Spermjackers From Hell

by Christine Morgan

  Coach moves aside his bowl of chili and looks down, rather nonplussed. Yet, sure enough, she is nosing at his crotch, chuffing, rubbing her loose drooly jowls against his thigh. Wagging the tail. Doing more of the soulful eyes, all pleading, reflecting a blue-green shimmer from the TV where the skinny-dipping beauty is playing cocktease hide-and-seek with no idea her boyfriend’s already skewered to a sunken log trying to struggle free before he drowns.

  “Roxie?” he says.

  She dog-grins at him, tongue lolling long and pink in that soft-meaty way, just running with slobber, puddling and soaking warm through his pants. Her normally foul dog-breath smells of cornbread, butter, and honey.

  “Whatcha want, girl?” he asks.

  He knows what it seems like she wants, but she has never done the likes of this before and he isn’t quite sure how to react. Oh, she’s obedient, she’ll comply when he summons her up onto the bed and maneuvers her into position…she won’t fuss or fight as he fucks her…confused, if anything, confused but cooperative because he’s the man-master and she’s the faithful bitch who’ll do as she’s told…and when he’s done, when he’s pumped his load, she’ll go off to the corner to clean herself…

  It’s never occurred to him she might be liking it. That she might enjoy the feel of his cock sliding in and out, or the taste of his spunk as she lapped it up after.

  More likely, she understands in her doggy way that he likes it, and she just wants to please him. Because he is the man-master and she’s the faithful bitch.

  And she is definitely nosing and nuzzling at his crotch—which is bulging and tented. Definitely dragging her long slobbery tongue along the fabric of his pants, whimpering as if begging for a treat.

  Coach has heard the jokes about smearing peanut butter on your dick, and it’d be a lie to say he hasn’t been tempted now and then, but he’s also heard the jokes about some fellow who tries it only to get bitten…or find a hell of a moment to discover he’s got an allergy.

  Roxie, though, Roxie would never bite him. Certainly not on purpose, and he was willing to bet, not on accident.

  Was he willing to bet?

  Willing to bet his junk?

  He eased her head out of his lap, leaned forward enough to put his beer and bowl of chili on the table, and then undid his belt. Her floppy ears perked at the sound. She sat back, attentive, tongue still lolling, dripping drool.

  “Good girl. Gooooood Roxie. Yeah, there’s my good girl, is this what you want?” Coach asked as he opened his fly and freed his rising interest.

  She whuffed and panted, wagging.

  “You be nice, now, you be a good girl, you mind those teeth, won’t you?”

  Then it was cold wet nose and warm wet tongue, licking and lapping and slurping, all up and down the shaft, around the head, nutsack and balls, and Coach sprawled back in his recliner, stifling a shout.

  “Jesus God Mary and Joseph!”

  And the slobbering drool, running, flowing, bathing him in dogslobber, as Roxie went to town on him dear God felt like that broad long supple tongue of hers wrapped him completely; pig in a blanket, enfolded, surrounded, engulfed, working him, milking him, bringing him to the brink so fast he can barely catch his breath.

  “Oh, oh, oh yeah!” Panting himself now, gripping the arms of the recliner for all he’s worth. “Oh, yeah, here it is! Goooood girl! Hnnnngh!”

  He lets loose, comes like someone just struck oil, the dizzying spin-rush in his head so intense he realizes he’s about to pass out…and the last he sees before he does is the glimmering lagoon-blue reflections in Roxie’s eyes as she swallows down the torrent in great chug-a-lug gulps.

  ***

  Meanwhile, across town, Troy Cahill has decided enough is enough.

  He’s tired of her games, tired of being played with. Oh, Cynthia-Lynne will do lots of things with him, will let him do lots of things to her, and will do lots of things to him…

  Except for one thing.

  Except for the one thing that counts, the main event, the real deal.

  It isn’t like he can’t get it elsewhere. There are plenty of girls who are happy to. A lot of them right here in Fairmont. Several of them, supposedly Cynthia-Lynne’s best friends.

  It’s the principle, damn it.

