by M. E. Hydra
“Fuck yeah. Baby. Ooo.” Jo broke down into incoherent moans, trembling as Smythe’s flesh slapped up against her with steady thuds.
Perspiration ran down Smythe’s bared chest. She was really getting into this, Smythe thought. He liked Jo because she always seemed really genuine. This time was different. This time she really was genuine.
He didn’t have long to ponder that. His own release was imminent, crowding out the other thoughts in his head. Oh, this was going to be a big one, Smythe thought. He’d left it way too long.
“Yeah baby, yeah,” Jo moaned into the bedspread.
Oahh! He was coming. He could feel it. It rose up from his toes and kept rising and rising. He gave another loud grunt and thrust right into Jo’s luscious depths. His dick felt like a bomb on the verge of going off. Like a fireman’s hose about to quench her raging fires with a flood of his cool juices. Like a—
Smythe’s thoughts broke down. He felt a sudden, strange constriction in his urethra, like a blockage or some other obstacle, but only for a moment before his orgasm doubled him over and he blasted it away with a great flood of semen.
Intense. Smythe felt drained in the aftermath. He also felt a wee bit wibbly as his body trembled with seismic shakes of pleasure. He was no longer a young man, he thought as he panted for breath.
That was odd, Smythe thought, thinking back to that strange feeling before he’d come. He hadn’t felt anything like that before.
Jo rested her head on her arms and looked back at him. There was a contented glow to her face.
“You know when women tell men the size of their penis doesn’t matter,” she said. “We’re lying.”
“You know when men tell women the size of their boobs doesn’t matter,” Smythe countered. “We’re lying.”
Jo chuckled dirtily and threw another pillow at him.
Smythe gripped the ends of his condom carefully as he pulled his penis out of her. That ejaculation had felt so powerful the rubber johnny must be full to bursting.
Uh oh.
The condom had burst. Not from the force of his orgasm—he wasn’t narcissistic enough to believe that—but the rubber tip was split and the remnants of his milky semen were dribbling out through the tear.
“Crap,” Jo said, spotting the ruptured condom.
“Sorry,” Smythe said.
“Not your fault,” Jo said. “They split sometimes. Stupid cheap-ass rubber.”
She took the condom from him and discarded it into a nearby wastebasket.
“Now, I have a morning after pill for these little accidents, so you don’t have to worry about any unexpected little baby Smythes appearing on the scene,” Jo said. “Have you had any unprotected sex recently?”
Smythe thought about Xie-Mu.
“No,” he said.
“I’m about due my regular test anyway,” Jo said. “You should get one too. Just as a precaution.”
She laughed at Smythe’s worried expression.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Accidents like this happen all the time. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”
* * * *
A week later Jo was dead.
Smythe only found out when he rang the Tor Noire agency to book another appointment.
“Oh. Haven’t you heard?” Smythe was surprised when Trish answered. “No you mustn’t have. I don’t know how to say it. It’s too horrible. Jo’s dead. They found her body in the park a few days ago. Someone murdered her.”
Smythe realised he had heard. There was an article in the evening newspaper he’d skimmed over and a brief segment on the local news he hadn’t paid close attention to. Local prostitute found murdered. That sort of thing happened all the time.
He hadn’t realised it was Jo.
“That is horrible news,” Smythe said.
“Such a shame,” Trish said. “She was a lovely lovely girl. They say it was a while before her body was discovered. Animals got to it first.”
“The poor girl,” Smythe said.
“My girls are spooked,” Trish said. “We’re only taking bookings from trusted regular clients at the moment. Wendy is available this evening. Would you like to make an appointment?”
“Yes, yes,” Smythe said.
He remembered Wendy. He’d booked her before. A busty brunette with an easy-going personality and a filthy mind.
Jo dead, Smythe thought. It had only been last week when they’d been having sex together. Dead. Murdered. What a sick sick world it was sometimes.
