tagIllustratedLady Killer

Lady Killer

byCorpse_rider©

Noun 1. lady killer - a man who takes advantage of women seducer; a dissolute person; usually a man who is morally unrestrained.


She almost missed seeing him. In fact, Beverly had not noticed anyone on the wooden footbridge at first. It was only when her cairn terrier, Trudy, ran off in the direction of the bridge that she noticed him. Something about seeing the man, or perhaps the sudden realisation someone was on the footbridge, made her stop and check herself. She pulled away strands of wind-blown hair from across her face, to obtain a clearer view or the stranger. Despite his bent frame from leaning on the hand rails, Beverly could tell he was a tall man. His face was angled away from her concealing his features. He had a shock of auburn hair, ruffled and windswept. He seemed to be staring out at the horizon, where the cold Atlantic sea kissed the grey autumn sky. He wore a long grey knee length coat that flapped in the wind, creating the fleeting impression to Beverly, of a large bat-like creature.

Beverly called her dog. The wind snatched at her words, and the dog, either not hearing or not wanting to hear scampered around the edge of the bridge where railings stretched protectively along the cliff edge. The footbridge spanned a gorge leading to a small island that sported long grass, knolls and hillocks and was inhabited by few goats that seemed oblivious to the looming inhospitable weather. When the tide was out the island was connected to the main coastland, but when the tide was in, as it was now, the sea claimed the gorge and waves crashed angrily against the rocks far below.

In summer, during hot lazy days, the island was popular with young lovers and sunbathers, and washed in sunshine it was a romantic and picturesque sight, but in autumn and winter, when only goats ventured there, it made for a desolate landscape. Beverly often walked this part of the coastline, it was popular with other walkers too, as it wasn't long before you passed someone or other, with a brief exchange about the weather, or a simple greeting. Looking behind her, Beverly could see no one else about, only the long undulating grass swept by the remorseless wind along the winding coastline.

Beverly cupped her hands to her mouth and called Trudy's name. Her eyes flitted to the man, half expecting him to turn at the sound of her voice, but his attention remained fixed on the horizon. Trudy too, obstinately refused to respond, and to Beverly's consternation, began to trot out onto the bridge toward the man. Beverly quickened her pace, resolving to put Trudy on the lead once she caught her. By the time she reached the edge of the bridge Trudy was sniffing around the man's buffed black leather shoes that, Beverly noticed, seemed incongruous with a walk along the blustery coastline, and more suited to an air-conditioned office environment than the biting sea air of country walk. Bizarrely the gaunt man still did not respond to the canine presence at his feet but dropped his gaze to the bottom of the gorge where white foam spray exploded against the rocks and the churning cold sea thrashed and rose and fell in hungry swells.

'I'm sorry, it's okay, she won't bite you,' Beverly said to him, as she stooped to try and grab Trudy's collar. The dog scampered out of reach with ease.

Then he spoke, and his crisp voice almost made her jump. 'I don't know why I do it. I suppose I . . . can't help myself.' The words seemed tinged with remorse and he still gazed down into the gorge, giving Beverly the impression that he was talking to himself rather than her.

At last, Beverly caught hold of Trudy's collar and attached the flexi lead. 'Sorry?' she said, in polite deference to his odd remark.

'They always give me what I want, but still I . . .' he trailed off, still gazing below.

There was something morose in his voice and the terrible thought occurred to Beverly that the man might be contemplating suicide. She looked around, in the direction of the mainland, and her heart sank as she saw there was no one around. She tugged Trudy away from the man, and wanted to leave, say something trivial, and make her way home. A hot mug of chocolate, warming herself by the log fire. But now the notion he might be in trouble has taken root in her head she had to be sure she was mistaken before she could leave him.

'Sorry, I don't follow you,' she said awkwardly.

It was then he turned to face her, and she almost took a sharp intake of breath, for he was startlingly handsome man. Late thirties or early forties perhaps, his face was angular, with prominent cheekbones and a strong well defined jaw line that was shadowed by the onset of stubble. His eyes were a steel grey and were intensely piercing, as though he could see right inside her mind, there was redness to those eyes as if he had just been crying, or was about to and this detail seemed to confirm to Beverly her suspicions he was thinking about jumping.

