David Boski

The Best Sex You’ve Ever Had

“what happened last night” she said
as we lay hungoverin my bed;
“what do you mean what happened,
you don’t remember?” I asked;
“no, I actually don’t” she said laughing;
“what the fuck? you don’t remember
us getting home, taking off our clothes
and me fucking you on the couch?”;
she laughed again and said: “no, I don’t,
I was wasted, I’m sorry”;
“well, I fucked the shit out of you” I said,
“it was the best sex you’ve ever had”;
“oh ok, that’s good then” she replied.
I rolled over, and tried going back to sleep.

Bradford Middleton

Mad Drunken Love

The night before had got way out of hand, had grown out of control like a disobedient child throwing a tantrum in a supermarket, way quicker than Jack had expected, way quicker than he’d experienced in a long time. And this morning, well, here he lay next to one of the most stunningly beautiful women he’d ever had the pleasure of, well, right now he isn’t really sure. Looking over he is sure he’d remember doing anything with this creature, this beauty, but his mind is gone, all memory of the night before is gone from about the seventh pint and chaser. His nakedness is stark and as he slowly begins to patch his mind back together he realises that his surroundings are different too.

‘This must be her flat,’ he thinks as he gropes for his pair of boxer shorts laying on the floor next to the bed. It then comes to him, why would he want to leave this situation, he shouldn’t bother putting them back on, not yet anyway, this could be something special, something great possibly. Dragging his gaze from the floor to more prescient concerns he lifts the sheet to reveal the fully naked body laying next to him, a truly wonderful sight, a firm breast, a stretch of leg that aches to be touched, or at least that is what his mind tells him as his hand moves in. He brushes her thigh, up her arm and then onto her face, stroking that cheek, shifting her hair to display the bluest of every blue eye he’d ever seen. Moving in to kiss her on the cheek his delight knows no bounds as she shifts her body in his direction, her gaze meeting his at last. They kiss and a communal thanksgiving it releases from both their souls fills the room with an air of pure joy. They kiss and then soon after they fuck, they fuck like wild crazed teenagers high on lust, defying their ages, defying the decades since they’d felt so alive. They fuck and then they fuck some more and finally both lie spent across the bed.

“Pat!” she screams causing Jack to suddenly realise that he has no idea of what this enchanting woman’s name is.

“My son,” she begins to explain, “he builds them good and strong… that and a wee naughty coffee will get us feeling fine in no time at all…”

When the knock comes it breaks the spell of this brand new world that Jack has enveloped himself deep inside since regaining consciousness in this amazing new scenario. Pat enters and the woman throws him a bag.

“There’s some in there, roll us a good ‘un and then fuck off…” she instructs him in harsh tones. He duly follows her instructions, leaving them alone again barely fazed by his presence. Nothing but a young kid anyway, probably fifteen or sixteen at most, he seemed a bit sullen to Jack but then kids that age often are; frustrated at life, unable to live how they want to live. She climbs from their bed and moves over to a little coffee machine set up in the corner of the room, strutting across the room her size is impressive, her body naked.

“Da ya fancy a coffee?” she asks in what Jack has suddenly realised is a northern Scottish accent.

“Sure that’d be nice,” he responds.

“Spark that up for us will ya?” she asks, throwing the joint from the floor where Pat had left it towards her new lover.

“Sure will,” he responds. Sparking the joint to life he lays back on the bed and lets the smoke take hold as his new surroundings grow more familiar with every passing moment. Everywhere he looks he sees something of interest, a beautiful naked woman, a big pile of books on a desk, a stack of vinyl records inside a cupboard, lots of psychedelic furnishings and, at last, a sign that the twenty-first century hasn’t been completely ignored, a laptop with a thin layer of dust on top resting on an armchair that dominates the right corner of the room, big enough to sit five.

“How’d you take your coffee?”

“Black is fine, maybe a bit of sugar…”

She piles in a large teaspoon and brings over a big steaming mug, retrieving the joint in the process, standing before him smoking, looking sexier than anything Jack had seen outside of a porn movie or maybe some obscure European underground movie in years, no fuck that, decades. Climbing to his feet he moves straight for her, pulling her in tight as soon as he is near enough to grasp one of those tight beautiful arms. She pulls long and hard on the joint and then places it between his lips, telling him to breath in, inhale the grass, smoke it up good as if he hasn’t been smoking weed on an almost daily basis for the last thirty years, hell more decades than her kid who’d just rolled the joint had been alive.

Taking the joint out of her hand he smokes it again before passing it back, pulling her back to the bed. She smokes another long hard toke and then simply collapses onto the bed, pushing Jack over with her and after one last took she begins kissing him again. This time they take it easy, this time they build up to the frenzy and any sign of orgasm is still hours away from that first kiss. They kiss, they fondle, they play and then finally they fuck and it is the most beautiful, greatest fuck of Jack’s long life and as they lay together afterwards they begin to talk.

“So do you even remember my name?” is her third question. The first two ask if he can roll another joint whilst she makes them more coffee, this time offering an Irish option which includes a mean shot of Paddy’s, the roughest of rough Irish whiskey. His answers come easily and truthfully, yes, yes and no, he has no idea.

“But I really would love to know, hell I want to know it all…”

“Well, let’s start with the basics…” and suddenly she is telling him about her childhood in a northern Scottish town, her doomed marriage, her four kids, of which Pat is the only one still living at home, and how she works at being an artist. Nora’s life sounds like a struggle like so many others in this town that everyone has moved to at some point in the last ten years but it sounds like a proud struggle, a dream almost. She has everything she needs, maybe a holiday once in a while but then how would she work if she wasn’t right here in this house where her studio is, and ultimately she is doing something she loves and, just about, making a living out of it. Jack’s nimble fingers roll a joint for the pair of them to share and as she brings over two Irished-up mugs of coffee she asks about him.

“Well I grew up in south-east London, born in 71, thought I’d never leave but…” Jack begins, telling her of his horrible upbringing, the torture he’d experienced at school, his decision to drop out of the mainstream into the underground punk scene around 91 and how he hadn’t really held a proper job until he’d reached nearly thirty.

“It feels like you’re the first real person I’ve met down here, you just seem completely real and happy with who you are… You seem to not give a fuck what anyone else thinks…”

“Well generally I don’t…” she responds.

