Back to Synopsis

TERRA INCOGNITA: NOVEL

Chapter 1

The fly was dying - but then, that was the way of things. Nature’s function had been served according to ‘The Blueprint’ - or not, as the case may be and the ordained (or non-ordained) cycle moved on.

In semi darkness high among the dust coated steel roof supports its veined wings pulsed faintly in a warm updraft, a soft, whispering breeze that promised more than it could deliver. The fly had no conception of deception.

Far below in the world of light and bright movement, the tall dark man slowly, side on, and with guard extended, circled the statue that was the smaller, fairer man. A trickle of sweat broke free from his scalp, arrowed down between his eyebrows, careered sideways off the bridge of his nose and stingingly entered the corner of his right eye.
In one violent movement he jerked his head thirty millimetres to the left, then back again - his vision was still partially impaired.

High above, the spark was guttering out of existence as a stronger updraft fanned the fly’s wings, tilted it off the roof brace and launched it into a final downward, aimless, spiralling flight.

The stalker circled on, narrowing the distance between him and the target. His internal spring wound another turn – ready for the explosion that would hurl him into decisively brutal contact. Two lunging strides were all it would take. He began to ease off the mental brake that held him in quivering check - just as a softly buzzing object landed on his upper lip, causing schooled reaction to kick in. For a split second his concentration wavered and he quickly raised his right guard hand towards his lips...and the statue exploded into life.

As his fingers brushed the edge of his mouth a small blur of white shot across eight feet of space and suddenly filled his vision. An iron spear hand lanced out towards his throat. He threw his right forearm upwards in an attempted block; and succeeded, just. He succeeded... but knew he had lost... for the spear hand was a feint. In the instant that their arms made offensive and defensive contact the defender turned attacker shifted the line of assault, drove his other hand, claw-like, into the tall man’s unprotected chest, snared the rough canvas garment, pulled to the left as with a left leg ‘deashi-barai’, he swept his opponent’s legs to the right. As the tall man crashed to the floor the attacker, still gripping the garment, followed him down and kneeling on one leg, drove a piston-like right fist directly downwards towards the victim’s temple, while simultaneously loosing an ear-numbing explosion of sound in a ‘kiai’ of victory.

The rod like blow sped downwards but in the split second before contact froze into quivering immobility an eyebrow’s depth from its target.
“Ippon, I think old chum”, said the smaller man with a soft smile.
“Full point...and end of contest...” replied the other ruefully, as the victor held out an arm and hauled him to his feet.

The two men backed off from each other, placed their hands palm down against the front of their thighs and with faces completely devoid of emotion, bowed respectfully. Ceremony over, both men straightened up and grinned. “Come on lightnin”, drawled the taller; “I’ll buy you a lemonade.”

Later after a shower and change; their faces glowing from the after-effects of exertion and steaming hot water the two men sat at a small table on a balcony overlooking a group of busy badminton courts. Damon Carter-Brown, the smaller, fairer and older man (Fortyish to his companion’s early thirties), sipped his lemonade and regarded the tall man over the top of his ice-chilled glass. “Val and I”, he said in a BBC English voice, “are slipping down to the cabin this weekend - fancy a spot of fishing Quin?”

Quintino O’Rion took a deep swallow of his beer, smiled and replied: “Oh sure, my darling sister would just love that, me playing gooseberry!” Damon returned the smile.

“That’s never bothered you before.” And then with a raise of eyebrow: “Could it be that you have other plans; like involving a certain willowy redhead...?” Quintino laughed easily.
“Smart ass limey!” he mouthed. “Anyway”, he continued, “she’s just a good friend”.

“Of course”, said Damon innocently; “And I suppose you’ll invite this good friend over for a, uhhmm… tete a tete...when we’ve gone?”

“Now there’s an idea; thanks Day; I might just do that little thing.” Both men laughed before Quintino said seriously: “Joking apart Day, you both could do with the break. The Project’s been ruling your lives for too long. A bit of peace and quiet and some fresh country air, do you both the world of good.” Damon nodded.

“You’re right of course. It’s been a slog...especially after the Varkas business...” Quintino’s face hardened.
“The bastard got what he deserved; creaming the Foundation like that!”

