Wrath James White presents Poisoning Eros I & II

by Monica J. O'Rourke

  The Italian’s penis had survived but a violent contraction of her rectum had crushed it into a bleeding lump that resembled a tube of liver pate. He didn’t utter a sound. He just stared at the mangled meat between his legs, dripping blood from his urethra onto the floor, his mouth twisted into a silent scream and his eyes bulging and quivering. Still, his presence was distracting her from her goal, the only thing she wanted right now, her one true love. She glanced at the Italian, who stood in a widening puddle of his own blood, piss and shit, the veins and chords in his neck standing out prominently, the scream trapped in his throat. He smelled like a charnel house.

  “Come here,” she said, but he didn’t move. Going to him would be too much of an effort; too much of a distraction from her real passion. But it didn’t matter because moments later he was dead, or sure as hell looked like it. She doubted the blood loss had caused it, not this quickly. But it didn’t matter anyway. She certainly could not have cared less about his life or his pain. This was the type of man who had used her in her past life. He was the type of man who bought and sold women like her. She had been a victim for so long that a bit of revenge would have felt good. It had felt great ordering him around like her own personal sex toy. Making him scream would have felt even better.

  She inched over to the dead Italian and shook him, hoping he was still alive, hoping he was faking. Hoping he could still feel. His body toppled over, and she laid him on his back.

  Her hand moved to the mangled ruin that had been his dick. Gloria slid one of her sharp talons into his bleeding piss-hole, using the claw to tunnel deeper, coring out his cock like she was seeding an apple, boring down into it until his penis began to rupture and split. He screamed and clasped his hands onto her wrist, trying to pry her claw from inside his cock. Gloria smiled and resumed drilling into the Italian’s brutalized member.

  An ear piercing howl tore from his lungs as his cock split into bleeding strips and she continued digging up into his guts as he struggled beneath her grip.

  “That hurts! Please! Pleeeeeease! It hurts! It fucking hurrrrts!”

  “Ahhh, you were faking!” she cried, laughing, shoving several fingers deeper inside him. Shoving one of her long sharp talons deep inside his anus, coring it out as he screamed and convulsed. Blood poured from his rectum like rainwater through a gutter as her claws carved out his asshole and the orifice where his cock once dangled, now resembling a menstruating vagina, until it was little more than a ring of lacerated pink flesh like a half-eaten grapefruit. She clamped his hands behind his head and sat on them.

  “Please! God! Oh god, noooo!” he begged, choking, sobbing. “Pleeeeeease!” His screams tapered off into gurgling noises as his mouth filled with blood and his eyes rolled back into his head.

  Gloria grinned, loving the sound of his voice, loving his pleads. She finger fucked him while he bucked and thrashed beneath her. Her free hand trailed along his abdomen, claws raking lightly, drawing pink lines along the flesh. She leaned forward until her cunt rested on his face. “Suck my clit,” she said. “Get me off.”

  But he wasn’t able to do much with his tongue. He had already begun to convulse in what were probably his death throes, but Gloria wasn’t done with him yet.

  She lowered herself until his face was buried, her powerful legs pinning his arms against the floor. He bucked furiously beneath her, trying to breathe. Before he could suffocate and end her fun, Gloria dug deeper into his crotch, her entire fist inside him now. With her other hand she trailed her claws around his belly button, drawing small circles that widened with each turn and eventually began to tunnel inside his stomach, round and round and deeper and deeper, peeling away layer after layer of skin until her hand plunged inside his body, feeling his warm wetness up to her wrist, and deeper now, tunneling farther and farther inside his body until her hands met inside him.

  He spasmed once, his bowels evacuating, and he finally lay still. This time she knew he wasn’t faking.

  “Selfish fucker,” she said, pulling out of his quickly cooling body, bloody chunks of entrails coating her hands. “I didn’t even cum.”

  She sat beside the dead Italian and took in her surroundings.

