Spermjackers From Hell

by Christine Morgan

  A booming knock, a hard pounding, someone hammering on the wall. And a voice, an angry voice—another voice, because Jake also heard his own, his own voice raised in hoarse, grunting cries of orgasmic sex-throes, rutting and bestial fuck-noises from him as—

  —he looked down through bleary-blinking eyes, through a warm and wavery aqua-blue glow, to see the dream was a nightmare, the bulbous wrinkled flesh and loose folds of the atrocity sprawled across his groin, its polyps flexing in time with the steady gulping suction of its innermost slick and fleshy contours, as its other orifices and protrusions rolled and probed and worked him with such hideously pleasurable sensations that he came again—

  —and heard his shriek follow him down into oblivion.

  Chapter Eleven: Visitation

  He is done.

  Spent and sated.

  Drained and spent.

  He is done.

  Milked of seed, the warm life-seed life-milk man-seed-milk, virile and rich, vibrant and teeming, the salt-cream-essence filling, fulfilling, to milk and drink, drink and swallow, gathering, good.

  He who Called.

  We are One-Many-All.

  One-Many-All and now Her.

  She hungers. She thirsts. She needs, commands, craves.

  More.

  More and more.

  More to grow. More to become. To transform. To feed and to serve.

  He is done.

  He is young, he is strong.

  Wait.

  Wait and replenish. Wait and rest.

  Or…

  Another.

  There are others.

  Some who also Called. Invited and offered. Summoned. Who opened the way.

  Who desire.

  Desire the touch, the kiss and caress, the warm engulfment slick suction urging and urging to flood-gush-spill, spill the salt life-milk, copious, wriggling with seed.

  To be swallowed, to fill, be fulfilled, and want more.

  More until spent. More until done.

  Until drained, until dry, until blood, until death?

  The first.

  Too much.

  Mistake, mistake but the hunger, the craving, the thirst.

  New and forming-unformed, still becoming.

  Desperate, starving, unplaced, afraid.

  Needing.

  Needing to live, to survive, to be, to become.

  Needing, and so, taking.

  Taking and taking.

  The first, as We-Many-One-All, rudely born-torn, pulled through, harsh and feeble, wet and flailing, Called into being.

  Into this world-place, Called with purpose, with desire and intent, called by Will and by Word, the giving of sigils and symbols, fertility, Life.

  Then, confusion. Then, uproar and upheaval.

  Fear. Panic.

  Need and Hunger, Hunger and Need.

  To take.

  Take and take.

  Take to survive, live, be, grow.

  To become.

  Taking too much. Draining. Engulfing and encompassing, surrounding, absorbing, consuming.

  Fluids.

  Salt-sweat and salt-tears and salt-milk and salt-blood.

  Juices of organs and marrow and mind.

  Youth. Health. Virility.

  Until dried. Until dead.

  The relief. The release. The filling fulfillment.

  Feeding the hunger. Quenching the thirst. Meeting the need.

  Then, renewal. Then, purpose.

  Craving more, needing more, to grow and become.

  And so, seeking…

  Others who did not Call, but found, found and saw, found and witnessed, saw and beheld.

  Less-young and not-young.

  Less virile, less healthy, less strong.

  Sour fluids, pungent crustings, steeping, fermented, crowded-cluttered-chaotic cacophonies of thought.

  Thoughts of maiden-woman-youth-man.

  Liquid light.

  Warmth and tantalizing aroma.

  Comfort. Desire. Filled and fulfilled.

  Lust-love-passion, guilt-shame-fear.

  Fascinated. Compelled. Drawn and lured.

  And taken.

  Seized and taken, sweat-filth-crust-clothes, vile-bile, vomit, bowel and bladder, fungus and oil, sores-scabs-infection, earwax, warts and hair, mucus, parasites-lice-mites-bedbugs, but taken, taken and taken, subsumed-consumed and used, drained dry, drained to feed, to feed and grow, grow and thrive, grow and live-thrive-gain-become.

  Many become One become All become Her.

  And from Her, become Many/One.