'They don't deserve it, none of them but I can't help myself,' he said, his voice thick with regret.

'Who doesn't deserve it? Look, are you okay?' Beverly asked, concerned.

He blinked then, as if noticing her for the first time.

'What, oh I am sorry. I was . . . my mind was elsewhere. I get like that when I look at the sea. It makes me feel . . . unhappy, sometimes, as if my life, I mean as if everything is just insignificant. Do you know what I mean?' he said. Then he smiled and warmth replaced the coldness in his expression.

'Yes, I suppose I do,' she gave a polite smile. 'You're okay then, I mean for a moment . . .'

He frowned then his eyes lit up with realisation. 'My God, you thought I was thinking of . . .' he nodded toward the gorge and raised his eyebrows.

Beverly gave an embarrassed smile.

He laughed, the melancholy gone. 'I'm so sorry if I gave you that impression, no I was just . . . well, deep in thought I suppose.' He gave her a friendly grin.

'I'm relieved to hear that,' she said, readying herself to leave.

'Hey,' he said, kneeling down, and patting Trudy. 'I like your dog. What's his name?'

'Oh, it's a her actually. She's called Trudy.'

'Trudy,' he said, giving her more attention. 'Hello there, Trudy.'

Beverly smiled, waiting for him to finish, and thinking of some words that would send her back on her route home, although there was a part of her, a small part that wanted to stay and chat a while to this good looking stranger.

He stood, a friendly smile on his lips. 'The name's Alan, by the way.' He proffered a hand.

She took it automatically, a lifetime of good manners dictating the action. 'Beverly,' she replied, returning his smile.

His hand was very warm and easily engulfed her own smaller hand. His grip was firm, and he seemed to hold on to her hand just a fraction longer than social etiquette dictated. When he released his grip she felt both relieved and curiously disappointed.

'I suppose this is a regular place for you and Trudy to come by,' he said affably.

'Yes, it is. Quite a bracing walk on a day like today,' she said, feeling her words were clumsy and forced -- the small talk of strangers.

'But such a stunning view, eh? It's really something.' He nodded at the coastline that curved ahead in a series of inlets and craggy cliffs circled by seagulls.

'Much nicer in summer of course,' Beverly said, wishing she could mention something else other than the bloody weather.

'Of course, of course,' he agreed, smiling down at her.

Beverly made a mental note to see if he wore a wedding ring.

'The thing I love most about the coast is that fresh salt sea smell. There's something about it, that and the sound of the seagulls. You could close your eyes and image you are living hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago. It's a timeless sensation - really quite moving - for me, at least,' he said, smiling at her.

There was something benevolent about that smile, Beverly thought, and his voice had a mesmeric quality to it, the words sinking into her mind, lingering as though each word was of significant importance.

Beverly realized, somehow, he was now much closer to her, but she'd never noticed him actually moving, or had she moved closer to him? They were only a foot or so apart now. Some part of her mind was registering alarm, an instinctive reaction buried deep in her psyche. The unsettling sensation passed swiftly, for another emotion response was surfacing, an adrenalin rush caused by a frisson of excitement, the sort of feeling that a more adventurous woman than she, might follow - an impulse for adventure - sex with a stranger. The notion tantalised.

'That's quite . . . poetic,' she said, her eyes on his, the contact longer than it should have been - a contact that suggested this conversation was no short casual exchange between strangers. It felt like the sort of contact you had on a first date, or at an nightclub, when a guy is hitting on you and you're up for more than just a dance.

He said nothing for a moment, and the silence was excruciating as his grey eyes devoured her. Then she felt his fingers gently touch her chin. She almost flinched so unexpected was the contact, but she held his gaze, and slowly, so slowly, he leant forward. She could feel, Trudy, tugging on her lead, hear the flap as Alan's coattails were snapped back by the wind, hear a melancholy wail of a seagull in the distance, taste the salt sea air.

Then, contact.

His lips were warm and inviting, and she opened her mouth to allow his tongue entry. She tried not to kiss him too forcefully, too eagerly, not wanting him to think she was some tart. She closed her eyes, felt a strong hand on the back of her head, pulling her close to him. She could smell him now, a faint whiff of aftershave, a strong musky scent that sent a pleasant tingling sensation between her legs. She couldn't believe she was doing this. Standing on a bridge in broad daylight and snogging a stranger - this wasn't her - this wasn't plain boring Beverly. But it was now. And she was loving it.

