by John Everson
He’d had every female model there was at this point it seemed—except for the dumpy sack of potatoes kind. The band was selling millions of CDs and spent half the year touring all parts of the world, so he’d fucked virgins from France, Melbourne, Rio, Moscow, New York and everywhere in between. Redheads, blondes, platinums, goth chicks with cropped raven hair and farm girls with sunny smiles and big tits. And every one a tight, ready-to-be-popped virgin.
Each night after a show it was the same. He returned to the dressing room to find a naked bit of tail just waiting for him to nail. He’d have an hour or so usually before the 12 o’clock chimes struck and his business had to be over. Then the nasty-looking dwarf Messenger appeared at the door to lead his latest sacrifice away.
It sounded like an awesome life. But Tony was tired.
Or bored.
Maybe both. He considered asking the band to cancel the next few months of its tour to take some time off, but he knew it was a foolish dream. If they quit now, it was only cuz they were breaking up. They were booked on an arena tour for the next six months straight. It was worth millions in the hand and untold millions in future sales.
A splash of light fell across the hall and a gnome-like head poked out of his dressing room.
“Better unstrap that instrument and get to performing,” said the growling little Rumpelstiltskin. Tony had never asked its name, but that was how he referred to the little man in his own mind.
“Boss sent you something special tonight—says you’re acting bored and ungrateful. Says you been performing like a geriatric sprinter against the Olympic team—no staying power.”
Rumpelstiltskin cackled and Tony pushed off from the wall and resignedly moved towards his dressing room.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he murmured.
“Boss’s hoping you’ll be doing just that,” the imp laughed again.
Tony pushed past the little man and closed the door behind him, locking the creature out. Not that locks had any real impact on the little devil, but it made him feel better. He performed music for an audience, not sex.
Tony looked at the bed and grinned in spite of his reservations. The “boss” had sent something special. She was lying stark naked, head propped on a blue paisley throw pillow, left knee crooked, legs apart to display the object of Tony’s mission in all its raw, pink glory. She was built like a track star—lots of leg and a taut tummy, with small, but ample breasts (more than a mouthful’s wasted, he thought). Her nipples were wide, just as he liked, and matched the auburn crop that crowned her head and arrowed down from her belly. Her features were elfin fine, but her lips were full, and Tony felt a thickening in his tight black leather pants.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all, he thought and then stepped closer.
“Hey,” he said, not knowing what to call her. She didn’t reply.
“Stoned?” he asked in a louder voice.
Still nothing. He reached out to shake her by the shoulder and drew back his hand in a flash. She was cold to the touch.
Clammy. And stiff.
She was quite dead.
Tony yanked the dressing room door back open and looked for The Messenger.
The little man was talking up a groupie near the stage door. Tony knew she was a groupie with one glance, since her boobs were falling out of one of his band’s concert T’s, which had been ripped specially to show off her cleavage. But most telling was the fact that she didn’t seem to mind the dwarf’s face anchored in her crotch. Some chicks’d do anything to get backstage—including servicing perverted dwarfs.
“Hey,” Tony yelled again. Rumpelstiltskin looked around, a scowl on his face.
“You’ve got yours,” he snapped and turned away. But the groupie wasn’t so easily distracted.
“Tony DeBruno!” she screamed. “Oh… My… Gawd.” She started to push past the dwarf, who gave a disgusted look, anchored his hand between her legs and shoved. The groupie and her three-inch black spike heels disappeared with a scream down the back stairs.
“What do you need?” he asked, suddenly standing right in front of Tony. He pointed to a nonexistent wristwatch. “It’s after eleven thirty, you know.”
“She’s dead,” Tony complained.
“Well, when you’ve had all the rest, you’ve just got to do the best,” the creature laughed. “Enjoy.”
“But how can I…” Tony began, but then shut up, since The Messenger had disappeared.
Tony returned to the dressing room and looked the girl over again. He was definitely not into necrophilia, but she was attractive, no question about that. Milky-white skin, full lips. He imagined in life that she had been quite the sucker with those pouty kissers.
The clock on the wall read 11:39, and Tony paced the room, considering. The contract stipulated that he had to deflower the virgins sent to him by midnight, or he lost it all. The wording was vague on this point, but he could guess that “all” included life, as well as fame. You didn’t fuck with the devil and not pay dearly at some point.
So he had no choice here. He had to slide it in between the legs of a dead chick. Tony shook his long bleached hair and let out a low moan. Why had he gone in for this? He’d enjoyed playing in the band even before they were famous. And even if the money sucked and the fame was missing, he’d never had a problem getting some bar slut to go home with. Why had he …?
A hand slapped his face.
His own.
“No time for what ifs and whys,” he told himself out loud, and began to unbuckle his pants.
“You won’t mind if I don’t waste time on foreplay, will you, hon?” he asked, stroking himself erect—which turned out not to be difficult if you just looked at her and omitted the minor unappetizing detail that she was dead. Then he crawled onto the bed with her.
As he climbed closer, he realized that she smelled. It was faint, but the cloying scent of something like rotting hamburger clung to the air about her. Tony began to breathe through his mouth and with one hand levered himself into the groove between her thighs.
