Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

BEDROOM EYES Michael Newton

They knew him at the Ecstasy Arcade. Which is to say, they recognized his face, receding hairline, business suit (invariably gray or black), the raincoat which he wore or carried with him every day, regardless of the weather. No one knew his name, but that was unimportant. They had seen the color of his money, and he never caused a scene.

Milo Grymdyke was a regular. He was predictable, arriving shortly after six o'clock each Friday night and purchasing his two five-dollar tokens, eyes averted from the cashier's face, proceeding quickly to the booths in back.

The booths were tucked away behind a threadbare curtain, out of sight from patrons in the shop. They were no more than simple plywood cubicles, unpainted, furnished with a single folding chair. One wall in each consisted of a heavy metal shutter, which concealed a plate glass window and another room beyond. Insertion of a token in the proper slot would raise the shutter to reveal a woman, seated on the far side of the glass. On cue, she would disrobe, performing for her one-man audience until their time ran out and the shutter fell.

Five dollars for five minutes. It was cheap at half the price.

No contact or communication with the woman was allowed, but Grymdyke often found the windows marked by palmprints, smudged by lips and tongues. The customers were theoretically forbidden to expose themselves, but Milo found the claustrophobic atmosphere was often redolent of sweat and what he took to be the musky smell of sex.

He could not be precise about the latter smell, of course. At thirty-seven, he was still a virgin.

Grymdyke chose the third booth on a whim and closed the flimsy door behind him, checking out the metal chair before he sat. He scooted closer to the shutter, told himself that it was for convenience, so that he could reach the coin slot without rising.

Milo put a token in the slot; the shutter rose. He did not recognize the woman, although several of the regulars were now familiar to him. She was dark and slender, of indeterminate age and nationality, with blue-black hair grazing her shoulders. She wore a purple T-shirt, cut above her navel, with bikini panties in a matching shade.

Grymdyke studied her face for a moment, aware of fleeting time, the tingle in his groin. He lingered over flawless olive skin, almond eyes vaguely reminiscent of the Orient, the full lips moist and dark, without embellishment.

Seated on a chair like Milo's, she began without preamble, running long fingers over her breasts. Her nipples came erect beneath the fabric, and she nudged the hemline upward, teasing Grymdyke with a glimpse of soft, round flesh. Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, revealing the tip of her tongue between perfect teeth.

Her performance was less mechanical — more sincere — than many of the others, and Milo felt himself responding. There was sudden color in his cheeks, and he could feel the perspiration on his face, beneath his arms.

The woman stretched now, catlike, pulling the T-shirt off over her head. One hand returned to her smallish breasts while the other slid into her panties, making a fist in her crotch. Milo's eyes flicked back and forth between the hands, unable to choose.

She finally made the decision for him, rising and turning her back to the window, rolling the panties down across round, tan buttocks. Milo sat mesmerized as she skinned them down her thighs, below her knees, raising one leg after the other to step clear, affording him his first glimpse of pubic hair.

Both hands disappeared between her legs, invisible until the fingertips poked through in back and she leaned forward, thrusting her hips toward the window. A ripple passed along her spine — just acting? — and she turned slowly, easing back into the chair, raising one leg at a time and planting the soles of her feet on the glass. Placing herself on display.

Milo felt light-headed with the evacuation of blood to his groin. The triangle of pubic hair was neatly trimmed and glistening. Her fingers walked around it, growing bolder, finally probing for the heart, and Grymdyke felt her shudder this time, as she spread her lips.

A single bloodshot eye stared back at Milo.

Winked.

The shutter fell.

He jerked back in his chair, nearly losing his balance. For a moment, he was dumbfounded by what he had seen. (Imagined?) It was idiotic. Physically impossible. And yet…

He fumbled for the second token. Trembling, he clutched the chair with both hands as the shutter rose.

A different woman sat beyond the window, waiting. Grymdyke recognized her as a listless blonde whose platinum was showing dark around the roots. She was unbuttoning a see-through blouse when Milo bolted from the cubicle.

