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By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

© 2001 by G.  Russell

Erotic FictionThe night's warm breeze blew through the open bedroom window and nearly destabilised his hard-won consciousness, his dwindling essence.  Already he was considerably less than a man.  Soon, he knew, he would cease to exist altogether.  The one comforting thought he clung to as he slowly diminished into nothingness, was that somehow, despite the fact he no longer enjoyed the benefits that corporeality confers on the living, he still...

 i can still see...i see...i see her...

Shining in, the street lantern chased the shadows back into corners, revealing something of the room.  A heavier shadow suggested wardrobes dominating one entire wall, and there-an indistinct outline of a dresser to the right of the bed.  And of course-the woman- the reason for his materialisation by her side, at this late hour.

Illuminated by the yellow sodium lighting, she lay sideways, facing away from the ghost.  The stifling city heat, fetid and encompassing, had caused her to kick the duvet to the floor.

Her forehead creased as clouds suddenly raced across the rolling landscapes of her dreams.  She whimpered and rolled onto her back.  Her knees lifted.  Her thighs drifted apart, opening reluctantly as the visiting nightmare took possession of her.

Exhilaration caused it to waver, to phase in and out of the precarious molecular ensemble that had taken countless hours to achieve.  Her breathing quickened.  The entity withdrew to the ceiling, curling around the rotary fan blades in a flurry of ectoplasm.

It expanded into a large bubble of green mucus, and then just as suddenly, deflated.  Quickly gathering itself again from its tied anchorage to the ceiling fan, the visitor extended a tendril toward the crescent of her sex.

if only i could reach out...wrap my arms around...around her...

Another patiently extended gossamer tentacle followed.  The ghost flexed...weakly.  It unravelled a third, then a fourth arm.  The filaments of thread drifted downward, reaching.

The unconscious woman's heat was drawn up through the entity's sparsely ganglionated chain of neurones and fed, in tiny pulses, directly into the thing's ravenous mind.  Whilst feeding, the ghost's guilt was accompanied by an uncomfortable envy for that which it no longer possessed; a heat of its own.

Engorged yet still hungry, the ghost longed for hands, flesh and blood hands, hands of sinew and bone to feel the softness of her covered cunt; to rub there-to press the blue silk panties into her moistening slit.  Another gust of warm air, and the beleaguered little ghost lost consciousness.  It fell in a curtain of dust.  The dust motes glittered in the lamplight as they fell.

Still asleep, still dreaming, Jane took hold of the waistband of her panties.  She pulled them slowly down, working them from under her behind.  A look of petulance flitted across her face as her foot removed the panties now hanging loosely around one ankle.

Jane's hands strayed downward.  Past the sensitive rim of her navel, and into the silky, black triangle of fur covering her mons.  She caressed herself for a moment and then pushed a finger into her fold.  It was warm and slick inside her furrow.  Carefully, the finger worked its way in deeper.

Awakening, she reached across to the man snoring softly on the other side of the bed. "Tom? You asleep?"

"Hmm? Yes I am."

"I was dreaming about him again." She wrapped her arms around his waist. "I dreamt about Francis."

"Francis is dead, babe." Said Tom. "Go back to sleep."

"What if the police discover we cut the brakes on his car?"

Jane kissed the stubble on his chin.  Unlike most other women she knew, she enjoyed that abrasive rub of a man's jaw against her sensitive skin.  That sandpapery feel.  Francis, ( the thought of Francis suddenly made her shiver, ) had always been clean shaven.

"They would have arrested us by now.  As far as they're concerned, it was an accident.  So relax babe, we got away with it."

Jane put her mouth close to his ear. "Tom?"

Her fingertips tiptoed through the mat of fur on his broad, hairy chest.  Those muscles! She pressed her fingers into pectorals as hard as slate.


"Thinking about all that life insurance money has made me horny again."