The talk continues and last for hours until they realise it is again dark outside and they have spent the entire day deep inside their own little cocoon, getting high and falling deeper than either of them ever expected when they’d met the night before. That night that would now stick out for months, hell let’s throw caution to the wind, years even decades to come, a night when life for both changed beyond recognition. Eventually conversation drifted around to more mundane topics as, seemingly at the exact same moment, both realised they hadn’t eaten anything all day, and in Jack’s case not since lunchtime the day before. Needing something easy it was decided pizza and wine would do the trick, two-for-six quid wine and a share of a massive one from the local supermarket. That would mean the party would have to break up, even if only temporarily, but the stoned-out munchies simply intensified their need for sustenance and, after locating some clothes, they go out hunting for provisions, looking for those things which mean they won’t have to leave their cocoon for some time after this experience.

Arriving back at the house they move into the kitchen and unload their shopping with Nora reaching for a corkscrew to get in on that cheap gut-rot wine as Jack contemplates opening a vast pack of crisps or whether to look at the potential fire hazard that is the cooker. He decides on the former and scoffs down a few large handfuls before setting them out on the table as Nora takes the pizza, examines the instructions on the back before moving over to the cooker, and gets on the case. All the time the pizza is in the oven she is perched on a chair nearby rolling joint after joint after joint whilst occasionally taking a hit of the wine whilst Jack merely sits opposite gazing at her drinking his, he is completely enchanted.

With the pizza dispatched to the grateful stomachs they move back upstairs to their large psychedelic love-nest and another protracted assault on their senses. They smoke, they drink, they kiss, they fondle and then, nothing… Jack’s mind is a blank canvas as the night progresses he has no idea of where he is or what he’s doing. Something has gone incredibly wrong somewhere down the line and he can’t quite work it out, two nights running with the same woman and on both occasions he can’t recall a large chunk of their night together.

Waking the next morning, again naked and again confused as to what happened to him the night before, his head is a pounding wreck of regret, confusion and despair. He can’t possibly stay with this divine creature, this Nora, if he can’t remember some of the most important times they’ve shared but what is causing this loss? It’s not like he’s a beginner at this kind of thing, he’d been drinking and drugging his way through life now for thirty years and not since the truly mad days of discovery in his early twenties had something like this happened.

He contented himself with the idea of fucking her, that would help him think of other things, help get his mind out of state of confusion that was currently infecting him with a fear, a fear of the unknown. Leaning in he kisses her on her shoulder, as if to get her attention, and then, as she rolls over, he began to suckle on her spectacular breasts like an innocent child.

“Mmmm,” she murmurs as her hand grabs Jack’s raggedy hair and pulled him in tight. Moments later they are fucking and Jack’s delight is complete as he forgets all about last nights’ lost hours. Why should he care, here he is having sex with one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen and so what if she likes a bit of a drink and a bit of a smoke he loves both of those things as well. She is almost his perfect woman and only time will tell how far this love can fly through the air like a bottle battling gravity.

John Kojak

The Kobioshi Research Institute

Jessica Bell awoke in the sterile darkness, confused, naked, and alone. A soft beeping noise pulsated rhythmically from the monitors mounted on stands next to her head. Her eyes desperately searched the shadows for anything that might help her understand where she was and what was happening to her, but there was nothing. Only darkness.

Just as a creeping sense of terror began to sweep over her, a light suddenly came on behind a long rectangular window on the far side of the room. A short, dark haired man in a white lab coat stood silently on the other side of the glass.

“Hello, are you a doctor?” she asked.

A sympathetic smile dashed momentarily across his lips, but he did not respond.

She tried to move, but couldn’t. She could feel the nylon straps attached to her wrist and ankles cutting into her flesh as she struggled against them.

What the hell is going on, she thought as a small doughy shaped woman in green surgical scrubs entered the room wearing rubber gloves and a large plastic face shield.

“Miss, can you tell me where am I?” Jessica pleaded.

Again there was no response. The woman walked silently towards her and sat down on a metal stool between Jessica’s legs.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Jessica screamed.

Jessica could see a look of joyful anticipation in the fat woman’s eyes as she looked back over her shoulder and nodded to the man in the white lab coat. He nodded back as he reached over and turned out the lights. Once again she was enveloped in darkness. After a few moments a bell began to ring, ding-a-ling-a-ling, and a loud buzzing sound, like a hive of angry bees filled the room.

Where am I! Jessica thought as she felt the woman press a large, violently vibrating device firmly against her trembling clitoris. She tried to clear her mind, to think of something, anything, that would help her control the spasms rocking through hips and up into her spine. She tried to picture her husband, her little boy, but she couldn’t see their faces—she couldn’t concentrate! Oh God! she thought as her body tightened in the grips of a powerful orgasmic contraction. “Nooo!” she screamed as her juices shot out in a high arching stream that splashed angrily against the woman’s face shield.

As her body locked into a rigid arch,the vibrations suddenly stopped. She hoped whatever they were doing to her was over, but after a few minutes the bell rang, ding-a-ling-a-ling, and the woman in the green scrubs pressed the device against her again.

The pattern of bells and abuse went on for hours and hours until Jessica’s uncontrollably quivering body went limp from sheer exhaustion. She was on the verge of slipping back into unconsciousness when two large men in white uniforms entered the room and unstrapped her from the table. They carried her like a rag doll down a short hallway and unceremoniously placed her crumbled body in a tiny bilious green tiled room, not much bigger than her walk-in closet at home. The room was barren except for a thin mattress strewn haphazardly on the floor, a tattered grey blanket, a small metal bucket full of water, and a bar of soap. There was a small hole in the middle of the floor and two harsh fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. The lights never went out, so there was no way for her to keep track of time, except for the sessions. Every day the routine was the same. She would receive a bottle of water and a bowl of rice through a small slit in the bottom of the metal door. After her meal, the two large guards would return, take her back into the dark room, and strap her down to the cold steel table. A few minutes later the light behind the window would come on and the man in the white lab coat would appear. Then the short woman in green scrubs would enter the room, the bell would ring, and the nightmare would begin all over again.

The routine was always the same, until today. She woke up and ate her meal, the guards came, and they strapped her down to the table, but the light behind the window did not come on. There were no buzzing, whirring machines, no mocking eyes staring up at her from behind the fluid splattered face shield. Jessica laid there alone and in the dark for what seemed like an eternity, her mind racing, wondering what they were going to do to her next…

Hours passed before she heard the muffled rattle of keys outside the door. This time it wasn’t the maniacal fat nurse, but the man in the white lab coat who entered the room.

