Spyder's Web

Every time I fuck, somebody dies.

I know what you're thinking: this woman's crazy. I assure you, I'm not. It doesn't matter the time, place, or position, the end result is always the same. All my attempts to gain fulfillment leave me greatly disappointed and my partner, well, dead.

I've tried to abstain, believe me. It doesn't last long. Abstinence brings the madness. Not the benign dementia that sometimes comes with old age, but the bad kind. It controls my thoughts and actions, and I'm reduced to nothing more than an animal in heat. Only fucking will bring me clarity. I fight it, of course, but the need always wins.

Always.

I don't want to kill people, honest. I've searched the world over trying to find a cure. In my darkest moments, it seems like an early death is the only way out.

Truth is, I don't want to die.

There's one person who can help me. I just have to find him. My mate, the one destined to be my partner and protector, the one who can ease my desire without consequence. With him, I can put my condition behind me and live a normal life.

I hope.

I'd wanted to start fresh in this city and was determined to keep a low profile. Last time, I got a little careless. The cops discovered a couple of bodies. They logged each case into their computer and assigned it a number to match the tagged body I caressed the night before. Inevitably, my name became attached to these cases with the notation "friend of a friend" or "girl down the hall." When enough files were generated, people took notice.

Now someone is trailing me.

Just like last time.

Don't worry; I always get rid of all those smart-ass cops...eventually.

I approach the sex club. The optimism I had when I first came to New York is almost gone. Finding my mate here was a pipe dream. Now I just need to fuck so I can get through this moon cycle. Then I'll move on.

I fix my gaze on the large neon sign above the entrance. A theater mask glows bright pink next to the word MASQUERADE. You've probably heard of the place. It's one of those sex clubs reminiscent of Studio 54 in its prime. Taboo yet irresistible at the same time. Here, you're required to come in costume. I like the idea of pretending to be somebody I'm not. I become bolder, take risks. With an unknown identity the consequences of my actions virtually disappear, and anything becomes possible.

I haven't been out clubbing since the cop started to tail me. I tried to lose him on my way here, but he managed to find me again. Even now he sits across the street in that unmarked Crown Vic he likes to drive. He's watching me in his trademark white T-shirt and leather jacket. A trail of smoke climbs up from his cigarette to the full moon behind him. Part of me wants to turn around and go home. I know the temptation of this place will bring my suffering to a whole new level, but the music calls. I long for the dark corners of the dance floor, where a steady beat and the smell of sex rule. For a while I want to leave the curse at the door and pretend I'm just like any other woman looking for a good lay on a Saturday night.

My purse shifts from one shoulder to the other as I make my way down the sidewalk. The cop's eyes follow me from the driver's seat of that ridiculous car. You'd think he'd at least get sick of his job, but no. He's always there, watching me. Night after night he follows me around town, those green eyes piercing the dark air between us. Every night I see his parked car from my bedroom window and those large green eyes haunt my sleep. It's enough to drive a poor woman mad.

As if my lack of sex this month couldn't accomplish that on its own. Since I've had the cop on my trail, I haven't exactly been free to have sexual encounters, not without going to jail. Now, with the moon at its peak, the curse roars within me. I've tried settling for a vibrator the past couple of days in hopes the cop would give up and go away. He didn't, of course, and the vibrator only served to increase my need.

I've gone so long without sex that the madness hovers at the edges of my mind. It's why I'm risking everything and coming here tonight. When I fuck, only one person dies. When I abstain, the madness settles in, and what would have been just one fuck becomes an endless spree.

If only that cop in the Crown Vic over there could see it from my perspective. I'm doing humanity a service by going out tonight. It's my civic duty to come to this club and find a target. I limit my sex partners, my targets, to the erotic underworld where the risks are a fact of life. Nobody wants to see innocent people killed, do they?

The bouncer nods to me and opens the door. I glance one last time across the street and step inside. Surely Mr. Honorable Cop wouldn't follow me in here.

Would he?

The click of my heels on the steps is absorbed into the usual Saturday night music and chatter of the club. I pause at the bottom of the stairs. The normal weekend crowd is present, plus a few more. People pack the place, which is unusual for eleven o'clock. Normally it takes another two hours for the party to get going. I like the crowd, though--more people bring more opportunities.

