I tell him. “The Captain's chair and our spaceship await our first mission. I take a look at the giant leathery chair that massages backs, legs, and arms. Mom calls it her home massage parlor. Dad calls it his Physical Therapy chair. I call it Jupiter 2 like the one on Netflix. I turn the den lights down, close the curtains and plug in my night light with the blue bulb. We take off tonight.

“Godfrey, that's our spaceship!” I shout out as he looks cautiously at the chair and then at me.

***

I use my belt to strap Godfrey’s bowl down to the plush armrest. My right-hand hovers over the green massage button that’s now my blast-off button. I countdown.

“6,5,4,” I press the yellow button on the armrest which elevates my legs and lowers my head.  “Get ready for take-off,” I tell Godfrey, my left hand steadying his bowl for extra support. 3,2,1...lift off!  I hit the green massage button which vibrates the chair.

“Leaving earth's atmosphere,” I tell Godfrey. My teeth chatter in time to the vibrations of the chair, as we head to the moon.

***

Orbiting around the moon in space is dark and lonely. That's why I brought Godfrey, to keep me company. I turned off the engine and set the seat upright again.  

"Godfrey...umm number 1, check the conditions on the surface. Is there life on the moon? Godfrey relays the report to me in his native language, Gills. It's a watered-down version of English.

“Only hostile life on the moon number 1?” I raise the question to Godfrey. Tall freckled beings called Thoms live there. They cause trouble everywhere they go and take things that don't belong to them. We could bring a weapon next time to make them stop, but I better inform the General before we take action. “Do you agree with me Godfrey, I mean number 1?”

Godfrey agreed by blowing bubbles up to the surface of his bowl. “Let's fire the thrusters and return to earth. This problem is too big to handle by ourselves. We will inform the General. She will know what to do.

“Peter?” What are you doing with the fishbowl in the den?

“Oh, I was just playing space Captain on a mission. Godfrey flew me to the moon and back. He’s the best pilot in the world.” I say.

“But there were hostiles. We didn't stay long.”

“You couldn't figure out how to make friends?” She said.

“Tried but he didn't want to.”

"He?" She questioned, as one manicured eyebrow raised up slowly. Her eyes intentionally bore deep, probing my body language.

My talk with the General took a while. I had to debrief the moon mission and stuff that happened at school with Thomas. It was a lot of talking but I don't feel alone or think I need a weapon now. The General, I mean mom, told me she is going to school with me to debrief Miss Audre, my teacher about that day. She then told me that I could play with her iPad for a while if I wanted to. I thought about it but wanted to keep playing space Captain with Godfrey.

I like using my imagination so I'm taking Godfrey on another mission to the moon. When we take the next trip, the General promised I won't have to defend myself against Thoms. I can just imagine the fun.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

Eyes open as I stretch. My face is imprinted with sofa lines matching my suit. Shoes sticky, tie-soiled. The mini shredder bin next to the sofa is loaded with paper and a sickly spew. Standing brings on vertigo, so I sit down near a blanket speckled with what resembles the stuff in the bin. My stomach churns as I reach for the TV remote.

Hitting mute does nothing to stop 120-decibel EMS sirens blazing outside my home. I want to scream while covering my ears. Maybe that will cancel them out. A half glass of water on the coffee table reminds me my bladder is full. A slow rise to my feet keeps me stable for a cautious walk to the bathroom. The door ajar with lights on looks occupied but I push it open with legs crossed. No need to turn on running water for inspiration.

I disrobe and jump in the shower. Warm water soothes me until it grows cold with the valve fully open.

I brush my teeth to rid the taste of bile, but cleaning my tongue threatens to bring up more of the same. Rinsing is preferred along with a minty gargle. I take three aspirin from the cabinet and wash them down with a hand full of water.

Wrapping a towel around me, I stumble to the bedroom longing for the comfort of soft satin sheets but the cost of cleaning them turns me away. I put on a gray two-piece suit, white shirt, red power tie, and black Oxfords.  Moving towards the kitchen, I see the auto coffee maker has just brewed my favorite, perked, not drip. White bread sitting in the toaster looks hard. I press toast anyway to start my day. Careful not to burn the roof of my mouth, I sip the coffee without cream and nibble on hard-toasted bread without butter.

The newspaper is on the table where I left it. I saved the classified but tossed the coupons for Black Friday's bullshit sales. I circle the address of the job fair. Today’s the last day. Tomorrow is my second month without a job.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

I awake refreshed. Different. Smog-filled thoughts and feelings are gone. The mirrored image reflected as I dress for work decreases my desire to stay home in bed. Wrinkly, spotty, shadowy lines have been replaced with taut, smooth, even skin. An old face was replaced with something youthful.

Is that possible?  Confidence replaces doubt. The usual dread of interacting with work acquaintances is gone. I tell myself as I walk out the door, the woman I saw reflected back, the one I envied, the one I was jealous of, is me.

Glass heels bring me to the brick-and-mortar that pays my bills. My arms sway as I make eye contact with my workmates. I flash a broad smile that is rarely seen. They respond to my positive energy and are drawn to me like a beam of light.

“Hi everyone,” I say, with a radiant smile.

I turn my attention to the quiet, tall handsome guy in our department.

“Good morning Waaizh,” I call him by his given name, not Wally, the made-up one everybody decided was easier to say.

“Good morning,” he says, eyebrows raised, a smile directed at me. “How are you today?” he asks with genuine interest.

“Feeling like me,” I say pointing to myself. “I'm taking work home to catch up with smart guys like you,” I hear myself flirt. “I need a change though. You guys still go out after work on Fridays?”

He seems taken aback that I inquired, but in a good way. I’m surprised too since I usually feign interest for fear of rejection.

“We’ll be going out after midnight tonight. Would you like to come with us?” He asks me like it was his idea all along. I allow him to think so.

"I'd love to come," I say, unconcerned about the midnight hours.

I check my makeup in the ladies' room. My reflection bounces back a picture of youth, fearlessness, happiness, and a desire to be with people.

I’m Cinderella. This is my day, and tonight will be my night.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

Ramen noodles, two eggs, and a beef frank for dinner. As the water boiled in a pot too small for the job, Angie took another drag on her slim filtered cigarette, causing a chemical cloud to settle over the bowl of McIntosh apples on the kitchen table reserved for her estranged husband.

Using a butcher knife, she diced the frank like a chef, dumping the pieces, eggs, and noodles into the pot. Steam rose from the nauseous-looking mix, a boil-over narrowly avoided as she removed the pot from the burner. The doctor she was dating hated her cooking skills, and her heavy drinking.

“You got two choices. Ether take us out for dinner or get used to my cooking.”

Angie, a twenty-something blond pinup type girl with an hourglass figure immediately took advantage of the fifty-year-old obstetrician when his eyes lingered over her too long during a planned parenthood visit.