  Across the room the dead prince lay in a ruined heap, a puddle of blood surrounding his body like a chalk outline. Blond Boy had managed to escape with everything still attached and was hovering in a corner, his arms wrapped around his head. He was shivering and sobbing, saliva and snot dribbling down his face.

  But Gloria ignored him for now. She had pressing things to attend to. Her addiction was calling. On hands and knees she scuttled across the floor, dragging the little paper bag along in her bloodied fist. She squatted against the wall, bringing the bag up to her face, her exceptional sense of smell detecting the contents of the bag before she even opened it. She was beyond salivating now. Head pounding, palms sweating, mouth and tongue slick with a coating like moss and decay, remembering those days, remembering it all, remembering the incredible highs, the exhilarating sense of freedom. Remembering what she had been denied, what she had been missing all these years.

  She would have that again. Finally, finally! After suffering in hell, after suffering through hell, Gloria would be free, just like old times, just like she used to be, exactly like—

  Exactly like she used to be.

  She glanced at the Italian, suddenly aware of what she had done, of how much pleasure she had experienced while doing it.

  And the room was a charnel house: the odors of death, reeking of quickly rotting body parts, of swiftly coagulating thick and pungent blood mixed with excrement, bowels evacuated in terror and demise. Ruined bodies, ended lives. And she in the middle of it, her beautiful ebony skin ruined by the tattoos of misery and tortured deaths. She had truly become a demon after all. She had become something she despised. She had become Vlad.

  Inside was an array of pills and powder-filled baggies and balloons, and she could easily identify each one. And each was tempting in its own right, even now, even after she saw what she’d become, or what she was fast becoming. The realization scared the shit out of her because she wanted to be in control. But what was she doing? Fucking around. Obeying Vlad like a mindless drone and going through the motions, pretending to play the part of some demigod demon when she suddenly realized she had no control whatsoever. Why? What exactly had he promised her? What did it even fucking matter what he had promised?

  She squeezed the bag, clutching it against her chest. What did it matter, indeed.

  Inside was a buffet of uppers, downers, psychotropics, hallucinogenics, amphetamines, and opiates, and whatever the hell else Vlad had thrown into the mix. She considered and reconsidered her options, knowing this was her chance to break free, her chance to finally redeem herself, regain control.

  She parted the edges of the bag and glanced inside.

  “Fuck it,” she said right before she plunged her face in, her tongue scooping up half the contents and sucking them back into her throat.

  *

  It was one of those tragic realities of life that victims inevitably became victimizers, that they find some way to transfer their pain and humiliation onto others. There was no longer any reason to resist. She was beyond addiction now. She existed for no other purpose but to consume, corrupt, indulge. She was now, thoroughly, a creature of hell.

  She didn’t care.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Blond Boy. “It’s your lucky day,” she said to the shivering, cowering mess in the corner of the room. Thoughts of eviscerating him fled her mind. He didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing but this incredible feeling of ecstasy flooding her brain.

  Blond Boy slowly looked up, his eyes squinting, his body trembling and covered with the splattered blood and gore of the dead. “Wha-ut?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Get out!” she screamed, feeling guilty for what she’d done but wanting so badly to do it again, to feel that power. Resisting the urge because of a sudden overwhe
lming feeling of empathy but knowing the feeling might not last. He would be wise to get the hell out while he still could.

  Blond Boy wasted no time scurrying to his feet, fleeing the room without bothering to retrieve the clothes that were in a heap somewhere in the room.

  *

  Vlad had been busy preparing the room for her. An ornate glass and gold hookah filled with opium and marijuana was within arm’s distance. She settled in against a stack of throw pillows and took a hit off the ever-lit hookah. Then she scooped a long claw into a bowl filled with heroin and brought it to her nose, snorting the drug now dusted with dried flecks of blood and small intestine. Until now she had managed to avoid the drugs, believing they would be the final unraveling, the catalyst to the ultimate depths of perversion she had tried to avoid. Sex was one thing—hell, sex was something warm and familiar and indulgent, another high, another of her many addictions—but drugs were something else. Something beyond the chemical high, beyond the ephemeral psychedelic feeling of want, of need, of the pinnacle of understanding. Drugs were a life force, a purpose, a sense of being unmatched by an army of mindless, suffering parasites that surrounded her when all she wanted was to actually feel something. Drugs gave her that. Drugs gave her a sense of purpose. Drugs made her forget everything she never wanted to remember in the first place. Like her stupid bitch of a daughter.

