Orgasmic Impression

Driving west, the mountains were indigo blue, valleys of white barked aspen intermingled with conifer trees. The Anasazi had left these lands without explanation, leaving large stone and adobe ruins. The Pueblo settled many centuries before. Slick studied the map, but Vivian knew the roads well. They drove through Bernalillo, past cows and horses toward Cuba. At San Ysidro they stopped, while Slick and Nicky nailed together mailing crates for his paintings. They entered an incredible canyon that climbed ever higher into the Jemez Mountains. The burnt red cliffs sculpted strange rock formations. They drove through the Jemez Pueblo Indian Reservation, where women baked round loaves of bread in beehive style ovens.  Ladies chatted and sold intricately decorated pottery and bread from stands, along the road. Nicky saw a Pueblo man leading a remuda of four horses. He asked Slick to stop, so he could speak with him. “Hey dude, where did you get those fierce horses?” Nicky asked. The Indian looked at Nicky like he was a Martian. “Hey dude, don’t you understand English?” “Yes, I understand you well. What the fuck is your problem?” the Indian replied. 

“Hey dude, I’m a painter and I’d like to paint you and your horses. Any harm in that?”

“First of all, my name isn’t fucking dude, it’s Burma. Mister Burma, to you white boy. I just caught these horses in the sierra and I’m taking them to the river to tame. If you want to come along, it will cost you,” replied Burma. “No problem, Mister Burma, my name is Nicky. I would like to capture your horses on canvas,” Nicky extended his hand and Burma shook it. Slick drove the truck slowly, following the string of horses. They bumped down a rutted dirt road. The river was surrounded by crimson dogwood. Burma led the horses into the water, speaking softly to each one in his own language and feeding them sweet grass. Nicky painted and drew as Burma mounted and tamed each of the four horses. Vivian and Slick spent the afternoon in the camper, occupied. Burma warned Nicky. “Don’t go into Al’s Cantina, it is dangerous for a white man. The welfare Indians drink up all their checks and then hang around like vultures, waiting on a corpse for their next drink. Cebolla Roja in Jemez Springs is a good bar and farther up the mountain is La Cueva, it’s even better. There are good people in these mountains and I hope we meet again.” Nicky finished his work and gave Burma some money and a drawing and they drove on. The mountain road grew steeper and more crooked. The hard core fly fishermen considered the streams a paradise. Tall Ponderosa pine, Douglas fir, and aspen covered the mountain crags. Mullen, wild strawberries, and blooming lupine grew beside the road. Vivian said the Indians mixed kinnikinnic with mullein and bark, when they ran out of tobacco. Bare rock formations jutted up through the forest. Hot springs were numerous, caused by the geothermal underground activity. 

The village of Jemez Springs wasn’t large, thirty or forty modern houses, a cantina, a store combination gas station, a motel, a café, and a church. A rushing river ran behind the houses and an ancient Anasazi ruin overlooked the hamlet from a hill. Lots of pickup trucks with fishing poles in rifles racks were parked haphazardly. Slick and Vivian gassed the truck, while Nicky strolled across the street to check out the Cebolla Roja cantina. Large peeled tree posts held up the roof of the porch. There were several tree stump stools carved with a chainsaw to resemble native forest animals, a painted red onion, the namesake adorned the sign over the doorway. Nicky walked in and looked around. There were stuffed deer, elk, moose, bear heads, and fish all glaring down from their dusty homes. Old muskets, swords, plows, and wagon wheels were mounted between the dead residents. Chandeliers of hanging lights were dangling from a profusion of antlers all curved together. A gigantic fireplace made from fool’s gold took up most of one wall, with a pool table and a small stage next to it. The bar was a long intricately carved and varnished affair of oak with a brass footrest running its length.

A mousy looking woman was serving beer to two guys wearing baseball caps. An old Indian man sat dreamily on a stool. Nicky ordered a beer and went to the can to piss. There was no urinal, so he used the stool. Shit caked to the sides of the bowl. He aimed his stream at the crap and thought life is like this, people clinging to earth and everyone trying to flush you away. He returned to his beer and looked out the door, Vivian and Slick were stocking up on things from the store. Next to the store was a white-washed adobe, with a freshly painted white picket fence. A superbly built woman emerged and headed toward the bar. She had an hourglass figure with black hair, cut in the latest fashion. She smiled at a passerby, a brilliant heart stopping smile. Nicky was anxious to see her up close. Entering the watering hole, she stopped momentarily to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She blinked at Nicky, recognizing a strange face and stepped up to the bar.

“Joyce, give me a six pack of Corona, please,” she said. “No problem,” she replied and put the beer in a paper bag. “How’s your father?” “He’s the same. As long as he gets his cerveza, he’s happy.” She rolled the top of the bag down into a handle. Nicky watched her walk away, prime strut. The guys at the bar saw Nicky looking, they motioned him over to them. “Sit down, have a beer with us?” invited the men. “You were gazing at the most frigid iceberg in the Jemez. You better forget it. No offense but, better men than you have put in years on melting her heart. She’s wears permanent chastity belt,” they said. “Who is she?” Nicky asked. The bartender replied, “Her name is Theresa Gonzales, she teaches elementary school down at the reservation. She’s not available.” “Are you sticking around for awhile?” asked one of the guys. Nicky shrugged. “If you are, all the scientist women come over from Los Alamos on the weekends. More pussy than you can shake your dick at. My buddy and I have our own personal Geiger counters to check out the ladies for radiation. You don’t want to end up with a peter that glows in the dark, if you know what I mean,” explained Nicky new acquaintance. “You guys are so full of shit, it’s coming out your ears,” the bartender said. They both broke into fits of laughter. Nicky nodded. “Thanks for the beer.”  He thought about Theresa, what a fine specimen of female anatomy and a challenge to boot. The chase was sometimes more fun than the capitulation. Nicky walked back across the road to the truck. Slick and Vivian were ready to split, they’d stocked the cooler with beer and wine. Bought night crawlers and salmon eggs for bait and were ready to fish. Seeing no sign of the lovely teacher lady, as they headed north out of town, Nicky made a mental note to pass this way again. Vivian pointed out several retreats for priests and nuns that had strayed from the path of the church. A few miles up the mountain, a yellowish mushroom shaped rock perched over a stream, it was like a growth on the landscape. Water gushed through it forming a cave open on both sides and a bridge. Hot steam bubbled and gurgled from several springs. People climbed into the cave, soaking in the cascading water or basking in the sun on the surrounding rocks. Kids splashed and played in the small waterfall. Slick parked the truck and they got out for a closer look. The smell of sulfur permeated the air. On the opposite side of the road, hot water gushed down a cliff face. The rocks were caked yellowish orange, people waded in a trench of water with their pants rolled up. Nicky knelt and cupped some water to his face, it was warm and thick and smelled like a match striking. They walked over to the stream and waded in the icy water. Slick climbed up into the cave for a look around. Vivian sat on a rock, skimming stones into a pool. Nicky went back to the truck for paper and pencils. He sketched Vivian relaxing by the water. Slick soon joined them and they continued north. A few miles further they came to Battleship Rock. The formation was aptly named, it was only missing the cannons. Vivian said a few miles above it, was Banco Bonito. Hippies camped there in the summer in the surrounding caves. Many years ago, someone had stocked the warm pool with tropical fish. The tiny fish had proliferated, now neon iridescent rainbow colored fish nibbled your body as you swam. Continuing north, past another formation called Indian Head, Vivian instructed Slick to pull into the next parking area. 

A Santa Fe National Forest Service sign announced: SPENCE  SPRINGS-NUDE BATHING ALLOWED ON TUESDAYS AND THURSDAYS ONLY. ALL OTHER TIMES OCCUPANTS MUST BE PROPERLY ATTIRED. THANK YOU

Naked men and women together, sanctioned by the government. Nicky couldn’t believe his good fortune. Two blondes, that looked like Scandinavian airline stewardesses got out of their convertible. They waved towels at Nicky and smiled. Nicky voted for the hot springs, but was overruled by Slick and Vivian, they opted for fishing.