Tonight I chose a favorite costume in my closet, a sexy little angel. I love the way the white silk and lace rub against my skin as I walk. The short white mini accentuates my best feature--gorgeously long legs. They're bare, of course. Stockings get hot and constricting. Besides, why would I hide my best asset under fishnet?

I survey the club as I make my way over to the bar. The costumes here range from the innocuous to the obscene. Some are dancing, some are talking, but most are fucking in various stages of undress on the outskirts of the room. I watch the faces of ecstasy as they climb their individual mountains of pleasure. Jealousy sinks into my heart. I wish I could be like them. Their greatest concern tonight is whether they will reach their peak before their partner calls it quits.

Earlier tonight I sprinkled gold glitter on my pale skin to accentuate the gold flecks in my eyes. I can feel myself shimmer in the low light. The halo and wings on my body are not too big, but not too small, either. The costume is perfectly suited for someone who wants to portray the image of innocence and virtue. I find most men like to believe they're fucking a virgin, even though your tongue can do things that would make most innocents blush.

Although he's hidden from sight, I feel the cop's bright green gaze slide over my body. The man is either sexually curious or crazy obsessive about his job. With my luck, it's the latter.

Damn it, where is he?

I choose a spot at the bar and cross my legs. I'm pleased that I can see the whole room at this angle. My body begins to thrum with the beat to the music. From here, I can look out over the room and weigh my options. I can also search for the source of my frustration without being obvious.

The bartender comes over to take my order. I have been here so often that words aren't necessary. She takes out the margarita glass and begins to fix my drink. I prefer whiskey on the rocks, but I find the drink tends to be rather intimidating for my targets. They expect their women to buy fruity, girly drinks. It's easier to accommodate their fantasies than to defend why you can drink them under the table any night of the week.

I make small talk with the bartender as she pours the tequila, Gran Centenario, of course. The other brands are undrinkable. Neither one of us is interested in conversation beyond the usual pleasantries. She places the margarita on the bar and leaves to find another thirsty soul.

My eyes turn to a couple a few seats down from me. The man's a regular. He's wearing a fireman's uniform, though I doubt it's his true occupation. The jacket and hat engulf his puny form. The only skin visible in the dim light is his cock, sticking out from his pants.

In places like these, you identify the men not by their faces, but the size of their cocks. I recognize this cock as one of the regulars. I've seen him fuck others before, but I've never been interested. He's not my type. Good thing for him.

His partner doesn't seem to mind his puny size. The girl hunches over his hips in an absurd pink bunny suit. Her large ears move back and forth between his legs, and she sucks his cock like it's a straw in her favorite milkshake. Her head moves in and out with the familiar rhythm. He grasps her head and nudges her farther down his shaft. He rolls his head back, and his eyes close in ecstasy.

Jealousy cuts through me like a razor as my own need intensifies. They'll most likely orgasm tonight, something I've never done, myself. Fucking, for me, releases the curse's hold and clears my head. I become human again, if only for a little while. It's never about pleasure, or worse--love.

I uncross my legs and take a sip of the margarita. The sticky-sweet liquid mixes with the salt on the rim and leaves my mouth dry. Watching the fireman and the bunny almost causes me to explode with need. The curse marches through my veins like an army going to battle. It demands my obedience.

I fight it with another sip of my drink. If I could only lose that darn cop. I can't very well snag a target while I'm under surveillance.

Where is he, anyway?

I feel those green eyes cover me like a blanket. I tear my gaze away from the couple and look toward the far end of the bar.

Gotcha. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my shadow sitting on a stool in the corner of the room. He isn't in costume. I'm surprised the bouncer let him inside. Maybe he flashed his badge. Cops are like that, flashing badges to get into the places they shouldn't.

I sip my drink and study him from under my long lashes. God, he's sexy, in a fifties-era-bad-boy sort of way. He doesn't attempt to hide from me, and I wonder why he decided to come out of the shadows tonight. He could've arrived in costume and blended in with the crowd. Heck, he could've worn his uniform, and no one would've noticed. Instead, he chose to sit out in the open and watch me.