  One to go, to seek and search, search and find, find and answer.

  Answer the Call.

  He Who Called.

  Summoned.

  By Word and by Will and by Deed.

  By offering of milk-salt-seed-life.

  To find…to crave and need and feed…in his mind-thoughts his lust-thoughts…forbidden temptation irresistible…swollen stiffness rising engorged to be engulfed…groaning in pleasure, penetrating, being penetrated…again and again.

  Until spent.

  Until sated.

  Until beyond arousal or erection.

  Until done.

  He is done.

  But, more.

  Nearby, another, others, and more.

  Chapter Twelve: Temptation

  “Know what really annoys me?” Beth said, as they walked up Rose Street. Rose-like-the-flower in this part of town, lined mostly with duplexes and small neighborhood businesses, buttoned up dark and quiet at this time of night.

  Devon shot her a wary sidelong glance. “Do I have to pick just one thing?”

  She laughed, nudge-bumping him with an elbow. “Good point. You’re kinda funny when you stop trying so hard.”

  “Uh, thanks, I guess?”

  “And kinda cute when you’re confused.”

  “Uhhhh...”

  She laughed again, and this time hip-bumped him. “Like that.”

  “So, um, okay…what really annoys you?”

  Beth heaved a sigh and stuffed her fists wrist-deep into the pockets of her hoodie. The sporadic streetlamps they passed under cast pools of light and shadow over her face, making it impossible for him to read her expression.

  “You guys,” she said.

  “Who? Me and Jake and them? Us guys? Or, guys in general, or what?”

  “In general and or what. All through this, since the start of the succubus talk and everything, not once did…I mean, shit…did it even occur to any of you?”

  “Did what occur to us?”

  “That I’m a girl, numbnuts.”

  “Well...” Devon floundered around a little. “Yeah, but...”

  “Yeah but I’m practically one of the guys? Yeah but not a real girl, not a hot babe, so it doesn’t count?”

  “I didn’t say...”

  “You didn’t have to say. Nobody has to say. I can tell. I don’t look like them, I don’t dress like them or act like them. The only reason Coach lets me hang out at his place is he figures I’m a lezzie.”

  “Uh…but…we know you’re a girl; you’re always giving us shit about guy-stuff…when Brendan brought that movie over—”

  “Boobs and bush, aaaaaall natural, seventies vintage,” she said. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I…it was…awkward.”

  “Embarrassing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You were blushing.”

  He didn’t answer, but ducked his head because there he went again, the tingle flushing his face.

  “But you did still enjoy it.”

  “Hey, if you were…offended or something…”

  “Offended? Why, because I’m a girl and here’s my friends sitting around watching porn, cracking jokes, being total oinking sexist pig assholes? Because I’m a girl and here’s my friends talking about women as sex objects and wank-fodder and how they gotta get laid before they die of terminal blue balls, and the best solution they can think of is to try and summon a demon?” />
  Devon winced so hard it hurt. “When you put it that way, it sounds pretty shitty.”

  “It is pretty shitty.”

  “Jeez, Beth, I’m sorry.”

  “You should be. I may not be a damn Barbie doll but, what, am I invisible? How do you know I’m not a tight dress and a makeover away from being a knockout, like the plain dumpy gal-pal tomboy in the movies?”

  The defensive thoughts scrambling around in his head did a sudden jumbling logjam derail. “What?”

  “When you look at me,” she said, stopping and gesturing at herself, “you see this, right? Bulky, unflattering clothes…tough-chick piercings, dyke haircut…but how do you know I don’t have a dynamite bod under here?”

  His eyebrows tried to tie in a knot and his jaw just sort of seesawed. Only inarticulate query-noises babbled from his mouth.

  “Maybe it hurt my feelings that not one of you so much as asked,” Beth said. “Maybe it’s insulting to be ignored and overlooked, even when you’re all going on about how desperate you are.”

  “I’m not—”

  She unzipped her hoodie with a metallic purr. “I might,” she said, “have the most amazing boobs you’ve ever seen in your life.”

