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A night in Potters Field
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
From: [email protected] (..Hawkeye..)
Subject: A Night in Potter's Field
This story contains elements of supernatural horror. Whether or not
you find it erotic will depend largely on your taste. It's not gory,
and I don't think there's anything here that would really squik
anyone, unless they're particularly sensitive. But still, you can
consider yourself warned.
Hawkeye
_______________________________________________________________________
Do me a favor, and only redistribute this with the following notices
attached.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the
characters herein, and any real people living or dead, is purely
because I draw from many sources, real and imaginary. Chew on that.
© 1993 Pure Blue Enterprises. All rights reserved. Explicit permission
granted for electronic re-distribution, without changes.
[v1.1]
A Night in Potter's Field
by Hawkeye
This is a story that I don't really expect you to believe. Why not?
Well, first off, because I don't believe it either. And secondly,
because you're most likely very educated, and cynical, and altogether
immune to the sort of superstition that would let you believe - just
for a moment - that I really fell through a doorway into a world of
darkness. Believe it if you care to. Or if you know better than
the rest of us.
+++
I met her in a way that only reads well in gothic novels: I was
walking in a graveyard. Don't laugh! It was the shortest way between
Samson's Mighty Subs and the Davis Quadrangle, so you met people from
the dorms there all the time. The real late nighters can give you a
spook sometimes, with their red No-Doz eyes and their Jolt Cola rictus
grins.
Anyway, that's where I met her, right there in the middle of
Potter's Field. She was an ethereal sight, drifting among the
headstones at 3 am, with her pale skin shining in the moonlight, and
her black hair blowing on the breeze. She was youngish looking, and
she had on a frilly dress, like she was just coming home from a high
school prom. There were no high schools around there. I mumbled "Hi"
as our paths crossed. She smiled and lowered her eyes. I looked at
her over my shoulder as we passed, and I tripped on a flat gravestone.
That landing really hurt. I mean, it really, *really* hurt. I
cracked my knee, but good (hey, it broke the skin!), on the edge of
the stone, and then, by an acrobatic feat that you'd really have to
see to believe, I managed to fall and twist in such a way that I also
cracked the back of my head on the same edge of the stone.
She turned around. I suppose the thudding of my fall, and the
elaborate and inventive cursing that followed, had attracted her
attention. Yeah, that sounds good. After all, it would be ghoulish
to suggest that the smell of blood had attracted her.
She turned around, and looked at me curiously, like she'd never seen
anyone injure themselves in a stupid way before, and didn't know what
to make of it. I was clutching at my knee, and loudly invoking all
sorts of deities to perform various unnatural acts upon themselves and
each other.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
Unbelievably, I couldn't come up with a good retort to that. So I
snarled "Yes!" through gritted teeth, and rocked angrily back and
forth to emphasize it.
She walked towards me, and kneeled in the grass in front of me. By
then, the worst of the pain--the really *ferocious* pain that knocked
the breath out of my lungs, and made it all but impossible to speak--
was gone. But in its wake, it left a horrible throbbing ache,
punctuated by sharp daggers of hurt whenever I moved. I wondered
dimly if I had broken my knee.
She reached out, and touched my hands where they were clamped over
my kneecap. Without really intending to, I opened my hands, and
exposed the wound where it had punched through the skin. "You're
bleeding," she said softly. Somehow, I just couldn't bring myself to
say 'No shit'.
She touched the break in the skin, and I was appalled that I didn't
do something to stop her. "Hey!" I said, sharply, "Don't do that."
But the feather touch of her finger hadn't hurt at all, it was more
the principle of the thing that riled me. I didn't want her poking
around in an open wound, I wanted her to do something useful - like
go see if there was anybody still at the medical center.
"Do you want me to kiss it better?" she asked. She had a smile on
her face that was somewhere in the hazy territory between gently
mocking and sneering. I felt a vague disgust. I also felt a less
than vague interest. Her lips were beautiful, red, and slightly wet.
I was about to say "Why don't you get the fuck out of here," but
somehow it came out as "Yeah, why don't you?"
She bent her head to my split knee, and kissed it. It wasn't a
motherly kiss. It was a sensual caress - disgusting, under the
circumstances. Strangely enough, though, my knee felt a lot better.
"Psychosomatic blah blah blah," my brain whispered to me, "you're just
feeling better because you're getting a hard on." I mumbled something
out loud, a side effect of the discussion going on in my head, and she
looked up at me. Her lashes were extraordinarily long and thick - I
couldn't see anything through the dark shadows they made of her eyes.
She lifted her head, then, her mouth red and grinning. I tried once
more, valiantly, to view this as a disgusting sight, but it just
didn't work. Even when she licked her lips, and laughed mockingly
at me as I winced. She crawled closer, then, until she was kneeling
between my knees. I looked down the V neck of her dress, then, and I
could see her small, flat breasts and her dark red nipples. She
didn't seem so young anymore, though I couldn't say that she really
_looked_ any different.
She lifted her lips up to mine, and I tilted my head down to meet
her. Her mouth was both soft and brutal against mine. She suddenly
bit me, sharply, and I pulled away from her. I saw her eyes, then,
glittering at me in the darkness, and I was suddenly afraid. I
started to crawl backwards, across the table shaped gravestone, but she
followed me, swarming over the edge of the rock as quick as a rat.