He wears the same thing he wears every night: blue jeans, white T-shirt, and a leather jacket. The outfit seems out of place on such a warm summer night. A lit cigarette hangs out of his mouth. He probably thinks of himself as some James Dean look-alike. With his sandy hair and angular features, I suppose he could pass for James Dean in another venue, but he appears too uncomfortable here to pull it off. I caress his body with my eyes as I sip my drink. He could easily be one of my targets. I imagine his naked body covering mine. I wonder what his skin would feel like as my hands explore those muscles accentuated by that leather jacket...

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and return my gaze to my glass. Too bad he's a cop. They don't like it when you kill one of their own. Fucking my shadow over there would only enlarge the bull's-eye on my back.

As soon as I pick a target, I'll have to ditch him. There's no way I'm spending another night alone with that vibrator. Who knows? Maybe this new target will be able to satisfy me. Maybe I'll experience that orgasm I hear so much about before he dies.

A very unladylike snort erupts from my mouth. No one will ever be able to give me an orgasm. I've been through this too many times to gain any pleasure from it. No, I have sex for one purpose only: to keep the madness at bay.

A loud groan erupts from in front of me, and I lift my head from my glass to the fireman. While I was studying my drink, his hat had come off, and his bald patch reflects the club lights. Beads of sweat cling to his face and shimmer under the dim lamps over the bar.

I turn back to my drink and cross my legs the other way. The ache between them becomes unbearable.

I wrinkle my nose and bring the glass to my lips. The cop catches my eye, and I glance in his direction. Tingles shoot up my spine under his intense stare. He raises his glass to me and winks. So he wants to play, eh? Okay, buddy, I'm game...

Our eyes lock as the fireman's grunts become louder and the bunny ears move faster. I move my finger absently around the rim of the margarita, sending absurdly large salt crystals crashing to the napkin underneath the glass, and then bring it to my waiting lips. The cop raises his eyebrow. The grunting sounds become louder, and I glance at the couple. Heat washes over me as the bunny ears move quicker and quicker. I turn back to the cop and smile. He nods. I slide my tongue out between my lips and stroke the tip of my finger. The white crystals stick to my tongue and I draw them inside. The salt leaves my throat dry, but my actions have the desired effect. The cop's mouth turns up into a lazy half smile as he takes a sip from his drink.

I can tell the fireman is close to climax by the tone of his grunts. I imagine the cop and I are alone and it's his groans of pleasure I hear. Again, I sweep my finger around the glass, picking up a few more grains of salt before returning it to my tongue. I feel hot and wet but can't seem to stop torturing myself. I know the cop's off-limits, but need overrides my good sense.

A fuzzy fog settles in my brain, dulling my thoughts.

I slip out my tongue and circle the tip of my finger. All the time I watch for the cop's reaction. He coughs and strokes the outside of his glass with his hand. I continue to lick my finger while the fireman climbs higher and higher.

The fog becomes thicker as the tension in my own body rises, along with the temperature of the room. The cop's hand tightens on his glass; his eyes darken. I become bolder, taking my entire finger down to the knuckle in my mouth. The cop wets his lips with his tongue. I want to capture that tongue with my teeth and pull it into my mouth. I wonder what he tastes like. Is he sweet or salty? I want to know.

The fog inches further into my brain, and I close my eyes. I let out a quiet moan even though I know the cop couldn't possibly hear me from across the room.

When the fireman cries his release, I feel a small sense of loss. I lower my hand and wrap it around my margarita to hide the emptiness. With a smile painted on my face, I open my eyes and struggle for clarity.

Don't let it be too late.

When the madness settles in, there is a point of no return. I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize I haven't reached it. No sexual orgy tonight. At least, not yet.

Within seconds, the fog dissipates. I raise my margarita to the cop.

That was a little too close for comfort. He raises his glass. The brown liquid sloshes inside as he brings it to his lips. The contents vanish in one gulp before he returns the glass to the bar. He takes a drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke out of his lungs. It curls upward and forms a lazy circle above his head.

The fireman and his bunny move away. Neither the cop nor myself make a move toward each other. I'm okay with it. He's an untouchable. I'd be better off picking out another target, someone safe. My body pulses with the club music, and I begin to relax. I scan the room.