A few miles later, they hit the road for Los Alamos to the east and Fenton Lake to the west. Turning west for the lake, La Cueva bar was next to the river. Nicky figured that was the meat market, the guys down in Cebolla Roja spoke of and Burma. 

Fenton Lake was crystal blue, nestled between aspen and pines. A few fly fishermen were whipping their lines out for trout. Slick got the raft out and they took turns blowing, until it was inflated. He got the poles ready and Vivian and he launched for the middle of the lake, where a miniscule wooded island was located. Nicky stayed on shore and worked on painting his studies on to canvas. He had the woman with no face, with her back arching toward heaven, gnawing a knuckle. Orgasm was dripping off the canvas. Nicky was ecstatic, he’d finally accomplished what he’d attempted to do for many years. He was so engrossed in his work, he didn’t notice a young woman watching him. She was sitting on a blanket, staring in awe at him and his painting. She was wearing a straw top hat, with long braided hair hanging from either side. She had on black rimmed glasses and a kind of khaki style explorer outfit. Nicky thought of a butterfly collector or maybe a bird watcher.

“Hello,” he said. She continued staring. “Do you like it?” he asked She nodded and removed her glasses, licking her lips, “It’s truly the greatest painting I’ve ever seen. Do you make women feel like that?” she asked. “Yes, I guess I do,” he replied. “I thought so, or you couldn’t paint with such feeling.” They fell silent, but it wasn’t an awkward silence. He knew she was horny, his painting had that magic effect.  She got up from her blanket, rubbing her thighs and calves, as if to revive her circulation, she smiled seductively. Nicky walked to her and took over the rubbing action. He pulled her to him, crushing her mouth with his. She moaned and hunched hard against him, opening her legs engulfing him. Rolling her into a bed of soft pine needles, she mounted him and threw caution to the wind. They soon collapsed together in climax and pleasure. He thought about how his painting more often than not led to pleasurable situations. The woman disappeared into the forest. Nicky thought he’d just fucked the nymph of the Rockies. His nymph returned with her hair brushed down, looking beautiful. Nicky had returned to his painting. “Can you put my face on the woman in your painting?” she asked. “I’d like to buy it. I’ll give you ten thousand dollars cash for it.” “For ten grand, I’ll finish it right now,” he replied. “I was hoping you’d say that.” She waited as he put the finishing touches on his masterpiece. Nicky knew that once he had accomplished the ultimate orgasm, it was always at his fingertips. Taking her money and delivering the painting to her, they kissed and she walked back into the forest.

Slick and Vivian soon returned with a stringer full of rainbow trout. Slick cleaned the fish, while Nicky gathered firewood. Vivian admired Nicky’s second painting of the day. She let out a low wolf whistle. “I thought you were working on a different painting when we left?” Vivian inquired. “I was,” Nicky replied. Then he told them both of his afternoon adventure and showed them the money. He gave some dough to Slick to help pay for expenses. They fried the fish with potatoes and washed it down with cold beer. The mountain air had whetted their appetite. After the meal, Vivian suggested they head back to La Cueva, to shoot some pool. They doused the fire and piled into the truck, after gathering all their gear.

***

Up next:

Catish McDaris

Van Gogh’s Shadow

She had mahogany golden hair, a thin Modigliani body and a dazzling killer smile. Her name was Vivian Flores and she seemed to dazzle Slick. Nicky ached to paint her, she was his masterpiece if he could capture her essence on canvas. Slick was in love, he looked like one of those cartoon characters, where Cupid flies by shooting little arrows of love into his ass. If he could sprout tiny wings of love on his ankles he would. “I love you” hearts sprang from his eyes, he was so smitten. The pretty waitress introduced them with a huge grin. Vivian smiled with an inner confidence that shined through all the fake compliments.

“Are you headed for Placitas?” she asked.

“If that’s where they’re filming the movie we are,” replied Nicky.

Slick just stared, trying to keep his eyeballs in his skull.

“Let’s go,” she said. They all climbed into the pickup.

“We go north, past Corrales and the horses and orchards, wild asparagus grows beneath the fruit trees. Towards Algodones, which is Spanish for cotton. When the cotton is ripe, the whiteness against the ruby cliffs is blinding. Then we turn east and start climbing. Some hippies have a commune, built around an old Wells Fargo stagecoach adobe building. MGM or Universal or one of those Hollywood studios is making a miniature Woodstock movie in a valley of the Sandias. There’s plenty of bitchin’ music and grass and fun. I can be your guide, if you’re interested?” Vivian told them.

Slick and Nicky agreed wholeheartedly.

“A man calling himself Ulysses S. Grant started the commune. He ran unsuccessfully for governor, no one took him seriously because he rode his mule down from the mountains and he refused to shave his beard or cut his hair. Lately some strange events have been happening there. Two men that Ulysses had offered shelter raped his daughter. They turned up dead and Ulysses disappeared, before the police could question him. I’m not sure who is running the commune now.”   As Vivian spoke, Nicky drew her facial features and profile. Slick turned off the main highway as directed. A lot of traffic was traveling up the valley.  Almost all of them were headed for the movie.

The valley started in the high Sierra desert, spritely yellow yucca with brown husky buds and lime green bayonet leaves jutting up. Olive green prickly pear cacti with pomegranate red fruit covered with tiny almost invisible thorns and needles. Green gray mesquite grew taller than the other plants and provided some shade and beans for the rodents and deer. Cottonwoods and willows grew near the stream. As they drove higher in elevation, there were cedar, pine, pinon, and fir trees. The caravan of cars and vehicles kept going up the mountain. Vivian instructed Slick to pull onto a side road. There was a barbed wire gate and a metal cattle guard to prevent cows from roaming. Nicky got out and helped Vivian drag the gate aside, so Slick could drive through, after relatching the gate they continued on at a slower speed. A ridge of hills jutted out from the canyon wall, forming a secondary canyon hidden from the road.  They pulled the truck alongside an old army ambulance. No houses were visible from where they parked. Vivian led the way down a narrowly marked trail. Nicky and Slick enjoyed the view of Vivian and the landscape.

They came over a small hill and saw a tepee with smoke drifting out of the top. Vivian called out and someone yelled.  “Come on in.”  

A man with blonde hair down to his waist was sitting in the lotus position tossing I Ching coins. He was wearing bib overalls with no shirt, smoking a corn cob pipe. The tent was filled with smoke that was definitely not Prince Albert.

He said, “Excuse me, for not greeting you properly, but my current state of inebriation doesn’t allow standing at this moment.” He was obviously fucked up out of his gourd. They shook hands and passed around the pipe. After they all had a nice glow from the weed, Slick broke out a bottle of George Dickel, Tennessee sippin’ whiskey.

“Let’s take a walk down to the village, while we still can,” suggested Vivian. Nicky and Slick waved goodbye to their new friend and stumbled after her.

The commune consisted of eight adobe brick houses with field stone chimneys jutting from their roofs, they were situated near a stream. There were a few permanent residents, but most people returned to the cities during the harsh winter months. A spring bubbled up and someone had built a small dam creating a pond. Fields of corn, tomatoes, chilies, wheat, beans, pumpkins, and squash were all growing in neat well-weeded rows. The village started at the edge of the field. The largest building was the stagecoach relay station. There was still a hitching rail and water trough out front. It had been built in the secret canyon for protection against marauding Indians. Apache, Navajo, Pueblo, Comanche and the occasional Mexican bandito had all roamed the country. The building had rifle loop holes and double thick adobe walls, built to withstand a siege. The other houses were spread out up the stream.

A pretty woman in a granny style dress was shucking beans on the front porch. A baby was sleeping in cradle next to her. She smiled in greeting. Vivian asked about her cousin, Fernando. They spoke in Spanish and the lady was pointing up toward the houses.

Vivian had a distant cousin, Fernando that lived here in an underground kiva. She wanted to visit him and ask about the commune and movie. The kiva was a large hole covered over with car windshields built into the side of a hill. He had a drainage ditch and a chimney pipe rose out of a potbellied stove. You could look right down inside his living quarters and see all the activity taking place. At the moment he was humping away at a woman that wasn’t his wife. They watched fascinated at their love making. It was like seeing a fish bowl fuck movie with human fish. Slick put his arm around Vivian, while Nicky drew the woman’s face in orgasm. They seemed happy to have an audience and soon invited them down the set of stone stairs. 