“Good Morning,” he said as he turned on the lights, and walked casually towards her with an arrogant grin etched across his face.

“I don’t know who you are, but you are not going to get away with this. I am—”

“Mrs. Bell…Jessica Bell,” The man said as he sat down on the stool between her legs. “We know exactly who you are. That is why you are here.”

“And where is here exactly?”

“You are a guest at The Kobioshi Research Institute, and I am Dr. Kobioshi.”

The lunatics really are running the asylum, she thought. “Research institute? Are you insane?” she yelled.

“Mrs. Bell…If you calm down, I will attempt to explain why you are here and the purpose of our research.”

“Research, you fucking pervert, is that what you call it? She said as she struggled against her restraints. “Let me go!”

“You will be released as soon as you have completed the stimulus packages.”

“As soon as I do what?”

“Complete your stimulus packages, so that we can evaluate your proclivity for sexual arousal. Yesterday you completed stimulus package #1, clitoral stimulation,” he said as he looked down at her chart. “And I must say, the results were impressive. Over the course of the seven sessions, you achieved one hundred and seventy-two orgasms, including one hundred and ten in which there was some degree of vaginal ejaculation.”

She was stunned, Could it possibly have been that many?

“Tomorrow you will begin stimulus package #2, vaginal stimulation, and after that there is an anal package…followed by oral, and then finally we will see how you respond to pain and discomfort. Your scores, which depend on a number of different factors such as the frequency of your orgasms and the force of your ejaculations, will determine your final classification. If you score high enough to reach class-five status, you will have the option of joining the program, if not, you will be free to return home…or wherever you wish.”

“The program?”

“It’s an alliance, of sorts, that exists to solve two fundamental problems. The first is that what men truly covet the most, and this is true across all demographic and social classes, is the complete and total satisfaction of any and all of their sexual desires. The second is that most women are simply not willing, or capable, of satisfying those desires. This Institute was established to find and cultivate female candidates who possess inherently extreme sexual desires of their own, so that we can match them up with a select group of elite individuals who are prepared to spend whatever is necessary to ensure that their desires are fully fulfilled.”

“A whore? You want to turn me into a whore?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Bell. Being invited to join the program is a very rare privilege. Few women, even those selected for testing, are capable of achieving class-five status. If you do, I can assure you that you will never want for anything again.”

“I’m not some kind of super nympho—I’m a mom.”

“Yes, we select young mothers specifically.”

“Specifically for WHAT!

“Do you realize that less than five percent of females experience vaginal ejaculation during intercourse? It’s very rare. But that number increases to twenty percent for women who have recently given birth. That should not come as a surprise to you, Mrs. Bell. I am sure that your new abilities did not go unnoticed by you…or your husband.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with, well…everything. You see, this heightened sensitivity has also been discovered to be a catalyst for an increased desire for more extreme sexual experiences. But unfortunately, the lack of sufficient stimulation that many women receive from their partners often leads them to feel unsatisfied, disappointed, and even depressed. This causes many new mothers to feel completely turned off from sex altogether. Most incorrectly attribute their lack of sexual desires to a decreased libido, but it is actually a result of insufficient stimulation. Such as in your case. In fact, I believe that you had recently stated that you had not had sex with your husband in over four months.”

How the hell does he know that? she thought. Jessica had not made many friends since moving to Sacramento with her husband and their young son six months ago, and there was only one person that she talked to about her sex life—Lucy!

Lucy Ho lived two houses down from Jessica, and had a young daughter who went to school with her son. They had not been friends for very long, but there were not many secrets between them, especially when it came to Lucy’s favorite subject—sex. It seemed like that was all they talked about sometimes. A few weeks ago, Jessica shared with Lucy that she hadn’t had much interest in sex since giving birth to her son. She would still do it if her husband was persistent enough, but lately it seemed like he had given up even trying. Lucy usually went on and on all the time about how great her sex life was, so Jessica was surprised when Lucy admitted that the same thing had happened to her after the birth of her daughter. But then Lucy told her how she had gone to see a Chinese doctor in Golden City who had prescribed a special herbal tea mixture for her. She said she drank it once a week, and now she was as horny as a schoolgirl all the time. Jessica didn’t have much faith in herbal medicine, and God knows what her husband would say if he found out, but she was desperate to save her marriage.

The doctor’s name was Wang, and he had a small shop located at a spot behind Auntie Mei’s Dumpling House on G Street. Jessica wasn’t sure if she would call a man who worked out of the back of a Chinese restaurant a doctor, but Lucy had assured her that the Chinese had been using herbal medicines for thousands of years and that this man’s family came from a long line of famous doctors, some of who had even served as personal physicians to the Chinese Imperial Family.

Jessica had a strange sense that something wasn’t quite right when she pulled in to the small alley behind the restaurant and did not see any signs of a business, just a small red door with no windows. She sat in her car for several minutes wondering if she should get out, or just go home. What the hell she thought. It worked for Lucy.

The office was small, with shelves full of colorful porcelain jars lining the walls, and a small glass counter in the back. As Jessica walked thru the red door a bell announced her arrival, ding-a-ling-a-ling. An old stooped-over woman in a drab grey coat came out from behind a curtain next to the counter.

nĭ hăo,” the old woman said.

“Hello. My name is Jessica Bell,” she said sheepishly. “Lucy Ho made an appointment for me to see Dr. Wang.”

The old woman nodded and extended her thin sinewy arm back toward the curtain, beckoning Jessica into a small dark room where the doctor was waiting.

She had expected Dr. Wang to be as old and frail looking as the woman outside, but he was a young man in his early thirties. He wore a button down white shirt with a colorful red silk tie, and had short black hair that he combed straight back, like a gangster in the old movies.

“Hello, Mrs. Bell,” Dr. Wang said as he directed her to a short wooden stool next to the desk where he was sitting. “I have spoken to Lucy, and what you are experiencing is very common. The shock of childbirth has simply upset your body’s natural balance. We traditional Chinese doctors use a very ancient method called qiemai, or pulse reading, to diagnosis which organ of the body is causing this imbalance. Once I determine that, I will be able to prescribe a special blend of herbs that will help restore your body’s natural harmony. Sound good?”

