Читать книгу Alison's Wonderland - Alison Tyler - Страница 10

It’s hot today. I have a problem with the heat because I sweat and my sweat is pink. Pink sweat attracts notice, forcing me to flee to another town to preserve my secret. But damn it, I like this place and I want to stay.

When I was mortal over forty years ago, I was a woman who lived for parties, sunshine and attention. I would dance barefoot on beaches on warm summer evenings, and late at night I’d still be there, laughing around a campfire with my beautiful friends, hippies in beads hoping to save the world through sex, love, peace and hashish. I look at my generation now and wonder if we couldn’t have tried a little harder.

But no matter. They’re not my generation anymore.

My sweat is pink and it’s a problem.

A passerby tosses a coin onto the cloth at my feet. Quite a pile I’m getting today. It’s the sun, you see. It brings people out, makes them loose with their cash. And this loose cash is making me feel loose with my morals.

I stare blankly ahead. I’m coated in white body paint and wreathed in a toga, my hair coiled high and dyed a bright chemical pink. My arms are held in an elegant curve, chin angled to the left. I am a busker, a living statue, and I’m very good at my job. Crowds gather. They stare and smile. A few will move tentatively closer. “It’s like she isn’t even breathing,” they’ll whisper.

And of course, I’m not. I am dead.

My hairline starts to prickle. If it weren’t for my pink sweat, I’d still adore the sun, though I realize that makes me atypical. The heat clings like memories, taking me back to those sticky nights of tangled sheets when my cunt would throb with lust for another. Oh, to be vital again! To be fucking someone for the sake of fuck alone, not fucking them with thoughts of their blood in my throat. Or, best of all, to have someone fucking me, to have them holding me down, fearless, brutal and strong.

Because, to my shame, that’s what I crave: a man to overpower me. Once when I was alive, I asked a boyfriend to act as my kidnapper. “Tie me up and gag me,” I explained. “Use me as your plaything. Take no notice of my screams.” But he said he couldn’t do that because sexual expression through violence contravened his pacifism and he viewed our lovemaking as a cosmic union of souls and in this I was his sister. Sister? If you ask me, that’s far worse than what I was suggesting.

A bead of sweat trickles down my back. That’s fine. They can’t see under my robes. To my right, I hear the soft click of a camera. More money clinks into the collection. Two hundred seconds later (Christ, it’s boring being on a pedestal), I twist my shoulders and turn my head several degrees. A murmur of delight ripples across the crowd.

He’s mesmerized as if my stillness is infectious. He’s big, beautiful and rough looking, an arrogant young bruiser with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s wearing a suit, but he’s no businessman. His tie is askew and he clearly doesn’t care about preserving any neat lines of tailoring. He watches, fascinated, contempt curling his lip as if he’s thinking of all the sordid things he could do to me, irrespective of my wishes.

I cast him a glance, wondering if I can snare him. Unfortunately, I attract the wrong sort of guy. Maybe that’s inevitable. I know my place in popular culture and the assumption goes because I’m a monster, I must also be an aggressor and a sadist. But the truth is, I’m a sexually submissive vampire and, if you’ll forgive the pun, that sucks.

It sucks because I feel I’m letting the team down. My kind are predators and they tend to be on the toppy side. But it’s not as if I was ever going to fit in anyway. Ever since my sweat turned pink, I’ve been shunned by my peers. I was once an ordinary monster, happy to get along, but then something went wrong inside me. When I feed, I can’t use all the blood. It seeps out through my pores, making me a liability, a freak in danger of exposing the community. I’ve no choice but to be itinerant, keeping my head low, because there are many who would rather see me dead. Truly dead, not undeaddead.

But being submissive sucks mainly because I’m just not getting any. I guess I come across as scary, and I’m aware my inability to form lasting relationships has engendered a certain aloofness. Maybe that’s why I’m often propositioned by men who offer money to call me Mistress. Or maybe it’s because I earn my living from being bored on a pedestal. Perhaps they see their proposal as promotion.

But being on top leaves me cold. I want a man who’ll bring me down, do terrible things to me and take away my power. I want him to debase me, bind me, fuck my face and force me into sex, perhaps with a little help from his friends. And if this ever happened and I were to kill them all afterward, I can honestly say, hand on my unbeating heart, it would be done in a spirit of regret not revenge.

Because I can’t help who I am. I need blood to survive. Perhaps there’s a murderous streak sparkling in my eyes. Whatever the reason, I don’t get the right guys and for too many years, my submission has lain dormant, existing purely in my own warped fantasies. It’s not enough. I want to play passive. I want a man who’ll bring my dark desires to life again.