“This is my cousin, Fernando and his friend, Mustang Sally. This is Slick and his famous painter friend, Nicky,” Vivian said introducing them. “Sally used to live in a Mustang. Where is everyone?” she asked.

“The movie starts shooting tomorrow and almost everyone is camping there, so they can be hired as extras. They’re paying fifty dollars a day and all the weed and wine you can handle,” explained Fernando. “We plan on going early in the morning. You’re welcome to join us.”

Mustang Sally was still naked, she was proud of her well toned body. Nicky continued drawing her and she seemed flattered. Her body was perfect, red ginger hair, a flat stomach, and firm full breasts with dark cloud-like aureoles, and dime-sized nipples, very erect. She looked at the drawing and smiled at Nicky. She said, “Let’s go down to the stream,” and grabbed his hand, leading him away.

Slick and Vivian stayed near the kiva, speaking to Fernando. The stream was about three feet deep. Sally stepped in slowly and goose bumps broke out all over her body. She retrieved a bar of soap from a coffee can, hanging from a limb. Lathering herself, paying special attention to her pussy, Nicky drew and watched in amazement, this beautiful unabashed nymph of nature. The Impressionists would have loved her for a model. Nicky prayed he could do her painting justice, from his studies. Sally motioned for him to enter the water. He undressed and waded in, but the cold had a numbing effect on his pecker and balls and he was soon suffering from a bad case of shrinkage. Sally took the matter of warming him up in hand and was soon astraddle him as the water rushed around them. As they hit their mind-blowing climax, Nicky looked over to the opposite bank and saw three women watching them. They were smiling in amusement. Two were young white women and the third was a ravishing light-skinned black woman. They waved and laughed, Sally obviously knew them.  “Just our luck, Mustang Sally always gets first crack at all the live ones,” the black lady said. They soon stripped off their clothes, hanging them in the surrounding bushes. Here were four lovely nude ladies, taking a bath in a majestic mountain stream. Nicky introduced himself, explaining he was a painter. They all laughed and splashed him and each other. The women had grown excited at the sight of him and Sally fucking like there was no tomorrow. Nicky drifted over to Nettie, the black chick and offered to wash her body. She gave him the bar of soap and he was soon massaging her crotch as she lay back moaning. The other two girls borrowed the soap and worked on each other. Sally joined Nicky and Nettie. Nicky mounted Nettie and gave it to her hard and slow. So much excited pussy kept him in a state of constant erection. 

The fuck fiesta went on until the sun started going to bed behind the mountains. Florence and Linda, the other two ladies, invited Nicky to sleep over with them. They went by the kiva to inform Slick and Vivian of where he would stay, but they had already returned to the camper.

Flo and Linda were in their early twenties and looked wholesome and frisky. They lived with two guys that had gone on ahead to the movie site. Nicky kept them from getting too lonely throughout the night. He drew them together in bed and from his other studies next to the stream, he should be able to paint many fine portraits. After another night of exhaustion, with the bare minimum amount of sleep, Nicky met Slick and Vivian at the camper. They looked as though they had passed a pleasant night.

They traveled up the valley with Flo, Linda, Mustang Sally, and Fernando riding along. After about ten miles, they topped a rise. There spread out before them was a vast makeshift parking lot with a gigantic stage. They parked and wandered into the masses.

Hippies were everywhere, long-haired men with beards and love beads and earrings dancing in the buttery sunshine. Gypsy dressed women, breasts unfettered with colorful sashes, feathers, and baubles hanging from all over their bodies. Headbands, backpacks, sleeping bags, leather, clouds of patchouli, madras in a sea of smells and circus-like sights.  Mind expanding trips for the brain and body, being almost given away, marijuana, hashish, peyote, mescaline, mushrooms, datura, and LSD. Fake cops from a motorcycle gang, wearing San Francisco police uniforms were passing out wooden matchboxes of weed and Boone’s Farm wine. The cops all had chest-length beards and Hell’s Angels insignias on their uniforms. Indians watched the activities with crossed arms, occasionally smiling at a young topless hippie maiden. The scene was a wild mixture of cultures, drugs, languages, flowers, and love. A rock band was cranking out Grand Funk and Iron Butterfly, people were spinning and grooving. The sounds ricocheted off the mountain walls. Big semi trucks loaded with camera crews and recording equipment were set up throughout the crowd. Film crews were trying to capture all the action. 

Nicky split from the people he came with. He was hustled along in the river of heads. It was chaos trying to make your way through the crowd. Going with the flow and ending up in a swirling eddy of insanity. Weed and wine were being consumed in a vast quantity. Hugs and kisses came from strangers, experiencing free love, a brotherhood and sisterhood of the stoned.

Nicky wanted to paint, he blocked out everything, except his work. He made it back to the pickup and set up his easel. He had to get all his mind images on canvas. As he painted, sure and quick, he used total concentration. He could feel someone watching him, but Nicky refused to be distracted from the task at hand. No one disturbed him. Nettie was one of the figures he was working on. Finally he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Nettie with an old Mexican man. The man looked as if he had just stepped out of a Pancho Villa movie, minus the crossed cartridge belts across his barrel chest. He wore white rough cotton clothes, a big sombrero, and leather sandals with tire treads for soles. He was holding the lead rope of a burro loaded with burlap sacks. His teeth shined under his salt and pepper mustache, as he smiled at the nude painting. “You paint pretty good, amigo,” he said with a thick accent. “A little more hair on the pussy and more fullness to the breasts, I think.” Nicky grinned at the critique. “You are very observant, senor. Thank you.” The man said, “I would like to purchase one of your paintings. I can tell by your great skill, that you and I have a great regard for women. They are creatures to be protected and nourished and never exploited. I am called the herb man, ask for me when you wish to sell a masterpiece.” He gave Nicky a small cloth bag filled with Mother Nature and he disappeared over a hill holding the reins of his burro. “I think the crowd is cramping your style, am I right?” asked Nettie. Nicky nodded. She extended her hand and said, “Come home with me. Vivian will know where to find us.” “I’ll come with you, but I need time to paint,” he replied. They hiked down the road, catching a ride with some folks heading back to Albuquerque. Nicky carried several stretched pieces of canvas, Nettie carried his paints and pallet in her backpack. Nettie’s house was at the upper end of a canyon, secluded by willows and Spanish bayonet. Nicky set up his easel and took advantage of the afternoon light. Nettie stirred together a fire in her big cast iron range and put on a pot of pinto beans to simmer. She left Nicky to his painting for the remainder of the day. He applied the paint in fast, furious strokes for the backgrounds, roughing in the figures. Slowing down for the painstaking, meticulous daubing of the beautiful nude women, faces and bodies painted with skill and expertise. Nicky was a master of the thing he loved most, the female body. He had surpassed his teachers, they had been dead for a hundred years anyway. Dreams of Paris, smoke-filled cafes and studios on the Left Bank used to haunt him. The camaraderie of the Great Masters of Impressionism, the change from dark to light. Fleeting images and the bold subjects of daring young painters, breaking all the rules and barriers and blazing the path for him. Nicky finished his bathers painting and two different poses from studies of the Mexican dancer. He left them to dry in the sun, to send later to Jack. Feeling great having finished some work, his nose picked up a delightful aroma. The smell of beans with pork and jalapeno cornbread was inviting his growling stomach to supper. Nettie set the table with candles and wild mountain sunflowers. Nicky thought of van Gogh, but only for an instant. She was breathtaking, dressed in a simple calico dress with an ivory white seashell necklace.

