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.