After flailing about for a few panicked seconds against the bed's murderous advances she managed to say his name - CLIVE IDAHO. her voice unaltered by the throttling as if the thing that made her speak (her voice box) was some other place other than in her throat; or she had excessively strong throat muscles.
Either way she calmly added, “I was wondering when I'd hear from my wackiest Acquisition again. Doctor Weird. Ulster Meltdown, eh?” she goaded her unseeable assailant.
Oliver Connecticut on his feet, sweating from shock, awestruck by the sight of Lily and the bed becoming one.
“I suppose you know about his mother and his little sister, you murdering bitch.” the bed screamed in Clive Idaho’s voice.
“Mm.” Lily Veyne groaned ecstatically, “Most entertaining watching the big boy split his only sister and that fat bitch of a mother with his big manish cock, eh Oliver? He doesn’t give a shit. Doesn’t even know what he’s done, the daft prat. Should have seen the blood shooting high into the room. They'd have screamed I'm sure if it weren't for the masking tape I'd got the brute to wrap round their petrified faces. A glorious mess... but of course, you've seen this, yes?”
“YESSS.” the bed spasmed, collapsing in around itself; gulping Lily Veyne in so that only the five toes on her one socked foot were visible from the twisting mangling wreckage.
“So, you've come her to finally wipe me off the planet?” she didn’t sound scared.
“You got it.”
“Not so easy, I'm afraid.”
“You think so?”
The bed tightened around her, the splintering of wood and the twanging of springs almost deafening.
Amid the violence of creaking metal and splintering framework, Lily Veyne could just be heard, “Remember that ravenous little monster down in nice Mr Rhisland's cellar? Remember the way its horrible snouted little face looked? Remember the stink of decay? Remember the noise it made? You know, that soft pitying whimper that so screwed up Barry late at night? The things I had to put myself through to convert that to our cause.” she shuddered.
The strangling stopped.
Lily Veyne remarked, “What have I done with it, you’re wondering? What new horrors have I given it a taste for? What is such a revolting creature now truly capable of?”
Clive heard a scrabbling noise somewhere deep in the foundations of the house.
“You're bluffing.” Clive Idaho got back to the job of rubbing out this unsightly blemish from the face of humanity. A hungry grunt, a snuffling sound, stopped Clive Idaho in his tracks. Lily Veyne burst out laughing.
“I could be just a very good ventriloquist.” she jested, “Or...”
Scrabbling, scraping, scuffling noises got instantly and terrifyingly close.
“You nasty piece of shiiii.......” Clive Idaho roared, releasing his grip on the woman and scuttling back into the bedroom wall to check on the state of affairs.
An unseen reeking presence hit him head-on like a juggernaut. The bedroom shook. Rugby plaques fell from the walls. Trophies toppled from the cabinet top. Beneath the wallpaper a Hellish campaign was underway. Two large wallpaper shapes surfaced and dived. Thunder rocked the entire house. Lily Veyne couldn't take her eyes off the confrontation. A wet, red smear darkened the far wall. A muffled scream rang out. Lily Veyne cheered on her combatant.
Oliver Connecticut looked on, his thoroughly expended cock like a tattered length of thick drift rope between his legs. The shapes vanished suddenly. Eager not to miss a single blow, Lily Veyne dashed out of the bedroom following the fleeing pleas and screams of young Mr Idaho.
Downstairs they tumbled. Popping a hail of nails from the staircarpet. Dislodging the few mementoes there on the wall as Lily Veyne ducked down the steps through broken glass, ceramic and nails after them. Into the living room. Turned upside down by the ferocious pursuit.
“Get him!” she screamed, insane with excitement, “Get him!”
A bloodstain streaked across the white ceiling towards the kitchen. Lily Veyne dashed for the door. The dead body of Mrs Oregon was thrown from the kitchen table into the slaking gore of her dead daughter's entrails. Her ripped open mass alongside the frailty of her fucked-wide-open daughter quite an artistic composition; a creation of corruption. The two warring entities exploded through the oven, shooting off the door, then dived deep to the foundations of the house.
