The Essence
By Jord
Bavarian cream pie. Strawberry shortcake. Rocky Road ice cream.
“Dammit.”
Denise Reynolds stood in front of the display cases, slowly wandering back and forth, waiting for some idea of what she wanted to pop out at her. Everything looked so good... and yet, she didn’t want any of it.
Peanut brittle. Jelly doughnut. Tiramisu.
She was standing before the dozen or so chilled display cases in the confectionery shop just a few blocks from her apartment. Over the past three years, whenever life in the big city seemed to be too much to bear, a little treat from the shop had always brought her spirits right back up.
Apple turnover. Marble cake. Devil’s food.
Lewis’ Bros. Confections (as the shop was formally known; most referred to it simply as ‘the candy shop’) was located down a side street, just another dingy storefront needing paint in a neighborhood full of them. Most passers-by never even gave it a second glance. But for the lucky few who had stumbled inside by accident, or, more often, heard about the shop from a friend or co-worker, a treasure of delights had been unlocked.
The shop’s founders, Adrian and Donovan Lewis, were Irish immigrants who had run the shop for decades before passing away a few years before Denise had moved here (Donovan first, then Adrian a year or so later). The current owner was a distant nephew named Harrison, a quiet, polite man with just a trace of an accent—English, perhaps, or maybe Irish. Harrison led a staff of three in the “pursuit of the perfect treat”... at least according to him, whenever he was packaging a purchase. The shop offered everything one could want: cakes, cookies, ice cream in two dozen varieties (homemade, no less!), pastries, chocolates, candy, and so on... And the scents! Butterscotch, toffee, chocolate of every description, warm pastries, hundreds more, all wonderful, all blended together in perfect harmony.
Denise licked her lips as her eyes moved from the coolers to the shelves in the center of the room, the bins of hard candies, each “wrapped by hand” (though she doubted that statement very much; when are four people running a whole business going to find the time to hand-wrap thousands of candies?).
“Can I help you?” came a soft, melodious voice from behind her. Denise spun around and saw Mr. Harrison standing there, his white shirt (immaculate, as usual) covered by his equally white apron (also immaculate, as usual). His pale blue eyes held just a touch of mischief as he spoke again. “Did I startle you?”
“Uh, yeah... but that’s okay,” she stammered, feeling the redness growing in her cheeks. Silly girl, she thought. He does this to you every time; you should be used to it by now.
“I’m sorry; sometimes the boy in me likes to sneak out. It’s a bad habit, but one I find difficult to break. Now, let me guess; today you’re looking for something... special.”
“How did you know?”
“For the past three years, you’ve stopped by once a week, every week—unless something was troubling you, and even then, never more than twice.” Mr. Harrison wiped a speck of dust from a nearby shelf. “This is your third visit this week. Would you like to talk about it? I’m a very good listener.”
After a long moment, Denise said, “It’s... my job. They laid me off... only what they really did was fire me; they just can’t call it that. I moved to the city for them, I worked my ass off... and they do this.” Denise struggled to contain the tears that wanted to fall.
“Oh, dear,” Mr. Harrison said. “Perhaps you should sit for a while, collect your thoughts. Something like this... can take its toll if left unattended.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose —”
“Nonsense. What I do here helps bring a touch of joy to those who need it most—in other words, everyone. Besides, I have a few customers who prefer to sample their purchases right out of the kitchen.” Mr. Harrison led Denise to the back of the store and pulled back a red velour curtain, revealing a small chamber with two chairs and a small round wrought-iron table. Tendrils of creeping ivy had wrapped themselves around the room’s four columns; their tiny white flowers filled the room with a sweet, pungent aroma. The daylight streamed in through an antique pane of glass set into the angled ceiling; the ripples in the glass helped add a surreal glow to the chamber, as did the raindrops streaming down it.
“Oh my God! I had no idea this was even here,” Denise said, breathing in this new and wonderful fragrance.