* * * *
Fuck, he hadn’t remembered Wendy as being as tight as this, Smythe thought as she rode him reverse cowboy style. Of course, that had been before his enhancement. Those pills were still working away on his penis. He was a splendid eleven inches nowadays and felt every silky crevice of Wendy’s pussy as she stretched to accommodate him.
He hadn’t remembered her as being as noisy as this before. She grunted and moaned as she slammed her ass up and down with great gusto. The mattress creaked and squeaked beneath him as she thudded down on him, driving his sensitised dick deep up into her stretchy pussy.
“I’m coming,” he grunted.
“Give it to me, baby,” Wendy said. Waves ran through her peach of an ass as she slammed it down faster and faster.
Oahh! He felt it again, just like when he’d been with Jo, that strange constricted feeling as if there was a blockage in his penis somewhere. The pressure grew and grew in his balls, a charge that must be earthed somewhere. Oh fuck. Saving up for a week had been too long. This felt like it was going to be enormous—more intense even than the orgasm he’d had with Jo.
Smythe groaned loudly. What a strange feeling. It felt like something solid was travelling up the centre of his dick. Then it was free and Smythe sighed with blissful relief as he erupted in the quivering depths of her pussy.
Ah yes, that felt so good. He clasped his hands against her soft ass and held her in place as his throbbing cock pumped a great load of cum up into her tight pussy.
“Aahhh,” Smythe groaned in satisfaction as the orgasm started to subside. The stream dropped to a trickle. He lay back and soaked in pleasure as his jangling nerves returned to normal.
Wendy turned her head to look back at him. There was a strange expression on her face.
“Anything wrong?” Smythe asked.
“No,” she said, although her face seemed puzzled. “I thought I felt something.” She shook her head and was back to sunny smiles as she swung a long leg over his head and dismounted him. “How was that?” she asked. “It sounded like you really needed it.”
“Oh yes,” Smythe said, smiling and nodding his head. Perspiration bubbled up on his forehead and trickled down onto the pillow beneath his head.
He looked down at his cock, still standing erect, tall and proud. Like Nelson’s column. He frowned as he noticed the condom had split again. Copious amounts of his creamy-white cum were dribbling down the shaft.
“Shit, I hate it when that happens,” Wendy said. “Must be a shitty batch. Jo said she had one split on her last week...”
She paused. Her gaze turned inwards. Smythe could guess what she was thinking about.
“Horrible news. About Jo,” he said. “I really hope they catch whoever was responsible soon.”
“One of the hazards of this occupation.” Wendy shrugged. “We all learn to live with it. Life goes on.”
She brightened up.
“Now let’s get you cleaned up,” she said.
* * * *
Two days later she was dead.
Smythe saw it on the news. One prostitute’s death wasn’t of much interest, but a second—and a gory death at that—kicked the tabloids up into a frenzy. A vicious serial killer was on the prowl and there were newspapers to sell.
Smythe looked at the covers and wondered where they’d found such a horrible picture of Wendy. It barely bore any resemblance to the lovely, vivacious girl he’d had sex with a couple of days ago.
* * * *
�
�Thank you for coming forward, Mr Smythe,” Detective Inspector Myatt said.
Smythe sat in the grey little room and tried to remind himself he wasn’t a suspect. He’d come here of his own accord. Two girls had died in the last two weeks and Smythe had visited both of them beforehand. As much as he’d like to wish otherwise, there was a link between him and the girls and it was only a matter of time before the police uncovered it as well. Smythe didn’t want to make the classic mistake of making a bad thing look even worse.
“I thought I’d try and save you some time on fruitless enquiries,” Smythe said, “and eliminate myself from those same enquiries.”
“That’s appreciated, Mr Smythe,” DI Wood said. “You’re not the only man to have used both Ms Hudson and Ms Davies in the past month. Both appear to have been popular and highly active members of Tor Noire’s roster. We have a substantial client list to work through.”
“Where were you on the nights of the 15th and 24th?” DI Myatt asked.
