Sympathy for the Devil

This is going to be one of those days when lunch is a ten-minute sandwich and a quickie. Luray gossips between bites---the big news is the family whose car was T-boned by a semi---and Vince nods like he gives a damn and wonders what color today's lingerie is. She's gotten a lot bolder in her choice of undergarments since they started their affair eight months ago.

Although the head of hospital billing presents the same ill-clad, mousy exterior she always has, the white Brunhilde bras and granny panties have given way to lacy little delicacies. Front-hook closures make for easy access and fast clean-up, and memory of the day she first showed up wearing a garter belt and stockings instead of hose and panties still brings a smile to his face.

"I couldn't get through to the number on their insurance card," she says, licking mayonnaise from her fingertips. "I'll have to try again after lunch. So, how's your day been going?"

"Nothing exciting," he shrugs, moving closer to her on the couch. That's one of the bennies of being head of maintenance: he's quietly taken over one of the store rooms and set it up as his own personal lounge, the better to get the semi-weekly nooner in. Okay, so the fridge used to be in Pathology before they upgraded. It works just fine, and nothing's ever gone missing, unlike the big icebox in the staff break-room.

"Nothing?" she asks coyly. "Nothing exciting?" She rests a hand on his crotch, where he's already half-hard, and he pins it there, letting her feel his growing arousal.

"Nothing...'til now." She gives a nervous little giggle. Her fingers flutter against his rough work khakis, gliding over the erection that's rising behind his zipper.

That's one of the things he likes about Luray Pickerell---she didn't have a whole lot of experience coming into their relationship. Oh, sure, she knew how Tab A fit into Slot B, but she hasn't had to unlearn anything annoying. And that's good, because all he wants is a steady relationship that isn't going to screw things up for him again. He's tired of relocating. As his age, he's more than ready to settle down.

If he was still at the hotel he'd started working at, he'd be on top of the food chain by now, pulling down a lot more bills. For one thing, nobody tips you at hospitals. But he was young and horny, slept with the wrong guest and it came back to bite him on the ass. Boom, blacklisted in Philly.

He'd headed West, gotten work at a high school in Ohio. He had more sense than to start screwing around with the students, that was for sure. Ended up marrying the girls' PE teacher. Found out she was a raving nymphomaniac who believed monogamy was optional and wasn't too picky about age of consent laws, either. Time for a hasty divorce, and westward ho! Off to Wyoming.

At this rate, Vince is going to be eating sushi by the time he retires…but so far, Luray seems to be stable and happy with the way things are. She's forty-something herself, and reserved until you get to know her. He had to make the first move, but although she was surprised, she'd been quite agreeable.

He lets go of her hand, draping an arm over her shoulder and letting his hand loosely cup her breast. Luray freezes in the act of unbuckling his belt. As he applies firmer pressure, she begins to breathe more rapidly. When he swipes the ball of his thumb across her stiffened nipple, she gasps. The sound makes him harden even more.

She works his straining hard-on free of his pants. This is something she's improved at---in the beginning, she handled his dick as if she feared an incautious touch might cause it to break off. He finally ended up demonstrating for her, jerking off as she watched his technique with wide-eyed fascination.

As Luray pulls on his prick, Vince unbuttons her dress. Today's scanty little tit-cups are pale pink lace, and he traces the pattern with a knowing finger. Behind the dainty fabric, her nipples are sharp peaks in a deep rose. She rubs teasing circles across the head of his cock, and in return, his fingers tweak the rosy crests.

Vince leans forward to kiss her, and she moans into his mouth as he rolls the taut buds between his thumbs and index fingers. Her head tilts back and his lips graze their way down her throat. His callused hands squeeze her breasts together as he expertly pops open the closure on her bra.

Her tits aren't huge, but he's able to position them so that he can suckle both nipples at the same time, lips and tongue and just a suggestion of teeth. She's squirming against him, her grip on his cock snug as she works the stout length of it. There's pre-cum seeping from the head, and she wipes it with a fingertip, painting her lips with it, then licking them slowly.

Shifting his position, Vince holds one breast firmly, sucks at the other nipple with fervent intensity and his free hand travels under the hem of her skirt.