“Yes, I suppose so Quin, but I can’t help feeling a little guilty...if only I’d loaned him the money....” Quintino sighed heavily.

“Listen, we’ve been through all this before. The man’s a compulsive gambler; if you’d’ve bailed him out he would've been back into you again and again...and he’s bad news anyway; he only just wriggled out of that rape charge last year”. Damon opened his mouth to speak but Quintino continued quickly. “Yes I know all about ‘innocent till proved guilty’...and I know he’s an ace scientist…but he’s still bad news!” After a moment’s silence both men, in unison, lifted drink to lip in an unconscious act of fellowship, each giving the other a moment to readjust footing. Damon spoke first. “We’re almost there you know Quinn. In fact we could probably risk human transference now”. Quintino’s eyes widened.
“You’re joking! Damon shook his head slowly.
“No, I’ve pushed three rats through already.”

“Sweet Jesus!” muttered Quintana, “Sweet Jesus; an honest to goodness H.G. Wellesian Time Machine!” Damon turned his head away from his companion briefly to look down on a frantic foursome of athletic players as they thrashed mightily at a reluctant shuttlecock that refused to enter into the spirit of the encounter. So much action, with so little obvious reaction. “Yes”, he said, still watching the game, “Quite scary really... the unknown...” He turned back to face Quintino who looked at him quizzically.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you admit to human failings...I find that” (He imitated Damon’s English accent) “quite scary...” Damon laughed softly.
“Yankee noodle! I am human you know!”
“Yes,” said Quintino, “but you’re also a bloody limey; and that’s somethin’ else again!”

Damon glanced at his watch and pushed his chair back. “Well”, he muttered, “If I’m going to catch the Washington shuttle I’ll have to (He adopted an American accent) move ass.” Quintino drained his beer and stood up. “Good luck with the boys on The Hill then Day...And don’t come back with less than a hundred million bucks.” Damon pulled a wry face.

“Easy peasy Quin; all I have to do is come up with a useful military option and they’ll throw cash at me.” His voice suddenly lost its mock flip edge as he continued: “It’s not just the money though Quin, the Project is just too big for one man to control. It raises all sorts of issues...moral...psychological...religious...” Quintino looked closely at his companion.
“You’ve never dipped into that bag before little buddy”, he said seriously. “Why now?”

“I don’t know”, Damon replied. “Maybe before it was just a dream; the continuation of dad’s work; maybe I never really, deep down, thought it would happen.” Quintino shook his head slowly.

“And now; you’re going to hand it over to the Government.” Damon held his sports bag out to Quintino, nodded and said: “No choice Quin, it must be done.” Quintino accepted the bag and as the shorter man turned to leave he said: “Be cool little buddy!” Damon turned briefly and smiled. “I’m British...remember?” Quintino watched him go. He really loved his little limey sonofabitch brother in law.

For Damon, the drive to the airport was accomplished on autopilot. His senses reacted smartly to outside stimuli, but his mind travelled down different highways and byways. Travelled back to a long gone London, where a young boy, glowing with pride, sat quietly watching as on an elevated dais, a gently smiling, yet slightly embarrassed white haired man accepted the strong mixture of acclaim, respect and genuine warmth that flooded out from his audience of peers. Travelled through the city of dreaming spires. Flapping black gowns, heavy black bicycles, black India ink splashed across snowy white seas of test papers, heady debate filled nights, punctuated, for his companions, by a thousand mouthfuls of golden bitter; a panacea for fraught pre-exam nerves... sweet milk of amnesia. Travelled to a pristine laboratory where the white haired man smiled and held out a warm hand, drew him in, hugged him tightly in fatherly pride, a son, and now a colleague. Travelled to a lonely field where a sympathetic policeman allowed him to approach the wreckage of the light plane in which the bright flame of life of his idol had been so cruelly snuffed out. Travelled across a moon-kissed ocean, through a black velvet sky where fat diamond stars pulsed and winked in cool, ethereal greeting. Travelled to a new world of skyscrapers, hotdogs, milkshakes, drive in movies, Thanksgiving, Halloween ...and startlingly blue eyes.

