by M. Christian
Doesn’t help that I like it. Yeah, Morley, make me into a dying doll. Yeah, you freaky creep, remake me so I can die on cue. Wouldn’t work, you knew, if I didn’t get off on it, too – maybe not croaking for every fat, rich slob, but – shit – I dig stepping into even the weirdest fuck’s fucked-up trip. I don’t get off, really, about lying here all dead, brain still clicking away but body faking being all cold and still, but I sure as shit do when I watch them hunp my stiff body. That’s what gets me off, man, that’s what Morley saw as he sucked my toes and came in my shoe – that I come when you come from doing your weirdest shit. I get off watching them all – yeah, Morley, too – dig down in their weirdest shit and make me do it. That fucking makes me come . . .
My still little angel. Justine Moor, 27, type B + the info from the ident card in her slim little wallet going past my eyes, into the mind of the ambulance. I watch her still chest, her fixed and dilated eyes. Even with a clotted line across her throat she is more alive than anyone I have ever seen. She is more alive, more vital, than Ruth or Vivian, than the other attendants at Mercy Hospital, than the doctors, than the people who flash by the window of the speeding ambulance. She is immobile, chilling but more alive than anyone, than me – I can’t resist. She pulls me down to her with the force of her dead aliveness and I stroke the cool belly, run my quivering fingers up her sides to her lovely, pert breasts. I glide my hand up to cup them, to hold one like a still pillow, her nipples powerfully erect beneath the crosses of tape. My breathing is a hammer in my ears and my cock is painful iron in my uniform pants.
Yeah, Morley sure can pick them. “Justine,” he said with that smile, that voice, “become a hardwired dead girl, a chilling and stiffening hooker. A corpse for rent.” Slice my throat, strangle me, fuck me – pay me. Pegged me, looked right into these eyes and picked just the right job for a fucked up rent-a-corpse like me. Like tonight, man, Morley comes right up and says “– die for me, babe” Sure, no thought, no problem, man. I die for clients, right? So why shouldn’t I die for my fucking pimp? Some bent job, some need for a diversion – what better than little me doing the poor street drek routine, right up to the suits and their rented guns, then Morley with his straight-edge right on cue to slice my pretty throat. Just another Saturday night for me. All I gotta do is get to the damned hospital, turn myself back on, get up and get out. Morley’s got his distraction, I got my money. All is right with the – what the fuck? What’s this guy doing? Shit, man, of all the fucking ambulances I gotta get one with a perv. Fucking-A, man, just my luck. Shit . . .
So still and quiet. So perfectly frozen. Carefully, I remove the tape from her breasts. Her nipples are hard – little fingers, not thumbs. Deep brown like chocolate babies, wrinkled and hard like tire rubber. I taste one, the right one, and it reminds me of a pencil eraser dipped in chilled water. It seems to fill my mouth – the fear, the excitement, the humiliation making the universe balloon till there’s just me, the background whine of the ambulance, and this dead girl’s nipple in my mouth. My hand moves without me to cup the breast, to feel the weight of it, to gently squeeze to know its shape: it is a firm breast, a young breast. Not warm, no, but soft like silk with a thick African-mixed skin. Her skin has the weight of a black woman’s but the color of coffee with way too much cream. As I lick and suck at her glorious nipple, my cock aches with the feverish pounding that fills my head and pushes the whine of the ambulance’s electric motor to somewhere in the deep background. I hear the sound of my lips sucking and kissing her breasts and nipples. I hear my hammering heartbeat and the hurricane of my breaths going in and out.
What a fucking freaky man. What a professional, roaring, twister! The guys who do me know I can snap out and sit up, right? This guy ain’t one. He’s a corpse fucker and I’m his girlfriend, man. This guy ain’t playing a fucking game with a specialty hooker. I almost switch my heart back on and take a nasty ol’ breath and sit up and sock him one, right? But then I remember Morley, with his cold eyes and his jailhouse tattoo of chains going around his neck (one link per year) and I remember those chilling words: “Just give me enough time.” And I’m fucked, I’m screwed, “cause it ain’t been enough – not nearly enough – so I gotta lie down like the nice little stiff that I am. At least the guy knows how to suck a tit – dead or not.
