The Last Temptaion (of Michael)

Again, I'm skipping out on the TMI Thursday fun in order to bring you the second scary story. And, now that Lilu has said that I can love her in a creepy way (which is convenient, because I was wondering what the fuck I was going to do with that trenchcoat my in-laws gave me a few years ago), I'll be getting back to the TMIs soon. In the meantime, I'm playing Pearl's game of telling a scary story. Last week was the scary funny story. This week is the stab at fiction. It won't be too long. I hope.


The bar was hazy with smoke, but Michael could sense her long before he saw her. The first glimpse he caught was her legs, long and sexy, perfectly toned and complemented by the sheer black hose she had stretched over them hours ago. She had them crossed at the knee, like any lady would, with her ankle kicked up enough that her shoe dangled by the toe. She bounced her leg gently, causing the shoe to sway rhythmically on the end of her foot. Though he knew it was rude and, frankly, smacked of desperation, Michael could not tear his eyes away. He slowly sipped the glass of wine--an inky red that clung to the sides of the glass like it clung to his palate. He swirled it idly while staring at her bouncing foot and eying her perfect legs.

Finally able to tear his eyes from her shoe, he followed the smooth line of her leg up to her thighs, where he could just see the hints of lace at the top of the stockings. As she shifted on her seat, he caught a flash of bared flesh, and his heart hammered in his chest. His breathing became shallow as he longed for the second to drag out to eternity, so that he could stare at the sweet, elusive slice of leg until he had his fill. He knew it would never be enough. He consoled himself with a pull of wine that warmed his body and helped calm his nerves. His breathing lessened, his heart quieted.

His eyes continued to climb, over the flare of her hips, obscured by the tail ends of her unbuttoned jacket. The white shirt underneath was tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination, but loose enough that it wasn't unseemly. She had full breasts heaving against the buttons across her chest. Three buttons had been undone on the shirt, but how much of her bosom she left revealed was unknown as she had her body turned away from him. For a few moments, he thought to move his seat so that he could appreciate her from a different angle. Another illicit flash of thigh held him where he sat, and another sip of wine kept his heart from exploding.

It had been over a year since he broke up with his girlfriend--or rather, since she had simply walked out on him. For a while, he avoided the bar scene, hoping to find someone at work or at church. Neither fulfilled his needs, and the clubs were filled with people too young for him. Taking another sip of his wine, he wondered at what point college girls failed to recognize him as a viable sex partner. With a sigh, he set the now empty glass on the table. For a second, he thought about leaving and going home, masturbating, and simply falling asleep. He looked up at the sex goddess at the bar one last time.

Her eyes met his.

For a second, his heart hammered in his chest, unbound lust and desire coursing through his veins. He was unsure if she was looking at him or looking through him, so he offered a slight smile. She returned it, then looked away, casting her eyes down at the empty stool beside her.

He had been invited. If he hesitated, the moment would be lost.

Unsure of how he got there, he found himself in the seat beside her. He tried to summon a line to the front of his mind, but with a small sigh that he hid beneath a bit of nervous laughter, he simply introduced himself.

"Hi," he said, "I'm Michael."

She smiled. Bright, white teeth flashed between her ruby lips. She turned away from him for a second and the faintest tint of color came to her cheeks. For a second, he wondered if he had been too forward.

"An old name," she cooed. Her voice was smoky and sexy, carrying the lilt of an unidentifiable accent--something European, he was sure, but he could not place it exactly. Her olive skin marked her as from the Mediterranean region, but he could not guess any more specific than that. She swept a stray lock of her beautiful, tossled brunette hair back around her ear before she spoke again.

"Named for the Archangel, the leader of God's army," she continued, still looking down at the bar. "I've known many men named Michael..." she trailed off. Then she looked at him. Their eyes locked. "But not many of them could capture his beauty as well as you."