He pushed himself at her, and felt a much tighter resistance than even most virgins. Death didn’t exactly make you ready and willing, he supposed.
He lay heavier on top of her and thrust, and as he pressed down on her with his chest, her mouth loosed a sudden cloud of rotten air. Tony choked in spite of trying to keep his nose closed, and thrust again, but he was making no headway (so to speak).
“Ahh shit,” he declared and rolled off of her, his erection gone and his stomach suddenly nauseous.
He turned his head away from her and took a deep breath to clear his lungs, and then took a closer look between her legs. Maybe rigor mortis had closed her off to him? He fingered her to see how tight she truly was, and it wasn’t too hard then to find the problem.
She’d been sewn shut.
Stitched up by a devil with a sense of humor, the thread matched the auburn crop of her pubic hair.
“What the…” he moaned aloud, voice breaking. “I’ve gotta cut her open? Shit…why would a dead girl need a chastity belt?”
Tony got off the bed and picked up his pants. He kept a pocketknife on his keychain, and while he was sure its makers never envisioned unthreading dead virgins as one of the 1001 uses they advertised that it had, he flipped the blade open.
“Use one thousand and two,” he murmured, bringing its blade to bear on the thread between the dead girl’s labial lips. “Readying dead virgins for necrophilia.”
He sliced downwards, careful not to take her delicate tissues with the thread, though why he should care at this stage, he didn’t know.
It was difficult at first; the stitch had been very tight and close. But one by one he sawed through the barrier threads, and grinned with satisfaction as he saw the glint of something shiny begin to leak out of the hole he’d broken. Finally, halfway down t
he girl’s cleft, he gave a fast flick and opened the last stitches with one slice.
And froze.
That glint of shininess was oozing from her vagina now that he’d set it free, and it wasn’t feminine mucous.
It was a stream of maggots.
A score of them exploded from her to land squirming and stinking on the bed. And instead of slowing, the stream increased. Dozens of the white slimy worms slipped out of her in seconds, some of them choosing to crawl up through her ruddy hair or to hug the inside of her thighs.
Tony coughed and covered his mouth with a hand, choking down vomit. In horror, he backed off and away from the bed, still holding the knife, which had one-half of a tiny squirming maggot stuck to its tip. He dropped it and his keys to the floor.
“Oh God, oh God,” he cried. The clock read 11:54. “What am I gonna do?”
The stench of her now filled the room and it was everything he could do to keep from puking. But he watched the second hand spinning slowly around the clock face and shook his head.
“No you don’t,” he said, and again went to his pants. Contract didn’t say he couldn’t wear protection when he came. Just said he had to come. And he knew there was an old condom in his wallet. You never knew when you might run into a chick who wasn’t a devil-provided virgin.
Closing his eyes for a minute, he pushed the images of the maggots away and brought to mind the image of the last blonde he and the crew had gang banged. With a frightened urgency, Tony worked himself hard enough to slip the rubber on. Then he moved to the bed and got in push-up position over the girl, trying not to let any part of his body except his cock make contact with her. He guided himself towards her and thrust forward, feeling something squish as he tried to enter her virgin walls. In his head he knew what his cock was mashing, and it wasn’t a hymen.
He shook the thought away, and stared at her breasts, which still looked suckable and warm, despite her condition. He pushed himself again to slip inside her, and coughed when the result was an expulsion of fetid air. It would help if he could at least kiss the girl, he thought, and looked up from her tits to see a creamy yellow maggot worming its way out of the corner of her mouth.
“Ahh shit, shit, shit!” he cried and rolled away from her again, cock flaccid and breath coming in dangerous gasps. “I can’t do this. I can’t!”
The clock now read 11:58. He didn’t know if he’d gotten deep enough inside her to make her no longer qualify as a virgin, but he hadn’t consummated the deed and that was definitely part of the deal. He looked down and grimaced at the yellowish scum that discolored the head of the condom. With his hand, he tried to stroke his cock erect again, but if anything, it pulled deeper inside him, like a hiding tortoise head.
11:59.
Still yanking his maggot-slimed penis, Tony stood at the side of the bed and looked at the virgin. The freed worms were now happily canvassing her entire body with their spasmodic up and down inchworm motions. A steady stream issued now from her lips and pooled in the cavern of her throat. Her thighs and the bed between them were alive with fly spawn and even the rosy tips of her nipples boasted one curious worm. Another twitched from between the toes of her right foot, and then fell with a plop to the sheets.
Tears ran from Tony’s eyes, which were torn between staring in horror at the rotting girl and at the second hand of the clock, which inched from the 30 to the 40 to the 50, 55 and finally…
The door burst open and Rumpelstiltskin sauntered in, his face covered by the most profound grin Tony had ever seen. The Messenger was looking forward to becoming The Executioner.
“What’s a matter, can’t get it up?” the dwarf taunted. He hitched at his belt. “Need me to do the deed for ya? It won’t fulfill yer end of the bargain, but hey, what’s a little worm meat between friends, eh?”
“She’s dead,” Tony said. There didn’t seem to be anything else he could say.
