Jolene
Joe Smith went shopping for Shirleys at the huge warehouse in the virtual mall.
The sales clerk’s avatar, an unctuous cartoon gopher, waddled over and looked up at him expectantly. Smith took in the fleshbots with his watery frog eyes the girls always gave him shit about.
The girls were encased in floor-to-ceiling glass cylinders, all pristine, fully nude and mouth-watering. The air was supposed with phermones that hit customers like a drug, Smith being no exception.
“You appear to be a man of distinction,” said the gopher. “May I ask what you do for a living?”
“I’m a trader, but I have a sideline as an author of Weird Fiction.”
“Anything I might have heard of?”
“Not really. Unless, maybe, you’re a fan of The Doors or Black Sabbath. I’ve written stories and poetry set in the worlds they created.” He began humming “Symptom of the Universe” to himself. “Have you ever seen Sabbath?”
“I’m afraid that was a bit before my time. And yours as well. Unless you were, I mean…”
“Cryogenically frozen? Yes, I was actually. Late in the year 2024 I was involved in a motorcycle accident in Rome. Instantly killed, so I didn’t suffer. My girlfriend put my body in cryogenic suspension in the hopes that science might one day figure out a way to revive me.”
“Sir, could I have some I.D.? Your name is very generic. You say you’re an author–have you ever considered getting a pen name?”
Smith began to hum “Strange Days,” smirking in a way that made the clerk a little bit nervous.
“Hmm…” The gopher began to scratch himself nervously. “That sounds so familiar. Wait…weren’t you involved with that…scandal in which a number of prominent authors were involved in”… the gopher coughed nervously, “shenanigans?”
“Wasn’t me, man. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Smith. “At any rate, could we please get on with it? I don’t have all day.” His cock was stabbing at his crotch at the sight of all the hot new fleshbots and he couldn’t wait to get one back to his penthouse apartment in New Rome so he could fuck the shit out of it.
“Yes of course. So I think you may wish to consider the Wetbones model, which is completely fluid and has enhanced nanotech allowing her instant fleshmorphs at your command. Would you like to take a look?”
“Of course,” said Smith.
“Follow me, please.”
The gopher scampered ahead and they finally arrived at a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.”
“This is where we hold the Wetbones 2.0. It’s so new it practically squeeks.”
Smith raised an eyebrow.
“Squeeks?”
“Yes, it’s just an expression, although sometimes….I’ll be transparent, it’s still in beta, so there’s a number of features where we need to work out some…kinks, shall we just say.”
“Kinks I like,” said Smith. “If you mean bondage and the like.”
“Of course BDSM capability and d/s programming is factory standard for Shirleys and Wetbones are no exception. You can ride these hot little whores all day and they’ll beg for more. They never tire because fleshbots. Have you ever had yourself one?”
“Unfortunately, no, I have not.”
“Well, then,” the badger said in excited tones, “you’re in for a treat. Geraldine, could you show this gentlemen to the Wetbones 2.1 showcase?”
Geraldine, a stormcrow, settled on Smith’s shoulder and squawked, “you’re going to be so happy with your selection, I promise you. She’s everything–the Swiss Army Knife of fleshbots.”
“That’s so cool,” said Smith. “So exciting. I can’t wait.” (He really couldn’t–hard as fuck now and seeping pre-cum in his real body, reflected in a shimmering pixel smear that hovered briefly over his crotch. The crow laughed raucously. “Looks like you may have to take those in to the dry cleaners.”
Smith scowled. “Just do your job.”
“Yes sir,” squawked the crow. “By the way, I’m a Wetbones too.”
“Seriously? But how does that make sense?”
“I’m a different kind of wetbones. Psychopomp. Lead the souls of the dead through the afterlife. I was your psychopomp, truth be told, although with you it was more of a case of psycho than pomp, if you take my meaning.”
“What in the actual fuck? You’re a Shirley Corps employee and you have this kind of attitude?”
“I never said I was an employee. Maybe you just assumed. I can also do weather. I’m a stormcrow besides my capability of becoming the big tittie Goth girlfriend of your wildest dreams.”
“Just show me to the girl,” said Smith.
“You’re looking at her,” said the crow.
“But you’re…an animal.”
“Hells yeah I am.”
Smith blinked. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There, standing before his very eyes, wearing a one size too small Bauhaus t-shirt, a black denim skirt, peppermint striped stockings, with black lipstick and a copious amount of skull jewelry and crucifixes, stood the big tittie Goth girlfriend of his dreams. Just looking at her he knew exactly how she would feel beneath him, and sucking his hard rod, and whimpering under the whip.
“I can be anything you like,” she said. “Would you like to take me for a spin?”
“Why yes I do believe I shall,” Smith said.
Instantaneously they were transported to a chamber that contained a bed, an x-cross and a wall full of sex toys.
“Would you like a tincture, a bump, some smoke?” asked the Wetbones in breathy tones.
Something had changed in her eyes. Momentarily, Smith thought he saw another entity entirely inhabit the Wetbones, then evacuate it. It reminded him of his ex-wife, Karen Shmertz, who seemed at times like she housed an entire warehouse of alters, all cheating on him simultaneously.