They kissed.  The kiss developed.  Her mouth opened to catch his tongue flickering over hers in an answering call.  Now fully awake, Tom continued; gently biting Jane's neck, shoulders, breasts, his mouth softening her while she coiled and straightened, sighing gently.  Their legs entwined.  Hastily, she reached across to switch on the bedside lamp to see more clearly, to see him.  The man who had enslaved her.  Then her fingers encircled his hardening cock.

Her hand looked so small as it worked up and down his huge erection.  His beautiful cock.  It looked too big to actually fit into her, it was twice the size of her late husband's.

Francis! The question resurfaced in her mind- what was it that had finally driven her to kill that colourless man? Oh he'd been a persistent bugger out of bed, supernaturally so when it had come to furthering his career at the insurance company.  But there had never been any frisson between them.  She would lay under him while he had his way and she'd pray: God let it be over quickly.

Francis.  That man.

It had given Jane a perverse thrill to greet him every night knowing that only hours before, she had been deep-throating her lover upstairs.  Sometimes, that "welcome home darling" kiss deliberately lingered on his lips.  She would kiss him with lips that had wiled away the afternoon nursing Tom's virile cock, wanting her cuckolded husband to smell and taste the sperm that Tom left behind on her breath.  But if Francis ever realised her lips were musky with the scent of another man's semen, he'd never voiced it.  This had made Jane despise him.

It surprised and saddened her that she felt no guilt for having re-routed Francis's destiny so that instead of cruising on auto comfortably in the slow lane, he had suddenly found himself crashing into the central barrier of life's highway.

Jane smiled and wetted her lips with her tongue.  Enough of Francis.  Francis was dead and he had been exorcised.  The rhythm of her hand; languid, knowing, teasing, returned her to the present.  Tom groaned.  The pre-cum under Jane's thumb as her palm slid over the uncovered corona, told he was close to boiling over.

"Get on top, baby," he told her in a voice breaking with lust. "My back's still on the mend."

Giggling softly, Jane squatted over the man who had been the pivotal force behind her liberation.  She spread the heavy lips of her sex, and gasped as his stiff cock pressed firmly forward.  And then entered her slippery vagina.

Beneath the bed, the dwindling consciousness that was once Francis Arthur Mulholland nearly dissipated altogether in anguished shock.  Twenty minutes passed before the misty puff of scattered particles could even begin to think coherently once more.

Nearing climax, Tom eased into a slower rhythm, deliberately catching her on the upward curve of her own imminent orgasm.  It was a new game of his devising.  Prolonging the game, the sweet torture, he withdrew until just the bulbous cockhead was inside, bathing in the restless heat of her body.

"Do that thing I like, you horny slut."

killed...they killed me...murderers fucking murderers...murdered in cold blood...

Catching the impatience in his voice, Jane licked her finger, fellating it lewdly.  Then, she reached behind and pressed the wetted finger into his waiting arse.

The truth was, Francis realised, he'd always known, hadn't he? Deep down he had always known about her affairs, her indiscretions.  A house spider, perfectly still in that way spiders have, suddenly darted along the skirting board, away from the tiny tornado.  You ignored her adulterous escapades, Francis said out loud.  Didn't you.

Didn't you?

fucking...fucking bitch....fucking conniving traitorous....

Jane screamed.  It felt so good that she almost passed out.  She clamped her inner muscles around Tom's spurting cock and drew his load into her as she gripped him tightly with her knees.  Beneath her, panting hard, Tom erupted -again and again in an intense, sustained orgasm.

"That was one hell of a fuck." She crumpled on top of him, breathing heavily.  God how her body ached.  Her breasts ached from where his mouth had pulled on them, the muscles in her thighs ached, her arse, which still bore indents left behind by his fingers, ached.  Everywhere ached.  It was invigorating.

"Any time, babe.  Always at your service." Tom grinned.  He sat up between her widely parted legs and looked down at her opened cunt.  A bellyful of sperm flowed out of her blushing hole like a curdled scud of soured milk.

