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The Thing Under The Bed

by Rose B. Thorny © 2008


Erotic FictionIt lives under the bed.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling especially optimistic, almost carefree, I start to believe it isn't there anymore, but who is ever positive all the time?  Not I, certainly, and that's when I discover that the thing under the bed doesn't ever leave; it just goes still and quiet—possibly sleeping, just as any ordinary creature might—and waits.

It waits until I start to believe it's gone altogether, or even that it never existed in the first place; that it was all a figment of my vivid and childish imagination.

It's very good at waiting.

It rouses itself, or perhaps I awaken it, by making too much noise—laughing, or even weeping, with joy, or bellowing and groaning too vigorously in the throes of ecstasy. Sometimes, I wonder if even a soft moan stirs it.  In any case, sometimes—and I say 'sometimes,' because it isn't consistent at all—it creeps out at the most inopportune times and I want to scream at it to just leave, just get the fuck out of my life, but it simply gazes at me with that smug look, the one that speaks volumes with the lips barely moving, except for that slight upturn at each corner; that studied, symmetrical little smile that stops dead before it reaches the eyes.

It knows how to chill me to the bone.

One of scariest things about it is that even though the mouth stays shut, I can hear its voice.  I don't know if it's telepathy, or not, but it sounds like an echo inside my head.

I'll fix you.

It speaks close to my ear, but from the inside.  Very quiet, very controlled, and it's impossible not to comprehend, with utter clarity, that this is not a random vendetta.  The thing under the bed is mine.  It belongs only to me, a leech that attached itself to some part of me I can't reach, before I ever had any concept of what a leech was.

Or, perhaps, I belong to it.  Maybe, when I was born, it laid its claim on me and it's just a matter of time before it absorbs me just to keep itself alive.  Or, perhaps, even further back.  Perhaps, at the moment of conception, it said, "This is mine and no one else's."

It doesn't show itself to anyone else.  It's all the more maddening and frightening for that, because no one believes it exists.

*    *    *

It has always lived under the bed and when I was a kid, I just took it for granted that it was there.  Lots of kids believed in the monster under the bed, but at some point, they stopped talking about it and I figured theirs must have left.  Naivety, doomed innocence, led me to believe mine would leave, too.

It's very clever, you know, because I was convinced it did.

I recall that without my actually realizing, it had disappeared and, of course, I thought that would be the end of it.  I know it simply happened that one night, I awakened in the dark—the urge to pee forcing me out from under the warm covers—and no longer felt it necessary to stretch my legs far out over the edge of the bed before setting my feet on the floor, then scurry away from whatever lurked in the blacker dark, under the bed.  And I just knew, when I returned, that I didn't have to ensure my safety by leaping back onto the bed from two feet away

It was gone, I thought, and so it should be; I was grown up, a young lady, and things like that are not real.  There are no monsters under the bed.  There was no need, anymore, to worry about my ankles being grasped by clawed appendages and being dragged into some dank, webby hole by anything. That was nothing but a childish nightmare.

And back then, it wasn't it yet—it was still a nebulous anything.  It had no face I could recognize.

But slowly, slowly... over the years, I came to know that the thing under the bed had only been dormant.  It had used my tumultuous, rollercoaster ... awakening ... adolescent years to gain strength, to become more powerful, more seductive.

It was there all along, waiting, waiting ... listening.

It listened to my deepest desires, my breathless self-discoveries, my brightest and darkest thoughts.

It fed off the volcanic energy of surging hormones and the rage to live.

It grew stronger and ... it metamorphosed.

*    *    *

How many lovers have I had?

Not many.  A few.  Some sweet; some not.  Some with a romantic flair, others simply driven by lust.  A couple innocent and wondering; a few worldly and wise.  I think they've been evenly split between considerate and selfish. It makes no difference.

I feel their hands on me, caressing my face, my shoulders, my breasts.  They whisper breathy lies or truths—I don't care which.  It's the quiet voice, their gentle touch that lulls me, warms me.  Their fingers probe the hot and humid inner sanctum and I can feel them right there.  I can feel them touching me.  I know I can.

And the anticipation ... oh, it's Christmas morning, it's my tenth birthday, when there was a party and all my friends were invited, it's the high school sock-hop, and it's my first kiss, all over again.

This time it will work.

Christmas will stay longer than the blink of an eye, and the birthday party won't be the last of its kind.  I won't stand against the wall in the gym the whole evening, my heart pounding and my gut clenched in churning futility, while I wait for someone to ask me to dance.  And the first kiss will last forever.

This time will be different.

The fingers play with my clit and massage it.  I twitch and tiny ripples shudder through me.  And I forget myself.  I moan and sigh and the thing under bed snickers and everything goes dead inside.

It listens, you see.  It listens and waits, until I think that this time I'll feel everything I should feel, everything that I was meant to feel, and I give myself to the sensations.

It loves to hear my screams.  It takes perverse pleasure in them, in seeing me vulnerable and weak, open to attack.  It doesn't distinguish between shrieks of pain and cries of delight, but it wants to own both, all in fact.  Its gratification comes from being the source of all sensation.

I shouldn't make any sound.  I don't understand why I don't learn that.  You'd think I would.  If I just kept still and didn't even let out a peep, it wouldn't know how warm and good the hands feel on me, how the fingers inside stir me and I turn creamy and hot, fluid ebbing and flowing in my cunt, waves of emotion and reckless abandon surging to fill the empty caverns of my being.

I succumb and find my voice; I cannot keep my silence.  I cannot resist that urge to groan and sigh and let myself go, when I feel that wave building.  I forget about the thing under the bed and, opening myself to the possibilities, I cry out and the wave crashes against the icy armour plating of the thing under the bed and it awakens and takes its revenge.  My imminent pleasure angers it and it must punish me for daring to derive satisfaction elsewhere.

I can still feel skin against my skin; there is that much. But it's all the more devious for that.

This is all you're getting

Skin on skin; superficial.

This is what you get to feel from them.  You're mine; you'll never belong to anyone else.

And so, to appease it, to keep it unaware that I desire to free myself from it, I make the effort to make no noise, to not draw attention to myself.  It is worth denying myself the ultimate pleasure of release in intimacy, to ensure that the thing remains oblivious to my joy outside its dark circle of power.

I've come to believe that the thing under the bed will destroy me, if it tires of playing its vicious little game with me.  And perhaps that is why I don't keep perfectly quiet.  I don't want to give it everything, but as long as I keep giving it a little of what it wants, I get to survive a bit longer.

And yet, sometimes, survival seems so pointless.  I wonder why I persist?

It's very good at waiting, but ... it can't wait forever. Can it?

© 2008 Rose B. Thorny. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Who is Rose B. Thorny? Read her bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

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