Her eyes were beautiful. Soft and velvety brown, they looked as though they stretched into eternity. Smoldering fires burnt in their very depths. For a second, he felt as if he could drift into them, float there for all eternity, be sucked away forever. She blinked, slow and languorously, summoning him back to reality. "It is an old name. A powerful name. You carry it well."

He felt himself blushing. "Yeah, well, my parents are Catholic. They chose a name they felt was strong and powerful, yet still Christian." He chuckled softly, as if to dismiss the topic.

"Are you Catholic?" she asked, her features neutral.

"Well...I guess. I don't know. I go to Mass. I think there's a God. Sometimes I even talk to him." He felt nervous. "Are...are you Catholic, too?"

She smiled again, this time without showing her dazzling teeth. "No, but I am familiar. I'm somewhat of a historian, with a great interest in religion, you could say. What do you do?"

"I'm middle-management in a telecom," Michael admitted. "It's a decent job, pay's good, but it seems like the glass ceiling is a little low. Especially these days."

She smiled a knowing smile and sipped the last of her wine from her cup. "Can I buy you a drink?" Michael asked, unsure of what to say next.

"No," she said, and his heart sank. "It is getting late. I should go." She picked up her purse and pulled it over a shoulder, sliding from the stool in one smooth, sinuous fashion. She took a step from the bar and hesitated, looking back over her shoulder at him. "You could offer to walk me home," she suggested.

A few seconds later, they were on the streets, walking together. The cool night air caused their breath to fog before them. They passed a few moments together in silence, the open space of the city streets a stark difference to the closeness of the interior of the bar.

"My name is Lamia, by the way," she said, sliding a hand between his arm and his side. "I do not think I introduced myself earlier."

"I don't believe I've ever heard that name before, Lamia," Michael said, smiling at her. He felt the closeness of her body to his, and his insides involuntarily pulsed with desire at her touch and proximity.

"It's Greek," she cooed, leaning her head on his shoulder as they walked. "It's an old name. Like Michael." She paused for a second. "Pardon me, but I think I had too much wine. It's been a long week."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Michael offered. His smile had melted some, but his insides still pounded with lust.

"Don't be. It's not your fault. I just get...grumpy...this time of year." They walked in silence for a bit, passing in and out of the amber halo of the halogen lamps lining the sidewalk. "But, you could make me feel better."

His breath caught in his throat, but he cleared it with a cough and they continued down the street, Lamia guiding the way, until finally they arrived at her apartment. It was a part of town Michael was not familiar with. Her apartment building looked old, like it had been here forever. She fumbled in her purse for the key, and Michael stood by, hoping that he didn't appear to eager to be invited in. As she unlocked the door leading to the interior of the building, he began to step back from the door, but she grasped his wrist gently.

"Oh, do come in. At least for a bit," she said, smiling. "I can make some coffee."

"Okay," Michael agreed, and pulled the door open for her. She led the way up the steps, and Michael stared at her perfect ass as they ascended each flight until finally they came to her landing. Again, she fumbled with the key in the lock until the door swung open. Her apartment was small, but well-furnished. A gentle smell of incense, roses and vanilla came from the interior of the apartment.

"Please," she said, "please come in."

"Thank you," Michael responded, stepping in. She took his coat and hung it in the closet along with hers. She stripped off her jacket and kicked her shoes to the side. Despite her long, lithe legs, she was amazingly short. In a second, she had crossed the room back to his position.

"Let me show you the place," she offered, taking his hand. Michael noticed, finally, that she was showing an amazing amount of her ample cleavage, and when Lamia noticed him staring at it, she smiled, biting her lower lip slightly. She pulled slightly at his hand.

"This is, of course, my living room. It's mostly for show. This is the kitchen," she pointed toward and opening in the wall through which he could see a refrigerator and a small amount of counter. "I spend most of my time in my study," she said, pulling him in a different direction and leading him into a small, cozy room with walls lined with bookshelves. "It's so relaxing in here to read or think. I do a lot of both. It's also a good place to enjoy some coffee." She winked at him, a gesture that showed all the subtlety of a punch to the face. His breath caught in his throat once more.

