Laboratory of Paragraphical Examination

[Flashlight7.5]

Beginning and adverbs

Slyc, I'd start your story right here:

"Luke knew he could have her. It was simply a matter of application and timing. The approach would be key."

It's a good sentence and an immediate hook.

I forgave the first two adverbs in the story you posted, but they started popping up later in the story and distracted me.

"“No,” she said simply.""

"Kris sighed vicariously,"

"she whispered heatedly", etc.

The above one should read, "she heatedly whispered," if you want to get technical about it. A pure read of the above means she whispered the word "heatedly."

It's like when weathermen/women say, "It's raining lightly," instead of "It's lightly raining." It drives me nuts. I know it's common usage, but it still bugs me.

You have a good ending and a nice set-up, but the adverbs threw me off. They're tricky devils.

 

[Emerald_Dragon]

Ah! A participant.
Thanks, Slyc.
And what a specimen you've laid on the table, here. I'll confess I did not yet go through it in depth, but a casual perusal offers some fine powerful prose.

First humble suggestion, however, since I began at the beginning, and you hear all the time how crucial the beginnings are: What about featuring the dancer right off? About her movements making poetry on the dance floor? Some enticing descriptions of her - and then, introduce the He who is watching her?

"She painted poetry in the air as she danced... lean, taut..." then the low-riding jeans, the abdomen, etc...

and then, "Luke's eyes watched it all" or "Luke's eyes drank every ounce and every movement"
Somethin' like that.

Just an idea.

I like that idea.

The only thing that caught my attention in a negative way was the "hard swell" description. That makes me think of a pregnant woman's belly. I would stick with soft curves, or words like toned or firm.

Other than that when are you going to write more???? Do we get a sexy female cop or private detective hunting him down??

 

[slyc_willie]

Slyc, I'd start your story right here:

"Luke knew he could have her. It was simply a matter of application and timing. The approach would be key."

It's a good sentence and an immediate hook.

I forgave the first two adverbs in the story you posted, but they started popping up later in the story and distracted me.

"“No,” she said simply.""

"Kris sighed vicariously,"

"she whispered heatedly", etc.

The above one should read, "she heatedly whispered," if you want to get technical about it. A pure read of the above means she whispered the word "heatedly."

It's like when weathermen/women say, "It's raining lightly," instead of "It's lightly raining." It drives me nuts. I know it's common usage, but it still bugs me.

You have a good ending and a nice set-up, but the adverbs threw me off. They're tricky devils.

I have a tendency to write in a very conversational style, I admit. Often, when I catch overuse of "-lies" in my work, I try to rework the sentence to something like 'Kris emitted a vicarious sigh' or something like. I admit that some readers would be annoyed by too many adverbs; in subsequent edits, I try to remove many of them.

I may go with a more direct opening, from Luke's point of view. Still not sure on that. Bringing the reader in through Luke's right away would be a more powerful indicator that the story is about him.

Thanks for the critique.

 

[slyc_willie]

I like that idea.

The only thing that caught my attention in a negative way was the "hard swell" description. That makes me think of a pregnant woman's belly. I would stick with soft curves, or words like toned or firm.

Other than that when are you going to write more???? Do we get a sexy female cop or private detective hunting him down??

Lol, you know, the 'hard swell' bothered me when I first wrote it, and then I forgot about it. I had planned on changing 'hard' to 'firm.' Thanks for reminding me.

As for the rest . . . still in the works. I'm in the midst of a busy weekend right now, and I have another couple of stories I need to polish up for my TMA series. But within a few days, I may have more to put up for inspection.

 

[Emerald_Dragon]

Lol, you know, the 'hard swell' bothered me when I first wrote it, and then I forgot about it. I had planned on changing 'hard' to 'firm.' Thanks for reminding me.

As for the rest . . . still in the works. I'm in the midst of a busy weekend right now, and I have another couple of stories I need to polish up for my TMA series. But within a few days, I may have more to put up for inspection.

Whoohooo!! This could def be a story I get hooked on and harass you regularly for updates!!

