“Are you sure you don’t have hysteria?” Leopold asks when my giggle triggers a chorus of bird calls from the test subjects.
“I think I might,” I say with the most genuine smile I’ve worn since my last trip to Boston. “I’m going to take my lunch in my room after all. Enjoy your morning, husband.”
“Harriett,” he calls when I reach the door. “Hysterical, sane, or lonely, you are my wife. Your loyalty is to me first. If I find you have spread my progress to anyone outside of this house, I won’t hesitate to dispose of you. Understood?”
“Dispose of me? Really, Leopold. I ask again. Who could I tell your secrets when I don’t leave the grounds? Except for our trips to Boston—”
“We won’tbe visiting Boston until after the World’s Fair, if ever again.”
Disappointment squeezes my heart like a caved-in ribcage. “But—”
“That’s final,” he yells and slams his fist on the desk. “The future of mankind can’t be jeopardized for your silly nonsense. You don’t leave this house! You don’t talk about the experiments! Do you understand?”
“Crystal clear,” I whisper and close the door before my tears can fall. I’m as trapped and broken as the mutant creatures in his cage.
Chapter 4
My sheets itch. The Washteria, like all the latest gadgets, has its faults. I didn’t scrub the skin off my hands or pull my shoulders into a strange shape while laboring over a washboard, but this fabric didn’t rinse free of caustic soap either. My body is on fire. Images of slithering tentacles brush the corners of my mind.
Maybe it’s not the sheets…
With Leopold suspicious and on the brink of madness, I should stay in bed. The probability of him following me to the pond is high. His laboratory window faces the backyard, and if he happened to look out, he would see me crossing the muddy mess to the swamp. He would assume I’m meeting a contact to spill his research secrets. Would he investigate himself or wait to punish me upon my return? Would he hide in a dark corner ofthis room with a knife, crouched behind my vanity chair, or wrapped in my bedside curtains?
That assumes he looks up from his research notes or isn’t asleep on his desk.
He doesn’t notice my presence when I collect dishes from the surfaces of his lab, so why would he glance out a window? If he followed me, what was the worst he would see? My skinny dipping would frighten him if this morning’s retreat from my bedroom was an accurate assessment of his feelings. He didn’t have the capacity for sexual desire on our wedding night. Ten years later, we’ve aged to the edge of child-bearing years—despite men’s seasons lasting decades longer. The memory of the flaccid worm he carries in his trousers makes me gag. I have no need of his tiny cocklet when the mystery man outside can pleasure me senseless with pond creatures…like a sensual, freshwater Poseidon.
I can’t believe I’m considering returning to the pond, but the ache within me will keep me awake all night if I don’t do something. My fingers skim over my nipples. They are as hard as diamonds. Down my clenched belly, I reach for the hem of my nightgown. My feet dangle over the sides of the bed as I work my cunt. The coiling inside me intensifies, but I can’t topple over the edge to oblivion. I don’t have enough fingers to stuff myself like the mysterious pond man.
No sleep tonight without going outside.All the pleasures of life are denied to me for the sake of Leopold’s research—including his newest mandate, canceling our trips to Boston. My physical needs must be met, and sexuality is one of them. Leopold can track through the mud and discover this with his own eyes. If I don’t hide my egress from the house, his unstable temper won’t allow him to wait inside to kill me. I can’t believe my best outcome is to be caught in the throes of passion by my husband while a stranger pleasures me. But then again, look inside the household I run…laughable…as if I’m in charge of anything.
Nothing but my body…
And my body needs more than my feminine fingers.
My feet slap the frigid bedroom floor seconds before my nightdress joins them. The arousal simmering within me will keep me warm and reduce the amount of laundry I must do tomorrow. No sneaking tonight. I brazenly step into the night as naked as the day I was born. I throw a rude gesture at Leopold’s window before running to the pond. My faster, lighter steps don’t sink into the mucky earth. I skip over puddles like a forest nymph. It’s like I have wings! My path morphs into loops and twirls as I enjoy the rush of freedom.
At the pond, I plop onto the stony seat with a loud splash. If I knew his name, I’d call my lover. Would he rise from the murky depths in a bronze suitor emerge from the brush to swim to me? Will he wear his metal dive suit or use a snorkel mask? I’m lost in my fantasies when a tentacle brushes the inside of my right knee.
Oh no, he’s not touching me without showing me his face first!
I want it all—his name, his face, and his cock. If I’m risking my life for a lover, I want a proper one—not just what I formulate inside my mind. I rub the tentacle with my toes. It recoils. My feet clamp together to hold it to the surface. Do I dare pull it from the water?
Hesitantly, I fold at the waist. My arms dip into the brackish water. A moan escapes my lips when more tentacles weave through my fingers. The smooth glide of their tops contrasting with the sucker cups on the bottom was the source of my pleasure last night. A deluge of memories of them wedged inside me opens my legs. The trapped tentacle slivers from my grasp.
I wasn’t raised to be meek, and my acquired shyness has led to my captivity. If I want to change my life, I must be bold. Take what I want. I clench my fists on the nearest tentacles and rock backward. A growl drowns out the cricket chirps. The tentacles go taut and slap against my chest. My back arches with the stingon my breasts.
My groans turn to silent screams as my eyes follow the tentacles to their origin. They are two to four feet in length and number over a dozen. They attach to the lower half of my lover’s face like a beard. Flat nostrils open and shut as he breathes without a nose…and the pair of appendages stabbing at my thigh confirm my lover is male. His teardrop-shaped eyes dominate his face and glow lime green. Otherwise, his massive shoulders block all light from reaching me. Webbed fingers sink into the mud by my ears. His arms shimmer with reptilian skin. With each movement, it changes between green, blue, and black.
A fin starts between his eyes, and when he drops his head, I catch a glimpse of it between his shoulder blades. He sniffs at my breasts, and my eyes roll in bliss at the contact. Deep inside my heart, a little voice tells me not to judge him for not being human. The differences between our bodies make him interesting, not frightening. He’s powerful enough to rip me to pieces but hasn’t attacked me once…unlike impotent Leopold, who held me at knifepoint this morning.
“Harriett, I’m Harriett,” I whisper, reaching for his face. He leans into my palm as I near his cheek. The rough texture is familiar, and goose pimples break out on my thighs in memory.
“Hairy, Hairy,” he grumbles. His gravel voice struggles to make the sounds, as does his mouth onthe phonetic shapes. I watch in fascination as he chews on my name. Will his frustration become anger?
“Hairy, hairy tea, hairy ate,” he says, stroking the curls over my mound.
“Hairy,” I repeat with a giggle. How deliciously impertinent to accept a nickname in reference to my cunt! Civilized society would combust if they knew. “I’ll be ‘Hairy’ for you. What’s your name?”
