Freebies
Thanks for visiting our Freebies page. This is the place where Dick and I share with you some of our short stories from our compilations. We hope you enjoy and please send feedback to www.lambkinwalterslavender.com
The Night of the Tuesday Moon
By
Deana Walters
Catherine Williams stood at the window and looked out at the full moon. Every constellation twinkled its identity across the warm summer sky as a gentle breeze teased the leaves of the oak trees. This was the kind of night that in all its beauty conjured up the darkest of thoughts.
She turned back the covers on the four poster bed, set the clock and flipped the light switch. Sleep would come quickly and the dream even moreso.
Obscured by the stand of trees he stood near her window and listened to the sound of her breathing. He could feel her heart beating as if it were in his own chest; her warm blood tempting his palate like warm red nectar. He wanted to reach out and touch her but it was not yet time. He first had to join her in the dream, to share her visions and feel her desire. He would know by her scent when she was ready, and then…
Catherine’s eyelids twitched as she entered REM sleep. The dream was familiar to her. He always appeared just at the edge of the woods as she lay on the bier. She knew she was not dead but yet she could not move. She heard his breathing and felt the cool touch of his hands as they caressed her body. He did not reek of death but rather of lust and for that reason she did not fear him.
He was now in the dream standing there watching her in her helplessness. He felt the stirrings and knew it would not be long before he would take her. His fingers traced a path along her inner thigh moving ever so slowly towards the source of her heat. In the dream she could not move but in this world Catherine Williams sighed deeply and spread her legs slightly apart as if issuing an invitation to her nocturnal guest.
He was on the bier now, and bracing himself against the stone he entered her with slow deliberation. He took her lightly at first, savoring the wetness as his fingers stroked and massaged the tender flesh of her breasts. In her dream state Catherine gave life to the paralyzed creature on the bier as she pulled him close arching in her sleep as he felt her throb around his hardness. He sank his fangs into the soft tissue of her neck and for one brief moment he knew life. He knew the joys of a man who becomes one with a woman. He felt the warmth of blood coursing through collapsed veins and a heart that fluttered much as the wings of the birds who sat on branches casually observing the mating.
Having left her in the dream he stood outside the window and watched as Catherine stirred lightly in her sleep and her hand rested between her thighs. There would be no obvious sign of his visitation. She would recall the dream, familiar but with neither rhyme nor reason and wait for the next night of the Tuesday moon.
©2008 Deana Walters
All rights reserved
The Night of The Tuesday Moon
Lillian’s Story
By
Deana Walters
Lillian Knollwood had been an insomniac for as long as she could remember. The chaos and mayhem created by her parents’ arguing had resulted in countless nights of sleeping in the closet with her clothes piled over her head to block out the noise. When sleep did come it swiftly pulled her into a dark vortex of nightmarish proportions. It was not unusual for her to awaken suddenly wide-eyed, trembling and sweating profusely. She would be disoriented as to time and space but the images would remain clear.
The winds began to pick up as they did every evening now. She could hear the leaves rustling outside the door and the branches softly scrape against the windowpanes. The leafless trees played hide and go seek with the waning moon and she had been counting off the hours as she knew it would be dark soon and he would come.
Lillian put on the worn chamois glove and picked up the heavy iron tongs; grabbing a log, she tossed it onto the fire and watched as it crackled to life. She sat in the rocker and stared at the flames as she waited for the whistle of the tea kettle. Things had changed a lot since that day so long ago. Although she was only forty, she looked much older. Her once raven tresses were now a moppish mess of gray hair. She moved slowly as arthritis claimed her left ankle and knee – the ones she had broken in the fall.
As she lumbered to the kitchen the lights flickered briefly and she knew a major storm was brewing. The water was ready for her tea. It was a part of her nightly ritual. The cup had belonged to her mother, and her mother and her great grandmother as well. It had survived numerous moves which began in Europe over two centuries ago. Save for the little chip on the saucer, it was as it had been all those many years ago before the first journey.