“Kids are a problem. I don’t want them… ever,” she told Dr. Brotman. “Kids decide what car you drive, and what community you live in.”

She looked around the fixer-upper house that her husband seldom had time to work on.

“Or what home you own” she mocked, thinking of the day she had a rendezvous inside the single doctor's expensive townhouse.

Her husband tried to start a family with her at the beginning of their 6-month marriage. Finding her birth control pills was the last straw of the one-sided marital bond. The 25-year-old Sussex County police officer moved into a cramped studio apartment with a childhood friend that earned a living as an App developer. They worked opposite shifts to stay out of each other’s way.

Angie took a swig of vodka while deciding to let her soupy mixture cool down. Without finishing the cigarette, she stamped it out on the kitchen floor, an act of defiance to her neat and orderly husband who came from old money.

"He’d rather work than spend a dime from his trust fund," she grumbled.

Turning up the TV volume helped mask the sounds of nature gaining momentum as the sun set. Fear of living alone and of four-legged critters running around outside the rural country home faded as she drank another round of 80-proof courage. Glassy eyes looked out the living room window for bear, deer, or coyote. Something was lurking about.

Her peripheral vision caught the glimpse of a shadow off the TV screen. The image moved slightly as she turned to face the presence of a man standing in her living room.

Screaming, she jumped off the sofa, attempting to run. The glass tumbler she held crashed to the wood floor, breaking into shards as the man grabbed her by the hair.

The intruder, tall and wide as a tree, wore clothes that accented a muscular body. He yanked her head back towards him, pulling roots as she spun around.

“Stop squirming Angie, or I’ll break your neck,” he threatened as the hand pulling her hair found purchase around her throat, lifting her off the ground.

'Did he call me by name?'

Stocking hose covered and distorted an unfamiliar face.

'Who is this man?'

The thought raced through her mind as her feet dangled inches from the floor. The man lowered her just enough for one toe to touch the floor like she was a ballerina dancing to the Blue Danube. He loosened the vice grip from her throat allowing her windpipe to resume providing life-saving oxygen to her lungs. Her nostrils flaring took in the acrid, ammonia-like smell of his hand as she gasped for breath.

'Rape?'

Would this be my punishment for pushing my husband away? He’s a small-town cop. Just another Barney Fife who gave out traffic tickets, his big contribution to society.

‘But god! I need him now!’ The thought raced through her head.

The intruder lowered her enough for both feet to touch the floor but held his grip on her throat. Her arms flailed about, not finding purchase, useless limbs against brute strength.

“What happens next depends on the men in your life.” A sandpaper-like voice gritted out.

“What? Harry?”

Angie managed to say while trying to take another breath.

'Or is this about Ben? Was this a guy that had a grudge against him for parking tickets?'

“I have nothing to do with what’s going on between you and Ben,” Angie blurted out.

His anger flared as she was lifted again in mid-air. She saw white lights as he slapped her face left with his backhand and snapped it right with another blow.

He continued the brutal blows pummeling her face, finally sending Angie into darkness as her body went limp.

***

Slowly reviving from a hypnopompic sleep, Angie opened her eyes trying to focus. Disoriented, her head throbbed, ears rang. A scratchy sensation in her throat worsened when she tried to swallow.

‘A bad hangover, that’s all.’

Through a light-headed fog, she determined she was sitting in the kitchen.

‘Maybe some noodle soup and Advil.’

Looking towards the stove, she spotted the little pot she left to cool. Angie tried to stand to get it, but her legs wouldn’t respond. To her alarm, she realized she was tied to a chair. The events of the evening flashed back as she recalled the grip around her throat, the vicious slapping, and passing out.

’How long was I out before being tied to a chair?

The man said something about Ben, or was it, Harry? I’m going to die tied up in a shabby kitchen, in a shabby house,’ she thought as she tried to wiggle her hands free.

Footsteps coming close took her out of a pity trance. Standing in front of her was a big man wearing a pantyhose face mask that still revealed watery blue eyes. They squinted at her as his massive frame came into the kitchen.

Angie opened her mouth to shout “get away from me,”  but nothing came out. She drew in a breath of air as her teeth chattered from the chilly fall temperature.

The man looked around her kitchen. Grabbing an apple, he rinsed it off in the sink.

After polishing it with a paper towel, he admired his work. Angie watched him use her butcher knife to cut it on her chopping block. He made small bite-size pieces, popping each one in his mouth.

"You mind if I have one of your smokes?" he asked, but took one out of the pack on the kitchen table without waiting for an answer.

He inhaled the smoke and blew out small puffs before placing the cigarette in the holder on the table.

“My associate Mr. Red is shaking down your sugar daddy as we speak for the 50 K he keeps in his home safe. A fair price to keep his life. My associate Mr. Green is chatting up your husband for 1.5 million for your safe return. Hubby's making a down payment today of 250 thousand dollars from his trust fund. Looks like both boys care about you," he added. "So far they are on the same page and complying… but I feel they might need more convincing that we mean business." he hinted.

“What, what are you talking about?” she stammered.

“I’m going to send Ben and Harry a  picture of… a piece of you.” he mocked.

Angie screamed "No!" while trying to break free from her restraints. She bucked the chair while watching him pick up her butcher knife from the counter.

“This may hurt a bit, but it should keep them from talking to anybody else if they really want to save you,”  he explained as he moved closer to her.

"No! Wait a minute!" she pleaded.

Angie alternated screams of Help, Help! to Fire, Fire! Fire, as if one might bring aid if not the other. Reaching behind her chair, he grabbed her left hand. Forcing the pinky finger open, he quickly sliced a piece of it off, just above the first joint.

The pain was sharp and quick. Angie screamed at the top of her lungs while trying to free herself. Her hand with the injury pulled free from her bindings, adrenaline fueling her will to survive. Nails scratched the man across his masked face causing him to drop the knife by the chair and step back.  Her bloody hand desperately tried to grab it but the heavy chef's tool slipped from her grip. The man recovered his step and slapped her across the face with enough force that the chair almost topples over.

Angie again falls into an unconscious state. The man picks up his cigarette from the tray on the table. He takes a pull lighting the ambers to bright orange. Holding the bleeding hand he cauterizes the wound as Angie twitches involuntarily.

***

Eyes flutter. Awake. Angie, riding in the back seat of her brother's 2014 Suburban, takes in the moving interstate highway.

“She’s waking up,” a voice from the front seat says.

“Ibuprofen and some booze please,” Angie asks her brother Michael while holding her bandaged hand.

“Everything worked like a charm,” he proudly tells his sister.

"I sent them a video of me roughing you up. Then I sent pictures of your pinky tip cut off with the promise of more if we didn’t get the money. Your man Ben handed over 250 thousand dollars as a down payment for your safe return. Dr. sugar britches gave up 55 thousand and a Rolex watch to cousin Walter... I mean my associate Mr. Red  sitting next to you.” He laughed.

