The girl cried out as he ejaculated inside her, doing her best to mewl and moan like it had been great. If she’d been acting before, though, her skills had abandoned her entirely.
She was still panting when Bones rolled her over, swatting her on the backside hard enough to leave an impression. The remnants of her coupling with Earl leaked out of her, dribbling onto the bedspread
“I’m not one for sloppy seconds,” Bones said, grabbing his shaft. “Besides...you got a much better chance with a little back-door action.”
Chris turned away when the screaming began. Bones used no lubricant. He didn’t build up to the act in any way. He simply parted the girl’s cheeks and drove his length into her. Neither her shrieks nor her tears gave him pause. He took her roughly, enjoying her pain and humiliation. Despite his disgust, Chris’ erection didn’t flag. He pressed a fist into his crotch, but his hard-on refused to cooperate.
When Bones finally pulled out, finished with her, his penis was streaked with blood.
Chris expected the girl to lash out. To claw and spit and bite. He expected her to snatch up her clothes and bolt for the door. But that didn’t happen. Instead, she curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her knees and pulling them tight to her chest. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. She was trembling uncontrollably. Sue waited several long minutes before approaching the bed.
“D-did I do good?” the girl asked, craving the older woman’s approval.
“Very, very good,” assured Sue, pulling the girl into a sitting position. “But...you still want to be sure, don’t you?”
The teen nodded. Sue rewarded her with a brilliant smile.
“Are you ready, then? Ready to taste me?”
Again, she nodded, saying that she was. Anticipation was etched onto her face.
“Earl, would you?” Sue asked. He wasted no time, stepping behind her and unzipping her. When Sue drew her shoulders in, the dress flowed down her body like water, pooling around her feet in a shimmering black puddle.
Chris gasped. The blonde spread her arms like a statue, letting the audience take her in. The camera lingered, canvassing every inch of her, treating her like a specimen in a jar.
The sight was both eerie and surreal. It made him want to scream. Chris bit down on his knuckles hard enough to hurt. An oily sweat rose on his skin. He could smell the sour stink of it.
If the girl was afraid, she didn’t let it show. She marveled at Sue’s scarred flesh, the half-healed wounds that covered her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Sue strode to the bed. The teen reached out, tentatively probing her mentor’s mottled flesh, rife with infection.
Sue’s breasts, once large and firm, now hung limp and withered. Pus leaked from the raw nub that was her right nipple. When the camera zoomed in, Chris could see a milky grey discharge oozing from her sore-riddled vagina.
“Tell me,” Sue said. “Tell me what you want.”
In response, the girl sank to her knees, a supplicant before her high priestess.
“I want what you have,” she answered, her voice soft and childlike. “I want to be like you.”
Sue favored her with a beatific smile. The expression on her face was one of pure joy. Without breaking eye contact, she extended a hand to Skinnan Bones, who placed a flat, narrow object in her palm. Chris couldn’t tell what it was until Sue flicked her wrist and the strait razor caught the light.
“Say it again,” Sue commanded, displaying the stainless steel blade. It looked wickedly sharp. “Keep saying it,” she continued. “I want to hear it. I need to hear it.”
“Please,” begged the teenager. “I want to be like you. Make me like you. Make me one of you.”
She continued that way, chanting it like a mantra. Sue let the words roll over her, hypnotized by the girl’s melodic voice. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and pressed the razor against the ridge of her unblemished nipple.
Deftly, Sue drew the blade across her flesh. She stiffened. The razor fell, clattering to the floor. The teenager’s eyes bulged as beads of crimson began to form. Sue gnashed her teeth, peeling back the edges of the wound until blood began flowing freely.
“Come now,” she said, gesturing with one hand. “Accept my gift. Join us.”
The teenager rose to her feet, taking Sue’s scarlet-stained hand. She pressed her mouth to Sue’s mutilated breast and began to suckle it.
Chris had seen enough. He punched the STOP button and snatched up the DVD case, flipping it over, studying the back. His knees buckled as he read the copy.