“I was at the club on the 24th,” Smythe said. “The staff there should be able to confirm my presence. On the 15th I was engaged in a lengthy conference call with a potential supplier from the States. I believe records of the conversation should still be in our system.”
The two detectives asked Smythe some more questions, all of which he was able to answer satisfactorily. The two men nodded and took down notes. Finally DI Myatt finished with a, “Thank you, Mr Smythe. You’ve been most helpful.”
Smythe smiled. That seemed to have gone well.
* * * *
“That was a bloody daft thing you did,” DCS Pete Lynch said to him later while they were having a drink at the club.
Lynch was an old school friend. While Smythe had been growing his business, Lynch had been working up the ranks in the local police force.
“Really?” Smythe said. “I thought it was the sensible thing to do. Sooner or later they’re going to uncover the link between me and both of the girls.”
Lynch sniffed.
“The young lads have seen too many cop dramas. They have the foolish notion this might be an elaborate ploy on your part to deflect attention.”
“You don’t think I...?”
Lynch didn’t let him finish. “Don’t be soft,” he said with a dry laugh. “I saw you here myself on the 24th.”
Lynch’s expression darkened.
“Horrid business,” he said. “We found Jo in the park. We thought a dog or wild animal had got at the body at first. Made a right mess of her.”
He took a drink.
“Then the other one turned up dead, this time in her own flat and with the front door locked. Ghastly. Guts all over the place. Worst thing I’ve seen since they dredged that missing teen out of the canal a couple of years back. One of the coroners, impressionable young chap, said it looked like something had ripped its way out from the inside.”
Lynch shook his head.
“Youngsters and their bad movies, puts all kinds of foolish notions into their skulls.”
Lynch stared off into the distance.
“Whoever was capable of doing that to those girls, you couldn’t sit down and have a drink with them. You’d sense something was wrong right away. That kind of badness can’t stay hidden inside. It’d seep out and surround them like a foul-smelling cloud.”
Ripped open, Smythe thought. What a sick sick world.
“I saw Jo once,” Lynch said. “Right after my marriage went to hell and I was feeling down and lonely. Lovely lass. That picture they’re splashing in all the papers isn’t her at all. I’d have seen her more, but my promotion came through soon afterwards and I knew I couldn’t be seen to be messing around with that kind of thing.”
His eyes hardened.
“I want this bastard.”
He turned to Smythe.
“Give your ‘hobby’ a break for the time being. I want my boys fully focused on this, not wasting time chasing down worthless coincidences.”
* * * *
Smythe looked at his monstrous cock in the full-length mirror. It was porn-actor-huge now. A girl would need to be cursed with a cavern between her legs to fail to be satisfied by it.
He thought about what Lynch had told him.
Like something ripped its way out from the inside.
He looked again at his prodigiously enhanced member.
It couldn’t be him. Could it?
Nah, wasn’t possible. Someone in the coroner’s office had been watching too many bad science fiction movies. It was a sicko. A particularly nasty and brutal sicko, but still a human being—at least in form if not mental state.
Eh? What was that?
Smythe noticed what looked like a flat purple plate, about the same diameter as a coin, embedded beneath the skin about halfway down his shaft. He prodded it. The growth, if that’s what it was and that was something Smythe really didn’t want to think too hard about, was hard—like a crust or shell.
Smythe felt a little shiver of fear.
He rubbed his finger across it.
The purple plate moved. It shifted beneath his skin. Smythe closed his eyes. His knees trembled. He felt an intense burst of pleasure.
His fear grew.
Maybe he should find out what was really in those pills.
* * * *
“Sugar?” Smythe questioned.
“Sugar,” his lab manager, Gavin Guy, confirmed.
“Is that all?” Smythe asked.
“Yes,” Guy said. “We ran a full analysis. “Common-or-garden sucrose all the way through.”
Smythe’s confusion gave way to relief. He was no longer standing in the Twilight Zone.