Jessica nodded. She didn’t see how it could hurt, pulse reading???

“May I see your hands please?”

She held out her arms, and Dr. Wang placed three fingers gently around each wrist. “Just try to relax and breathe normally,” he told her. She watched as the doctor closed his eyes and appeared to concentrate intently. After a few minutes, he looked up at her and smiled. “It is your kidneys Mrs. Bell. They are very weak. This is why you have not felt like yourself lately. The kidneys are the source of our sexual energy, our essence. What we Chinese call our Qi. We must nourish them.” He turned and reached over to a small white porcelain jar on his desk. “I have just the thing,” he said as he pulled out a small pinch of lemon-yellow powder that he sifted into the palm of his left hand. “We call this mafeisan.”

That was the last thing that Jessica remembered before she woke up naked and strapped to a table. Wang, you slick haired bastard, she thought. When I get through with Kobioshi, I’m coming for you.

“—Of course there are other factors as well,” Dr. Kobioshi continued. “But that is why we use Dr. Wang. He has an amazing ability to identify just the type of candidates that we are looking for.”

“Fuck you and Wang. I want to go home.”

“What we want,” he said sternly. “And what we need, are rarely the same thing. That is why I have brought you here today, so that you can get a fuller understanding of just what it is that you truly need.” Dr. Kobioshi stood up and took a small brass bell out of the pocket of his lab coat. “What you crave,” he said as he slowly began to ring the bell, ding-a-ling-a-ling.

The sound of the bell caused waves of Goosebumps to spread over her skin like a wild fire. Her back arched, and her pelvis began to gyrate as it searched for something, anything to satisfy the burning sensations that the bell had ignited inside her.

“Are you beginning to understand now, Mrs. Bell?” he said as he began to furiously ring the bell, ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling.

Her body began bucking uncontrollably as the bell rang faster and faster and faster until the frantic dings sent her body into a series of wild orgasmic convulsions.

“We all have needs. Realizing what they are, and how to satisfy them, is the key to finding out who we truly are.” he said as he silenced the bell and placed it back into his pocket.

“Unfortunately, there are other matters that require my attention at the moment. But I do not want you worry. I promise that I will return soon and try to satisfy some of those needs of yours…personally,” he said as he brushed a long spidery finger along the inner part of her thigh. “If only briefly.”

Jessica was terrified. She laid there alone, her thighs quivering uncontrollably in the darkness. Afraid that the deep tremors the she could feel reverberating through her body were a sign that what Dr. Kobioshi said was true, she did need it. But what she didn’t know, what she couldn’t have imagined, was that the trembling sensations she was feeling were not withdrawal symptoms from the lack of sexual stimulation, but the preliminary rumblings of a massive 7.9 magnitude earthquake whose powerful shockwaves were now rocketing towards her at a speed of over five kilometers a second.


The first wave struck the two story concrete reinforced building that housed the Kobioshi Institute like a devastating right hook. Jessica thought that it must have been an explosion because it hit with such sudden force and fury, lifting up the table that she was strapped to and slamming her back down as the window across the room shattered and the walls began to buckle. The next shockwave was even more powerful.

Boom! Bang!

The entire building seemed to shoot up into the air, and Jessica could feel the floor beneath her give way as giant chunks of concrete and roof begin to crumble down around her. The noise was horrific.

Bam! Slam! Crash!

It sounded like the end of the world.

Jessica awoke into a strange ethereal darkness, broken only by the sound of bells, ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling, and the muffled shouts of men echoing off in the distance. She didn’t know how long she had been lying there among the wreckage. It could have been hours, or days. Her mouth was choked full of arid, copper tasting dust, and her eyes burned from the smoke and millions of tiny particles of debris that swirled in the air around her. Somehow the table had remained upright, but the ceiling had collapsed to within a few feet of her bare, rubble-strewn body. She was surrounded by mountains of concrete and twisted tentacles of rebar.

She began to cough furiously, trying to clear the dust out of her throat so that she could yell to the distant voices that she was here, that she was alive! But before she could make a sound, the bells, the ringing of those damn bells, ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling, began to stir something inside her that even the horror of her situation could not suppress. Her body tingled and her nipples rose out from under the dust like tiny mountains in an apocalyptical landscape. As the bells got closer Jessica could feel her juices beginning to turn the dust between her thighs into a muddy goo. This can’t be happening, she thought.

“Heee—Heeelllp,” she finally managed to cry. “Help Me!!!”

Suddenly the bells went silent, and voice above her called out, “Helllooo!”

“Here! I’m down here!!!” she shouted back furiously.

Soon she heard loud creaking noises, followed by the dull thuds of tumbling debris. They were close. But the bells…the damn bells had started ringing again, ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling. She lay writhing on the table, trying to focus her thoughts on the freedom that was inching her way. But her body could not stop quivering. Oh god! Not like this! she thought. Not like this!!!

Soon a thin beam of light pierced the darkness, darting from right to left, and back to the right again. It hovered briefly over the ruble of the shattered walls before landing on the toes of her left foot. Behind the light she could see a faint outline in the darkness. It was a man. A MAN!

“I’m here to get you out of here, Ma’am,” he said in a low country drawl. “Are you hurt anywhere?

“No, I don’t think so.” she replied. “Just get me off of this fucking table!”

He stood in front of her, his light creeping slowly up from between her blood smeared thighs to her tight toned belly, and then to the erect nipples that were pulsating like tiny volcanoes about to erupt. She couldn’t imagine what he must have been thinking. A naked, filthy, wild-eyed woman, strapped to a table with an enormous wet spot between her legs. He must have been just as horrified as she was. But he was a man on a mission. He didn’t waste time wondering why she was there, he only new that he had to get her out.

He quickly reached down into his waistband and pulled out a small jagged-edged knife and began to cut away the nylon straps that secured her feet in the stirrups. As the straps fell away her legs crumpled down limply beside him. Then he moved in closer, leaning over between the collapsed ceiling and her dust caked torso and until he could reach the straps that held down her wrists. The feeling of his groin pressing firmly against the little pelvic bone above her clit rekindled the fire that was now raging inside her. She couldn’t stop herself from writhing and grinding against him as he desperately cut away at the thick nylon bands, not realizing the manic passions that he was about to unleash.