Feeling deliciously insouciant, Jane tipped back her head and laughed.  Laughter fetched crows feet around her eyes, dimpled her cheeks and made the woman look older, younger, carefree and wanton.

She swung her legs over to the side of the bed. "Funny, I don't feel like a murderer.  It's as if we did him a favour.  He was always more dead than alive anyway."

Brushing her raven hair out of her eyes, Jane buried her face in his crotch.  Her mouth mothered the shrunken wet cock, with its eye peeking out from its wrinkled cowl.

"Hey.  I need to piss." Tom said gently but firmly.

"What's stopping you? You don't need to go anywhere to do that." Her brown eyes fixed on his as another wave of desire surged in her breast for this Godlike man.

"I'm taking this piss in the bathroom." Her God said.  He grinned and scratched at his hairy belly. "You've got a long day ahead of you tomorrow -what with the funeral.  Time to get some shut eye, Mrs Mulholland."

"Leave the door open so I can hear you pissing out of that beautiful cock."

With her attention lingering on Tom's tight, muscular arse, Jane failed to notice her panties appearing from beneath the bed.  They fluttered along the hallway, finding just enough air turbulence provided by the hated enemy's wake, to sustain a weak flight.

Blinking as his eyes accustomed to the bathroom's harsh lighting, Tom carefully locked the door and sat down on the toilet.  He clasped his hands together and lowered his head.  He had never met anybody like Jane Mulholland.

Her panties were lying on the pristine, white tiled floor.  The blue panties.  The ones that stretched tight across the twin moons of her glorious arse.  He leaned forward to retrieve them and held them up close.  He inhaled deeply.  The insatiable widow Mulholland.  So respectable, refined, yet so dirtily and wonderfully depraved.  And he felt a little afraid of the woman then-of the mind that had conceptualised her husband's murder.

All I have to do is keep it hunky dory, he told himself.  Keep on feeding her voracious hunger the old lovestick until my feet are firmly under the table and under her duvet.

Then he could start secretly siphoning off that insurance money into a private account he had already set up.

He looked up, startled.

Someone, some...thing, was watching him.

Get a grip, he said to himself.  But it had felt like he was being stared at: eyes fixed on his accompanied by a palpable wave of hatred.  The hairs prickled on the back of his neck.  He coaxed a few more drips out of his still sensitised prick and breathed out.

Slowly, his heart rate returned to normal.

Her blue panties.  He remembered the first time she'd worn them.  She had knelt across the bed, invited him to unpeel them from her crotch, and had looked back over her shoulder with that dark fire in her eyes that told him exactly where she wanted him to introduce his lubricated dick.  It had been a first for him too; giving it to a woman like that.

A bottle of shampoo standing on the bath's ledge began rocking backward and forward.  He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to stare.  The bottle rolled drunkenly on its base, spinning indolently.  Then it tottered and fell.

Tom stared in disbelief.  His heart rate soared again.  The nozzle on the green plastic cap had opened, and the bottle leaked a yellowed viscous pool of camomile and Aloe Vera, which drained slowly down the plug hole. miserable prick...miserable fucking prick...will hurt...hurt...

Tom swallowed.  It was just a bottle of fucking shampoo, he told himself.  That was all.  Jesus.

He brought the panties up to his nose again.  His erection started to rise as he thought about the widow's slutty arse. (But the bottle fell like something had made it fall- you saw it! It was fucking dropped into the bath!)

Despite the cold, Tom started to sweat.  The temperature-it felt like it had just dropped by ten degrees.  He shivered.  His breath misted as it escaped from between his chattering teeth.  For the first time since those childhood nightmares, Tom experienced fear.  Terror.  One thought rose above the increasing panicky clamour and dominated, reverberated; repeating itself, repeated itself ever more violently.  And he knew, knew with total conviction what was to happen next.  The dread and absolute certainty of it.  He was going to die. going to...hurt you...