  They’ve been dating, pretty seriously, on and off now, for years! He’s taken her places, on trips, to concerts. He’s bought her more dinners and presents than he can remember.

  She owes him.

  She fucking owes him, and she owes him fucking.

  All her talk about waiting…for what? For a wedding night? For an engagement ring? Maybe their grandmothers had that why-buy-the-cow saying, but this is a world where you take it for a test drive before signing the papers.

  As for saving it, there’s a laugh. He’s supposed to believe she’s a virgin? He knows she’s messed around with other guys, usually to try and make him jealous or get back at him for something. He’s the one she wants to marry, so he’s the one she’ll hold out on, until she has that guaranteed commitment.

  Hell, for all he knows, she and that hot-shit uncle of hers…

  The more he thinks about it, the more he’s convinced. Troy has never been a fan of Sebastian Abbott—rich, good-looking, arrogant, sleazy charm, a revolving door on his bedroom. Some of his conquests haven’t been that much older than Cynthia-Lynne. Some of Troy’s own conquests, Cynthia-Lynne’s so-called best friends, have made no secret of the fact they’d drop their panties for Sebastian Abbott in a heartbeat.

  And Cynthia-Lynne did have to learn her techniques somewhere. Why not at home? She’d known her way around handjobs and blowjobs long before Troy had the opportunity to offer any instruction.

  So, yeah. The likelihood she’s kept her V-card intact all this time, especially as much of a slut as she can be—she’s always after him to rub her off or eat her out, always impatient, telling him he’s doing it wrong—is, he figures, minimal.

  Anyway, she owes him.

  She owes him, and tonight is the night.

  They’ve made up again, Troy having apologizing for whatever she was upset about this time. He’s groveled and promised and even brought her a goddamn bouquet and a giant lemon cookie from her favorite bakery.

  The make-up make-out turns nice and steamy, and for a few minutes there it almost seems a done deal. He has her down to her silky blue panties, which are filmy, almost transparent, almost not there at all.

  But then she hits the brakes. Doing it in her usual cute-winsome way, where she twines her arms around his neck and kisses him and tells him it’s great they’re able to move past these silly little disagreements. And she’s really glad he respects her wishes.

  Was that when he decided enough was enough?

  Was it a conscious decision, not only to get her drunk, but add a little something extra to her glass?

  Not a problem, he says. He totally understands. They can put their clothes back on, maybe watch a few episodes of something, cuddle.

  Whenever he decides, whether it’s conscious or not, what matters is, it works.

  Cynthia-Lynne is zonked.

  Just totally zonked.

  Troy doesn’t waste any more time. He has to be careful; he doesn’t want her to catch him. He doesn’t want her to know, doesn’t want her to be sure even if she suspects. Which means he can’t come in her. He’ll have to pull out. That’s too bad, but at least he’ll finally be fucking her.

  She doesn’t move as he pushes her skirt to her waist, as he takes off those silky-blue barely-there panties. Underneath, she is smooth as can be, nice and tidy, not a pube in sight.

  Anticipating this?

  Or, if not for him, then for whom?

  He arranges her crossways on the bed with her legs—those long, holy-Judas-whoa legs—spread wide and dangling over the side. It’s a high bed; with him standing, they’re at the perfect accessible angle and height.

  Troy may not want her to know for sure, but he also wants proof. He gr
abs his phone and takes a few quick extreme-close-up selfies. His hard-on, poised and ready between her thighs. His free hand popping a thumbs-up beside his hard-on. Another as he eases the tip in, finding the way warm, wet, and loose.

  Halfway. Another pic. And deeper, balls-deep, all the way. Her insides are quivering, spasming, clasping at his cock. Pic. No denying it. He’s in her, doing it for real.

  Zonked? Or pretending to be, another of her games to see how far he’d go and getting more than she bargained for…and loving it…playing possum but giving herself away…

  He withdraws almost entirely, takes one more pic to capture the sheen of juices, then sinks back in with a low, moaning sigh. As he starts the fucking in earnest, knowing he won’t be able to last much longer, he darts a quick look at his phone just to make sure he’s got—

  What he sees makes him drop the phone. The screen stars and fractures in a spiderwebbed, useless crack-glaze.

