THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES: Erotic Encounters with the Undead

by Christian, M

  "And it worked, didn't it?"

  "You were sucking on it, Willy. Well, anyway, they screwed me up on this bizarre system of payments. Soon my bank account was down to zilch, and he demanded that I give the thing back. I took off, then he sent Jacob and Nelda after me to cut it off without the benefit of anesthetic and leave me to bleed to death."

  She leaned over to look at it in all its scarred, semi-rigid glory. "If it wasn't for that, I wouldn't believe it."

  "Well, if you put your clothes back on, I'll drop you off," he said. "This could get dangerous, no telling what they'd do to you if..."

  "No way, Ralph," she said, reaching over and taking hold of it. "I haven't gotten the feeling of ol' Frankenstein inside me yet! Besides, this is exciting, being on the run and all that." She then laid a juicy French kiss on his ear that nearly made them into a mass or twisted wreckage at the side of the freeway.

  Soon they were checked into a motel that charged by the hour.

  Once the door was locker and bolted, the flowed together like two streams of molten lava. Arms held tight. Bellies and groins squeezed that ever-stiffening Frankenstein penis. Her ample breasts flattened out against him as her nipples became hard. Mouths sealed into a warm, dark, saliva-soaked cave for their tongues to wrestle in.

  As one they fell onto the bed and began tearing each other' clothes off, exposing sweaty, smog-fouled bodies that desperately sought a haven in each other.

  Ralph first tried to climb on top of her, but Willy took his hands and held them to her breasts, locked her eyes to his with a smoldering look, intertwined their taste buds again and then pleaded, "I wanna ride, Ralph. Let me rid your great, big monster, your magnificent beast."

  He laid back and Willy straddled him, got up on her knees, and then squatted, doing a little dance, rotating her dripping vagina just a fraction of an inch away from the throbbing glans of his titanic member, tickling it with her dark brown public hair. It drove him wild. He clutched at the sheets as it grew longer and let a spermatic pearl on its tip merge with her juices. He then reached up and grabbed her tits, digging his fingers deep into soft meat, then opening his palms and pressed hard, smearing her breasts out of shape to the sides of her quivering body, being careful to snag the nipples with his thumbs as he let them spring back into place.

  "Oh, my god, yes, yes, yes," she said, gasping as she lowered her wide-open pussy around the Frankenstein penis head, biting her underlip as it slid in.

  Willy then took a spread-eagled, deep knee-bends position, and with a guttural Ugh! took a from hold of Ralph with her strong vaginal muscles. It was stronger than the grip of a hand. Relaxing her hold just enough to allow movement, she slid herself down the scarred shaft, taking it deep inside her, completely fining the vaginal tunnel and entering the uterus. When the head this the womb's wall, he grabbed her by the hips – he didn't want to hurt her.

  Tightening and relaxing her grip, she rode the monster up and down, flooding them both with waves of sensation. He took hold of the part of the shaft that didn't fit in. Her fluids ran onto his hand as she stroked in time with her rising and lowering. His hand met her cunt with frequent wet slaps. The pace escalated. Faster. Faster. She huffed and puffed, and finally came with a lusty, "Yeeeeeeeeee-haaaaaaaaaa!" as he shot his scalding wad into her.

  Just as she fell down on top of him, and planted a sloppy, wet kiss on his neck, the door came crashing open, its lock shattering and the dead bolt torn out by the roots.

  Apish Jacob stood in the doorway, holding a throbbing, swollen arm. Behind him was painfully thin Nelda, nattily waving a little black bag.

  "You naughty, naughty boy," she said, followed by a staccato tsk tsk tsk.

  An adrenalin rush tore Ralph out of his post-coital torpor. He took the Gideon Bible off the end table and heaved it at Jacob's wounded arm.

  The sandy-haired giant roared in agony; he charged. He then caught the telephone across the face. While he stood there stunned, Ralph slammed into him, putting all his weight on that bad arm.

