What a fucking freak, 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, fuck, fuck, 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’ll 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 scream, 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 make 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 Morley got 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 mi
nimal 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 . . .
Ten Minutes in the Eighties
Alison Tyler
For ten minutes in the eighties, I was beautiful.
I’ve been beautiful since, but never like that.
Never again.
Before those magical ten minutes took place, I not only wasn’t beautiful, I was hardly noticeable. Simply put, I was just another lowly freshman at UCLA, one of 40,000 others who called the campus home. Shy, insecure, terrified – those three adjectives fit me perfectly. In a land of voluptuous vixens and bottle blondes I had no idea that, with my sleek build and darkly mysterious features, I was far more than pretty. It never occurred to me that men would – and did – find me attractive or that all of the things girls lay awake at night and hope will happen to them would eventually happen for me.
Rather than put myself in a position to be rejected I didn’t give the guys a chance to approach. I kept my peers at a safe distance by creating a mood of constant motion. I hurried to class, spent hours studying in various libraries around campus, and used my free time cultivating miscellaneous interests as a deejay at the college station and a flunkey on the student paper. I was a good girl all year long until the end of spring finals, when I finally let down my guard and got drunk with the rest of the students on my dorm floor. With no prior drinking experience I downed five beers in one hour, and wound up, to the great surprise of my dormmates, making snow angels on the cool turquoise-and-white tiles of the bathroom floor. Five beers will knock out any lightweight. And at five foot three, and 105 pounds, I was a lightweight.
In the morning I experienced my first-ever hangover. For hours, I lay on the slim twin bed and stared at the ceiling, willing the rushing sound in my head to subside. When I eventually took a chance at walking upright, I realized that I’d missed the cafeteria’s sole Saturday daytime meal. If I wanted to eat I’d have to wait until six p.m., or fend for myself. Miserable, but yearning for sustenance, I took a taxi a mile off campus to the nearest grocery store. For a long time I wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles, filled with an overpowering craving for something, anything, but not knowing precisely what. After choosing two items with the care that some women use when buying expensive jewelry, I took my place in line at the checkout. My self-prescribed day-after cure was a bottle of tomato juice and a can of Pringles (the only things in the whole store that seemed even mildly appealing).
It was while I was standing there with my red plastic basket in hand that I started to become beautiful.
I didn’t know the transformation was happening right away. All I knew was that the handsome, dark-haired, forty-something man next to me in line was staring at me, his head angled so that he could look at me over his shades. I felt myself flush, pale skin turning scarlet, embarrassed because I had on the clothes I’d worn during the festivities the evening before, the clothes I’d ultimately slept all night in: faded blue jeans, a rah-rah-style University T-shirt in Bruin colors, and a thin navy blue hoodie. My turbulent raven curls had escaped from their standard ponytail style, falling well past my shoulders to reach the middle of my back. Purple smudges of fatigue made my brown eyes look even darker than usual. I hadn’t bothered with makeup of any kind.
Nervousness made me bite into my bottom lip. I felt over-exposed beneath the fluorescent lighting and underprepared for a confrontation with a stranger. I tried to look extremely interested in the multitude of processed foods filling the fat woman’s cart in front of me, but I felt the man staring relentlessly, and so I slowly turned to face him. As if encouraged by my action, he took a step closer to me and, in a low, soft voice, he whispered, “You have a look.”
The way he said the words gave me an unexpected wave of confidence. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep talking. I don’t know precisely why, but I met him head on and said, “The drunken, slept in my clothes, barely post-hangover look?”
He shook his head. “That’s not it. Something else. Something special.”
I bit my lip again, harder this time. Here was a true Hollywood-style line, but I was no Hollywood starlet. Flustered and confused, I looked down at my white Keds, looked out the window at the half-filled parking lot, looked up at the bars of ugly lighting. Suddenly it was my turn to pay for my groceries, and I fumbled in my pocket for my folded bills, then grabbed the change and my small paper bag of supplies and started to leave the store. The man abandoned his own few items on the gray conveyor belt and hurried after me.
“Where are you going?” he asked, his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t flinch away from him, but I pulled back, surprised by the power in his touch.
“Back to campus. I have a cab over there—” I gestured to the far corner of the parking lot. The blacktop glittered where shards of broken glass had melted into the oily asphalt.
“Tell him to go. I’ll take you.” He hesitated, as if he could sense the insecurity that had cloaked me for so many years, as if he could actually feel it. “Anywhere,” he promised, “I’ll take you. Wherever you need. Wherever you want to go.”
I looked at him carefully. Here was the exact situation my parents had spent my entire teenage life worrying about and doing their best to protect me from. I was going to take a ride with a man I didn’t know. And all their warding off of evil spirits did nothing to stop me. For some reason I obeyed his command, paying off the cab and following him to the expensive, shiny silver sports car parked nearby. The car gleamed like foil in the bright sunlight.
“You should never accept a ride with a stranger,” he told me severely as he opened the passenger door. “Especially a stranger in Los Angeles.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you choosing to ride with me?”
I smiled. I had been given the perfect answer. “You have a look,” I said, and he laughed as he got into the driver’s side and then slid an unmarked cassette into the tape deck. “I’m a music producer,” he told me. “I just heard this tape for the first time. The boy’s going to be huge.”
It was Terence Trent D’Arby’s “Introducing the Hardline According to . . .” and that music is embedded in my mind as a soundtrack to what happened next. The man drove me to his house high up in the Hollywood Hills where the movie stars live. He led me through the huge, well-decorated rooms, all the way to the mammoth patio in back. There, he gently took my clothes off my body and had me touch myself while he watched. And I was beautiful. For ten minutes in the eighties, I was so beautiful it was hard to handle.
I’d never done something like this before. Technically, I was a virgin. I’d had some kissing experience in high school, some backseat petting at a local drive-in theater, but shyness had kept me pure. Now, in the heat of the day, I touched myself while a stranger watched. I ran my hands over my body. I let my fingertips graze my nipples until they stood up hard and erect. I kept my eyes on the man as I let one hand wander lower, reaching to touch my pussy while he watched. The pool behind him was a true, aqua blue. The sky above matched that Technicolor brightness. Standing
there on the tiled deck, looking out at his multi million dollar view, I put on a show with my nakedness and my roving touch.
“That’s right,” he said, nodding, his voice hoarse as if he were as surprised by my actions as I was. “Do that.”
He was seated on a deck chair, with his hands on his thighs, his sunglasses low down on his nose so he could look at me over the rim. I felt power in being naked. Felt a power in the way he drank in every touch of my fingertips on my stripped-bare skin. It was as if he were touching me as well. When my fingers found the wetness coating my lips, he sighed before I did. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, arching my slim hips forward, running my hands over my hipbones. The tiles were hot under my bare feet. The air was still and clear. My hair tickled against my naked back. My eyelashes fluttered against my cheeks.
I knew that he wouldn’t touch me. Not unless I invited him to. Not unless I asked. But I didn’t. I didn’t need anything from him except his gaze. Because the way he stared at me – that’s what did it. That was the magic that made me beautiful. I used my fingers to spread my nether lips wide apart. I ran my thumbs up and down over the ridge of my clit, first my right thumb, then my left, then both together, vying for control, until I knew that I was seconds away from coming. I touched myself harder, my eyes closed tighter, my whole body flexed as I waited for the change to take me away.
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