  But Troy doesn’t notice, because the same thing is happening to his mind.

  Chapter Sixteen: Investigation

  Jake led the way, using his phone as a flashlight. The others followed crowded as close together as egos would allow—even if they would have rather been clutching each other like toddlers scared of the boogeyman, nobody wanted to be called a pussy.

  The empty men’s room felt colder, the echoes of their footsteps and breathing louder, the darkness more complete despite the phone-glows. Someone stepped on a paper bag with a bottle in it; the glass broke with a crack like a gunshot. The eye-watering fumes of cheap booze rose around them in a cloud.

  Brendan, Jesus, they had left him behind. What about “no man left behind”? When they’d gone and done it?

  But, Jake reminded himself, they hadn’t known. They couldn’t have known.

  Now they were going to make it right.

  Through the grout-crumbling hole in the tile-covered wall…into the stairwell…down the faintly rusty-smelling flights of metal stairs…to the underground network of hallways and bunkers…where, now, none of the wire-caged yellowed old lightbulbs seemed to be functioning.

  Vault 420 was pretty much as he’d left it after his quick clean-up trip. The stuff he hadn’t brought back out, he’d kicked into the corner so it was like any old pile of random trash. The lingering markings on the floor, burnt there in salt and soot, he’d scuffed to indistinguishable smudges. Anybody poking around would be able to tell something had gone on in here, but certainly not what.

  “He’s not here,” Devon said, and winced as they shot him no-shit-Sherlock looks.

  They passed several doors marked with stenciled number-letter combinations that reminded Jake of prison movie cell blocks. Some were long narrow rooms set up like dorms or barracks, with cots and bare bedframes. Others were identified as washrooms or storage closets.

  Elsewhere down here, he knew, were larger spaces originally designed to serve as kitchens, cafeterias, gyms, med bays, and meeting halls. Enough to sustain several hundred people for months, if not years.

  It must have been quite the ambitious project, back in the day. When Fairmont had been your typical wholesome American town, good patriots with faith in their government, all work ethics and family values, when kids still recited the Pledge of Allegiance in school, and the idea of anybody objecting to the ‘under God’ part would have been downright absurd.

  They came to an intersection, their choices to the right and left wider and broader, while the one straight ahead continued narrow and darker than ever.

  …but, from somewhere far down it, there came a rippling blue-green radiance like sunshine dazzling and dappling on tropical seas…

  …and instead of the dank odors of mildew, rust, and stale piss…

  …wafted delicate, enticing aromas…

  …like funnel cake, fresh from the fryer, with sweet-fruity topping, and a generous mound of melting whipped cream…

  …or rum drinks on a golden-sand beach, rum drinks with mango and pineapple and honey…

  …vacations to places where they let you swim with the dolphins as the sea swelled and laved bathwater warm mild clear turquoise and the bone-white sand slipped tickling between your toes…

  …girls in skimpy swimsuits, gauzy dresses, going topless…

  …and he could almost smell the clean salt air, almost feel sun on bare skin and hear gentle breezes stirring delicate fronds…

  …the aquamarine gleam and shimmer, weightless, fluid, water-ballet…

  …a soft, low, throaty, purr of a laugh…

  Not laughing at them, not a cruel mocking mean laugh, but a welcoming and inviting feminine chuckle…the kind that would be accompanied by the sly-slow come-hither of heavy-lidded long-lashed eyes…by the rich curve of a smile, and the glide of licked lips…

  “It’s her,” Marty sighed.

  “Aw yeah,” said Spencer.

  Devon faltered, blinking. “Maybe we—”

  “Gonna pussy out again, new kid?”

  “I…well...”

  Jake thought of what they’d seen on the video, what they’d seen when Brendan lifted the dog dish and the wet, squelchy, glistening creature squirted from under it.

  The gelatinous, quivering, loose-wrinkled skin-sack deflated balloon shape…the squirming feelers and polyps and writhing wormy tendrils…the shiny, bulging, grapelike clusters…flaps and folds peeling open with moist, fleshy sounds…orifices parting, puckering, gaping…hellish, hideous…

  Their succubus.

