The Book
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Only a couple of strong ones, but definitely not for the squeamish!
Description: A story about the effect that a good book can have on the psyche.
_____________________________________________________________________
If I were to have chosen the ideal location to fulfil my sexual fantasies, I wouldn’t have chosen Venice; but that’s where I found myself on that rainy day in August. The rain was so heavy that day that the restaurant below our hotel window hadn’t opened for breakfast and with that same rationality creeping through their veins the girls, Lexi and Leanne, had decided to go back to bed.
Venice was and is too pristine, too angelic, too perfect for sordid sexual debauchery. The Piazza San Marco, the Rialto Bridge, the canals and a plethora of breathtaking monuments to religion and history: an architectural oasis. Venice is a place where lovers come to love, to kiss on the Grand Canal and to propose on overpriced Gondola rides at sunset when the lights from the hotels and restaurants shimmer and dance on the water, turning Venice into a golden city. With all its romantic dreams and love-struck tourists, it’s definitely not a place for Mr. Easton-Ellis.
Our hotel was a quaintly converted Venetian town house with seven bedrooms and three bathrooms to share. Just a five minute walk from the Piazzale Roma water bus station, on a quiet, sand red street with one restaurant and a single grocery store. The store, as far as I could tell, mainly sold two Euros, one litre bottles of sparkling red and white wine. A bargain.
I crawled back into the bed that Leanne, Lexi and I shared, content in my surroundings: Venice, the sound of the rain against the single pane glass window and the warmth of two beautifully naked girls. I settled back to finishing the book I’d been trying to finish all summer. I’d started it in Greece, read it through Albania and perused it on the ferry to Venice and yet I couldn’t finish it, the book never seemed to get closer to the end regardless of the number of pages I turned and read, turned and read, on and on and still no closer to the conclusion, the twist, the anything.
I read through that morning, nothing to distract me except an occasional stir from one of the girls. Sometimes I’d stop reading at the sound of their sighs and stare as they slept. Both naked with a chestnut tan and bleached hair from the Greek summer sun; dreaming, I imagined, of a Caribbean sunset or the warm embrace of their one true love, nirvana in paradise, a young girl’s delight. And in that moment I decided to love them both, equally, unconditionally and with every ounce of my sexuality (my cock hard to prove so). I decided without prejudice or selfishness and in that moment of elation to make love to them.
I removed the syringe and the jar of Ketamine from my backpack. They were cushioned in a lined mahogany case l had bought in a Chori market in Mumbai. I held the syringe as a new mother holds her child, with careful adoration. Removing it from the box I slowly plunged the syringe into the vat of Ketamine and drew the liquid in. Gently running the tip of the needle over Lexi’s leg; starting at her ankle, moving over her calf, behind her knee and over her thigh before softly pushing it through the skin of her perfectly formed silk arse. She flinched and fell silent.
Turning to Leanne, my eyes caught the gaze of her terrified jade eyes. She jumped from the bed and headed straight towards the door, screaming as musically as Beethoven’s 5th, and reached for the handle. Moving swiftly from behind her, forcing her head against the door with my left hand whilst driving the needle into her arse with my right; deep and hard I emptied the contents. Leanne loved it hard and deep, rough and aggressive was her preferred sexual behaviour. Leanne turned and dropped to the floor, a single drop of blood dripped down through her sun bleached hair, over her forehead and down her peeling nose. Pulling her to the middle of the floor by her limp legs, I impaled her on two fingers, removing a four day old condom from her dry, tight cunt and lovingly placed on her top lip.
I had bought the book on the advice of a friend. He’d read it in his youth but couldn’t remember much other than he’d enjoyed it and something particularly graphic involving a rat. I found it in a second-hand book store in Alnwick, Northumberland, and paid £1.80 for it. The book shop was a stunning and unforgettable converted railway station. It smelled as a book shop should smell; of age, of dust, of milky tea and warm bread. The dark wooden shelves were taller than the tallest man, sitting on a cold concrete floor, littered with an occasional rug. A toy train track overhead was a kindly reminder of the building’s history; a comforting regression to childhood passes through you as the train passes overhead.