 

[slyc_willie]

Part Two

This story is proving both difficult and exciting to write. Since it is more in-depth than most anything I've yet written for Lit, it's taking me longer to get the words out. As with my non-erotic writing in the past, I have to take my time, make sure I am doing the story justice.

The following excerpt follows right behind what I posted above. Just to disclaim now, there is no sex in this part:

***

Special Agent Alex Winchester soured her face as she took in the scene. She was not sure what bothered her more: the sight of a naked dead girl framed by the crumpled remains of a car roof, or the perverse, morbid curiosity displayed on the faces of the dozens of onlookers . . . many of whom were positioned so as to be able to see between the corpse’s legs.

“Can we get her covered up?” she called out in annoyance, speaking to no one in particular.

“Soon as CSI is finished, ma’am,” said the portly local detective. He was a short man, about Alex’ height without her boots on, and needed a shave. Not to mention a shower; Alex wrinkled her nose whenever he stood upwind.

Alex frowned at how the middle-aged man seemed fixated on the sight between the dead woman’s thighs. “Does looking at dead pussy turn you on, detective?” she asked bluntly. She noted the ring on his finger. “Hope your wife doesn’t know about your necrofiliac fantasies.”

Detective Ramirez rolled his eyes. “If my wife looked half as good alive as that girl does dead, I’d still be married,” he remarked.

Alex expelled a breath while shaking her head. “You’re disgusting, you know that?”

Ramirez shrugged. “I am what I am,” he said, then winked. “Just like Popeye.” He chuckled. “Okay, so why is the FBI so interested in a chick who does a Supergirl impersonation from a high-rise balcony?”

Alex didn’t answer for a long moment as she watched uniformed men picking up the body of the deceased and placing it inside a glossy, black zippered bag. Her eyes remained upon the bag as it was wheeled atop a gurney to the meat wagon. “So you’re first impression is that this was suicide?”

Ramirez chewed his lip. “No one heard any screaming. No one complained of hearing an argument from any of the condos. The only calls we got described a loud crash and people looking out to see Miss Nude Skydiver on someone’s Jag. Gotta say it seems pretty obvious what happened.”

The federal agent took in the detective’s words as she craned her neck, looking skyward. Staring up at a twenty-story building, she realized, was almost as dizzying as looking down from atop one. She saw tiny, flesh-toned faces leaning out from the edges of balconies, wondering which among them might be a witness – or a killer. “I agree,” she said at last. “It does seem pretty obvious.”

***

Most people did not want to be bothered beyond a simple clarification that they either did or did not call 911 or either did or did not see anything. Alex could understand; the majority of people she interviewed – none for more than half a minute – were the typical, if affluent, American. They knew little, saw little, but many had their own wild theories. Alex humored those who suggested drug use, hallucinogens, and ‘obvious psychological problems.’ As with the detective, it was a foregone conclusion for many that the nameless dead girl had decided to kill herself.

“It’s always the beautiful ones,” lamented one portly woman with a sarcastic undertone in her voice. She picked at a face that, while showing at least three decades of life, still sported acne. The aroma rolling out from her condo combined acrid cigarette smoke with cheap perfume. “She could’ve at least put some clothes on before jumping. Like, what, she wanted to show off or something?”

Alex forced a smile. “Thanks for your time,” she said politely, and headed away. Her cell vibrated as she stepped along the carpeted hall of the fifteenth floor. She snapped up quickly, gave her usual curt greeting – “Winchester” – and listened.

“Fifteen-twenty-eight?” she confirmed, then nodded to herself. “Thanks, Boozer. I’ll get back to you.”

Simultaneously replacing her cell and unsnapping the thumb strap on her sidearm, Alex approached the door marked in gold stencil as “1528.” She paused, nearly pressing her ear to the door to listen for any noise from the other side. Silence.

Knock, knock.

“Mr. Craddock? This is the FBI.” Alex’ voice was loud, loud enough to penetrate through thin wood and fiberboard, but not obtrusive.

There was still no response, even after another knock. Behind the FBI agent, another door opened. “You won’t get no response,” came a southern accent. “Charlie sleeps like a gator after a dinner of Yankee tourist.”