“What’s your point?” the dwarf laughed. He was giving her a gynecological examination. He looked up, still grinning and announced, “She’s still a virgin.”
“She’s full of maggots!” Tony cried.
“You think that’s bad? Wait ’til you see what the boss has got waiting for you below.”
“That’s not fair,” Tony pleaded. “The contract didn’t say anything about them being dead.”
“Yeah, well, it didn’t specify nothin’ about them being alive neither,” Rumpelstiltskin cackled. “And anyway, they all die pretty quick once you’re done with ’em anyway.”
“Die?”
“Sure.” The dwarf grinned, wrinkles nearly swallowing his beaming emerald eyes into the folds of his leathery face. “Lots of ’em slit their wrists, especially after they pump out some kind of six-armed monstrosity. Others just kind of corrode away. Boss figures they’re either fertile fer his kids or ought to be fertilizer for someone else’s.”
“His kids?” Tony frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Talking about the Boss’s seed,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “You carry it inside you. Been carrying it to women all over the world for years. And the Boss’s seed don’t plant any happiness, let me tell you! You think he’s been having you sacrificing virgins just for your own fun? But you can see for yourself; Boss’ll have what’s left of those girls waiting for you down below.”
The dwarf looked at the clock, which now read 12:03.
“How would you like to shuffle off? Something memorable, I imagine. ’S a shame when rock stars just slip away in their sleep. No headlines there. Wanna slit your wrists and write a goodbye message in your blood? Maybe OD on some choice heroin? How about drink yourself out—choke on your own vomit?”
The dwarf tapped a long gnarled finger to his lips.
“Naw, I’m getting too habitual about this, we’ve done all those. How about…”
Tony bolted from the room, without even slowing to pick up his pants. The dwarf followed at a more leisurely pace, pointing his finger “up” when Tony reached the stairs the groupie had fallen down. Instead of following her path, the singer’s feet suddenly turned and took the stairs towards the roof.
The Messenger hopped happily up the granite steps and a smile cracked his hide from ear to ear as in the theater attic, Tony tried to dig his feet in but found himself unable to stop from running headlong toward the giant air circulation fan.
“Yes,” the dwarf said to himself. “Decapitation is a nice choice. Haven’t done one of those in…literally…ages.”
As Tony’s head punched through the barrier screen to meet the slicing blades, the Messenger winked out to meet him on the other side. He had lots of new girls for Tony to meet.
And none of them were pretty—or virgins—anymore.
Whatever You Want
It was the shiny metal of her belt that first drew my eye. They say it’s women who are entranced by things that glitter, but don’t fool yourself. Guys have eyes too. And the silver jiggle of her hips as she walked back and forth in front of me all night served as a homing beacon. I couldn’t not look. I couldn’t not see the delicate tendrils of the tattoo that rose in a sensual tease from beneath the back of her skirt. I couldn’t not see the black shadow around her eyes that pronounced her a “dark soul” and I couldn’t not see the way her black T-shirt crept up above her hips as she walked, sometimes showing just the faintest hint of winter-white skin and other times fully revealing the dark pit of a bellybutton. I stayed at the bar a long time; I took a lot in. And no matter what I asked for; she only smiled, her eyes creasing almost closed as she answered, “Whatever you want.”
I knew she was curious about me before midnight; she came to my table more than those of any of her other customers, and her eyes glinted white as she laughed at my painful jokes and made a point to stare at me deeply, attentively, slavishly. Sometime around my fourth or fifth beer I asked her to sit down with me.
; “Whatever you want,” she said, and slid into the booth with me. I put my arm around her thin shoulders and asked, “You won’t get into trouble with your boss, will you?”
I could feel her shrug. “I was just taking care of a customer,” she said innocently.
“Makes me wish there was more on the menu,” I said.
“You can order off-menu,” she answered. She turned her head towards mine, clearly inclining for a kiss. I bent to give her one, and she licked her tongue across my lips like a cat and pulled back before I could meet her.
“May I take your order, sir?”
“I’ll take the public hand job with a French kiss,” I laughed. She didn’t.
A cool palm slipped against my belly and down below my belt. Warm lips brushed across my ear, moving to my mouth, as her voice promised everything. “Whatever you want,” she said.
I took her home when she got off work. I don’t even think we said a word to each other after I shut the door to my apartment before she had completely shed her clothes on my living room floor.
“I’m not sure I tipped well enough for this,” I murmured as her lips slid from my nipples to my groin. Her hands worked my belt loose and then freed the rest. The warmth of her lust engulfed me and I moaned.
“What would you like, baby?” she asked. Her voice sounded too young for her actions.
“I’d like to bend you over the daybed,” I gasped, “and take you from behind.”
“Whatever you want,” she promised again, and stood up. In moments, I was treated to an easy study of the ornate bat-like tendrils of that tattoo above her ass, and my fingers roamed freely across the cool naked skin of her backside. I could feel every hair on her body, every pore. And more surprisingly, every scar. Her back was a mess of them. Faint, most were, but as I pressed myself tight against her, cleaving to her, I could see a lattice of her past.
A violent past, from the look of it. I had a vision of her tied against basement walls, a leather-clad man with a whip poised behind her. With every lash he created new scars.