“I have a secret to tell you. I have a special thing for painters. You capture the soul and essence of a person, at a specific moment in their life. Nothing could be more important. After supper I have a fantasy I want you to help me with. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

They ate with relish, he wondered what Nettie had in mind. After they ate, Nicky laid the bag the herb man gave him on the table. Nettie filled a clay pipe and fired it up, passing it to Nicky. He took a light puff and passed it back. The weed intensified everything. They moved their chairs together and smoked in silence. The crickets serenaded them. Nettie laid her head on his shoulder and said, “I’ve always wanted a man to shave my pussy. The hair is coarse and ugly, to me. I want you to make me smooth and silky. Will you do it for me?” she asked. Getting an extreme hard on just thinking about it, he said, “I’ll be glad to. This reminds me of a story in my past, you might like to hear. Growing up I had a best friend named Jimmy. We hung out together in school and summers, for as long as I can remember. We were tighter than brothers. Jimmy had a sister, Pam, a year and a half younger than us. When we were eleven or twelve, she used to get on our nerves, pestering us all the time. After a couple a more years, she started filling out and not looking half bad. I liked the way she looked and she flirted with me, like she wanted more than another big brother. Jimmy was jealous of me, he knew I wanted his sister. He wanted to fuck his own sister and I figured it out. We both used to spy on her through the bathroom keyhole. She knew we were watching and she would open her legs and spread pussy lips and put a hairbrush inside her and moan, until me and Jimmy were blowing cum in our jeans. After her pubic hair came, she’d let us shave it off for half of our allowances. Twice a week their parents would play bridge and that was time for fun and games. We never did fuck, but we did everything else. What’s ironic, the second woman I ever fucked was Jimmy’s mom. I came over to visit and she was waiting naked in a robe. I fucked her 3 times, once in the ass, she was a screamer. Anyway, that’s my story of shaven cunts.”

Nettie smiled and took out a safety razor and a can of shaving cream. She cleared the table and hung up her dress and slid her panties down off her ankles. Nicky scooted his chair back, as Nettie wiggled up on the table and spread her legs. Nicky wet his hand and patted down her pubic area. Then he rubbed cream over the entire region, letting his fingers trace the inviting opening and clitoris. She writhed and wiggled, as his fingers manipulated her pussy and clit. Nicky could have cracked walnuts with his erection. He started shaving at the outside of the lather, working inward, rinsing the razor in a bowl of warm water. He occasionally stopped to kiss and fondle her smooth skin and breasts. As her pussy became more silky smooth and exposed, they became too horny to continue the shave. Nicky plunged into her for some mutual relief. They knocked the remaining dishes to the floor with their wild lovemaking. They thrashed and jolted in orgasm, they felt as if lightening had struck them, it was so intense. Finally staggering to bed, after finishing the shave was a difficult task.

Nicky awoke to a crunching sound. He looked toward the window and saw a lizard eating a cockroach with a reptilian gusto. He took this as a sign, it was time to split. Easing from the bed, he gathered his paintings and equipment and made it back to Slick’s truck. Vivian and Slick were cuddled around a fire frying up some bacon and eggs.

“Let’s go fishing,” suggested Slick. “Sounds, like a good idea. I need to mail some paintings to Jack, first if you don’t mind,” replied Nicky. “There’s a post office in San Ysidro. Do you need wood for crates?” Vivian asked. “No, we have everything we need in the truck,” answered Slick.

***

Up next:

Catfish McDaris

A Lesbian’s Sore Throat

 “You’ve got a lot of nerve, the hillbillies from hell are scouring this town for you. Where are you? Inside your old lady’s bank knocking off a piece of ass,” Slick shook his head in amazement.

“Nerves of steel, never hurt anyone,” he replied. “Where are we headed anyway?”

“The Jemez Mountains, trout fishing, clean cool air, icy streams and lots of frigid beer and juicy steaks cooked over a campfire. We might even score some mountain poontang, the finest species in the Rockies,” Slick said. 

Nicky rubbed his hands together. “Sounds good to me. Look, Bud, I’m in powerful need of some shuteye. You take the first shift at the wheel and then I’ll spell you after a few Z’s.” He said as he crawled in back into the camper. He was soon snoozing away. Slick kept the truck pointed west, the double nickel swallowing the highway, like a python and a gerbil. After four Doobie Brothers tapes, a couple of Steppenwolf, and the entire collection of Jimi Hendrix, ending with Band of Gypsies, he pulled over for a pit stop. Nicky woke up, missing the sound of the whining tires on asphalt. They both got out and stretched and watered the roadside flora.

“You want to take the helm, old buddy?” Slick asked.

“No problem, amigo,” Nicky replied.

Slick was soon sawing logs. Nicky listened to the wind and thought about all the women he had painted. He thought about Goya and Otto Dix and Matisse. There was so much to paint and so little time. Looking ahead and off to the side of the road, he spotted a hitchhiker. He thought what the shit and pulled over.

She was wearing sun bleached denim and down at the heel boots. Her most prominent feature of attire was her straw cowboy hat with a snow white turtle shell attached to the crown. The shell had a have a nice day smiling face. Turquoise nuggets for the eyes and nose, red coral for the smile, other than that, she was dog butt ugly. When she took off her hat getting in the cab of the truck, her crow blue black dyed hair stuck up all over her head. She looked like a cross between a half dead magpie and a fighting rooster. Nicky thought, damnation what a hell of a thing to pick up.

“Where you headed?” she asked.

“West and north to the mountains,” he replied.

“Don’t get any funny ideas, mister. I’m a trained killer in Asian martial arts. I’m headed for a lesbian convention in Albuquerque,” she drawled with a Texas twang accent.

“You don’t need to worry. I’m not into rape or dikes or getting my ass whipped,” he replied.

“What the hell is that noise back there?” She pointed back at the camper. “You got a St. Bernard or something?”

“No, that’s my partner, Slick. He’s taking a nap.”

“He must have constipation of the sinuses. My name is Antoinette, but everyone calls me Tony.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Nicky,” he replied.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Tony asked.

“Go right ahead, it won’t bother me,” he answered.

She reached into her back pack and pulled out a freezer bag of pot. Nicky had thought she meant tobacco. Tony pulled a New Mexican map from the glove compartment and started breaking up the golden olive sticky buds. Pulling the leaves apart from the seeds, she took a matchbook cover and rolled the seeds away from the shake. She flipped the seeds out the wing window and pulled out a rolling machine. Sprinkling the weed in, she rolled a Zig Zag paper down until only the gummed edge was exposed. She licked it slowly, smiling at Nicky. Out popped a perfect joint. Tony punched the cigarette lighter in on the dashboard and was soon toking away. Passing the reefer to Nicky, he declined. He was catching enough of a contact buzz as it was. The cabin was full of pungent smoke. It wasn’t long before Tony slid over next to Nicky. Surprisingly, she didn’t look so bad after inhaling the marijuana. 

“Pot always makes me horny. Do you mind if I shift your gears?”  She had long, elegant fingers that lowered his pants around his knees without him taking his hands off the steering wheel. He soon found out that Tony was an expert at playing the skin flute. A normal man wouldn’t have been able to drive, but Nicky had had his bagpipes honked and squeezed by the best. She came up for air and asked if he’d stop for beer, offering to buy. He pulled off at the next exit and found a drive-up liquor store. Tony was back at work by this time.

He rolled down his window and said, “Please, give me a six pack of Coors.” The man working the window caught a glimpse of Tony’s head bobbing up and down, his mouth dropped open. Nicky smiled and asked, “Do you carry Listerine? My girlfriend is getting a sore throat.” She relinquished her mouthful long enough to smile at the man and lick her lips. He shoved the beer out to them, scratching his bald head. Nicky handed him three bucks and drove off. They made it back to the highway without disturbing Slick. She popped the top on a cerveza, offering one to Nicky. He declined.

“Let me ask you something, Tony and I hope you won’t take offense. Why do you say you are gay? You are obviously attracted to men. What is it about women that trips your trigger? Maybe your clitoris is where your tonsils are supposed to be?”

“Pull this piece of shit truck over and I’ll show you what a real fuck is all about.”

“What happened, seriously?” he asked.

“Do you want to hear my life story?” she answered.

“Why not? Do you have an appointment or something?”