Alex looked to the grinning older woman, who revealed gaps in her teeth and a wild shock of previously blonde hair. Considering the time of morning, the woman was dressed as if ready to entertain guests. Numerous bangles and rings hung off skinny, leathery forearms and bony fingers. “You know Mr. Craddock?” Alex asked.

“Yep. Been neighbors for ‘bout six years. Not the most eligible bachelor, know what I mean?”

Alex flashed a neutral smile. “What else can you tell me about him?” she asked. “Any girlfriends? Lovers?”

The ‘society dame’ – Alex could not think of the woman in any other way, save that her society days were behind her – scoffed, rolling her eyes. “He leaves at eight every morning, even on the weekends, and comes back at seven at night. If I didn’t see him in the hallways now and then, I’d never know he was alive.”

Alex narrowed her eyes, thinking. An obscure man, who would be missed by few, she thought. Nothing remarkable enough about him that would warrant a missing persons report for, say a few days, at least. “Thank you . . . .” Alex prompted.

The aged southern dilettante extended an arm, dry hand hanging loosely. “Catherine Beauvais. Mizz.”

Alex pushed her smile out a little more. “Have a nice night,” she said, then turned to Mr. Charles Craddock’s door. Uncaring that she was being watched, she withdrew a lockpick gun and slipped the jagged black tongues into the keyhole. She worked it a moment, feeling for the lack of tension in the sensitive trigger, then squeezed. The door popped open.

“Eh, hey now, you can’t just go barging into someone else’s home!”

Alex smirked over her shoulder. “I don’t mean to alarm you, Mizz Beauvais, but I have a feeling your neighbor has become the victim of foul play.” So saying, Alex pushed open the door, immediately slapping her hand to the butt of her sidearm. A miniature flashlight was already in her left hand, the tight, focused beam slashing through the darkness beyond.

Behind the agent, the older woman gasped, slapping a hand to her chest. “Are you sure?”

Alex said nothing. No, but in a morbid way, I hope so, she thought. Otherwise, this is illegal search and seizure, and AD De la Rocca is gonna have my ass . . . .

Slowly, ears keen to even the slightest sound, Alex ventured into the apartment. There was a cool crispness to the air, suggesting that at least one window was open to allow the night air within. That did not seem to fit with the description of the apparently cloistered life Mr. Charles Craddock lived.

The home was almost obsessively organized. Three pairs of shoes – loafers, sneakers, and house shoes – were lined along the wall just a few feet in from the door. Then the waxed and polished floor of the sizable kitchen to the left, the immaculate living room to the right. Art deco, Alex thought. Very nice.

The bedroom door remained open, and it was from there that the cool breeze flowed, bringing the hint of a coming storm upon its wings, as well as the faint yet tell-tale aromas of erotic coupling. Alex sniffed experimentally. The aromas, she figured, were hours old, but less than half a day. That much, at least, she could extrapolate from her own occasional experiences.

The bed showed obvious signs of having been used. The covers lay mostly bunched around the end of the queen-sized mattress, with a thick comforter upon the floor at the foot of the bed. The sheets were wrinkled, rank with the aroma of sex. A slightly darkened spot marked the center of the bed. Just like the others, Alex thought. The sex was consensual. The girl wouldn’t have gotten that wet if she didn’t want it.

She glanced to the open balcony door, watching wispy, ethereal curtains fluttering in the breeze. A woman’s clothes lay about the floor. Alex looked around briefly, finding jeans, a top, shoes . . . but no panties.

Just like the others.

She straightened, spying two doors from the bedroom. One lay slightly ajar, and the aroma of soap was faint but noticeable. She pushed open the door, flicked on the light. Droplets of water decorated the sink and streaked the glass enclosure of the shower stall. The linen rack sported a gap where a towel had once lain. Alex did not bother looking for it; she knew the man she hunted had taken it with him, as he always did.

For a moment, the FBI agent hesitated before opening the second door in the bedroom. Perhaps a premonition, or the instinctual application of deduction, told her what she would find. But she had to see. She had to confirm.

The body fell out as soon as she jerked open the door, making Alex catch her breath. The face on the corpse stared up at her, lifeless eyes boring into hers. The man had been strangled with his own belt, which was still tight about his neck. The face was bloated, purple, the tongue hanging out.