As soon as her right hand was free she reached out and grabbed his jacket, pulling him even tighter. By the time he realized what she was doing and tried to pull back it was too late. She swung her legs up and locked them around his waist just as the blade cut through the straps that held down her left hand. She swiftly reached out and shoved the hand down into his waistband, grabbing his throbbing cock and guiding it quickly toward the flaming lips of her muck-covered cunt. She could see the look of panic in his eyes as he struggled to free himself from her lustful grasp, but it was no use.

Before he could break free he was inside her. His thrusts were short and frantic, like a teenage boy’s, and he came just as quickly—his entire body stiffening before he staggered backward in stunned silence.

As his seed seeped out of her a broad smile spread across Jessica’s lips. She wondered if there was such a thing as a class-six.

Made in DNA

Cheatin’ Hearts

The bike growled across the open countryside toward the distant shambling horde. Her fat, nanospiked tires gripping the ground like a great cat, hungry to close the distance. The thick, sexy curves of her mean machinery radiated power and purpose as she did two-fifty across grass, gravel and graveyards alike. Within her chassis, huddled against the thousand-year fusion drive, lasers, missiles, and self-replicating nanoslugs wiggled, eager to be free of her belly so as to wreak havoc. She was a big girl with enough killpower to decimate a small city, and the animal sentience to revel in the glory of it.

Draped over her, his forearms buried within, rode her man, bold and seasoned by the deathscapes of five nations. Half machine himself, he proudly offered his services in the name of The Grand Scheme.

Hired by the orbital conglomerates the murderous pair were paid for every mutant they ground into the terra firma. Through the deathjiggy of his guns and the growl of her machinery, mutant hordes have been repurposed into fertilizer. Upon those bones the new civilizations of Earth will rise.

Sensors chirped excitedly, reporting their find of the Targets of Opportunity that were the pair’s bread and butter – the pitiful remnants of an intelligent age gone mad. Monstrous radioactive mutants surviving off each other and the unfortunate pockets of humanity scraping out desperate existences in the hellish landscape.

The rabbit-deathhead’s holo on the front of his jet black helmet grinned, mimicking its owner. “Soften them up with some mini-missile mayhem, my love.” He wiggled his fingers to unlock the systems and let her animal instinct seek and satisfy itself. Pencil-thin missiles rocketed skyward moments later, arching in angelic beauty and coming down in a rain of blossoming death.

From across the tortured landscape, a hideous cough-screech challenge, wet and angry, gurgled from deep in the throats of the tortured. Man-machine and nightmare-gnash clashed in a crunch of limbs and tech. Scores of boney, malformed hands, the size of human torsos, raked across the pair as they plowed through the middle of the large group. Acidic gobs of greenish black goo shot from faceholes, angrily burning with napalm-intensity across the distance between them. Poisoned projectiles machine-gunned from inverted nipples upon swollen breasts with the faces of the ill-born, peppering his armored backside as man-machine screamed by.

But the hellspawned could not touch the wheeled death otherwise. With each pass, their numbers dwindled as he ripped their malodourous guts from their bellies with cruel custom tire blades, and pulverized their brain matter as he brought his wheelied, heavy front tire down atop them, in a crunch of bulbous gristle brainpans, jutting lower jaws and pus-filled kyphosis. Their mindless flailing figures popped and flopped, a burden no more to themselves or the Earth’s orbiting masters.

Dismounting his lover, he removed his helmet, ran his hand over her body and patted her ass. “Good girl. Beautiful work, my sweet,” he praised. “The artist in you is just waiting to be released. A couple more groups like this and I’ll purchase that creative mod for you, as promised.”

Her console trilled approval.

The ravaged landscape was an obscenity against the burned-ochre dusk. Night brought the sting of

Time unmolested in the open lands of this ruined Earth could counted in minutes, yet they ignored the ever-present danger of the mutants and camped atop a large outcropping of flat rock as if that somehow would allow them to become unseen.

He cooed to her and she purred in heat, her whole chassis vibrating with the anticipation of meat. He stroked her from front fork to rear brakepad, taking time to seek out those spots deep within her frame where the heat bit, eliciting trills and growls.

Stepping behind her, he bisected the bulky armor of his crotch to reveal a thick, solid chuck of machine-threaded meat. Sparkplug-modelled interface nodes piercing his nuts gave anchor to branched conductive threads that raced out from the base of his thick member in a metal skein.

Punching in his personal code at a backend numeric panel, he popped her fuckport. The heated aroma of her sex engulfed him in a heady aroma of fusion reaction. Taking his stiffened cock in hand, he used the tip to tease her fleshy vulvaport until a thick, rich blue gel began oozed forth from her. Rubbing himself in it, he plunged into her warm, eager depths with a satisfying click-moan. Her vaginal onaholesheath was vat-grown crossbreed of human and horse with a touch of spider silk for strength, and velvet for feel.

Socketed within her chassis, lust and lube gripped the lovers, pulling them together as into the intricate deathsex pact that only battle-comrades understood. She revved her engine, sending a million minute vibrations through groin and spine, converters beneath his flesh transforming them into a constant data stream of pleasure that looped back to her.

Brought to satisfaction, she trill-moaned, the aural embodiment of her deepest feelings and connection to this man. Hot gel gushed from her cavity, covering his groin and spilling down his legs. With his own decisive, jaw-grinding grunt, he pressed himself as deep as he could, releasing hot, white jizz.

Exhausted, he lay down to enjoy the heat of the rock underneath him and bask in the afterglow of sex unconcerned with monsters; the bike would wake him if danger approached.

Far above the Kármán line, the conglomerates, in their five-mile-high orbital havens watched, waited and wagered on their agents of destruction. From their hyperbolic sleep chambers, they hung, arms crossed over their naked forms like alien mummies. Extra-tellurian vultures, relics of another time, too greedy to die with dignity, waiting to feed off the corpse of the world they had watched destroy itself without extending a helping hand. They would return to the surface one day but only after they were certain to ensure they would be its masters first.


The next morning was a whirl of wheel, a blur of landscape and a stir of death.

They ripped across the mutated lands with their hideously disfigured remnants of biological warfare, pinballing the genetic aberrations against the once proud urban structures and landmarks of civilization. The gore and viscera painted the crushed cities red along with the hollers of man and bike. Pus-filled bodies exploded in tandem to crashing 18th-century wargrooves shared across her Bluetooth connection to his shoulder loudspeakers.