I burst into flame, then. The heat of me blasts through my head and my cock and my lips. I kiss and lick her other nipple, squeeze and knead her other tit. She is cold under me, like from an ice water bath, but I am flaming, smoking from my lips and cock. Roughly, more rough than I would even have been with Ruth, Vivian – anyone breathing – I grab at her pants and give them a hard pull down, relishing in the smoothness of that glorious little belly. I get them down, and for the first time see her cunt. It is a glorious cunt, precisely shaved like hair was never there: a coffee-too-much-cream triangle padded with a delightful layer of so-soft skin. Her lips are tucked inside, so all I see is a faint brown crease, that delicious mons, and the hint of pearly clit. I struggle with her pants, stretching and pulling at the elastic stuff till I realize they are not coming off over her shoes. I quickly take out the safety shears and slice them away, leaving her strong legs and glorious cunt free. Now that I have completely fallen in, I am feverish and panicked: it is a long trip to Mercy, but not that long. I have minutes but not all that many. But, still, she is here, and my panic only adds an edge to my straining cock . . .
Fuck y fuck y fuck y fuck – not only a fucking corpse fucker but a fucking corpse rapist. Shit, shit, shit! I almost pop my cork, blink and tell him to get the fuck away from my cunt when I remember again Morley’s cold eyes and stay down. How many ambulances, man? How many tricks in this city? And I pick the two on the one night when I can’t screw up. Great. Just great. Oh, man, not the fucking pants, man, they aren’t cheap – oh, well. I’II get Morley to get me some others when I – oh, Jesus, this is one – sick fuck, man, one sick fuck . . .
I can’t resist. Even dead her pussy is wine, a pure lovely vintage. In the cramped inside of the automatic ambulance, I get down between her strong legs and part them just enough – just enough to get my face down to her cunt, spread her lips and taste her. Her clit is big, her juices are chilled. Not white wine, red – not blood, just served cold, chilled. Her lips are so soft, like fine silk and I explore her cunt with my tongue, feeling her tiny inner lips, the hard cleft between her clit and her cunt proper. I slide my hand under her hard ass and squeeze, feeling the softness there, too, but also the relaxed, dead muscles that I could tell would have been iron, knotted steel when she was alive. Somewhere along the way I reach and grab my cock, start to roughly yank at myself, driven by the high-octane of her and the whine of the ambulance that I am sure, at any second, will drop as we enter Mercy’s medical bays. My fear and disgust and excitement ram into me and make my cock an iron, burning rod at my waist.
God, he’s a fucking freak! My cunt’s sopping, man. I’m dead and he’s licking my corpse cunt, téasing my clit and I’m fucking coming. Can’t move, can’t until I pop my programming cork and climb all the way out of my “zombie” act, but that doesn’t stop my clit from jangling like a bell. The comes echo and bounce around inside me. Can’t cry, can’t screamy can’t grab the fucked-up freak’s ears and jam his maniac face down hard onto my clit but, fuck, fuck, fuck I can damned sure fucking come. Can’t scream, man, can’t jerk and yell and cry and all that damned embarrassing stuff I do normally when someone’s going after my clit like trying to dig the pearl out of an oyster, but I sure as fuck am coming and coming all over the place: I can feel it ripple and surge and tear and buck my brains out. My eyes are for crap anyway when I’m dead but now they’re strobing and flashing all these gorgeous colors and all I can think, all the words that I can get to run through my head are that I hope he’s so weird, so fucking bent, that he fucks me – cause I really want to get fucked, like, real fucking bad.
I want to fuck her. My cock hurts, and the one place, I know, that will mak
e it feel so much better is the cold, wet and stiff confines of her cunt. With the taste of her still on my tongue and all over my face, I fuss and mutter with my belt and pants, finally getting them down as the ambulance rolls neat and computer-assisted into a high-banked turn and I know I have maybe five or ten minutes before the bay, before Mercy, to finish. My cock is finally out, and I clumsily position myself and move her cool legs out of my way. Despite the pain I feel from my cock, the horrible tension, I resist just sinking myself into her – wanting to make it last just so much longer until I taste her dead cunt with my cock . . .
