alistairmather

so, it took a couple of weeks, but i finally found the place where my muse resides in Columbus. i don't know what the rest of you use, but i need stimulants and human interaction to write. not personal interaction, just the witnessing of other people's lives. i find my stories in the quick caught words of overlapping conversations. as for stimulants... well, lets just say i've written my best on a shitload of amphetamines. something about the way the mind jumps and pulses to the rythym of a too fast world that meshes so well with my writing style.

anyway, these days i just settle for coffee (stupid laws) and coffee houses manage to supply the best of both worlds for me.

yes, i know coffee houses are overly trendy yuppie hang outs. i don't care. those fucking yuppies give me what i need to write.

how fucking scary is that?

anyway, i am now midway through episode ten. so in honor of my recently refound muse, i give you episode nine, in which our young narrator finds himself in an awkward situation. welcome back to the Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.

(insert wild applause here)


Nine

Brilliant burst of golden luminescence, quick chemical hiss, the sharp stink of sulfur, all gone before the mind can even really register them. The light has faded to a quivering yellow, a tiny flame that stutters madly, always on the brink of extinction. It is suddenly joined by a steady red glow and the thick, rich scent of tobacco.
I draw raggedly on what feels like my first cigarette in ages as I shake out the match. My hands have developed a juddering palsy, an erratic twitch that has already caused me to go through four matches just to light this one cigarette.
I pull the fragrant smoke deep into my lungs, feeling its heat deep in my chest. After a few more drags, the tobacco begins to have its desired effect, and I feel the tension in my back and brow ease slightly.
I keep my eyes down cast, focused on the nervously tapping fingers of my right hand upon my knee, as I rapidly, mechanically smoke. When I begin to feel my lips singe, I pull another cigarette from my case and light it off the ember of the one still clenched between my lips, like some common street corner hustler. I dont care. All that matters now is the sweet narcotics effect on my system.
It is not till the third cigarette that the nervous tapping of my fingers finally ceases, and I raise my eyes to the room about me.
I am seated in a comfortable arm chair placed perpendicular to a large fireplace. The coals in the grate our banked, giving a cheerless crimson glow and a slow baking heat. There are no windows, the only light coming from the fireplace and a few low oriental lamps, darkly shaded. The walls of the salon are thickly draped with heavy tapestries, also apparently of oriental origin, and are hung with a casualness that only serves to reinforce their thoughtful arrangement. The floor is piled deeply with soft rugs, creating an uneven, slightly giving surface. Next to me is a small table, on which is my cigarette case, a simple silver thing purchased shortly after I began attending Miskatonic University, a box of matches, an oddly carved, stone ash tray, and an untouched glass of very fine scotch. There are only two other pieces of furniture in the room: another arm chair on the other side of the table, and a low divan directly across from me. Only the divan is occupied.
With a faint sigh, whether of trepidation or relief I cannot honestly say, that fills the air before me with lazy blue smoke, I finally bring my attention to the rooms sole other occupant.
Sprawled languorously across the plush covering of the low coach, head lolling easily over one raised end, left foot hanging easily over the lower end. the right slowly tracing circles on the piled carpets, lies Stacia Brennar. In one hand she dangles a cigarette, occasionally raising it to her lips in a graceful, practiced gesture, to draw lazily and deeply upon it. I find myself focusing on the contrast of delicate white fingers to neat blue nails to slim white cigarette, as they rise and fall. It is a futile attempt, as I soon find my eyes wandering to other, more enticing views.
Her hair, silky smooth, falls lightly away from her face and over the edge of the divan. In the intimate red light cast by coals and shaded lamps, a red light that seems to be swallowed by the dark wall and floor coverings, making the room seem even smaller then it is, her hair is black. Every now and again, she shifts, stretching her sprawled form further and causing the light to flow along those silken strands, picking out brown and red highlights that flow smoothly back to black. I find myself fascinated by that play of color and light, but soon enough my eyes wander again.
Her fascinating eyes are thankfully closed, though this in no way diminishes from the beauty of her features. The dim light of the room makes her ivory skin seem almost luminescent, and a small smile plays slowly and easily across her tiny pink lips. There is a look of utter contentment about her face, one that tugs wrenchingly at my heart as I fleetingly wonder at its cause.
