The Dunwich Romance (17 page)

He was
not
a genius, however, in matters less concrete—creativity, for instance—and of the heady variations of romantic and erotic
tactic
he knew precious little. On this day, though, whilst in the midst of a most pleasurable and affectionate embrace with Sary, the words came to Wilbur’s mind,
Wal, durn. Mebbe she want suthin’ more than me jess stickin’ my dick in her. Wouldn’t like it not one bit if’n she start ta git bored with me,
so then as Sary’s mouth seemed enthralled by the divergencies of his tongue, he slipped her dress up over her hips, said, “Heer ye go,” and hoisted her up so that she sat on his shoulders with her crotch to his face. The musk scent and intricate morphology of her vagina left him vibrant with wonder, and it was then that he commanded his forked tongue to first “side-wind” about the delicate rose-pink flesh of her vulva. In time, he admitted the tongue directly into the lubricated channel within, with no little fascination. A shriek of pleasure and her hands insistently going aclutch in his hair gave Wilbur every assurance that she was not adverse to the ministration. The tine of each “fork” roved independently, effecting sensations with which she’d never been acquainted; and by the manner in which she panted, squirmed, and clenched her thighs, Wilbur estimated that she was approaching the fringe of climax
without
the introduction of his columniform sperm, nor even his penis. It was here wherein Wilbur’s understanding of female sexual reactivity transitioned into what could only be called “gray area,” but since her gestures in response took on an invariably positive bent, he simply continued to maintain the oral process. Next, he allowed his tongue to extend to its farthest physical limit—several feet—and for the tines to part, which his otherworldliness made possible. One he deployed into a minuscule aperture that must have been her urethra (when it penetrated the duct of her bladder, he found the taste within tangy and fascinating), and the other into the even more minuscule ingress of her cervical canal. The activity seemed to incite in Sary a frenzied rising action which she enjoyed to a point of delirium, but after a time, he felt it necessary to see to that action’s propulsive descent. This he achieved first by drawing each tine briskly in an out of their respective apertures, and then withdrawing them altogether in order to command them to assume a corkscrew, all the while engaging them to swell in girth, a facilitation also allowed by his para-earthly anatomy. Soon Sary’s vaginal vault was filled to excruciating stringency with the mass of spiriferous coils, which expanded and contracted while simultaneously nudging to and fro. The young woman curled into a shrieking ball about Wilbur’s head as her climax commenced, and when said climax was at an end, she could only gasp, cry, and quiver in her elevated place. Nothing pleased Wilbur more than to know that she was pleased.

However, by this point, his own arousal was nearly painstaking, so attracted was he to her. He’d already lowered his trousers which permitted of his probosciduct to rove about in revel; and then he gently raised Sary off his shoulders—his beard aglitter and his mouth full of salty sapidity—only to lower her with great finesse onto his erection.

One thrust inward, and one retraction, and Wilbur went wobbly kneed by the freight of his orgasm, while moments later, Sary went writhing in another of her own, which protracted the opiate spasms for thirty more minutes, this process releasing from the inner covered bridge screeches which must have traveled the whole of the upper Miskatonic Valley.

Wilbur cast nervous glances this way and that, fearing passersby, but when none were in evidence, he began to amble out of the bridge. Though all of his mate’s orgasms with him had been very much all-consuming, none had been more so than this. Sary had blacked out, which made it necessary for Wilbur to carry her all the way back to the tool-shed like a limp parcel.

This he was all too pleased to do.

Thirteen

Perhaps the incongruent yet very welcome issuance of Sary into the quintessence of Wilbur’s existence goaded a change in his aforementioned creative deficit. His deportment with regard to her took quite a passionate and romantic turn. Holding her hand whenever they were out became vital to him, and it seemed just as vital to her. And there was no cessation nor diminishment of the joy which now took possessorship of him. They kissed often, and pursued many other modes of physical affection that were not at all sexual in motive. Wilbur found he delighted in the mere sight of her, the mere vision, be she even just sitting, talking nonchalantly, or engaged in some mundane task. Since their second night together—though they did engage themselves sexually at least three times per evening—they slept as if attached to one another, so persistent was their bond. Each morning they awoke, Sary would gigglingly insist that he come outside with her at once—she wearing not a stitch!—and then proceed to kiss him just as the sun began to rise, and she insisted upon the same at dusk. On a different night—she did not recall which—it was Wilbur who devised that they venture to the center-point of Frye’s pasture and, beneath the majesty of the moon and twinkling stars, make fervent love.