“Precious few do, Miss Reynolds, precious few. This room was built when the building was, almost a century ago, probably as a sunroom for the wife of a rich developer or businessman; most of them were torn down because space is at such a premium in the city. I was lucky to find it still intact.” Mr. Harrison pulled back one of the chairs and Denise sat down as he retrieved a pitcher of cold water and a glass. “Now, what shall it be this evening? A hot fudge sundae with a sprinkling of peanuts? A chocolate eclair, dusted with powdered sugar? A serving of fresh macaroons, perhaps, with a chilled glass of milk?”
“Thank you, but... I don’t know what I want. Nothing sounds... good, you know?”
Harrison smiled. “I understand completely. In that case, perhaps I could make a request. I’ve been working on something new, something... unique. I was hoping to get some feedback, perhaps improve upon it before I offer it to my customers; my own palate is terribly biased, you see.”
“Um... okay, I guess. How long have you been working on the recipe?”
“Oh, many years, since long before I inherited the shop. I’ve always had a flair for cooking. If you’ll excuse me.” Mr. Harrison retreated behind the curtain, leaving Denise alone in the chamber. She sipped at her water, wondering why Harrison was being so nice. Maybe he was trying to keep a good customer, or maybe he wanted something from her.
Or maybe he was just a decent guy in this mostly horrible city.
“I hope that it’s low-calorie,” she muttered, knowing that she had a few extra pounds on her hips. She was good-looking; dishwater-blonde hair that came to her shoulders, nicely-sized breasts (a handful is perfect, according to one former boyfriend), long legs accentuated by the high heels she wore as she looked for another job, curves in just the right places. And she was potentially wrecking that by indulging herself so often lately.
The curtain was pulled back and Mr. Harrison entered, carrying a silver tray. “Here we are, Miss Reynolds.” He set down a linen napkin, a silver spoon, and a white china dish filled with a creamy, translucent red concoction, topped with whipped cream. “I hope you enjoy.”
“What do you call it?” Denise asked, picking up the spoon and scooping up a healthy portion.
Harrison sat down, and a thoughtful look crossed his face. “I’ve always just thought of it as an indulgence, but for a name... I suppose you could call it the essence. Please, go ahead.”
She raised the spoon to her lips and breathed in the aroma of strawberries and cream, nectar and chocolate... heaven on Earth. She opened her lips and slid the spoon between them, relishing the silky texture as the essence made contact with her tongue, bringing with it a multitude of flavors. She swallowed, the treat sliding effortlessly down her throat, and licked her lips.
Mr. Harrison waited silently, a look of keen interest on his face. “It’s... perfect,” she said, suddenly flushed. “What is it?”
“I’m afraid I must keep that to myself; even my closest acquaintances are unaware of all the precise ingredients.” Denise took another spoonful as he continued. “It’s not so much the flavoring as the base itself; it can easily be made to taste like whatever you wish, from sweet to bitter, mild to intense. It’s very... adaptable.”
Denise started shoveling bite after bite into her mouth. The heat spread from her face down her chest, into her limbs, her skin tingling as beads of sweat popped up all over her body. The more she ate, the more she wanted; rivulets of the stuff ran from the corners of her mouth as she abandoned the spoon and licked right from the bowl, covering her face in the red goo. Some part of her mind was thinking, Stop, this feels wrong...
But that part was somehow easy to resist as the heat wrapped itself around her mind.
The heat sank deeper into her body, seeping into her muscles. It was getting hotter and hotter; her fingers dropped the bowl and sought out the buttons on her blouse, undoing them effortlessly and pulling the blouse from her skirt. “Oh, my... what’s... happening...”
“It’s quite stimulating, isn’t it?” Harrison whispered from across the table. “The heat you’re feeling throughout your body comes from your nerves; they’re becoming hyper-sensitive to even the slightest sensory input. Taste, sound, smell, tactile awareness; all magnified five, possibly ten times over. It’s quite amazing, actually.”
