Boston Posh

by Wol-vriey

  She nodded dully. She took the money from Beth, then staggered naked to the door and let herself out.

  ***

  Downstairs, Posh stumbled into her car.

  She brushed away the feathers plastered all over her. I look like I’m turning into a bird.

  Her back stuck to the seat once she settled into it.

  Fuck, that hurts!

  Every motion was agony—in several places Beth had chopped deep into her muscles. It was a miracle that she hadn’t broken Posh’s spine with the cleaver.

  Posh groaned and leaned forward, leaving a crimson puddle on the seat back. She looked at it and winced. Her back was wet from re-opened cuts.

  Fuck! I’m bleeding to death here.

  Now Posh’s ordeal was over, she was angry. An impotent rage, drained of force by the severity of her injuries.

  She leaned painfully back again. I’ve got to get the hell out of here, before the fucking dinos smell the blood and have me for lunch.

  She felt a flood of wetness on her back as a particularly deep incision opened up. A slow but certain dribble, the blood pooled under her buttocks.

  Posh was suddenly very worried that Beth had sliced open a major blood vessel. I could keep leaking till I’m empty.

  But where to go now? What to do?

  She fast realized she had only one real choice.

  Jade Cure. The one person she really didn’t want to see, was likely the only one who could stop her bleeding to death.

  At least the pain is keeping me awake, she thought as she drove off. Preventing me from passing out. Hopefully I’ll make it to Chinatown alive.

  CHAPTER 52

  Malone

  A fraction of a moment of pure hell—an interval when Malone was certain he’d died—and then he was alive and himself again.

  And seated on a pink sofa in a purple parlor, still naked.

  Malone looked around.

  It was a nice comfy place, with flower-patterned curtains over the windows, thick pile rugs, a wall vision 3-D TV, a bookshelf, framed pictures on the wall . . .

  Now what’s going on? I’ve clearly satisfied Blubber sufficiently to get to the next stage of Frank’s riddle. But where am I?

  He got up and tried the front door. It was locked.

  He nodded, pulled aside the window curtains, and looked out.

  He was very high up, of that he was immediately assured. The clouds didn’t seem that far overhead.

  ***

  He returned his attention inside the room.

  His attention was caught by a photo, a picture of a man and two winged women that occupied pride of place on the flower-strewn shelf above the television.

  He walked over and examined it more closely. There was no doubt; the man was Herbie Stanton. Malone recognized Posh’s ex-pimp from some snaps she’d shown him.

  Malone was immediately tense. According to Sookie Ling, Herbie Stanton had been missing since the night he’d met Posh.

  Malone backed away from the shelf till his progress was halted by an armchair. Absentminded, he sat down, trying to assemble this latest piece of an already insane puzzle.

  Herbie Stanton is here? Where is this?

  Malone got to his feet and looked at the picture again. Both Herbie’s winged female companions were pretty. One, a redhead, looked to be about thirty, the other, a blonde, fifty-five.

  The blonde seemed pleasant, though she had a no-nonsense air about her, the barest glint of steel in her eyes. The redhead looked like she was faking pleasance for the lens.

  Malone reasoned: I’m somewhere where Herbie Stanton can have two wives without anyone raising eyebrows. Where?

  He left the living room. Herbie was a pimp, made his living off the flesh trade in women. If this is Heaven, he’s been given two female angels for . . .

  Then realization hit Malone.

  Hell, no, he thought in alarm, not the Afterwife—the heaven for misogynists, sex offenders, wife beaters, philanderers. I’m not in fucking Traven—Transsexual Heaven—am I? It’s a myth, for crying out loud! A delusion.

  Shit. Glass Horse’s recent words about the supernatural haunting him for disrespect now haunted Malone.

  Urgency gripped him, a sense of major crisis loom-ing.

  First and foremost, he needed clothes, shoes.

  He pushed a door open, entered a bedroom; a beautiful room such as one would expect to find in a nice apartment like this.

  Only on the huge bed there was a HUGE worm.