Another time, after making love yet again, they were taking a scenic walk down an arbored lane near Billington’s Wood. Sary’s mood reflected an unvoiced concern, that concern being:
Good Gawd, what am I a-gonna do if I lose Wilbur to some other woman?
The prospect, however paranoic, instilled in her a whirlwind of woeful contemplation, for if she were to lose Wilbur, never again would she experience such staggering delights as she had with him through whatever sexual sleight he’d mastered; similarly, she wouldn’t likely meet someone so kind, nor someone not repelled by her facial looks. Wilbur, however, was worried himself by what her cast might signify, but he could only guess. “Suthin’ clearly worryin’ ye, Sary, and I jest become afeared’a what it might be—”

Sary’s expression tightened, and she feigned, “Oh, I’se jest fine, Wilbur! I’se not worryin’ a’tall...”

“I be thinkin’ that with all this great fuckin’ we been doin’, mebbe...mebbe ye’re worried abaout gettin’ made in the way, ya know, in the
mother’s
way.”

The train of Sary’s thoughts snapped like a heavy bough. “Oh, Wilbur! I’ud jest
love
that, I would! I will pump babies aout fer yew as many as I can muster if it be watch’a want!”

Wilbur, with this, saw the lengths of his misinterpretation; and the resultant embarrassment easily showed on his face. “Dang, Sary. I was only goin’ ta say that ye
needn’t
worry ‘baout me gettin’ ya pregnant on accaount that I
carn’t.
”

“Yew
carn’t?
”

“Naw, I’se ‘fraid not. See, jess as, uh, sarten parts’a me is different from fellas hereabaouts, so’s my seed. Way my seed is, is, wal, it en’t possible fer it to make a gull have a baby.”

Sary’s eyes thinned to slits. “Haow yew know?”

“That big book on my table say so, fer one thing, and from what my Grandfather tell me back when I was jess comin’ ta be a man. The word he use—wal, it’s likely a word that en’t known ta ye—the word he use was
incompatible.
See, my seed be
incompatible
 with the wombs of women hereabaouts. Means it wun’t work—-my seed, that is.”

Sary tried to recite the unusual word to herself, but soon gave up.

Wilbur went on a bit of a ramble. “Ee-yuh, Grandsire tell me, all right, he say ‘Willy, onct ye stert carryin’ on with gulls—and ye can
bet
yew will—ye en’t gonna be able to make any of ‘em big in the belly with your child,’” but from this point Wilbur curtailed what remained of his grandfather’s earthy monologue, which continued,
Yes, sar, boy, ye can whip aout thet big dick’a yers and ye can fuck all these heer Dunwich jism buckets up one side’a taown and daown the next but ye en’t NEVER gonna knock ‘em up. Um-hmm, ye can fill ‘em with your nut like a baker fill a blammed CANNOLI with cream and theer en’t no more chance’a yew puttin’ a baby up her cunt as theer be a ANT haulin’ a bale’a cotton! It be on accaount thet your cum’s INCOMPATIBLE with gulls hereababouts...
Hence, the origin of Wilbur’s discovery of the word. “Hope ye en’t disappointed, Sary. That jess the way it be with me. Chances’a me makin’ a baby with yew...wal, thar en’t a chance in a quintillion yeers ta the tenth power.”

“
How
many yeers?”

“Quintillion ta—er, wal, jess means a long time.”

“Wilbur, whether yew make a baby with me or not, I dun’t keer,” she beamed, “long as I git ta be with yew!”

So much for that interstitial bit of information.