Fuck me fuck me fuck me – fuck! I hate when they fucking tease! Get it in me you sick fuck, I scream in my paralysis, in my cooling and immobile jail cell of my reengineered and redesigned body. Fuck me, you sick fuck!
I sink myself into her. Her cunt is cool, but not cold – maybe my own heat warming her, maybe her core temperature is still pretty high. But you can’t think of medicine and science when you fuck . . . fuck a corpse. I push myself in and feel her froth and juices swell around my cock, feel her tight yet loosening muscles surround and squeeze my cock. I think two things as I fuck her, my mind split by excitement and a cramping shame: I think of this beauty I am making love to, think of her incredible body, her nipple that I again put in my mouth and suck and kiss and nibble, and I think of fucking a sucking chest wound, of a sultry corpse, or a graverape. My cock is ramming, hammering into her beautiful cunt, into this delicious corpse and I tighten and spasm and jerk and scream as it all starts to come out . . .
Fuck fuck fuck – that’s it, I’ve reached my top. How many fucking (fucking fucking fucking) times is a fucking corpse supposed to come, man? Fuck Morley and his rip, fuck him and me as his little distraction for the guards and the suits, I think the magic word, twitch that nerve-cluster I didn’t have before Morleygot his black medical hands on me, and I come up and out with a rush of heat, a screaming wave of fully reactivated nerves. I pull myself up and out of the grave, restart my heart, take a deep, painful, breath, feel my skin awake with an S/M crash of blasting pain (imagine your whole body falling asleep then waking up) and I scream into his face as he fucks me. I put my legs up and around and lock them behind his back, in that special place guys have just for this kind of thing and I fucking ride his own screaming bucks. He lets go of my nipple and gives me the cutest look of pure lust and fear I have ever seen, but the sick fuck doesn’t stop fucking, doesn’t stop jerking himself into and out of my now-warming, now steaming honey-pot. He screams and yells and keeps fucking then jerks and squirms . . .
I ain’t done yet, man, I ain’t at all done yet. I push and pull on his stiffening and quivering muscles until I’ve had my own – and it comes like it has never come before: a fucking torrent of good stuff crashing down and all over me and I scream like I never screamed for Morley, for a client (when they’re into murder), I scream the best scream I have ever screamed, bucking and clawing at his cooling back until I can’t move any more . . .
The ambulance arrives at Mercy. It whines, fading to a simple warning burst of sound as the medicals pour from the hospital’s service bays. Nestling into its sockets and data-ports, it opens organic and precise, spilling out its gurney into their waiting arms.
With technological precision, the body is brought into an emergency suite and the hospital sets to work with an array of micro-surgical tools resembling a squirming, undulating, chrome palm frond. Fluids are pumped, charges are sent, nanomachines are injected, and even a cloned and altered heart the size of a large orange is mated to his body. These and many other (as many as his body and minimal medical insurance can stand) attempts are made but in the end, after some four or so minutes, his body is simply dumped into the hospital’s vast and frightening organ storage facilities for recycling – and his next-of-kin is automatically sent an apologetic videomail message.
Walking home through a drizzle that is creeping towards a hard rain, she doesn’t feel any of it. Some stare at the pale gash that runs from under one ear and across her throat to end at her other ear – but since it closely resembles a new young fashion statement, most dismiss it casually.
Justine doesn’t think all that much as she walks the three miles back to her capsule apartment, but once she thinks very, very clearly, cleanly: Morley, Morley, Morley . . . I hope it was a good score, a grand score. You owe me, you motherfucker and you owe me big . . .
You sure can pick them, Morley; next time I get to fuck a corpse – next fucking time, man, you get to be all cold and stiff.
Hope you like playing the corpse, man. Cause I just developed a new – hmm – taste . . .
Betty Came
M. Christian
She remembered the first time that Betty came. Sitting in her tiny kitchen, beams of warm sunlight painting it with brilliant yellow stripes, it was so easy to think of Betty as being there, next to her. It had been one of Audrey’s all-night parties. Another of the ex-boy’s “No other reason” Friday night dancing and drinking bashes. June had gotten pretty toasted early on – washing down the stubborn truth that she and Wendy had broken up the month before – and was quite satisfied to sit in a corner of the hideously cluttered apartment and get lost in the Pussy Tourrette album blasting from Audrey’s frankensteined sound system.
