DEVIL’S REVENGE…chapter 3

Apparently some of you out there have been reading “Devil’s Revenge”….and some have privately written to me to post more.  There is a little bit of interest in this story.

I warn you, it’s rough and not yet rewritten, and I have learned something in the previous two years from the writing, but I have no energy right now to rewrite….and it’s a funny story, so I will post it in pieces here until the tide changes and the pikes come out.

Lady Nyo

“DEVIL’S REVENGE”

Chapter 3

Stretching like a cat, I awoke slowly.  Suddenly I smelled the strong scent of wood smoke and bounced upright in bed.  Looking around, I saw the fireplace and realized where I was.  Damn, it was happening again!  The Demon was playing fast and loose with my atoms, zapping me from my own comfortable bed and century.  How in hell does he do this?  Hah! Like he would tell me, but at least this time I wasn’t sick to my stomach.

The Demon had a name, Garrett Cortelyou, and was the hero of a novel I wrote sixteen years ago.   Cocksure of his charms, arrogance fed into his seduction and I found he was a danger to my decorum and decency.  Compounding the situation he was devilishly attractive and exuded an unearthly charisma.    He was master of a particular brand of sexual magic and his appetite knew no bounds.   He delighted in corrupting me, shocking me with his…. techniques.  I would call him a libertine.  He had little concern I was married and I forgot I was when he was near.  There was a certain charm in his humor and he was an entertaining devil.  Sexual encounters with him were addictive and probably dangerous. But this could not continue – I was losing control of myself.  He was a sharp-eyed critic and petards my writing with his presence and demands.

Here I was, early morning by the light in the room, and again, in a strange bed.   I had to pee, and knew from past visits where the chamber closet was.  It was cold in the room, the fire was dying down and I hurried across the floor. The sound of a pee in a china pot is quite intimate, as water with our modern toilets muffles sound.  Leaving the closet,  I stumbled over my feet in surprise.  There, sitting in a chair, was my Demon.

“I thought we agreed you would refer to me as your “Demon Lover”?  Garrett was eating a large slice of currant bread, the Dutch escapes me now –

“Kretenbroad”, he said, dusting the crumbs off his chest as he chewed.

“Thank you, the Dutch eluded me.”

“Anna makes good kretenbroad..  I think I will marry her.” He grinned at me and snapped  his fingers, making a dish of tea appear on the table for me.

“You could do worse.”  According to the first novel, Anna was the spinster niece of Daniel Griggs, the manservant who lived in this house for thirty years.

“Much more. Get your facts straight.”

“Garrett, what gives you leave to invade my bedroom at all times of the morning?”

Still chewing his bread, he gave a devilish grin.  “I like celestial music in the morning.”

“What are you talking about? What music?”   He could be so silly and confounded me many times.

“The music a woman makes when she pees in a chamber pot,” he said grinning broadly.

“You are a nasty demon.”  I was getting impatient with his antics.  He took great liberties.

“ Come drink your tea before it cools, “ he said, dusting the crumbs to the floor.

I sat down in my nightgown, and picked up the ‘dish’ of tea.  It really was a bowl with two handles, but every time he conjured up tea for me, it was good.

“Of course it is, I made and stirred it with my –“

“Don’t tell me, Garrett, I won’t be able to drink.”  He really was nasty this morning, and his visits were always backed with a purpose.

“Always backed”?  That’s more garbled English.  Write it in Dutch.”

“All right, Demon!” I was getting irritated.  “”Why are you here?” (Better I ask why I am here…) I was struggling with the book, trying to finish and every time we were together in this room, there was a setback in my writing, or a detour, or something strange and distracting.

“Oh? You see me as a distraction? I can be more dangerous than that.”  He burped loudly.  He had the table manners of a goat.

“Bahhh”.  He grinned crazily, and for whatever reason he appeared this morning, I was heading for trouble.

“First, give me your hand, and be more tender towards me.”  He extended his hand across the table, and gave me a sweet smile.  For some reason, he did this each visit. I never trusted him, especially when he was extending his paw.

“ ‘Hand’.”  He nodded to himself.  “And call me  ‘Lover’.  I miss that from you.”

I had to smile.  He was such an insecure devil.

“I am not. It’s just that you are a bad writer.” He lunged across the table and grabbed my hand.  “And still not fast on your feet.”

A current like water flowed from his hand to mine.  I was knocked back at the intensity of his touch.  He had done this before but something was different today.

“You fed me. See, Betsy, I was starving, and your cooking restored my strength.”  He grinned and would not let go of my hand.  “Anna made me stronger, too…and I thank thee for her.”    Anna was a good Dutch cook apparently.