  ***

  The worm on the bed had to be at least twenty feet long. It was brown and segmented and coiled like an unbroken turd passed by someone squatting in grass. Additionally, its body was segmented, split into six-inch sections separated by rings of yellow muscle.

  It smelt freshly bathed and perfumed.

  The worm end facing Malone was an orifice wide enough to admit two fingers. Its muscular rim twitched as if it sensed Malone’s presence. The entrance had two long limp feelers either side of it.

  Then the worm shifted position, snoring gently, and Malone saw its pair of anal feelers for what they really were.

  Human legs. Flexible like rubber.

  Malone was hardened to horror, despite which it took all his willpower not to fill his underwear with excrement there and then.

  He controlled himself, though his sanity ve-hemently rejected what he was seeing. It screamed at him to flee screaming from that bedroom.

  Slowly, so as not to wake the sleeping worm, he walked round it silently to where he could see its head.

  The worm’s head was Herbie Stanton’s.

  Like his anus, Herbie’s mouth had also been rounded into a smooth single-lipped taut ‘O’-pening. All his teeth had been removed. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  Malone realized with added horror that Herbie had no bones left anywhere in his body. That was why his legs flopped like tentacles, why his arms, visible six feet from his head, also flopped from non-existent shoulder-points.

  He’d been deboned and stretched. Malone had no idea how you stretched a six-feet-tall man to twenty feet long. But he had been stretched, stretched till now his body was only four inches wide.

  Malone leaned against the bedroom wall and shut his eyes.

  The legends were true.

  This was Traven.

  But then: What the hell then am I doing here?

  Am I dead?

  ***

  Legend was, that when a very bad man died, he entered the Afterwife and was married as wife to a pair of transsexual angel husbands.

  After the marriage ceremony, the ‘husbands’ had their new ‘wife’ ‘altered’ and the trio had uber-fantastic sex throughout the Afterwife.

  The Afterwife was both a location and a fixed point in time—a single eternal moment that never ended.

  ***

  Malone studied Herbie’s peacefully snoring face, then moved his gaze to study his body. It did resemble an earthworm’s—slickly moist muscle-stria—yet with that incongruous perfumed lilac smell.

  Herbie gave off a strong impression of extreme pampering.

  For the first time, Malone noted the oval bulges in the man-worm’s body, like bumps in the body of a snake that had swallowed a nest of rats.

  Legend said these were eggs—Herbie would continue laying regularly for his angel wives.

  Malone’s attention was caught by a farting sound. He padded back round to the man-worm’s rear, saw a chalk-white oval pushing its way out of the ass-aperture.

  He turned away in disgust, began searching the room for clothes. A closet yielded some—a shirt, trousers, and shoes; along with a pair of black gloves.

  The clothes fit him perfectly. The shoes were a bit large, but he’d cope. He put the gloves on, pleased to no longer have to see his crimson arm and hand.

  There was the creak of the front door opening.

  Malone frantically looked around the bedroom for a weapon.

  A plastic paperweight lay on the bedside dr
esser. A four-inch-high model of a lecherous male head, with metal eye-ovals framing pupil hollows.

  Malone studied the sculpted face a moment. It was disturbingly true-to-life—looked almost possessed—with its ‘love to fuck you, baby’ expression, its flared nostrils, its leering pink tongue.

  It had a red button in its forehead. He pointed the head so it was ‘looking’ at the wall and pressed the button. Nothing happened.

  It was quite heavy, however, and could be used as a missile. He stuck it in his pocket and walked back to the living room.

  CHAPTER 53

  Malone

  The new entrants were the two women in the photograph. Both carried shoeboxes and hatboxes galore.

  Both wore pink tube tops and skintight white pants. Both their crotches bulged like they had ropes knotted in them.

  Both had fluffy pink wings.

  The middle-aged blonde smiled warmly on seeing Malone. “Well hello, handsome—when did you get in?” Her chest was extremely generous; looking at it, with her nipples threatening to puncture her top, Malone almost wanted to bed her.