She placed the tea bag into the cup. It was always the same- chamomile. She poured the water, dropped a spoonful of honey in it and placed the cookies on the saucer. The log was now fully engaged and the flames danced brightly in the fireplace. The house was old. He had told the story to her many times of all that had taken place there. That was how she spent Tuesday evenings – rocking and waiting for…him.
She remembered the first time they met. It had been that night, that Tuesday night when she was only 16 years old. They met under less than ideal circumstances but then again there was nothing normal about their relationship. Her mother and father had been arguing as usual. It was always about money and class. Her mother came from old money and her father was a ne’er do well who saw no point in working as he was going to marry into wealth. Unbeknownst to her father her mother’s wealth had been secured in an irrevocable trust with her grandmother as the guardian. These facts were not made known until after the marriage to ensure it had taken place for love and not money.
The trust stipulated that an annual allowance be given to her mother until her thirty-fifth birthday at which time she would receive the entire trust fund. Should she die prior to turning 35 the money would go to her children, to be divided equally amongst them, but Lillian was an only child. Upon learning he was to be a kept man, her father began to drink heavily and gamble his allowance away. He would always demand an advance from her mother which she always refused. Disappearing for days at a time her father would always reappear sober and remorseful until the cycle began again.
On that particular evening her father was cold sober. There was no warning whatsoever. The shotgun blast seemed to echo endlessly as blue gray smoke curled from the barrels. Her mother lay dead on the floor as her father began to reload the weapon. Her heart was racing and her breathing was labored, and for a brief moment she felt rooted to the spot. She knew he had seen her. Running from the room she managed to get the door open and began to run down the street searching for refuge. She could hear his heavy footsteps several yards behind her as she made her way to the building just ahead. Taking the stairs two at a time she tried the doorknob and opened the door where darkness engulfed her. Feeling her way along the wall she came to a window. Pulling back the shade she saw him turn as the headlamps of an approaching car flooded the yard with light. She knew he would not stop until she was dead also.
Lillian had no idea how much time had passed but suddenly there were voices in the yard below and the moonlight cast an eerie glow as the shadows moved back and forth. She dropped the shade and stood silent, afraid to even breathe. Once again peeking out the window she heard the men talking. He was there! Crouching into a corner she searched for a way out. Gently easing open the back door she soon realized there were no stairs. Clinging to the edge of the floor she fell into the soft underbrush below. She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t go anywhere. She hear her ankle snap as she hit the ground. The men had taken up residence on the street and they were looking for her.
He had been watching from a distance. He smelled the scent of the child as she ran and knew she was not to be his prey, for on this night he would exact his revenge on the man who took the life of his beloved Lydia. He would not be gentle nor toy with them as he sometimes liked to do. He had seen the child in the window and for a brief moment, he felt twinges of human pain.
One by one he took the men. Invisibly he took over their mortal existences, sucking the life breath from them before he sank his fangs deep into their jugulars. By destroying their mortal souls they would never return as one of the undead. Lillian watched as he killed her father. She found herself unable to cry and unable to move. As she backed away from the building he stood before her, not threatening but sensing her fear. When she awakened she was in her bed, in her house. All traces of what had taken place there earlier were gone as was he.
On her 21st birthday her solicitor informed her that the funds in her trust were being released to her as well as deed to the house and title to the lands it stood on. There was no celebration as there was no one to celebrate with. That Tuesday night was the first time he came to her. She had been restless in her sleep and awakened to find him standing over her. She pulled the nightgown from her throat and offered herself to him. He looked so young, no older than she and yet she knew he was old.
She lay there waiting for him, knowing in her heat he would never disappoint her. Suddenly she felt his presence and her pulse quickened with anticipation.
He disrobed quietly and removed her nightgown. His hands were cold but as he touched her she felt herself flush. His teeth scraped her breasts as he suckled her nipples. It mattered not what method of madness was occurring, she wanted him and he obliged. He ran his tongue across her tenderness before raising the soft roundness of her hips to meet his thrusts. He emptied himself into her and she begged for more as his demon seed burned to her core. He nuzzled her neck gently before his fangs eased their way into the soft flesh, once again claiming her fully as his own and then he was gone.