At the age of thirty-six, and for the first time in his life, he had fallen in love. She was a research assistant at the Turner Foundation where he headed a small team. Her name was Val Orion...Val of the startlingly blue eyes. There had been other women in his life, several in fact, but none like her. She was at once sad and gay, intelligent and scatty, witty and acerbic, loving, tender, independent, headstrong - and he was hopelessly lost. He had pulled some strings to get her transferred to his team...and the rest was history. These and other trips down the dusty joyways and sadways of life meandered through Damon’s mind as he left the car, boarded the aircraft, and for a short while, left the earth and earthbound emotions of the year 1968 behind.

Quintino glanced out the window as the jet roared overhead. ‘Could be the Washington shuttle’, he thought. He raised a hand towards the diminishing dot...just in case.

He had known Damon for almost two years now. They had met one evening when Damon had turned up at the apartment to take Val to the Opera. It was their first date and Val, big, cool, self-assured Val, had been all of a twitter all day. “Don’t show me up”, she had said. “Don’t throw Beatles and Marley at him”, she had said. “He’s a refined Englishman”, she had said “with delicate tastes”. “And most of all”, she had said, “don’t tell him any of your filthy jokes!”

On the stroke of seven Damon had arrived, to be admitted by a suddenly laid back Val. Quintino’s first impression of Damon was one of faint surprise; for as Mr Wonderful entered Val towered a good three inches over him.

‘Jesus’, he thought, ‘from the way she described him, I was expecting a cross between David Niven and the Duke of Edinburgh!’ His surprise must have shown, because as she brought her date over, she had shot him a ‘just-you-show-some-respect-or-I’ll-have-your-balls-on-a-plate!’ look.

“Damon, I’d like you to meet my younger brother Quintino” (She had emphasised the word younger). “Hello”, said Damon softly, offering a well-manicured hand, which Quintino had taken hold of with a grin – and the intention of bruising some posh limey knuckles. That was when the tall man got another surprise; for his finger crusher was returned - with interest. He had winced as the pressure increased almost to yelping point; and then, as Val spoke, quickly faded. “Take your coat off Damon, I won’t be long, Quin will get you a lemonade, or something”, she had said airily as she left the room. Quintino had looked ruefully at the little Englishman. Damon had smiled charmingly. “Right, er Damon “, he had muttered, exercising his crushed fingers behind his back, “Lemonade and?”
“Just lemonade thank you”, was the soft reply.

Quintino had gone over to the drinks cabinet and, with back turned had poured Damon a lemonade and a vodka lemonade for himself; then for good measure he had dropped a double Smirnoff into Damon’s glass.
“Cheers,” he had said brightly, offering the now seated Damon the doctored drink.

“Good health”, Damon had replied, taking a tiny sip and then, without any change of expression, putting the drink gently down upon a handy table. Quintino had frowned, and then brightened. “Say!” he had said, “Did you hear the one about the Bishop, the Actress and the Salami?”

Quintino turned away from the window, and smiling, moved over to the phone. He picked it up dialled, and after a few seconds said: “Hi babe, it’s me Quin, listen, tonight’s your lucky night, I got two tickets for the Who concert...” He listened for a few seconds.

“Yeah...yeah… I know…I’m wonderful...you just save your thanks till later...o.k. doll face...pick you up at eight...bye...bye...” He directed two kisses into the handset and hung up.

* * *

Seventy miles across state the prison guard; his severed carotid artery pumping pulsing jets of scarlet, slumped glazed-eyed back against the chest of his executioner. One hairy hand tightly clamped around his mouth and nose, stilled his scream and stopped his breath, forcing tiny pink bubbles to well from the gaping wound, while the other, still holding the jagged piece of tin, guided the body softly to the cold concrete floor.

The executioner bent low, studied the man’s death mask face...and smiled gently. He placed the bloodied piece of tin on the floor, wiped his sticky hand on the guard’s jacket and unclipped the heavy set of keys from the man’s belt. He straightened up, moved over to the solid, steel lined door, inserted the key - and smiled again at the thick, metallic click as the mechanism engaged.
“Now then”, he whispered, his words like broken shards of glass, “It’s time for pay back.”