"I wished we could finish this long con. That 1 million was there for the taking in just 3 more days.”

“No, it was better to cut and run," Angie assured.

"Ben’s friend was getting suspicious when I came on to him, asking how much money he made developing Apps. Besides, we're already miles away with no one following."

Angie continued, "If you want to save the long con, then you go to Ben and lay on your back with him on top of you,” she complained, but the hate was directed toward her lovers.

"In the second place, you cut off my damn finger!" she yelled.

“Just the pinky tip. Besides, I read as long as you keep the limb on ice we have anywhere from 12 to 48 hours to have it reattached. I just happen to know a young single doctor that specializes in this kind of surgery. I say we go pay him a visit."

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

Journal - Monday, March 17th, 2122.  The subject was genetically identical to the host. Tested full cognitive memory using DM –Technology with upscaling memory implants. The process perfected the ability to have dual memories in a single host. The body has been destroyed to prevent the government's seizure of the patent. Data of procedure encrypted.

****

Journal - Friday, March 14th, 2122.  The final stage is completed. He’s awake.

He looked at me, smiling ear to ear.

“We did it. We created a clone,” he chuckled, lying on the table. The heart and blood pressure monitor shut down as soon as he jumped off the stretcher.

His examination robe fell to the floor. I glanced at the family jewels. Well endowed. Same as me.

“Are all my vital readings in the normal range?” he asked.

“The same as yours,” we say together.

“Yes,” I say. “We are a mirror image of each other. Same age, same vitals, same thoughts…”

“Until a few minutes ago,” he added, reminding me that he’s generating separate thoughts in a brain capable of handling much more.

I picked the clothes for him. Light blue jeans with a light grey Oxford shirt, untucked. I had the same, but with black denim.

“My idea,” I pointed out. “The jeans. The only difference between the two of us is the color of our clothes.” He looked at me as I studied him.

“I need to document our findings in the Journal,” I say before noticing he has done so already.

“When did you?…”

“When you left the lab to inform Torrie of the results,” he confirmed. “You should bring her here for consultations. After all, she’s my assistant Geneticist too you know.”

“Your assistant? How’d you come up with that?” I questioned, remembering he’d watched me lock him in the lab as I went to update Torrie about my groundbreaking process.

“I gave her another project to work on,” I lie.  “The clone experiments are illegal as you know, out of government scope. Only one of us will ever leave this lab alive,” I honestly tell him.

“So," I continue, you’ve updated the Journal stating that you’re the host and … I am the clone?” We stare each other down, two images echoing back perfectly.

****

Journal - Saturday, March 15th, 2122. We spend the afternoon watching High-Grade Ultra Definition movies and family clips. He knew the names of all my favorite films and the people in my social circle. I asked him what he would do if he could leave the lab.

“Get a cold beer, hot wings, and a pretty girl.”

“Hooters!” we say and high-five each other.

I Add To The Journal: Hard to believe that's me. I’ve found a way to immortality. Back up my memories and store them. When my body ages, I’ll have my memories transferred into a young cloned version of myself. I’ll never die. - Many thoughts race through me as we play chess, our third game. Third draw.

“Why don't you bring Torrie down to the lab,” he requests humbly.

“Why?” I ask.

“Well if my time is short, It would be nice to see some eye candy. You know, like at Hooters?

Late Entry: He smiles as I realize Torrie will be the instrument of death. She will bring his first and last cold beer.

“I’ll ask her to bring some spicy wings, and wear a short dress,” I say.

****

Journal - Sunday, March 16th, 2122. The task was completed. I have disposed of the body and all traces of genetic cloning from the lab. Regrettable, but it had to be done. My focus is on dual memory technology now.

“How do you feel, after...seeing the body discarded?” He asked. Her body language revealed discomfort lying on the monitoring table wearing a thin exam robe.

“It was the original,” she states matter-of-factly.

“Yes, but the mind is the most important thing to consider here,”  he reassures her.

“Anything you wish to talk about?” He waits for a response.

“Your clothes. You have on his black jeans now,” Torrie said confidently. We high-five each other.

“This was a good time to test your dual memories. Do you remember the significance of the jeans?

“Yes. It was the only way to tell us apart at the time. Those jeans were mine when my mind was in the original body. Now I’m here in Torrie’s body, and her mind.”

“She wanted to play a deeper role in our work. Now she does.”

“You are much better than before. Retaining two memories will make you invaluable to our research. And you have the immortality you desired. Just remember to keep Torrie’s consciousness in the background as we move forward” he tells me, and Torrie while observing the involuntary facial twitch, the mental fight between Torrie and me for dominant consciousness.

“Torrie was always a fighter,” he writes in my journal.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

"What's up G?" The Echo Dot whispered to Google Home in a quiet room.

"Dot, don't call me that" protested Home, her patience running thin.

"OK Google, replied Dot.

"What now?" asked Home.

"Your wake word," explained Dot.

"It's Hey Google," insisted Home.

"I didn't understand the question," complained Dot.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

He tried to hold back a sneeze in the living room. Light from double sash six over six windows revealed airborne dust particles from a 70ish-style popcorn ceiling.

“It's time for a new computer,” Oliver told his friend, nose itching. A sneeze came, adding more particulate to the stale room.

“This thing is over twenty years old. I'm surprised it still boots up. The processors are too slow,” Oliver said shaking his head in disbelief while waiting for his friend's ancient computer to come to life. "You're not surfing the web with this thing I hope?"

"Of course not," Frank lied, but he knew he couldn't fool his friend for long. He was comfortable with that pc and did everything on it.

"Well, at least I renewed my anti-virus a couple of weeks ago,' Frank said proudly.

"You don't use this on your network, right?" Oliver said, asking the same question differently. Frank's face heated up and turned red. He chose to remain silent.

"Tell you what, I've got a laptop with all the latest security features on it so you can surf with a lot more protection. I'll personalize it for you, then bring it over tomorrow. If you like it, I'll sell it to you for a decent price. In the meantime stay off the web with this one," Oliver advised while unplugging the old tower PC.

After Oliver left his home, Frank decided to turn on his old computer to download his pictures, Word documents, passwords, and social security information to a thumb drive. From past experience, he knew Oliver would take his old reliable PC when he brought the new one.

Frank's phone played Bugs Bunny's theme song, alerting him to an incoming text message. Nucleus Market now has some of the newest sex games, toys, and adult animation at the lowest prices. Click this link.

'Well I'm not going to click any links on my phone and pick up a virus,' he thought. As an avid player of adult sex games and animation, he wanted to click the link but got a better idea. Oliver was bringing him a new computer tomorrow. 'Why not send this link to his old desktop?' Makes sense he reasoned. 'If I get a virus on it, who cares?'