He broke the kiss, and she feared that that was it, over before it started. Should she invite him back to her place? Too forward, too desperate. Better to have him invite her perhaps?

But, no - he reached up and took the zip of her jacket, her eyes fixed on hers. No small talk necessary now. No talk necessary at all. He pulled the zip down in one fluid smooth movement. She should stop him, say something. But she didn't. She could feel the cold wind seep through the thin cotton t-shirt underneath, but with it a quiver of excitement that made her legs quake. She felt his large hand warm her breast and he leaned forward again, this time the kiss more urgent, more demanding. Her need was now matching his and her tongue slip and swirled in his mouth responding to his desire. She felt dizzy, her will power being drained by the second, her consciousness become malleable. She was becoming powerless in this stranger's thrall - and it was a powerlessness she welcomed.

He broke the kiss, and she felt confused, rejected.

She needed his touch.

Needed him to need her.

Needed to please him.

His eyes seemed to burn into her mind and when he spoke it was as though his voice was in some way amplified, as though he were speaking in some vast cave and by contrast the sound of the crashing waves, the wind, the mournful cry of seagulls, seemed to rescind, were muffled and distant.

'Take off your clothes, Beverly.'

Mutely she obeyed. She shrugged off her jacket, pulled her T-shirt over her head, letting it fall, removing her bra, then tugging off her boots, wriggling her jeans down, then slipping her panties off. The air though not freezing, was cold enough, and she could feel goose-bumps appear like rash on her skin, yet it did not matter. All that mattered was that she obey his instructions, please him, feel his touch, taste him again.

Dispassionately, he took in the sight of her naked form. She stood compliant, arms by her side, submissive. Awaiting his further instructions.

'You won't need those, Beverly,' he said, indicating her clothes.

She stooped and grabbed her clothes and held them over the edge of the bridge. She hesitated, aware that deep down inside her mind a voice was screaming at her to stop, to run -tuck her things under her arm, take Trudy and run.

But the fog that misted her mind was warm, and welcoming, and she knew he was watching, and that to obey would mean a reward.

She dropped the clothes, and turned to him, needing to feel those eyes on her, absorb her. She didn't even watch as her clothes were consumed by the churning waves beneath.

She was dimly aware that by her feet, Trudy was whining.

'Kneel,' he commanded.

Beverly knelt, her face was now level with his crotch.

She needed no further instruction and reaching for his fly, undid the clasp and pulled the zip down, and eased down his trousers to release his thick semi-erection.

She kissed it once then took it into her warm mouth. Her tongue moving in swirls as his member responded, thickened, and grew hard in her mouth, filled her with his taste. When he was fully erect, she released him from her mouth, then angling her head, licked his slowly up and down his hot shaft, her eyes fixed on his glare as her mind drowned in silken lust. Beverly held his penis between forefinger and thumb, then licked his balls methodically, lovingly.



His eyes betrayed no emotion, no register of pleasure only a demanding hard intensity, emanating complete control over her. His balls soaked with her saliva, Beverly ran her tongue up over his shaft again, until she came to his bulbous swollen head. The foreskin was all the way back, and precum oozed from the tip of his penis. She ran her tongue languorously over it tasting his salty effluence, wanting to taste more. Wanting to feel his ejaculate gush in her mouth. She enveloped the head of his penis, pressing her tongue on his gland, then taking him further into her mouth, deeper into her throat, until she could feel him against her soft tonsils. She felt his hand rest on her head, and the reward of his touch sent her into a higher pitch of euphoria. She reached between her legs, touching her soaking slippery lips, sliding a finger inside herself, needing her own ache to be relieved.

Beverly began to slowly bob her head, sliding up and down his hardness, gradually increasing the speed of her ministrations. She felt his strong hands either side of her face, his touch hot on her pale cool skin. She expected him to thrust forward, buck in her face as she brought him closer to orgasm, but he remained still, allowing her to do all the work. She moved rhythmically, his salty taste welcome in her mouth, and as she moved and pleasured him, she was aware of the voice in her mind, screaming at her to stop this madness, to gather her wits, to flee. But the voice was distant, muffled, suppressed by the dream-like milky pleasurable haze her mind was in. The urge to submit completely and unreservedly was too strong, too welcome, irresistible and all consuming.