Didn’t know the tiny black girl’s name, didn’t even see who she’d come with. One second June was belting back her fifth Red Rock and the next the room exploded with a billion flashbulbs when she had walked in.
But Wendy was still a dull ache and the one thing you don’t think about when you have that “no one loves me any more” pang is that someone, suddenly, would.
Somehow, intros were made and June found herself fighting that fifth Red Rock to be on her best behavior. Chat. Joke. Smile. Flirt. Smile some more. Bat those eyelashes. Flirt. Chat.
While the sexy heat of the sparkling little girl was something that made all of June’s clouds blow away, the beers (and a bitchy week at work) had started to take their toll on her. Even against the searchlight brilliance of the girl’s smile, incredible cheekbones, and humming eyes, June’s own face started to feel haggard, drawn, and – yawn!
She remembered saying something like: “Sorry. Luckily I live right around the corner.”
“I’ll walk you,” the dream had said, smiling a sunrise at her.
Her place was a mess, of course. Isn’t it always? Some kind of universal law: bring trick (or love of your life) home and the first thing they see when they walk in the door is a pair of stained panties tossed on the floor.
“Wouldn’t want you to be too clean,” the lovely charcoal sketch had said, leaning in close enough so that June could slip an arm around her.
A cup of coffee had sounded good. June prattled some kind of empty dialogue, pretty much to herself, as she had ground the beans and tried to find the sugar. She was pretty sure she had said something about what she did for a living (messenger), what she liked to do (theater), what she liked (pecan pie and sleeping in), and what she wanted (someone special). Now, sitting in the same kitchen, June wasn’t sure if she’d mentioned Wendy. She hoped she hadn’t.
Sometime during the beans and the milk and the water and all the talk, talk, talk (that mostly June did), she found herself next to her again, found herself with one arm stroking her T-shirt-covered back, feeling the strong planes of her shoulders, and the thick warmth of her dark skin. She remembered, strongly, perfectly, the girl looking up at her and smiling a glowing smile. June had kissed her.
It seemed to last forever, that first kiss (well, don’t most first kisses? Another universal law). June felt herself catch fire from head to toe. To the background sounds of the percolating Senior Coffee, she had let her hands fall to the girl’s shoulders, arms, and then her perfectly shaped titties.
The T-shirt came off quickly and she had stood up. Holding her close, June stroked and kneaded her arms, sides and even her tiny little pot belly. They had sighed and moaned and groaned together as they bot
h touched (her hands on June’s own big biceps and almost non-existent tits) and kissed. Somewhere, June lost her flannel shirt and the black girl had lost her jeans and shoes.
She had circled her big, hard nipples with hot kisses as she squeezed June’s cunt through her own jeans like a trick fondling a John. June couldn’t keep the hissing moan in, so she had let it out into the girl’s mouth – feeling it echo through her as her own hand cupped a shaved and slippery cunt.
With Wendy it had been walking on eggs. Her first real lover, June had treated Wendy like she was priceless, fragile – even though Wendy was five years older than June’s 26. June had barricaded them in June’s tiny place against her being alone again and tried to do whatever it would take to keep Wendy there. If Wendy liked something, June did it. If Wendy didn’t like it . . . it never happened again
After a point, June followed Wendy everywhere. Never led. Tried not to want, desire, anything.
But then, there, in the kitchen that night something different was happening – it was June and her. No top, no bottom, no give, no take. Just kissing and tits and cunts and heat.
The girl had sat down in one of June’s battered old wooden chairs and spread her legs as if to let some of the heat escape. June had sat down herself, surprised into almost squealing by how cold the linoleum floor was on her bare ass (lost her own pants and shoes somewhere). Since she was down there already (yeah, right) she kissed the girl’s thighs; that delicious, all-but-invisible belly; and then rummaged in her hot, hot slit with her nose: playful rooting and tickling like a frisky puppy.