Maybe I could send the cop a little distraction...

"Come here often?"

I raise my eyebrow at the large man dressed as Batman staring down at me. His suit is one size too small and his belly hangs out, as if he raided his kid's closet for a Halloween costume. He shuffles his feet, and I find myself focusing on the pink cheeks poking out from underneath the mask.

He's had too much to drink.

I hear a loud sniff and watch him rub his nose.

Did this guy actually think he would score with me? Thankfully, the curse hasn't consumed me to the point where I have no standards. I feel my stomach turning at the thought of his hands on my body. There are too many other men here for me to settle. Besides, I'm under surveillance. I have to distract that cop before I can make my move.

I turn away from him and watch the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. Hopefully this guy will take the hint.

"This is my first time," he says.

No kidding? I give him my best "go away" look.

"I'm Hank." He extends his hand toward me.

Hank probably isn't his real name. The man should know better than to use his name in a place like this. Names are hardly ever exchanged. The point is to explore your innermost fantasies--and to be anonymous. You become whatever your costume says you are. Not Hank or Alice, but Batman and--

"Want to fuck?"

At least he's direct. "No, I'm waiting for someone." I look out over the room and pick out a target on the far side. He doesn't look like much, but anything is better than this guy. "Excuse me."

Batman grabs my arm as I move to leave. I gape at his hand. No one has ever contradicted me before. When I say no, they normally go away. Why does he waste time trying to convince me when there are so many others in this place? For some, one partner is as good as another.

Evidently, Batman thinks differently. I drag my eyes up to his red, angry face. This guy must not be used to being dismissed. The aroma of alcohol and pretzels washes over me and sends an involuntary cringe through my body. I pull my arm from his grasp and pick up my purse.

"You can't walk away from me," he says.

Charming. This guy knows how to sweep a gal right off her feet.

"Of course I can; watch me." I wiggle from his grasp and walk away. I don't get far before he grabs my elbow and whirls me around to face him. My body crashes into his, and my nose wrinkles at his smell.

"Oh no you don't." When he speaks, little drops of spittle shoot out of his mouth and hit me in the face.

Disgusting. Who does this guy think he is, anyway?

"I said no." I pull my arm, but he holds tight.

He grabs my backside with his free hand, and the curse howls inside me. I have gone too long without, and I need something--anything--to take the edge off. He pulls me up against his bulging cock. Heat pours through my body as he rubs himself against my thigh.

"You need to be taught more respect," he says.

I can feel the burn between my legs, and I consider giving him what he wants. He'd deserve it for the way he treated me. The surprised look on his face in his moment of death would be worth the momentary discomfort.

Then I notice the ring on his finger. This poor slob has a wife at home. I couldn't go through with it. She didn't deserve to be made a widow--even if her husband was a total creep.

"Maybe some other time." I wiggle my hips and feel his erection push against me.

He grabs my hair and pulls it back. The jerky movement leaves my mouth open. He leans down to kiss me and my eyes close. I force my mind blank. If I don't think about it, maybe it won't be so bad...

"No, not some other time. You'll be taught respect tonight," he murmurs right before his tongue plunges into the back of my throat.

I struggle, blinking back tears as his grip tightens in my hair. His mouth is hard and demanding against mine. I feel around on the bar for something to hit him with, but come up empty. I could try to scream, but no one would come. Not here.

I begin to resign myself to my fate. I slowly let my body give in to the kiss and shut down my mind. A thick blue fog pulls at the edges of my consciousness. I brace myself against the bar under the onslaught of drool and tongue.

Suddenly, the kiss breaks and Batman's bulky weight is pulled off me. I open my eyes.

My cop has Batman up against the wall. He pins my assailant with his arm at the throat.

"She said no." His voice is low, husky, and much sexier than I imagined.

Batman sputters. "Hey, man, I was only having a little fun."

The cop lets him down. "Have it somewhere else."

Batman raises his hands in the air. "I didn't realize she was with you. No hard feelings."

"Get out of here, before I change my mind."

Batman nods at me and hurries across the room. I smile at his retreating form. Good riddance.