DarklyEverAfter

by Allistar Parker

  I heard her grunt as my massive dick split her ass open. It was obvious she had taken some big dicks in her ass, before, but this one must have gotten her attention. The scream she laid down when my dick bottomed out filled the giant room with echoes.

  The more she fought to get it out, the harder I rammed her ass. Strangely, the more she fought the more excited I became. I felt her muscles tightening around my dick. The awkward way we danced as she tried to pull away and I strained to keep my dick buried deep in her gave me a sense of belonging. I found a home that could take all of me.

  As with all good things, this had to come to an end. She finally broke loose and moved away, screaming obscenities along the way. Pointing the gun at her again, I convinced her that she should do as I say, always, or at least until death do us part. Although we had come to an understanding, my dick still wanted one last final come. Wrapping her hair in my hand, I slid my dick all the way down her throat.

  She didn’t gag or fight me. With long, deep strokes, she sucked my dick with all her heart. Returning her hand to her clit, she rubbed my dick and her pussy concurrently. When the first few spasms flooded her throat, she swallowed in rhythm with my contractions. Even with a small orgasm flowing over her like a wave, she drank every drop. The two of us quivered for a few seconds, frozen in that solitary position. Neither of us knew what would happen next. We had survived.

  I could have taken her life with a simple squeeze of the pistol. Nothing made me want to save her from the same fate she had planned for me. There was only that simple look of resignation on her face. The rose colored cheeks settled among the frown lines in her face. I couldn’t determine if she was asking me with her eyes to spare her, or if she just wanted to get it over.

  I fired a shot just to know for sure her intentions. The bullet shattered the wood of the mantle by the fireplace. I hadn’t wanted to kill someone over a bluff. The second discharge felt better, relieving more tension. I felt no real remorse at the destruction of the vase. It might have cost a plenty, but it wasn’t my money. Another bullet crashed through the silver service near the door. The last bullet buried in the bedpost, rattling the bed for some seconds. Ann sat through the whole process without even flinching.

  “Got a cigarette, doll?”

  Ann fumbled through her pockets. Nothing. I zipped my pants up and walked away from her, finding the cigarette box on the table near the lighter. Cool menthol flowed through my lungs as I remained silent. I could hear her shuffling about in the room. She must have been dressing because when I returned my gaze to her a long flowing gown covered her body, one that flowed over her hips and fluffed out in every direction.

  Dressed and completely at a loss of what to say, the two of us meandered down to the kitchen for a bite to eat. I made a few sandwiches and poured us more whiskey. She traced the outline of a heart in her potato salad. Who it belonged to, I couldn’t guess.

  She broke the silence. I still concentrated on the sandwich, stopping long enough to slurp down a shot or two. The night would be long and I did not know where or when the next meal would come from.

  “Grab your stuff and let’s go,” she muttered.

  “Go with you? You tried to kill me.”

  She threw her pocketbook over her shoulder. “You either go with me or greet the police when they arrive.”

  The thought of having a conversation about all those dead people didn’t appeal to me. I liked the idea of leaving with Ann, even if I had to kill her later. I didn’t worry about her. She could have killed me anytime. She wanted my dick and that was the truth.

  “I’ll grab the bag upstairs. I assume it is full of money?”

  Ann shrugged. “No, silly. It is much more valuable than money. Money is spent and gone. This gift lasts a lifetime. Get the bag and let’s get out of here. I’ve already called the police.”

  Funny how women can be all about killing you until their plan falls apart and you become part of the escape plan. The car, parked by the light, was the car of a dead guy and soon would be the object of a wide man hunt. I couldn’t take a chance on something so obvious. The yard across the street had a parking lot full of cars, from sports cars to luxury vehicles. Luckily for me, the drop-top job away from the house still had the keys in the ignition. Putting the transmission in neutral, I eased the car down the drive to the street, pushing it with all I had left. A turn of the key and the beastly motor came alive, ready to run down the roads at speeds not possible in the United States. Stopping only briefly, Ann crawled into the passenger seat, covering her hair with a scarf.