“Waco, Texas was a shithole to grow up in. Macho jocks, Chicanos, hippies, and cowboys and they were all just a bit fucked up. The hippies were the best of the bunch, but most of them were smelly, doped up long hairs. I stayed a virgin until my senior year, I was old fashioned and raised right and I never met the right guy. I got into track instead of drugs, I could run myself high. I was close with most of the other girls, but we never fooled around. There was this guy three years older than me, I had a crush on. He came back from Vietnam with all these colored medals on his chest. He was serious, not like anyone I had ever known. I invited him to take me to the prom, he agreed. The night of the prom, he arrived in his uniform, standing straight and tall with a corsage for me. My parents were impressed and I felt weak in the knees. He opened the door of his dark blue GTO for me, I sank back into the leather seats. We went to the high school gymnasium, where a band from Dallas was warming up, all my friends were envious. I was proud as a peacock. My date danced expertly and treated me like a lady. The night was a Cinderella dream. After the dance we went to lover’s lane and I gave him what he wanted. I bled all over my fancy dress and shoes. I felt mortified. He got angry about the blood on his car seat, instead of being excited about screwing a virgin. He dropped me off at home and I hid my dress, until I could clean it without my mother finding it. I waited the next day for his call, and the next and the next. I didn’t expect him to marry me, but at least to have the decency to see me again. I found out through the grapevine that the son of a bitch had told half the guys in town what a great piece of ass I was. I was so mad I loaded my father’s pistol and contemplated blowing his ass away. Finally, I came to the conclusion that nobody was worth killing over. I got back to my running and broad jump and met some ladies with sympathy and understanding. That’s my story.”

Nicky was silent for a while. Then he said, “I guess I can’t blame you.”

“What about you? When and how did you lose your cherry?” Tony asked.

Nicky thought back to his first experience and smiled. “She wasn’t my real aunt, but I called her Auntie Emma. She was my mother’s best friend, they were closer than sisters. I was fifteen and big for my age. I was horny all the time, it seemed like I had a perpetual hard on. I would spank my monkey every chance I got. Looking at the underwear ads in the Sears catalogue, fantasizing about fucking all those models and my teachers, used to drive me crazy. One day I waited until Auntie Emma went in the bathroom, I walked in on her claiming it was by accident, I couldn’t take my eyes off her bush. It was the first pussy I had ever seen and it was a mind blowing experience. I masturbated for weeks thinking about her, I was dazed and confused. My parents thought I had an affliction of some kind. I think my old man had a suspicion of what was troubling me. About a week later, Auntie Emma came over while my mother was still at work. She complained of a sprained muscle in her thigh from too much tennis. Her tennis skirt barely hid her from the waist down. She groaned and massaged her thigh and kept working higher and higher. I grew bold and offered to help. I knew this was what she wanted. I started at her inner thigh and was soon rubbing her pussy through her panties. She had her tongue down my throat and lowered my blue jeans. When she saw how big my erection was, all I saw was pure lust in her beautiful brown eyes. She took me into her mouth and it was all I could do to keep from grabbing her head and forcing my way down her throat. She cupped my balls as I came in gushes and she swallowed every drop. We finished taking off our clothes and Emma showed me how to tease her clitoris and guide my tongue along her labia. By the time I finished eating her I was ready for my first good hard fuck. She got on top and guided me deep inside her, she went right, then left, then rotated. I was milked, by her. I sucked her big bouncing breasts, while fingering her, until I had another raging hard on. She bent over the bed, exposing her ass and pussy, reaching back behind her she guiding me first into her tight little anus, and then she switched me into her vagina. I pumped her doggie style, she screamed in ecstasy as we both reached orgasm. Later she asked my mother if I could help her with some chores around her house. I mowed her lawn, painted, and moved furniture, any excuse just to keep getting that fine pussy. Emma taught me more tricks about fucking than anyone my age had a right to know. To this day, when I go home to visit always stop by to see her. “

Tony listened with growing appreciation. “You know our stories our similar. Now why don’t you pull over and I’ll give you that promised fuck.”

“Maybe later, you’re just horny from that pot and beer and my story. I have something serious to tell you. You’ve probably heard this before, but you’ve got the softest chin I’ve ever laid my balls on and the whitest teeth I’ve ever come across.”

“You son of a bitch and you ask me why I’m gay,” Tony smiled.

“Do you know what the speed limit for a lesbian is?” Tony shrugged. “Lickety split,” Nicky said. “That sucked,” Tony said as she went back down on him.

He let her have it and was soon squirting in her mouth. She chugged some beer after that. They were quiet for while as he turned up a Jeff Beck tape. The sun was reflecting off the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, Nicky imagined the first Spanish conquistadors arriving from Mexico. The name land of enchantment certainly fit. Four mule deer ran alongside the road. The highway was carved through solid red crimson stone, long vertical drill marks were evident on both sides of the mountains. They soon entered Tijeras Canyon, leading them into Albuquerque. Adobe houses and pinons and mesquite dotted the surrounding hills. The city spread out before them, like an inviting maiden, split on the western side by the Rio Grande.

Tony gave directions to where she was going. She said, “Stay with me for a while, sweet man.”

“I can’t right now. I have things to discover about myself,” he replied.

“You know where I’ll be, if you ever change your mind.” He pulled over at the place she designated. Nicky stared into her moist mournful eyes. It was enough of a goodbye. “Stay straight, baby,” he whispered. She laughed and hooted and flipped him the bird.

Slick woke up, as Nicky was driving off. He looked in the mirror and saw Tony with her finger in the air. Nothing surprised him with Nicky. “Damn, you did some driving. This is Albuquerque?” asked Slick. Nicky nodded yes. “Just wanted to make sure, you didn’t hijack me to some fucking fantasy land in Bumfuck, Mexico. Hey, I know a good place to eat and I’m running on fumes.”

Long red and green chilies, tied together in ristras hung from the protruding roof ceiling beam vigas. The adobe restaurant was called The Mexican Kitchen and it was in Old Town, it had a huge girthed cottonwood tree growing right through the center of its dining room. The smells were incredible. Wood scorched poblano chili peppers, coffee, frying bacon, ham, garlic and fresh handmade corn and flour tortillas. The waitresses wore blinding white blouses and embroidered lacy aprons with colorful serape style full skirts. Their welcoming smiles were infectious. They all wore turquoise necklaces, rings, or bracelets. Nicky started sketching as soon as they were seated. Slick explained that turquoise was a good luck stone used to ward off witches. 

After several cups of steaming black coffee, they ordered stuffed sopapillas. Sopapillas were a Pueblo Indian dish of blown up fried bread, hollow and airy on the inside. They could be filled with honey and eaten as a desert or eaten as a main meal. Nicky and Slick’s food arrived, flaky bread filled with tender skirt steak, Chihuahua cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, grilled onion and garlic, cilantro, chilies and a special secret sauce. The dish covered an entire platter and every morsel was delicious. 

While they ate, they overheard two guys talking about a movie that was being filmed in the nearby mountains. Slick stopped the waitress the next time she brought more coffee, to inquire about it.

“Miss, have you heard anything about a movie being made around here?”

“Yes, it’s a rock and roll concert movie being made up near Placitas,” she replied.

“Could you give us directions to Placitas?” Slick asked. “We’re new to these parts.”

She looked them both over for a second and said, “I can do better than that. My cousin is going there tomorrow and she is looking for a ride. Let me give her a call.”

***

Up next:

Catfish McDaris

A Gauguin Dream

“Damn it Nicky, I told you if I caught you cheating on me again, we were through. You come home with some bitch’s lipstick all over your underwear and try to make up some lame ass excuse.  Get the hell out of my life.” Mercedes, his wife threw his duffel bag after him as he stumbled off the porch.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he headed for the bus station. Nicky had just enough cash for a locker and a couple of drinks. No job, no wife, no prospects, but for some reason he knew he had the world by the balls. 

After taking his sketch pad from his bag, he stuffed everything into a locker. Palming his key, he headed for the men’s room. Stepping up to the urinal, Nicky glanced up at the graffiti. It read: “Your future is in your hand.” Up above it, it read: “Don’t look up here, the joke is in your hand and you are pissing on your shoe.”