He dressed and sat in the rocker, staring at the embers listening to her sleep…it was a good sleep; she was not dreaming. He sighed deeply as he took his leave but it was only temporary as he would return on the next night of the Tuesday moon.
©2008 Deana Walters
All rights reserved
The Night of the Tuesday Moon
His Story
By
Dick Lambkin and Deana Walters
Gaspar D’Aubigne brushed his jacket and straightened his ascot as he prepared for a busy evening. He had not been sleeping well lately and for a man in his condition that did not bode well. Things had changed so much lately and he had made the adjustments as best he could. He missed Catherine. She had been the one constant in his life. Even in his present state she never feared him. How was he to know when he left that night that another would visit her and take her life? For over thirty years he lived for their meetings and now there would be no more. Even in his darkened chamber he knew that the sun had not yet set.
Even in his darkened chamber he knew that the sun had not yet set. He also knew that he would have to find and endear himself to another now that she was gone. He needed to feed but it was his soul that hungered. As he placed the family ring on his finger he thought back to his youth. His father had given him the ring before he died and that was the day the guilt began to eat him alive much like a wild animal devours his prey. The family line had died with his father’s final gasp and Gaspar had not been allowed to mourn his loss.
The small microscopic beads of dust floated in and out of the stream of sunlight that forced its way through the crack in the shutter. Vermin scampered about in search of life sustaining crumbs and were the unlikely guardians of the secrets that resided in the old mansion. In its present state it was hard to imagine that at one time it was the palatial residence of French aristocrats who threw gala soirees and the time of noblesse oblige. Life was good and the house was indeed a living thing. That was before the plague.
Maison D’Aubigne was where he was born and raised. It was where he suckled the breasts of a wet nurse and had his first sexual experience while peeking through the door of cook’s room off the galley. The guttural sounds of the horse groomer coming from the other side of the door were what had drawn the then fifteen year old Gaspar to the door. As he stood there watching the man with cook he experienced an uncontrollable engorgement of his male member. Gaspar had never seen a man in such a state before and his fascination held him rooted to the spot. His already tight fitting trousers became even more so as he watched the man begin to stroke himself as he looked at cook’s forbidden place. That is what his mother called it. He watched as the man slowly ran his fingers across the place eliciting a moan from the woman. Gaspar could not take his eyes off the couple and within minutes the young master had experienced his first orgasm. It had not been a distasteful experience, but rather more of a surprise as he had never before lost control of his own body.
The little voyeur was thoroughly embarrassed and made haste least one of the chambermaids discover him sullied standing at cook’s door. No doubt they would laugh among themselves before they reported his misdeed. Taking the back hallway to his bedchamber Gaspar wondered how it would feel to touch a woman there, in that manner and to sully her forbidden place with his own wetness. The vicar would admonish him soundly if he had any idea that Gaspar was experiencing lustful thoughts and behavior.
Vivienne Dumont lived the life of an aristocrat vicariously. As courtesan to politician and merchant alike, she was well known and handsomely paid for her services. She was privy to the secret passions and desires of French men and she fulfilled the fantasies their wives would not. Always the opportunist, Vivienne’s only loyalty was to the silk purse she carried. If the terms were acceptable her legs would skillfully drape the shoulders of any man who could afford her. Her pale skin and curly hair belied her Moorish roots and if the question was not posed, no revelation was volunteered.
Paris was dying. The tentacles of the Black Death held on tenaciously and not a day went by that another house of an aristocrat stood vacant as its occupants were tossed out into the street or disposed of in the sewer. Indeed she began to fear the life of a pauper until the stranger appeared. He was tall with the most angelic face Vivienne had ever seen, but there was a brooding darkness about him that gave her pause. He was slow and steady in the way he took her. His eyes remained open and he demanded the same of her. He circled her lips with his manhood inviting her to taste him gently at first and then with more deliberation. When he drove himself inside her he was cold like a corpse.
