textfiles/sex/EROTICA/L/lauralex.txt

Archive-name: Violent/lauralex.txt
Archive-author: Charles Franklin   12/92
Archive-title: Laura & Aleksandr  part 1


This is the first two chapters of a story I am trying to write.
It contains some way sacreligious (esp. to catholics) material,
some sex, and some violence.  If these things bother you, please
hit 'n' now.  Please email comments, since I don't read all the
groups I posted to regularly.  All comments, questions, and 
especially suggestions are welcome.  Do anything you want with
this as long as my name stays on it.  More to come, probably
after Xmas.  Thank you.

+--------------------------------------------------------------+

Chapter One.

"Amen."

Laura stepped out of the confessional, into the dimly lit 
chapel.  Sunlight showed weakly through the high stained 
glass windows, adding its illumination to that of the 
candles.  She was a tall woman, able to look over the heads 
of many of the men she knew.  Not that she really knew many 
men.  She thought of herself as ugly, gawky, too pale, too 
skinny, and many other things.  About the only thing she 
liked about herself was her faith in God.

In truth she was anything but ugly.  She had the statuesque 
beauty of a goddess, but it was well hidden.  She didn't 
style her hair in any flattering fashion, she wore no make 
up, and she dressed in only the drabbest of outfits.  Long, 
shapeless dresses, never slacks, never decorated in any way, 
covered her thin but alluring frame.  She feared she would 
look indecent, like a whore.  Her mother called her that, 
even in her more lucid moments.  If she combed her hair 
differently, to help her look pretty, if she wore a little 
perfume, her mother began to scream things like "You filthy 
girl!  Do you want to rouse men's desire?  Do you want them 
pawing at you, grabbing you?  People will think you do!  
They'll know what a slut you really are!"  Sometimes it was 
to much.  

Around her neck was a simple silver cross, a gift from her 
father, before he left.  She had been twelve then, and the 
chain had reached down to her belly.  Now, as tall as she 
had become, it rested between her breasts.  She often caught 
men staring at it, hanging there between the vague outlines 
on her blouse.  Her breasts were not large, but they did fit 
her slender build.  She felt that they were too noticeable, 
no matter how plain her outfits were.  She sometimes thought 
about getting a shorter chain, or wearing it on the inside 
of her clothing, but she never had.  She told herself it was 
to remember her father by.

Her ears were not pierced, and she wore only a plain 
barrette to keep her shoulder length blonde hair out of her 
eyes.  It had a little bit of a curl to it, and in the right 
light it would show faint red highlights.  This was a 
pleasant compliment to her eyes, which were a pale green, 
like mint.  She never saw this beauty herself.

She was painfully clean, for she scrubbed herself in the 
bath every day, hard enough to wash away feel of the city 
she lived in.  She didn't want to feel like the people she 
saw on the streets, evil and corrupt, in their malfeasance 
and vice.

She sat in the row of pews closest to the alter.  After 
pausing a moment, she leaned forward to rest on the thinly 
padded wood that passed for a kneeler.  She didn't have many 
sins to confess, she never did, so her penance was short.  A 
few rosaries, which came automatically to her lips.  Part of 
her wished that the priest had been more stern with her, 
asking for more of a repentance, more of a punishment.  But 
she put that aside, knowing that it was somehow bad.  She 
had only her mother waiting for her at home, her mother whom 
she could never ever do right by, no matter how much she 
prayed, no matter how reverent she was, nor how much of her 
life she gave up to care for an old and deranged woman.  The 
words "slut" and "harlot" were like punctuation marks in the 
few sentences they exchanged these days.  There had been a 
time when things were different, but that was a distant 
memory.  She sighed as she started her next series of 
supplications.

As her fingers moved over the glass beads, her mind 
wandered, for the prayers themselves didn't take much 
concentration.  She raised her eyes to the alter, where she 
had so many times seen the fatherly old man recite the 
ancient words, words that at times seemed so empty.  She 
regretted those times, for she wanted more than anything to 
give herself over to God completely, to be rid wholly of her 
own will.  It was a dream that she never thought would be 
realized.

Farther up, hanging high above the sanctuary, was the reason 
she attended mass at this small chapel, rather than at one 
closer to her own neighborhood.  The Crucifix.  When she 
gazed upon the unclothed flesh of her Savior, she saw more 
than polished wood and paint.  She could feel the heat of 
His body, smelled the musky sweat as He writhed in blessed 
agony.  The taste of His blood, the coppery sweetness as it 
poured from the wound at His side, where the cold metal of a 
centurion's lance had pierced the Holy flesh, sending waves 
of pain through His brutally beaten body.  The crown of 
thorns, sitting upon matted hair, placed there by rough 
hands which had stripped Him of His simple robes, and had 
beaten Him with the flats of swords.  The pain of the nails 
being driven through His palms seemed real to her, 
shattering barriers of rational thought, blinding her 
senses.

A real pain in her hand forced her back to earth.  A hasty 
look at her hand told her that she had been squeezing the 
crucifix at the end of the rosary so hard that the sharp 
metal corners had broken the skin.  It wasn't bleeding much, 
but it hurt more than it should have.  What she felt next 
scared her more than anything had before.

At first she thought that the wetness between her legs was 
her curse coming early.  She dismissed this thought quickly, 
since it wasn't accompanied by the usual cramps.  Realizing 
what had happened, she quickly rose, almost forgetting to 
cross herself, while fighting back tears of shame.  She 
wasn't able to face her Lord's image as she quickly fled 
from the building, after almost falling when she genuflected 
to the Host, averting her tear filled eyes from the statue 
on the wall.