She increased the pace of her rhythm, ignoring the slight pain in her jaw, her urge to have him release himself in her mouth almost unbearable. Her whole existence was for this moment. Her purpose a willing vessel for him to fill with his salty essence.

Her fingers slipped in out of her vale, slippery with her juice, soaked with her desire. Pressing against her swollen clit, building toward her own orgasm.

Beverly felt his thick penis tense in her mouth, the grip on her face tighten, and she took him deep in her mouth as the moment approached.

Then, reward.

He came, thick ejaculate pumping into her throat. She swallowed each gush, and when no more came, licked the remnants of sticky effluence from the head, as his erection began to soften.

'Stand,' he ordered.

She stood, removing her hand from between her legs, still aching and unfulfilled, still tense with arousal.

'How old are you, girl?' he asked, once more taking her chin between thumb and forefinger.

'Twenty-six,' she answered, her own voice sounding distant and hazy. Dreamlike.

He looked deep into her eyes, and Beverly felt her own breathing match his, her chest rising and falling, it was as though she was part of him now, a plaything.

'The dog,' he said. No more. Yet she knew what he was instructing her to do.

She bent picked up Trudy, her eyes not leaving his. Unable to now.

Trudy wriggled in her arms. Her body and fur warm and soft against Beverly's naked chest. She stepped to the railings of the bridge.

Below the waves were noisy, violent demanding, loud. They were part of him, part of his mind somehow. Beverly sensed she was too, and Trudy, and the seagulls and the wind and the cold wooden planks under her bare feet. Everything was.

The dog.

Something was missing, something in her mind but Beverly could not place what it was.

The dog.

His eyes burned into her mind.

She was aware his eyes had widened, just slightly, and also dimly aware of an emptiness in her arms.

Trudy was gone.

His eyes.

No words now. No need for words. No need for anything.

His thoughts were in her mind.

It only mattered to obey.

Beverly climbed onto the wooden railings.

Knuckles white.

The wind plucked at her, but she was not afraid, for the wind was him, was aiding his will.

Below the waves smashed and thrashed against the rocks, churning and hungry and welcoming.

His eyes.

Impassive.

A thought penetrated the cocoon her mind was in, for she suddenly realised what was missing-- it was the screaming voice deep within, the voice telling her to stop and run. Beverly realised she could no longer hear it. And that thought made her smile.

Beverly let go of the railings.

Alan, watched the empty space the naked girl had filled for a few seconds then let his gaze drift downwards into the turbulent sea that frothed and crashed below. There was no sign of the girl, or the dog, or the girl's clothes. There was only the sea. It was as though they had never existing.

He fixed himself, pulling his trousers back up.

The feelings in his mind began to alter as knew they would. As they always did. For now came the bill - now came regret, and pain, and self loathing, but at least each time it was a little less strong, less potent. And for that he was grateful.

Why did he do it? Why must he always destroy?

Twenty-six.

Her whole life before her. Had she been married? He tried to recall if he had seen a ring on her hand, but could not. Was she a mother?

He bit his lip, told himself not to torture himself so. What was done was done. If some part of her had not wanted to comply she could have resisted.

And yet - her future -- a husband, children, grandchildren -- all gone. Gone by his whim.

'She didn't deserve it,' he said aloud, his eyes on the horizon now, the mournful calls of seagulls resonant.

'None of them deserved it. Why? Why do I do it?' He gripped the railings tight, his knuckles whitening with the pressure.

'Why do I do it?' He closed his eyes.

The wind buffeted him and the rhythmic sounds of the waves below were like a heartbeat. He was unaware of time passing and gradually he began to think of the waves as being inside his head.

'Excuse me, are you alright?'

The voice almost made him jump.

He turned to find a woman standing before him, her hands in her warm blue duffel coat. Strands of her auburn hair blowing across her face. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and had soft green eyes, full of concern.

Alan blinked, then his mind seemed to clear, unwelcome thoughts fading to nothing.

Slowly, he began to smile.

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