Taking a hooked thimble procured from a long forgotten knitting kit, I lay on the bed beside Lexi. Holding my member in my left hand; slowly dragging my foreskin back over my hard cock whilst simultaneously piercing Lexi’s skin with the thimble which was placed on the index finger of my right hand. I dragged it through the skin of her calf, over the back of her knee and through her thigh until I reached the base of her buttocks; all the while staring at her slumbered face with love in my eyes and rage in my heart. Her angelic skin opened and parted like a daffodil on that first Spring day; slowly and deliberately. Moving over her and straddling her back I masturbated hard. I could feel the moisture of her blood on my knees as it seeped from her veins and drenched the cream Venetian bed clothes, turning them a light red. Two minutes later I exploded onto her; mixing our red and white fluids on the back of her legs as a painter mixes his colours on a pallet. I felt a rage flow over me, sailing as swiftly as a yacht on calm waters through my stomach. With my toes curled and teeth grit, I pulled her head from its resting place on the pillow and sliced her neck left to right, driving the hook deep before forcing her head back into the pillow. Like a crazed animal I slashed at her back, the hook drawing red lines in her skin whilst thumbing at her anus pushing harder and harder until my knuckle disappeared into her. Her back resembled the spatter painting of a modern artist. She was as beautiful in death as she was in life. Lexi was roughly 5’ 5”, she had long, dark and unkempt hair with eyes as dark to match. She wore little make-up as she was a natural beauty; the kind of girl who looks more beautiful when she awakes on a morning than most girls would after a week in a salon. Her breasts were large and full; they sat beautifully above her toned stomach and complimented her full, firm arse. She was very energetic, high on the possibilities that youth brings.
I found the book laborious and difficult at first, repetitive and too American. I picked it up and put it down with monotonous regularity; as a scorned lover with a picture of the ‘one that got away’; as a psycho with an inanimate object on which he projects his confused emotions. Maybe it wasn’t the book for me or potentially I wasn’t the reader for it. It lived on my dresser under dirty clothes or read papers. Sometimes I’d use the cover as a mixing tray when I needed to mix my weed and tobacco to make joints, the face of a masked man staring up at me.
I composed myself. Lexi had exhausted me. My heart was beating out of my chest and my arms were weak and shaking. I rolled over and placed my head on the pillow beside hers, and I slept. I slept the sleep of a loved man in his marital bed, wife caressing his hair until his eyes were heavy and his mind was free. I dreamt I was laying in a poppy field, petals floating and flowing in a snowy breeze, landing with snowflakes on my naked cold chest.
I only had a quarter of the book left by the time I had met Lexi and Leanne at the ferry port in Venice. It had become a task to finish it. I hadn’t felt a connection, it hadn’t drawn me in, inspired me, changed me like a book should.
When I woke the rain had stopped. It was still as grey as an Edinburgh Sunday but the restaurant below our window had opened for lunch. I watched as the patrons quaffed their wine, forking their steaks or fish, tongues coming out of their mouths in anticipation of meeting the succulent meat. Moving over to where Leanne still lay, her face was crusted with dry blood and expressionless. Leanne had white blonde hair, although the darkness in her scalp revealed the lie. Her jade eyes darkened with her mood, and her mood was temperamental; she had a fiery character to say the least. This made her attractively vulnerable; she needed to be released from her demons. I knelt down and removed the condom from her upper lip and kissed the space it had left. She was wearing a pink thong, it was frayed and looked old. I pulled it away from her and thrust firstly my fist and then my cock into her. I bit her neck, and chewed on her nipple and breast, grasping her thighs I could feel her skin break beneath my fingernails. Each thrust of my crotch was harder and deeper and more powerful than the last and I soon emptied myself into her. A moment of transparent clarity hit me like a shotgun shell from close range and once again the rage came over me, clawing itself through my skin. Standing over her with a feeling of true disgust I drove my foot into her mouth, with all my power I stamped her face, her teeth crunching and twisting in her bleeding pink gums. I knelt over her and ripped the loose teeth from her mouth and placed them over her eyes, before forcing them into her skull...........
“Are you going to be much longer?” a voice from the hallway hissed. “Just a second,” I replied in a whimper. Quickly pulling my jeans up from around my ankles, tucking my still erect penis back into my underwear, I cleaned up the mess I’d made on the tiled bathroom floor, and moved sheepishly out of the room past the girl waiting in the hallway and back into the bedroom. The girls were still sleeping.
Swearwords: Only a couple of strong ones, but definitely not for the squeamish!
Description: A story about the effect that a good book can have on the psyche.