  “Hey…whoa, wait…Beth!” Devon skittered back a step, raising his hands the way contestants did when the clock ran out on those chef shows.

  “What’s the matter, Devon? Scared?”

  The hoodie dropped in a crumple to the sidewalk behind her. Under it, she wore an old black tee with the collar and sleeves cut away to turn it into a tattered tank top. The band logo on the front was a flaked and faded metallic turquoise; he couldn’t decipher it, partly for the flaked-and-faded reason but mostly because…

  “Uh...” he said. His eyebrows had stopped trying to tie knots and instead made high arches to accommodate eyes that felt about to telescope from his skull like a cartoon character’s.

  “I’m just saying,” said Beth, gazing down at her chest, gripping the bottom of her shirt and tugging it tight, and taking a deep breath, “maybe you don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

  “Yuh…err…umm...”

  No bra. Cleavage. Nipples poking at thin cloth, further distorting the already distorted logo.

  “Problem?” she asked, waggling her shoulders just enough to start a rocking-swaying—

  Motion of the spheres, he thought.

  No bra!

  Boobs!

  “Yo, Devon? Earth to Devon?”

  “Huhhhhh?” With monumental effort, he dragged his gaze—eyes up here!

  She winked, and did a devilish half-grin with a peek of tongue-tip. “Wanna see my tattoo?”

  “Uh…whuh...”

  Beth trailed her fingers along the stretched neckline, then lower, tracing the curve of waist and hip—which were way curvier than he expected, holy-hourglass-Batman territory, those baggy jeans hid some serious wow!—to linger in the bikini-line vicinity.

  “My tattoo, cutie,” she repeated. “Wanna see it?”

  ***

  Marty trudged the last half-mile from the bus stop, just wanting to get home and get some sleep. Another crappy night at the Shop-N-Go. The only good part had been chatting with Cynthia-Lynne Abbott, until even that went to shit.

  She’d broken up with Troy again—Troy-fucking-Cahill—and Marty had played it cool, letting her vent, assuring her she was too good for Troy anyway, she deserved someone better, someone who’d treat her right, who’d appreciate the special and beautiful person she was. Should he stop by after work, maybe bring her that mint-chip ice cream she liked? He’d be glad to, it’d be no trouble at all.

  Aww ur 2 sweet, she’d texted back, with a heart. And gone on to tell him thanks but not tonight, she was just going to take a long hot bubble bath and slide into bed…mental images that more than made up for any twinge of disappointment. They could, she said, chat more tomorrow.

  Then came the nut-punch out of nowhere.

  Did he know if that friend of his, Jake, was seeing anyone?

  LOL blushyface winkyface blushyface j/k but not rlly

  Critical hit.

  All the way home, bus ride and trudge, with that replaying on a loop.

  j/k but not rlly

  He was really dragging ass by the time he reached the apartment building. On his way up the stairs, he met their scary odd-hours neighbor, who was on his way out to…who knew, a casting call for extras in the next Mad Max movie, maybe.

  “Hey,” the behemoth said, in his deceptive-soft voice, “tell your buddy that it’s great, you know, he’s having girls over and whatever, getting lucky, that’s cool, good for him…but the whole rest of the building doesn’t need to hear it. Yeah?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude.”

  “Just tell him to tone it down. Other people need to sleep.”

  “Sure,” said Marty. “Sure, I’ll tell him.”

  “A’right. Seeya.” Down the stairs he went.

  Marty, somewhere between baffled and pissed, stood there watching him go.

  The hell? Having girls over? As if it wasn’t enough Cynthia-Lynne Abbott was checking Jake out, now Jake was also having girls over while he was at work?

  Not only having girls over, but having noisy neighbor-waking sex into the bargain?

  Dude.

  He unlocked the door and opened it onto the usual clutter of their living room, dimly lit by the LED displays of various electronics. TV was off, computers hibernating, Jake’s door shut.

