by M. E. Hydra
Smythe’s stomach heaved and churned.
That thing had come from inside him. It had hatched, grown and gestated within his body.
He retched.
It wasn’t over. His orgasm hadn’t finished. His body shivered and convulsed and he felt the pressure building up again.
No, no, no! Not again. He couldn’t bear to have another one of those things crawl out of his cock.
He looked down. His cock, his monstrous cock, was a seething mass of activity. Purple lumps shivered and vibrated underneath his skin.
His cock was alive with them. Infected. Infested. Gravid with their loathsome black carapaces.
Smythe threw back his head and grunted loudly. Veins stood out on his neck. He was coming. It was coming. A white spurt of cum dribbled from his japseye. It began to open out and stretch wider and wider as another glistening black oval body struggled to emerge.
No!
Smythe reached out and picked up the nearest thing at hand. It was an alabaster statuette of a buxom maiden reclining on a couch. It had the same approximate size and weight as a house brick.
No!
Smythe slammed it down hard on the end of his dick, trapping it between the sculpture and the hard marble counter. The crab burst with a loud crunch. Purplish ichor and his own red blood oozed from the mangled opening to his urethra. It wasn’t enough. The rest of his cock still crawled with repugnant motion.
No! No! No!
He brought the rectangular statuette down again and again and again. He felt the parasites pop and crunch beneath his skin. His cock, swollen with blood, ruptured. Blood stained the white base of the sculpture, sprayed across the mirror, splashed into the pristine white sink. Smythe didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not until every last little scuttling abomination had been crushed.
Smash. Smash. Smash. Smash.
* * * *
“So you’re telling me he laid his dick flat on the counter and hit it with a brick until it was smashed to a pulp? For no reason?” DCS Lynch asked.
“Looks that way,” DI Myatt replied.
Lynch shook his head. What a sick sick world.
Joe Boyega Picks a Bad Night to Become a Rapist
Joe Boyega tracked the woman in the black dress and white fur stole as she walked up Donohoe Road. She didn’t notice him. He was just another city kid hanging around a bus stop. In this environment his dark blue hooded top functioned as effectively as camouflage fatigues in a jungle.
The woman was elegant and sexy. Class followed her in a tangible cloud. She breathed it in and out. She was totally different to the girls on Joe’s street. They acted like they were gonna be celebrities—pop stars, actresses, models; it didn’t matter—but anyone else could see they were nothing more than low-class skanks. They didn’t want Joe and he was happy with that. He didn’t want them either.
Joe wanted the woman in the black dress and white fur stole.
This woman had it... refinement. She looked like a real star. Her black hair was cut in an exotic Cleopatra bob that framed a pale, ethereally beautiful face. Joe had never seen the whole of her face. She always wore a pair of large fashionable shades that hid most of it whenever she was outside. To Joe she seemed less a human being than some kind of aloof alien—as perfect as a fine art sculpture—gliding effortlessly through a sprawling morass of humanity.
She was a whore.
He’d figured that out after watching her house for the past month while he pretended to wait for a bus at the stop across the road. Him staking out her front door had come about by accident. At one time he used to catch the bus from here to take him up to The Cornish Block, a pub on Whittaker Road, where he’d worked behind the bar. That hadn’t lasted long. The owner of The Cornish Block had been dealing drugs out of the back and the feds had bust him, taking down The Cornish Block and Joe’s evening job with it. It was during his waits for the bus he’d first noticed the sexy girl in black.
It was easy to work out she was a whore. All the different men coming and going through her front door had been a giveaway. There were way more than could be explained by an active dating life, and they were of all types and ages ranging from fit young men to silver-hairs with the expanded waistlines brought about by late middle age. The one thing they shared was money. They all looked well off, but then everyone looked well off when compared to Joe’s circumstances.
There could have been an innocent explanation—some other business she was providing—but Joe doubted it. He’d watched men both come and go. When arriving they’d approached the door in a furtive, sidling manner. As if they knew they were up to something that wasn’t quite legit in the eyes of society. It was totally different when they left. When they walked out of that front door their chests were puffed out as if they’d just successfully negotiated contracts worth millions of pounds. One time Joe had even glimpsed the woman through the door as she waved her client goodbye. She’d been dressed in nothing more than frilly black lingerie that had contrasted with her pale white skin. He’d also been surprised by the number of tattoos covering her exposed flesh.
Then he supposed it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise. She was a whore after all.
It was that puffed up feeling, like he was worth a million pounds, Joe wanted. That’s why he’d picked her to be the one.
And because she was a whore.
He reasoned she’d be more used to it. For her it would be less... traumatic.
Joe paused as he contemplated what he was about to do.
...traumatic.
Shit. Was he really going to go through with this?
The reptile part of his brain reared up and asserted control.
She was a whore. She’d be used to this. It was what men paid her for day in and day out. He would have paid her too... if he had the money.
He felt bad about it, but he had to pop that damn cherry. It was driving him fucking insane.
The woman in the black dress walked up a short flight of steps and started to unlock her front door. Joe glanced to his left and right. No-one about. Perfect. He crossed the road with brisk strides, bounded up the steps, and then bundled her through her front door and closed it behind him all in one smooth movement.