Alex turned away, taking out her phone. The other end was picked up on the second ring. “Ramirez.”

“Detective,” Alex said grimly. “I hope you aren’t too far away. Something you might want to see.”

The detective grumbled on the other end. “Where are you?”

“Fifteenth floor,” Alex responded, and gave the room number. “Send up CSI, too. And you’ll need a body bag.”

“Christ.”

***

The following morning, Agent Winchester stood over the body of Kristin Avery, twenty-three, the only daughter of Maxwell and Roberta Avery. The young woman’s parents had already been and gone, having confirmed the identity of their only child. The weeping of Mrs. Avery still echoed in Alex’ mind.

In the harsh light over the coroner’s table, Kristin Avery looked almost angelic. Her skin was pale and rubbery, most of the blood having settled to the underside of the body. The incisions from the autopsy were stark and rude, the jagged skin along the cuts curled slightly outward. Only her face seemed unmarred; Alex was glad the girl had landed on her back.

The coroner, a tall, athletic black woman, snapped off her gloves as she regarded the FBI agent with a clinical look. “So why the specifics?” she asked. “You asked me to look for some very particular things.”

Alex took her eyes from the corpse’s face and addressed the coroner. “What did you find?”

The black woman sighed, seeing no point in trying to get more information from the federal agent. She had dealt with many of them, and always found them cagey. “Her blood alcohol level was .04,” she said, referring to a file she had picked up. “Evidence of THC in her system. No other narcotics or chemicals.”

“What about her last meal?”

“My guess is yogurt of some kind—“

Alex cut the coroner off. “Maybe I should rephrase that,” she said. “What was the last thing she swallowed?”

The black woman pursed her lips, taking a moment to let her momentarily-roused ire simmer down. “Semen,” she said. “Quite a bit of it, too. Nearly half a fluid ounce. She was a busy girl.”

Alex smirked darkly. “She was only with one man,” she said. “Were you able to get a DNA sample from it?”

“I’m still waiting for the lab,” the coroner responded. Her eyes narrowed. “This isn’t the first time, is it? You know exactly what you’re looking for.”

Alex sighed and shot the coroner a look. “And I’m still looking. Let me know when you get the results back from your lab.”

***

Tracking down Kristin Avery’s friends was not difficult. The girl still lived at home, and had a close relationship with her parents. Mr. Avery provided the names and phone numbers of the two girls Kristin had gone out with the evening before, adding that they had already been informed of Kristin’s death.

Monica and Darlene were room mates, living in the sort of typical student apartment not far from the college campus. Alex found them both at home, comforting one another in their shared grief.

“Kris would never kill herself,” proclaimed Darlene, a rather chubby brunette. “She had everything going for her.”

Dyed-blonde Monica concurred with a wordless, yet emphatic, nod. Her eyes were still wet.

“Tell me about the man she met,” Alex prompted them.

Darlene’s eyes fluttered as she swooned. “He was gorgeous,” she said. “I mean . . . forget Matt Damon. This guy was hot.” She paused, chewing her lip a moment. “Did he kill her?”

“What did he look like?” asked the FBI agent, deflecting the woman’s question.

“Tall, blonde, and he had tattoos—“ began Monica.

Darlene frowned upon her friend. “He wasn’t blonde. He had short, black hair. But you’re right about the tats.”

“No, he was blonde,” insisted Monica. “And it went to his shoulders. Maybe you were too busy looking at his package.”

Darlene rolled her eyes, looked back Alex. “Short, black hair.”

“Tell me about the tattoos,” Alex urged. She was not surprised that the two young women differed in their recollection about the man’s hair, nor did she think their differences would end there.

“Well, we only saw his arms, really,” Darlene said. “It was all tribal work. Stopped at his elbows.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” agreed Monica. “Couldn’t really tell any kind of design from it, though.”

Alex nodded, hiding her frustration. She’d this same conversation before. “I’d like to ask you to describe the man Kris left with to a sketch artist,” she said, already suspecting what the result would be.

The two women nodded. Darlene spoke up as Alex stood.