_____________________________________________________________________
If I were to have chosen the ideal location to fulfil my sexual fantasies, I wouldn’t have chosen Venice; but that’s where I found myself on that rainy day in August. The rain was so heavy that day that the restaurant below our hotel window hadn’t opened for breakfast and with that same rationality creeping through their veins the girls, Lexi and Leanne, had decided to go back to bed.
Venice was and is too pristine, too angelic, too perfect for sordid sexual debauchery. The Piazza San Marco, the Rialto Bridge, the canals and a plethora of breathtaking monuments to religion and history: an architectural oasis. Venice is a place where lovers come to love, to kiss on the Grand Canal and to propose on overpriced Gondola rides at sunset when the lights from the hotels and restaurants shimmer and dance on the water, turning Venice into a golden city. With all its romantic dreams and love-struck tourists, it’s definitely not a place for Mr. Easton-Ellis.
Our hotel was a quaintly converted Venetian town house with seven bedrooms and three bathrooms to share. Just a five minute walk from the Piazzale Roma water bus station, on a quiet, sand red street with one restaurant and a single grocery store. The store, as far as I could tell, mainly sold two Euros, one litre bottles of sparkling red and white wine. A bargain.
I crawled back into the bed that Leanne, Lexi and I shared, content in my surroundings: Venice, the sound of the rain against the single pane glass window and the warmth of two beautifully naked girls. I settled back to finishing the book I’d been trying to finish all summer. I’d started it in Greece, read it through Albania and perused it on the ferry to Venice and yet I couldn’t finish it, the book never seemed to get closer to the end regardless of the number of pages I turned and read, turned and read, on and on and still no closer to the conclusion, the twist, the anything.
I read through that morning, nothing to distract me except an occasional stir from one of the girls. Sometimes I’d stop reading at the sound of their sighs and stare as they slept. Both naked with a chestnut tan and bleached hair from the Greek summer sun; dreaming, I imagined, of a Caribbean sunset or the warm embrace of their one true love, nirvana in paradise, a young girl’s delight. And in that moment I decided to love them both, equally, unconditionally and with every ounce of my sexuality (my cock hard to prove so). I decided without prejudice or selfishness and in that moment of elation to make love to them.
I removed the syringe and the jar of Ketamine from my backpack. They were cushioned in a lined mahogany case l had bought in a Chori market in Mumbai. I held the syringe as a new mother holds her child, with careful adoration. Removing it from the box I slowly plunged the syringe into the vat of Ketamine and drew the liquid in. Gently running the tip of the needle over Lexi’s leg; starting at her ankle, moving over her calf, behind her knee and over her thigh before softly pushing it through the skin of her perfectly formed silk arse. She flinched and fell silent.
Turning to Leanne, my eyes caught the gaze of her terrified jade eyes. She jumped from the bed and headed straight towards the door, screaming as musically as Beethoven’s 5th, and reached for the handle. Moving swiftly from behind her, forcing her head against the door with my left hand whilst driving the needle into her arse with my right; deep and hard I emptied the contents. Leanne loved it hard and deep, rough and aggressive was her preferred sexual behaviour. Leanne turned and dropped to the floor, a single drop of blood dripped down through her sun bleached hair, over her forehead and down her peeling nose. Pulling her to the middle of the floor by her limp legs, I impaled her on two fingers, removing a four day old condom from her dry, tight cunt and lovingly placed on her top lip.
I had bought the book on the advice of a friend. He’d read it in his youth but couldn’t remember much other than he’d enjoyed it and something particularly graphic involving a rat. I found it in a second-hand book store in Alnwick, Northumberland, and paid £1.80 for it. The book shop was a stunning and unforgettable converted railway station. It smelled as a book shop should smell; of age, of dust, of milky tea and warm bread. The dark wooden shelves were taller than the tallest man, sitting on a cold concrete floor, littered with an occasional rug. A toy train track overhead was a kindly reminder of the building’s history; a comforting regression to childhood passes through you as the train passes overhead.