  “If you are nice and get me out of this state safely, I might show you what color underwear I am wearing.”

  I grabbed her dress and forced it over her lap until it exposed her bare crotch. “Fur? A little late in the season for that, isn’t it?”

  The cold wind blew over the windshield as we traveled down those lonesome back roads between Hell and Las Vegas. I thought about the people still lying on the floor in that small town just east of nowhere, whether they’d been found, and what became of the young lass at the store. It is not real, though. Not anymore. Ann is a housewife and a member of the bridge club. Our two kids play in the backyard of our ranch house in the desert. The neighborhood doesn’t know the things from hell, or that Ann still sucks my dick when tell her to. Me? I gamble at the casino, chase the young things in the chorus line, and go to Elvis shows when he is in town.

  Crazy thing is, I listen to the Beatles now.

  Chapter Four Jack on the Rocks

  His coal black eyes rolled into his sockets as he sipped the last drop, two fingers of whiskey gone that quick. The room smelled of dirty socks and salty air. The cheap whore from last night lay sprawled across the sheets, her eyes cold and her lips taut. He couldn’t think of anything else but the last vision of his wife leaving home.

  The crunching sound of the ice as he chewed echoed in the room, no window treatments, no soft tapestries on the walls, just those blaring florescent lights and the dark shadows of the corners. He knew better than to look in the shadows. Death hid there. The old spirit of some ghastly vision only seen by drunks and hookers. There was no time to think about it. He had to leave before the cops came.

  Chapter Five The Daily Paper

  The newspaper predicted the night too well. In another town and in another dimension, the headline announced another Ripper-like killing in that hotel room, a single whore ripped open, sliced down her abdomen and into her groin, pictured in full color across the front page. The moment I saw her I knew the boy was dead as well. All too often there are Johns around these sweet angels.

  I don’t want to kill them. I have dinner plans, roast duck in a pressed sauce with small red potatoes and a wonderful wine. Friends don’t often come calling and I certainly miss the company of living guests. I shall have to find some way of containing them long enough to deliver this poor, dear fallen angel to her maker.

  Chapter Six Scissors

  Decorated in a brilliant red sash, the paper had come every Saturday night for weeks. My destiny delivered to me neatly tied in a ribbon. I never wanted for what I would do with my life nor how I could see my vision of life. It was in the paper on my doorstep by six o’clock.

  I do not know how he knew what would happen or even how he knew it would be me, but there it always was, laid out in print with pictures for me to follow. Perhaps it was a fluke. Maybe he could see the future. Rather, I believed it was by God’s hand that all this came about. Ridding the lovely girls of their sinful ways and delivering from the hell they lived on earth, God answered their prayers. And, of course mine.

  The lust for blood boiled in me often. I resist the urge to leave my guests for just those few moments. Lurking in the corners, down in the shadows, and behind that noisy rattle-trap air conditioner, I find watching those two in carnal sin such a pleasure. Those guttural sounds. Her moans of pleasure I find extremely tantalizing and the perfect complement to the rhythm of my hands on my cock.

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nbsp; Finally, they are finished. Slouching in the chair fits his demeanor. It is such a contrast to the lovely lady’s glistening body, those beads of sweat rolling across her tummy and down between her legs. She’s ready for relief from this world.

  With the last drop of the bottle gone and while he still sleeps in the chair, I can finally make that picture come true. With the scissors in my hand, it is time.

  Returning to my friends, I find them no less harmed for my absence nor any less ready for dessert. Angel Food Cake with a savory red sauce.

  Chapter Seven A Night At the Key Party

  From the moment my eyes caught the view of that woman, I knew I was in for a wild ride. There was the first date where I managed to hook her dress in the revolving door and leaving her standing in the restaurant with nothing more than her panties and bra for coverage. Next came the wedding from hell where we both ate bad fish and spent our honeymoon night puking into the trash cans and espousing our love between heaves. Having birthed our first child in a cab on the way to the hospital and the second on the deck of a cruise ship, the world became so dull once the little proteges found nests of their own and moved out of our lives.