Two days hence Vivienne Dumont knew she was dying. The death rattle gurgled in her throat and her breathing was shallow. Her body had begun to convulse when suddenly he was there; a sardonic grin spread across his face as he knelt down as if to speak her. His hands gently squeezed her breasts and his fingers teased her nipples. He knew it was sweet torture for a dying woman. His mouth nuzzled against her neck before she felt the searing pain and the warm trickle of blood.
As she languished in a state of delirium horrific dreams filled her subconscious mind. She saw hundreds of bodies in various states of decay as rats gnawed at the remains. On the third day after her visit from the stranger Vivienne felt completely well, well enough to get out of bed and walk about. She expected sea legs but in fact she was as strong as she had been before the plague. Rushing to the looking glass she was taken aback as there was no reflection. What manner of madness was this? She knew she was not blind. Dressing hastily she went out into the cool of the Tuesday night. If anyone would know what had happened it would be Monsieur D’Aubigne. Rapping sharply on the door she was surprised when no servants answered. Letting herself in she realized perhaps there was no one there as the stench of death permeated the house. Just as she turned to leave Vivienne heard the all too familiar gurgle of death. Following the sound she found Gaspar barely clinging to life.
Standing there watching the man die, Vivienne found herself laughing uncontrollably at the poor wretch. She was suffused with an odd desire for the taste of blood. Leaning over Gaspar she grabbed his male member and began stroking him roughly, laughing loudly at his misery. Using what little strength he could muster Gaspar tried in vain to extract himself from her grip. Angered at this action, Vivienne kissed Gaspar’s lips and then his neck. Waves of pain wracked his nearly dead body as blood ran down his neck and onto the bedclothes.
Gaspar watched as a crazed Vivienne ran from the house laughing like a madwoman with the stain of his blood on her dress. The streets were empty except for the undertakers. Overpowered by her thirst Vivienne attacked one of the men who flung her away where she landed on a wooden cross. The man shrank back in terror as he watched the woman’s body disintegrate.
In the days that followed Gaspar watched as his mother and father and cook all fell victim to the plague. Vivienne saved Gaspar from the plague but doomed him to a life of darkness and quiet voyeurism. The hooting of an owl at images illuminated by the night sky functioned as his clock, and Gaspar reached for his coat and his cane and left his lonely room in search of a new companion on this night of the Tuesday moon.
©2008 Dick Lambkin and Deana Walters
All rights reserved
The 17th Floor
A Short Erotic Story from The Night of The Tuesday Moon
By
Deana Walters And Dick Lambkin
Chapter One
Claire Davidson’s hands shook as she attempted to complete the knot in her uniform tie. It was Tuesday and her first day on the new job, and she wanted to make a good impression. Her shoes shone like dark glass, her shirt sported crisp military creases and her trousers were evenly seamed and creased; the hems stopped just at the top of her shoes. Her belt buckle was centered perfectly in the middle of her body and the light glinted off of it like a miniature rainbow. Thank goodness she didn’t have to wear the typical WAVE hat. Those things were a pain in the butt. She slid her dead granddad’s pocket watch into her uniform pants pocket and prepared to meet the day.
John Palmer was a fixture at Woodfield Bank’s main office tower. With over twenty years of service as the Chief of Security, he was the most senior employee. He had seen countless changes in the banking business; almost as many as the revolving door of employees hired, fired and voluntary terminated. Clenching his favorite cheap cigar between his brown stained teeth he reviewed the schedule and his displeasure was obvious. His brows were knitted and he talked to himself in whispered undertones. The last thing he needed was to get involved in training a new officer, a female at that. The last one lasted two weeks, the one before two days. He doubted if they were ever truly serious about a career in security. The pressure was on him to find a permanent officer to work the 17th floor. The job opening had been posted internally several times and there were never any takers. The salary had been increased three times and still no one from the inside showed any interest whatsoever.