As I watch, she once again brings her cigarette to her lips, opening them just enough to fit the tiny white tube into her mouth, inhales slowly and deeply, an action that causes fascinating things to happen at her chest. I feel the heat rise into my face with a furious rush as I try in vain not to stare. Her smooth white shoulders lower into the divan, pushing her chest up, and causing the tight white material of her scandalous corset to push the tops of her soft, full breasts closer together and further out. It is not till I feel that insistent stirring in my loins again that I can manage to tear my eyes away, forcing them to move lower down her heavenly figure.
This does not improve matters in the slightest.
Instead, I find myself now faced with yet more of her smooth pale stomach exposed as the corset rides up on her torso. My eyes greedily, and uncontrollably, follow the movement of the corset up her soft flesh till I find my gaze dipping into the dark shadow of her naval. The heat in my loins rises again, more insistent now, and I drop my eyes again.
Directly to the black stockinged leg, idly tracing circles across the piled rugs. She is not wearing shoes, and I can clearly see each small toe on her tiny foot. I notice the dark color of her toenails beneath the thin black material, and imagine they too must bear that same metallic blue color as her finger nails.
For some reason, it is this image above all others that does me in, and I find myself uncontrollably aroused.
Hows the new suit?
The question shocks me out of my voyeuristic inclinations so suddenly that I actually rise up out of the chair. My gaze quickly darts to Ms. Brennars face, where I am confronted by those stunning green eyes and a much more amused smile playing across her lips.
I find myself blushing furiously, the heat in my face almost unbearable. For the first time in my life, I find myself in desperate need of a drink. I grab hastily for the scotch placed next to me on the table, jostling the glass alarmingly before my fingers close around it. I throw back the drink in one swift motion - that immediately results in an explosive bout of choked coughing.
Her laughter rings out at this. A sound akin to the bells on Christmas morning, to the merry cries of children at play. Even as the heat in my face grows, and the heat in my loins diminishes, I am enraptured by the sound of her laughter.
You really are too cute. she manages after a long peal of laughter that leaves me feeling both embarrassed and enthralled.
I fight desperately to regain my composure, finally managing a red faced, croaking reply.
Very >ahem< very good thank you. I have never owned anything this nice. It was very kind of Prof. Cartwright to make a loan of his clothing to me.
She laughs again at this, a quick, short sound that deepens the color of my face.
Its not a loan. You couldnt possibly think one of Hunters suits would fit you?
I am shamed deeply by this, and cast my eyes downward in an attempt to conceal the hurt in them.
I meant to say, theyre a gift. her tone is softer now, though there is still the tiniest hint of humor to it. And something else that I almost believe could be affection.
Hunter attends a great deal of silly formal events, and has found that many of his students often lack the cash to dress in the proper fashion for them. I think he sees it as part of your education. Sort of like giving you a book to complete a lesson.
Then again, its Hunter. Who the hell can figure out what hes thinking.
She smiles fondly at this, a slightly distant look in her haunting eyes. A sharp stab of jealousy runs through me, and then dissipates in the face of the flood of self pity and loathing that follows.
So, um, is what youre wearing the proper fashion at these functions?
This time her smile lights up her whole face, showing off her perfect pearl white teeth, and causing her eyes to dance from green to gray to blue and back again.
Cutie, whatever I wear is proper.
She sits upright, causing her skirt to ride up her legs and flashing a dizzying bit of creamy white thigh over the top of her stockings as she swings her leg off the side of the divan. She leans towards me as she comes about, an action that expose the soft rounded curves of her breasts to my wide eyes. Her own eyes lock on mine as she does this, and I find myself torn between the wanton desire to lower my gaze to the sight below and the hypnotic pull of those stunning, brilliant, dancing orbs.
Her mouth opens a fraction and she slowly extends her small pink tongue, running it deliberately and lightly over her lips. Her eyes dance merrily with amusement, brazenness, and what I can only assume is lust. It has suddenly become very hard to breathe, the best I can seem to manage are short, rapid inhalations. I am starting to get light headed, whether from the lack of oxygen, the effects of the alcohol, or the influence of the girl, I cannot tell.
Her face is now only inches from mine. Her eyes fill the entirety of my vision. I can smell the soft scent of lilac, of sweat, and of her. I have stopped breathing entirely. She parts her lips again, I can feel her warm breath on my own face.
Dont you think so? she asks in the faintest, most seductive whisper.
She blinks once slowly, eclipsing eyes that seem the size of worlds, that could be worlds. the only worlds I ever wish to know anymore. It seems as though I have been gazing into those chimerical green pools for an eternity. I can almost feel her lips on my own, and weary muscles shudder once through me in anticipation.
And then the solid walnut door to the salon burst open.