by Emmie Combs
A fullness in his bladder woke him a couple of hours later. As he staggered down the hall on his way back from the bathroom, he cracked open the door to Clara's old room. There was the Monica of old, sleeping in her usual pose. Her flaccid breasts cushioned her like a pair of tires, and the cellulite on her ample rump was clearly visible even in this dim light. She slept the slow, dreamless sleep of the inebriated. Norman closed the door and returned to the master bedroom. He was careful to wipe the slime off his feet before getting under the covers. He looked at the new Monica, the Monica-thing that lay next to him in the bed. Clearly, she could not be human. Norman had watched way too many X Files reruns not to know that.
Suddenly, the Monica-thing opened her tremendous, soft brown eyes. The irises in them began to spiral again as she cupped his genitals with her hand. Another electric charge seemed to pass through his body. What the hell, Norman thought. Why look a gift horse in the mouth? In fact, Norman thought he knew the perfect thing to do with this particular gift horse's mouth. He straddled her and grabbed the bedrail with both hands as he prepared himself for the greatest ride of his not-so-young life.
Norman awoke to the smell of waffles and strawberries, one of the breakfasts that Monica used to make for him during the early days of their marriage. He pulled on his clothes and walked toward the kitchen. Out of curiosity, he peeked into Clara's room. The old Monica was still lying there, with her pasty butt still turned to the ceiling. Funny, he thought, she was usually up having her breakfast of Pabst Blue Ribbon by now. Norman supposed she must have really tied one on last night.
As he entered the kitchen, he found the Monica-thing clad in only a black lace bra and panties, carefully arranging the strawberries around his waffle. She turned to greet him.
He stroked her hair and opened up the refrigerator. "I think I'll just start with the other half of this grapefruit," he told her. "I need to wake up my mouth."
Monica sat down beside him as he placed the grapefruit on the plate. For some strange reason, the thought of eating his regular morning grapefruit seemed to nauseate him today, but he dug the spoon in anyway. A squirt of grapefruit juice hit the Monica-thing straight in the eye. She let out a shriek. A smoky vapor poured out of her suddenly empty eye socket, and the surrounding flesh on her cheeks seemed to be eaten away, as if by sulfuric acid.
"Sorry," Norman said lamely.
"It's OK," said the Monica-thing, turning her decomposing face away from him and shielding it with her hand. After a few seconds, she took her hand away. The flesh was somehow miraculously restored. The formerly ruined eye held Norman in its gaze, its iris spiraling wildly. "See, no harm done," she reassured him.
Norman looked down at his grapefruit, his appetite suddenly ruined. "I'm not very hungry anymore," he informed her.
"I'll be the judge of that," she said, stroking his nipple. Another electric charge went trough his body. Once again, a PET scan of his cranium would have revealed little if any activity in the higher centers of Norman's brain. As Monica took his throbbing cock in her hand, he reluctantly decided to let his brain stem have its way with him once more time.
And when he parted the lips of the Monica-thing's vagina and probed it with his tongue, he discovered that Monica was right as usual. He really was hungry after all.
On the way to work, just to be on the safe side, Norman bought himself several gallons of grapefruit juice and a Super-Zapper double-pump Uzi water cannon squirt gun. Things sure were fun right now, but it didn't hurt to be careful, he figured.
Norman spent an atypically productive day at the office. The only oral attention Pam received from him was his dictation, which she received cheerfully, if somewhat reluctantly. His body and spirit basked in the afterglow of his sessions with the Monica-thing, although he did notice a rather strange sensation in his abdomen from time to time, almost as it worms were crawling around inside his belly.
He had been in such a hurry to get home and resume his tryst with the Monica-thing that he almost forgot about the speed trap on Elton Drive. Ticketless nonetheless, he screeched to a halt in his driveway, grabbed the bags containing the grapefruit juice and fully loaded squirt gun, and barreled through the front door.
