He was determined to know if anything funny was going to occur.
But after four hours of staring intently at the utterly black exterior of the neighbor’s house, boredom and fatigue took their toll. Had he stayed awake, he would have seen the cab pull up and dispatch its lone passenger. Seen the stranger climb the steps next door, and the light flick on shortly thereafter.
The light in the window. Directly across from him.
Instead, Charley slept.
And he dreamed.
In his dream, there was music: haunting, sensual music that pulsed and strobed and seemed to go right through him. And voices: whispers that rustled like dry leaves, too quiet to understand. But relentless.
There was a presence in the room. Hot. Pulsing. The air was heavy with a musky odor.
He felt the woman’s touch. Vibrant. Hungry. He groped blindly, found her belly, her breasts, her neck.
Her neck was beautiful.
He wanted her badly.
Brushing her hair back, he kissed her neck, rubbing his teeth along the cords of tight muscle, tasting her salt skin. He felt the need burning in him: to touch, to taste, to kiss . . .
He pulled her body closer. She turned to meet his gaze . . .
. . . and her eyes glowed, bright red and feral, the sockets sunken and shriveled, the flesh of her face puckered and ancient, mouth yawning wide to reveal plaque-encrusted teeth, long teeth, very, very sharp. Her nails dug into the small of his back, and . . .
Charley awoke with a start.
“What a weird dream,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes, disoriented. Then he heard the music.
It was coming from the window across the driveway. And there was light. He sat up, clutching his binoculars.
The shade was up, offering an unobstructed view of what was going on in the room. Charley’s throat went dry. The music was coming from there.
Haunting, sensual music . . .
The window was open, the night breeze fluttered the curtains. A beautiful young woman stood in front of the window, rocking seductively in time with the music. Her blouse was open, exposing her midriff.
It was a very nice midriff. Charley swallowed hard and glued the binoculars to his eyes.
The woman was swaying even more sensually, if such a thing were possible. She stared into the middle distance, as if enthralled by something she saw there. Then, to Charley’s complete amazement, she slid out of her blouse and stood still, torso glistening in the moonlight.
Charley rarely saw so much unabashedly nubile female flesh. He leaned over, slapped off the TV and enveloped himself in darkness, watching.
She was incredible: petite, with shoulder-length hair, full pouting lips and wonderful breasts. Charley bit his lip, hard. Who is this guy? he wondered. How does he get these women?
And what is he doing to them?
He was stumped. Still, she didn’t appear to be in any danger. In fact, she seemed to be quite enjoying herself. She was rocking back and forth now, breasts jiggling languorously in her bra. She turned at one point and faced Charley directly. He ducked, afraid she’d see him.
But she didn’t. He was sure of it. Something in her movements bewildered him; they were too fluid, too dreamy, too . . .
Drugged. The word came to him. Or hypnotized. I don’t know. It scared him, suddenly, and he was half tempted to lean out the window and call to her.
Then Dandrige appeared.
The man was, in his own way, as beautiful as the girl. He crossed the room as if gliding several inches above the floor; and when he reached the girl, he seemed to hover more than stand. He touched her shoulders, and she seemed to stiffen with anticipation.
Dandrige massaged her shoulders tenderly for a moment, then reached around and deftly unhooked her bra with a grace and economy of motion that amazed Charley almost as much as the act itself.
The bra slid to the floor. Her nipples were hard. Dandrige cupped a breast in each hand. She arched back, lips parted.
Charley, meanwhile, was losing his mind. It was too cruel. His girlfriend hated
But after four hours of staring intently at the utterly black exterior of the neighbor’s house, boredom and fatigue took their toll. Had he stayed awake, he would have seen the cab pull up and dispatch its lone passenger. Seen the stranger climb the steps next door, and the light flick on shortly thereafter.
The light in the window. Directly across from him.
Instead, Charley slept.
And he dreamed.
In his dream, there was music: haunting, sensual music that pulsed and strobed and seemed to go right through him. And voices: whispers that rustled like dry leaves, too quiet to understand. But relentless.
There was a presence in the room. Hot. Pulsing. The air was heavy with a musky odor.
He felt the woman’s touch. Vibrant. Hungry. He groped blindly, found her belly, her breasts, her neck.
Her neck was beautiful.
He wanted her badly.
Brushing her hair back, he kissed her neck, rubbing his teeth along the cords of tight muscle, tasting her salt skin. He felt the need burning in him: to touch, to taste, to kiss . . .
He pulled her body closer. She turned to meet his gaze . . .
. . . and her eyes glowed, bright red and feral, the sockets sunken and shriveled, the flesh of her face puckered and ancient, mouth yawning wide to reveal plaque-encrusted teeth, long teeth, very, very sharp. Her nails dug into the small of his back, and . . .
Charley awoke with a start.
“What a weird dream,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes, disoriented. Then he heard the music.
It was coming from the window across the driveway. And there was light. He sat up, clutching his binoculars.
The shade was up, offering an unobstructed view of what was going on in the room. Charley’s throat went dry. The music was coming from there.
Haunting, sensual music . . .
The window was open, the night breeze fluttered the curtains. A beautiful young woman stood in front of the window, rocking seductively in time with the music. Her blouse was open, exposing her midriff.
It was a very nice midriff. Charley swallowed hard and glued the binoculars to his eyes.
The woman was swaying even more sensually, if such a thing were possible. She stared into the middle distance, as if enthralled by something she saw there. Then, to Charley’s complete amazement, she slid out of her blouse and stood still, torso glistening in the moonlight.
Charley rarely saw so much unabashedly nubile female flesh. He leaned over, slapped off the TV and enveloped himself in darkness, watching.
She was incredible: petite, with shoulder-length hair, full pouting lips and wonderful breasts. Charley bit his lip, hard. Who is this guy? he wondered. How does he get these women?
And what is he doing to them?
He was stumped. Still, she didn’t appear to be in any danger. In fact, she seemed to be quite enjoying herself. She was rocking back and forth now, breasts jiggling languorously in her bra. She turned at one point and faced Charley directly. He ducked, afraid she’d see him.
But she didn’t. He was sure of it. Something in her movements bewildered him; they were too fluid, too dreamy, too . . .
Drugged. The word came to him. Or hypnotized. I don’t know. It scared him, suddenly, and he was half tempted to lean out the window and call to her.
Then Dandrige appeared.
The man was, in his own way, as beautiful as the girl. He crossed the room as if gliding several inches above the floor; and when he reached the girl, he seemed to hover more than stand. He touched her shoulders, and she seemed to stiffen with anticipation.
Dandrige massaged her shoulders tenderly for a moment, then reached around and deftly unhooked her bra with a grace and economy of motion that amazed Charley almost as much as the act itself.
The bra slid to the floor. Her nipples were hard. Dandrige cupped a breast in each hand. She arched back, lips parted.
Charley, meanwhile, was losing his mind. It was too cruel. His girlfriend hated
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