You’ve seen sex before, but never like this. Never so raw, never so real, never so extreme. Since 2006, when the bug-chasing subculture first started gaining attention, STD Productions has been bringing you the most shocking, most outrageous, and most mind-blowing sex acts, performed by men and women who hold absolutely nothing back. Our stars have no inhibitions—because they have nothing left to lose. Society may have abandoned them, but the AIDS community has not.
Every day, more people are seeking out the infected—joining our ranks. The Chaser community continues to grow as, one by one, we convert new believers.
STD Productions proudly presents Spreading The Disease Volume VII, starring Earl E. Grave, Miska Daver, Skinnan Bones, newly-diagnosed Dian Young, Anna Rexia, newcummer Bella Donna and legendary sex kitten Sue Aside. Throw away those condoms and get ready for the best bareback action you’ve ever experienced!
Chris reeled. Could this be true? Bug-chasers? People who went out of their way to contract AIDS?
He tossed the DVD case aside and staggered down the hall, stumbling into his bedroom.
He found it without much trouble, buried beneath a landslide of accumulated junk. A threadbare handkerchief. An old wallet. A couple of copies of Penthouse and ticket stubs to Mets and Rangers games. Half a pack of Certs breath mints.
When he’d last gone through the drawer, just before Halloween, he’d considered tossing it out. Now, he was glad he hadn’t. He carried the tiny silver frame back into the living room, and hit the PLAY button. When he found what he wanted, he freeze-framed the image.
In the photograph, they were wearing Mets caps, standing together outside Citi Field. The previous year’s season opener. Denny O’Keefe had taken the picture.
She’d changed a lot, but there was no denying it. Her green eyes sparkled in the bright April sunshine. She’d been Susan Warner then, not Sue Aside. She looked good on his arm, spilling out of a blue halter top and wearing hip-hugger jeans. He’d had every reason to believe that someday, she’d be Susan Farini.
He’d been saving up for the ring for the better part of a year when she disappeared. She’d moved out without saying a word. Without any warning whatsoever.
The memories came flooding back, like acid flung at his exposed heart. They had made love the night before. Afterward, he’d told her that he loved her, and they fell asleep like that, in each other’s arms. The way they had every night since she’d finally agreed to move in with him. When he returned home from work the next day, though, he knew immediately that something was wrong. The apartment felt like a tomb—like all the life had been sucked out of it.
Everything she owned was gone. Every stitch of clothing, every knick-knack, every last photo. All of it. All of her. It was as if she’d tried to erase any evidence she’d ever existed.
Now he knew why. He finally had the answer.
The framed photo had survived because it had been on his desk, at work. For the past ten months, he’d believed it was the only thing left—the final remaining tie to her. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure.
He went to shower, stripping off his sticky clothes and standing beneath water as hot as he could bear. Dark thoughts ricocheted through his head like a pinball.
When he got out, steam billowing behind him in the hallway like a ghost, he once again studied the DVD case. He found what he was looking for in the small print.
STD Productions had an address in the East Village. Barely twenty
blocks away, door-to-door. No more than a fifteen minute walk. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t find that at all surprising.
He lay awake for a long time, considering his options, naked beneath the plush, violet bedspread. On the wall above him, two lonely patrons spent eternity hovering over cups of coffee in a Greenwich Village diner. He’d replaced the print she’d taken when she moved out. Now, at least, he knew what had happened to the one she’d gotten him for their first anniversary. It was still in the city, just like she was. He was sure of it.
Wherever she was, she’d kept some ties to the past as well, decorating her bedroom exactly as she’d decorated his. He wondered what that meant. If it was important.
He’d have to ask her when he tracked her down.
He shut his eyes and sank into the pillows, more tired than he could remember being in his life. Tomorrow was Saturday, but he left the alarm set for eight. There were several things he needed to do. Check out the address in the East Village. Locate the keeper of records for STD Productions. If he could, he might be able to get a line on Susan from the model release for Spreading the Disease Volume VII. Wouldn’t that be a nice Christmas present...