Luray's knees part, thighs wide and her hips rise off the couch in search of his fingers. Not too fast; he loves it when she's all warm and wanton like this. Toying with the tops of her stockings makes her squirm.

When at last his fingers work their way into her slippery groove, they slide in easily. She whines with desire as he probes her. He's reaching for a condom in the drawer of the end table, when there's a high-pitched noise from the vent overhead and from the incinerator down the hall, he hears a series of muffled booms.

"Crap!" he mutters. "Hang on, sweet thing. I've gotta go see what that is."

Luray pouts, giving him a sad face. "The clock is ticking," she reminds him. There's thirty-five minutes left on her lunch break, is what she means.

He has to wrestle himself back into his pants and overcome the urge to stay and finish what they've started. But no---if there's something wrong with the incinerator, it could be dangerous. Not to mention the shit he'd be in if someone came looking for him to tell him about it and caught them in the act.

As soon as he gets to the fiery furnace, he checks the gauges---nope, everything is fine. So what the hell made that noise?

He grabs a flashlight and goes to take a look at the offset valve. He's working his way to where he can get a look at it, when a cloud of black smoke engulfs him. Smoke? Not good, but it's strange that it hasn't set off any of the detectors.

Vince coughs, and for a moment he's paralyzed. All of a sudden, his whole body feels too heavy, and he has tunnel vision, as if he's viewing the world from the back of his eyeballs. He sags against the wall, unable to move. The smoke is gone. The only thing he notices is a faint acrid smell, as if a match has just been blown out.

I'm having a stroke, he thinks in confusion. He'd better let Luray know, then head up to the ER and get himself checked out.

Striding down the corridor, he's worried. God, I'm only forty-eight. He's never sick. This is disorienting. His body feels ungainly, not completely under control. Clumsy meat-suit, he thinks, and wonders why.

Luray has her dress buttoned again and she's sitting primly on the couch retouching her make-up. "That won't do," Vince hears himself growl, and before he knows he's going to do it, he's crouched over her, ripping open her dress. Under it, the lacy pink bra is still unfastened, and he grabs her tits with both hands, mauling them.

When did his libido start overriding his common sense like this? He should be going up to the ER, not getting back in the saddle. Luray moans---not entirely from passion---but she's going along with his caveman techniques, her hands on his crotch again…another twenty-five minutes of fooling around won't kill him, will it?

He doesn't think he's squeezing her too hard, but his hands are…not numb, exactly, but distant, the same way the walk down the hall from the furnace room felt uncoordinated.

He should stop, really.

His hands keep doing what they're doing, fingers digging into the tender ivory flesh, pinching the rosy nipples until they're puce. Luray makes protesting sounds. She looks terrified.

I'm sorry, darling, he wants to say. See, I'm stopping. But the words won't come out, try though he will, and his hands continue to abuse her soft breasts.

There's a dreamlike quality to the events as he drags her into position. No condom, no foreplay, just hasty thrusts into her as she mewls unhappily. No words, just little wounded noises that tug at his conscience as her tear-filled eyes stare up at him.

Without warning, he pulls out and slams into her again, this time into her puckered anus, and her mouth opens. It looks like she's screaming, but no sound emerges, just sobbing breaths. Her body writhes against him, tight ring of muscle gripping him and he plows into her, his balls slapping against her upturned buttocks as he grips her ankles at shoulder height.

It's nothing Vince ever had a taste for, why is he doing this? He's hurting her badly. He doesn't want to, wants to stop, but his body isn't listening, it's enjoying the silent struggle on the end of his cock, savoring the muffled whimpers Luray makes as he pumps his hips.

This is terrible. This is going to ruin everything. Has he gone insane without any warning signs, turned into some kind of Jekyll and Hyde? He cares for Luray, he's never wants to hurt her, much less---he's slamming into her, climax building, pressure-need-harder-faster-more---

Shame engulfs him. Luray's oozing blood and spunk---he didn't use protection, fucked her ass, and got his rocks off so fast that it would embarrass him otherwise. He winces. This is so wrong on so many levels. He wants to apologize, wants to grovel and beg her forgiveness, but instead, when she starts to sit up, he slaps her hard across the face.