  He smiled back at her: “A better question would be—what am I doing here?”

  “Well that’s obvious,” the second woman replied. “You didn’t keep your cock in your pants when you should have.” She snickered. “Now it’s time to pay the price.”

  Malone looked her over with developing dislike. She was shorter than her companion, less pretty, and her thin lips were twisted like she’d swallowed something bitter.

  “I’m sorry I caught you on a bad hair day,” he told her. “I’ll address myself to your friend from now on.”

  He smiled again at the blonde. The redhead glared angrily at him.

  “My name’s Malone. There’s been a mix-up of some sort—I’m not even married.”

  The blonde stretched like she was just waking up. Her wings spread out to an impressive span—their pink feathers rustled like a brood of chickens at midnight. “I’m Blondie and my co-husband’s Stacy. A mix-up? That’s what you all say, darling. Would you like a drink?”

  Her charm almost won him over. Then he glanced behind her, saw the ambiguous look on her framed picture face.

  He laughed. “Nice try, darling. But I think if I drink anything in here, I’m sure to wind up like Herbie in there.”

  The redhead was irate. “You went into our bedroom!? You slut, you’re even wearing Herbie’s clothes!”

  Malone shrugged. “He didn’t look like he needed them anymore.”

  “You . . . You’re a total asshole!”

  “Calm yourself, Stacy darling. Malone didn’t know it was our home. Did you, darling?”

  “And he was ogling our worman!” she stared at Malone like she was about to attack him. Her pink wings pumped themselves up and down like shrugging shoulders.

  “Calm down, Stacy, for fuck’s sake!”

  “But our worman’s—”

  “Your what?”

  Blondie smiled. She stroked Malone’s chin with a fingernail. “Worman, a combo of ‘worm’ and ‘man.’ It also sounds like ‘woman,’ which is nice, since we’re the husbands and he the wife.”

  “Normally we’re viewed by everyone as girls and girlish,” Stacy spat. “Having a wife of our own does wonders for our self-esteem.”

  “Taking hormone shots, having plastic surgery, wearing frilly clothes and all—isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Yeah, okay, but sometimes it gets too much. And don’t you dare suggest that that’s reasoning like a woman.”

  “What I want to know,” Malone said, keeping the hysteria out of his voice with effort, “is why you had to stretch him that much? Couldn’t you just . . . have sex with him as he was?”

  “It’s because of the eggs, darling. The longer a worman’s body, the more womb length, which equals more incubation time.”

  Stacy seemed to get over her dislike of Malone. She sat opposite him, crumpling her wings behind her. She spread her legs wide so her penis was clearly outlined in the silken crotch of her pants. “The eggs are formed in the worman’s throat, and travel down his body to his anus over a period of two weeks—it’s like taking a shit. He has to be at least twenty feet long for the eggs to keep warm long enough to hatch.”

  Blondie also sat down. She poured herself some brandy from the snifter on the center table. “Anyway, Malone, you’re stuck here. No one leaves Traven.”

  “You’ll be our bitch and like it,” Stacy mocked, tapping her cock for emphasis. “And you’ll lay dragon eggs for us like a good worman.”

  Malone, in the process of working out which of the women he’d ever slept with had been married, was startled out of his reverie. “What was that you just said—about the eggs?”

  Blondie began massaging her penis through her pants. She smiled at Malone, her face all sweetness: “You sure you don’t want to suck on this, darling? It’s an adult lollipop.”

  Malone waved her off. “About the eggs? What did you say?”

  She grimaced. “They hatch into dragons. Duh, you know what dragons are, don’t you—those fiberglass reptiles currently burning the USA to ashes?”

  “Herbie was laying one when I went inside.”

  “Oh goodie!” Stacy yelped excitedly. “Was it white!? Was it white!?”

  Malone nodded.

  “I get a baby at last!” She leapt out of the chair, danced barefoot out of the living room.

  Malone looked at Blondie. “What’s that about?”