  But…

  Stepping inside, Marty sniffed the air. Mingled with the usuals—weed, beer, stale pizza, socks, garbage needing to go out—was a less familiar aroma. Sweet but tangy, a warm-pineapple dough/batter whiff, like the Hawaiian kind of pizza they never ordered, or pineapple-upsidedown-cake, or sweet-and-sour something.

  Had Jake gotten Chinese food, or what?

  Chinese food sounded pretty good, actually. His stomach rumbled.

  A quick poke through the kitchenette turned up no evidence of takeout or bakery, and certainly no leftovers. And there was a note of…he wasn’t sure…

  It kind of did smell like sex.

  He looked at Jake’s closed door. They didn’t have a signal worked out, no sock on the doorknob or whatever, so, no help there. A couple of shuffling trying-to-be-stealthy steps in that direction made it clear, though, that the sweet-and-sour-sex smell was a lot stronger over that way.

  So, he really did have a girl over?

  Okay, then.

  As the neighbor had said, good for him and all, way to go Jake.

  Some guys had all the luck.

  Finding half a package of generic sandwich cookies in a top cupboard—he would’ve preferred pineapple-upsidedown-cake—Marty plunked himself into his gaming chair and started up Hellslayer. He’d been planning to just go right to bed after his crappy night, but, as tired as he was, now his goal was to wait a while, game a while, and see who emerged from Jake’s room. Would it be walk of shame, or slut-strut?

  He played on autopilot and mute, barely registering it as legions of undead and demon minions exploded in silent gooey bursts. Scythe-claws, stinger tails, gaping slavering maws of teeth, infernal weapons etched in banefire, another day another dollar another trail of diabolical destruction.

  His eyes were beginning to glaze over and he was about to pack it in anyway when a greenish flicker at the edge of the screen caught his attention.

  Glitch? No, a glowie he’d never noticed before, tucked way back in a gloomy cavern corner. Secret save point? Given what was coming up in the game, that could be handy. He strode his rugged manly avatar toward it to investigate, though on the lookout for triggering ambushes or nasty surprises.

  It was a goblet, studded with emeralds and sapphires. Not a piece of gear, he saw as he selected to it, but an unnamed and unidentified artifact he recognized from nowhere in the game lore. Hellslayer was riddled with Easter eggs, though, and the prospect of being first to boast-post in the forums.
..

  Add to inventory? Y/N.

  Y, duh!

  Activate? Y/N

  Marty shrugged and hit Y again. If it nuked him, well, he knew where the last save point was.

  Instead, the camera angle drew back and panned around, and suddenly he was in the middle of a cut scene he’d never seen before. His avatar lifted the gleaming goblet in both hands. Rays of light beamed from the jewels, brightening into an aura. The cup’s contents swirled like a quicksilver galaxy.

  His avatar tipped the cup and drank. The screen went cloudy, diffuse, with billowing smoky whorls of blue and green, which became gauzy silken curtains stirring, a room awash in their sheer draperies, suspended sultan’s-tent-like around an immense and ornate oval bed.

  “Well, and here you are,” murmured the decadent Mila Kunis voice of Llylth, the demon queen. “Here you are at last…I’ve been waiting…hoping you would…come.”

  ***

  The guys were not gonna fuckin’ believe this.

  Hell, Spence himself wasn’t sure he fuckin’ believed it, and he was the one it was happening to.

  “I’m tellin’ ya,” his cousin Pete had said, loading the last of the delivery into the rear of his rattletrap truck. “The Harmon sisters, couple real bow-wows, sure enough, but damn, get a slug of this into them, and they will be all over you like rats on a chicken carcass.”

  Spence had of course taken this to be more of Pete’s bullshit, and wasn’t about to go getting his hopes or anything else up. He’d been offered twenty bucks to make the drive out to Harmon’s Creek, and twenty bucks was twenty bucks.

  Besides, there was something about doing a midnight moonshine run through the backwoods backroads that appealed to him. Felt like heritage. Felt like hillbillying it old-school. The still in Pete’s barn, the clay jugs and mason jars; shit, all they needed was Pappy in a rocker on the porch with a corncob pipe and a hound dog at his feet.