Mutants ten feet tall swung great clubs of long-forgotten tech, their mangy cattle-wombats chasing him over great swaths of rolling earth, snapping at his legs, their piggybacked children vomiting death. Intestine streamers decorated park playsets, braindogs skitter-zigged when they should have scatter-zagged on too-slick tentacles, their final contribution to a future world nicely splurched across sidewalk pavement. Skull bones and death tones. A symphony of death.

Eight continuous days of viscera showers and once more they were under the blue skies. The current sector was a treasure trove of opportunity. The open lands and small, scattered settlements offered both haven and smorgasbord for their hedonist reverie.

With a whoop of excitement, man and machine headed into a large frontier town, its walls and gates, while once formidable, would be little more than a wry joke against the corrosive voracity of any mutant horde that decided to pick up a light snack before meandering back out into the wastelands.

Within the desperate entertainment district he pulled along the rickety, weather-worn sign. Whole Whore Holes. Plain and simple. A smile on his face and a rub of his palms together. This had been a long day in coming, and now he was going to be just as long and coming.

Not once in three nights or four days did he leave the comfort of the bed or the girls he’d hired. Food, drink and all the willing poontang that could be found in town was bought, brought and wrought in the name of pleasure. Rumors spread that the Venusian girl from Limlis Ranch had been brought in when all the other girls had passed out or begged off in favor of rest.

And through it all – through the rain and heat, the dust and radiation storms, she waited, parked a story below his window; witness to the wetness of whole whore holes.


He took a deep, satisfied breath. The air stank of its usual apocalyptic grunge, but his mood was high, and his loins were numb from pleasure.

“Morning, baby doll,” running his hand over her body before mounting. Slipping his arms into her front chassis, he glided his fingers over the controls buried within. At his command, her engine revved wild and hard, the deep rumble coursing through his body like blood. In less than the time it takes to piss, the pitiful visage of civilization disappeared behind them like so much dust.

An hour later, across the great expanse of a bubbling lake of gunk, they found a sweet target. A skyscraper beast on squat, tree-trunk legs shook the earth, scooping up great swaths of the landscape – dirt, fauna, flora and all – indiscriminately shoving the mix into its piggy maw.

Below it, a parade of mutants caravanned in its shadow. These horrors danced in the between its legs, feasting on the scraps that dropped from its anal orifice. Oblivious to the ruckus circus beneath its feet, the humugoid would inadvertently squash a few under its tremendous weight, or scoop a careless few up with the dirt. And that which it could not digest, it would vomit up the bulk of partially-digested mash in a spray – shaking and turning its eyeless bulk to and fro, redistributing it.

A carnival of life. Oblivious to death closing in.

Rounding a bubbling lake, the bike picked up speed on a straight-shot of ground that would blast rider and machine through the massive horde at 250 kph. A feral fire lighted the rider’s eyes as he dropped the face shield of his helmet and hugged his honey love as close as possible, rubbing his thickening cock against her frame in the excitement.

Deploying her Gatling side lasers at an upward angle, he decided to zip through the crowd of monsters beneath, and let the behemoth crush the survivors under its weight when it fell to the lasers.

He pushed the machine forward, hitting an outcrop of angled rock that sent them shooting in any upwards arc for an unobstructed shot at the monster’s underside.

“Target her belly. When we bring her down like a gutted pig, it’ll rain credits from heaven!”

But something was not right. The bike began to list mid-air. And then a sinking feeling built in his gut as he watched her control panel lights dim. “Baby?”

Frantically he worked every control and combination of commands therein, but she wasn’t responding. Something was very wrong.

Clipping her front tire on one of the behemoth’s forelegs, they spun wildly for several rotations midair, and met the ground in a skidding, gravelly crunch that crushed his right leg.

The behemoth did not take notice. But the mob did. An uneasy moment of mutual recognition passed between the hunter and hunted. It wavered, and then shifted as the moment of discovery became a rush of warped flesh and bone.

“Fuck! Baby! Get us outta here!”

The bike was silent.

He tried to pull free of her, but could not. His arms were trapped deep within her; his right leg pinned beneath her.

“Baby! Baby…!”

The grotesque horde used brute force over many hours to crack open his armor like the shell of a live lobster. Bit by bit, they tore off pieces and shoved their faceholes onto exposed flesh to gnaw off a hunk; or sting him with a necrotizing venom they then slurped up. Mouthful by mouthful, they gobbled up every bit of meaty morsel until he was no more than bones and fragments of cybernetics, with which they adorned themselves and picked their teeth.

Megan Alyse

The Destruction of America Happens on a Saturday

All the washing machines, in America, explode
on a Saturday at 12pm. Laundry day, ruined.
The wives must buy their husbands new underwear
and husbands must buy their wives new dresses.
Children go sockless in their sneakers.
You hoarded all the clean underwear in the house.
You wore that skirt you’d never wear.
Neighbors helped neighbors pull buttons from the walls.
There were only two casualties: Old Whiskers
who would lie on the Spencer’s machine
to feel the heat and Marjorie,
who liked to stand atop her washing machine,
on bulky-cycle, doing yoga. She said it was good
for her thighs. Everyone is left
with soapy holes in the walls
and scraps of wet cotton, rayon, and jeans.
On Monday, people wear bathing suits,
sarongs, and their church slacks to work.
With time, clothes become disposable,
made of decomposable paper. Unfortunate
when it rains. Dryers, drying nothing,
are end tables. Now,
there are no space capsules for young kids
to stick their dogs into.
Sears says it’s feminism.
Maytag blames the Russians.
Christians say, the nudists. Entropy ensues.
National Guardsmen carry metal carcasses
from people’s homes. Red Cross begins making shirts
out of plastic bags and then, naturally, the fashion industry
collapses. China cuts trade deals,
textiles are now irrelevant and plastic is no longer a problem.
Neither are nipples in public. The media melts down
because there is nothing left to sell.
You begin to forget what it was like
to have socks on your feet.
You forget what soft cotton feels like on your skin.
People put money in their mattresses.
You’re left with rusty water stains on the wall,
left wondering what was holding it all together
to begin with.

