BEINGS: Part 1: Flyn LIVE

I can tell that he is desperate, aching for something more than just a woman. Not just any woman. He’s searching for something primal that goes beyond attraction or companionship. He wants a woman like me, a creature driven by hunger he can’t understand but one he senses on a deeper level. He’s looking for a woman who needs to breed, a woman who will take him somewhere dark, carnal, and raw.

He finds me without realizing it. I’m perched in a quiet corner of this backstreet bar, half-hidden in the dim light, cradling an empty glass, scanning the room. It’s one of those places that exist in the cracks of the city, known only to those who’ve fallen through society’s expectations. A place where men come to forget, to drown in anonymity, where women like me come to find what we need.

The bar is small and secretive, with dark mahogany walls, low ceilings, a lingering scent of alcohol and sweat. Men here keep to themselves, hunched over drinks as they spiral deeper into the night. It’s after hours: the city outside is quiet, but here, everything pulses with a suppressed energy. I feel it humming beneath my skin.

He’s been watching me for a while now. His eyes trace my sharp elfin face, the curve of my cherry-red lips, the way my mocha hair falls in chaotic tangles over my shoulders. He’s drawn in by the way I tear at the ends of my hair with my clenched fists as if I’m on the verge of some uncontrollable impulse. Men like him are always drawn to the edge of things. I’m sitting at a cold metal table, the surface worn and scarred with the imprints of countless other hands and glasses. My chair scrapes against the floor whenever I shift, forcing me to sit upright, poised, alert. I could leave, find another bar, another man—but I won’t. I’ve already chosen him, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

It’s Friday night. The bar is filled with the usual suspects: traders, dealers, and men who think they control the world with their money and bravado. In the corners, couples lean close, assessing each other’s worth, deciding if the night will end in a heated exchange of bodies. But none of them matter to me. Only he does.

Our eyes meet, and I see it—the flicker of recognition. He feels something, a pull. It’s in his hesitant movements, the way his fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. He’s intrigued and uncertain, but the lure is too strong. I give him a small nod, a silent invitation, the kind that makes men think they’re in control.

He crosses the room slowly, slipping through the throng of bodies like he’s wading through something heavy, something he can’t escape. When he reaches me, he sinks into the chair opposite, resting his glass on the table with a soft clink. He doesn’t speak, waiting for me to make the first move. Smart! He knows instinctively that I’m in charge.

‘I noticed you looking at me,’ I say, my voice low, a purr that cuts through the din of the bar.

His eyes are on my lips. ‘Why wouldn’t I look at you? You’re a beautiful woman.’

I let the corners of my mouth twitch upward, a faint smile. The kind of smile that makes men think they’ve won something, but it’s always just out of reach. My cheeks flush slightly, a little trick that I’ve perfected—making them believe I’m affected, vulnerable. He doesn’t need to know how much power I have over him already.

‘Know how to flatter a woman, don’t you?’

My voice is slightly slurred, just enough to make him think I’ve been drinking more than I have. He needs to think that I’m assailable, unprotected, exposed, that I’m the one seeking comfort when it’s him who is desperate.

He fumbles for his wallet, pulling it from the slit in his frayed jeans. ‘What are you drinking?’

I hold up my empty glass, handing it to him. ‘Tanqueray gin with slimline tonic. Ice and a slice of lime… please.’

His fingers brush mine as he takes the glass, and I feel the warmth of his skin and the roughness of his calloused hands. It sends a pulse of electricity through me. His touch stirs something inside, but it’s not attraction. It’s hunger. My need to breed surges to the surface, threatening to take control. But I push it back down. Not yet.

‘Suppose I should say thank you,’ I murmur, leaning forward slightly, letting my lips hover just above the table.

‘You can if you want to,’ he says, his voice deepening with desire. He’s already imagining what comes next.

‘I do want to. Thank you.’ I pause, tilting my head just slightly, letting my hair fall over one shoulder. ‘Drew.’

The sound of his name seems to take him by surprise, and I see a flicker of confusion cross his face. I’ve known his name without asking, without needing to. I’ve known it since the moment I saw him.

He shifts in his chair, uneasy yet intrigued. He wants more than just words. He wants something physical, something real. But he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Not yet.

I study him as he stands and walks to the bar. His body is built strong, hardened by work and stress, and I can smell the sweat adhering to him. His sleeveless white shirt is stained, clinging to his muscled arms. I imagine what his skin would feel like under my hands. Rough, hot, full of life. He’s exactly what I need—strong, fertile, aching for my body.

I let my eyes drift over the crowd as he waits at the bar. The other men are irrelevant, shadows moving in the background of my hunt. But I see how they depend on drink, fattening food, and loud conversations to hide the emptiness inside them. It fascinates me how much they consume and how much they need to fill the voids in their lives. I don’t need any of that. My hunger is different, sharper. It’s not for food or drink. It’s for life itself. I never take my eyes off Drew. He glances back at me, trying to gauge my intentions. I smile softly, letting my lips curve into something that could be mistaken for warmth or invitation. But it’s neither. It’s a promise. He’s mine now.

Fifteen minutes pass before he returns, his glass barely touched. He slides my drink across the table and settles into the chair, watching me, waiting. I take the glass, wrapping my fingers around it slowly and deliberately. I know he’s watching how my skin moves over the glass and my fingers curl.