I lay a hand below my throat in an attitude of piety or mild shock. He’s still watching me, that rapt and cunning expression on his face. Gazing beyond my audience, I focus on a faux-Victorian lamppost in the shopping plaza. A droplet of sweat dribbles past my ear. No one will see that, I’m sure. But it’s only a matter of time and before long, I feel moisture stippling my painted face. I’m corpse-white already, so the paint is merely for texture and sunblock. It can’t hide perspiration. A single bead of sweat slides down my forehead and, horrified, I picture it as an enormous globule of shimmering liquid, pink as a strawberry milk shake. They’re all staring. Seconds later, the droplet spills and splashes from the ledge of a white-coated eyebrow.

Nothing happens. There’s no muttering or shifting among my audience. I reckon I’ve got away with it. But then a second droplet emerges from my hairline, a third and fourth. I don’t like to come alive when the crowds are large. I prefer to let the numbers dwindle, but it’s too hot today. This isn’t going to work. My secret isn’t safe.

“Oi!” calls a voice. “Yer wig’s melting!”

Their laughter is nasty. Sweat is running freely down my face now. A patch of uncertain applause lifts and dies and coins clatter brightly at my feet.

“How does she do it?”

“Ugh, that’s well creepy.”

“My God, she looks rotten. She was so pretty before.”

Droplets trickle toward my eyes, making me weep pale red tears. I stand like a parodic Jesus Christ, my candy-pink hair my crown of thorns, my face streaked with sweat that has the taint of death.

Money tumbles and cameras click. Carefully, I step down from my pedestal. I keep my head low, my movements soft. I bend and crouch then I lie on my money, curling into a ball. The money smells bitter. Some people walk away. All I want to do is stay here till it’s pitch-black, the shops have shut and everyone’s gone home. Moments later, a shadow falls across my face. He squats and clasps me by the wrist, making my arm twist awkwardly. Jewelry glints on his hand.

“I’ll look after you,” he says, and his voice is laced with threat.

His hair is shorn, his eyes are hard and a small graze on a cheekbone hints at ruby-red blood. He has the corrupted beauty of a handsome man who’s too fond of danger. I wonder if he’s a dealer or a pimp. He jerks my arm, urging me to stand.

“Thank you,” I reply, and I know I have him: my victim, my prince.

I leave my pedestal and cash in a locker at the train station and, as the light fades, we walk through town. I pat my sweat dry but don’t bother changing. I’ve loosened my hair and it tumbles past my shoulders in crazy pink tails. I hook the drapes of my toga over one arm and walk barefoot. My soles are as tough as old boots, a legacy from my hippie days, and I shun shoes whenever I can. I look like a cerise Medusa and beside me is David, worthy of Michelangelo, eating a burger from a polystyrene tray.

“There are more lucrative ways to earn money on the streets,” he says through a mouthful of food. “I could show you where to start. Pretty girl like you is wasted as a statue. Plenty of men who’d appreciate your charms. Trust me, you could make a fortune.”

“Are you trying to make me your sex slave?” I ask hopefully.

David laughs, throws his burger box into a bin and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. A chunky wristwatch peeps from the sleeve of his suit. He’s very flash.

“Because I’d like that,” I continue. “I’d like to be your whore.” Saying the words is easier than I’d anticipated. I’ve kept my desires to myself for so long that voicing them is a leap of faith, but once I’ve started, the words simply flow. “You could do whatever you want to me,” I say. “Let other men use me, as well. But I’ve never been a whore before. I might need some practice.”

“Nah, it’s a doddle,” says David. “All you have to do is open your legs.”

I don’t think he’s quite understood. “I think you should give me a test run,” I reply. “Make sure I’m good enough. And I think I should know what it’s like to meet a punter who wants to do terrible things to me.”

“Uh-huh? What sort of terrible things?”

“Call me names,” I say. “And, um, maybe I need to know how it is to go with a guy who gets off on kidnapping women, someone who wants to tie me up and gag me, who wants to use me as his plaything. A guy who won’t take any notice of my screams. A guy—”

David swings to face me, grabs me around the arms, then bundles me backward into an alley. A few people glance our way, but nobody intervenes. Given that I’m chalk-white in a toga and David’s in a suit, they probably think we’re performance artists or actors. He slams me up against the wall, a hand clamped to my mouth. He glares at me, eyes full of glee.

“Dirty little bitch,” he says, and he shoves a hand between my legs, bunching up the folds of my toga. “Gagging for it, aren’t you?” He rubs the cotton hard against my cunt. “Aren’t you, slut?”

And I moan that I am, while thinking how times have changed since the sixties.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll give you a test run.” He grabs a fistful of my hair and frog-marches me deeper into the alley. He turns left, and I stumble ahead of him into a wider backstreet bordered by higgledy-piggledy buildings with narrow fire escapes zigzagging up their brickwork. Small, grimy windows cast smudges of light into the dusk of evening, steam plumes from vents, and clanging saucepans and barked orders punctuate the seedy calm of this hidden street. We are behind a stretch of restaurants and cheap hotels, stumbling through the grubby reality that feeds and fuels the tourist trade.