The Monica-thing was waiting for him, looking as enticing as ever in an unfamiliar pink teddy as she lounged on the sofa. The smell of London broil wafted out of the kitchen, and he noticed the lit candles on the dining room table. The Monica-thing shook her lustrous black hair, stretched her fabulous legs and smiled at him. "What's in the bags?" she asked him.
"Oh, nothing. Just some wine and stuff for the office party tomorrow. I'll put it away," he told her and then headed upstairs for the bedroom, taking care to avoid the slime trail on the steps. As he passed Clara's room, he peeked in. The old Monica still lay on the bed in an apparent coma. But as he peered more closely, he could see that her eyes were wide open and seemed to be tracking his movements. Pleading with him. But she could not move her mouth to speak. He hastily closed the door, went to his own bedroom and stashed the squirt gun and the grapefruit juice under the bed. He then bounded down the stairs in eager anticipation of another night of wedded bliss.
As he arched his back in the most powerful orgasm of his life (numbers three and two had occurred just moments before), Norman collapsed on the Monica-thing's naked torso as she held him tightly inside her, not wanting to relinquish him for a moment. His body throbbed with electric excitement as her fingernails teasingly traced their way down his lacerated back.
It was then that he once again felt the sensation of something invading his penis, traveling down its inner passages in the reverse direction. His shaft felt as though it had been burned from the inside, and he had the distinct sensation of something beginning to crawl around inside his balls. That something seemed to penetrate through walls of flesh to gain entrance to his abdominal cavity. There was a searing pain as the thing ate its way through the flesh of Norman's internal organs. He tried to lift his head to tell the Monica-thing about his predicament, but found that he could not move. The Monica-thing seemed to sense his failed attempt at communication. She pressed her fingers to his lips. "Shhh, it is time," she said enigmatically. "The changes will come now." She turned and walked out of the room. Norman caught one last glimpse of her gorgeous ass and silky hair as she walked out the door.
Again he tried to raise his head, but found himself quite immobile. His abdomen burned. It convulsed.
He lay in the darkness of the bedroom for what seemed like hours. He felt the things inside his body working their way up his intestines, into his stomach. They penetrated his heart, his lungs. He seemed to feel his thoughts altering, becoming more indistinct and confused. He supposed the things were eating his brain now. His abdomen was burning up and the pain was excruciating. Still, he was unable to move. He felt about ready to burst. Finally, he did. Something seemed to pour out of his nostrils. He caught a glimpse of worms wriggling beneath the dot of his nose at the bottom of his visual field. More worms poured from his anus in a soupy diarrhea. He opened his mouth to vomit putrid oceans of worms. He went momentarily deaf as a torrent of the slimy creatures burst through his eardrums and flowed out onto the bed. He felt himself grow hard and ejaculated once again, this time discharging a bloody spurt of worm-jism in a painful orgasm that mocked his previous pleasure.
Still he was unable to move. He watched passively as the worms flowed off the bed and gathered together in a jumbled heap on the bedroom floor. A few of them began to glow. Then they seemed to coalesce into a common form. It grew larger and began to assume human shape. Norman watched in disbelief as its facial features began to form. His features. The creature walked over and then bent down to study Norman. Norman found himself looking at his own face. Only it was not like looking in a mirror. First, there was no right-left reversal in the image. Second, this Norman was tanned, muscular, and wore a self-assured smirk on its face. "How do you like the new you?" the Norman-thing asked him.
When Norman f
ailed to respond, the Norman-thing grinned. "Not up to talking, are we? Well, never mind. We won't be up to doing much of anything ever again, will we? You see, you are only being kept alive because, in order to impersonate you, I must know your thoughts. Your brain is my library. The worms that crawl around inside it are my research assistants. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to do a little browsing." The Norman-thing's face seemed to elongate. His mouth became a long, slender proboscis, which he inserted into Norman's ear. As Norman felt it penetrate his newly-healed eardrum, his mind was suddenly assaulted with a myriad of random images. His childhood. Office parties. The time he had lost the championship lacrosse game by failing to block an easy shot. Suddenly the images ceased, and he was again greeting by the gleaming visage of the Norman thing.