The storm settled. Dust coated every sorrowful surface. Lampshades swing. The socket in the living room sparked with electricity. The TV played fog to itself . Lily Veyne had her hands on her hips quietly surveying the decimated residence. She inhaled proudly; her smile extending to at least a foot wide, maybe more.
Then, immediately stern faced, comments, “Time to start sorting out my crew, I think.” Bellowed abrupt arrogant laughter as the lumbering figure of Oliver Connecticut staggered drunkenly into the living room.
“Wow.” his only comment on the destruction.
“More than WOW, my fine-end, this is a calling to WAR.”
SESSION XVII
FRACTAL FUX the living neon sign above a nondescript black door, at the end of a snaking cess-pit back alley Stephanie insisted on dragging me down in her juvenile, hyperactive way, read.
“Fractal Fux, D.J.. This is where it's at.” her pupils were massive with excitement.
She had the portable dentist's drill in her right hand and was revving it playfully, malevolently.
“And what are we gonna do with that?” I tried to feign flippancy; even giving a mischievous flick of my new body's black eyebrows.
“Wanna show you … everything.” she was a bright star carving a slow curve across a Winter sky. “Wanna spill the beans, D.J. give the whole game away.” She revved the tiny drill-head again, the mad professor's glazed look in her eyes. She watched me for a long time, as if delving deep into me; searching for some hidden extra-sensory weaponry; was about to say something profound or ask something truly mindblowing; then stopped herself. Just like that. The ribbon cut. She knocked three times then two times then three times again on the thin black-metal door.
A golden hole appear in the door at head height.
Stephanie pulled up her torn black top, revealing her breasts (amazing social etiquette) and the gold hole disappeared. The door slid open. An ornately decorated mock-Georgian hallway stretched into the golden haze.
“Come on.” Stephanie stepped into the hallway.
“The usual?” the corridor asked.
“You bet.” Stephanie smiled unnervingly at me. A way down the corridor on the left an opening happened in the eighteen-caret decor.
“Always a service, never a chore.” the corridor chirruped an overdone parody of job-well- done satisfaction. Yeah, I know this sounds like a fucking Douglas Adams steal but it's not my fault; I only write down whatever takes place. Don't kill the messenger.
“We can rest here for tonight. The guy who runs the conglomerate owes me a favour. Such a substantial favour that whenever I've nowhere to stay for the night I just pop into one of these lovely places and lay my poor shagged-out body to rest.” Stephanie began to undress as the opening I had just stepped through into this what can only be described as your everyday run-of-the-mill hotel room closed behind me to leave no evidence of it ever existing. I touched the faded wallpaper where the door had been and it was again, opening onto the golden haze of the hallway.
“Stop messing with that and swing your tight arse over here by me. Keep me warm tonight.” she gasped
I turned around.
Stephanie was now fully naked, knelt up on the bed, the telephone in her hand. Who could she be dialling at this time of night?
I raced over and snatched the thing from her suddenly freaked out with suspicion, “Who are you calling?”
“Relax…” she snatches it back.
I snatched it back off her.
She tried to reclaim the apparatus but was just too slow.
She lurched off the bed and chased me to the place in the room wher
e it opened onto the hallway. I rushed through; the telephone in my hand. It disappeared, the telephone that is, with a tiny, vacuum-filling pop; an air burp. There was a tiny thunderclap inside the room behind Stephanie accompanied by a small flash of electric blue light as the telephone rematerialises on the bedside cabinet.
“Now, if that's the end of the monkey-business?” she invited me back into the tacky chalet with a wide sweeping arm gesture and a soft curtsy.
I made an embarrassed cough and, er, well, I just, er, I just went back in. The wall closed silently behind me.
“Get undressed.” Stephanie dived into the small integral bathroom facility, “I shall be but fleeting moments.” She blew me a kiss.
What had I let myself in for?
Sexual intercourse with Stephanie was actually a lot more enjoyable then I'd anticipated/feared the vixen's amorous onslaught would be. Having been a man and only God knows what else before she knew exactly what she wanted from me and was absolutely direct and to the point at how to go about getting it; achieving the desired result, several times in a row.