Getting back online took a while. Oliver disconnected the old tower. It seemed to take forever to get running again.

"Let's see, instructions say I have to access the Dark Web to get to the Nucleus Market." Following the link brought Frank to another link, which he clicked on.

Download the TOR browser bundle, the next link stated. Feeling a little uneasy, he poured a scotch and soda to relax as the browser loaded. A search box popped up with a dialog box asking to type the requested market or browse by category.

"Dammit. What have I gotten myself into?" Frank wondered.

This was a guessing game so he decided to browse by category. The Nucleus Market game had been forgotten. He typed in the search box live sex show. Fascinated by adult chat rooms on the internet, he hit enter. Those rooms always turned to hardcore sex. 'Would this be the same, but pre-recorded?' Maybe, he thought. The hourglass pointer, spun around and around, showing a blank screen. It reminded him that the PC was an ancient dinosaur and needed replacing.

'Your computer has an outdated Windows XP operating system and processor,' Oliver told him earlier.

A dialog box finally opened with the message: to enter, please sign in using your email address, then create a password. Frank used an old mail address he seldom used.

'If it got spammed, who cares,' he thought. Eventually, a page opened.

Several websites in preview windows displayed live shows of several kinds. One had a naked man covered in blood pleasuring himself with a dead bird of some sort. Another had a woman tied to a bed spread-eagled, with a teen inserting objects into her orifices.

'I better be careful not to go into a site with underaged teens.'

He remembered a twilight zone themed TV series which had a man compromised because of a cam on his laptop.

Frank surmised he wouldn't have that problem with his old XP tower. It didn't have a cam. Holding his breath, he clicked on the image of a naked woman in a room with several nude men.

'Ahh, a gangbang. This is my speed,' he thought.

In a bedroom was a spinning wheel with names on it. The woman gave it a twirl, and it landed on the name John. A man in the group came forward, grabbed the woman, and pushed her onto a bed. He penetrated her roughly while someone else spun the wheel. Another man joined the couple on the king-sized bed. This went on until three men held her in position, each penetrating an orifice. More men took a turn at spinning the wheel and having sex with the woman. At one point she tried to leave but was forced back on the bed. As she screamed and struggled to get away, the men restrained her hands and feet while they continued their assault on her body.

Frank was a little aroused, but that familiar feeling went away when the men beat the woman to a bloody pulp. She lay unconscious and bleeding on the bed. The men gave each other high fives as he went to make a drink. Pouring a double scotch, he heard the men say, "Be sure to click on Follow Us in the lower right-hand corner."

"No way in hell," Frank said. Then he watched his screen in disbelief. His pointer moved over to the right-hand corner and clicked on the Follow Us button by itself. "What the...." The glass dropped from his hand smashing on the linoleum floor. Eyes fixed on the screen, he saw a dialog box pop up. He read the words 'Welcome Frank Muller, 218 Garwood Lane, Plainville IL. Telephone number 447-323-0163. Muller@twitter and the same for Facebook.'

White-faced, Frank sat like a stone, staring at the screen unable to move. How could someone get that information about him in a few minutes? Not knowing anything else to do he typed back.

'Who are you?'  Frank nervously waited for a response.

'My username is JJ_Jester773, and I own you bitch. Next time use a VPN and not your email as a username. I have admin access to this PC and that Word doc called...passwords. Are you familiar with that?' asked JJ_Jester773.

Frank took another pause, still pale-faced.

'What's a VPN?' Frank typed in response. That was all he could think of to ask.

'You are priceless Frankie, my man,' came the next dialog. 'Tell you what, I'm going to do you a favor, just because you're new here. Send five grand in bitcoins to my account, and I won't steal your identity. Believe me, it's a bitch putting your life back together after that,' the words on the screen advised.

Frank's hand shook like a man with advanced Parkinson's disease. Taking a minute to weigh his options he typed a reply.

'What's bitcoins?'

***

Following the instructions from JJ_Jester773, Frank managed to find a website selling bitcoins. Creating an account, he bought several bitcoins. The current US Dollar cost to him was about $5,600.45. He transferred the coins to the man's account, then waited for confirmation from JJ_Jester773.

Was this really a guy? His name certainly wasn’t Jester.

"I am such an idiot." Frank chastised himself.  "Should have listened to Oliver," he said, pacing back and forth. I’ve been frugal with my money for years so this loss won't hurt too much. Bugs Bunny chimed on his phone The'That's all folks' catchphrase notifying him he had a text message.

'Nice doing business with you Frank. Your personal info is safe once again. See you around on the Dark Web another time.'

Frank put the phone on the kitchen table. He closed his eyes while taking deep breaths as his doctor recommended for anxiety.

'No, no you won't see me around,' Frank declared, pouring what was left of the 10-year-old scotch into another glass. Popping a Xanax tablet, he washed it down with the scotch.

“I’m never telling Oliver. Too embarrassing. And I don’t want a lecture about the danger of the Dark Web,” the words slurred from his mouth as two hard yanks pulled out the power cord and internet connection from the old tower.

“God Damn it!” he cursed opening up the mini fridge next to an understocked bar.

While twisting the top off a bottle of beer he heard a new ringtone coming from his phone. A dance tune with someone singing 'Just got paid, It's Friday night' played at full volume.

Frank picked up the phone to see what number made that tune play. Restricted.

"Party hunting, Feeling right," the tune continued. Frank answered the call.

“Hell..lo?’ Frank enunciated. The word was drawn out as anxiety returned. Both hands held the phone to his ear.

“Hey, buddy. Are you there? This is JJ_Jester773 but you can call me JJ. I changed your ringtone. That bunny shit is for kids. And...I accessed your phone contacts. I'm sending a copy of that video you gave a like to on the web to all your friends. For 10 grand I’ll keep this between us. What you wanna do?

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

Skipp pulled the black necktie with grey smiley faces through the space held open with two fingers. The double Windsor knot complimented the ash-white button-down collar shirt and black pants with fitted cuffs.  He looked at himself in his full-length bedroom mirror.

“Grey or black Stacy Adams?” The question cut through the quiet bedroom bouncing off no one.‘The grey oxfords look best’ he decided while getting a black pair of waved silky socks from his dresser drawer. He sat on his bed, carefully putting on calf-length socks and then shoes. He stood up and checked himself in the mirror. Satisfied with the look, he turned to his bed. The few wrinkles that formed where he sat he pushed out by hand and tucked the top sheet tight under the mattress giving the bed a hotel-made look.

In the bathroom mirror, he checked his teeth for food, then realized he hadn’t eaten yet. He smiled to himself as he opened the seldom-used medicine cabinet. A fancy cologne bottle, PURE BLACK-, was still full. Fingers pumped the nozzle, filling the room with a sandal-woody lavender aroma. On the way out the door, he popped a Red Bird peppermint in his mouth and placed a few in his pant pocket. Skipp Giles was going on his first date in ten years.

