DOMINION by Bentley Little (best chinese ebook reader .txt) 📕

memory? Of course there had been a harsh element—a protest against the amoral complacency of the establishment and the immorality of the war—but there had also been a kindness, a gentleness of spirit which had gotten lost in the translation, which was never captured by movies or television shows or news retrospectives. It had been a time of turmoil, yes, but the people of that time had been open and giving and trusting and honest, filled with an optimistic generosity which in today’s pragmatic light seemed quaintly naive. He shook his head. Even the hip today, their counterculture counterparts, seemed much more materialistic and opportunistic, less real, much phonier, pretenders to the throne, pseudo-beatniks dressed in black turtleneck costumes of the past, capturing only the surface details of a much more serious movement.

The times they had a-changed.

Vic lifted the box off the table, put it on the floor, and was about to crush its sides when he heard a noise from the front room, the sound of someone bumping into a piece of furniture.

He frowned. What could that be? There was no one in the store.

The bump came again.

He stood up and walked out to the counter. The front door, he saw immediately, was still closed and locked, the window shade pulled down.

Could someone have been shopping in one of the rear aisles and not heard or noticed that the shop had closed?

He heard footsteps from behind a row of armoires to the left.

“Hey!” he called. “Who’s there?”

There was no answer, but the footsteps retreated down the aisle away from the counter. The thought occurred to him that someone had been deliberately hiding in one of the trunks or armoires while he closed up, waiting until he left in order to rob the place. Common sense told him to call the police, but instead he walked around the front of the counter.

“Who’s there?” he called again.

From the other end of the store, the dark furniture aisle farthest away from the windows, came the sound of a woman singing. Vic stopped. The sound sent a chill through him. There was nothing threatening in either the voice or the song, a folkish tune sung in another language, but the incongruity of the circumstances lent the situation a decidedly surrealistic tinge.

“We’re closed,” he said, instantly aware of how ineffectual his announcement sounded.

The woman continued to sing.

Heart pounding, he proceeded slowly down the aisle toward the source of the sound. I should be carrying a baseball bat, he thought, some type of weapon.

Then he was around the corner and it was too late.

The woman was of approximately his own age and was dressed in a long, sheer gown which recalled the earth dresses of the past. She was obviously drunk or stoned and was humming to herself as she swayed back and forth in the center of the aisle, eyes closed. Next to her on the floor was a stick about half the size of a broom handle, tipped with what looked like a small pine cone.

Vic stood silently for a moment, watching the woman instead of announcing his presence. She was beautiful. Her hair was long and black and hung in naturally uncombed splendor over her shoulders and down her back. Even in the dim light he could see the smoothness of her perfect complexion, the classic line of her well-formed nose, the sensuous fullness of her lips. Through the translucent gown he could see a dark thatch between her shifting legs, the outline of nipples where the light material caught at her breasts.

What was she doing here? he wondered. How had she gotten in?

He was about to clear his throat, let the woman know that he was here, when her eyes suddenly snapped open. The effect was so startling and unexpected that he nearly jumped. Her eyes fastened on his. There was hunger in her expression, and a wildness which seemed totally at odds with the makeup of her face. Although she had seemed spaced out a moment before, there was in her features none of the vagueness associated with being high. Her gaze was sharp and focused, crystal clear.

“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” Vic said. “But you’ll have to leave.” His voice sounded more authoritarian than he’d intended, than he’d wanted.

The woman closed her eyes again, began humming, began singing.

“You have to leave,” Vic repeated.

Smiling, swaying, almost dancing, the woman moved forward until she was directly before him. One arm snaked around his waist, the other lightly cupping his crotch, as she tilted her face upward to kiss him. He did not draw her to him, but he did not push her away. Unsure of how to react, he allowed her to control the moment, silently acquiescing as she kissed him, her soft tongue sliding gently between his lips. He felt himself growing. It had been a while since he’d been to bed with anyone, and to his body even this casual contact felt good. She gave his crotch a small squeeze.

Pulling away, still humming, she dropped to her knees and began unbuckling his belt.

This isn’t happening, he thought.

She’s crazy, he thought.

AIDS, he thought.

But he remained in place. He wanted to back away, to put a stop to this—it was too strange, it was happening too fast—but he stayed rooted, his body refusing to listen to the arguments of his mind.

She pulled down his pants, pulled down his underwear. He was hard and quivering, and slowly, expertly, she began massaging him, stroking him.

He found himself putting his hands on the top of her head. Her hair felt smooth, soft, wonderful. He closed his eyes.

The rhythm changed. What had been gentle became aggressive, then just plain rough. He opened his eyes, looked down. The woman was smiling up at him, and there was something in the expression on her face that chilled him.

She grabbed his balls tightly and with one quick pull yanked them out by the roots.

Vic screamed, a primal, instinctive expression of agony, as his erection disintegrated in