Sunday, November 4, 2007

Overwhelming Evidence - Starting a new book

Chapter 1

Unlike other more ordinary destinations across the south, Concordia parish did not suffer well the more common term for the purple haze of twilight. Nightfall would never do. In Concordia parish night would never aspire to something as clumsy or unrefined as falling. In Concordia parish the night arrived.

That arrival was often heralded with the melodic warble of cardinals settling in for the night, the occasional haunting calls of the osprey defending their nests and the sporadic delicate titter of the tufted titmouse providing a final evening melody.
A blanket of cicadas and crickets, along with the sonorous undulations of a variety of frogs, were harbinger to the majestic advent of this night’s arrival.

And as with all majestic advents, more than a modicum of intrigue and Machiavellian machinations clung to the purple cape of this particular day’s closing.

Michael Landon Marceaux sat in Hurley’s café, fingers wrapped around a heavy china mug of coffee, oblivious to such underhanded maneuverings. Instead intent on the wide polished oak door the other side of Ferriday, Louisiana’s main street, where he’d watched her disappear.

He tried to recall that last time he’d seen her. It had been his father’s death that had brought him home. Still in his last year of law at Tulane, he’d been surprised to find her standing among the knot of somber mourners that rainy day who’d come to say goodbye.

Their eye’s had met at the graveside and she’d been the first to look away. A small parade of polite hugs, brusque handshakes and hollow well wishes preceded her apparition. Restrained, though sincere, her expression of regret had been heartfelt.

“I was so sorry to hear, Landon. He was such a good man. Thank God you’re just like him. What can I say?”

His first thought had been, I’ve been a fool Landon, would be nice. Instead he’d let her slender fingers slip from his hand and had said, “You look different, Creolla. I don’t know what it is. But different.”

She’d blushed and he’d smiled.

“And you look the same, Landon. You’re still my rock. You’ll always be my rock.”

He’d found it difficult to resolve such words of possession and durability as my and rock when measured against the ethereal remains of what had been his first true love.
“You’ll forget me. I mean, you’re going to Tulane. To New Orleans. To college. You’ll be out in the world and I’ll just be here,” she’d said as they’d kissed the pure and sincere kiss only high school sweethearts are capable of the night before his leaving.

“Never,” he’d said with the fervent sincerity only a small-town boy on the cusp of manhood could muster.

And he hadn’t. She’d haunted his dreams for weeks after his father’s funeral. And now, Ten years later, just the sight of her walking into Mason’s had brought the tender touch of her lips back to his along with a burning anger that surprised him.

No, it had been Creolla that had let go. It had been her letter just before Christmas his first year at Tulane that had declared her continued love just before saying how impossible it had all become.

Landon, dear, you must always know how much I love you. Just as I know I must not hold you back. I know in my heart you must be free. I know my love is not enough and that we are an impossible dream.

She’d glanced his way unseeing as she’d accepted Ethan Tyler Billodeaux’s hand and stepped from the low slung sports car they’d arrived in.

Her lilting laugh had penetrated the glass front of the Hurley’s café just before she was swallowed up by the quiet elegance of Mason’s restaurant.

She’d filled out. Become a woman. The watercolor of beauty she’d been ten years ago had transformed. She’d become a masterpiece in deep rich strokes of oil that fairly glowed on the drab canvas that was Ferriday.

Landon scowled as he dropped a few bills on the table beside his empty coffee cup. He wondered if she’d be there tomorrow to bid farewell to his mother as well.


The candle flickered and caught. Her hands moved to the next, the match burning short as the wick sputtered to life.

She regarded him with hooded eyes before crawling around on the bed like a cat to find her spot. With a throaty moan she stretched into the satin sheets before assuming her pose. The one he wanted. The one that brought ardor to the brutal sport their lovemaking had become over the years. The frightened submissive that had been so real all those years ago.

Before the thought could fade she amended. No, there is no lovemaking here, just carnal self-indulgence and mutual self-fulfillment.

Pushing her head into the pillow, she raised her ass and spread her knees finding perch on the mattress and waited. When the mattress sagged, she moaned. The warm weight of his palm on her rump brought a whimper of anticipation to her throat.