A draft of air brushed past her breasts and her nipples immediately hardened, pushing almost painfully against her cream-colored brassiere. Without realizing it, Denise began pinching her nipples with her left hand, gasping at the intensity of the pleasure she felt. Her chest heaved as her fingers pinched harder, the sensations burning their way to her brain. “Oooh...” she moaned as she pressed her thighs together, tilting her head back as a knot of rapture grew beneath her panties.
She took her hand from her breasts and slipped past the waist of her skirt, down under the lacy trim of her panties, down further, stroking her tingling labia timidly at first, then faster and harder, her blood afire, her mind lost in a scorching haze of want and need and bliss -
Harrison watched in satisfaction as the young woman’s body arched, her muscles galvanized, a single, guttural howl erupting from her throat as the strongest orgasm of her life took hold of her. Her body spasmed once, then again, her eyes wide open as the fire quickly burned itself out and left her dazed. “Oh... wow...” she whispered, sliding her hand from beneath her skirt.
“I take it that you approve,” Mr. Harrison said, pouring a glass of water and offering it to her, along with a napkin.
Denise pulled her blouse closed and sat up, blushing furiously as her mind grasped what had just happened. “What... what the hell... is that stuff?” she said, wiping the stickiness on her face with the back of her hand.
“An indulgence, I assure you, and nothing more. It’s a unique blend of natural ingredients that act in concert to enhance sensory impulses.” He dipped the napkin in the glass of water and held it out. “I apologize for not being completely honest with you, but it seemed you needed something more... effective... than our traditional offerings.”
She took the napkin and wiped her face and hand, the sharp edge of shame starting to fade. “It’s... okay. It was... very good.”
“Ahh. Perhaps I should include a warning label on the package. Your reaction came more quickly than I anticipated.” He smiled again as she finished cleaning herself off, but this time the smile was sad, dreamy, as if he were looking at some distant place. “Things never turn out as we expect, do they? You can work your whole life toward a goal, just to see it all crumble away before your very eyes. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can rebuild...”
Denise had buttoned her blouse and composed herself as best she could, still reeling from her climax. “I understand... I think. Is... that... your goal?” she said, gesturing toward the empty dish.
“After a fashion. There’s too much hatred, too much disease, too much suffering in this tired world. If I can provide some measure of relief with something so very simple... then I shall. I must.” He stood and set everything back on the tray. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said before leaving the room again.
Denise licked her lips as he departed, the taste of the essence still clinging to her lips like a friendly ghost. There was still warmth from it, embers of a dying fire that could take hours, even days, to cool. “Mmmmm...” she purred as she stretched, every muscle alive, more relaxed than she had felt since she’d moved to this godawful city. Even now the scent of the ivy was almost overwhelming; the chill of the iron as she rested her head on the table sent shivers coursing down her spine.
She licked her lips again, anxious to be on her way before the effects subsided altogether. “Mister Harrison?” she called, walking toward the curtain. I really need to get going. I, uh... I’ve got an appointment...”
She slid back the curtain...and then she noticed it: a drop of red on the tile floor. She sniffed the air; oh, God, she could smell it from here. She knelt down, her face barely inches from the floor, and drew in a deep breath. Strawberry. Bliss. Fire. She smiled, flicked her tongue across the drop -
“Miss Reynolds? Are you all right?”
Denise jumped once again at the sound of Harrison’s voice behind her. “Yeah, I uh... dropped my earring.”
“I’m so very glad to see you found it.” He offered his hand and helped her to her feet. “As a token of my appreciation, I’d like to send you off with a gift.” He offered her a paper sack, the top carefully folded, the familiar Lewis’ Bros. name printed on the side. “For your gracious assistance.”
She opened the sack and saw a clear disposable plastic carton filled with a creamy, pale blue substance, along with a plastic spoon and a thick stack of paper napkins. “I thought you might like to try another sample in more... comfortable surroundings.”
A drop of saliva fell form her lips and ran down the side of the sack. “Oh, thank you,” she said, quickly closing it and dodging around him.
She was almost to the door when Mr. Harrison called out, “Thank you again. May your evening be most... pleasant.” He smiled that charming, mischievous smile again, and Denise found herself returning it.