  While Ralph pounded on Jacob, Nelda whipped a gleaming scalpel out of the black bag and came towards Willy. The feisty blonde knocked it out of the bitch's hand with a precisely pitched lamp, then dove on Nelda like a wildcat, tearing open that thin face with blood-red nails as the both hit the floor, Nelda leaving red stripes on Willy's skin, and Willy tearing Nelda's mannish clothes to shreds. Being a bookish type, used to getting her sadistic thrills on victims who couldn't fight back, Nelda was soon pinned by the athletic, outdoorsy Willy. Dr. Kraken's assistant began to claw her opponent's tits. Will took hold of Nelda's short, colorless hair and started banging her skull-like head against the floor.

  She only stopped when Ralph took her by the shoulders and said, "Willy! Quick! Grab your clothes! We have to get out of here!"

  They ran out to the Nova in the nude, clutching their wadded-up clothes, not knowing if they had left behind two corpses or candidates for the emergency room.

  Once they were zooming madly away towards the pre-dawn light along the San Bernardino Freeway, he turned to her and said, "Sorry I got you into this..."

  "Shit," she said, leaning over, putting an arm around his shoulder and a hand on his prick. "Thank you for getting me into this! A few days ago I lost my job, in a few days I was going to get kicked out of my apartment, and I just couldn't seem to find a good man. I was depressed and getting desperately drunk. Then you came in. Now I have a man with the organ out of my wildest wet dreams, I'm leading an exciting, dangerous life, and keep ending up naked on the freeway." She put her head on his shoulder and ran her hand up his pubic hair, to his chest hair, and commenced to play with his nipples. "I'm a girl who loves fun and trouble, so I'm sticking with you, Ralph, and all the craziness that comes with you. Hey,. Let's just take this road until we get sick of the scenery, then change directions. This is what I call living..."

  Ralph just smiled and thought for the first time in a small eternity that maybe things would finally work out for him after all.

  A PEARL OF GREAT PRICEJEAN MARIE STINE

  The icy shaft of the vampyr’s cock penetrated him. It seared his insides with a fiery chill and he lost all sensation in anus and bowels at once. Frigid cold spread outward and upward, freezing his legs, his chest, his arms and stealing toward his heart.

  He welcomed the sensations, shivering in anticipation, waiting for the vampyr’s ejacula. He’d read about the Red Lion, antimony and the Pearl Beyond Price generated by the Grain of a Mustard Seed, that so many had misunderstood in the writings of the great alchemist, Paracelsus. Now he was risking everything, life and more than life, by penetrating farther than anyone before him into the meaning of what he’d read.

  He’d teased and tormented this particular vampyr with his flesh. He’d guessed this one’s orientation from the accounts he’d pieced together on the web. He had flaunted his body before the vampyr’s eyes for several nights in the kind of crowded discos the man was known to haunt.

  He’d hoped to inflame the creature’s passions, a rare thing because vampyrs shunned the result—but not impossible. To make the vampyr want his body as well as his blood. To make the vampyr do what it had done, drain his blood almost to the point of death and then take him while the warmth of life still suffused his flesh.

  The blood had drained from his body as a vast, numbing darkness rushed in to fill the void. His consciousness had begun to flee with it, flickering in and out, but further out each time. Until he had been a minute guttering candle flame about to be extinguished by a gathering night wind.

  Just when he was certain he had gambled wrong, as darkness had obliterated his brain for the last time, as the dim ash of life had seemed to expire, never to return, his body was being turned in the vampyr’s grip. He was already nude, had stripped when they entered the motel room, maintaining the pretense that he believed they were here for a sexual assignation. The unzipping of the vampyr’s trousers was as loud and final as death itself.

  For a half
-second he had experienced a surge of elation, the sudden relaxation that victory, and what it meant to the two of them, was about to be his. But the concept was torn to tatters with his consciousness as the vampyr’s glacier-hard, searingly cold cock tore up into him, splitting sphincter and bowels, and driving all its astonishing length into his rectum in an instant. He knew that he had been damaged as terribly as he had ever been, even enough to kill him, but living no longer mattered and he surrendered himself, limply and content, to whatever came next, as long as the vampyr’s ejacula was part of it.