* * *

The Foundation was housed in a mock Southern mansion house that sat imperiously atop a gentle hillock in its own spacious fifty-acre grounds. At the front of the house a superbly manicured lawn, bisected by a white gravel drive rolled like a soft ocean swell to lap against its cool marble faced, six columned veranda; while at the rear a group of three huge and leafy shade trees jostled with each other to cast their cooling shadows between the weltering sun and the snow white walls.

Beneath these trees, at a white painted, glass topped, wrought iron table sat a dark haired, deeply tanned woman. Her long lashed deep blue eyes smiled as she leaned forward in her chair, bare arm extended out and downward. Her delicately curved lips pursed and from deep in her throat there issued a soft velvety purr.

The grey squirrel’s button nose twitched, caught the tantalising aroma of the roasted almond that the woman held out between her thumb and forefinger. The shy animal inched forward, its whiskers quivering in hoped for anticipation. The woman purred again and the squirrel’s tiny ears tilted quickly forward to analyse the soothing sound. Gently, the woman placed the almond on the ground. Slowly she withdrew her arm, and the small creature scuttled forward, scooped up the gift and with a swirl of fluffy tail, was gone.

The woman smiled, rose gracefully, smoothed her cream skirt and turning, made her way towards the building. Behind her, hidden in a cherry orchard, a short, stocky man watched in silence save for the soft sound of his heavy breathing.

* * *

Damon crossed his legs and refused the cigarette. The immaculately dressed, silver haired man took one himself, then in a Texan drawl, said: “Do you mind?” Damon shrugged.

“Feel free Senator, it’s your lungs”. John Merson grinned, and as he flicked an onyx desk lighter, lit up and sucked in deeply said: “They told me you spoke your mind Professor...I guess they were right.” Damon smiled thinly but did not reply. Pleasantries over, Merson dropped the casual tone. “Let’s get down to it then. You’re telling me that you got a goddamn time machine parked up in your lab; that right son?” Damon re-crossed his legs and leaned forward.
“That is essentially correct, yes.” The senator’s light grey eyes widened perceptibly.
“Holy shit!” he mouthed.

“Just so senator”, Damon said dryly. Merson took another deep drag on his cigarette and for a few moments said nothing. He studied the senator closely. Hidden behind the rough cowboy exterior, there was, he knew, a shrewd and calculating persona, an intelligent and very perceptive man. He knew something of the senator’s personal history, ex fighter pilot, tireless campaigner for space research funding, leading light on a number of defense related committees.

Merson tilted his head back and exhaled a seemingly endless stream of blue smoke. Damon watched with casual interest as the smoke rose and swirled in silent agitation. Watched as it encountered a stray sunbeam that dripped through a chink in the room’s light curtaining, and was transformed under the spot lit glare into a seething mad train of coruscating motes. Like a huge ballet company at rehearsal, pirouettes and pas de chat, entrechats and arabesques - chaotic, yet with a grace and style denied to ordinary mortals. Damon re-crossed his legs and waited. Finally the ‘dance director’ spoke. “And this machine; has it been... tested?”

“In a manner of speaking”, said Damon. The senator raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve pushed some rats through”, the younger man clarified.

“And these critters, they suffer any ill effects?” Damon shrugged.

“That, I can’t say. As yet there is no way I can bring subjects back.” Merson’s eyebrows rose another millimetre. “In that case son, how do you know the critters went in the first place?” Damon smiled.

“Fifteen years of my research and twenty five years of my father’s before me...all of it well documented...that’s how I know senator”, he said quietly. Merson nodded and made a steeple with his fingers. “And how long”, he murmured “Before you can go the whole hog...there and back?”
“With Government funding eighteen months; two years at most”, the younger man replied.

Merson tapped his fingertips together lightly, moved them apart and took another deep pull on his cigarette. Damon waited. The senator stubbed the cigarette out and looked keenly into Damon’s eyes. “Son”, he said, “I got a reputation for puttin’ my ass on the line for a whole passle of causes; but this”, he waved a hand in the air, “sure as hell is somethin’ else!”

“I can understand that senator. I’ve been intimately involved in this project for a major part of my life and even I sometimes have to pinch myself”. Merson nodded, drummed his fingers on the inlaid leather desk and said: “How much cash we talkin’ son?”

“Well like I said, most of the development work has been done already. The Foundation has put millions in; but we’d need”, Damon screwed his face up in concentration, “Maybe fifteen, twenty million over the next two years.”