“I’m sure it will,” she replied, and vanished out the door.
The walk home seemed incredibly long—the cars were too loud, the rain too cold and wet on her face, the normally drab gray-on-gray of the city suddenly split into thousands of unique hues, all drawing her eye at once.
A wave of dizziness passed through her and she had to stop, leaning against a lamppost for support. She closed her eyes, listening to the city go by—the footsteps, the sirens, the grumbling engines and grumbling people—and took a deep breath.
Denise could smell each person who passed—perfume, deodorant, sweat, tears, excitement. A tiny spark lit within her brain again as she opened her eyes and caught sight of an attractive young woman wearing a sky-blue miniskirt, her bare midriff exposing the silver ring that pierced her belly button. Her face was bright, smiling; her scent was thick with untapped excitement.
The woman was standing at the bus stop, holding a newspaper over her head in a vain effort to keep the water off her long black hair. The bus ran deeper into the city, away from her apartment... but Denise didn’t care. What was she going to do, anyway, but go home and indulge herself a little more?
Suddenly it seemed like a very good idea to share that indulgence with someone else.
When the bus arrived the young woman found a seat near the back, away from the hungry stares of most of the male passengers. Denise fought her way through the aisle, surprised at the attention she was receiving as well. A hand brushed against her thigh, lingering a touch too long; instead of anger, another rush of pleasure burned through her body. Not now, she thought. Eyes on the goal.
The young woman was looking out the window, the rivulets of water casting wavering lines down her face. “Um, hi. Is this seat taken?” Denise asked.
“No, go ahead,” the woman replied, glancing over for just a moment before turning her attention back to the window. Denise sat down and put the sack in her lap, drumming her fingers anxiously, tap-tap-tap-tap, over and over again. After a few minutes the woman turned to her and said, “Do you mind?”
“What? Oh, sorry.” Denise sat back and closed her eyes, then took a deep breath—shampoo, nail polish, musk, sweat (a man’s—her lover?). She opened the sack and removed the contents, licking her lips in anticipation. She carefully pulled back a corner of the lid and basked in the beautiful aromas that emerged—raspberry, apricot, cinnamon, more.
After a moment the woman looked over. “Excuse me, but that smells divine,” she said, a look of keen interest in her eyes.
“It’s better than that—it’s perfect,” Denise replied, then offered her the spoon. “Would you like to try some?”
“Certainly,” she said, her voice more mature than the party girl clothes suggested. The woman spooned out a healthy bite and slid it into her mouth, and almost immediately Denise could sense a change; her heartbeat quickened, the scent of her excitement grew thicker as the first spark of flame took hold. The woman took another bite, then another, each fueling the fire that threatened to consume her.
After another few bites Denise scooped up a dollop of the essence with her finger and held it out to the other woman; an offering of friendship. Without hesitation the woman leaned forward and took the cream-covered finger into her mouth, sucking greedily, the swirling motion of her tongue threatening to drive Denise to another climax.
When she finally pulled away the woman whispered a single pleading word: “More?”
“Tell me your name.”
“Amy.”
“Hello, Amy. I’m Denise. Do you like it?” She dipped two fingers into the plastic container, bringing up a healthy mouthful as she sealed it again with her other hand.
“Oh, yes...” Amy whimpered, stretching as a flush spread across her skin and beads of sweat started popping up.
“Soon,” Denise whispered, then licked the essence from her own fingers. Holding it on her tongue, she leaned closer and slid her hand behind Amy’s head... not that Amy needed encouragement at this point. Their lips touched and shivers lanced through their bodies; their tongues slid across each other, sharing the sensations as the heat intensified within each of them. A tiny stream of blue-tinged saliva escaped their kiss, trailing down their chins.
Denise moved her free hand over, sliding it up Amy’s thigh, her fingernails raising welts as they pressed into the tender flesh. She slid her fingers across the silky fabric of her panties, stroking Amy’s folds through the material, feeling the moisture soaking through. “Ahh!” gasped Amy as she broke the kiss, shuddering as passion raced through her body and seared her mind with lust.
