In a Few Words
Collected Short Stories of Devon Layne
Before the Fire
©2017 Elder Road Books
First published at Stories Online in October 2017
This might easily have been part of the Pygmalion Revisited collection.
I’VE LIVED HERE a long time and have never had the least problem with friends, neighbors, or even the folks in the community I’ve never met. We go about our business, nod politely, inquire about the weather. And if anyone has an opinion about why a single middle-aged man lives alone in a rather imposing old house on the hill, they wisely keep it to themselves. I, in turn, hold back garrulous commentary on the state of contemporary architecture and the planning of suburban ‘neighborhoods.’
I relish the cooling of the air and gathering moisture of autumn. I sit in front of my fire, one of the old classics in one hand and my pipe in the other. I stopped smoking the pipe years ago, but force of habit keeps it at hand when I read as I orchestrate the words with gestures or clench the stem in my mouth when things get tense. I had two fingers of whiskey with a splash at hand and would empty it before slumber claimed me.
It was this in which I was engaged late one evening, Dumas in my left and a meerschaum in my right when a prickle up my spine disturbed my peace. I exchanged book for glass as I looked carefully around the room. I could not quench the feeling of being observed. Yet nothing met my eyes. I returned to The Count of Monte Cristo, chanting the names Mondego, Danglars, De Villafort along with Dantès as he dug his way from the island prison. Yet the feeling of being watched persisted.
A bit of green wood popped loudly, startling me from the page and I looked up to see a young woman sitting in the chair opposite me. I sought to rebuke her and ask what she was doing in my home, but my throat was closed with a most peculiar sensation as if I had been numbed.
The poor girl looked as surprised as I was and perhaps a bit frightened. She looked around at the room as if seeing it for the first time, though she must have observed where she was going when she arrived. A flash of lightning and roll of thunder shook the windows and sparked a new round of shivers in my visitor.
She was a lovely thing, though I felt she was a tad underdressed to have come in from the weather. A filmy nightgown covered her from neck to toe, but did nothing to hide the obvious charms of her lovely body. I was shocked by her arrival, but my manhood responded without my volition. The nightgown was a translucent sheath through which I easily discerned ripe and rampant nipples on full firm mounds. Only her seated position and curled legs prevented me from spying out her womanhood. She became aware of my persistent gaze and pulled an afghan round her shoulders, covering the delicacies of her body.
My eyes, therefore, were drawn upward to her somewhat wan visage. A thin face, but not gaunt nor angular. High cheekbones accented deep-set eyes that from the distance of the hearthrug between us, I felt were gray. Her bee-stung lips trembled as she met my stare openly.
“Who are you?” Her voice wavered and barely reached my ears though there were no more than five feet that separated us. Again, I wondered how she had slipped in without my noticing. That chair had not been occupied in more years than I cared to recount. She had such an aura of fear around her, though, that my humanity sought a way to cheer her and I replied lightly.
“Who would you like me to be?” Perhaps she had been sent as some college prank to spend the night in a haunted old mansion—though I could readily tell her those stories were fables. She was confused by my response and, taking pity, I continued. “My friends and guests know me as Edward. Since you are welcome at my fire, I count you as a guest. I must warn you, however, that I prefer not to be called Teddy.” At that, an involuntary chuckle escaped her lips.
“Edward. I… I am Mercy. How did you come to be in front of my fire?” I wondered at how long she had been under the illusion that she was home. The poor dear must be a bit off in the head. I tried to be soothing.
“I’ve truthfully no idea how we came to be sitting together,” I sighed. “But you look chilled. Perhaps we should move closer to the fire.” She smiled softly at me and slid gracefully from her chair to kneel on the rug. I joined her there. She had no drink so I offered a sip of mine which she took daintily.
“Fantasy,” she whispered. “Yet the whiskey burned in my throat as if it were real. You would not try to take advantage of a giddy girl, now would you?”
“Not unless she truly desired me to do so,” I laughed. Our proximity now brought us within a whisper of each other. She reached for my hand and held it as I brought the glass again to her lips.
“Why not?” she sighed. “It has been so long. I sit at night reading fantasies and romance, mourning my lack of love. Why should I not welcome a respite, even if I wake in the morning to empty arms?”
Why not, indeed? I set aside the glass and held my arms open as she molded against my body. I had, myself, often sat longing for the comfort of a companion and if this… Mercy… were merely a figment of my addled brain, I would welcome her attention nonetheless. I could feel her warmth against my chest and the hardened points of her femininity beneath my hands as our lips meshed and our tongues discarded gentility for passion. Her caress was like fire and stoked the embers of my lust.
I pride myself in being a good lover, gentle and caring. But Mercy’s passion, once unleashed, drove me onward without thinking of what had brought us together. Our clothes—I, in only a pajama and jacket, was as easily out of mine as she was of her flimsy nightie—landed helter-skelter beside us as our hands sought to map every inch of each other. She cried out and flooded my hand as I found the hot core of her womanhood. She pulled at my rampant cock and drew me over her to sink in that liquid fire.
Words fail for the description of such tenderness as then ensued. We chased each other from peak to peak, glorying in the triumph of love over all else.
“I have sought for you so long, Edward,” she sighed. “Over countless pages of pulp with no better prospects than have I. And to think that you have come for me and loved me. I wish this night never to end. I want to feel the throbbing of your passion within me again and again. I know that I am not so beautiful as the heroines in my romances. Perhaps you are not so dashing as the heroes. But here, in front of our fire, I feel complete and will come again into your arms.”
And she did come again as I marveled at her stamina. How had this passionate young woman materialized in my chamber? I clutched at her for fear that she might vanish like an apparition in the night. And yet again, she sought my lips and I drank deeply from her.
The storm had passed and dawn had drawn near when we woke in each other’s arms. Our kisses were gentler. I wondered if she would ever open her eyes. She seemed content to imagine me a dream. I watched as her slender limbs unfolded and she stood. I wanted to memorize every muscle, the turn of her leg and hip, the bounty of her breasts, and the fleshly lips I glimpsed as she bent at her chair to recover the book she had been reading.
She kissed the page tenderly and I could taste the memory of her lips against my own.
“Thank you, dear Edward, for a night I shall never forget.”
She closed my covers and slipped away as silently as she had appeared. I returned to the chair by the fire where I would wait until she read me again.
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