Izabelle

Izabelle by Theresa C. Newbill and Harris Whitman

She giggles, invading his housewith her cutting-edge gadgets,the same ones she conceals ina Victorian tote with a photoof her favorite author.

He watches her undress; vintagetea gown embroidered with insetlace falls off her shoulders, pasthips, to delicate white ankles.Two black cats hiss in unison,

their fur standing on end. Classiccountess boots strut, synchronizedin their movements, purposefulin their intent. He finds parallelsto her in his own life;

he’s under her influence, turned onby her malevolent mind. She’s inher bra and panties now, nearly nude,sucking in her lower lip; she nods,constantly keeping an eye on him.

There’s a Smith&Wesson .38 revolverhe keeps locked in his nightstand. Hethinks about it as she climbs into bed.He smells the faint, primal odor of her femininity

as she straddles him, her hands slidingup and down his naked body in a gameof shared physical chemistry. Her teethscrape across his chest; he bleeds frommultiple bites and scratches,

his body throbbing, pulsating betweenpassion and pain. A faint smile thentaunting smirk causes him to have amomentary jittery, unsettling feeling,but he likes the way

her dark eyes mock him. His heart races,skips a beat, as she displays a leathersatchel. He braces himself; the sound ofcold hard steel, sliding, metal on metal;a straight razor

glistens in the moonlight from an openwindow. Titillation turns to terror; asmall, smooth, serene slice rakes overflesh, sweet fluid to sample. She lickshis cheek, kisses him deeply,

forcefully, his own blood mixes with heressence. She gently runs the backsideof the razor across his shoulders, to thecenter of his chest, slowly down past his stomach,

stopping just above his excited manhood.She looks at him, letting out a lasciviouslaugh, smacking his face, removing herpanties, holding them up playfully. Leaningin, her erect breastsacross his

bare chest, she stuffs her underwear in hismouth. Half a bottle of Bacardi Rum follows,he gags; her fingers touch his lips,shhhhhh. Silken brassiere sways on theheadboard he's tied to. Lemongrass from asmall carafe makes contact with open

wounds, igniting a firestorm of anticipationin death's caress. A breeze ruffles herlight brown hair as he penetrates her. He canfeel as she disengages psychologically fromhim. Panic sets in before the climax.

She's learned that making love to a man doesn'tmean he will have any love for her, and she'swilling to rectify her mistakes. His endingis a predictable one, while her name and truenature, remain a mystery.