Merson ‘hmmmed’ reflectively, then said: “Tell you what son, I’m goin’ to have a parley with the Head Honcho on this one. Then I’d like to come visit; take a closer look at things, ok?” Damon nodded.

“Fine senator; I’d appreciate that.” Damon rose to take his leave. As he did so the senator said: “Before you go son, just one thing. You’ve come this far without government cash - why now; surely you could raise twenty mill elsewhere?” Damon held his hand out.

“Simple senator, the whole thing”, he said, “is really too big for one man and one philanthropic trust to contend with”. Merson nodded slightly and shook Damon’s hand warmly.
“Fair enough son; you send some facts an’ figures marked for my personal attention, an’ I’ll parley with the Man, get back to you in a week or so.”

* * *

Val made herself a snack in the kitchen of the spacious apartment that formed the top floor of the three-storey Foundation building. Damon had lived in the apartment for almost twelve months, after old Professor Wilkins had suffered a fatal heart attack and he had taken on the Professor’s role as Research Head. Then they had married, and she had had five months to bring a woman’s touch to bear on what had been a depressingly functional male habitat. As she carried her tray through to the living room she cast an appreciative eye over some of her little triumphs. The dark brown leather suite had given way to a pale green, tassel fringed, velvet three-seater, with matching armchairs. The dark, hard, chisel-cut carpet had been replaced by one that was soft, thick piled and coffee and cream. The chunky mantle and table statuary had been relegated to the attic storeroom and replaced with Cappo Di Monte. She smiled and thought: ‘another couple of months and I’ll have it just as I want.’

Three floors down in the gathering gloom a shadowy, furtive figure, glided towards a rear window. A middle aged, thickset man with heavy Slavic features and thick loose- lipped mouth, peered intently into the building and chuckled. A hairy-fingered hand reached out and lifted the edge of a window box while its mate slid beneath it and after a groping second, came out with a heavy key.

When he had opened the door he would have thirty seconds to punch in the three-digit combination to the alarm box, before all hell broke loose.

The man moved to the back door, inserted the key and for the second time that day, smiled as a lock mechanism clicked open. He pushed the door and stepped quickly through. Once inside he moved purposely to a nearby wall, reached up and tapped three times on the number pad of a head high black box. With bated breath he waited as the seconds crawled by.

It had occurred to him that the alarm combination could have been changed. But the bright anger in his brain and the almost religious fervour of a conviction that demanded retribution, led him blindly on.

The alarm was de-activated. Wiping his sweaty palms on his pants legs the man moved off down the dim corridor. He passed a number of doors on each side, but paid them no attention. These, he knew, led to various admin offices and held nothing to interest him; their occupants, like the others on the first and second floors, had several hours ago left for their own homes. Only one part of the building was now inhabited - and that was where he was bound. But before that he had one stop to make. He drew level with an open door that led into a small kitchen. Here were coffee making facilities, a sink unit and drainer and a work top with drawers under. The man entered, moved over to a drawer, slid it open, and after a brief rummage, removed a long bladed, wooden handled knife with a serrated edge. He ran his finger over the serrations and nodded slowly. It would do nicely. Slipping the weapon into his waistband he left the tiny room and continued on his way.

The man reached the end of the corridor, opened a door, and emerged into a spacious, high ceilinged lobby lit by a single large chandelier. To the right was the front entrance door; to the left a wide staircase rose majestically and curved gently out of sight. At the foot of this staircase, and just to the right, the doors to an elevator were visible. He advanced into the lobby and made his way over to the staircase. He would climb rather than ride; for the elevator motor room was above the third floor apartment and he wanted to arrive unannounced; particularly so if, as he suspected, there was at this moment, only one other person in the building.

He placed a hand on the banister and with head cocked to one side listened intently. There was no sound other than his heavy breathing. Satisfied, he began to climb. The first floor was taken up by laboratories and offices, which were, classified as low-level security. Here the Foundation scientists and researchers were engaged on a variety of projects covering aspects of agriculture, metallurgy, and pharmaceuticals. Higher, and he reached the second floor, where he paused and peered in through a nine inch square wire mesh enforced window set head high within a solid oak door. “Mine”, he grunted. “My lab, my brain, my work...I made it possible”. He turned from the window and glanced up the staircase, his face a mask of hate, his eyes glowing black coals. “And now”, he mouthed, “Tibor Varkas, pays back...”