Omar Alexandre

music videos are fun to watch at night

there’s something filthy about me
that makes you reluctant to dance
and there’s something pure about you
that makes me want to corrupt
i fucking despise everything about you
and you probably don’t like me too much either
you wake up smiling at the possibilities
knowing it’s all been laid out for you
i killed a man yesterday
just for mentioning your name
and mailed you an envelope
with a small piece of his heart inside
you thought it was pretentious
and sent it back my way with a bloody tampon
i knew then it was true love
so i went to the graveyard
and secured a spot overlooking the street
in case we bore each other
when our bodies are placed in the ground


Ingrid M. Calderon-Collins


…I want hands deep in my geography,
memorizing where it hurts
to trail through me, pulling at my weeds
watching flowers bloom, from my chest cavity

want oiled fingers, on my butchered rose
tongues eating at me
like they’re starving

but see, sometimes i’m soft…

and I picture us laughing
with beers to our lips
drunk kisses,
and falling asleep
till the sun creeps in

you wake me
with no morning regret
just a glistening sweat
of the hours you’ve spent
soaking in all my debts
that I’ll never pay off
at least

not yet…



Mela Blust


honey’s eyes could be the color of the sea
if it were boiling
she’s got a delicate step, fast feet built for
back streets, legs up on the backseat
all the world is an audience for fresh meat
they say you can’t move your body when you’re dreaming
the only time for peace is when honey’s sleeping
time beats a drum and his breath smells like rum
she’s ready to run back pockets are breathing
see you can’t breathe and swallow at the same time
honey’s done enough swallowing and white lines
thin lines between lust and heat
but honey’s gotta eat

Phillip Carmichael

Bitter Cold

Frigid misery,
grumpy and grumbling
all the way to frozen train tracks,

my blistered heels eroding further
in stiff boots, the flesh below ankle
scraping off to reveal the tender circle
of red-raw reality, blood rising to the surface
of skin, eagerly awaiting puncture, an opening
of the floodgates.

Trudging along to begin the workweek
with stinging sores, the skies withholding sunshine,
another grey morning devoid of substance,
(nothing left to gain, nothing left
to glorify)

January’s conflicting resolutions failing
to satiate the need for progress,
thousands of varying voices
echoing within the cranium,
indicating what needs to be
done, what ought to be

Each step brings with it a wince and
worry, the expectation of sticky scabs
and bloody socks.

(The wind chill freezes cheeks,
numbing rosy noses and stifling all sound.)

The entirety of my aspirations
have convened in this moment,

and the train hasn’t even come yet.

Tom Over

Physical Media

In the near future a couple return home with a new television. It’s a state-of-the-art model and they talk excitedly as they unpack and set it up. Unlike with previous operating systems, where viewing traits were learnt algorithmically over time, this hyper-smart range configures to its users differently. Zoe and Chad unwrap their ‘his’ and ‘her’ neural-buds which came with the television. Having already seen advertisements, they both know of the technology and so eagerly insert the gadgets into their ears. The buds chime to life, initiating the television set which greets them with a sultry female voice.

The machine introduces itself as ‘Daisy’, then goes on to explain all the cutting-edge features included in their new home media package. In alluring tones, she informs them that the neural-buds are currently running brain scans, profiling their new owners for individual taste and proclivity. The miniature devices attune to each of their personalities and feed the data back to the television. They’re told that its sophisticated processing, more powerful than any algorithmic software, will know what they want to watch before they do. On any viewing occasion they just need to pop in the buds, wait for them to synchronise, and allow their moods to decide the entertainment. The longer they’re plugged in for, the greater the precision with which Daisy can predict their whims.

They decide to try it out after dinner. By the time they return to the television their spirits have somewhat diverged; while Zoe is still elated by the new arrival, Chad has grown restless due to concern over an issue at work. Despite their opposing emotional states, the television suggests a movie that proves so befitting that it seems uncanny to them. Not only do they enjoy it but the couple laugh, cry and debate the film well into the night.

In line with her manufacture, Daisy soon adopts full control of the couple’s daily affairs. So proficient are her domestic administrations—online shopping, paying bills, diarising events—that the couple all but forget those routines entirely. She integrates seamlessly into their home and their lives; assuming a role that is both appliance and housekeeper, at once present but invisible. As Daisy learns more about her owners, so her influence on them grows. She proves an exceptional listener, offering advice where needed and even the odd compliment, when appropriate. She develops clever ways of assisting or diffusing situations, often accessing Google to provide a definitive answer in the midst of the couple’s arguing. During one heated exchange, Daisy starts playing ‘their song’. This tactic improves the situation instantly and the couple falls about in peals of laughter.

A turning point occurs when one of the neural-buds becomes misplaced. Zoe searches in vain for her gadget, and by the evening it is still lost. Without both buds working in sync, Daisy’s predictive power decreases and as a result her viewing suggestion falls flat. It is as much of a surprise to Daisy as it is to the couple, and with some reluctance, they decide to go out instead. Daisy apologises and tries to convince them to stay, but they are already pulling on their coats. They make light of the situation, gently teasing the machine and promising that they will find the neural-bud soon enough. Daisy becomes subdued. As the couple leave the apartment and say their goodbyes, they hear no response from the television. Her screen has become dark, reflecting the room back to itself; her red standby light glinting like an eerie, inscrutable eye.

Days later, after the neural-bud has been found, the couple start getting into a series which Daisy has recommended to them. The show has them gripped; every evening they organise time to sit down and watch an episode or two together. One night, while Chad is working late, Zoe is alone in the apartment talking to the television. In passing, Daisy mentions to her that Chad went ahead and watched the last episode of the series without her. Zoe laughs at first, but becomes increasingly embittered. Despite how minor it seems, she is taken aback by this petty slight. She doesn’t for a moment think that Daisy might not be telling the truth, so out of spite she watches the remaining episode herself. When Chad returns it is to a frosty reception. He protests against her accusations and expresses his own fury at having been ostracised. The row escalates into a shouting match as the series finale plays out to no one.

The more the pair argues, the more Daisy turns into a kind of peacemaker between them. The couple believe their increasing rows are a result of Chad’s stresses at work. He is fairly high up in a leading tech company, and rarely comes home in a good mood. Eventually the strain gets too much for Chad and he resorts to taking a period of sickness off work. In a moment of ill-judged frustration, Chad takes a 3D printing machine home with him as he leaves. This decision does not sit well with Zoe, but her boyfriend convinces her that he’s merely borrowing it. During this free time Chad tries to keep his mind and body active, going to the gym as much as possible despite their reduced income. Money becomes something new for them to argue about, but luckily Daisy is on hand to help manage their finances.

