DOA III

by Bentley Little

  Doggy style, that was what he wanted. He had to let go of her neck to pull her ass toward him.

  You can’t always get what you want, boy. Twist and turn. Now they were face to face. She flung her arm around his neck, her legs around his pelvis.

  Take me like this, against this pillar.

  His metal rod nailed her against the concrete. His mouth on hers. Tongues... both metal, both twisting and mutating and grasping and pulling. Little hooks growing from his hands and arms penetrated her skin, she did the same to him, with larger hooks, and deeper. Her heels dug into his buttocks.

  Up! Up! He pushed her upwards, the rough concrete scratching her back. Pam thought he lifted her so she could ride his thick metal dick better, but suddenly she felt the real reason.

  A second penis, long and flexible, growing right under his real one, moved up, finding its way to her anus. It entered as a living snake.

  Fuck, asshole!

  Indeed.

  He started to move, filling her twice.

  Asshole! Asshole! Asssssshole!

  Pam bit him in the neck, he head-butted her.

  A laugh escaped from her clenched teeth.

  Two can play that game.

  Her metal tail flung around his double penis, all the way. The thin end entered his ass quickly only to expand deep inside him.

  Doc grunted, looked at her with big eyes. But he did not stop, he just quickened his movements, pounded her harder and deeper.

  Pam responded in kind, letting him fuck her and fucking him with the tentacle between her legs. She matched each of his movements, push for push.

  He cursed her, called her names, begged her to go on.

  She had no plans of letting go. On the contrary. She concentrated with all her mind on the real penis inside her. It was metal—of course!—and bigger and with more things then a normal penis, but basically it still was a penis: a tube with an opening at the end.

  Penetration time, baby.

  In the blink of an eye the thin metal rod grew from the wall of her uterus. Her aim was perfect. It entered the opening of his throbbing penis and glided all the way in.

  He felt it, oh yeah, he did. He tried to let go of her, but that was impossible. To many limbs and hooks and parts were intertwined. They were as good as one, he could not get lose.

  Meanwhile she did not stop fucking him. Her hips grinded his.

  “Oh god! Oh god!” Doc cried. “Nasty fucking bitch!”

  She only laughed, while she fucked him in his ass and his penis.

  Sucking time, baby.

  The thin metal rod in his penis grew fatter and hollow.

  How…? She figured out how to arrange her muscles.

  Push. Push. And with every push the needle inside his dick started to suck.

  “Hnngh!” Doc was unable to speak anymore, his eyes glassed over. “Hnngh!”

  Pam laughed. Fuck yeah!

  They fucked each other.

  Metal on metal.

  Metal in metal.

  Metal around metal.

  Metal fusing with metal.

  Pam and Doc didn’t notice. They fucked.

  His metal. Her metal. It wanted to be one. It wanted to fuse.

  It started to fuse. And the meat was in the way.

  Blood trickled down their shiny bodies. Slowly, at first. The metal cried dark tears.

  “Owwwww…”

  “Hnnngh!!!”

  Pam and Doc did not notice. They fucked and fucked and fucked. Their whole world existed of fucking. There was no room for anything else.

  Blood, bile, pieces of flesh started to drop.

  They cried in ecstasy, metal forms—no form—rocking and pounding.

  Pain. If they had been human, they would have felt the pain. Whole slabs of shredded flesh fell down to the floor in an ever growing pool of oozing filth.

  They did not feel any pain. They fucked.

  Bones. Pulverized. It rained splinters.

  Doc and Pam did not fall, metal kept them upright.

  Pulsating metal, metal tentacles throbbing in metal orifices. Metal claws digging into metal skin. Metal heads locked in an everlasting violent metal kiss.

  Metal fucking metal.

  Piece by piece the meat was shredded and rejected. Living metal slithered, entwined, became one. Skin, flesh, organs, bones, molecule-thick tendrils cut it to pieces in their urge to become one.