“I don’t think I want to fokken her, though.”  He couldn’t resist.  “Nope, don’t want to do that at all.” He finally looked serious.  “ I read what you wrote…and again, you should stick to what you know.” He smiled at me, yanking my hand towards him.

“What in hell are you talking about?”  He rubbed the front of his breeches, and leered.

“Sex?” Is that the word you can’t think of?  You have to use sign language?”

“Ha…funny! Especially coming from a woman who obviously doesn’t know a thing about fellatio.”

I sat up, and thought back to what I wrote. “What was wrong with it?”

“See the sentence above the last.”

“Now you are going stupid.  Of course I know about it, I’ve been married for years.”

“Then your husband doesn’t know much.”   He had me there.

“I will teach you something useful –the devil leered again-  and make you an better writer.”  He grinned, and the current between us grew stronger.  My hand felt like it was melting into his, the heat fusing our flesh together.

“That’s what good …(the devil burped) …sex  is supposed to feel like.”

Garrett was a cock-sure devil, ( “damn right”) and most of his suggestions for the novel were on target.  He had lived in those years, the early part of the 19th century, and knew the social customs of the period.  I could only rely on my spotty research for these things.

“Hold still.  I will put something nice in your mouth, sweet woman.”  Ah, God…his mind was always fixated on lust.

“It effects better parts of me too, but you keep your knees together too much.  Ah, seduction of women writers is hard work.”

“You’ve used that line before, Garrett.  Now, who is original.”  My little joke didn’t please and he pulled me over the table and into his lap.  It happened so fast I couldn’t resist him.

“Give your highwayman a kiss, sweet Bessie.”  When he was in this mood, there was no denying the demon.

“Oh!” I said., sitting upright on his knee.   “That’s one of my favorite poems.  “The Highwayman”.  I thought it the most romantic poem I ever read when I was twelve.”

“Doesn’t turn out too nice, both of them dead.  That musket beneath her breast….” He shook his head and burped again.  His stomach at least was all too human.

I lay my head on his shoulder.  He could be a sweet devil, and evoked tender emotions from me he didn’t deserve.  He thought it a good time, when I was docile in his arms (“won’t last long”- I heard him think!) to pick me up and walk to the bed.  He lay down besides me, and placed my head on his shoulder.

“You are rather sweet this morning, my Demon Lover.” His temper was usually like mercury.  I think we were coming to terms.

“Well, we have, my darling.  I have chased away all the competition and you have me at ball and cock.”

I had to laugh here.  I was still married, and older than him by decades.

“I was born in 1790. Beat that.”

I thought I was robbing the cradle.  He was such a beautiful creation, but still, just a figment of my imagination.

“You really need to expand your horizons, sweeting.  There are so many parts to the universe and you just occupy one. You limit yourself by what you believe.”

I never accepted the stories of ghosts, haunts or spirits, but lying by his side, I was beginning to wonder.  He appeared flesh and blood enough this morning, especially as he grabbed my hand and placed it on his half mast cock swelling under his breeches.

“Good. You learn something.  Am I real enough for you now?   Let me show you something else.”  He passed his hand quickly from the top to the bottom of my nightgown and it melted away like smoke.

“Ah!  The first time I have seen you naked. You wear too many clothes. Let’s see what I’ve caught.”  He pushed my hair back from my breast, and stroked a nipple.

“You have pink nipples…very pretty!  And you are pink elsewhere, I see.”  I lay in his arms and blushed at his words.  He took my hand and placed it in his shirt, next to his heart.  He always wore a heavy linen shirt and I had become enchanted by his smell of  wood  smoke and probably brimstone.

“Very funny, sweet woman.  Now unclench those knees and let me make love to you.”

“Wasn’t it you who told me the portal to a woman’s soul is her mouth?”  I was teasing, trying to distract his limited mind.

He turned on his side and smiled tenderly down at me.  “You use my own words against me? You show courage. You also forget I am a nasty demon.”

“Not so nasty.  And getting better.”  His behavior had turned my mood from irritation to affection.  Conditions were changing between us and he was softening with a gentler touch.

“I have no softness, and don’t bet on it.”  He stroked my thigh and squeezed a breast.  I tried the same trick on his clothes, passing my hand down the length of him, and he laughed.

“It will take many decades, sweetheart, for you to learn that trick.”

“Not even levitating a chamber pot?”

“You would have more luck just throwing it.”

He was a handful, this Demon.   It was hard work keeping in stride with his wit.  He could have written a much better book, but then again, he likes best being the sharp-eyed critic.

Copyrighted, 2007
Jane Kohut-Bartels

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