Eisheth
Writer of folklore by day — my memoirs — hunter by night.
Had I been born a male, my life expectancy would have been diminished. The drink, copious late nights, and endless brawling would have made for a hazardous journey, to say the least. However, as a female, the inherent rage of my kind must be appropriately subdued.
A woman sitting alone in these shit bars would attract attention if not for my church-mouse demeanour as I hunch over the laptop and sip my drink. All but completely invisible in my glasses, skirt and buttoned cardigan — full makeup applied to conceal rather than highlight — I carefully observe my surroundings.
Beauty would attract unwanted attention, which may reveal my watchful eyes, leading the observer to question my selection of drinking establishments and my motivation for being there.
Even as a church mouse, a few men have sniffed around, usually conference-goers. The white band on their ring finger glaring under the fluorescent lights, a classic telltale sign. It should go without saying that a few piqued my interest, and I entertained the idea, albeit briefly. To my merit, I stuck to the game plan. A wife warmed their bed, as evidenced by the ring finger, and she didn’t deserve the fallout of their bad behaviour.
But this guy…
Loud and boorish, a brute whose framework hinted at health and vitality in a way that could hitch my pulse yet failed. Time to go home and wash this makeup off.
If there be one skill I have mastered and, in fact, elevated to an art form, it is invisibility — until it is no longer needed.
***
Only thirty minutes have passed since I left this same dive bar. All heads turn when I cross the threshold, but not a single face lights with recognition. No one ever associates me with her. Humans see what I want them to see.
The woman still occupies the same booth, but now the brute is up and shooting pool. Her head hangs over what I assume is the same warm beer she had when I left. Her misery is palpable — flavorful. Stringy hair that still hints of the previous lustre hangs in the flat libation. The drops of condensation on the glass have turned fat. The only difference on my return is the red mark sporting her left cheek.
As for the guy, well, he is just angry; and the scent of his hostility mingles with the lingering essence of a quarrel, enlivening my instincts. My tongue finds the corner of my wet lips, the intoxicating perfume of male rage luring me deeper into the tavern. It was just a few insults and put-downs before I left, but in my absence escalated to a slap. I’m sorry I missed that. Suffice it to say observing the brutish capabilities of my quarry makes the end game significantly more satisfying.
Before my exit, I heard the disdain in his words — saw the contemptuous curl of his lips as he rolled his eyes and finally told her to shut her stupid, fucking mouth. I knew by the crestfallen slump of her slender shoulders that my quest had ended.
I added some gloss to my lips slowly and methodically, feeling their hot eyes on me. This was my true aspect, my bread and butter.
Since walking in the second time, I taste their hunger — and it amazes me the transformation that comes over them once I reveal what is under the mouse. The mouse is Marion Little. I hope you catch my little joke.
I am Eisheth — Eisheth Zenunim.
Writer of folklore, my memoirs, by day and a hunter by night.
Same face.
Same body.
No real metamorphosis — just skilled presentation when I am Marion Little. With casual confidence, I move to the pool table, rolling my hips in slow, languid movements. I am strong, athletic. My kind all are.
I touch a pool cue and give the guy an inquiring look. His face brightens, and he nods. Inhaling deeply and allowing my breasts to strain against my camisole serves a purpose. He watches, and I calculate the success of my ploy by the spike in pheromones.
The belly disappears from over his belt, and his chest puffs. He gives a smug grin to the blond at the table, who eyes me warily. She appears to consider the situation but is too fragile, too ground down to protest. She looks away.
My bend over the table to collect the balls into the triangle is contrived, but they never notice such vulgarities. No doubt a better man would have, but I don’t seek better men. They are left to engage in the pursuits that distinguish them as better men — a territory I do not intrude upon.
All that the cruds in a dump like this take notice of is a firm, round ass and a heaving rack.
The girlfriend, in her state, will soon leave. That’s what I want. There are certain rules I follow. Therefore, she must not accompany him home tonight.
Once his eyes reach my face, they linger there for a while. Mine is a face that howls carnal delights — when the mouse is washed off. Yes. That’s right. Once my prey is selected, I need only reveal myself. He will see what he wants to see when Eisheth is drawn forth.
Many of my kin consider them fools — I do not. To suggest they are fools is to discredit the level of skill required in both selection and capture. He makes eye contact. I smile and assume the position to make the break shot, my tongue curling over my top lip and my supple back arching.
The musky essence of his lust flattens the sharp edges of a long day better than the whiskey in my glass. As I pass him behind the table, I brush against him, lustily inhaling his essence in anticipation. I stop myself short of being greedy. He is momentarily rendered lightheaded by my little indulgence. No harm done. No one notices when he places a palm against the table to steady himself. Caution is how I have stayed alive.
Although we are a most unlikely pair, onlookers will observe two strangers playing pool, nothing more.
I’m hungry — and this one will be all the more enjoyable for being a class-A, number-one douche with just enough strength and brutality to make it almost fair.
By the time the game is finished, my admittance is ensured. I toss back the remaining whisky in my glass. Alcohol carries no effect aside from the brief sensation of localized warmth. I wonder what it is like to feel such warmth throughout.
Aside from the repreive just mentioned, no relief from the unrelenting cold is given to my kind — except when the coupling begins.
Game done, drink finished, he watches me walk away. “Another?” he calls out and begins setting up.
I shake my head and keep walking. He calls out again, “At least tell me your name.”
“You wouldn’t remember it anyway,” I answer. I’m correct, of course. Even so, my name will spill from his parted lips in the cool darkness along with his final breath.
See you later, I think, leaving the dismal atmosphere. The girlfriend has left. She is better off, but I wonder if, in time, she will find another just like him. In the meantime, patrons must witness my lone departure.
Once discovered, the powers that be will quickly determine the cause of death to be a heart attack because that is what will happen when he realizes, within his slumber, there is no escape.
Until then, a cat nap before I sip the sweet soul from his sleeping lips and listen to my name purring along his final breath.
***
My weight registers with a soft creak on the sagging mattress as I straddle him. He is a big man, well-muscled and hairy — virile and strong. A tasty dish to be savoured. The journey we are about to embark upon imparts immeasurable torment, and that knowing makes me smile in the soothing darkness. Sating my hunger is a necessary evil. However, I strive to make it work toward the betterment of society.
The spare pillow holds a spot of blood and several long, blond hairs. The scent they carry identifies the woman from the bar. Human females smell very different from their male counterparts. Sweet, yes, but the acrid note of her torment tempers it. Always the essence of pain lingers on the bedsheets of my hunt, confirming my instincts irrefutable. My quarry is the real monster.
His body is responding to his dreams — the dreams I occupy.
It is, inevitably, the bitter cold of penetration that rips my prey from slumber. This time is no exception. His eyes fly open in pain and shock as I settle onto him. Fear precedes terror. What a delight when a man such as this one, so capable of abusing a woman, is taken against his will and, as a result, suffers the misery he so readily inflicts.
Excruciating pain consumes him as the cold rages through his body, immobilizing him.
He recognizes me at once, even though I am now in my full regalia, adorned with the charms of my kind. His mouth opens deliciously in a silent scream, his face contorting in horror. That is all the invitation I require to lean in and savour the first sips of nectar.
The brilliance of his departing soul illuminates the room with its ethereal splendor. I drink greedily, waiting for, and then reveling in, the faint mention whispering from his Cerulean lips — Eisheth.
I am Eisheth. I am a succubus, an eater of souls.