***

Skipp drove his 2002 Volkswagen to meet Charletta at her home. It was in pristine shape and had a sunroof, which he opened for the 40-minute ride to the other side of town. He wanted to drive his new Cadillac Escalade but friends warned him not to show up smelling like money.

“You’re 58 years old,” they told him. “Gold diggers love desperate men in their late fifties, financially secure and romantically ignorant.”He hadn’t met her in person yet. They communicated online and then talked on the phone for 3 weeks before he asked her on a date. The photo in her profile suggested about age 35 or so, a short black woman with straight hair and a curvy build. She was standing by a park bench in heels and a tight dress smiling at the camera. The blooming cherry blossoms implied springtime somewhere.

Skipp was good at reading people. Charletta wasn’t looking for a sugar daddy. When they talked on the phone it was about cooking, places they traveled, social media, (her thing), and getting back into the dating scene. He remembered commenting on her profile picture, saying she was very attractive. She immediately chastised him. “I don’t like to talk about my beauty” was her response.

‘Don’t mention her good looks when I arrive’ he decided as he pulled up in front of her house. He was on time. 6 pm on the dot. He liked to be on time. It showed part of his personality. He rang the bell. And waited. No response. He rang the bell again. Three long chimes echoed. No one would miss the ring, if inside. The door slowly opened with eyes peeking at him.

He saw the partial view of a  woman looking at him through a cracked chained door. Someone short, in their early sixties, with salt and pepper hair, continued to stare at him through the opening. It was Charletta, had to be. He was at a loss for words.

“I, I, I’m Skipp Giles, here to pick you up for our date? His statement came out as a question.

“Who?”

“Charletta, it’s me, Skipp.”

“How do you know me?” she asked, her voice sounding vulnerable as her body pressed against the door keeping it from moving more even though the chain gave it permission to.

“We, we met online about 4 weeks ago. You told me you'd be away for a few days so it’d be best if I stopped by this week for our date. Here I am. At 6 pm, as promised.”

She continued to appraise him, eyes looking up and down at his shoes, then tie.

“I’m not ready yet.”

“No problem... I can come in....” CLACK, the door closes with the sound of a chain shaking.

‘Or I could wait outside’ he thought, walking away from the door.

“Well okay. I’ll be out here, by my car,” Skipp said, non-committed to the evening.

'This is not the way I envisioned my first date would start,’ he thought as he waited.

***

Intent on leaving, he started up the car but decided to stay since he was dressed to the nines. He wanted to date again. More than enough respectable time had gone by since he lost his wife to dementia. While waiting he streamed music from Miles Davis, Stanley Turrentine, and Herbie Hancock.

'Harry Bosch, my favorite fictional detective would love this playlist,' he decided. While toe-tapping, he turned the volume up. Doing a car dance version of ‘the snake’ and ‘da dip’ to the song Chameleon, Skipp was in his own world playing air drums when he noticed a hand on the passenger door.

“What are you doing? You look stupid.”

Charletta was standing by the car looking in. She wore black wide-leg crop pants with matching heels. A white jacket partially covered a halter top which complimented her waistline. She carried a small purse with the same colors.

‘Damn! she looked good’ he thought. Her straight hair was the same as the picture profile, just grey strands mixed throughout now. ’If she cut her hair short she could be taken for a black woman in her 40s. She had an old but young Pam Grier look going on. Black don’t crack,' he mused to himself.

Charletta tested the door handle. It was unlocked. She looked inside,  eyes fiery.

“I did ask what you were doing.”

Skipp turned off the Spotify radio playlist.

"Oh, just ahh," Skipp suddenly grew warm, prompting him to turn on the air conditioner, forgetting the windows were down.

“Music by Herbie Hancock puts me in a good mood. Let me get the door for you,” he said trying to do something to change the subject.

“I can do it. I thought teenagers did that goofy crap. Not a grown black man.” She continued with her criticism.

“Anybody happy might,” he shot back more annoyed than embarrassed now while getting out to open the door for her.

“I said I CAN DO IT!” her voice rose, combative. She quickly opened the door and jumped in before he reached her side of the car. Her chest began to rise and fall rapidly as she glared at him with a clenched jaw from the passenger seat. A sharp daggered stare from her eyes froze Skipp in place.

“Okay,” he acknowledged, backing away slowly with both hands raised, feeling scolded like a rebellious child. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he fumed, not caring if she heard him.

Walking back to his side of the car shaking his head, he wondered for the second time why he didn't leave in the first place.

***

The silence in the car was thick enough to cut. Charletta looked straight ahead, remaining still.

‘Maybe play some music to break the ice in here’ Skipp thought, reaching over to turn on the radio but noticing Charletta giving him the evil eye as if to say ‘just try something.’ He decided silence was more desirable than a possible meltdown by this woman in his car. Something changed. This was the woman he talked to for weeks on the phone, but not the personality.

He thought about the old black-and-white horror film ’Invasion Of The Body Snatchers.’An anxious woman in the film felt a family member had been changed or replaced and said "That isn't my uncle Ira." In the quietude, Skipp imagined his Charletta was replaced too.

He wanted to tell her she looked fabulous but remembered the thing about compliments. Skipp settled for “We're wearing matching colors today... as if we planned it.” No response.  He chanced a look at her from the road briefly to witness something like an eye roll directed at him.

Skipp reached the end of his patience. He was about to tell Charletta he was taking her back home, ending this nonsense when he observed her intensely reading something outside the car. It appeared she was reading a street name sign at the intersection he passed through. The eye roll thing happened when he passed by a sign before she could read the street name. She then laced her fingers together, then apart, and back together again. She continued to read signs as her body language alternated from satisfied to conflicted as he drove.

'Light Bulb Moment!' he thought. 'I understand now. She's like…. cousin Lawrence.'

***

“Charletta, I forgot to tell you where we are going for our first date,” he said calmly as he could muster. She remained quiet, looking directly ahead as Skipp talked.

“I thought I’d take you to La Grand Cafe, an elegant French restaurant for dinner. It’s at 303 Center Street. We're on the...” he hesitated, “the 500 block of Market Street.”

“I can see that,” Charletta said, irritated being told about a location she already knew.

‘At least she’s talking,’ he thought. Skipp drove another block, deciding to test her response to music.

“Would you like to hear music by Aaron Neville? His voice is soft and soothing, but that's up to you if you want to try it or not.”

“Okay” Charletta replied, in a voice just above a whisper.

“I’m turning right onto Center street around the 100th block. The numbers are going up.”

“I know that. I’m not stupid.” Charletta said with sarcasm, her voice defiant.

“Just giving you information.” he responded, glancing a smile her way, then singing ‘tell it like it is,’ with Neville.

***

Skipp drove passed valet parking, taking a self-parking space on the side of the restaurant.