  Only the outline was still vaguely human. And the movements of course.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  The brains, those squishy parts, were the last to go. Maybe at the very end, during a fraction of a second, they realized what was happening, or maybe they didn’t. Probably the didn’t. Pray they didn’t.

  The separate mashes of metal sliced merciless through brain tissue to embrace each other.

  Blood and tissue fell to the floor.

  Dead.

  For a moment the metal continued fucking, an echo of a memory. Then it stopped.

  The metal followed the way of the meat: down.

  All was quiet in the basement.

  At the foot of the concrete pillar, in the harsh circle of light, there was a dark pool of blood and filth.

  And metal, of course. Living, writhing metal.

  Slowly, snakelike, the collection of tendrils slithered out of the pool. By some instinct it was moving in the direction of the coffin-like contraption hidden in the darkness.

  The metal left a trail of gore on the floor. By the time it oozed back into the machine, the metal was clean again.

  Down in that basement, in that strange machine, the metal tendrils moved in creepy lifelike patterns. Sometimes, just for a moment, the face of a man, or a woman, seemed to appear. Other times a hand, a leg, a pair of breasts or buttocks were visible.

  Of course there was no one to witness all that.

  Alone in the dark the metal machine dreamt its dreams of flesh and fucking.

  Jaap Boekestein (1968) is an award winning Dutch writer of science fiction, fantasy, horror, thrillers and whatever takes his fancy. Five novels and almost three hundred of his stories have been published. His has made his living as a bouncer, working for a detective agency and as editor. He currently works for the Dutch Ministry of Security and Justice. http://jaapboekestein.com/

  REPULSIVE GLAMOUR by John McNee

  JOHN MCNEE

  The girl had the most unbearably beautiful body Agbal had ever seen. But of course, Sherda wasn’t happy with her natural appearance.

  Her dark skin was unmarked except for those regions where she had pierced herself, making pin-holes for tribal jewellery and fashionable clusters of gemstone and silver. Agbal had asked her to strip them from her body, along with her boots, clothes, and underwear. She had willingly obliged before sliding her naked limbs into the restraints.

  “Sherda,” he said, placing the ashtray under her head. It was the name she had offered, though likely not her given name. One she had chosen for herself. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Can you speak the vow?”

  She took a deep breath then intoned: “This body is given in service to the Goddess. Let flesh be the vessel of her abundant light. May it inspire awe.”

  “Word perfect.” Agbal smiled before setting a match to the dry grass in the ashtray and the ruby-red seed underneath. He then retreated to a corner of the cellar where the smoke wouldn’t reach him.

  The grass burned quickly, but the seed took longer. It sizzled for a while, then steamed, before finally flaming and turning to ember, disgorging thick plumes of scarlet smoke. It moved at a strange pace, curling slowly upward then suddenly spiralling its way into Sherda’s mouth and nostrils. When it touched her throat she gagged before something overrode her reflexes and she inhaled deeply, sucking it down into her lungs.

  When she exhaled, her breath was clear.

  She went limp, head pitching forward, chains pulling taut to hold her aloft. Agbal didn’t have to go near her to know she was unco
nscious. He took the hip-flask from the pocket of his cardigan and drank from it—a way to pass the time before the transformation.

  Twenty minutes passed before she moved again. Just the smallest twitch of a muscle in her shoulder, barely enough to rattle the chain. But Agbal saw it, and knew the process had begun.

  Something shuddered between the girl’s ribs and jolted her awake. She gasped, eyes going wide, whipping her head toward Agbal. She caught herself before she cried out, as though suddenly remembering where she was, and turned her face away from him.

  Her reaction was not what he’d been anticipating. Inside a feeling of doubt spread through his gut. “Sherda?”

  Her body quivered once more, vibrations tinkling up the chains.

  “Remember your training,” Agbal said. “Keep your focus.”

  She clenched her fists hard, then released them. Her breathing was slow, considered, but far from relaxed.

  Agbal crawled back toward her. The doubt in his gut curdled into fear as he approached, seeing the signs of her distress. Tension and strain were not a part of the ritual. Nor was pain. Not for those who had been properly prepared.

