~ An overly-affectionate parody ~
By D.H. Lawrence, mashed up by me…
The woman! If she could be there with him, and there were nobody else in the world! The desire rose again, his loins began to stir like a live man’s. At the same time an oppression, a dread of exposing himself and her to that outside Thing that sparkled viciously in the electric lights, weighed down his shoulders. She, poor young woman, was just a youthful, alive female creature to him; but a young female creature who he had gone into and whom he desired again.
Driven by desire and by dread of the malevolent Thing outside, he made his round in the wood, slowly, softly. He loved the darkness and folded himself into it. It fitted the turgidity of his desire which, in spite of all, was like riches; the stirring restlessness of undead flesh, the fire in his groin!
She had lain still, in a kind of sleep, always in a kind of sleep. The activity, the orgasm was his, all his; she could strive for her own no more. Even the tightness of his arms around her, even the intense movement of his body, the lock of his teeth against her throat, and the springing of his un-death into her, was all a kind of sleep from which she could not begin to rouse.
It had been a queer obedience with which she had stretched out on the blanket and offered herself to him. His soft, groping, helplessly desirous hand had touched her body, feeling for her face, a lock of her hair. He stroked her cheek, with infinite soothing and assurance, and at last, the soft touch of a kiss.
For her part, Constance had wondered as he lay in the aftermath against her breast, why? Why was this necessary? Why had it lifted a great cloud from her and given her peace? Was it real? Was it real?
Her tormented female brain still had no rest, even as it seeped out onto the pillow. Was it real? And she knew, if she gave herself to him, that it was; but if she kept herself to herself, it was not. She would be old; millions of years old, she felt. And she could bear the burden of herself no longer. She was to be had for the taking. To be had for the taking.
The man lay motionless. What was he feeling? What was he thinking? She did not know. She must only wait; she did not dare break his mysterious stillness…
Lady Chatterley’s Zombie can be found in the horror anthology “416” edited by Splinker. Check back here for more from Constance Chatterley soon.