Charles had been married for fourteen years to the Katherine, a mousy brown-haired librarian who ate tomato and cucumber sandwiches everyday and constantly nagged Charles about his cholesterol. It was a comfortable marriage, but dull.
Once a year, Charles let himself put it aside his marriage and spend a week wrapped in the loving arms, and thighs, of beautiful blonde Chelsea who worked in the accounting department at head office. Seven days of carnal bliss that would leave him physically exhausted but sexually sated till next they could meet. His wife didn't know about this on-going affair and Charles, frankly, was terrified that she'd one day find out. But not then, right then Charles was flying out to Seattle, to Chelsea.
During the flight from New York he had sat next to a friendly, but overly talkative German fellow who had just come back from Rio De Janeiro. Charles listened, if a bit distractedly, as the German complained cheerfully about how he had to cut his time at Carnival short due to riots. “It was the damnedest thing.” he just kept saying as he described how it went from a marvelous time to a boondoggle over the span of a couple hours. He hadn't seen any rioting, but it sure shut everything down. Charles rather enjoyed the German, even if he did keep coughing. Charles offered him a cough drop, but the German had just waved it off with thanks saying that all he needed was another stiff drink when the flight attendant came by. Looking back, Charles really wishes that the German had taken that cough drop as he felt a familiar tickle at the back of his throat that told him coughing was on the way. He'd just have to stop off and grab something at the hotel store to tie him over till the week was done, as nothing was going to interrupt his time with Chelsea.
*****
A couple days into his love fest, Charles felt absolutely miserable. Not only was the cough getting progressively worst, but he'd managed to give it to Chelsea. Instead of amazing amounts of sex, they were instead spending their time curled up on the bed together surfing the hotel channels and drinking hot tea. Chelsea understood, but Charles was furious that his week of bliss had been ruined. To top it off, he'd woken up that morning with a massive fever and joint soreness that the cold medicine he'd been taking non-stop wasn't helping at all. To make it worse, Chelsea seemed to have caught it harder than Charles. She'd been up all night retching in the bathroom and had shoo'ed Charles away when he had brought her a glass of water. She'd been quiet most of the morning, but Charles was hesitant to go in again after his last shoo'ing.
The door creaked and Charles felt a moment of relief that Chelsea was finally coming out. That relief was shorted lived when Charles finally saw Chelsea's face. She's so pale, he thought first when she came out. Then he really looked at her face. Her pupils were dilated, making her iris appear pure black. But it was what was in, or rather what was lacking in, that stare that made Charles bowel suddenly feel watery and his throat clench. They were dead eyes, shark eyes, drifting over the room but not taking anything in.
“Chelsea?” Charles tried to say, but barely whispered. Chelsea's eyes snapped towards him and a moan came from deep in her throat. Her movements were stiff and uncoordinated, more like she was telling her limbs to move instead of controlling them. Charles couldn't understand what had happened to Chelsea, but somewhere in his fevered mind he knew that she was gone and something else was at the wheel.
“Chelsea?” he whispered again, sounding small and terrified. He felt a suddenly loosening in his stomach and felt the wet warmness of his bladder spreading on the sheets under him. Chelsea moaned again and leapt at Charles, moving with a clumsy yet terrifying speed. Her fingernails dug into Charles' scalp and neck as she griped his head. His scream was short and ended in ragged gurgles as Chelsea sank her teeth into Charles' cheek, filling his mouth with blood. In a final burst of strength, Charles tried hurling Chelsea off of him, but only managed to throw them both to the floor. Between the blood filling his mouth and the pressure of Chelsea on his chest, Charles couldn't breathe.
His last thoughts were of his comfortable life back in New York and of his mousy brown haired librarian wife as he lay there on the floor, drowning. Charles DuPont died wrapped in Chelsea's arms and thighs like he'd hoped, but not in any way he could have imagined.
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