Clearly, he's lost his mind, Vince thinks in despair. He hauls his pants back up---funny, when did he drop them? Without consciously deciding to do it, he finds himself rummaging in the bottom drawer of the bedside table and pulling out the bottle of bourbon that's waiting there. It burns going down, warmth spreading through his belly.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. If he's had a stroke---and it would be a comforting explanation for his irrational behavior---he shouldn't be drinking. The tunnel vision is stronger now, the room is blurring.

Maybe he'll pass out---he's light-headed---from the booze or the blood clot? Luray---God, she'll probably file charges---can he plead insanity, or mitigating circumstances? Where's Perry Mason when you need him?

He's going to need Perry Mason, he realizes when focus slides back into place. His hands are around Luray's neck as he pins her to the couch and her feeble struggles beneath him cease. She's utterly still and there's an ugly color to her face.

Panic strikes him. For a moment, he's sure he's gonna be sick. There's nothing to excuse this, he wishes the damn stroke would just kill him already, because he's never going to be able to live with himself, even if he doesn't spend the rest of his life in prison, which he deserves.

Get rid of the body. You know how.

Mechanically, Vince locks the door behind him and goes down a corridor, turns left, down another stretch of corridor. No one is going to think anything of him wheeling one of the morgue carts with a black bag on it---burning surgical waste is one of his regular duties.

Luray won't come back from lunch. She goes shopping on her lunch hour sometimes, and their affair has been hush-hush so there's nothing to connect the two of them. Since she rides---rode---the bus to work---there won't be a telltale car in the parking lot.

The tunnel vision has reversed itself: Now, he feels like someone is watching over his shoulder and his movements are jerky, as if he's a puppet being guided by someone else. The unseen presence looms as he folds his lover's body into the disposal bag and pushes it to the incinerator room. Anxiety makes him look once more at Luray to make sure it isn't some terrible mistake, and he wishes he hadn't. The sight of her distorted face is going to haunt him forever.

The hospital was built in the twenties, when memories of the influenza epidemic were fresh in everyone's minds, so the incinerator was built with the capacity to cremate multiple bodies. The mechanism still works, and he watches, his throat double-clutching, as the shapeless black canvas shroud slides down the ramp into the maw of the flames.

He stands there, watching as the bundle is consumed. Good-bye, Luray. Good-bye sexy lingerie and playful lunch hours. He hasn't had anything to eat since early this morning. There's a smell of roasting meat that's simultaneously sickening and appetizing. He's dizzy.

Closing his eyes, the crackling of the flames plays against his lids as he tries to breath and get himself under control.

This was all a hallucination. None of this craziness has happened; he blanked for a moment while he was checking the gauges and had some kind of bizarre waking nightmare.

There's no one in his lounge when he returns. Vince glances up at the clock---Luray would've gone back to her office forty minutes ago---she's liable to be annoyed that checking the incinerator took so long, but that's not something he can neglect. I'll make it up to her the next time she drops by.

The hospital makes plenty of demands on him for the rest of the day---there are complaints about drafts, the ice maker in the cafeteria has jammed---one thing after another, until well past the time he usually leaves.

Then it's midnight, and he's down in the boiler room with the incinerator right next door. And he must be delusional again, because there's a man down there, and they're talking crazy shit about guns and souls that doesn't make any sense. Then the man leaves, and Vince sees smoke again, and smells that burnt match smell.

He stumbles back to the little room. He's so exhausted, he doesn't think he has the strength to drive home, so he'll crash on the couch tonight---when he sits down, for the first time he notices the brown leather bag between the end of the couch and the bedside table.

Luray's bag.

If she had left it here when she went back to her office, she would have come back to get it before she left for the day. And he knows there was no one in her office when he went past there on the way to check the backed-up sink on 2 West. It really happened. What have I done?

Should he turn it in to lost and found? No, they might be able to trace it back to him, even if he uses gloves---easy enough to get surgical gloves in a hospital!---he'd better burn it, too, just to be on the safe side.

Standing beside the incinerator, watching the evidence burn, Vince wonders with bleak bemusement what the job market is like in Phoenix.

The End.