The Daily Parker

Politics, Weather, Photography, and the Dog

Fiction: E.M.F.

"Jessica!" Her name, screamed so close in that small place, brings them both back to earth. He pulls out, startled as she jumps and sees the man standing above them. His face is purple, raging; his eyes bulging, bloodshot, manic. The man in the stall knows something is very wrong. As she gasps "Pete!" and moves in her nakedness to placate him, somehow, the man with her dresses hurriedly. "Pete" is motionless for a long moment, eyes unbelieving. But as "Jessica" tries to deny what he's just seen, he stirs. Quick backhand—"Lying slut!"—and she is thrown against the stall, her head making a loud, sickening crack. Her eyes roll back and she slumps into unconsciousness. "Pete" reaches behind him and looks the other man in the eye. "Who are you?" he asks in a surprisingly calm voice. "Alex." "Well, Alex, I just caught you fucking my wife. I don't like that. I'm gonna show you just how much I don't like it." And he pulls a large black gun from behind him. "Say goodbye, mother fucker." Gun starts to find its target, the finger starts to tighten.

But these stalls are not very private, and the walls between leave a big space between them and the floor. And Alex, thin and agile, rolls under the wall as Pete brings out his gun. Under the wall into the bathroom proper and he jumps up to make his escape. Hard to push through all these people but he must, and as Pete roars in anger behind him Alex makes his desperate way outside.

The night is cold and damp, and outside the safety of the club's lights the shadows offer no cover. He dashes away from the club—no time to find a cab—and looks for a place to hide. Pete is right behind and Alex knows that he must find somewhere to dodge him—or someplace to find a weapon to protect himself. His eyes light upon a large abandoned steel factory nearby. Run to it, around to a fire escape, jump up and climb three steps at a time, up to a higher level. Pete loses a moment making the jump. Alex gains precious time, smashes a door window with his elbow, inside the building. The door groans open and he is in, down dark halls in his run.

Pipes cover the walls and ceilings, dripping water or hissing steam; steel doors and safety glass windows; old machinery lying forgotten. A few wires spark as Alex runs past. There is the dull hum of great electrical power, dark foreboding in the cold, moist air.

Down a hall through a steel door to the stairs, down two flights to a large landing. Pete yells from not far enough behind. Alex checks the doors on the landing—impulse prefers one certain door but it's locked. Pete can now see Alex, though Pete is still two flights up. Alex feels the terror rise in his throat and his limbs stiffen for a heartbeat, but the sound of Pete's footsteps clanging on the metal stairs breaks the paralysis. Alex dashes through the only open door he can find on that landing.

He enters a large room in the shape of a "T"; his door is at the right side of the T's top bar. It is 60 feet to the opposite wall down a 15-foot-wide "hall;" the room's extension ahead to his left is maybe 25 feet across and 40 feet deep. There are pipes of varying sizes running along the walls and ceiling, dripping water and hissing steam like the rest. The extension to his left, as he scampers further in, contains some steel lockers in the center and to the right of the room-several lockers are bashed in, as though football players have attacked them. There are showers far ahead to the left, shrouded in darkness, urinals to his immediate left, and toilets between them. But the toilets have only partial walls between them and no doors or walls in front for privacy. That missing section is propped against the lockers and partially draped with grey workcloth. Other cloth sections hang around the room, moving slowly in a silent breeze. The far end of the extension is dark but the red flickering of an "EXIT" sign barely shows another steel door with a large safety-glass window, a panic bar to open it from this side, and a large padlock preventing that panic bar from ever working again.

Alex runs to the side of the room opposite from his entrance, past old broken metal folding chairs, dead fluorescent bulbs, coat racks still with a few ragged coats, safety glasses and hard hats, and shelves of discarded tools and assorted junk. But the door he reaches—its window a tiny safety-glass peephole—is also locked securely. Alex is trapped in this place.

He darts back to the open area again—hears Pete's footsteps almost at the entrance. There must be somewhere to hide, and quickly, or some weapon to find, or some way to elude Pete. But even in desperation Alex can find nothing—this is it, the chase will end in this room. All is lost. Alex sinks into the shadows of the farthest toilet stall, awaiting the inevitable. His thoughts fade to his damning tryst with "Jessica" in the club. He never knew she was married! Revelation too late, far too late. The experience comes back now, strong, flooding his mind against what's coming...

Picks her up on the dance floor-a little smaller than he's used to, but so hot! Such a beautiful, elegant face. Such a beautiful body! "Jessica," she calls herself. "I'm Alex," he replies. And it starts. She keeps right up with him, dancing with no inhibitions, clinging to him like wet clothing. The music slows and swells, he leans down for a quick, furtive kiss. Her lips open and her hands dig in-the kiss locks and tongues meet in the hammering of blood and lust. The world disappears as hands slide and grope; the primal, hungry kiss. He finds a breast with his right hand and her moan sends steam across his chest. Knead, knead, gnaw on her face; this cannot continue on the dance floor. He breaks off to maneuver them into the bathroom—doesn't matter which one—and into a private stall. Back to the feeding frenzy. Clothes melt away, his mouth slides down to the breast—suckle like a baby, nibble around the nipple—his hands stroke her ass. Her back arches, her teeth grind; she starts to shake. He leans her back against the door and she lowers herself a little. Her hands cup his balls and tickle them; his breath catches and he clamps down on that breast. She grabs his shaft and slides from scrotum to head, back, up, back; tug and tug and tug to swollen erection. He spreads her soft, dark legs and finds the hole under her mound with two fingers. Her hands move harder, more violently; he grabs and fondles and teases her insides. Juices come quickly, he can barely hold her-or hold himself back. No more waiting—frantic, hungry kisses and licking; he grabs her ass and lifts her up and to him. Her legs wrap around the small of his back as he slides into her-so hot, so tight, so wet. Oh yes! Yes! Pump away, grunts, flesh slapping, moans, devour each other. (No notice of the man peeking over the stall, of the fury burning his eyes as Pete recognizes his beautiful wife fucking another man.) Alex, his eyes closed, can see the light, the rush of Paradise roaring towards him. The light, so strong! The sounds, so loud! He groans to welcome it...Ecstasy, mother fucker!



All is dark.

Copyright ©1992 Sean Pearson

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