“Don’t cry out,” Joe warned.
He held up a big kitchen knife. It glinted in the light cast by the streetlamp outside.
The woman in the black dress didn’t cry out. Or show any kind of alarm. Her pale face floated ghostlike in the gloom. Her expression was guarded and enigmatic. Her large black shades made Joe think of the eyes of a bug for some reason.
“This goes down exactly as I say and you don’t get hurt,” he told her.
“What do you want?” the woman in the black dress asked.
Her English had traces of an accent Joe couldn’t place. Maybe she was one of those Bulgarians or Romanians the papers said were coming over to steal all the jobs and slob around on benefits.
“You’re a hooker, right? I want the same as what the other men pay for, only I ain’t got no money.”
He held up the knife he’d taken from his mother’s kitchen before leaving the house that evening, challenging her to have a problem with that. She didn’t. She looked at the blade, looked at Joe’s face and simply nodded.
She stood up. “You can put the knife away,” she said. “I’ll do what you want, but please put the knife down. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Joe didn’t lower his knife. He had to stay on his guard. She seemed unusually calm about all this.
The woman turned to go. Joe shot out an arm and grabbed her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
The woman froze on the spot.
“To one of my bedrooms,” she said. “That’s where I take all my other clients.”
“Okay, lead on.”
He released her. She started to walk away.
“Wait!”
Joe’s arm shot out and he grabbed her shoulder again.
She was too calm. Like she had s
omething up her sleeve. It made him uneasy. What if she was leading him to where she had muscle, alarms, weapons, or all three stashed away? He had to be fucking careful here. As desperately as he wanted to pop that damn cherry, it wasn’t worth a twenty-year stretch in prison, especially if he never got to pop that damn cherry in the first place.
“You ain’t got some big hunk of muscle hiding back there, have you? No bodyguard to take care of the rowdy cunts?”
“No, I live here alone,” the woman in the black dress replied.
“Ain’t that risky in your line of work?”
Joe thought he was pretty good at reading faces. From her he got nothing. Her white face could have been a mask.
“My clientele are fairly exclusive,” she said. “They’re not the sort to cause problems. I think you know this already. You’ve been watching them come and go for quite some time, I believe.”
Shit. She’d made him. Sirens went off in Joe’s skull. She’d been observant enough to notice him hanging around the bus stop. Did that mean he’d have to kill her once he was done with her?
No, no, no. Fuck that shit.
Not unless things got really fucked up. That’s why he had to project the attitude of stone-cold muthafucka. So she wasn’t tempted into any stupid ideas that might cause the situation to get really fucked up.
He followed her through her house.
Fancy crib, he thought with a twinge of envy. Lying on her back and opening her legs to fat old rich fucks had done well for her. Probably had a couple of sugar daddies to milk too. Fuck it, he was no less a man than them. She could lie on her back and open her legs for him as well.
“My name is Nicole,” the woman in the black dress said. “I know you won’t want to tell me your real name, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t be going to the police. They don’t believe sex workers when it comes to rape.”
“John,” Joe mumbled.
The corner of Nicole’s mouth turned up in a faint smile as if she could tell he was lying.
Yeah, like he was going to give her his real name.
Her house went further back than he expected. And they headed down rather than up. He supposed she must have multiple bedrooms—one that was hers and others where she carried out her business.
The bedroom where she carried out her business was well fancy. Really plush and decadent. Exotic sex acts were graphically depicted in the paintings adorning the walls. A massive round bed with shiny black silk sheets took up most of the room.
Joe entered cautiously and checked around the room. No big fucker lying in wait behind the door or hiding behind the furniture. No obvious cameras.
That he could see.
She was high-class ass. She must have some security measures to protect her in case any of her clients got violent. What if the room was all wired up and everything they said and did was recorded. He couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean the cameras and mics weren’t here.
He shouldn’t have let her pick the room. That was a mistake.
Damn fancy room though. Well posh. Like something out of a film. The sort of room you’d expect the rich elite to fuck their fancy whores in.
Nicole went around the room lighting scented candles and incense sticks. The heady perfumes tickled Joe’s nostrils and caused his cock to twitch in his pants.
Nicole turned to him. “Why don’t you put the knife away,” she said. “I’ll give you the same services I provide my clients, but only if you behave like one.”
Joe didn’t lower his knife. He stared sullenly at her.
Nicole shrugged. She removed her stole and fur coat and hung them on a stand in the corner of the room. Underneath she was wearing a classy black top and skirt. The top was made out of some kind of stretchy fabric and tightly hugged her figure. It showed off her curves to good effect. She was far fuller in the chest than was normal for women of her slim build. Probably fake, not that it mattered when it looked that good, Joe thought.
“This is the first time you’ve done anything like this,” she stated as though she knew it was true.
She might think she was trying not to sound too judgmental, but to Joe it sounded the same as all the teachers that couldn’t be bothered with him.
“Once you’ve crossed this line there won’t be any going back. It will stain the rest of your life,” she said. “It’s not too late to change your mind. Turn around and go. Forget you were ever here. I promise I will too. You don’t have to go through with this.”