  The agony was followed by a shockwave of cold, numbing his body. Far from his darkly clouded mind though it was, down endless icy corridors of being, the scalding spewing of his blood between his legs was as intimate as a touch against his cheek. Dim despair chased it, again death pressed down over him, smothering life away, and fear swept him—he didn’t know how much longer he could hang on. If the vampyr didn’t ejaculate soon....

  Three tearing, titanic upheavals, each as devastating as an earthquake, erupted upward from his bowels. His heart detonated with each, and as it gave a last, shuddering spasm, the iron muscles of the vampyr’s phallus blew out his insides, exploding in orgasm. He felt the scorching nova of its ejacula being driven into his ruptured and shattered bowels where its furnace heat set fire to his bloodstream and was carried throughout the body in the final quivering beat of his heart.

  The vampyr’s brobdingnabian explosions went on and on, ripping his body further apart. But his heart was beating again, this time with the volcanic heat of the massively reconcentrated blood of the creature’s ejacula—the fabled Red Lion of the alchemists (just as the White Lion was the rarer ejacula of the female vampyr), the true method by which the undead passed on their gift and the reason only a handful of all those whose blood slaked their thirst became vampyrs too. He knew the already increasing activity of his now vampyric metabolism would repair the damage, no matter how devastating, almost instantly when the destructive orgasms of the undead were completed.

  The distant charring of a live coal against his areolae was the agony of vampyr’s nails sinking into his nipples and tearing them apart. The pain of the ax smashing his spine in half was the sledgehammer impact of the creature’s thrust snapping his pelvis. The nightmare explosion in his lungs was the shattering of his ribs beneath the irresistible might of the vampyr’s embrace.

  Yet he felt no fear, even the unthinkable suffering was endurable—for behind was the sense of a smothering force that blunted the pain, beginning to heal ruptured flesh and splintered bone even as it was torn and violated. This was what he had been waiting for, the moments of transformation, Paracelsus’ Grain of a Mustard Seed that could catalyze life immortal, an eternity among the undead—and a great deal more.

  With a lunge that would have split him open at the crotch if his body hadn’t already begun to heal the damage from its earlier thrusts, the vampyr spasmed into his rectum one final time and pulled away. The creature seemed to fade backward into nothingness just like its cock seemed to simply shrivel away to into smoke inside his rectum—instead of being physically withdrawn.

  Agony, the sense of tertiary damage, the awful awareness of just how horrifically his body had been violated, threatened/tempted him with a sucking, nigh irresistible whirlpool of darkness. Writhing in the corrosive magma of the pain, wanting to sink away and surrender himself to unconsciousness until his body had done repairing itself and he was whole again—he held onto tattered consciousness with his fingertips. For desperately as his soul and psyche cried for deliverance from the Hades of his suffering, there was something he wanted more.

  This was the opportunity, while the Pearl was still growing, while his body was still reconstituting itself, when the alchemist who had mustered sufficient discipline of will could influence the growth of the Pearl. And now with the entire total force of his mind, with all the determination of heart, soul and deeper being, he began to force his body to reshape itself the way he wanted it to be—and not the way it had been. He beat the message down into the deepest cells of his body, beating endlessly, incontrovertibly into the vampyric fluids reforming his shattered tissues one message, one signal, one single, compelling instruction.

  And with that thought she shed the last vestiges of the male persona she had so laboriously, degradingly and painfully reconstructed to send a creature with the psychic discernment of a vampyr the signal of a strong, unambiguous masculinity. Like the currents carried in by a riptide, the woman she was, no matter what the anatomy of her birth, reasserted itself. The inconceivable potency of true self upon her reconstituting body supplied the final necessary force to reconfigure the transformation.

  As she felt the flow of the flesh between her thighs, she let go of consciousness at last, falling into a dreamless sleep, content with the certainty that she had paid a high price—but it was worth all that she had paid and more. For now she could look forward to an eternity as a woman in the body she had hungered so desperately to have.