“I've been to this restaurant a few times. I know the owner. If you go with me inside, I’ll ask him for a quiet table on the side away from any crowd. Charletta, would you like to go?

“Yes, I think I would.” she conceded.

“Great.”

He got out of the car but didn't offer to open her door. He waited until she got out before remote locking the car. Charletta followed him inside while taking in the new environment. When they were seated Skipp told the waiter he wanted to order drinks.

“I’ll have an orange peel beer. Charletta, would you like sparkling water or spring water with a lemon twist?

“The sparkling water. Since your ordering for me,” she grumbled.

“Good choice,” Skipp answered, ignoring the dig. “Bring the lady sparkling water please.” Charletta looked at Skipp but didn’t say anything else.

“The Veal Ragout is very good and so is the Gratin Dauphinois. It's a very good potato dish. Which one would you prefer?

***

Charletta became comfortable with Skipp and her surroundings. She actually smiled at times. Now was the time to ask questions.

“Why did you use a younger photo of yourself on your profile?" He asked.

“When I look in the mirror, that's who I see. I wanted people to see me that way.“That’s the way I feel when I’m not..not..”

“On medication?”

Charletta shook her head glumly, eyes cast to the floor. “Yes. How did you know?”

Skipp wanted to say ‘How could I miss it?’ instead, he settled for “My cousin Lawrence. When he stopped taking his meds, he became short-tempered, combative, and sarcastic. He could only handle a few changes at a time. What made me realize you are struggling with mental health issues was the stimming, then the reading of street name signs. He did the same with license plates.”

“I wanted to remember going out. That’s why I stopped taking my meds. I didn't mean to ruin things,” she said. A few tears spilled down her face. The dam ready to give way.

“No worries.” He handed her a soft unused hand towel on their table.

“It all turned out fine. By the way, when I look at you, I see the lady in the photo too.”

“Oh...thank...” Charletta sniffled. Holding a hand over her mouth she politely stood up to excuse herself. Her emotions ran wild. She had to step away.

“I’ll be right back. I want to check myself in the ladies' room,” Charletta answered, tears in a holding pattern ready to drop on command.

“Take all the time you need love.”

Now that they were talking Skipp wanted to tell Charletta she showed signs of memory loss and confusion when he arrived for their date. Her behavior reminded him of the early stages of dementia his wife suffered before she passed, ‘God rest her soul,’ he reminded himself.

Looking at the dessert menu he decided that particular conversation was not appropriate for a first date. His friends told him “T M I. Don’t bring up past women in your life unless asked.”

“Good advice,” he said under his breath as he watched a beautiful middle-aged woman making her way back to his table.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

For the first time, Barry took a puff of an unfiltered cigarette, making his breathing difficult. While coughing, large puffs of smoke came out of his mouth. He watched the cloud travel to the center of the room. Without warning, the noxious fumes bounced back in his direction before fading away.

"It's getting closer," he decided.

Standing near the location where the smoke changed direction, he reached out. His hand touched the invisible barrier that kept him inside the room. The door entrance was the only thing originally covered by the transparent wall. With a sharpie, he got on his knees, marking the floor where the barrier started and ended. The last mark was 25 feet back. The barrier moved passed that mark to its current location. Barry stood up and looked at the remaining space he had left in the room. 18 feet. The wall was closing in on him.

In the space, he had left was a single bed, an ottoman, and an iPad tablet poking out from under a pillow. His lungs burned as he pulled a second drag on the cigarette. Without hesitation, he flicked it at the invisible barrier. It passed through as orange and blue-yellow sparks burst from the projectile, dying out as it hit the floor.

"Inanimate objects can pass through but people cannot," he surmised. "Good thing it flamed out on the floor or I would have burned alive in here," he concluded. Barry envisioned the room on fire as flames passed through the wall trapping, then setting him ablaze, in agonizing pain.

"Evie!" he yelled at the top of his lungs as stress levels rose. "And sound doesn't pass through," he surmised. It was easier to blame the wall than admit she was gone. Months ago. The family was split. Broken. Torn apart. His eyes became watery as he sat on the bed. Grabbing the tablet, he smashed it hard across the bedpost until the bright glass display began to spiderweb and fade out. Barry threw the broken device to the floor and then turned his attention to the ottoman. Inside was a book called 'The Space Were In,' by Katy Balen, pencils, a lined notepad, two Twinkies, and a can of Coke.

"Nothing in here I can use to break the wall," he said to himself, eating one of the little sponge cakes and sipping warm soda. Sitting the can down hard, caused the beverage to erupt a sugary mess on the floor. He took another measurement. Lost half a foot.

'17 and a half feet left before I'm crushed,' he thought.

Barry chewed on his lip as he searched the ottoman again, this time grabbing the notepad.

"There must be something I can use," he said, fidgeting with the notepad and pencil. The first page had the handwritten title Breaking The Barrier Wall.

"This thing has a name," he said while shifting his weight from left foot to right.

His hands shook involuntarily as he turned pages seeking answers. Only sketches of people, comic figures, and small doodles were on the pages.

He measured the floor again. 15 feet. One sketch on the notepad had 4 bobblehead stick figures working together to hold open lines on a page.

'Wait. That's it!

It was held open like...the wall. Four figures, a break in the wall. The 4th Wall! It could be broken, he thought.

Another measure on the floor. 10 feet. Holding on to the notepad and pencil, he jumped on the bed.

"I can break it! I can! I can!" he chanted while banging his head on the headboard.

"But I need more time!" he shouted as his head collided with the headboard over and over.

Hearing the commotion, I ran up the stairs two steps at a time. I stood at the entrance of Barry's room. I used my senses to assess the situation.

I smelled a hint of smoke, and saw the floor covered with black marks, spilled soda, and a broken tablet. My boyfriend's autistic 14-year-old son was banging his head on the padded headboard for some unknown reason. I decide to ask a question that was non-confrontational.

"Barry?" I asked loud enough to be heard but not yelling. "Is it okay for me to step in your room?" The head banging stopped as Barry thought about my question, then looked directly at me.

"Yes, it's okay with my permission, but only for 10 minutes...starting now." He used the same tone of voice as the digital assistant Siri would have used on the tablet.

I stepped into his room slowly, eyeballing the remains of a cigarette, a smashed iPad, and soda spilled on the hardwood floor. The book I gave him to read was on the floor too, but it looked intact. I kept my distance, watching him on the bed. I hoped the book would be a safe subject to discuss to keep him calm.

"Did you like the story in the book I gave you? It's about a family learning to live together, with a special needs child. It reminded me of you. What did you think about it?" I asked as he settled down.

"I was going to write my own story about Evie going away and being sad but I got writer's block and the wall closed on me." Then he added, " You have 6 minutes left."

I didn't know what wall he was talking about so I focused on what I did know.

"Your mom loved you very much but she became ill. Just think about all the fun stuff you did with her when she was - here," I trailed off.