  Thanks to the ritual.

  Thanks to him and his notions that having a distant drop of Nachtwald ancestry made him special, made him magic. Made him different and interesting, someone important.

  Someone whose father would have paid attention to him, whose mother wouldn’t have been too bored to stick around. Whose grandfather would be pleased that Jake had listened, and lived up to their heritage.

  Actually, upon further consideration, maybe he’d gone about it a little wrong. Magic, okay. Arcane studies and occult lore, sure.

  Summoning a sex-demon because he and his friends were pervy horndogs…

  Yeah, probably less likely to make the family proud.

  Even the Nachtwalds who’d cast hexes and death-spells on the neighbors might not really approve.

  Well, something about it had worked, anyway. He didn’t know how special and important it made him, but, you had to admit, it was pretty different.

  “C’mon,” Jake said.

  “You want to go closer?” asked Devon.

  “We came down here to find her, didn’t we?”

  “I thought we came down here to find Brendan!”

  “That, too.”

  Spence and Marty didn’t contribute to that part of the conversation. They gazed at the blue-green glimmering flicker like they were half-hypnotized already…and maybe they were…maybe that was what she did…some combination of pheromones and telepathy…enticing them, tempting them…even though they knew…

  Jake found his own feet had carried him several more steps down the corridor. Toward the light. Toward the scent. Toward the seductive promise of her, with his dick straining at his pants as if pointing the way, his own personal dowsing rod.

  Pheromones and telepathy.

  And demon powers.

  Why else would he still be reacting this way, despite knowing what his logical, rational mind knew?

  Why else would he want her?

  Now that he knew, now that he did know, would it be different? What form would she take? Psychic shape-shifter, sexual chameleon, could he choose? If he concentrated on, say, Scarlett Johansson or Jennifer Lawrence…

  “Wait here a second, you guys,” he said.

  “The fuck you mean, wait?”

  “Dude, no fair! I got dibs.”

  “The fuck you got dibs? Nobody called fuckin’ dibs.”

  “I’m calling them, then!”

  “No dibs,” Jake said. “We’re not in third grade anymore. I just want to try something.”


  “Yeah, no shit,” Spencer said. “Don’t we all!”

  “Wait here.” He stabbed a finger at the floor.

  “Who made you the boss?” Marty sulked.

  “Um, shouldn’t we be looking for Brendan—?”

  “That’s what I’m doing. I want to try talking to her.”

  If she just happened to look like Scar-Jo or J-Law while he was, well, hey, he had no problem with that. But it had to be him first, him alone, so she wasn’t getting her signals crossed. God knew what she’d pick up from the whole group of them together; he didn’t want to see some nightmare mash-up with elements from each.

  He doubted they’d be able to wait there very long, if at all, so he hurried along the dark corridor with his phone angled to keep him from tripping over unseen obstacles on the floor.

  Such as that blocky plastic kids’ flashlight, where had that come from? He nudged it with his toe, turning it enough to see its dorky cartoon-character train-face, with its blank stare of dark dead-battery emptiness.

  Creepy.

  Jake stepped over it, avoided the ratty crumple of some discarded old coat—moldy, filthy, probably crawling with lice—and then the glow from his phone glinted on metal. The ridged edge of a key, a car key attached to a remote entry fob. With a couple of other keys on the ring.

  Brendan’s?

  Almost had to be.

  He shook them off and put them in his pocket. From behind came impatient mutters and mumbles—the fuck’s takin’ so long?

  From ahead…

  …the warm-cool blue-green…

  …the sweet, doughy smell…that one kind of bread, those rolls…what was it called?…King’s Hawaiian, yeah…he had loved that stuff when he was a kid. For picnics and parties and special occasions, fancier than ordinary drab dinner rolls, or a big entire single soft round loaf in an aluminum pan, pull it apart, eat it plain or slather it with butter…

  …on a balmy, lazy, turquoise summer day out in the yard under the patio shade in the tickling grass the tickling and caressing grass, grass against his knees elbows tummy as he relaxed on the lawn…