  HORROR VACUIM. CHRISTIAN

  "...you're so right, of course..."

  My early-evening hunger complained again, but the fridge was still short of ideas – and what ones it did bring up were less than fresh.

  "...I was just going to say the same thing..."

  I had to pick something. Going out wasn't in my future – because it wasn't in my wallet. I picked up a can with a top wrapped in foil, about to desperately microwave whatever was inside, only to see a tabby with a self-satisfied Cheshire grin on the label.

  "...it's your turn to choose, sweetie..."

  The mess it made when I dropped it was small: just a few greasy lumps splattering across the already dirty kitchen floor. I hurriedly tore a square of paper towel from the roll on the counter – leaving behind only the memory of the accident when the mess went into the trash.

  "...as always..."

  There, in the back: a smallish white paper bag. The memory of what was inside coming just a moment before I actually looked inside: a dinner at Dots Diner, back when there was money to do that kind of thing.

  "...no, you are..."

  Two minutes. 120 seconds. No long at all but still too long to wait ... in there. I stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room. The sun was just beginning to set: the fat, hot, redness of it sedately impaling itself on the buildings across the street. Midtown traffic, far down below, hummed absently to itself. On the battered old desk, my battered old computer chirped like a third-rate bird imitator. The microwave answered: and I half thought, half-dreamed about the mating calls of appliances.

  "...I say this too often..."

  My hands complained of their near-burns much louder than my stomach had complained about its emptiness, but I tried not to listen. Out of the plastic coated paper tub, onto a plate – a cloud of steam fogging my glasses from the too hot macaroni and cheese, making the world of my kitchen lose all focus. But I knew where the forks were, knew where the food was, so I took one then the other and got out of there. Fast enough, or so I thought.

  "...I love you..."

  Pasta tumbled, pasta fell: a spill of pale, glistening elbows tumbling across my nice clean rug. But this time I didn't leap for the paper towels – the mess was greater, stickier, but I couldn't approach where it had landed.

  The kitchen, after all, was far too close – and far too, far too, far too closer, because it was still lingering in my ears, was Danny talking to Theresa ... saying that he loved her, after she'd died four months ago.

  * * * *

  The sun was nothing like spilled macaroni and cheese: it was high, and bright, and hot – for that early in the morning. A new chime from my computer had meant money, and money meant a chance, an opportunity to step outside.

  The escape – and the sun – made me sweat, but I didn't mind. The street outside was a more intimate kind of hustle and bustle, and for a few minutes I stood outside of the building and just watched the too-ing and fro-ing, pretending to memoriz
e what made what sound so when I found myself trapped upstairs again I would at least be able to tag the right sound to the right cause.

  "Hey, man."

  If he had a name I didn't know it, and even if I'd somehow been aware of his real name I wouldn't have used it. I used to be able to leave my little apartment, when I did, and nothing but the front of the building was there, but he was a recent addition ... but, recent or not, he had become part of it: he was always there, forever sitting on one of the concrete ski-ramps – which I also didn't know the name of – on either side of the front stairs. The left ramp, in case you cared. Fixture, was what I called him my mind. Fix for short. I didn't even say that to him, the fear of how he might react to it keeping the name forever in my mind and nowhere else.

  "Hey," I said to him, already trying to devise and strategy for escape. $8.60 was the cost of a burger, a side of mac and cheese, and a cup of coffee – an amount I had already budged for. "How you doing?"

  "Can't complain I guess. Considering."

  "Considering?" I parroted because I could catch myself.

  He turned his dark face up at the sun, looking up at it for so long my own pupils began to smart in sympathy. "Could be a lot worse, I mean."

  "Know the story."

  "Like that guy," he said, nodding back towards the big front doors. "Like him." I didn't need anything else to know he was talking about my neighbor. "Damned shame."

  "Yeah," I answered, more than anything not to be standing there, talking to him, about that.

  "What makes someone do something like that?" he said, face now down towards the ground, examining the mysteries of the cracked sidewalk. "Do something like that to themselves? She was so young, too."