By this point they had attracted the attention of several people, mostly blue-collar men who were just sitting there slack-jawed, or women with looks of revulsion and disbelief; Denise could see one teenage boy a few seats away pressing against the seat, moving his body back-and-forth ever so slightly, unnoticed by the other passengers. She smiled and winked at him, then began driving her fingers faster against Amy’s cunt, determined to drive both of them into a frenzy.
Amy pulled the blouse down and bit into her shoulder, drawing blood as her mind was swallowed by the fire that already had control of her body. The fingers quickened, pressed harder, finding the hard button of excitement and pinching it tightly. Amy’s scream was muffled by Denise’s flesh, blood bubbling past her lips, quivering as her clit became her entire being, white light, starfire -
Denise could see the boy jerk once, twice, his face red and dotted with sweat. She closed her eyes, felt the ecstasy rise and surrendered to it, howling as the pleasure took her again.
When she opened her eyes again, perhaps a few seconds had passed. The boy was still looking at them; she licked her lips and smiled again at him before turning to her newfound lover. Amy was licking the blood from her shoulder, shuddering at the coppery taste on her tongue. Denise held up her fingers, Amy’s scent strong in the air, and slid them into Amy’s mouth. The woman’s tongue worked quickly, sucking every drop of moisture from them and begging for more until Denise finally pulled her hand away, the fire within her nothing but embers.
She pulled her blouse up and wiped a napkin across Amy’s face, cleaning up the blood and saliva and essence as best she could before doing the same to herself. Amy’s eyes were closed now, her breathing slower, the heat dissipating as the bus trundled on into the city.
“Maybe we should go to my place,” Denise whispered, eyeing the plastic container.
“I’ve got more.”
Thirst. Hunger. Burning.
Denise woke to something moving between her thighs, something wonderful, something terrible -
Devour. Lust. Need.
The fire was awake again, burning her mind, white-hot as she tried to fight it away in vain. How long had they been here together, locked in this unholy embrace? Days? A week? Did it matter?
Throbbing. Feral. Desperation.
She bucked her hips against it, pressed her own fingers against her pussy, bucked hard as the fire scorched every impulse that traveled to her brain. She could feel tears streaming down her cheeks, could smell their saltiness, the mingled odors of the sweat and tears and juices of another—Amy? Was that her name? She came again, screaming hoarsely as the blessed torture swept across her ravaged body once again.
She felt wetness against her leg, opened her tear-crusted eyes to see the other woman desperately grinding herself against Denise’s thigh, grunting as she pressed harder and harder. A thick string of bloody drool dripped from her mouth as she moved faster, oblivious to everything but the demands of her fiery tormentor. She started to giggle when she finally climaxed, short, horrible, mad sounds; her mouth opened in a bloody grin as she slid sideways, unconscious, falling to the floor with a thump.
Denise pulled herself to the edge of the bed, desperate to get away before the fire took control again. She slid onto the floor, crawling through piles of clothing and bedcovers, knocking over the long-empty plastic container. Her senses were assaulted by everything now; she could smell each puddle of vomit rotting all over the apartment, the sour taste of lust hanging in the air, the cloying stench of feces and urine on the bed and the floor and Amy and herself.
She crawled to the bathroom, her throat desperate for relief. She had to use both hands to turn on the water; she was shaking too badly now to even try with only one. She managed to wedge her head beneath the faucet and let the water course down her throat, the coldness of it wonderful -
Oh, God... not again...
A few days later, Mr. Harrison opened the newspaper and bit into a fresh buttered scone as he scanned the headlines. Nothing particularly interesting caught his eye until page seven, where he read:
‘One Woman Dead, Another in Coma Following Assault’
One woman is dead and another in a coma after being brutally assaulted in her apartment. Denise Reynolds, 27, was found unconscious after several neighbors complained of odd smells coming from her apartment. When police arrived they discovered Reynolds and the body of Amy DiTillio, 25, as well as a shocking crime scene. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Detective James McGuiness. “It’s like some kind of animal cage—blood, feces, food spread everywhere.”