He leans forward slightly, his voice low. ‘Why are you crying?’

The question catches me off guard for a moment. I realize my eyes are wet, the tears unbidden. It’s my body’s way of reacting to the overwhelming loneliness that grips me in moments like these. A loneliness normal humans cannot understand.

I wipe my eyes dry with the back of my hand, stretching my arm across the table so that he can take it and feel the warmth of my skin, the pulsating life beneath it. He grabs my wrist, his fingers tight, too tight, but I like the pain. It grounds me and reminds me of who I am and what I need.

‘I always cry when I’m lonely,’ I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

He frowns, tightening his grip; I see the look of uncertainty in his eyes. ‘Someone like you? Lonely? Don’t you have any friends?’

I raise my glass, downing the gin in one quick motion, the burn of alcohol soothing the raw edges of my need. I throw my head back, my lips parting in a soft laugh. ‘A man like you wouldn’t understand.’

His eyes darken. For a moment, I wonder if he’s starting to realize what I am, what he’s gotten himself into. But no, not yet. He’s still too far gone, too wrapped up in his own fantasies.

‘I could try,’ he says, his voice edged with something close to pleading. He wants to save me but doesn’t realize he’s the one who needs saving.

I place my glass back on the table, turning my palms up, showing him the short lines that crisscross my skin. ‘I’m an addict,’ I say, my voice steady, even though my heart is pounding furiously in my chest.

His mind races. I see it in his eyes, the question he’s afraid to ask. Addicted to what? Drugs? Sex? Gambling?

‘What kind of addict?’ he finally asks, his voice hesitant, as if he’s afraid of my answer.

I smile, standing slowly, purposefully. ‘I need to spend a penny. Will you wait for me?’

He nods, too eager, too willing. ‘I’ll wait.’

I smirk, leaning in close enough for him to smell the faint scent of my skin, the craving, seething urge beneath it. ‘I know you will, Drew.’ As I walk away, brushing my thighs against the backs of the men crowded at the bar, I feel his eyes on me, watching my every move, every shift of my hips. He’s mine. He just doesn’t know it yet. When I reach the unisex toilet, I find a redhead wearing an ash-grey bustier and a pair of cheap grey sandals crouching over a urinal. The woman’s face flushes with intense embarrassment at my unwelcome intrusion. Her tomb grey high waist yoga pants lie discarded in an unsightly heap on the grubby, soiled quarry red tiled flooring.

‘Won’t be long,’ she says, colouring, ‘It’s the cubicles: they’re filthy. You’d think they’d employ an attendant to keep them clean, given we poor women are forced to share the loos with men.’

I shrug my muscly shoulders, dismissing her, ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? But they don’t.’

The redhead twists her head to follow me, fascinated. I enter the cubicle and slam the door. Shut!

Inside, the cubicle is a mess: dusty cobwebs on the ceiling, the toilet won’t flush, and there’s no paper roll. I bolt the door, shut the lid, stand my tote bag on the cistern, and shed my dress: a newt, an eft, shedding my skin.

Seating myself on the warm wooden pedestal, making myself comfortable, I run my fingers over the vivid crimson scar on my belly. Feeling my scar heightens my arousal.

My body trembles with the force of it, the primal need to breed rising inside me. I press my fingers to the scar, and for a moment, I let myself feel it fully, the lusting, the thirst, the longing. I need him. I need him to fill me, to give me what I crave. Only he can calm the desire which is burning deep within me. I feel myself melt. I am wet. I wipe myself dry with my soft cotton panties, leaving them on the floor.

I get dressed.

When I open the door, I find the redhead has left. My twisted mind embraces the strangest fetishes in moments, intimate solitary moments such as these.

She left her yoga pants for me to wear. How very kind of her.

I posture in front of the washroom mirror, trying them on. The tight, elasticated front rubs against my scar, stimulating my pituitary gland to secrete prolactin, forcing my brain to scream and plead:

I need to breed tonight. I want someone to come inside me.

My fantasy is all spent. I peel off the used yoga pants and stuff them in the waste bin next to the handbasin, deciding to wear my favourite, eye-catching little number instead.

*****

https://www.amazon.com/author/hjfurl

Flyn, Neve and Ruth keep an incredible secret, a secret so profound that it can change the fabric of the human race – what it means to be a human being. First, they must find a mate and breed.

***** A rich well-constructed story about deadly women with a mysterious end game, ChiShi, UK

***** Weird and wonderful

Who are these beautiful, deadly Beings? Hatched in some secret laboratory on a wealthy private estate, is their purpose to destroy humanity, or to take it to another level? Meet Nessie, a renowned geneticist, and her husband, the successful gynaecologist Karl. Meet their beautiful, deadly girl children. Meet the hapless men who succumb to their lethal charms, and pay the price. – Perdisma, UK

***** A suspenseful ride throughout, C-A, UK

In a world where desire hides the deepest secrets and survival demands more than human will, where the truth is darker than you can imagine, they are drawn together by forces beyond their understanding, bound by the hunger that unites them, haunted by choices they cannot escape.

PS the video for Flyn is too big to upload: ‘Ruth and Grace’s video is from later in the story.

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