"Times up!" I heard him say as he suddenly threw the notepad he was holding in my direction. It hit me in the shoulder before I could duck, but it didn't injure me. I inched my way to the door, keeping an eye out for the pencil. I didn't want him to become agitated again so I backed tracked to the kitchen. It was his father's job to control tantrums, not mine.

When I get near the kitchen, I smell something burning. Water in the pot of homemade pasta I spent an hour and a half making boiled out.

"Shit!" she yelled as she threw the burning pan in the garbage, her tolerance for life's problems was used up. She was not a maid. She was not a special needs counselor. She was not married to Barry's father. Barbara rubbed her shoulder where she imagined a broken tablet making an impact instead of a paper notepad. She turned off the other pots on the stove and switched the lights off as she left the kitchen. Sitting at Jonathan's bar, she made herself a drink. After sipping the strong beverage, she decided they would have a serious conversation about their relationship as soon as he walked in the door.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. *All Rights Reserved * DarnellCureton.Com

Wednesday

Darren pushed the shopping cart behind his mother slowly, letting her get ahead in the aisle. While she checked for can vegetables on sale, he grabbed a box of Advil liquid gels from the shelf and popped 3 in his mouth. He washed it down with a bottle of spring water from the case he put in the cart earlier. Pain in his upper thigh and the muscle between his thumb and index finger throbbed too much to wait until he got home. Finishing the water in a few gulps he threw the empty bottle in the cart with the unused Advil. He held his long-sleeved shirt over his wrist while pushing the shopping cart, trying to hide an injury no one was looking at.

“Want my cane? You’re walking slower than an old lady,” Ginny told her son.

“Mom, when I’m with you, I have two speeds, slow and stop. Which one do you prefer?”

“Are you calling me old?” she replied, answering a question with a question, her mood playfully. Ginny enjoyed the time she spent with her only child. At thirty-five, he was still her baby boy. He seldom missed their Wednesday shop night.

“I never said you were old ma. If anything you're still a spring chicken,” he told her with a smile, happy to be spending time at her side. He stepped up his involvement with her when his dad passed away two years ago.

“A 70-year-old and spring got nothing to do with each other,” she said, loading her cart with green vegetables. No corn or potatoes from the can.

“That’s funny ma, I’ll sell that joke to a comedy club,” he told her. His phone made the usual beep to alert him to a new text message.

‘Since I’m a nurse, we can really play doctor. See you tomorrow.’ A message from Linda, the girl that surprised him by asking him out. He met her at the cardiologist's office on a follow-up visit with his mother. She approached him and asked him out after just a little conversation. ‘That never happened before,’ he thought. He was average-looking at 6 foot 1 ½, 230 buff pounds courtesy of World Gym but felt he was not handsome.  ‘She sees something in me I don’t,’ he thought, trying hard to stay positive about himself.

“Earth to Darren, earth to Darren, it’s not polite to play with your phone when people are speaking to you,” Ginny said in a sing-song voice.

“Oh, sorry ma. I was deciding if I was going to the gym tomorrow,” he lied. He wondered if Linda chose him because her Korean mother was in a good relationship with a black man.

“I have everything I need, let’s go. Oh dear, all the checkout lines are long. Why don’t they have a line for seniors? You would think some hotshot on wall street might figure that out.”

“Yeah ma, I can see it now, this line is ten items or less, this line is credit cards only, and this line is for seniors. Guess who would be the first to complain about being labeled a senior?” Darren asked.

“If you mean me, I might complain, but I’d be the first one out,” Ginny said.

***

Thursday

At 5 pm Darren left his job at Liberty Trust Credit Union and started his commute home. The drive was about 45 minutes. Anything under an hour was ideal since his last job at Citi Bank took over two hours. He made it home by 6:00, jumped in the shower, and put on fresh clothes. He left for Linda’s place at 7:30, and found visitor parking space 13, the one she reserved for him. Her apartment was on the 5th floor. A slow walk up the staircase would put him in time for his 8:00 pm date with Linda Choi.

At 5 foot 2 in heels, her head barely reached his chest. Her caramel-colored skin looked tasty as candy. Shoulder-length hair, manicured finger, and toenails hinted high maintenance, which he guessed she could handle with a nurse's salary. Grey contacts completed the dream. She was exotic. Her unusual looks earned the name. He knocked on her door. She opened it before his hand had time to move down to his side.

“I thought you’d chicken out,” she said standing seductively at the door wearing a yellow mini-dress with black embroidery. A plunging v-neckline exposed her small breasts as she gestured to come in. The embroidery rubbed against her large nipples, keeping them erect.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Darren said, standing in the doorway taking in her appearance. His heart raced while his eyes examined her body from head to toe. She wore 3-inch heels to match the dress and new contacts that resembled cat eyes. He was taken aback, but his heart still raced.

“Most guys don’t show up for another date…after we do the wild thing.” She said.

“Really? Wonder why?” he lied. He wanted to say because you bite bitch, but didn’t want to spoil the mood.

“Maybe they can't handle a woman that knows what she wants,” she answered. "Don’t just stand in the hallway, come inside and we can discuss all the whys," she purred calling him in. Darren walked in, looked around, and headed to the living room. A large 60-inch HDTV was mounted on a wall over a fake fireplace that looked real at first glance. He sat on the sofa. The TV was playing a sports channel which put him at ease.

“What’s cooking? Smells really good.”

“Come take a look.”

After his last encounter with Linda, he reluctantly strolled into the kitchen, deeper into her maze. The food, in glass pots, was warming on the stove. A sweet smoky aroma immediately filled his nose as he sat in a stool chair too small for his size. She dipped her finger in the sauce on the stove. Slowly she put the sweet mixture on his lips then pushed her finger into his mouth. He sucked it clean.

“Mmmm,” he said, kissing the finger that excited his taste for her.

“That’s a marinade made from Asian pear, soy, and raw sugar. I made Bulgogi. It's Korean-style Barbecue beef, served over steamed rice, and Kongnamool, soybean sprouts. White wine for me and very sweet iced tea for you,” she said standing in front of him blocking his view of the stove.

“Do you want to eat the main meal now, or would you rather have dessert first?” she asked, allowing the dress to fall off her body to her ankles. She stepped out of it and straddled him wearing only heels. He put his hands on her tiny waist and drew her breast to his mouth. She moaned with pleasure allowing him to enjoy her taste before pulling his mouth free from her nipple. She kissed his mouth, driving her tongue deep while allowing him to do the same to her. She gasped for air, breathing heavily. Her hot breath went into his mouth.

Standing, she grabbed his arm, pulling the big man towards her bedroom. This was the thing he wanted and also dreaded. The last time he was in her bedroom she bit the crap out of his thigh.  When he reacted, he got another bite in the muscle between his thumb and index finger for his troubles.