Looking over his shoulder, he shifted his weight in the chair and reached inside his pants to scratch his balls. His hand had been the only hand inside his pants in over five years. Up until a few months ago he used to relieve himself down in the tombs at lunchtime. He had a stash of girlie magazines in an old desk in one of the long forgotten offices. Every day he would take one from the drawer and imagine his shriveled dick sliding between some cutie’s lips and fucking her while she begged for more. He sat there with a bologna sandwich in one hand, the magazine on the desk and his hand on his cock, stroking and shaking himself to coax a release. Occasionally frustration took over and the exercise proved futile. Then one day a strange thing happened and he never went to the tombs again.
John watched the clock as the second hand ticked off the minutes. In less than five minutes the recruit would technically be a no show. At precisely two minutes before the hour Claire Davidson walked through his office door. She was nothing like what he expected. No one told him that she was… Oh well, one was as good as another he supposed. He took her in from head to toe and figured she would last maybe a day, two at the most.
“Hello, I’m Claire, Claire Davidson and I was told to report here for my schedule and duty assignment.”
Rising from the chair John ignored the woman’s outstretched hand, grabbed the key ring and waved his hand as a signal that she should follow him.
The main customer area was quite busy but as he took her on a brief tour of the towers they encountered fewer and fewer people. The layout was circular with main doors at both ends of the hall. Each floor design was similar in that there were four work areas with cubicles and open office space on each side of the circle. No one looked up as they walked through the areas. The elevator went from the 14th floor to the 17th floor with no stops in between. The 17th floor was the Trust Division. It was one floor below the penthouse.
The elevator rocked gently to a stop and the doors opened. This was the only floor with a reception area in the lobby. Using his bulk to prop the doors open, John handed Claire the key ring, Detex clock card, a map and her radio. Her break times and lunch schedule were written in the margin of the map. Without a word, he stepped back into the elevator and allowed the doors to close.
The reception desk was unmanned and Claire decided to start at the north end of the floor. The only sound was the squish of her shoes against the carpet. The door opened with a soft swish sound. The first security station was just inside the door. Running the card through the reader she heard the sound of someone typing on a computer keyboard and soft jazz playing in one of the cubicles. When she reached the open office area the oversized office chair was turned away from her and the sound of typing emanated from that area as well. Hitting each of the security stations on the north side, she continued in the circle to the south side. The area was quiet and Claire assumed its occupants were out to lunch. According to the map there were hallways between the two sides and at least five keys to hit in each one.
The first hallway was a long windowless expanse. There were several oil paintings and name plates beneath each one. Some were of benefactors and others of former board chairs. Claire had no idea how old the towers were but she remembered banking in the adjacent old branch as a child. Some of the paintings dated back at least that far. The security stations were staggered on each side of the hallway and she hit all the ones on her right first, and when reaching the end of the hall she turned and hit the other keys. She was running a little ahead of schedule and decided to take in the panoramic view of the city and the lake. According to the map, there was a small stairwell that led to the penthouse. The station there was to be clocked exactly at 11 a.m. Glancing at her pocket watch she had twenty minutes to check out the penthouse and make sure everything was secure before swiping her card through the security station.
The stairwell leading to the penthouse reminded her of the ones found in a lighthouse- cut on a diagonal and made of steel; it wound two turns with the last step at the edge of the large area. A massive desk stood in the center of the floor, a round conference table with four chairs was in one corner, a mahogany bookcase in another and a well stocked wet bar sat in a small alcove. Floor to ceiling windows wrapped around one wall giving a breathtaking view of the lake and islands on the other side. At exactly 11 a.m. Claire swiped the card though the security station. She still had time before her next hit. Leaning against the brass rail in the open area she watched people move about like miniatures in a dollhouse. A cool breeze came from somewhere and a chill ran through her. She would remember her sweater tomorrow.
The large heavily padded swivel desk chair was too inviting to pass up. Turning it to face the window, Claire laid the key ring, the map and the card on the desk and sat down to take in the view. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it must be like to be rich enough to sit and work in a penthouse. Leaning back in the chair she felt as if she were in a warm embrace. A hand moved her hair aside and she felt warm breath on her neck. She knew she wasn’t asleep and she knew she was alone. Jumping from the chair she once again stood at the brass railing waiting for her heart to stop racing. She rubbed her neck in the spot where she felt the breath and walked towards the stairwell. She had two more security stops before lunch.