First things first, though. The clinic on the corner of Greenwich Avenue and Cristopher Street opened at 8:30.
They offered free AIDS tests.
NO KIND RETURN
(with special guest appearance by Franklin E. Wales)
Gus Jespers had had enough crap for one night. The stubby museum security guard stormed down the hall, passed the Primates gallery, and shoved through the doors into the new Pavilion of the Pharaohs exhibit. Ten rooms. Nearly two hundred thousand square feet. And, as always with new attractions, riddled with problems. Tuesday, faulty computer code had triggered a museum-wide lockdown…at four in the afternoon. The security system wasn’t supposed to fully engage until eleven, when the last patrons had been out of the building at least two hours, all the rest rooms had been cleared, and the facility’s guards had given the museum a thorough once-over. The previous night, the spectacularly lit exhibit had been sucking up so much juice that the breakers tripped, leaving the entire gallery dark. With statues of antiquity, an enormous amount of gold and gems, and relics described as ‘beyond priceless’ filling every display case, the museum’s curators had been apoplectic, certain that a heist was underway. Ninety minutes of absolute panic, only to find that it was a false alarm.
Now, with everybody getting a much-needed break the night before the star-studded grand opening, with the multi-million dollar online security system supposedly bug-proofed, the lights had gone out again. No alarms, tonight, just the blackout.
Jespers and Kyle Granger were the only guards assigned to the South Wing, while a skeleton crew patrolled the rest of the building. How Granger had managed to get the job was beyond Jespers. Applicants had to take a piss test before getting hired, and one look at Granger was enough to know he was a diehard wake and baker. Word was, the museum’s president, Walter Emmits, was balling Granger’s mother on the side.
“Goddamned Granger,” Jespers spat, taking out his flashlight and shining it around the entrance into the life-sized Egyptian diorama. “Be glad when his sorry ass is gone.”
Granger, who had the misfortune of being teamed with Jespers on tonight’s detail, was currently in the atrium, smoking a bowl.
“Chill, Gus. Ain’t like anyone inside’s gonna mind if we don’t babysit ‘em. They’ve been dead a couple hundred years.”
Jespers’ skin crawled. It was a couple thousand years, not hundred, but correcting Granger was a waste of time. But then, what could you expect? The kid was half coon, and Jespers hadn’t been surprised to see that the kid had left the space for FATHER blank on his application while snooping through his file.
Jespers had smoked a little green himself, back in the ‘Nam, and had seen the danger of being high on the job first-hand. True, no one was likely to start laying down sniper fire in Horizons of Africa, which Pavilions of the Pharaohs fed into. Still, you didn’t want to get caught by the powers-that-be with weed in your system. The museum was a cushy gig. At least, when the place wasn’t being torn down or turned into something resembling a movie set.
To Jespers, working with Granger was just another reminder of his station in life. This week had been a flat out ball-buster, with gajillion dollar goodies being loaded in, overseen by ivory tower snobs who looked down their noses at you for telling them it was time to shut the place down.
Just like last week, when he’d had to manhandle a group of archaeology students out the door well after closing, interrupting a heated debate over excavation brushes. Or Monday, when he’d told that ditzy fossil-digger Chloe Carpenter, and Paul Barnum, the Egyptologist supposedly supervising her mummy displays, to kindly get a move on. He knew why they’d been lollygagging—he’d seen Barnum’s hands all over Carpenter’s ass on the video monitors, and on more than one occasion. Not that he blamed Barnum. Carpenter had a pair of grade-A cheeks under those tight khaki shorts, all right. But let them get a room, for chrissakes. Quittin’ time was quittin’ time. He’d run a copy of the video for himself, because one never knew when the need for such evidence might come in handy. Long before he joined the army, Jespers had been a Boy Scout. Not a particularly good one, but he’d learned to always be prepared.