  “Sherda... look at me.” He leaned in toward her, putting his face in front of hers, though she did her best to hide it. Her eyes were squeezed shut, veins standing out on her temples and neck. She gave no indication that she’d heard him, instead letting out a whimper as muscles in her thighs twisted, announcing their movements with quiet pops that echoed in the basement chamber.

  “Sherda,” he repeated, with some urgency.

  She opened her eyes. They were bloodshot, desperate, ringed with tears.

  “No one prepared you for this?”

  She hesitated, as though afraid to admit the truth, but another blast of pain convinced her. She shook her head. “It hurts,” she whispered, teeth red, blood on her tongue. “Help me. Please.”

  He moved without another word, running past her toward the stairs.

  “Help,” she cried again. It was all she said before a fit tore through her body, clamping her jaw shut.

  Agbal raced up the stairs, away from the furious chorus of the chains and the sounds of spattering blood, up into the tattoo parlor where Pox and Degredatia waited. They were in conversation as he approached but were quick to silence themselves as he threw open the door.

  “Devils!” he yelled. “What have you done?”

  Neither was quick to offer a response. Pox, reclining in a repurposed barber chair, swivelled slowly to regard Degredatia. She, idly toying with a piercing gun, met his gaze.

  Then both burst out laughing.

  It made for quite a sight. From a distance, with her white skin and stretched limbs, Degradatia resembled a wigless store mannequin in a gown of blue leather, but a closer inspection of her body revealed a network of bloodless scars, halfway concealing the biological machinations just below the surface. Up close, the open wounds in her face quivered like a dozen thin, puckered lips, connected as they were to folds of sinew just below the skin and the long cavities by which her breath filled them like bellows. When she laughed, the folds inflated and burst from her wounds, giving her head the appearance of a blossoming red rose.

  Pox, by contrast, could offer no grand displays with the flesh on his face, but his frozen features were grotesque enough without embellishment. Branches of blue and purple veins were pronounced beneath skin so stretched it was almost translucent, pulled taut by spears of bone at the back of his skull. With the light behind him, his head wore a halo of glowing webbed skin. The result of this extreme facelift had left him with lips that wouldn’t close far enough to kiss and eyelids he couldn’t blink. The latter problem had been solved by fusing glass lenses to the outer rim of his eye sockets. Their red tint was purely cosmetic, but they protected his eyeballs from the elements and ensured that even when he was guffawing with laughter, his mad gaze never left Agbal’s.

  “Stop that!” Agbal cried, grabbing the first thing that came to hand and hurling it across the room—a tub of disinfectant. It bounced against a mirror then landed on the counter, spinning for a moment before settling, upright, almost as though it had been placed there by gentle hands.

  The siblings looked to each other, both trying to judge whether this pathetic display was worth another round of laughter, but thought better of it.

  Pox coughed and sat up, steepling his long, intricately-tattooed fingers, making a show of trying to compose himself. “Something, um… something wrong, old man?”

  “No games,” Agbal said. “You swore to me that the girl had been properly instructed.”

  Degradatia, imitating her brother, tried to cough, but let out a giggle instead. “We may have exaggerated. Just a touch.”

  “Yeah…” Pox’s thin lips could do nothing to hide his grin. “Fact is, we don’t really know the silly bitch.”

  “You tricked her?” Agbal was horrified. “You tricked me?”

  “Thought it might liven up your evening,” said Pox, with casual disregard. “You don’t need to worry about the girl. Just one of the hangers-on from the club, been following us around for weeks.”

  “Odious little cow was kissing arse because she wanted the seed,” said Degradatia. “Wanted that because she couldn’t afford surgery, but it wasn’t like she could even afford our services, was it? I mean, how am I supposed to run a business with every tedious tart expecting special favors?”

  “We told her as much, but would she listen?” said Pox. “Trust me, if the stupid cunt knew how to take a hint she wouldn’t be here now.”