No false display of feminine sensuality from this one. No teasing open-crotch centre-spread that was meant to get the cock bulging but merely reminded a bloke of the fish supper he’d thrown up the night before. No absolutely unsensual baby-talk wetness in the ear. None of that quaint, ‘..oh, can I suck on your lollipop, mister..’ bollocks. No bravado performance of Mozart's Don Giovanni in your earhole as the violence gained apace. No faked-orgasm aria so common among insecure whores overkeen to please a client. Just the right amount of everything ... a perfect presentation.
Her screams of pleasure were ... dignified? Her writhing not too erratic ... controllable? Her kisses were fucking mad though ... all long wet tongues and neighing and whinnying even baying at the back of her throat in her horsy alien way. I couldn’t breathe at one point and thought I was dead for sure, I could feel the constricted jugular vein on the left side throbbing in my neck, pounding, pumping.
Her cunt was nice and moist for unaided penetration; it's delicious penile remnant encoiling me as I entered her, a tickling and teasing intimate mandible along the veiny underside of my cock; striking tingles from my balls; causing my back to dance electric-spasms sending static through my body; shooting pleasure rainbows into her, illuminating her begging domain; lighting up her entire equine visage with absolute delight at having finally conquered me; another notch on her bedpost.
Then it got weird.
I’ve mentioned, the speed and expertise of Stephanie’s seduction hadn't left much time for me to '..ponder the landscape..' shall we say.
Now, lying totally fucked in the damp wreckage of her bed, her half-shaven head on my hairless boy-chest, I could see the tattoos all over her body. Not ink tattoos like the world famous adornments to the backs of Yakuza hard men, but flesh tattoos; designs raised from the substrata of veins and follicles. Drawn through epidermic impulse into pictorial realisation. Tattoos of the mind; a living twenty-four square foot canvas. Imagery delicate and intricate while at the same time brutal, kaleidoscopic depictions of her sleeping psyche; the tool at the root of their hewing.
When I touched one of the skin forms (an interesting little icon with long legs, horns and spiny back) it dissolved. Skis through snow. Turned to an oily residue. A blurred memory of its former symbolism.
Stephanie stirred in her sleep, alien keystrokes danced across her lips. The destruction I had just caused instantly repaired by her dreamy design. I brushed a hand through an entire phalanx of dermoforms, down her back and over her buttocks, drawing a greasy trail through the carnage. Again Stephanie shuddered against sleep’s cotton wool embrace.
Imagery rebuilt.
Icons reformatted.
A game… I shuffled round on the sopping mattress, settling myself into pole position. A cold rasping sound escaped her throat like over rich choux pastry. I drew my right hand up the back of her legs, from the skin-tattooed ball of her right foot; across the wrinkles of her arch; smoothly over the heel; up the Achilles tendon taught as wire; ever-so-recklessly disfiguring imagery into a slurry of sleep shudders and rambling back brain feedback. Up the calf with an open hand. Plunging into the trough at the back of her knee. Up the inside of the thigh.
Stephanie shuddering more and more violently with every tentative inch of ascension. Up to the calligraphisized gash. Grasping her vagina as the jolting movements became a cold shiver, wet and clammy as you like. Massaging memories of vaginal calligraphy up over that wonderfully white arse.
Stephanie sobbed a deep dark ditch of ecstasy.
I allowed myself a nasty little laugh, forcefully now along the corrugation of ribcage, up the back of her right arm, annihilating dreams she jabbers at the disturbing intensity of the cerebral turmoil; on up the neck blending jugular vein into ear over the crest of skull over temple and cheek. Sliming beyond my most ludicrous expectation. A ritual reorganisation.
She rolled her shoulders onto me. Drew her legs up into a foetal attitude. Then exploded poker rigid as the skin re-bled its magnificent tapestry. Dry ice on her upper lip condensed to marbled beads.
I dragged my disgusting hand down her throat, over her prominent clavicles, wiping dreams to sludge, molesting her tiny nippleless breasts again and again, just rubbing the flesh to a slaking treacle, down to the barbwire defending the stigmata that so flamboyantly bisects her thighs. And in. Finger by finger to a grand total of three. Then crowbarring in the little piggy finger. Stephanie aghast, her mouth ripped wide open by the horror of her manipulated slumber.