In my flight, I cracked the back of my head again, and I felt a
fresh rush of intense pain. I was dazed and agonized by it as she
leaned over me, and started to rip open the buttons of my shirt,
scratching me with her sharp nails. She started to nip and kiss at my
bare chest, then, which was painful, but held a terrible pleasure, as
well. She snapped hard at my nipples, causing me to cry out with
pain, then licked and kissed them until I was delirious with pleasure.
Then she began to unfasten my belt.
I felt like I probably ought to do something about this, but
nothing immediately presented itself to my dazed consciousness. In
fact, I was watching her with a dreamy anticipation, as she opened
my jeans, and dragged them down around my thighs. She tore apart
my underpants then, in a way that made her fingers seem both strong
and sharp. That somehow added to the exquisite sense of pleasure
I felt, when she wrapped her hands around my turgid cock, and began
to stroke it.
I shuddered under her strong, and delightfully sure grip, as she
squeezed and pulled me toward a precipice that I couldn't even begin
oo measure. I thought that perhaps I ought to be *doing* something,
since I was already a party to this bizarre rendezvous, but the only
thing that I could get a clear mental fix on was her breasts. I
wanted to see them. So I reached up, and pulled the dress from her
shoulders. I slid it down her arms, until I could see the firm white
shapes of them, quivering sharply as she jerked at my cock.
I could feel the hot flush of my skin, radiating heat into the cool
night air. I could also feel the coldness of the rock under my
buttocks, which would have been uncomfortable if I had cared to take
any notice of it. Her skin, though, was neither flushed nor sweating,
but was as cool ad white as the moon. She looked excited, but in a
greedy way, not aroused with passion like myself. I stared hard at
her pale breasts - only her red, jutting nipples showed any trace of
an arousal kin to mine. Her dark red lips were fixed in an almost
sadistic grin as she jerked me off hard enough to bruise my flesh.
I was quickly getting to the point of orgasm. She bent her head
down, then, so that her hair swept like cold feathers across my belly.
I felt a stab of fear as I remembered the pain of her teeth on my
chest - and the brutal way she had bit me before. But I forgot that,
in an agony of pleasure, as she began to lick the head of my cock with
her red, sinuous tongue. She swept up the drops of clear precum that
were squeezing from the tip of my cock, and spread them all around the
head. The sensation was maddening - squeeze and lick, squeeze and
lick. I felt my loins beginning to tense up toward an explosion.
Suddenly, she engulfed my cock to the hilt, like a snake swallowing
its dinner. I gaped at her in disbelief, as she began to tongue the
underside, driving me mad with sensation. I was balanced on the brink
of ecstasy when she suddenly bit down and yanked her head back,
drawing her teeth sharply up the length of my cock. A mad god's
lightning flared up through my loins, and burst from my abused organ.
I came, in violent and painful spurts. She sucked it down greedily,
milking me with her unkind hands and mouth.
I felt then, painful though it was, that I had at least achieved
relief. But still, something was wrong. My cock was standing out
from my belly, and it was painfully hard. I didn't want it to still
be hard. I wanted it to go noodle-limp like the rest of my body, so I
could drop into sweet unconsciousness. I certainly _didn't_ want to
have any more to do with _her_. But there she was, still grinning
wickedly at me. Her dress was still peeled down below her shoulders,
and her red nipples still taunted me with the illusion of femininity.
I felt sick.
She straddled me, then - her body heavier than I would have guessed
from her slender form. Her flesh was as cold as it was white. She
licked her lips with that bright red tongue again, and took my rigid
penis in her hand. She lifted the front of her dress, and reached
between her legs with her free hand. She impaled herself on me,
slowly - a sensation akin to drowning in ice. Then she began to move,
her hips grinding my backbone painfully against the hard stone, but
still managing to move in a fluid and erotic way.
I couldn't help it, I began to get aroused again, despite the pain.
I began to thrust weakly up to meet her movements, and she rewarded me
by rippling the muscles in her torso in the most intimate caress I
have ever felt. I felt the cold grip of her body milking me, and my
desire rose and rose, until I peaked for the second time that night.
But I had nothing to give, that time. I spilled a weak few drops into
her, but mostly I fired dryly - my loins helplessly contracting, trying
to force something that just wasn't there. I spasmed helplessly into
her, for how long I don't know, until finally the pain exceeded the
pleasure, and I dropped, exhausted, back onto the stone.
I don't know what happened after that. I suppose I passed out. All
I remember is that I woke up just before dawn - stretched out across a
gravestone like a primeval sacrifice. My clothes were torn, and I was
aching, bruised, and feverish. I felt like 20 people had beaten me
senseless, and sucked the marrow from my bones. I barely had the
strength to pull my ruined clothes on, and crawl to the medical center
before I passed out.
They told me that I had apparently been attacked in Potter's Field,
and had subsequently suffered from exposure. They told me the dream I
had was the result of my feverish state, after I was left half clothed
in the cold, with a cracked skull. I didn't have the heart to laugh
at them. In fact, I really tried to believe them. Hopefully, some-
day I will, and then maybe I'll be able to sleep well again.
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