It had come to a head last night when he’d nearly come to blows with Franz Kleik, the senior curator for the Pharaohs exhibit. When the lights went down and heist hysteria started taking hold, Kleik refused to leave the exhibit hall, no matter that it was protocol and armed guards were flooding in to check for bad guys. Jespers had been about to remove the miserable Kraut at gunpoint. Wouldn’t be the first time an inside job had been pulled off at a museum, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen on Jespers’ watch, no sir. Before he could, though, Emmits came and intervened. The museum president had been none too happy with Jespers for doing his job. He’d pulled him to the side, telling him, “Gus, you can’t go pointing your gun at the man responsible for the exhibit. Do I make myself clear?” The bastard.
“Hell with ‘em,” grumbled Jespers, finding nothing out of the ordinary. “To hell with all of ‘em.”
He wanted to get through the next room as quickly as possible. When they’d first put the display together, his eye had been drawn to a number of ornately painted clay pots. After reading the acetate plaques on the display cabinets, he’d learned that these were used by Embalmers to store the organs they’d removed from the dead. Downright disturbing if you asked him. You couldn’t go to heaven with a rotten body, and moist organs had a tendency to go gamey, so they removed them. except the heart. You needed the heart in order to pass through the Egyptian Pearly Gates.
The pots with a man on the lid were once filled with a liver. The intestines had been placed in one bearing a falcon. Stomachs had been entrusted to a vessel emblazoned with the likeness of a jackal, and the lungs were guarded by a baboon. The brain was considered worthless and unnecessary in the afterlife, so had been discarded. Considering some of the religious nuts he’d met, the Egyptians might have been right on that one.
It was silly, of course, being unsettled by such things. After all this time, anything the embalmers had placed in those jars was nothing but dust. Still, in the dark, being in a room full of powdered guts was enough to quicken his heart…and his step.
Jespers forged ahead, his flashlight pointed toward the next passageway. Nothing there, he told himself. Just dust. Not dried livers, intestines, lungs and stomachs, just dust. Nothing that was once inside a human being, wet with life…
He moved slowly into the next room, flashlight tracking left to right, up and down. The emergency lights hadn’t kicked on in this room either, which was a problem. He’d have to take that up in the morning with the museum’s safety director. Nothing but a total wiring meltdown should ever take those babies down, he knew, and the place still had juice. He could hear the air conditioning system running, and the tiny red
lights in the corners of the display cases were still live. He rounded a corner, and looked up.
The security cameras were dead. No green LED lights telling him he was being monitored. The exhibit had eighty cameras on-line, but he saw no evidence the guys in the video booth could look in on what was happening. He pulled his radio.
“South one, checking in. Gene, you up there?”
“Roger, Gus, what can I do for you?”
“You got eyes in the Pharaohs exhibit? Power’s partially out. I don’t see any of the cams lit up.”
“Hmph,” Gene grunted. So, he hadn’t been watching. What a surprise. Probably reading Penthouse…and not for the articles.
“Roger, we’re dark in South A through C. You checking it out?”
“Inside now, but nothing seems to be shaking.”
“Probably another goddamned glitch. You got Granger with you?”
“Negative. He’s, how shall we say it? Indisposed.”
Gene chuckled. Jespers gritted his teeth. Gene should be writing the kid up right now. Rumor had it, though, that Granger was Gene’s hook-up.
“All right,” Gene sighed. “Do a walk through. Anything suspicious, update me. I’ll put in a call to tech about the lights and cameras.”
Jespers re-holstered his radio. Wonderful. One guy, only two hundred thousand square feet to search. Peachy.
He was just about clear of the ritual room when he heard something. It wasn’t much, but it stopped him dead. His hand dropped to the radio. But what would he tell Gene? I heard a noise? Or, I think I heard a noise? He held his breath, swinging the flashlight around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and the sound didn’t come again.
“Spookin’ yourself,” he mumbled angrily, continuing to work his way through the exhibit.
Again, the sound. Faint, like a whispered voice. He froze, straining to hear. The air filtration system? He didn’t think so. He was certain, though, that the sound had come from up ahead, after the exhibit dog-legged right. More than a little uneasy, he made his way into the next room.
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