I plunged my tongue into her mouth, tasting the tannin of its curious catfur coating. The charcoal scent of her tortured sighs as she grinds down on my entire hand. Choking on the whole. The brailed calligraphy of her vulva restamping entrance codes on the back of my hand. Over and over, reprinting, rescanning….
I whipped out my fist with one sharp tug. Stephanie’s body flipped into the air. A creamy exegesis scintillated the already manky mattress.
Again a readjustment of position saw me taking a jockey’s pose, perched upon her steaming thighs. Hands plunged deep into the body gore. Hands either side of her. Body Wanking. Clawfists now dredging through clavicle candy and breast fat, rib gristle and belly meat. Thumbs crashing over her gaping pudenda. Restructuring the Sanskrit on velum into a grossly lacerated cold custard fantasy.
The harder and faster I dug up the dirt, the more intense and intricate its reinterpretation. A singularly complex cry escaped her. She bucked underneath, nearly unseating me. Digging my heals in, my percheron bucked on. Eyes nailed shut. Screwed tight. Intoxicating fumes of aniseed and ozone lifted off her like a ground fog on a chilling Autumn dawn. She arched her back an unbelievable angle. I pressed on, driving my hands through the slurry of her breasts and they seemed to dislodge…
Stephanie snapped awake.
Saw me over her.
Saw her displaced breasts.
“Now you know…” she seemed proud, as if something really important had just been achieved. “..the cat is well and truly out of the bag.” she gasped, reaching across the bed for the telephone, “This you will like…”
She tapped in a five digit number. “Think of a name… Got one?”
“Man or a woman?” I asked…
“Don’t matter.”
“Okay.”
She got a call connected tone and held the handset to my mouth, “Say it, now! You only get one chance!”
I chose something classy, “Jane Templeton Rice.”
Stephanie tossed the telephone aside.
Tumbling through the air, it drew a rainbow trail of fibres emancipating the stinking sweat and other trace elements present in the claustrophobic atmosphere, a biogenetic ululation. The glowing fibres knotted together as the air was whipped up icy cold and naked, a visibly emaciated redhead woman hit the floor with a resounding thump. The landed trout glistening wetly as frontal lobe hyper stimulation waves scampered through her freshly formed f
emininity. Her eyelids came open like beetle wings revealing eyes as clear as copper sulphate crystals. The red central blemish on her freckled forehead. Burst blood vessel? Tilka?
“Tchick, tchick.” Stephanie clicked her teeth, as if to a dog. Her cold wet body still beneath me gave out a final involuntary spasm.
“Here, girlie…” she called to the teleported female, congratulating me, “Nice piece of work. For an apprentice..” she beamed maniacally, reaching for the fairground dentist’s toy and making it whirr and whiz as the redhead I had baptised Jane Templeton Rice began to crawl towards us slowly slipping into character. A sinister crossbreed of sturm und drang.
“Hold out the pretty hand for me…” Stephanie the contralto.
The redhead held out her left hand.
Before I could comprehend what was going on, Stephanie shoved the dentist’s drillbit right under the nail of Jane’s index finger. Tugging out a red fibre from under the nail that stretches to a length of six or seven inches. The redhead passed out.
“What are you doing?” I exclaimed.
“Nerves of steel, these whores.” Stephanie slithered from beneath me extricating the long red fibre from under my Jane’s index fingernail. She wrapped the bleeding fibre round her right hand, playing out a few extra yards, “Nerves of steel.”
The hand became a glistening ball of fibre in the blink of an eye. She knelt up on the bed in front of me, “This will blow your fucking mind.”
She pulled her breasts right off.
Just ripped them off with her free hand and stuffed the nerve-swathed ball into each gangrenously gaping hole in turn until the hand cleared. She raised her head to the ceiling and lets out a single tone. An operatic A flat minor. And, wow, if this horse-faced girl didn’t just sprout monofilament wings from the holes that used to house her breasts. If they didn’t just unfurl and dry to crisp Perspex wafers beating to the pulse of her racing heart. If she didn’t just flap those microfine wings and rise gracefully into the air. Back arched. Singing tone poems and laughing daydreams.
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