It’s quieter here. David seems to know where he’s going and that makes me nervous. I start to wonder if this is what I really want. Oh, I know I’ll win, I always do, but as David shoves me into a recess, I have to ask myself: At what cost? I’ll escape with my life—if you can call it that—but what might this do to my mind?

In the recess is a fire door partially blocked by a stack of wooden pallets, and the lilac of a UV insect zapper glows from a small, wire-mesh window. David presses me against a narrow wall, his forearm across my neck, pushing my chin high. He’s breathing fast, his eyes are wild, and that faint scab on his cheekbone gleams in the purplish half-light.

“Test run, eh?” He covers my breast with his free hand, pummeling through my toga. “You like that?” he asks. “You like it when guys touch you there?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

David grins and I note he has excellent teeth. “Well, listen up,” he says. “It’s not about what you want. You’re a whore, see? Just a cheap little whore, so no one gives a fuck whether you like it or not.” His eyes are fixed on mine and he fluffs up the skirts of my gown, pinning the folds back with a thigh until he can reach between my legs. “Okay?”

I nod. David rubs briskly at my underwear, fingers sawing before he pushes the fabric deeper into my wet split, separating me there. His forearm leans harder against my neck and he moves his face closer to mine as if to better gauge my response. I feel weak in every limb, so aroused I might melt to the floor. After all those hours on my pedestal, a remote and frozen beauty, untouchable and on display, it’s wonderful to know the hot press of desire in a dingy backstreet. It feels like the closest thing to life—life in all its murky, messy, furtive glory—that I’ve known for such a long time.

Sweat prickles under my arms and I hope I don’t turn too pink too soon. When I groan my pleasure, David slips two thick fingers past my underwear. “You’re not meant to be enjoying this,” he says, and he hooks his fingers inside me, rubbing so perfectly I can’t help but groan again. “Hot little slut,” he says approvingly.

He steps back, releasing me with his hands but not his eyes. He whips off his tie, his gaze never once leaving mine. Sneering, he cracks the strip of cloth in the air, clearly relishing his own brutal purpose. I can see strength flex in his torso beneath his shirt and his sweat smells good and manly.

“Turn around,” he says. His voice is scarily tender. For decades I’ve wanted someone to talk to me like that.

“No,” I whisper.

In the small silence that follows, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. If I had a living heart, it would be thumping in fear and excitement right now. Anger darkens his brow and I know I said the right thing because he doesn’t tell me again. Instead, he spins me around, hissing that it wasn’t a fucking question, it was an order. He twists my arm, pushing me face forward over the stack of pallets. His thighs press against mine, holding me still as he clasps my wrists behind my back. I wriggle and kick, knowing it’s futile.

“Get off me!” I say as I feel his looped tie tightening on my wrists. He tugs, binds and knots, deftly trapping my hands. Grabbing a bunch of my hair, he arches my neck backward.

“It wasn’t a fucking question,” he says again, and I hear the rasp of him unzipping. With one hand, he pushes my toga up, then yanks my underwear down, exposing my cunt and cheeks. The tip of his cock is stout at my entrance, then he surges in, packing my wetness with his solidity. His thrusts are ruthless. “Not. A fucking. Question,” he snarls, pumping away at me.

I protest and he immediately makes a gag of my hair, ramming pink snaky lengths across my mouth. He pulls as if my hair’s a bridle and I splutter and cry, hating the texture and the taste.

“Shut up,” he hisses. “No one’s gonna take any notice of your screams.”

And I come so hard, my clit nudging at a hump of fabric as decades of wanting shiver and clutch. I’m left feeling as limp as a rag doll, and all I want to do is take it as he rams on and on into my soft swollen hole. I let him come—I think it’s only fair—then I do what I always do: kill.

Or at least, that’s my intention. As my strength swells, I break free of my bondage and whirl around, attacking so fast he barely sees it. I slam him against the wall, my toga unraveling, and latch on to his neck. It’s bristly with stubble and when I puncture his skin, that familiar coppery warmth floods my mouth. I’m almost lost to joy until sanity pricks my greed: the sex was incredible, I want more from him.

So as his pulse fades in my veins, I snick my wrist and press the wound to his lips, giving him a new kind of life. I don’t know if his sweat will be pink, but if it is, so what? We will unite, defective or not, and in our monstrous limbo, we’ll face the world together. When I take away my wrist, David smiles, the pallor of death already lightening his skin. And I know at once how we’ll survive. He will join me as a living statue, David in a fig leaf, the beautiful brute I turned to stone.