“Did that guy kill her?” she asked.

Alex didn’t say a word, though her eyes gave the answer away. As the agent headed for the door, she heard the women begin crying anew.

***

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, Alex slapped the two pieces of paper to her desk and fell back in the chair. The facial drawings from the sketch artist showed two entirely different men; one with narrow, sharp features and shoulder-length fair hair, the other with a broad jaw and brow and short, dark hair.

She rubbed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since the estimated time of Kristin Avery’s death; the floor of the government building wherein her desk was located was largely empty. Only two other agents were present in the large room, going over their own reports and paperwork.

This is driving me nuts, Alex thought to herself. Five women in less than three months. No apparent connection other than the fact that they were all young and beautiful. No similarities between the way they died, other than most deaths look like suicides. In fact, the only thing that’s the same is that they all swallowed a large quantity of semen shortly before their death.

Semen that shows it came from the same man, but there’s never enough to get a full DNA strand. Damn it!

“Damn it!” she cried aloud, slapping her hands to the desk. She sagged forward, burying her face in her hands.

“Alex? You alright?”

Alex’ tired face lifted slowly, the strain telling upon her face. She heaved a sigh toward the younger man who stood across her desk. Jeff Barker, only three months fresh from Quantico. Alex remembered when she had been that new, when being an FBI agent was still something exciting and prideful.

“No, actually, I’m not,” she said, sagging back once more. The chair creaked beneath her. “I can’t get a handle on this guy. He’s too slick. And he doesn’t match any profile for a serial killer in history.”

The corner of Jeff’s mouth twitched in a smirk. “Still chasing after your phantom killer?” he asked. “You know, I’ve heard some of the other agents talk—“

“I’m sure you have,” interrupted Alex with a rude scoff. “But I don’t give a shit about talk. There’s a man out there who gets his jollies from seducing pretty young women and then killing them. Just because I’m the only one in the entire bureau who sees it, doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”

Barker nodded slowly and carefully. “Okay, so . . . what makes you think that?”

Alex shot forward aggressively, her eyes bright and sharp. “In the past three months, five women have come up dead, most by apparent suicide. But there’s never been a note, no real indication of depression or other mental disorders. And every one of them was reported as being with a man shortly before their death. A man who, apparently, looks different to everyone who’s seen him, but yet, is always described as a fucking Adonis. A man who gets each of his victims to swallow a load before he kills them.”

Barker frowned in thought. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “I mean, about why he looks different. Does he wear different wigs, or something?”

“That’s just it,” Alex said. “Take the latest victim. She’s out with two of her friends, meets a guy in a night club. Her friends describe the exact same thing about the guy, the way he approached, some of the things he said, the clothes he was wearing . . . but to one girl, he’s a blonde surfer dude, to another he’s got short black hair. You’re right; it doesn’t make sense.”

Barker shrugged. “Well, the girl got picked up in a night club, right? Black light, flashing lights, lots of shadows . . . not to mention alcohol.”

Alex shook her head. “No. I could accept that if the differences were slight. But the faces they described to a sketch artist were entirely different. The only things the girls agreed upon are that he’s about six feet tall and built like a professional athlete, or model.”

“And . . . you think it’s always the same guy?”

Alex sighed at the skeptical tone in her fellow agent’s voice. “Humor me for a moment. Pretend you believe me. Can you do that?”

Barker nodded hesitantly. “Sure.”

“What would be the point of this guy getting each of his victims to swallow his semen?”

The young agent wrinkled his face in thought. “Domination? He needs to feel that he controls these women, making them do things against their will.”

Alex’ brow wrinkled. “The domination part I might buy. But none of the victims show signs of being forced in any way. No ligature marks, no fingerprints on their bodies, no vaginal tearing. This guy seduces his victims, he doesn’t rape them. They want to fuck him.”

“Sounds like an incubus,” Barker remarked.

Alex frowned. “You mean . . . like a devil who seduces women, just to steal their souls?”

Barker laughed. “Well, that’s a serious stretch. I seriously don’t think De la Rocca would like to hear that you’re a demon-hunter, now.”

Alex fell quiet, thinking. Incubus. What if . . . ?