Taking a hooked thimble procured from a long forgotten knitting kit, I lay on the bed beside Lexi. Holding my member in my left hand; slowly dragging my foreskin back over my hard cock whilst simultaneously piercing Lexi’s skin with the thimble which was placed on the index finger of my right hand. I dragged it through the skin of her calf, over the back of her knee and through her thigh until I reached the base of her buttocks; all the while staring at her slumbered face with love in my eyes and rage in my heart. Her angelic skin opened and parted like a daffodil on that first Spring day; slowly and deliberately. Moving over her and straddling her back I masturbated hard. I could feel the moisture of her blood on my knees as it seeped from her veins and drenched the cream Venetian bed clothes, turning them a light red. Two minutes later I exploded onto her; mixing our red and white fluids on the back of her legs as a painter mixes his colours on a pallet. I felt a rage flow over me, sailing as swiftly as a yacht on calm waters through my stomach. With my toes curled and teeth grit, I pulled her head from its resting place on the pillow and sliced her neck left to right, driving the hook deep before forcing her head back into the pillow. Like a crazed animal I slashed at her back, the hook drawing red lines in her skin whilst thumbing at her anus pushing harder and harder until my knuckle disappeared into her. Her back resembled the spatter painting of a modern artist. She was as beautiful in death as she was in life. Lexi was roughly 5’ 5”, she had long, dark and unkempt hair with eyes as dark to match. She wore little make-up as she was a natural beauty; the kind of girl who looks more beautiful when she awakes on a morning than most girls would after a week in a salon. Her breasts were large and full; they sat beautifully above her toned stomach and complimented her full, firm arse. She was very energetic, high on the possibilities that youth brings.
I found the book laborious and difficult at first, repetitive and too American. I picked it up and put it down with monotonous regularity; as a scorned lover with a picture of the ‘one that got away’; as a psycho with an inanimate object on which he projects his confused emotions. Maybe it wasn’t the book for me or potentially I wasn’t the reader for it. It lived on my dresser under dirty clothes or read papers. Sometimes I’d use the cover as a mixing tray when I needed to mix my weed and tobacco to make joints, the face of a masked man staring up at me.
I composed myself. Lexi had exhausted me. My heart was beating out of my chest and my arms were weak and shaking. I rolled over and placed my head on the pillow beside hers, and I slept. I slept the sleep of a loved man in his marital bed, wife caressing his hair until his eyes were heavy and his mind was free. I dreamt I was laying in a poppy field, petals floating and flowing in a snowy breeze, landing with snowflakes on my naked cold chest.
I only had a quarter of the book left by the time I had met Lexi and Leanne at the ferry port in Venice. It had become a task to finish it. I hadn’t felt a connection, it hadn’t drawn me in, inspired me, changed me like a book should.
When I woke the rain had stopped. It was still as grey as an Edinburgh Sunday but the restaurant below our window had opened for lunch. I watched as the patrons quaffed their wine, forking their steaks or fish, tongues coming out of their mouths in anticipation of meeting the succulent meat. Moving over to where Leanne still lay, her face was crusted with dry blood and expressionless. Leanne had white blonde hair, although the darkness in her scalp revealed the lie. Her jade eyes darkened with her mood, and her mood was temperamental; she had a fiery character to say the least. This made her attractively vulnerable; she needed to be released from her demons. I knelt down and removed the condom from her upper lip and kissed the space it had left. She was wearing a pink thong, it was frayed and looked old. I pulled it away from her and thrust firstly my fist and then my cock into her. I bit her neck, and chewed on her nipple and breast, grasping her thighs I could feel her skin break beneath my fingernails. Each thrust of my crotch was harder and deeper and more powerful than the last and I soon emptied myself into her. A moment of transparent clarity hit me like a shotgun shell from close range and once again the rage came over me, clawing itself through my skin. Standing over her with a feeling of true disgust I drove my foot into her mouth, with all my power I stamped her face, her teeth crunching and twisting in her bleeding pink gums. I knelt over her and ripped the loose teeth from her mouth and placed them over her eyes, before forcing them into her skull...........
“Are you going to be much longer?” a voice from the hallway hissed. “Just a second,” I replied in a whimper. Quickly pulling my jeans up from around my ankles, tucking my still erect penis back into my underwear, I cleaned up the mess I’d made on the tiled bathroom floor, and moved sheepishly out of the room past the girl waiting in the hallway and back into the bedroom. The girls were still sleeping.
About the Author
Lee Carrick is 25. Originally from Newcastle, he now lives in Edinburgh. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write short stories and his first novel. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors.
Lee’s blog can be found at http://scheemieintheroom.tumblr.com. His poetry can also be read at http://writers-network.com/members/carrick.
Lee’s blog can be found at http://scheemieintheroom.tumblr.com. His poetry can also be read at http://writers-network.com/members/carrick.