  “We’ve always thought she’s sterile. My eggs are brown and speckled. Hers should have been white, but till now Herbie hasn’t laid her any. So she’s been taking fertility shots. And she gets to fuck the mouth all the time now.”

  Malone said nothing. His eyes projected his bewilderment.

  Blondie grinned, sipped some of her brandy. “Since you’re joining our family, I’ll explain, so you don’t panic. We’ll fix your ass and mouth so we can both screw you at once—threesomes are so romantic. We’ll take out all your bones so you’re really nice and stretchy—we’re BIG girls—we don’t want to rip you up, darling.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Don’t be scared, Malone, I promise you it’s not torment or eternal damnation, or anything like that—the modifications make both your throat and rectum more sensitive than any clitoris any woman’s ever had—you’ll be cumming so much you’ll be shitting eggs.”

  She burst into laughter.

  “I see,” Malone said dryly.

  Stacy charged out of the bedroom at that moment.

  “Blondie, where’d you put the Masher?”

  Blondie looked up at her in alarm. “What are you talking about? It was on the dresser!”

  “It’s not on there now!”

  “What’s the Masher?” Malone asked innocently.

  Stacy glared at him impatiently. “It’s a weapon shaped like a lecher’s head. In the right woman’s hands, she can take over the world.

  “We stole it from . . .” She looked at Malone closely. “You took it, didn’t you?”

  Malone pulled the head paperweight out of his pocket. “This?”

  Both women looked at him in horror. “Be careful with that,” Blondie said, extending a hand. “Don’t push anything; just hand it over nice and slow.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you two,” Malone said, holding the ‘Masher’ pointing face-forward at the two transsexual angels. “You can have this thing back if you let me out of here.”

  “We’ve already told you no one EVER leaves either Traven or the Afterwife,” Stacy snapped. “Now give me back that before I take it from you and fuck you with it!” She however made no attempt to come any closer.

  Malone moved his finger over the red button in the Masher’s forehead.

  “Fucking don’t press that!”

  Blondie’s voice was short and sharp. Her pretty face suddenly looked very worried, which made her look very old and not as pretty. Malone saw a thousand years of living in her face at that moment.
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  Her fear told him a lot about the potency of whatever the Masher was.

  Stacy, however, scowled at Malone, her dislike of him overriding her fear. “Make this easy on yourself,” she growled, “or I swear when you’re our worman we’ll have you fixed so you don’t ever cum!”

  Malone smirked. “Yeah, I thought there was eternal torment here as well. Anyway, I don’t intend staying that long.”

  He smiled good-naturedly. “Look, girls, I’m going out the door and that’s it.” He raised the hand with the head-sculpture. “You two don’t follow me and I promise to leave this thing where you can find it. It doesn’t work anyway.”

  The slight smile that passed between the two women assured him it did.

  ***

  Halfway out the door, Malone was jumped from behind by Stacy.

  He’d expected this, and spun round to face her.

  What he hadn’t expected however was that she’d be turned on by danger. Her erection had burst her pants. It poked from her crotch—a stiff five-inch rod.

  She slammed into him, a wing-propelled female torpedo. In the moment before she hit him, Malone’s single thought was how glad he was to be leaving.

  No way in fuck is that sliding up inside me either ever or forever.

  Stacy knocked him into the door jamb. Malone staggered back into the room. Pain coursed through him, the impact with the jamb stacking on remembered aches from an hour spent bending over the white robot’s corpse.

  He ensured however that he kept his grip on the Masher.

  Stacy fell back also, but immediately recovered her balance. Wings beating furiously, she leapt on Malone’s back. She wrapped her arm around his neck, her feet around his hips. Dislodged pink feathers fluttered over them both.

  Malone staggered about, fighting to shake her off.

  Blondie slammed the door shut, then rushed to help Stacy overpower Malone.

  She slapped Malone’s face with a wing tip. The blow dazed him for an instant, but he quickly recovered. He got a hand up to cover his face and threw a punch at Blondie. She ducked. His red fist knocked a hole through her wing.