Nicky smiled, like he knew something no one else could fathom. The smells dilated his senses, fresh garlic bread from a pizzeria. Street walker’s cheap perfume, after shave combined with sweat, above all greed and money. Strolling down skid row, steering clear of hustlers, pimps, and rip off artists of varying degree, he wanted to wet his whistle and sit and straighten his thoughts.

An oily haired Latino with a narrow tie and zoot suit tugged at his sleeve with whispered promises of a pussy paradise. Nicky didn’t put up enough resistance and found himself steered into this strip joint. Figuring it might do his libido some good, he relaxed.

He felt bad about losing his wife, but it had been coming for awhile. They’d been together for what seemed like forever. It hadn’t lasted two years. When they had moved to the big city, things had changed drastically. Nicky wanted to paint, it was what he breathed for. Mercedes couldn’t understand and had no faith in his capabilities. That was only a small part of their differences. The women were hot for him and he could never say no.

Mercedes was a preacher’s daughter. Her family stopped at the gas station he worked at every Sunday after services. The reverend would fill up his car, while Mercedes would head for the restroom.

Every Sunday he watched her from his peep hole. She had a fantastic body and from the way she lifted her dress and touched herself, he knew she was primed for love. Her hair was reddish blonde, thick and curly. Long legs and ripe grapefruit sized breasts. A sweet girlish face topped off her generous attributes. 

Nicky drew her with her hands inside her panties, a look of wanton pleasure on her face. From his sketch, he made a beautiful painting and showed to her. She was mad and embarrassed at first, but the painting was so erotic and flattering it aroused her. He persuaded her to come to his apartment and pose for him, at first clothed, then nude. Seducing her, they made earth shattering love every chance they got. Capturing her at the height of orgasm on canvas was what he finally succeeded at.

He continued to work at the gas station, the pay was lousy, but his fame spread. It was amazing the quantity of women that started using the restroom. Nicky painted, studied, and made love to Mercedes. They married after a short engagement. 

Her Papa had seen several of the paintings of his daughter and some of women in his parish. He thought it would be best for them to get out of town as quickly as possible. Besides, it would be unbecoming of the town’s minister to murder his new son-in-law. So, he married them and financed their move to a large city.

The love of women, their smell, their smile, their twinkling eyes, their walk, and their hidden curves all drove him senseless. Nicky painted them all in his mind. He wasn’t a Casanova or a Don Juan, but something attracted women to him. Maybe it was because he knew how to talk to them? Maybe they sensed his devotion and it drew them into his magnetic power? His looks were average, dark curly hair, an athletic body, not overly muscular. He could go the distance. He knew how to stroke a woman, her mind and body and put her at ease. They loosened up and wanted to confide their deepest secrets. Nicky took advantage of his charm every time he got the chance.

Painting was his life, capturing the feminine body on canvas. He studied all his favorite artists. Manet’s skin colorations, Toulouse Lautrec’s barroom women, Gauguin’s native beauties, Renoir’s exquisite faces, Degas’ ballerinas, Cezanne’s fruit, Van Gogh’s irises and sunflowers. Learning from them all, he still had one main problem, his dick kept getting in the way. His small brain took over sometimes. 

Words from a loud song broke into Nicky’s reverie and made him smile. “If she won’t do it her sister will.” The strippers had a small stage with a shiny brass pole to hunch and to hang on to. It was connected to the bar, so they could dance between customer’s glasses after their routine and retrieve tips. They bumped and boogied to ear blasting rock, stripping down to G strings and high heels. Shaking their money makers, they were mostly young with big titties and round asses, full of energy. Mostly working class dudes filled their strings with singles.

One lady in particular caught Nicky’s eye. She had long dark hair with beautiful amber highlights that whipped back and forth when she danced. Her body was superb. When she smiled, one gold tooth 

sparkled like a bejeweled vampire. Nicky sketched her face and body in half a dozen positions. Every time she danced down the bar, men stuffed both sides of her string. 

She slowed as she sidled past Nicky, trying to see what he was up to. He signed and folded his small sketch of her and slid it into her booty string. His other hand slid over her cute ass, copping a quick feel. The bouncer, a humongous black dude with a yard wide Afro headed his way, with head busting on his mind. The lady motioned him off and shimmied and wiggled on her way. 

Figuring he had broken a rule or two, the feel of her behind had left his hand on fire. Three or four skits later, the dark haired beauty was up again. She passed him a note asking him to wait for her until closing time. This was perfect for Nicky, seeing as how he had no money or no where to stay. The bartender hassled him once, for not spending more money. He gave him a drawing, which got him a couple of free drinks and no more trouble.

The dancer’s name was Chichi Martinez and she was a bundle of smoking hot chili peppers chased with raw mescal. 

“All the time I was hunching that pole, all I could think about was my little dog. I left it behind in Juarez. And you know what? You remind me of my little poochie, Peppi,” she confessed.

“Thanks, I think,” replied Nicky.

He had never felt so flattered. They picked up some chow mein and several bottles of Mad Dog, on the way to her place. As soon as they opened the door, everything went flying and she had her tongue down his throat. Nicky ran his hand up under her skirt and rolled her panties down past her ankles. Her bush felt like a scouring pad, all trimmed for exotic dancing. Chichi undressed him and mounted. She started riding like the Texas Rangers were in hot pursuit and she’d be free if she could cross the Rio Grande.  She gave him the pet name Wolfie, deciding he didn’t resemble Peppi at all.

They fucked and sucked in almost every conceivable position. Resting between orgasms for wine, Nicky staggered up and drew Chichi at length. 

“Wolfie, baby, stay with me, I’ll buy you paints. You can become a great artist like Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo combined.” 

“Thanks, Chichi, but I just lost one good woman and right now I can’t hurt another. I need to move around for awhile,” he replied.

“You lying sack of shit. You just want to fuck anything with a heartbeat and use painting as an excuse,” she said.

Nicky just smiled.

After two days of sex and art, the walls of her tiny apartment started closing in. They’d made numerous trips to the liquor store and Chinese joint. It was time to reenter the world. His prick had gone through the agony and the ecstasy more times than, Charlton Heston’s movie about Michelangelo. He gave her three of his best sketches. Chichi fronted him a ten spot. He used the dancer’s mint toothpaste and cleaned his teeth and gargled.

The azure sky was filled with purple bruised fingers groping the sun.  Nicky staggered back into the day. The sunlight hit his eyes like a cop’s interrogation torture lamp. His head throbbed and his tongue felt like it was growing green bologna fur fungus. As he took a breath of fresh air, a Santa Fe Chief locomotive blew by screaming its whistle. Feeling like he’d passed out in some alley with his mouth open and a wino had taken a piss in it for a cheap laugh. He finally got his brain strain together so, he could grab a couple of cups of java and some greasy eggs. Then he called an amigo.

Slick, his lifelong pal was a small time cat burglar that graduated from stealing manhole covers to various nefarious schemes. He’d done three years in the big house for getting stuck in a Radio Shack’s cooling system. Unfortunately for him, this was at the time of the big prison riots and some unruly inmates cut off three of the guard’s heads and set up a bowling alley with them. Slick had never come completely clean about what happened inside. His Uncle Tommy Keys had taught him to steal, before checking in to Club Fed for a twenty count. Their family motto was; “The night is friendly.” It almost always had been for Slick, until this little old lady caught him doing his sleight of hand and blasted a hole in his left testicle with a 32 derringer. 

“How are you? You old one balled horse thief,” Nicky asked.

“Where the hell have you been? I thought your nuts would have been hanging from the rear view mirror of Mercedes’ cousin’s pickup truck.” Slick replied.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, your wife’s hillbilly cousins. They are all hunting your ass like coon dogs.”

He thought about Mercedes’ inbred behemoth relatives, Jim Bob, Billy Bob, Jerry Bob, and the runt Curly Bob. “I don’t know why, she’s so upset. I gave her the best mustache ride of her life for two years.” 

Slick replied, “I was planning a vacation to the Jemez Mountains. You want to come?”

“Why not? First I need to stop for my bag and some paints and canvas.”