  *

  Above the basement chamber Vlad had turned into a gaudy sanctuary for Gloria’s worship and worshippers was the rest of a church, St. Bernadette’s, one of the oldest on Manhattan’s lower East side. Closed down for years now because of ruin: a crumbling back wall; the stations of the cross—imported from Paris in the late 1800s—defiled, destroyed; a carved marble and Caen stone altar built by a Benedictine monk cracked and ruined by man and weather and apparent neglect. But it proved the perfect refuge for Gloria’s followers, a place for squatters to worship undisturbed, forsaken by the very neighborhood that once fought to keep the doors open. But the city abandoned it, and Gloria’s legion now called it home.

  Those who hadn’t been killed by Gloria believed they were safe, untouchable, that she had for some reason spared them, making them more loyal. They brought her new recruits daily, extending their own longevity that much more. They adored her—this demon, this goddess, the beacon of light who would deliver them from the mundane, who would deliver them to the depths of hell and beyond.

  And she was an incredible fuck, and quite generous with sexual pursuits. She was insatiable, she was perfection. She was their god.

  Gloria, stoned out of her mind, wandered the basement hallways, searching for something elusive, something she had been thinking about just moments before but was no longer accessible in her mind. That didn’t matter. She figured if she wandered around long enough it would come back to her. She marveled at how closely this corridor resembled hell, with its dank, steamy atmosphere and dark, almost tarry walls. Vlad outdid himself this time, though she found it a bit depressing, found herself somehow longing for the familiarity of hell. These surroundings, this body, being back on solid ground … it was all somehow unsettling. She felt lost, without meaning and purpose. The drugs helped fill that void, but even that was lacking. The mindless, suffering, unwashed masses waiting for her upstairs had become tedious, more like work than pleasure. Gloria would never admit to an existential angst, not in this form, not in this reality. She knew she didn’t really exist, didn’t belong anywhere no matter what Vlad told her, so what was there to be existential about? Or angst-ridden for that matter?

  Her followers were forbidden from entering the basement unless invited. Gloria climbed the stairs and entered the narthex, waiting in the shadows. The crowd was restless, aimlessly wandering around the church or huddled together in makeshift beds on the pews.

  No one noticed Gloria when she first approached. In their presence, she felt omni-conscious of her inhumanity, the strength, the lethal power rippling beneath her glistening black skin. For several minutes she stood silently in the back of the church, observing the nonchalant arrogance in the room. How stupid of them to be so cavalier, as if no one in the outside world would object to what they were doing. They were lucky not to have been assailed by the pious overzealous fools who fear and despise those who oppose the Christian church. This was more than careless; this was painfully foolish.

  Finally someone noticed her, before she spoke. A gasp, and then a cry, followed by a chorus of moans and exaltations, people scrambling to their feet in a flurry of bows and genuflections. Gloria shook her head, clicked her finger-claws along the wood of the back pew. The room grew silent as they waited for Gloria to speak.

  “What are you doing?” she asked quietly, unsure yet how she wanted to proceed. The bloodlust was gone for now; she felt calm, at peace, but she also knew that once the effects of the drugs wore off, so would her serenity.

  No one answered. They looked at one another, pained, puzzled expressions on their faces.

  “I asked you a question!” she felt dizzy, unfocused, the drugs were clouding her thoughts making her feel suddenly vulnerable, afraid, and that… was making her mean, like a wounded animal.

  No one volunteered to respond. They hung their heads and stood in stunned silence.