Mr Smythe, we think it’s an egg, of some unknown alien creature—
—could go right back to where it belonged: in bad science fiction movies and episodes of Doctor Who.
He was clear.
He was a damn fool.
He thought about that little ornate chest filled with translucent white pills, remembered how much he’d paid for it. He winced.
They’d seen him coming, he thought wryly.
* * * *
Smythe didn’t get it. He’d heard of the placebo effect, of course, but could it really produce a change as dramatic as this?
He admired his cock in the mirror. What an impressive brute it was. There were more of those strange purplish plates beneath the skin, but Smythe didn’t mind them. They gave his cock a sort of rugged look, like a full set of rock-hard abs.
He stroked a hand up and down his shaft, letting his fingers brush over the hard lumps embedded in his flesh. They twitched, filling Smythe with a warm buzz of pleasure. He knew Xie-Mu had instructed him not to, but he was right near the end of the course of pills—which were only sugar anyway, according to his lab—and he’d be careful.
He’d followed Lynch’s advice and stayed away from the escort agencies. It had left him with a bad case of blue balls. His testicles felt so swollen it was getting hard to concentrate at work. Time to let off some of that pressure.
He stood over the sink and thought of Xie-Mu, the slender Oriental girl with the gorgeous body turned into a work of art. What a glorious ass she’d possessed.
Strange. His nose picked up that same salty tang of the sea he’d smelt back in the hotel room. Was it some kind of olfactory memory?
There were other memories he was eager to re-experience. He moved his hand up and down and recalled the sensation of pushing his cock up into Xie-Mu’s deliciously tight cunt. He squeezed his shaft and his knees trembled as those strange lumps squirmed beneath his palm. Odd how he didn’t feel anything from them, almost like they were stones or some other similar foreign object.
No time to dwell on that.
Oh.
Yes, he was—
Ohhhh!
He doubled up with the intensity of the approaching orgasm. Fuck, he’d left it far too long. This was going to be huge. Enormous. He pumped his hand up and down his throbbing cock and shuddered and moaned as ple
asure overtook him.
He couldn’t get it out. It felt like there was a blockage in there.
Had he left it so long his pipes had clogged up? Was that even possible?
It was coming out. He felt something push up the inside of his dick. Oh fuck. It felt huge. The pleasure grew as it moved up his shaft, like the relief of emptying the bowels with a really large dump.
Or giving birth.
What was happening here?
It felt big. It looked big. He could see it from the outside, like his dick was a snake regurgitating its prey.
Smythe took his hand off his dick. There was a noticeable bulge moving up the shaft. He felt it stretch him on the inside. Apprehension, weirdness and sheer unadulterated pleasure jostled for dominance in his head.
What was happening!
The blockage reached the head of his dick and it swelled out like a juicy red apple. Smythe swayed on his feet. His eyelids fluttered as he strained to ejaculate it from his body.
A claw, black and shiny, emerged from the opening to his urethra. It clicked open and shut.
Smythe’s eyes bulged. He stared at it in terror.
It was a claw.
There was a fucking claw sticking out of his japseye!
He didn’t have too long to contemplate that. A powerful spasm rocked through his body. His eyes rolled upwards and he struggled to stay upright on knees that felt as though they’d been replaced with jelly. The opening to his urethra stretched wide, wide, wider.
Then it was out. He heard something clatter in the sink, something hard and chitinous. It was followed by a blissful outpouring of semen. He moaned as his cum gushed from his dick in a flood.
He didn’t spend too long basking in the post-orgasmic afterglow. There was a thing in the sink. A thing that had forced its way out of his body. Slowly, slowly, dreading what he was about to see, Smythe looked down into the pristine white bowl of the sink.
It was a crab. Or at least the closest approximation his mind could manage was a crab. It squatted in the sink—black, ugly and baleful. Smythe only got a brief glance—not that it mattered, the thing was so alien his gaze seemed to slide right off it—before the horror scuttled away into the black depths of his plughole.