SLEEPING WITH THE DEVIL
Sarah Hartwell, 2010
How I came to be sleeping with the devil-made-flesh I canít remember. A bargain? A dare? Chance? No matter how it came about, as long as I didnít look at him my soul would be safe.
Oh but it was hard. I felt his hands on me, expertly caressing, and his firm flesh pressed against mine. He may have been the devil, but he was skilled and unhurried. Still I did not look Ė oh maybe a glance through squinted eyes, a glimpse of limb or torso, but never into those soul-stealing eyes.
But finally I looked, caught by surprise by unexpected ecstasy. And I was lost, trapped in thrall. He was indescribably handsome, but his expression lacked emotion Ė not cruel, not kind. It brought to mind the stories of vampires and how they fascinated their victims. There were no horns, no tail, the devil would pass for human. But there were fangs - I felt those four fangs, upper and lower, pierce the left side of my neck just enough that the pain was also pleasure.
So now I sit in this mansion with its wood-panelled rooms and glass panelled bookcases full of leather-bound volumes of inestimable value. The inhumanly handsome devil sits in his winged armchair in front of me, reading a book as though I were not there. Outside are manicured grounds and the silent servants all look like pale copies of him. My torment is to remember that one night and to long for another, while he remains utterly indifferent to me.