Maybe evil had a face. Maybe it was the man Cynthia brought to her room, her office on the weekends, the motel—all the “private venues”—where this strange man with a face of shadows had his way with her: sex doll for masturbation aid. She bent over, she lay down, squatted, kneeled, crawled. She assumed every posture he desired; he covered her from head to foot in sperm; every orifice filled with his seed, even ears, nose, eyes. She submitted to the humiliation, the pain, the bizarre fantasies with food and ropes and bamboo and belts and lubricants. And she waited for his lust to subside.
In time she felt his boredom, saw the look of disgust, cold indifference, perhaps a twinge of sympathy in his coal red eyes. And at last like a plague that fades slowly away like a malarial mist, his calls stopped.
Her weekends returned as her own property, and evenings after work she got to read and listen to music, to shower and lie naked on the bed, the summer light softening over the rolling curves of her voluptuous body.
And that was when Cynthia began to invoke his name as she performed autoerotic games on her body, the same kind of masturbations he liked, but now with the memory of him, his virtual body, naked before and behind and under her. And the truth was he was better now than ever because she had the best part of him, the enthusiasm of lust.
Cynthia had her mythic sex slave; and lying there, legs spread in a generous V, she could hear him rising from hell itself on a rattling elevator just beneath her steaming bed.