Impossible.

Insane.

He took a moment to compose himself before reentering the shop. His legs felt wooden as he moved in the direction of the register, the cashier perched behind it on a stool. He cleared his throat to draw the younger man's attention from a bondage magazine.

His name was Hector, stitched across the left breast of a nylon jacket. Rodent eyes examined Milo for a moment, dull and listless.

"You need somethin'?"

"Yes." It came out as a whisper and he cleared his throat, commanding vocal cords to function. "There's a girl in number three."

"There better be. That's what we pay 'em for."

"I mean, she isn't there right now…."

The cashier frowned. "Oh yeah? Well, go on back there, sport. I'll getcha somethin' nice."

"There is a girl," he said before the man could leave his seat. "It's just that… well… she's not the same."

"The same as what?"

"Before." He felt the words begin to tumble out and wondered if he sounded incoherent, or if it was only in his mind. "I put a token in, and she was dark. A tall brunette. The time ran out, and when I put another token in, there was a different girl. A blonde."

The cashier visibly relaxed, deciding he had not been served a loony, after all, but merely some poor jerk who hadn't gotten off before the clock ran down. The worrisome became routine.

"Must be her coffee break. It's the law. Go figure."

"Coffee break?"

"They switch, ya know?"

"I need to see her."

"Sure, no sweat. They only get ten minutes, 'less she's gone to lunch. That's half an hour."

"No. I need to see her privately."

The young man's manner changed. "That's what the booths are for."

"I need to see her privately… outside."

"No dice. The ladies ain't allowed to mix with any of the customers."

He felt a sudden pang of desperation. "Surely you could let me have her name?"

"I'm not supposed to give 'em out, you unnerstan'? I mean, you look okay to me, but hey — " He spread his hands and smiled.

Milo palmed a fifty-dollar bill and placed it on the counter, near the register. "I understand the need to be discreet."

A moment passed in silence. Hector frowned and made the fifty disappear. "Okay, I figure you're a stand-up guy. She's tall, dark hair, you said? Nice tits, but maybe just a little on the small side?"

"Yes." The urgency had nearly robbed him of his voice.

"That's Laney Thatcher, but she don't come cheap."

"How much?"

A lazy shrug. "Search me. Free enterprise, you know? Don't sound too hungry when you call, she might negotiate."

"The number?"

Hector had retrieved his magazine by now, directing his attention to the centerfold. "She's in the book."

In fact, he found that there were sixty-seven Thatchers in the phone book, none of them named Laney. Loran Thatcher was the closest he could find, but two were listed simply by the first initial "L," without a hint of gender to assist him.

Hector might have lied, but Milo didn't want to think so, and he pondered other explanations as he lay in bed that night. The woman — Laney — could have purchased an unlisted number, or she might not have a telephone at all. The two "L. Thatchers" were his only hope, and it was too damned late to try them now.

The next day, his hand was shaking as he dialed.

The first "L. Thatcher" was a gruff old man whose voice reminded Grymdyke of a rasp drawn over rotting wood. His given name was Lawrence, and he lived alone, if it was any of the goddamned nosy caller's goddamned business.

Milo cradled the receiver, swallowed his embarrassment, and tried the second number. It was answered on the first ring by a woman's voice — expressionless.

"Hello?"

"I'm calling… that is, may I speak to Laney Thatcher?"

"Speaking."

Milo felt the room begin to spin around him. For a moment he could think of nothing else to say.

"Hello?"

"My name is Milo Grymdyke."

"Yes, I've been expecting you."

"I beg your pardon?"

Laughter. Tinkling like broken glass.

"I said, 'What can I do for you?'"

A trick. His own imagination taunting him again.

"You don't know me," he said. "I've seen you —»

— naked —

"Yes?" She sounded curious, amused.

A sudden pang of doubt constricted Milo's throat. "I wonder if… I mean, are you —»

"A dancer? Yes."

The telephone was welded to his palm with perspiration. Was it possible that she had read his thoughts?