He was tempted. As hard as he was projecting a tough, don’t-fuck-with-me exterior, inside his heart felt like it was fluttering around inside his rib cage like a delicate moth. It would be so easy to do as she said, but he knew it was no use.
“Too late,” he said. “The line has already been crossed.”
He’d bundled her through her front door and threatened her with a knife. The feds wouldn’t let him off just coz he’d had a change of heart. He’d still have to worry about them breathing down his neck and worse, he’d still have that damn cherry hanging round his neck like a damn anchor.
No, that line had already been crossed. Now he’d have to see it through all the way.
“I’m not leaving until I’ve got what I came for.” He sat in a plush black armchair and motioned for her to continue undressing with his knife.
Nicole’s face turned sad. She lifted her stretchy black top up over her head. The rest of her clothes followed until she was down to just her underwear.
Hot damn, so this was what an expensive whore looked like. It was like being in the same room as one of those hot chicks from a hip hop video. He’d glimpsed this from the other side of the street. That was nowhere near the same effect as sitting in the same room as it with the knowledge he was going to tap that ass. She had it all—legs, ass, curves—and all without any obvious fat.
The only blemish was her tattoos. She was covered from neck to ankle in spidery black tattoos. Properly tramp stamped. Only these weren’t like any tramp stamps Joe had ever seen. At first he thought they were part of some elaborate tribal design. Closer inspection revealed Nicole looked like she’d been scrawled on like some batty math professor’s blackboard.
“What’s with all the tats?” he asked.
Why would a high-class whore do that to her skin, especially skin as pale and as perfect as hers?
“They’re an aid,” Nicole said. “To remind me of what I once was and help me not be that again.”
Joe snorted derisorily.
“What we were is what we are and what we’ll always be,” he said.
“It’s sad someone so young chooses to believe that,” Nicole said.
“Don’ matter what we believe. Will always be others to believe it for us and they won’t let us be anything else.”
Nicole didn’t argue with him. Joe reckoned she knew it was true. Once a whore, always a whore.
Joe wondered why she was still wearing those overlarge black shades. He could have demanded she take them off, but he didn’t. This was going to be bad enough without her eyes staring daggers of shame right at him.
She surprised him by dropping down on her hands and knees and slinking towards him like a sexy cat. A real sexy cat. Oh yeah, so sexy. This was why he’d picked her. She wasn’t a slovenly skank and she wasn’t going to fall to pieces like one of those privileged nice girls. She knew what it was about.
She crawled to him across the plush black carpet. When she reached him she slid her hands between his shins and gently prised his legs apart. She gripped the cuffs of his trousers and gave them a little jerk. Joe caught the meaning. He stood up enough to unbuckle his belt and drop both his trousers and pants. His erection, shiny in wrapped rubber, bobbed free.
Nicole looked up and gave Joe a quizzical glance.
There was already a condom on Joe’s dick. He’d put it on before leaving the house earlier that evening.
“I ain’t leaving any DNA for the feds,” he said.
He knew how they got people. He
wasn’t going to leave a big splodge of his semen, either inside her or on the sheets. Nope, his spunk was going in the condom and the condom was leaving with him. Fuck the feds.
There were other—deeper—reasons. He didn’t want to leave a baby inside her. No way was he putting another poor bastard through what he’d been through.
He knew some said the feeling wasn’t as good with a rubber. Joe didn’t care. It still counted and that was all that mattered.
Nicole shrugged as if it was nothing new to her. Her hands slid up his legs and she slithered up into his lap. Joe sat like a king on his throne with his hands on the armrests and his legs wide apart. Nicole was puddled between his legs. She was one sexy bitch. She was hot. This was hot. He felt like a rich gangsta rapper with a hot ho on her knees before him.
Nicole’s head rose up level with his erection. Even through the condom he felt the heat of her breath. He certainly felt the soft pressure of her full lips as she wrapped them around the swollen head of his cock. He felt everything as she took him into her hot mouth.
He couldn’t enjoy it. Suspicion flared within him.
She was far too keen and willing. Something had to be up.
Nicole sucked on the end of his cock. The tip of her tongue tickled against his glans. Joe’s cock twitched. He felt a tremor run through him and for one awful moment thought he’d ejaculated prematurely.
Fucking bitch. She was trying to use her whore’s tricks to get him off early in her mouth.
He shoved her away and she fell awkwardly against the end of the bed. Her large sunglasses nearly came off. She paused to push them back on before turning back to look up at Joe with a shocked and hurt expression.
“You ain’t getting out of it that easy,” Joe said. “It don’t count unless it’s in the pussy and I ain’t leaving until I’ve popped it in your pussy.”
Nicole’s brow furrowed.
“What do you mean, it doesn’t count unless it’s in the pussy?” she asked.
Joe stood up and loomed over her.
“Losin’ it,” he said.
“Wait!” Nicole held out her hands. “Are you a virgin?”
Virgin, how Joe fucking despised that word. Virgin. Not-a-man. Never-to-be-a-man. And that’s what he was until he could get rid of it—just a stupid immature boy.