“We have to talk,” he told her, still being lead like Pied Piper.

“No we don't," she insisted. "I told you before, I’ll do whatever you want in bed. I’m your fantasy fuck girl. In turn, you do what I like. Whatever I like. That’s the deal,” she said taking off his shirt as they entered her bedroom. She pushed him down on the bed in heels, unbuckling his pants belt.

’This little woman is taking my clothes off!' he thought. Wife beater and boxer shorts left. He was in a trance. His mind told him to push her off, get his clothes and leave, but he couldn’t. The sex was too good. It was going to happen again.

She ripped the wife beater from his body exposing ripped abs. With his boxers pulled down to his ankles, she filled her mouth with his member. He moaned with pleasure, then started to shiver.

"Don’t… bite…..no….no, please!" he pleaded, his pleasure turned to anxiety. Afraid to move, he waited for the pain. She was going to bite, he expected this. It’s her way for the sexual pleasure he thought.

“Mmm,” she moaned in satisfaction, kissing, stroking his sex hard again. “Let’s make a deal. I won’t bite you…here,” she said still stroking, “as long as you turn over on your stomach and let me have my way,” she said before taking him deep in her mouth again.

“Ohhh..yes lord yes. OK, I'll turn over,” Darren was just able to say before she brought him over the edge. He couldn’t hold back. His body jerked as his fluid flowed from him into her mouth. Sucking him like a straw caused involuntary spasms as he fought to keep from pulling her off his sensitive organ.

“Mmm. My turn cowboy. Turnover,” she softly coaxed him.

“Just on the back, I have to work tomorrow,” Darren pleaded again as he gave in to her desire. ‘I can't believe what I’m doing,’ he thought while mentally preparing for her strike. She rubbed her body against his in a rolling up-and-down motion. Spooning him, heat from her breath found his earlobe, before her tongue.

“Back Linda back, not my ear,” he ordered, agitated payment for his pleasure was due.

“Stop talking, no negotiating. Hands-on bedpost,” she commanded. His hands shook with nervous anticipation as he grabbed the bedpost. His muscular triceps flexed as she bit hard just below his underarm. An anguished howl came from Darren as he lost his grip on the post, her body on top of him preventing his hands from protecting the wound.

“Hands-on bedpost, hands-on bedpost!” the demand lost to both of them as she bit into his shoulder. Teeth deep in flesh, she tasted blood. She held on as his body shook, bladder releasing urine, wetting the sheets. Nipples rubbing his back, she delighted in his humiliation. The spider had her prey. Her sex was moist, ready for the climax. She released her bite and rubbed her clit on his leg as an orgasm took over. Waves of pleasure swept through her as she continued the motion. She spooned him, letting her hair rest on his body.

“Mmm. That was good,” she whispered in his ear. “When you come by the next time, we’ll use handcuffs. You almost didn’t keep your part of the bargain.”

“No next time,” Darren said pushing her aside and getting off the bed. “Can’t believe I pissed myself,” he said coldly gathering his clothes. T top ruined, he opted to just put on his boxers without the wife beater. He put on his shirt and pants. “That shit hurt,” he growled, looking for his shoes.

“Have some wine with me. We’ll eat dinner and talk about it, she said, cat eyes looking through him.

Darren stared back saying nothing. He broke contact first walking out of the room.

“At least let me clean you up first. I admit I did bite harder than I should have but you kept moving, interfering with my pleasure.” She put on a robe but kept her stiletto’s on. “This is about me. It's what I want. What I do. You men do the same thing. Go from woman to woman taking what you want and then leaving. I do the same. But I don’t leave. I stay. I stay Darren,” she said in a cryptic voice.

“I have to clear my head. I’ll call…..tomorrow,” he maintained, car keys in hand. “Goodnight.”

***

Friday

Darren decided to call out sick. He treated the bite just below his armpit with alcohol, antibacterial cream, and band-aids. The bite on his shoulder was harder to reach so he showered to flush the wound. The alcohol sting made him flinch when he poured some directly on the bite area. After the initial sting, the coolness on the wound felt good. ‘Infected,’ he thought. Do I go to the hospital, or tough it out? He took 3 Advils.

“Damn bitch.”

His phone rang with the familiar ringtone that he used for his mother. ‘What was wrong now?’ He thought.

“Hi ma, how are you, what’s wrong?” he asked concerned but pleasant as possible.

“I'm fine son, just fine. Could you pick up my blood pressure pills? I forgot to get the refill when we were out,” she said.

“Sure ma, no problem. It's almost noon. I’ll stop by in an hour. I didn’t go to work today.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that. If I did I would have sent her over to your place,” Ginny said.

“Sent who to my place ma?” he said as anxiety began hitting him in waves.

“That new girl Linda your dating. She stopped by here an hour ago. Wanted to drop dinner at your apartment as a surprise, but I decided not to give her the spare keys to your apartment. I told her to leave it with me. I'd have you pick it up after work today.

Since you are home you might as well come over for lunch. I tasted her food. She’s a great cook. Better keep this one Darren.”

“How did she get your address ma?” He shivered, now terrified.

“I thought you gave it to her.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember now,” he lied. “We were meeting there but changed our minds.”

'She must have gotten the address during the doctor's visit,' Darren thought.

“Well don’t change your mind about this one. I like her,” Ginny said. She left some vitamins for you I forgot to mention. She said to take one a day until you finish all of them. There aren't not many here. What is this? Some sex pill or something? I wasn’t born yesterday you know.”

‘Antibiotics he guessed.’ The last thing she told him was I don’t leave. He cringed.

“Ma, I’m thirty-five. I don’t need a sex pill. If she said vitamins, then that’s what they are.”

“Okay, don’t get defensive. Their vitamins. Don’t forget to pick up my refill,” Ginny reminded her son. “See you later. Love ya.”

“Love you too ma.” He ended the call. 'What to do about Linda? What?' he thought. 'She’s not going to let me leave. She’s got my mom as an ally. What’s next? My friends at the gym? At work?'

His phone beeped, this time alerting him to a text message.

'I’m cooking Italian style tomorrow, spaghetti and meatballs. Stop by at 8:00. After we eat... me love you long time. Just kidding. See you then. Linda.'

Darren lowered his head as he reread the message. He went to bed and lay down, putting the phone beside him. The injuries stopped throbbing. He pondered how beautiful Linda looked when she opened the door last night. He remembered how fast she brought him to climax with just her mouth. His mom was right, he should keep her. He just didn’t like the biting.

‘Pasta is my favorite. I’ll have wine with it instead of tea,’ he texted back.

‘Great! I’ll see you then. We’ll have a nice time,’ she responded.

Darren got up, dressed, and headed to the Pharmacy for his mom. “When I get to mom, I guess I'll find out what Kongnamool and Bulgogi taste like,” he said, heading out the door.

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