"One night last week —»

Her voice became a husky tenor. "I remember you," she told him. "I've been hoping you might call."

"Did Hector speak to you?" The words were out before he knew what he was saying.

"Hector?"

"Nothing. I'm amazed that you remember me."

"You're much too modest."

Milo's heart was hammering inside his rib cage, after-shocks were reverberating in his groin. He spoke before he had a chance to change his mind.

"I'd like to see you."

"You've already seen me, Milo. I've seen you."

— the eye —

His cheeks were flaming. "I just thought, if we could meet…"

"Of course."

His heart stopped, shuddered, found its beat again.

"I don't suppose tonight —»

"Why not? I get off work at nine."

His mind refused to function. "Nine o'clock?"

"Let's make it ten. I need some travel time, a chance to freshen up. You have my address?"

She offered him directions to her house.

"Tonight, then. I'll be waiting."

She hung up before he had a chance to thank her, plead insanity, or use any of the other options that immediately came to mind. They had a date, of sorts, and Grymdyke knew that he would never have the nerve — the will — to cancel out.

He knew that he might never have this chance again.

The housing tract was new, so recently completed that a number of the homes stood vacant, windows dark, their yards small deserts waiting for new tenants and the landscape artists to arrive. As Milo parked in front of Laney Thatcher's house, he was aware of empty, darkened homes on either side.

There was no car in Laney's drive; the door to her garage was closed and padlocked. Milo wondered if she drove herself to work and then realized that he was stalling, wasting time. He locked the car, remembering to take the gift that he had purchased on the slow drive over.

Milo had considered flowers, changed his mind when he could not decide which sort might be appropriate for the occasion. Blind date-cum-seduction was a tricky category. He had settled for a candy store that offered gift wrap for a dollar extra.

He rang the doorbell, listened to the tiny chimes inside. When there was no immediate response, his brain began to toy with him, suggesting Laney might have changed her mind, gone off somewhere instead of facing Milo now that safety glass no longer stood between them. He would not have blamed her, but he thought the disappointment and embarrassment might kill him.

Muffled footsteps, drawing closer. Milo gave a last tug at his tie and tucked the box of candy underneath his arm. If possible, he would have run — or melted where he stood — before she had a chance to look at him and laugh.

The dead-bolt latch snicked open. Milo grimaced in approximation of a smile as Laney Thatcher stood before him, framed in silhouette.

"Good evening, Milo."

"Guh… good evening."

"Please, come in."

She stood aside, and Grymdyke caught a whiff of some exotic fragrance as he stepped into the narrow foyer. Incense or perfume? He couldn't say.

"I'm glad you came."

He forced himself to look at her directly, conscious of the color flaming in his cheeks. She wore a plain black velvet dress which flattered her figure without being suggestive.

"I brought you this."

She took the package, sniffed it once, and smiled. "I love dark chocolate, thank you. Would you like to see the house?"

"Yes, please."

"I've really just moved in. You'll have to picture furniture."

He followed her through the parlor, dining room, and kitchen, fascinated by the motion of her hips. The furnishings were sparse, as advertised. Where she had started decorating, Milo found surrealistic paintings on the walls, small graceful sculptures occupying shelves and counter space.

She offered him a drink while they were in the kitchen. Milo took a glass of wine and waited while she poured one for herself.

"To passion."

Milo touched his glass to hers and took a healthy swallow, startled by its potency and fire.

"You don't look like your name," she said.

"I've never thought about it," he replied, although, in fact, he had considered it on several occasions. "You don't, either."

"May I tell you something?" The fluorescent fixture overhead struck highlights in her hair and cast her face in shadow.

"Yes… I think so."

"Laney Thatcher is my stage name. I'm an actress… or, I will be, soon. I have auditions scheduled. The arcade —»

"I understand."

"I knew you would." She smiled. "My parents came to the United States from Greece in 1949. The civil war. My real name is Thanatos. Lamia Thanatos."

"Lamia." He turned the strange name over on his tongue. "I think it's more attractive than the other."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad." She drained her wine and Milo followed suit. "Shall we continue?"