"But, I spend most of my time in my bedroom," she hissed, taking his hand in both of hers and walking backwards. She smiled brightly as she led him into the room where a magnificent four-poster bed dominated the scene. It was hung with thick, velvety curtains of the deepest scarlet. A black-and-white damask bedspread was pulled up to the pillows, but turned down for her on one side.

As he was admiring the decor, she pulled him down toward her and hissed into his ear, "If you can wait a moment here, I can slip into something much more...sexy...more comfortable..." As she spoke, she unfastened his belt. A flick of her hands, and his pants were undone and they fell to the floor. She nibbled on his neck, as if to make the invitation more enticing.

Wordlessly, Michael walked over to the bed and sat down. He noticed that her closet doors were covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. His attention was quickly returned to the doorway of the bedroom as Lamia reappeared, wearing only a bra and panties and her black stockings. She carried a bottle of wine in her hands and two glasses. She moved across the room easily, seeming to float rather than walk. She opened the wine and sat on the bed next to him, offering a him a glass. They toasted one another, and Michael drained the glass. Lamia did the same. She smiled.

"Lay back," she cooed, her voice low and sexy. He did so, and she climbed on top of him. He felt the power of her thighs on either side of his hips, felt the strength in her hands as she held him pinned to the bed. For a moment, a voice in his head told him he should run, should flee, just to get away, but he ignored it. All he could focus on was the warmth of the wine in his body, the fire burning in Lamia's eyes, the smooth, sinuous touch of her body rubbing next to his, and the heady aroma of the incense hanging in the air.

"Please," he begged, his voice barely above a whisper, "please...it's been so long."

"Oh, I know," she hissed back at him. "That's what made you so easy to lure back here." Her eyes flashed with a deep and powerful fire, and she smiled as she swayed back and forth over him, her movements serpentine, her gaze hypnotic. She opened her mouth again, and Michael slowly noticed that her teeth had grown longer, sharper. He shook his head, trying to force the image from his mind. For a second, her face appeared more angular, almost reptilian. The fire flared in her eyes once more.

"What..." he began to say, but the breath escaped him. He looked over toward the mirrors, but instead of the gorgeous, sexy woman he thought he was going to make love to, he saw an enormous abomination that was a mixture of a woman and a snake. He turned back to look at her. He wanted to scream. He wanted to push her off and run away, but the image above him was of the same woman he had lusted for in the bar. He tried to tell her to get off him, that he needed to leave, but he couldn't form the words.

Smiling the dangerous, wicked smile with long, pointed teeth in her mouth, she lowered her face toward his. Her lips barely brushed his, but the breath was pulled from his chest. He suddenly felt cold. He wanted to turn his head away from her, but he couldn't. He glanced over at the mirror, and it looked as though the snake-woman abomination was crouched over his body, pulling a cloud or a fog from his mouth to hers. He felt colder still, and now weaker. He tried to resist her, but couldn't. His body no longer responded to his mind, and slowly, ever so slowly, his arms and legs began to go numb. Again, he tried to scream, but no sound came from him. He tried to fight, but his body refused his commands. He tried to cry, but no tears would come.

Finally, he closed his eyes, and everything was dark, cold, numb, and silent.

Lamia stretched, sliding off the stacked pallets and away from the dessicated, shriveled corpse. She slid across the dusty floor of the abandoned warehouse, her body suffused with another meal. This one was full of lust, full of life. She would not have to feast again for some time. Quickly, however, she made her way from the scene. Someone would find the body soon, and they would want to ask questions. It was better if she was not around.

As she slithered out of the warehouse, she changed again. Once more, she stretched long, sexy legs as she strode quickly from the warehouse. Her heels clicked on the pavement. For a second, she looked back and smiled wistfully.

It was too bad. He truly had been the most beautiful Michael she had ever met.

Except for the Archangel himself, of course.