"Your secretary, Pamela Rushton, seems a most marvelous creature. She will make a welcome addition to our ranks," the Norman-thing told him as he proceeded to don Norman's favorite shirt and tie. "Well, ta ta. I must be getting off to work, or in your case, should I say getting off at work? Stay out of trouble, now. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Come to think of it, I guess you won't be doing much of anything at all, now will you?" The Norman-thing guffawed at its own wit. "Don't worry," it said, "we'll still have use for you after my research is done. You're going to make an excellent meal." It guffawed once more and seemed to glide out of the room, its pretense of human movement being dropped for the moment. Norman heard the side door to the house open and close. Then he heard the sound of the Lexus pulling out of the driveway and heading in the general direction of Norman's office.
A little while later, he heard the front door open and shut and the sound of high heels clacking their way down the slate path to the street. He supposed that he and his equally paralyzed spouse had the house to themselves for a little while.
Several hours seemed to pass as Norman lay there, his gaze fixated at the ceiling. His thoughts were distorted. Random images from his past assaulted him. The result of the mindworms grubbing about for information stored in his brain, he supposed. His mind was fuzzy, but he knew that there was something he should remember. Something under the bed. Oh yes. The grapefruit juice.
While he could not move his limbs in any coordinated manner, he had discovered during the past several hours that he could flex selected muscles. The Norman-thing had left him lying near the edge of the bed, for which he was now exceedingly grateful. He flexed his right arm suddenly, and his body almost fell over the edge. He lay there momentarily exhausted, but suddenly flexed his triceps and quadriceps simultaneously. His body teetered for what seemed like an eternity on the edge of the bed and then finally fell over.
He landed on the floor facing the paper bags under the bed. The bag containing the squirt gun lay only a few tantalizing inches from his nose. But in his present physical condition, those inches seemed like light years. He felt his mind grow faint and caught himself falling asleep. The work of the mindworms, he supposed. They knew his plan and were trying to put him out of commission. He supposed he had only a few moments of consciousness left. Somehow, the thought of drinking grapefruit juice filled his mind with nausea. It was just the mindworms talking again, he knew. He fought the incredible drowsiness that threatened to overwhelm him and managed to jerk his neck forward. His mouth fortuitously landed on the nozzle of the squirt gun. His hand lay on something within the bag that seemed very hopeful indeed. He pressed with his index finger and was rewarded with a squirt of grapefruit juice on his tongue. It tasted of acid and ammonia. He felt the mindworms panic inside him. Gaining renewed control over his body, he squeezed the trigger again. The grapefruit juice again flowed into his mouth, tasting sweeter this time. He emptied the gun into mouth, feeling the healing liquid pouring down his throat. He felt two worms dying inside his nasal passages as they tried to crawl out of his nostrils. He put a finger alternately on each side of his nose and blew the worms out of his body like so much snot. His vision blurred momentarily as one of the worms banged against the back of his retina in a frantic attempt to exit Norman's body through his eye socket.
Norman rose unsteadily to his feet. He blew his nose again, this time tastefully using a Kleenex tissue for that purpose. He examined the worm carcasses as they lay in quiet repose on the hanky, emitting a smoky acid vapor that Norman found most unpleasant. He wiped his eyes clear of worm "tears" and then flushed his collection of worm husks down the toilet.
He reloaded the squirt gun ("water cannon," he reminded himself), tucked an extra gallon of grapefruit juice under his arm and went down to await his nonhuman friends.
As he passed Clara's room, he briefly considered reviving Monica. The thought of enduring her conversation for the two hours remaining until dinnertime served as a strong deterrent to that plan, however. Instead, he continued down the stairs alone. His act of vigilanteism would be a solo mission.
The Monica-thing was the first to arrive. When she saw him sitting in the easy chair, she seemed surprised at first, gave him one of the warmest and most inviting smiles Norman had ever received.