  Finally, a young man stepped forward from his hiding place behind a great marble pillar. He held his trembling hands out to her, his black monk’s robe too big for his small frame, the hood obscuring much of the curly black hair on his head. “Muh-mistress? We, we were waiting for you.”

  Gloria licked her lips and stopped scratching the wood. “And what were you waiting for? What did you expect would happen?”

  He shrugged, and his dark skin had gone ashy. His hands shook more than ever. “I don’t know, Mistress,” he whispered. “Wuh-we were waiting for you to tell us what to do …”

  Gloria stepped closer to the young man, and he squeezed his eyes shut. A single tear fell. “Why are you crying?” she demanded.

  “I’m afraid,” he whispered, looking like he wanted to crawl inside the pillar. “You’re so … so mighty. So powerful. I don’t nuh-know what you might …” He didn’t finish the thought.

  She stepped before him now, and using a claw pushed the hood back. Her hand caressed his head, and his lips trembled at the touch, his body shaking. “You’re wise to fear me,” she told him, and then turned to the rest of the followers. “You would be wise to fear me! I could … I could … I could kill all of you!” she exclaimed as she almost staggered into their midst as the room swirled, her mind reeling from the stew of narcotics surging through her blood.

  She felt like she was losing herself. Her own voice, her words, felt alien, as if they were coming from someone else. This arrogance and grandiosity wasn’t her. It was the drugs. This was how she sounded when she was high. This demon had been inside her long before her flesh wore its reflection on the outside.

  Almost at once the rest of the followers fell to their knees.

  Gloria smirked. This wasn’t what she wanted. A flock of mindless toadies doing her bidding with no real purpose? What was the point? Why were they even here?

  “Get up!” she cried, suddenly furious, the drugs taking her mood from one extreme to the next. She didn’t know what she wanted, what she needed. She wished there was one person in this room who possessed a backbone.

  Most stood. A few seemed frozen with fear, groveling and cowering from their places hidden in the pews. A few feet away a huddled lump lay on the floor, trying to shove his or her body beneath the bench. Gloria grabbed whatever part she could reach and dragged the body out into the open. She flipped the cloaked mass over and a terrified pair of eyes glanced back from beneath the hood.

  “Did you not hear me tell you to get up?” she asked quietly. She repeatedly blinked her long luxurious lashes, trying to focus.

  The girl nodded and pulled herself into a fetal position.

  Gloria reached down and used her claws to shred the cloak, exposing the terrified girl
hidden beneath the material. She began to giggle uncontrollably as her mind swam in a narcotic fugue. “You’re a moron,” she told the girl, and ignored her for the moment while she turned to the rest of the crowd.

  “Do you even know why you’re here?” she asked, looking from face to face, scanning the room.

  No one answered.

  “Answer me!” she bellowed as she staggered once again and barely avoided toppling over. Still, the room remained silent.

  “You’re not … you’re not s’posed to come up here,” the black kid behind her said. Gloria was impressed. Moments earlier the kid was ready to piss his pants. “It’s too … too dangerous up here for you.”

  “Dangerous? Do I look like I’m in danger?” she yelled. “I’m a demon!”

  He nodded. “I know. But there are people who would like to hurt you. We, we’re supposed to … to protect … you …”

  “You’re supposed to protect me,” she said, facing the crowd again, her devil-made might and delirious intoxication fueling her bravado. “You? How? How do you expect to protect me?”

  They wouldn’t look her in the eye, which she found infuriating. They were all cowards. These were her worshippers … her protectors? All they wanted was a chance to fuck her. There was no worship here, no respect. Bunch of fucking cowards is what they were.

  Gloria reached down and clutched the girl off the floor, holding her up by the throat. She was pretty. So fucking pretty. The girl kicked out, tried desperately to find the ground. Garbled, strangled words tried to slide out of her throat. Gloria reached back and sliced the girl’s shirt open, exposing her back, and held her up even higher.