The raw, glacial hatred reached into his chest and gave his heart a warning squeeze.  He tried to rise, his arms scrabbled up the wall.  I'm too young to go, were his last thoughts- I'm too fucking young to go...

And then fingernails, sharp as scalpel blades, wrenched his jaws wide apart.

...a lot more than it hurt me...

As soon Detective Sergeant Buckle heard the Guvnor approaching, he automatically straightened the knot in his tie.  The old boy was a stickler for such things.  And at three in the morning, having been turned out of bed, Detective Inspector Beech wouldn't need much of an excuse to vent his disdain at those who dared to dress sloppily whilst on duty.

"What's the story then, Sergeant?"

The scene of crime boys, with their tape measures and dusting powders, cleared to let the Inspector in to have a closer look at the body sitting on the toilet.

The younger man quickly recounted the sequence of events, starting with Jane Mulholland's logged call to the fire brigade at 1310 requesting urgent assistance for her friend locked and possibly injured in the bathroom. "The fire brigade arrived at 1340 and had to force entry.  They found him like this, sir."

The Sergeant shone a penlight into the corpse's wind-pipe. "As you can see, there's a pair of woman's underwear lodged in his throat.  But this is a weird one, sir.  The door was locked from the inside.  Same with the window.  Absolutely no way could anyone have entered this room unless they came up through the plug hole. "

The inspector raised an eyebrow. "Anybody else in the house apart from Mrs Mulholland?

"Only Mrs Mulholland, sir.  Nobody else."

"Just good friends, eh?" There was a note of disapproval in the DI's voice.

"There's more.  We couldn't get any sense from her at first.  Her doctor's still trying to sort her out.  She's heavily dosed but," Buckle straightened, and automatically checked the windsor knot in his tie. "she's saying she killed her husband, sir.  The A2 pile up? Her and this one tampered with the brake cables on her husband's car."

"Does she now?" Beech fished inside one of his trench coat pockets and produced a roll of mints.  He popped one into his mouth.

Soon after, the police cars left, taking with them the widow Mulholland.  And then a waiting ambulance drew away from the curb, taking Tom O Hanlan to the hospital mortuary.  The sky was beginning to lighten, to turn into another sultry, airless June morning.  The old detective sat alone on the edge of the bathtub.

Malice is a greater magnifying glass than happiness.  He had read that once.  He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.  It was just his imagination he knew, but there were traces of malice still in this house, lingering.

And an instinctive gut feeling told him that no matter how much digging was done into this nasty, sordid little case, they would never really get to the bottom of it.  The real nitty gritty.

"Suicide, indeed."

He made to unwrap another mint, and then stopped.  He heard something.  It sounded suspiciously like laughter.  What the bloody hell- not on his shift! Beech tiptoed along the landing and threw open the bedroom door, ready to reprimand the flatfoot who had no bloody business larking about in there.  The laughter stopped.  It ceased so abruptly that the detective knew at once he must have imagined it.  Nevertheless, he scanned the room thoroughly, and was satisfied that there was nothing amiss.

Nothing at all.

Beech softly closed the bedroom door behind him.  Best let sleeping dogs and all that, he said to himself.  It was going to be a bloody hot day and no mistake.  Might even reach as high as forty, he thought, looking up at the morning sky.  He suggested curtly to the constable standing sentry outside, that the man's appearance would be greatly improved by a decent bloody haircut, and then got into his car and started her up.

Upstairs, Francis Mulholland lay on the bed.  He felt strangely hollow now; thinned out to an impervious nothingness.

Filtered through a polluted haze, the first rays of the summer sun began to lighten the room. And the obscure scrap of matter that once was a man, an adequate man, was cancelled out; claimed back, and then returned to death's infinite, silent, untroubled realm.

© 2001 Gary Russell. All rights reserved.

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