  “We gave her what she wanted in the end,” said Degradatia, wet flesh shivering through the wounds in her neck. “We may have... skipped a couple of steps, but at least it means she won’t be boring

  us to death anymore.”

  “Monsters,” Agbal cried. “You tricked me!”

  “And it was easy,” she yelled. Shouting, for her, employed different muscles to laughing and pushed air into different passages. Raising her voice in anger caused fleshy red sacks to burst from her neck like tumors. “If you’d bothered to sober up for five minutes maybe you’d have seen she didn’t know what the fuck she was getting herself into! Don’t blame us for that.”

  “But how could you?” Agbal asked, appalled. “You swore to me. We made a pact!”

  “What we’ve got is an arrangement, old man,” said Pox. “One you’ve done pretty well out of, up till now. Free room and board, free food, free booze—”

  “And you drink a skinful,” Degradatia interjected.

  “You drink and babble and pray for a time you can barely remember, and we’ve tolerated it all. When you got too lazy to even handle the inductions, we stepped up. But we’re a bit sick of it now.”

  “We’ve better things to be doing. There’s a whole world out there desperate to worship at our feet. If you’d seen it, you’d know. Itbwould be cruel to deny them.”

  “You talk of cruelty?” Agbal pointed behind him, toward the sounds of Sherda’s torment. “Do you have any idea what will happen to her?”

  “Some fucked up shit?” Pox suggested, sniggering.

  “She’ll die!”

  Pox shrugged. “So what?”

  “Good riddance,” said Degradatia. “The world won’t mourn her.”

  For a moment, Agbal was too incensed to speak. He turned from them, bowed his head into his hands. “Why would the Goddess bring me here? I thought I could trust you.”

  “You can, up to a point,” said Pox. “But we’re not your slaves.”

  Agbal peered at the siblings through his fingers. It felt like he was seeing them for the first time. “What are you?”

  Pox rose from the chair, ascending to his full seven feet, blue velvet robes unfurling beneath him. “We’re devils,” he said, throwing Agbal’s own insults back at him. “We’re monsters.”

  “We’re tired,” said Degredatia, sounding like she meant it very sincerely. “Tired of you.” She turned toward the exit.


  “Harsh lesson I know, but think on it,” said Pox. “Maybe you’ll take your end of the deal more seriously in the future.”

  Agbal wasn’t looking at either of them as they walked away. His eyes were on the floor. “You’ll pay for this,” he said, his voice barely a mumble. “You can’t offend the Goddess so.”

  “Threats?” Degredatia turned back and threw up her hand toward him, curling her fingers as though to clasp his face. He saw the small crosses in the flesh of her fingertips. “Your threats mean nothing. Nor do your prayers. It’s time you realized that we are the closest things to Gods this miserable world has. You want to pray to something, you should join the flock and pray to us.” With a flick of the wrist she straightened her fingers, pulling the flesh tight. When she did, needles of sharpened bone slid through the crosses. The effect was like a cat exposing its claws.

  She held the pose, like a looming threat, long enough for him to respond. When he failed, she said no more, didn’t spare him another glance as she strode away.

  As Pox turned to follow, Agbal crossed the distance between them and snatched at his arm. “Wait,” he begged. “Please, just... her name. Her real name. What is it?”

  Pox hesitated, eyeballs shifting behind red glass, then shrugged. “You know what? I actually can’t remember.” He put a hand on Agbal’s shoulder. “Do me a favor? Take a picture, before you clean it up? I’d like to see what’s left.”

  The girl’s blood had hit the bulb above it, spattering the glass with red polka dots. Its light cast a pattern of greasy brown splotches across the room.

  Agbal was slow making his descent, afraid of what he’d find, whether the girl would still be alive. She was, but the fact brought no relief.

  In his absence, she had broken free of one of her restraints, slicing through the leather with a sharpened tendon. It, and the hand it was attached to, now appeared so mangled as to be beyond use. The tangle of knotted flesh quivered on the floor, at the end of an arm with at least five more joints in it than when he’d left. Yet this was far from the worst she had suffered.