Upon the languishing of the sun on July’s final day, however, Sary seemed to sense a figurative cloud spreading over their personal realm, which threatened to overwhelm her joy unutterably, but why she would muse upon this she could not put a finger on. Wilbur spent more time earlier in the day at his desk, writing, and also consulting other arcane papers in his bureau, as well as some books so antiquated that their very bindings were no longer extant.
De Vermis Mysteriis,
she vaguely made out on one title page, and another:
Le Mot est la Vie.
Wilbur regarded these crumbling tomes as though he were viewing a sick loved one. Yet no decrease was observed in the vibrancy of his attitude toward her—if anything there was an
increase
—but betwixt the layers of his undivided attention, Sary very much perceived the afore remarked cloud—a cloud, for sure, of
worry.
During an earlier segment of the evening, he’d been seen pacing back and forth outside before the big house, wringing his overlarge hands, and once he’d unfastened the door’s antique locks and gone inside. Had Sary heard a muffled but gargantuan
snort,
and then something like a plaintive
mewl?
Of this she felt sure as she watched through the tiny window, and then she could declare that the mewl reminded her of a domesticated beast in the throes of suffering, so sadly did this aural emission emanate. Then Wilbur had come out, relocked the door, only to turn with what may have been tears in his eyes and an even more intense cast of concern upon his facial aspect. It was, indeed, an
unbridled
concern, as of one far steeped in a misery of inner-calamity. Sary said not a word when he returned to the tool-house but instead efforted to relieve his unspoken distraint by ministering to his genitals with her mouth. The gesture assuaged him a good deal, but then he regretted that he must leave “fer a spell” to tend to some unspoken-of onus, after which he exited the shed, insisted she lock the door behind him—“None ta worry, but jess a precaution, mind ye”—and loped off in the direction of Sentinel Hill. By now, the man’s anguish left Sary quite consternated herself, but though she subdued some of this by—unable now to resist, of course—picking up the odd, palish column of Wilbur’s spent seed where she’d left it on the floor, and inserting it into her private channel. This affected another half-hour of sheer, carnal bliss, whose impact required yet another half-hour from which to recover her sensibilities and motor skills alike.

By midnight, Wilbur had not returned.

Nor by two a.m.

The deepness of the night sky lent grim assurance that the carriage clock was to be believed and, therefore, Sary was unable to engage her self-restraint further. Frantic, she dressed, opened the shed-door, and prepared at once to begin a search for Wilbur. But no sooner had she stepped without the confines of the abode...

Her eyes stung ever-so-modestly.

Due to Sary’s lack of olfactory reception, she did not smell the smoke which had permeated the property like fog; but even in the moon’s luminescence, her eyes could very well detect the haze which informed her that a fire blazed not far off. Then she looked west—

She screeched high and piercingly as a steam-train whistle.

A fire burned indeed, from what appeared to be the very spot she suspected was Wilbur’s destination: Sentinel Hill. She could even envision the plume of flame wavering behind those queer columns of standing stones where sat the antediluvian slab whispered of by her late mother. An uproarious fire this was not, yet the nexus of its light seemed more intense than any common forest fire should be; while at times, its crackling radiance very definitely gave off flares of the oddest
green,
akin to tarnished bronze
.
An academic with an intricate imagination and a proclivity for metaphor might describe this hue as
lucifesque.

However, the entity of Lucifer had no connexion whatsoever. And next?

The
sounds
came.

It was as though the pandemonium of Babylon’s demise, the din of the Mongol Horde, and the cacophony of Tartarus entwined and released at once. Had the earth let loose an
a capella
of screams? Was the ground beneath Sary’s feet actually
muttering?
From the black sky’s void came a CRACK! so chaotic and ear-splinting, she would’ve not believed such a sound possible; she could only, in her terror, assume that the heavens had ruptured. The wake of the infernal crack was filled with a sound, though not as deafening, possessed of an even worse consignment of aberration, yet she would later realize it was, though less amplified, a sound that carried some familiarity. It could be likened to the resonance of a massive rock-slide, only a rock-slide that was somehow taking place
underground;
and in conjunction, there came an even more abominable sonic accompaniment, something similar to the sound she recalled when she’d heard one of the Grangus bulls dying at Bowen’s farm; they’d said that a bovine grippe afflicted the miserable beast, which Sary took to mean something was amiss with its lungs. What she heard this moment—yet from
beneath the ground she stood on
—was a phlegmatic basso flutter, with a repugnant
wetness
to it, but yet also what seemed to be a pattern of
structure.
She grew sick in place, for she had indeed discerned a less profound version of the same when happening by Sentinel Hill in the past.