"Please."

The house was small by modern standards. Milo wondered what there might be left to see.

"The bedroom."

She had finished decorating here. The bed was queen-size, flanked by windows with their drapes drawn tight. A lamp and ornate telephone adorned one nightstand; an alarm clock and a decorator box of Kleenex graced the other. The chest of drawers and vanity were hand-rubbed wood, and Milo took them for antiques. The lights were soft, seductive.

"I enjoy the decorating."

"Yes, it shows."

She moved into the room, and it felt natural for him to follow her. She turned to face him, standing close enough to touch — if only he possessed the courage.

"This is what you wanted?"

Milo blinked and dropped his gaze, unable to respond coherently. She cupped a hand beneath his chin and raised his face until their eyes were locked.

"You must not be embarrassed. I am everything you wanted. You are everything I need."

She slowly turned her back and bowed her head, presenting Milo with her zipper tab. "Undo me? I can't seem to reach it."

Milo knew she could — how else had she got dressed? — but he was flattered by the gesture, burningly aroused. He ran the zipper down to Laney's waist and watched the two halves of her dress peel back, revealing silken flesh beneath. Against the plain black velvet, Laney's skin seemed pale. She wore no bra.

A shrug, and now the dress lay pooled around her ankles. Laney wore no panties, either, and from where he stood, her buttocks looked soft to the touch, covered with a layer of perfect down.

Another turn, and she was facing him. He had already scrutinized her body once, in intimate detail, but this was very different. He could touch her now, unless she stopped him at the final moment, and his fingertips were tingling with anticipation.

Laney moved in close to Milo, rising on her toes to kiss him. Dizzy, trembling, he allowed his palms to rest against the soft swell of her hips. She moved against him, heat communicated from her flesh, through Milo's clothing, and he stroked the curve of Laney's spine. He wanted desperately to feel her flesh against his own.

She eased the jacket off his shoulders, draped it on a chair, returning for his shirt and tie. He raised his arms to make removal of his T-shirt easier, and then her nipples brushed against his chest, sharp exclamation points of animal desire that made him gasp.

His belt delayed her briefly; as she grappled with it, Laney pinched her lower lip between her small, white teeth. He was amazed to see the beads of perspiration on her forehead, in the valley of her breasts.

She let him kick his shoes off, step out of his slacks and shorts. He kept his socks on as she led him to the bed and saw him seated on the mattress, pressing backward with a slim hand on his chest until he stretched out supine.

When Laney came to join him, Milo felt a sudden urge to run away, but he was helpless as the naked woman crouched above his face, thighs straddling his head. He could not see her face, but he was perfectly familiar with her smell, the fleshscape of her breasts and stomach looming over him. He had committed every pubic hair to memory.

Her laughter rippled in his ears like wind chimes, and she spread herself for Milo, showing him the eye. Its scrutiny was piercing, inescapable; he lay exposed in body, mind, and soul.

The woman understood his hunger; she had seen it with her secret eye. A shudder rippled through her body as the eye blinked once, rolled back — and disappeared. She settled over Milo's face, warm lips pressed tight against his own.

He feasted on her, ravenous, not caring that his nose and mouth were covered and he could not breathe. A skillful tongue flicked out to spar with Milo's, worming in between his teeth, another sweet surprise, and he was drowning, happily oblivious to galloping asphyxia.

She pulled away from Milo, sudden deprivation and the rush of oxygen to starving lungs producing spastic tremors in his rigid body. Crouching at his side, she gently drew his foreskin back and ran her tongue around the swollen glans, his shaft on fire.

Without another moment's hesitation, Milo opened to her, staring back at Laney with his secret eye, his small tongue flicking out to trace the sharp edge of her teeth. There was delight in Laney's laughter as she mounted him.

"I was afraid I'd never find you," Milo said.

"You have."

"I see."

She poised above him, open, trembling, ready.

"Kiss me."

Grymdyke raised his hips to meet her, and the velvet darkness swallowed him alive.