At the third floor the staircase turned out onto a small well lit landing, in the middle of which was a solitary door. Varkas approached and placing an ear against the cool wood, listened for several seconds. Apart from the muted sound of music there was silence. He was just about to move his head, when he heard a telephone ring. Seconds later there was the sound of a door closing and the ringing stopped. Varkas pressed his ear closely against the wood.
Inside the apartment Val tied the bath towel tightly around her and spoke into the handset.
“Hi hon, how’d it go?”
“Pretty well I think Val. He’s a wily old bird; but I’m sure he’s the right man. At any rate he’s taking it to the President...” Val cut in:
“To the President!”
“That’s right love, to the man himself.” Val whistled.

“Well then”, she said, “That means he must be really interested. What did he actually say?” Damon smiled into the phone.
“Tell you later love, I’m at the airport now.” Val nodded.
“Ok hon. What time will you get home then?” Damon did a rapid calculation in his head. “Oh, say ...about three a.m. I reckon.” Val pulled a wry face. “Three a.m.! I can’t stay awake till that time baby.”

“Well then”, chuckled Damon, “You’ll just have to put your female nosiness on ice till tomorrow...won’t you?” She laughed throatily and said: “Pig!” then: “Have you got your apartment key?” Damon quickly rummaged through his pockets, checked his business key ring, and sheepishly admitted: “Er, no, fraid not, must have left it at home.”
Val turned her eyes heavenwards and chided: “Honestly! Damon Carter-Brown. You just have to be a Professor!” She waited for him to laugh. “You’ll have to use the key under the mat...again!” Outside the door Varkas held a hand against his mouth as a high-pitched giggle bubbled from his lips.

“Ok hon, I gotta go now”, Val said. “You caught me in the middle of a shower and I’m dripping all over my nice new carpet!”
“We can’t have that”, said Damon. “Cost me an arm and a leg!”

“Skinflint!” she moaned; then, “Be safe baby, bye... see you in the morning.” Damon blew a kiss then hung up.

Val smiled into the phone, replaced it softly on its cradle and made her way back to the bathroom. Outside, Varkas waited for the sound of a closing door, then wiped the back of his hand against his mouth and bent to retrieve the key. Inside, he quietly closed the door behind him and looked across the room. He had been in the apartment a number of times before, and was familiar with its layout. The bathroom, he knew, was just down the passageway that led off from the living room in which he was standing.

Throwing a quick look around him he moved past the telephone table, noticing with a little thrill as he did so, the damp patch on the pale carpet. He smiled and wiped the back of his hand once more across his mouth. ‘So’, he thought, ‘the English bastard’s not here. Pity. But then this could be even better. He’s moved his woman in. I’ll enjoy showing her what a real man can do...’

Silently he crept down the dimly lit passageway, and then paused to listen at the closed door that led into the bathroom. From inside there came the sounds of running water and the soft tinkle of a female voice in song. Varkas grinned and moved quietly on down the passage towards an open door that spilled a slash of light out onto the passage floor. This, he knew, led into the master bedroom. He entered the room and made his way over to the large bed, upon which, lay, neatly placed, a gossamer fine, white negligee. He leaned forward, gathered up the flimsy garment and crushed it to his mouth and nose, snuffling deeply like a hunting dog at a spoor. He threw the negligee down on the bed, then slowly began to remove his blue prison issue cotton shirt and dungarees.

Val drew back the shower curtain and daintily stepped out into the steam filled bathroom. She reached for a fat white bath towel and began to dry off. As she did so she reflected on Damon’s news. ‘The President!’ she thought. ‘Why, he might even come visit, just to see for himself!’ She’d certainly need a new outfit if he did, and new shoes, and a brand new hairstyle too! She rubbed the damp towel over her thick dark hair and grinned at her steam-hazed reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror.

In the bedroom, the hairy, naked man stood in front of his reflection in the full-length wardrobe mirror. In his hand he held a crumpled white, flimsy garment. Slowly he raised it to his chest then drew it down across his belly and into the dense, wiry blackness of his groin. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and whimpered as the soft, cool material enveloped his throbbing manhood.