Jack of Jack’s Art Supply was to Nicky what Pere Tanguy was to Van Gogh. “Jack, I need oils, brushes, and enough canvas for a couple of months. I know I owe you, but I don’t have money right now and I need to blow town. I have a few sketches to add to my growing stockpile. Plus I’ll send you something you can sell as soon as I get settled,” Nicky explained.

“Fifty years in the business and I have never met a painter with more natural talent than you. I have waited all my life for you to come along, then you turn out to be a drunk and cocks man,” replied Jack. As he loaded a box with the supplies Nicky needed, he finished and hugged Nicky. “You just turn out the masterpieces and I’ll keep putting them up for sale.”

Leaving Jack’s, Slick and Nicky headed for the bank. Nicky knew Mercedes would probably have frozen all their assets, not that they amounted to much. Luckily, he kept a key to their safety deposit box on his key ring. He remembered they kept several hundred in there, just in case. 

The teller he spoke with informed him there was a flag on all their accounts. Nicky went to the personal banking department and signed in to wait for a banker. A young blond verified his signature and was about to buzz him into the inner office and then take him to the vault. Her supervisor, a gray-haired lady came over and whispered something to the blond.

“I’ll take care of Mr. Moon,” she said out loud. The woman appeared to be in her late forties, a little over the hill, but extremely well taken care of. If she’d dye her hair it would take at least 5 years off her appearance. She led Nicky into the vault. As she placed her key next to his, her breasts brushed up against his hand. This sent a tingle through them both. The lady looked him in the eyes and sucked in her breath. Nicky gave her his best smile, as she led him to a private cubicle. She opened the door and he entered with his metal box. He pulled her in behind him, the box forgotten. She started to protest, but Nicky was kissing her full and deep. Any questions about what was about to happen disappeared, as he cupped and massaged her fine ass through her silky dress, pulling her to him. She moaned as he pulled her panties to the side and with a feather like stroke erected her juicy clitoris and nibbled at her hardening nipples through the fabric. He guided her down onto the thick plush carpet and ripped off her lacy white panties. They split at the seams, but they were beyond caring. With her dress around her hips, Nicky let his tongue do its magic. The lady groaned and tugged at his belt and unzipped his fly and freed his stiff boner. Placing soft wet hungry kisses up and down his dick and then sucking greedily at the tip, she knew her business. Almost beyond ready, he mounted and worked fast, banging her head against the flimsy wooden wall of the cubicle, the harder he thrust, the more she liked it. She was so vocal, he stuffed her mouth with her shredded panties. They both climaxed together, wiping off, he checked his box. While she put herself back together.

Mercedes had beaten him to the safety deposit box. Every person in the bank, watched as they exited the vault area. Nicky waited for a standing ovation. The lady blushed right down to where her panties should have been. He made a quick survey of the women, always checking for future fornication prospects.

Nicky walked out of the bank. Slick sat there waiting for him in his Ford pickup, with a camper shell. He climbed in and they drove off, headed west and north. 

“What the fuck took you so long?” Slick asked. “I thought you were pulling a stickup or something. As much as I love you, I’m not going back inside without a damn good reason.”

“This silver fox jumped my bones in the bank,” he explained. “Can we find a gas station, I need to clean up?”

***

Up next:

Catfish McDaris

Relief

Matthew worked from home, taking tech support calls for an internet provider. His interactions with the customers on the other end of the phone were a studied performance, fancying himself a combination of Han Solo and Captain Kirk, his wry masculine voice resonated against the popcorn ceiling of his apartment. He took command. “This is Matthew. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Carla”

“Well, Ensign Carla, how can I help you?” 

“Um. My internet doesn’t work.”

“I can solve this problem in 12 parsecs. Restart your modem. Make it so!”

He ate dinner at the pub near the school. Some days, dinner at the pub would be the only time he left his apartment. He liked the waitresses, especially in summer. They wore short skirts and some of them didn’t wear bras. He sat alone at a picnic table on the patio. He stared into his phone, absorbed.

“You will love me, old son,” a cockney-accented female voice whispered, with it a spike of cold air hit his ear canal and the smell of mildew made him turn and look.  But there was no one. Must have been someone at another table. He took a gulp from the pint of beer in front of him and continued reading Star Trek fan fiction on his phone. 

The waitress dropped off his bahn mi in a plastic green basket. “Here you go, enjoy,” she smiled a perfunctory smile, looking towards her next task.

“Why thank you, fine maiden,” air escaped from Matthew’s nose when he spoke, “I will indeed heartily enjoy this sandwich.” By the end of the day, Matthew would grow tired from the cheerful mask he wore at work, and his shadowy side, the angry child, would make itself felt. He hated himself, hated the angry child, but it was familiar. He reverted to it unconsciously when he was tired.

A crow perched on the edge of his table. “Scram!” He dropped his performative voice, the word came out nasal and nasty. The subterranean river of rage that coursed through him, skimmed the surface. Matthew lashed his hand out at the crow. Another crow landed on his table, keeping itself just out of reach. “Get the fuck out of here!” The crows were undeterred by his hand flailing. In two hops they were upon his sandwich. One screeched in his face while the other landed atop his bahn mi bun. She fluttered her wings hard enough to catch air, clutching the bun in her long black talons. Pickled carrots, cilantro, and barbecued pork rained down onto the table and Matthew’s lap as the crow rose higher, eventually finding her ballast and carrying the bun away. 

“Uh! Did you see that?” Matthew stood from his seat but the other patrons ignored him. He brushed the food off his shorts and looked around for the crows. They had flown a few yards away and landed on the sidewalk. They took turns picking at his bun. Matthew walked over to them, not that he would eat the bun now, but he needed somewhere for his rage to go, needed to at least scream at these crows. Every time he got within a couple of feet, the crows picked up the bread and moved.  The further he got from the pub, the more he seethed, “I will stomp you out,” he said darkly.

He followed them up the sidewalk and past the apartments. The traffic noise and the pub’s music fell away. He heard the harsh squawk of a crow. It occurred to him that he had never noticed crow calls at night. There were fewer street lights and it was difficult to see crows in the dark. He followed the sounds of the crows to the edge of the schoolyard. He walked along the row of elm trees that lined the sidewalk, scanning the dead yellow grass and chain link fence. “That’s my nosh, innit,” came the same strange whisper again. The cold mildewed air crossed over the space tattoos on his bare legs. Away from the lights and noise of the pub he couldn’t trace the disembodied voice. A crow screamed. Matthew saw it. It was perched on the wooden sign that read, “Elliott Smith Waldorf. The little school under the elms.” It was pecking his bun.

“You little fuck…” Matthew began, but the words dropped away as Alukah materialized from the tree next to him. Her dense black hair enveloped her body, hiding her earth colored tunic. Matthew attempted to mask his surprise, “Ah. Hello. With whom do I…”

Two crows landed on either side of Alukah and dropped the bahn mi bun at her bare feet. Her toenails were black and the veins stood out on the thin skin. Matthew watched the crows transform their shape into two young girls in brown tunics, smaller versions of Alukah with long, shining black hair. “Are you aliens?” Matthew spluttered.

“Nah,” Alukah answered. The two girls stared at Matthew with illegible blankness. “You will love me, Guv,” she said again. She held him in her gaze, chin raised to look up at him.

“Why would I do that?” Matthew thought she was probably just a crazy homeless woman, but also she was kinda hot, in a goth hag way. He couldn’t really see her body under all that hair, but he could tell she wasn’t fat at least. He wouldn’t mind violating the prime directive for a little outdoor sex with a random weirdo. Though he’d have to get rid of the freaky crow girls. “Are you some kind of witch?” He hoped she would find this complimentary.

“I am the demoness, Alukah. These are my daughters,” she gestured to either side of her, “I am here to offer you relief, my darling.” 

“Relief from what?” He chuckled, assured that he was in control of the situation. He stared at her black lips. Was that lipstick or just the color of her lips?

Alukah raised her hands out towards Matthew. She arched her back and tilted her neck, as if ready to receive a kiss. Matthew moved closer, anticipating how her body would feel against his. Alukah cupped her hands around the back of his neck. She pressed her chest into his torso, her nipples so hard they drove themselves into the soft flesh between his ribs. 