When asked if the assaults were sexual in nature, police spokeswoman Anne Lindsay stated, “Yes, we believe the assaults to be sexually motivated.” Police have not named a suspect at this time. The public is encouraged to come forward if they have any information regarding this brutal crime.
Mr. Harrison looked at his watch; it had been almost ten days since Miss Reynolds’ last visit. Impressive; he had thought she would be dead long before now, especially after consuming the massive amount of essence he had sent her off with. It must have been the other woman. A pity; he would have like to see the effects of the essence on a single subject. He sat back and sipped at his tea, staring off into space as the memories came back.
He had been a geneticist long ago, the black sheep of a candy-making family who had found his niche in exploring the infinite wonders of deoxyribonucleic acid. For years he had mapped the genetic code of mice, viruses, bacteria, and primates of one variety or another; his involvement with the beginnings of the Human Genome Project should have been the crown of a long and distinguished career... but it wasn’t.
Years spent in Africa searching for the elusive home of the Ebola virus; months exploring Kitum Cave on the slopes of Mount Elgon as battles raged around him; inoculating starving children in Central America, their bodies ravaged by something so simple as influenza. It was all too much... too much pain, too much suffering...
He had been infected with a virus called Mokola while gathering monkeys who carried the virus deep in the heart of the Amazon. Mokola was like rabies; his fellow researchers, cut off from the outside world by hundreds of miles of jungle, knew that he would probably die. They had dragged him into the jungle and left him there with nothing but a single canteen... and a loaded revolver. He had lain there for days, delirious, besieged by monsters, until the night his fever had broken and he looked up to the perfectly clear sky and the stars it held. It was so simple to him now, so very clear; he knew all the answers. He knew what he had to do.
Then he had found his companions and shot them.
He had collected many interesting samples over the years, hidden away in a padlocked freezer at his home. When he returned—the tragic murders of his fellow scientists accepted as the work of one rebel group or another—he began to experiment in earnest, first on rats and mice, then larger subjects. Being the reputable scientist he was, it was relatively easy to acquire the components of a genetics lab that rivaled anything the U.S. government had access to.
But time passed and his work grew more complex. In order to accomplish his goal he needed more space, access to a wider range of subjects, easier access to large groups of people. And, in the death of his uncle Donovan, he located the perfect place: the candy shop.
Mr. Harrison began the human trials with Adrian, spiking his food or tea with a touch of modified Lassa, a sprinkling of Strain 232, waiting to see what effect his modifications would have. His uncle held on for almost a year, coughing up black blood, swearing deliriously in Gaelic as his brain was slowly destroyed. Once he was gone, it was almost easy to begin his large-scale testing.
Few patrons of the candy shop actually became ill, and none of them associated their sickness with the shop or Mr. Harrison. Over time he fine-tuned the effects, narrowing the areas of the human body the virus would affect: the nerves of the body were first, increasing their responses by five or ten times, just like he had told Miss Reynolds. The resulting stimulation would quickly bring the virus, carried along with the neurotransmitters that carried nerve impulses, to the brain.
Once there the virus concentrated in a few key areas; the frontal lobe, the thalamus, the limbic system—areas that governed pleasure and sensory impulses. As the virus took a foothold it diverted both neural impulses and blood away from the parts of the brain that regulated rational thought and redirected them toward the other areas, making the subject crave physical sensation more and more, to the extent that they would do anything to relieve their desires. They would quite literally fuck themselves to death, their sexual impulses overriding even the most basic needs: food, water, shelter. Humanity would die by the very drive that allowed it to continue.
Mr. Harrison smiled as he closed the paper, then stood and quickly walked to the front door of the shop. The day was bright and warm; the leaves were green, the clouds fluffy and white, the people smiling and happy to be alive. He flipped the sign from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’ and unlocked the door, whistling as he wiped his hands on the white rag he always carried with him.
The first shipments of the essence would arrive in stores across the world in a matter of days.