"I have been waiting for this all day," she told him as she slipped the straps of her gown off her shoulders. "I hope you don't mind, Normy, but I can't wait until after dinner. I have to have you now, Normy," she said as she unhooked her black lace bra from the front. Her magnificent globes spilled out, a wondrous sight for Norm's sore eyes. (Norman had to force himself to remember that the soreness in his eyes was primarily the result of his recent bout of crying worm tears all over his bedroom floor.)
Despite himself, Norman felt himself growing hard at the sight of the Monica-thing's firm tits and belly, his body's sweet memories asserting their priority over his current mission. The higher centers of his brain retained just enough awareness to enable him to tug the trigger of the water cannon. The Monica-thing screamed when it was hit by the stream of grapefruit juice. Norman kept his finger on the trigger and directed the spray over every portion of the Monica-thing's body as if he were putting out a fire. At first, her face seemed to decompose. Soon half of it was bare skull. The eye in the remaining half had reverted to worms. Even they began to smoke and shrivel. Finally, the Monica-thing lost its bodily integrity and fell apart into its constituent worms, which then scattered across the carpet.
"You really should pull yourself together, my dear," Norman said in his best James Bond voice. He then hunted down the remaining worms, spraying them with the cannon, pouring juice straight from the jug onto them and crushing them beneath his feet.
He was more efficient with the Norman-thing. His wormy counterpart found itself hit with three gallons of grapefruit juice the moment it stepped through the door. The few worms that tried to escape Norman's wrath found themselves serving merely as recreational targets for Norman's increasingly accurate water cannon.
When the carnage was complete, Norman sat back in his easy chair and considered the situation. He supposed he should revive the original Monica, but why spoil an otherwise perfect evening? He looked down wistfully at the low cut evening gown the Monica-thing had been wearing when she arrived home, which now lay piled in a heap on the living room carpet. She had been a truly magnificent creature.
After a few minutes, Norma arose from the chair. He supposed he should contact the police, the project Blue Book people or maybe even the Globe and warn them about the danger. As if they would believe him. More likely, he would end his days in some loony bin, painting seascapes and drooling as he shuffled unsteadily down some pastel-colored corridor in his open-back hospital pajamas.
He walked out of his house aimlessly, headed vaguely in the direction of the police station as he considered his options. Suddenly, he noticed his neighbor leaning over the fence and beckoning him. It was Helga Anderson, and her breasts were magnificently tanned as they dangled over the pickets. As was only neighborly, Norman ambled across the lawn to talk to her. As he drew nearer, he could see that something had definitely changed about Helga. Her skin seemed to glow. Her blond hair seemed
longer and fuller than it had ever been, her breasts even larger than he remembered. When he came within reaching distance, she touched his arm, and he once again felt the familiar electric charge surge through his body. He became instantly erect, throbbing with the need for better communion with his neighbor. The irises of the Helga-thing's eyes began to spiral, and he gazed into them transfixed. Perhaps he was being too hasty about this police business, he thought. Our new nonhuman friends have much to offer us. All we really need to do is drink our grapefruit juice regularly (and in great quantities). Surely, that would not be too great a price to pay for fabulous relations with our neighbors and friends (although as Norman tongued his cheek, he realized that he would have to do something about all the canker sores this juice drinking was giving him). He smiled back at the Helga-thing. Yes, this was going to be a fine new world to live in, he thought, as he climbed over the fence, wrapped his arms around the Helga-thing, and began to escort her in the general direction of her house.
The End.
Real Selfish Lover Pat
I was 23 when I met Pat, who was 42 at the time. We were work colleagues and got on really well. Pat had dark hair hanging lustrously loose and a super pair of legs. She wore skirts every day and my gaze often followed her legs and ass around the room at work, or in the bar.
I'm not sure why, but we just clicked and the company was good socially. I would often be on nights out when other work colleagues went out, even the weekend. And then came the night I drunkenly approached Pat and began a conversation about her merits. At the time, she was on the verge of splitting from her husband and I'd not long ended a relationship so my compliments were well received, despite them being very explicit.
"Pat, why don't you come back with me for a bit before you go home?" I asked her.