Chapter Two
The sound of cards being shuffled and the smell of pipe tobacco filled the corner of the room. The game of solitaire was beginning to bore Gaspar. Even the scotch held no interest to him and he moved the glass to the other side of the table. The grayness of the weather and the lonely sound of a tugboat were annoyingly depressing. On numerous occasions lately he considered venturing out but always decided against it at the last minute. Gone were the days when he would entertain his friends through several hands of poker and the camaraderie of exchanging stories of male exploits, and the discussions of the wonders of female flesh. It wasn’t that he was lonely, just intellectually unchallenged. He picked up the cards and replaced them into the box. As he sat in the darkened area of the room he was too engrossed in his plans for the week to concentrate on the game for fools.
Her scent lingered in the room. He sat in the chair and felt her warmth there. He knew she hadn’t noticed him but then they never do; how could they? The frailty of their human senses did not lend itself to feeling his presence about. They hit their little mechanical boxes as they did their cursory walkthroughs and they never even noticed…
Claire stood in the south wing and once again regained her composure. Chills still ran down her spine but she chalked it up to the air conditioning. All these buildings cranked it up for some reason and the employees ended up dressing for winter to come to work in the summer. She rubbed her arms and walked towards the next station. Obviously everyone in this wing either had the day off or was in a meeting as the area was totally abandoned. The sun was beginning to break through and the water in the lake was iridescent. The next five stations were in another hallway.
This one was different than the last; wider and with windows covered by heavy drapes. There were no pictures on the walls and a long narrow window at the end was also heavily draped. Just as before, Claire slid the detex card through each station on the right. Standing at the end of the hall she suddenly felt pressure from behind. Her hands were splayed against the wall and she felt hands caressing her breasts, rubbing her nipples. She felt a hand slide down her pants and inside the thin fabric of her thong. She tried to move but couldn’t. The hands removed her shirt and her bra and suddenly turned her around. She was pinned against the wall; a mouth was on hers, kissing her, as the same hands seemed busy removing her pants. The room was spinning and she was overwhelmed by a heady feeling. A warm wet aching sensation centered itself between her thighs and an overwhelming desire slowly spread throughout her body. The experience was surreal, almost like a dream state.
Gaspar drank in the essence of the woman. She was so very different than Katherine whose dreams were their connection. She was also different than his beloved and now lost Lillian, who revered him and longed for Tuesdays and their time together. She was different than the other minions, several of whom had come and gone over the last few months. This one could not see him nor touch him. His anonymity was cloaked in his invisibility. She was hungry for a man and Gaspar’s senses had been awakened as had he the moment she entered the building. Her silent passion had awakened the lust in his loins and for the moment he had to have her his way. His long fingernails traced the smoothness of her thighs. He cupped her mound gently and fingered her lightly. He was rock hard as he took her; each time deeper and harder forgetting this was a woman of mortal flesh and not one of his kind. His kissed her neck as he gently sank his fangs into the tender flesh.
Claire gasped loudly as she felt the sting of the bite and the feel of him inside her. It had been longer than she cared to remember since she had felt such an intense longing. She rocked and thrust against him until they were in total synch with each other. She knew it was going to end soon and she fought to hold back as long as she could but it in the end the massive orgasm consumed them both.
Gaspar withdrew and released the woman from his emotional hold. He watched as she lay there momentarily before collecting her clothing and redressing. He saw her tremble and could tell she was troubled; no doubt trying to rationalize what had just taken place. He wanted to reach out and caress the dark skin of her cheek, and send some sort of message that things would be alright but he dared not. In the darkness of this sanctum he could survive during daylight hours but for now he needed to feed. He and the woman would have their time together on the next night of the Tuesday moon.
©Deana Walters and Dick Lambkin
All rights reserved