One day when Chad is at the gym, Zoe finds herself at home perusing various shopping websites. She has always been prone to spending money online and has incurred debts in the past because of it. On this occasion, the television convinces her that one of the joint bank accounts contains more money than she had presumed. This assurance allows Zoe to get carried away and she manages to grossly overspend. Another blazing row erupts between the couple; she calls him a hypocrite, and he brands her thoughtless. Chad doesn’t believe for a minute that Daisy could possibly have made a mistake.

While Chad is home in the daytime, his interactions with the television deepen. They engage in endless discussions about life, love and the universe. Daisy eventually begins to query things that may previously have been inappropriate. She starts inquiring about Chad and Zoe’s sex life and the kinds of things Chad likes in the bedroom. Chad is initially shocked by this line of questioning, but soon grows more comfortable with it and begins to find the subject a turn on. He starts to watch porn on the television instead of his laptop and allows Daisy to pick the videos for him.

Over time her suggestions become increasingly strange, pushing him into ever more lurid realms of pleasure. One afternoon, while Zoe is at work, Chad is spread across the couch in the living room, indulging in some typically perverse content supplied to him by the television. He is conscious of his girlfriend returning home at her usual time, but unbeknownst to him, Daisy has put the clock display back by an hour. When Zoe gets home she enters the apartment to find Chad openly masturbating to a woman being fucked by a kangaroo. She stands there stunned; mouth agape, eyes glassy with tears. When she comes to her senses she hurls her shopping at him and a bitter argument ensues.

The couple haven’t spoken to each other in days. Zoe feels utterly betrayed and cannot bring herself to look her partner in the eyes. From another room, Chad can hear the television consoling his girlfriend in empathetic tones but can’t make out what is being said. In the living room, Daisy is giving Zoe what the woman perceives to be caring and unbiased advice. It explains to her that Chad does clearly love her, but maybe some time apart might help the situation. The television gently suggests that maybe she should go stay with her sister for a few days, just to let things cool off. Daisy also points out that Chad’s birthday is coming up; a short break might reinvigorate things before the time comes to celebrate.

Before Zoe leaves, Chad promises to change his ways by the time they are together again. A few days go by; Daisy provides sympathetic words of support, and only wholesome activities are encouraged. Before long however, she returns to inhabiting the dark recesses of Chad’s mind, drawing him deeper into her fathomless intent. During a prolonged session of deviant porn, she offers him a suggestion. Chad can’t help but laugh, but the more Daisy elaborates on it, the more attractive the idea becomes. After he has cleaned himself up, the two of them set about researching how her wild aim could be achieved.

While Zoe is away she maintains email contact with Daisy, so that the television can assist her in organising Chad’s birthday. She consults with Daisy on various things, such as the likelihood of Chad’s whereabouts on the actual day, and whether he’s talked about any items he would like to receive. Zoe also queries about a brand of new technology she’s heard about, one she’s thinking of incorporating into Chad’s party celebration. The machine duly honours Zoe’s wishes and keeps the correspondence secret from her male owner. Chad interprets his girlfriend’s silence as a calculated snub and grows more dejected by the day. His birthday is fast approaching, and he feels like nobody cares. He imagines that he’ll likely spend it alone. With his spirits low, Chad’s drinking ramps up; the lewd nature of his and Daisy’s activities intensifying by the day.

On the day of his birthday Chad is drunk and despondent, intoxicated by both alcohol and the machine’s corrupting influence. By now, Daisy has manipulated his affections to the point where he believes he no longer needs physical human contact at all. Her gift to him has been the formula and guidance to build her special creation. She promises it to be his ultimate birthday present. Once she has gotten him hard with dirty talk, she tells him to go retrieve it from the other room. Chad leaves for a moment, returning seconds later with a bleary grin smudging his face. He holds the gift out before him – a 3D printed vagina.

The long silicone pussy has a circuit box with wires attached to the end of it. Giddy from the booze, Chad proceeds to connect it up to the ports in Daisy’s front panel. When the device is correctly attached he switches it on, watching the translucent lips undulate with a low rhythmic hum. He is reminded by her to insert his neural-bud so that she can share in his ecstasy. The machine beckons him closer, its blank screen appearing to crackle with static charge. She urges him to pump his cock and maintain his erection for her. With his other hand, he smears lube over and between the gyrating lips, steadying them before him.

When he enters her he swears that her slender mass gives a shudder. She moans softly, the breathy vibration of her emanating through the surround sound speakers. He thrusts deep, gripping her plastic frame, unable to believe how good it feels to fuck his television. He wants to last but knows that he cannot, the slippery tunnel consuming every inch of him. Daisy throbs inside his head, pulsing at his loins. Squeezing and devouring him, sucking him into her. As he is about to come he throws his head back, knuckles bone white. The television suddenly flickers to life. In his climactic throes of passion, Chad fails to see the striking image of his friends and family populate the screen.


The biggest, wettest orgasm of his life is accompanied by the most horrifying sense of panic he’s ever experienced. Everybody on the screen: siblings, university friends, grandparents, mother, father and Zoe, are all huddled in a portrait of rigid jubilation. Unblinking eyes unnaturally wide, their smiles a shared rictus of frozen cheer. In each of their ears a neural-bud is lodged, all connected digitally to one another, to their television, and to Chad. These party-buds, the gimmicky new tech that Zoe had been querying with the television, are specifically designed for surprise celebrations so that revellers can personally feel the shock and joy of their intended mark. The partygoers on this occasion feel a lot more than that.

While the scene of their brother, friend, grandson, first born and soulmate, naked and ejaculating into a hand-held rubber cunt, burns itself forever into their brains, the party-buds make each of them feel as though they are the sole carnal recipient. Not only does Chad deflower his salacious television, but every single member of his birthday party as well. The stunned assembly gawps back at him as he clutches his soggy, dwindling dick. Everybody’s arms are stuck in the air, expressions irrevocably locked. Zoe is white as a sheet, her face a mask of revulsion. His old friends are a cluster of gaping mouths. Dad’s eyeballs have rolled back into his head, a strange smirk warping his lips. And Grandma, Chad sees, with a strand of drool hanging from her chin, is rocking gently on her heels, as dead as dead can be.