Laura stumbled out into the fading daylight, sure that the 
old woman sitting in the back of the church could smell her 
wickedness.  As she ran down the filthy street toward her 
home, eyes burning and tears falling from her chin, she 
hardly noticed that she had placed her palm against her 
mouth, licking the sticky fluid from her cuts, coating her 
lips with blood.


Chapter Two

The warm air of the city night, heavy and putrid from the 
excesses of civilization, flowed around the sharp angles of
his face.  The need was upon him.  He perched on the ledge, 
as motionless as stone the work around him, looking down at 
his city.  His it was, for he was the most powerful.  He was 
king and ruler, but not leader.  His kind followed none, 
only their own needs and desires.  

Lavishing in the sensation of inhuman want that filled his 
being, he waited.  Far below him moved the unknowing herd. 
By machine and by foot they travelled endlessly along their 
meaningless mortal way, unceasing in their instinctive 
banality.  They knew nothing of their future, and 
comprehended nothing of their present.  They knew not that 
they existed only for and by his pleasure.

Spotting a couple walking into an alley, he began to move, 
still part of the night, as silent as the air and as quick 
as the wind.  His herd became upset when one of their number
was taken where all could see, so he always hunted 
in stealth, never letting one know when he would come, and 
never letting others see him kill.

His name was Aleksandr, and he had ruled this city for a 
hundred years.  He reveled in the sickness of his herd, for 
the farther they grew from self comprehension, from self 
preservation, the easier they fell to his power, and the 
more pleasing their deaths became.  Young girls waiting on 
street corners for him to take them away, packs of children 
roaming the night, fighting with each other, not knowing 
what the night was, and not knowing from where they were 
watched.  Hungry eyes followed them everywhere, from the 
parks where they turned to mindless zombies with chemicals, 
to the battle field streets where they left their number 
bleeding and mangled to be picked over by other worldly 
scavengers.

The two he watched now from his high vantage embraced to 
begin their mating.  This action never ceased to intrigue 
him, with its spectrum of customs and methods, a bodily 
function with so much significance for his cattle.  One of 
his prey was there for gratification, the other was there 
simply for survival.  The pleasure in Lex's eyes at 
observing this act of simple, unfruitful procreation made it 
obvious that his own hunger would wait until theirs was sated.

The man looked at the hooker with mixed lust and contempt.  
She was street trash, a piece of garbage to be used and 
thrown away, like all the other ones he had fucked.  He 
couldn't afford to do this often, but it was the only way to 
get off these days.  She was a sick looking thing, her eyes 
were hollow and her lips chapped, her gartered thighs were 
pale and flabby, perhaps well muscled long ago.  

To her he was just another trick.  If she let him fuck her, 
she could get more smack.  She'd forget everything, his bad 
breath and his shitty smelling clothes, as soon as she got a 
fix.  If she could get another trick tonight, maybe she 
could even eat something.  His hands hurt her the way he 
grabbed her arms, calling her names and trying to get a rise 
out of her.  She was distant and didn't care; he wasn't as 
bad as some guys.  She started to say things back to him, 
automatic lines that she had learned long ago to get him to 
hurry up.  The sooner he started, the sooner he'd be done.

He pushed her against the wall, lifting up her short skirt 
to see what he was paying for.  She didn't have on under 
pants, they would just have gotten in the way.  She was 
wet enough from the trick she had turned less than an hour 
ago, but the hair and skin around her cunt was sticky from 
his load.  He didn't care about this, he had always gotten 
sloppy seconds.  He undid his pants and pulled out his cock, 
squeezing his balls, trying to get hard.  He brought his 
hand down hard against her cheek.  That helped some.

Lex climbed down the building's wall, pausing to watch the 
man hit the woman.  His blood lust rose on a painful crest.  
He could smell the flecks of blood that came away on the 
back of the man's hand.  His eyes burned with his own 
passions when the man's engorged dick slammed into her box.  

Silently, he dropped down behind the pair.  The girl was 
staring off into space, occasionally saying something to 
urge the man on.  The thin line of blood running down her 
chin went unnoticed, except by Lex.  Moving closer, as part 
of the shadows, he waited for the man to come.  His own need 
for blood was rising beyond anything a human could ever 
feel, more intense than any sexual buildup.  Suddenly the 
man let out a low moan.  His shoulders tensed slightly and 
his head snapped back.  The woman took this as a sign that 
she could leave now.  

Lex struck.  Like a thrown knife he was on them.  The 
woman's head was pushed back against the dirty brick wall, 
blood appearing magically like a halo around her skull.  
Fingers, talon like, gripped the man's throat, instantly 
crushing his wind pipe.  His stiffened body was lifted 
effortlessly from the ground, its member still sticking out 
like some obscene snake striking.  Before all of the life 
was gone from the body, Lex's free hand pulled the head to 
the side, sweaty flesh parting at the neck.  

He brought the wound to his mouth, its overpowering scent 
filling his nostrils and clouding his senses.  Again, it was 
as the first time.  Intense heat surged through his veins, 
opening his vessels and igniting his heart.  As his own 
heart beat harder and faster, the one in the empty husk 
before him ceased its action.  The last powerful force shot 
the sanguine, salty liquid into the air, splattering his 
clothes, covering his face and arms.  His own manhood, as 
always, had come to life, pressing against his leg.

He no longer felt like a creature of the grave, but once 
again as Master of his world.  Nothing was beyond his will. 
He dropped the body and leapt into the air.  Now for some 
fun.

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