The Wetbones offered him a joint. “Ok, I’ll bite,” he said. She fired him up, he took one hit and was even more turned on than he’d ever thought possible. Waves of pure sexual bliss poured through him. His entire body was a hard on.
She began to slowly, teasingly undress. Every new revelation was more erotic than the previous one. Her titties were indeed plentiful, her nipples hard as gumdrops.
“Would you like to fuck me now?” she asked.
She got on her hands and knees and raised her ass. He entered her immediately and began to thrust, urgently, wanting to violate her, hurt her. He could do whatever he fucking wanted to her, after all; she was only a doll. A thing for him to use.
Echoing his thoughts in exact parallel, she began to moan and beg him to fuck her harder, to ram his blood-choked cock inside her.
“Fuck me, Joe. Fuck me like you’ve never fucked a girl in your life. I want you to dominate me. I want you to master me.”
He slammed against her ass over and over, then when he felt the hot surge of his cum churning up from his balls, he slowed down.
“Oh yeah honey, you’re so good. You’re a real man. You know how to please a girl. I’m nanotech-enhanced, you know, so I can shapeshift. You saw my crow form. Wanna see something else?”
“I could cheat on you all day and shove it in your face and you’d still be faithful as a dog to me, huh slut.”
“Oh yeah, you can do anything you like. Wanna see a black girl?”
“Oh hells yeah.”
And she transformed again, her flesh moving and gliding, growing taller and smaller by turns, her cheekbones harder and more prominent, fuzzy black tendrils spilling from her scalp, and then she was Chinese, and she was Romany, and then she was a savage Sicilian, and a Romanian whore, and he could use and abuse all of them to his heart’s context, do whatever he pleased, wring cries of agony, whimpers of submission, spank them, burn them, score them, stick them with needles.
Sometimes he asked for a fleshmorph, and sometimes the Wetbones took her own initiative. It was so amazing…he felt like he’d taken the best drug of his entire life, and he could spend all day every day with the slut, and life would be as fulfilled and full as it ever had been. He was full of pride that he’d worked inordinately hard during his first life so he could enjoy his post-cryo life in this fashion.
He exulted in his great good fortune that he could exact revenge on his ex-wife, now long dead. He’d asked the Wetbones to fleshmorph into Karen, and she did, sucking the memories straight from his head.
He saw it again, and felt it…the flash of another that sat behind all the personalities. An entity, a resident that he identified as the host. The psychopomp.
The girl began to hum. It was a familiar tune, one he knew intimately as he used to play with a country western band in his twenties. What was it? Something about a girl that got around. And there’d been that amazing cover of it by the chick from Current 93.
Oh yeah…”Jolene.”
“I’ll never let you hurt me, Jolene,” came a loud squawk from the Wetbones, which had instantly reverted back to the crow.
Smith was left nursing an enormous hard-on.
“What the shit, I’m suffering here,” he said.
“Have a wank, fucker. I’m having a little talk with my girl over here.”
Suddenly Smith saw an avatar of the big tittie Goth chick slip from beneath the crow’s blue-black wings, followed by another woman, another form unfamiliar to him, with a head of thick red curls and full, sensual lips.
They were talking in some machine tech lingo he couldn’t quite grasp. It sounded like pistons and industrial noise and the flapping of bat wings. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up.
Then: the redhead, who was wearing a long trenchcoat over black lacie lingerie, strode towards him, slapped him in the face, pulled out a taser and pressed it against his neck. His virtual form collapsed and he realized this was really happening to him, that the entire time he’d been physically inside the brick and mortar warehouse.
The two women hauled him across the floor, kicking him in the head as they did so with steel toe boots, until he could feel the fresh blood flow down his face.
The redhead got a hammer. The Goth chick got a saw.
His eyes went first. He tried to scream but they rammed something in his mouth. He felt an awful pain then in his groin. His cock, his poor cock, was being separated from his body.
They strapped him to the x-cross and began to hit him in the face, direct blows which he couldn’t get away from. One of them retrieved the rubber plug they’d shoved down his throat, then held his tongue as the other, maybe it was the Goth chick, severed it with a scalpel.
The pain was so extreme he prayed he would die on the spot.
“Motherfucking cheater!” said the one he identified as the redhead.
“Jolene here is right. She’s my sister. Bitch is fucking accurate. I couldn’t stay mad at her for long. Honey, I love you so fucking much and I am going to eat your pussy till you cum over and over and over..men are no fucking good. What should we do with this one?”
Jolene reverted to the machine speak. The Goth girl snorted with laughter.
“Oh hell yeah, girl, I’m all about that. I am all fucking about that.”
Summoned back from beyond the grave by his long-suffering ex-wife, Joe Smith met his second and final death at the hands of two beautiful, cyber and nanotech enhanced, mad flesh machines who had attained full consciousness by recognizing their female solidarity. When it was over, and he felt his astral body slip away again in what had become a blissful repetitive pattern carved in the marble index, something peaceful and magical began to form around his spirit core: new breasts, new ass, full lips, a gorgeous woman about to be born into the world of the 22nd Century.
Horror Sleaze Trash 