  Still too young for the rocking chair, we embarked on a string of adventures in search of the perfect exciting evening. Some were physical, as in a sky dive or two. Naked scuba diving enhanced one special evening. We thought nothing could top the weekend excursion to the Tantra Seminar. It took weeks to straighten out my back.

  With all the crazy things we had done, I never imagined I would agree to take my wife to a key party. You know, a party where all the guys throw their room key in a bowl and the wives select one to determine who they will go with. Well, it just wasn’t done in proper circles in our day, but the days of our lives on earth were growing shorter with each passing year, I guess my wife really wanted to know what all the key party fuss was about. I wanted to try something new and when Susan suggested that our anniversary night would be the perfect time to try it. I thought, “What the hell. We live but once.”

  Having not been a part of the swinging generation when I was that age, I wasn’t knowledgeable about what happened at parties like this. I suppose Susan had read about one in a magazine or some such thing, but I just couldn’t figure out all of the things I needed to know. The internet was no help. I Googled the subject several times before finally finding an episode of a television show that featured a motel key party in its program. It all looked so simple on television—even a guy like me could do it.

  Should I wear a suit and tie? Was there a proper pair of socks for the occasion? I certainly needed new underwear, but would my boxer stylings make the lady revile the moment she picked my key? There was too much to contemplate, and the wife was not making it any easier.

  I just stared at my wife as she slid on those panties up her stocking-covered leg and covered her neatly trimmed bush. Every detail of her appearance was given special attention, from the perfumed hair to the glistening body lotion. That new sexy look was driving me crazy. Thoughts of another man ravaging my special woman started to make me rethink this proposition. I could almost imagine the expression of ecstasy across her face as she arched her back in a simple, unfettered orgasm. She was going to be hot. I was going to miss out on seeing it.

  I, on the other hand, was going to be ordinary, a single man standing in the corner hoping to be picked first from the bowl, but I knew it was going to be elementary school kick ball all over again. The plain black slacks reeked of last to be picked. My hairdo, the early receding style, was straight out of The Three Stooges. My suave way of talking probably resembled Potsy Webber more than James Dean. I was doomed.

  I watched the cars passing by as we drove to the restaurant, wondering if the lady in the passenger seat of the car next to us would be my date for the evening. Having never met any of these people, I couldn’t even be sure if the woman I saw standing next to me at the store might not be my date for the evening.

  The thought that I wouldn’t even know the woman I was about to be very intimate with gave me a degree of comfort, and for that I was glad. Being a stranger, if I suffered from poor lovemaking skills, I’d never have to hear about it again. On the upside, the pain of finding out about my own clumsiness in the bedroom would help me be a better lover to my wife. I kept that thought floating as I drove along. Of course, Susan might learn a thing or two as well. I liked that thought.

  The load of clanging of dishes sliding into the sink and the smell of bacon cooking kept my thoughts balanced between panic and fear as I sat across the table from my wife at the Waffle House. The new ruby-red lipstick stood out, more like a floozy than my wife. The smoky dark makeup around her eyes intensified her subtle beauty. I never noticed the curves of her lashes before. She was beautiful. She was more beautiful than I had ever seen her before. There was a glow around her as she talked about the upcoming event. Although I appreciated it, the people around me gave me a strange vibe, as if I was there with a well-paid hooker.

  “Just do what you always do. We don’t expect guys to be good,” she said, finishing her toast. “Besides, you are fine. I never complain, do I?”