“Um, anyway, Alex, you should probably get home, get some sleep. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

Alex blinked, staring at the younger man until his words sunk in. Then she laughed, feeling at least some of the tension escaping. “You’re right, Jeff,” she agreed. “Thanks for listening.”

He smiled. “Hey, maybe some time we could get some coffee or something.”

Alex stood and flashed the young man a dubious smile. “Maybe.”

***

The pounding beat of the music soaked into his skin, heightening the anticipation that flooded Luke’s mind. The movements of his head and right foot were barely perceptible, but they matched the rhythm of the music perfectly. Fingers touched the rim of the glass he cradled in his left hand. Eyes looked out upon the dance floor.

Idly, he rolled his right shoulder, making the fabric of the Egyptian cotton shirt he wore brush against the still-healing skin of his newest tattoo. He suppressed the urge to scratch the itch that was there; doing so might mar the work, and he did not want to risk that.

Upon the floor, the ebony-skinned dance queen writhed and moved as if making love to an invisible lover. Her full lips were stretched slightly by a smile, her eyes were half-closed. She danced with a well-muscled young man, although she did not seem to actually be with him. Not that it mattered to Luke; he knew he could have her regardless. Not even a glittering diamond on her finger would have kept Luke at bay.

After a few songs, the dark-skinned beauty left the dance floor, heading for the bar. She wore a short pink skirt that allowed brief flashes of the nearly non-existent black thong beneath. Slender, muscular legs disappeared into glossy, black leather boots. Her rather impressive breasts were showcased in a skin-clinging white top through which thick, stiff nipples poked.

Luke watched the young woman as she approached the bar. Her long black hair had been chemically relaxed, and glistened in the club lights. She swept it back, revealing flushed dark skin, a light sheen of sweat on her thick upper lip. “T and T!” she shouted above the music, getting the attention of one of the bartenders.

Luke slid up beside her, resting an elbow on the rail just inches from the woman’s right hand. “Let me get it,” he said.

The dark-skinned girl rolled her eyes, not looking to Luke. “I’m not looking to get picked up,” she said. “Thanks for the offer, but no.”

Luke grinned. He touched the little finger of her hand. “I insist.”

The annoyed look on her face faded quickly, and she turned her head toward him. “I’m not . . .” she trailed off, studying Luke’s face. A smile slowly grew on her lips. “Maybe one drink.”

The bartender set a glass before her, and Luke dropped a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Keep it,” he said, not taking his eyes off the young woman. “So, what’s your name?”

The black girl turned to face him, subtly pushing her breasts out. “Cat,” she said, becoming more flirtatious. Her dark eyes roamed over his body, expressing interest. “Mm-mm. Ain’t you a fine looking brother.”

Luke grinned. “You’re just saying that because I bought your drink.”

Cat laughed, then sidled a little closer. “Maybe,” she said. “Does it really matter?”

His eyes smoldered. “Depends on what you’re looking for,” he said. “Just so you know, I’m kind of fragile at the moment.”

Cat pouted in an exaggerated way. “Aw, poor baby. Some ho break your heart?”

Luke shrugged, making a sheepish face. “Guess you could say she . . . flew away.”

Cat licked her lips suggestively, wondering, for a moment, why she felt the powerful attraction she did for this man. “Sounds like you need some comforting, then.”

Luke trailed his hand up Cat’s forearm, feeling the soft, invisible hairs. She did not pull back. “So . . . Cat. Is that a nickname?”

She smiled, inching closer. The scent of gin drifted up from her lush lips. “Sort of. My real name’s Catherine.”

Luke’s seductive smile dropped. “Catherine,” he repeated.

Cat frowned slightly. “Yeah. Something wrong?”

Luke sighed, self-consciously touching his chest. “I made a mistake,” he said, and took a step back. “It was nice meeting you.”

Cat blinked, feeling stunned, rejected, and confused as Luke turned and stepped into the crowd. The arousal that had begun to take over her mind faded with every step the sexy black man took away from her, leaving behind nothing but emptiness.

With a short, rueful laugh, Cat downed her drink. “Asshole,” she muttered.

***