“Yes,” she whispered pulling balls of satin sheet into her fists as he started his rutting.

His hard body draped over hers and he sneered into her ear, “You’re just a whore.”

“Yes,” She mewed and pushed back against him.

“Nothing but a fucking whore.”

Her throat felt dry and her eyes closed as she gulped.

He lifted off her back and arched his own leaning into her, plumbing her depths with his hard cock and then the yelling started.

“I know what a whore like you needs!”

Their sweating bodies slapped together as her smoldering need burst into flames.

“A whore like you never gets enough!”

“No,” she grunted in submissive agreement.

“A whore like you isn’t happy at home, waiting!”

Her hips rocked to accommodate when he slammed into her again.

“A whore like you isn’t happy with just one cock!”

She tightened around him and exhaled in a long sigh.

“A filthy rutting whore like you wants her cunt used!”

Her breath caught.

“A fucking bitch in heat like you has to have it in her all the time!”

With the force of a freight train it hit. Her whole body exploded in one big convulsion and her legs went numb. But he didn’t stop. She new he could last an eternity and she hoped he did.

“A fucking whore like you would do it on the courthouse lawn in broad daylight if I wanted you to!”

All control was gone as her body quivered and quaked, the last of her strength being fucked away by his unrelenting cock while he proved his stamina once again.

When he pulled her hair back and slammed into her harder, her jaw fell slack from the mind numbing pleasure.

“Yes,” he hissed, “You’d fuck anything. You’d have fucked our waitress tonight if I’d wanted you to!”

“Yes,” she mumbled. She knew she would. She already had. Right here in this bed. She knew she would always do anything he wanted. Anything he demanded.

“You would have eaten her pussy right there on the table,” he grunted.

“Fuck,” an explanation of overwhelming pleasure as her head lulled and he pulled her hair harder, her back swaying.

“You would have watched me fuck her first! Watched me fill her with come!”

“Yes. Yes,” her voice was a breathy wisp of concordance. She could hear the roar of the freight train in her head. She knew it was going to hit her again. Slam her body into blissful oblivion.

“Then you would have eaten her! Made her come!”

“Yes!” she yelled in response to his thundering narration of things she’d already done too many times to count.

“You need it!”

Her breathing became a hard pant, she felt limp and weak and spent but she could feel it lurking, feel the tracks vibrate. She knew it was waiting just out of sight from the tingle in her thighs and clenching of her stomach. She heard his breathing quicken with each hard slam into her sopping cunt.

“Yes,” she moaned as his body stiffened, his cock swelled, and he exploded filling her with his foul seed. And as unstoppable as a freight train, her freight train, she exploded a second time. She exploded only as he could make her and clung desperately to her rock.

“Anything,” she whimpered as they collapsed in a heap on the sheets.

And, once again, as always happened in the aftermath of their angry masochistic couplings; her mind flooded with disgust and revulsion.

It was not at Ethan Tyler Billodeaux or her father.

But with herself and what she’d become. The willing heartless whore he wanted. The same whore that couldn’t wait to have his hands on her body. The same whore that craved his bitter fruit and lived and breathed just for him.

With renewed resolve she watched him snore as she pulled her dress on.


Rhian said...

whew! fanning self.
that's some real southern heat you're cooking up JP.

Lisa Andel said...

Isn't it Rhian?

Hey RJ, you gonna delete this comment too????

Rhian said...

RJ - y'all are supposed to comment back to the comments left for you, otherwise it gets real borin' fast.

Roscoe James said...

Glad you enjoyed Rhian. Now I have to finish the thing. Lol.

Give me a week.


Roscoe James said...

Naw, Lisa, I'll let this one go.


Rhian said...

a WEEK!?!
you're fast.
i think i'm jealous.

ps - thank you for not deleting me as it appears you have a habit of doing? really. thank you. i hate being deleted. it's so... final.

Roscoe James said...

Actually, I have a third completed but out of order. I went crazy one day and started moving things around. Once I get that straightened out I'll finish it up.