  She was right. She never complained. Sometimes she muttered things under her breath, but I couldn’t be sure they were complaints. The thought this was her suggestion burned all kinds of interesting scenarios as to why she chose to accept this invitation. Was it me? Had she finally decided she needed to see what she had been missing all these years? Maybe. I wondered how we got the invitation, anyway. There must have been a conversation somewhere that led to this. There might have been some girl talk that led one of her friends to suggest a day at the key party. Her dissatisfaction surely led her to want to do this. Yep, I was quite sure I was inadequate enough to warrant this. Whatever the situation, I knew the show had to go on even if I turned out to be the comic relief.

  Women stood in line by the ladies’ room at the motel lobby, all dressed to impress the guy they chose. The smell of sweet perfume and female pheromones mixed together into a luscious treat. Wanting something to do instead of mingling with the competition, I decided to check in at the clerk’s desk and secure my own room key. The line wasn’t long, but with the short amount of conversation with the other guys, I came to the conclusion they were as nervous as I was. Although they never said it, I could tell they were just as worried about their wives. With the old-fashioned key ring and key in my hand, I headed off to seek my future in the arms of some woman to be named at a later date. As I passed the first attractive woman checking out my butt, I realized I must be someone’s draft pick.

  Arriving in the dance hall, I bellied up to the bar for my first potion. I drank that first shot quickly, hoping to shore up my faltering nerves. It worked better than I imagined. With every step into the crowd I could feel myself drifting into the sexual mood of the room. The lady at the table would be nice. I hoped the woman by the piano might find my key attractive. I hoped to get the cola machine rather than the lady leaning against it. At least the machine weighed less. All the time, though, I kept seeing my wife just a few yards away, talking and mingling like she had done this before. Yes, I was a little jealous. No, I couldn’t stop it.

  The music railed on into the night as I danced with this one and that one. I loved the feel of the curvy woman as we slow danced around the floor. That bony girl would never do. What if I broke her? The one built for sex, with legs that made a perfect line into her thinly veiled panties, heaving bosom, and strong arms, kept her distance from me. Finally, as the evening rolled to a stop, I had my chance. The pattern had been clear—some fancy rock song, then a country two-step, and then the slow dance. She was by herself, alone as the slow dance was about to be played. I had enough time to make my way across the room and ask her to dance before the announcer finished his speech.

  “All women, the time has come to grab a key for the evening. Guys, room keys please.”

  Damn! Screwed again.

  I fumbled in my pocket to dig
out the motel room key and dropped it in the hat. Disappointed, I made my way over to the bar and grabbed a shot of courage for the road. I noticed my wife was twisting her hair over by the juice fountain, a sure sign she was nervous as well. I suddenly found myself stroking her back as a way of reassuring her things would be well.

  “Hoping for the sex bomb with the panties showing every time she walks, aren’t you?” she asked without looking.

  “Anything wrong with that?”

  “No, honey. I hope you get her.”

  I hesitated before continuing the conversation. “Have you one that you favor?”

  “See the bulge in that man’s pants?”

  “Good choice. Hope it fits.” I really hoped she didn’t get that guy. With a bulge like that, there was no way she would ever be satisfied with my dick again. My mind was now circling the corners of my brain to see if I could remember the web address of the penis enlarging guru.

  The room crowded around the hat sitting on the table near the door that led outside to the portico where all the room doors waited. As each woman pulled a key from the hat, they would stare at the number on the tag before exiting the door. When my wife, the last to draw, exited the room, the announcer called us all to the bar for one last round of drinks before the night’s main event began. We toasted the girls, their honor, and all of our organs which we hoped would rise to full mast at the sight of our blind dates. The bonding experience did more to rattle my nerves than calm them. I also felt a pang of nervousness for my wife, the love of my life, as she prepared for her first new lover in almost twenty years. I hoped she did well.

  Room Sixty-Eight couldn’t have been more appropriate. Certainly she would ring my bell, but I would probably owe her one. After all, it had been twenty years for me as well. Oh, I can ring my wife’s bell like I am at a church bell tower just jerking on that bell rope, but women are different. How was I to know if those things worked on others? I stood outside the door for several minutes trying to get the courage to turn the knob and walk in.