Val hummed a tune to herself, as she emerged naked from the bathroom and skipped out into the dim passageway. In three quick strides she reached the half open door of the bedroom, pushed the door and entered breezily. She wriggled her damp toes in the deep piled carpet and moved over to the side of the bed. She reached her hand out, and then suddenly, stopped, a puzzled look on her glowing face. Her negligee lay, like a crumpled piece of paper, in a ball on the creamy satin bed quilt. As she leant forward to pick the garment up, a movement in the mirror caught her eye. She glanced quickly up - and her heart suddenly froze in terror. Reflected in the mirror, was a naked, grinning man holding a long bladed knife. She whirled around and backed against the mirror, a tiny part of her brain registering the shock of cold contact.

The man leered at her and advanced, holding the knife loosely at his side. Val, in horror took in his repulsive hairiness, his broad chest, knotted arms and most shocking of all, his thick-veined, erect penis.

She dragged her hypnotised eyes away from his organ and looked into his face “You!” she gasped, her heart suddenly hammering wildly against her ribcage. “Yes Me”, Varkas sniggered, drinking in her smooth, long limbed form. Tasting the curve of her thighs, her hips and her full, heaving breasts.

Val swallowed and from somewhere dredged up anger. “Are you mad!” she hissed. “You can’t get away with this; Damon is due home any minute.”

“Is that so?” he cooed, licking his lips slowly. Val flattened herself against the mirror, her moist palms pressing into the unyielding glass.

Varkas took another step forward and she exploded into movement. Using her palms, she launched herself off the mirror and at his face. Taken by surprise he staggered backwards and yelped as her lean fingers raked along his stubbled jaw. His wide eyes became vicious slits and a hairy paw swung upwards in a swift arc and thumped sickeningly into her temple. Val’s head snapped sideways with the brute force of the blow and she crumpled in a loose-limbed heap upon the carpet.

Varkas fingered the four long furrows on his cheek and glared down at the unconscious figure. He flung the knife violently to the floor, then with a harsh barking laugh he reached down, closed a vicelike hand around her upper arm and dragged her up and half onto the bed. He bent forward, thrust an arm behind her sagging knees and grunting, flung her face down on the cool quilt.
Panting with anger, pain and lust; he stared down at her still form; at the silky curve of her back, the soft, ripe swell of her pale buttocks. He placed a thick, black nailed finger on one of her shoulders, and began to trace a slow, zigzag path down smooth slope, up rounded incline. He flattened his sweaty hand and cupped one of her buttocks, then savagely, spasmodically, crushed the unresponsive flesh.

Val groaned and flinched. His eyes grew bright and hard, his thick lips sagged open. Without moving his hand he changed position, moved away from her head and down towards her lower legs. He now moved his hand, fingers first down the narrow, tight valley between her buttocks and towards her most secret place. There he stopped, altered his hand position so that his fingers were pointing directly at her sex. Slowly he folded his first and second finger into his palm then followed with the thumb. With third and forefinger rigidly extended like the barrels of an over and under shotgun, he paused, savouring the moment; before with an animal cry, he brutally plunged forward into her soft hot womanhood.

Val groaned as his pistoning, black, ragged nailed fingers lacerated her flesh. This admission of pain, even though unconscious, roused him further. He withdrew his bloodied fingers and savagely flipped her over onto her back, drew her legs up into the air and with a squeal, thrust his bursting organ into her.

Val slowly clawed her way to the surface of a sea of pain. She opened her eyes and a vision from hell swam before them. His sweaty, blood filled, lust filled face, carnally intent, hung inches from hers. Hot, foul-smelling breath from his open mouth broke in panting waves over her, while a stream of saliva coursed down his chin and dripped like burning acid onto her pale cheek. A scream bubbled at her lips, and two thick hairy hands that were savagely kneading her breasts, rose like fat, pale, five legged spiders; scrabbled over her chest – and pounced upon her terror taut throat.

© Peter Clayfield, September 2005

Please let us know what you thought, and we will pass on your comments to the author. Remember to enter a valid email address along with your comments.

Click to return to the top of the page.