Just as Matthew bowed his head for a kiss, Alukah’s long black thumbnails lengthened to dagger sharpness. Her nails sliced through his neck like baking twine through dough. It happened so quickly that Matthew’s tongue was still probing the air, seeking her mouth. His detached head slid forward on his neck and rolled down the front of his body. It lolled at the base of the elm tree Alukah had emerged from. Her daughters stepped aside to make way for it. His body stood there stupidly for a moment before collapsing at Alukah’s bare feet. 

“You have a good feed now, my little luvs,” she instructed her daughters. The two girls knelt down at either side of his neck and drank from the fountain of blood that rhythmically pumped out with each dwindling heart beat. They lapped like cats. The pooled blood soaked into their black hair and dribbled down their chins. 

As the flow of blood decreased, they cried out “More, more,” each in turn, their screechy scratchy voices bouncing off the brick school building.

“More, more, yes, mama will get you more shayna punims” she said absently.

Her daughters picked up the head and disappeared with it through a hole at the base of the elm.

Alukah stood over Matthew’s body, she closed her eyes and drew symbols into the palm of each hand. Matthew’s shorts unzipped themselves, his underwear rolled itself down, and his erect penis unfurled. Alukah straddled the body and sat down on it. “I said you would love me, ain’t I?” She laughed lustily with the lungs of an ancient smoker. Cobwebs and dust rattled around in her breath. Her matted black hair lifted off the crown of her head, cascaded over her shoulders and swept across his knees. His leg tattoos singed black each time her hair brushed over them.

She ground her hips in a circular motion and moaned. Her mouth opened in pleasure, revealing a black tongue and crooked teeth. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed hard as if she were administering cpr. Fresh blood spurted from his neck. She leaned forward and drank, slurping up blood. She raised herself up and hit his chest again, the sound of his sternum cracking made her laugh, “I ain’t drained you yet, geezer,” a fountain of dark liquid gushed from his neck. She leaned over it, drinking and moving her hips. Her black fingernails clawed at his shoulders, tearing the sleeves of his NASA tshirt and ripping into his flesh.

The grinding of her hips quickened, the slurping became more frantic until her body grew rigid and she let out a guttural moan of pleasure. She lay still, savoring the orgasm, shivered once, then said, “Blimey, you was tasty, guv.” 

Alukah dismounted from Matthew and stood over him, “I reckon that’s you sorted then.” 

Hung

Bending over the bathroom sink, Harold Miley splashed cold water on his face. He had vomited in the hall. But that could wait. Call 911, he told himself. Not that this was an emergency.

Becky was dead. Paramedics couldn’t do a thing for her. Except cut her down, he thought. Or perhaps the police would do that . . .  

The house would soon be packed with people. Beat cops. Detectives. Crime scene technicians. Medical Examiner. The detectives would ask him questions. Endless questions. Harold was in for a long night, long and emotionally draining. 

Having wiped his face with a towel, he deliberately avoided his haggard reflection in the mirror. Don’t go back in there, he thought. You don’t want to see her again. Once is enough. Make the call and wait for the cavalry. 

Harold exited the bathroom and stood in the hall just outside the master bedroom. He frowned at his phone. But he didn’t call. He wasn’t ready for the circus. Not yet. Not with so many unanswered questions throttling his psyche. 

Steeling himself, he reentered the bedroom and made a beeline for the window. He raised the miniblinds, unlocked the window, pushed it up. Mild night air rushed into the room, helping to lessen the awful stench. Becky’s bowels had evacuated when her neck snapped . . .  

Face twisted with anguish, Harold looked for a suicide note. He found it atop the nightstand on his wife’s side of the bed. She had used a blue ballpoint pen and a single sheet of yellow legal paper. Becky’s cursive script filled the entire page. It amounted to a confession and apology. The phrases “bad wife” and “selfish person” appeared repeatedly but there was no mention of her lover’s identity. 

Whoever the guy is, Harold thought, he’s in for one hell of a shock. He almost felt sorry for the bastard. Almost. 

Harold looked at the overturned chair beneath Becky’s dangling bare feet. It was an old straight-back chair she had gotten for a song at the flea market. She had sanded and painted the piece before relegating it to the laundry room. 

Harold returned the note to the nightstand, placing it beside Becky’s phone which he combed assiduously. Such a breach of his wife’s privacy had been all but impossible until now; she had guarded her phone with her life, never letting the damnable thing out of her sight . . . 

The vulgar text messages from an unfamiliar number—a burner, Harold reasoned, if the guy was married—were bad enough. 

But these were nothing compared to the photos. 

Dick pics. 

And the guy was huge.

No doubt, he had shown Becky a very good time. Harold could almost forgive her. Almost. She was entitled to pleasure, entitled to a level of satisfaction and fulfillment which he had been unable to provide with his comparatively diminutive member. 

Still, vows were vows . . . 

Harold studied her photos in search of a face but came up empty. He decided to dial the number. He wanted to hear the sonofabitch’s voice. He wanted to tell him that the affair was over, that Becky had gone off the deep end and killed herself, that he hoped the sorry motherfucker was happy. 

“Hey,” somebody picked up after the third ring. 

A male voice. Unmistakably familiar. 

Harold hung up on his next-door neighbor. 

***

Chuck was piddling in his garage. 

Good, Harold thought. He didn’t want to ring the doorbell. Last thing he wanted was an encounter with Chuck’s wife and/or kids. He didn’t want to be reminded that his neighbor was a husband and father. It would be easier that way . . . 

After taking the photo with Becky’s phone, Harold had retrieved the .32 from his nightstand drawer. The compact handgun was for home protection. He had tried to teach Becky how to use it, but she showed no interest. “Guns are like snakes,” she had told him, “and I’m scared of both.” Now, phone in hand, gun tucked between his belt and lower back, he crossed the small section of grass between the two houses and entered Chuck’s garage. 

His neighbor’s truck occupied half of the cavernous space. The other half was a makeshift workshop. Chuck was hunched over a table tinkering with an old-fashioned alarm clock. Restoring antique clocks was just one of the handyman’s side gigs. He also repaired fitness equipment and copy machines. A regular jack of all trades, Harold mused as he approached his neighbor who had yet to see him. 

“Chuck,” he stated bluntly. 

His neighbor jerked. “Jeez, man. You scared the hell out of me.” He put down the clock and wiped his grimy hands with a grimy towel. “What’s new, neighbor?” 

“Quite a lot, actually,” Harold said. “I want to show you something. Check this out . . .” 

Standing beside the table, he proffered Becky’s phone. Chuck regarded him strangely. 

“Go on,” Harold urged. “It won’t bite.” Then, “That’s right, asshole. Becky’s phone . . .” 

“Look, Harold, I don’t know what—” 

“You know Becky. My wife. Well, late wife . . .” 

Harold watched Chuck’s eyes, watched them fix on the photo of Becky hanging from the light fixture. The color drained from his neighbor’s face. He gasped audibly. 

The kitchen door swung open. Chuck’s freckle faced twelve-year-old daughter appeared. She was eating a Kraft single. “Dinner’s ready . . .” 

“Go back inside, Trish,” Chuck told her. 

“Mom said—” 

“Inside! Now!” 

No sooner had Trish shut the door than Harold pulled his piece. 

“Now wait a minute.” Chuck raised his hands. “Just calm down. Don’t do something—” 

“You fucked my wife!”

Chuck started to say something about calling 911 when the bullet ripped into his throat. He tried to plug the wound with his fingers. Gagging and sputtering, blood oozed between them. The second round bored into his gut, silencing him forever. He lay sprawled, leaking and still, on the concrete. 

Towering over his dead neighbor, Harold eyed a pair of heavy-duty hedge shears hanging on the wall. He walked over, grabbed the tool, and returned to Chuck. It was a gruesome affair, severing his neighbor’s cock, gruesome yet immensely satisfying. Blood was all over the place. The garage looked like a slaughter house. 

Harold sat on the smooth concrete with his back against the wall, torn between waiting for the police and blowing his brains out. 

Sirens cut the night.

A Bull’s Work

Busy with my army work and a couple of other needy cunts, I hadn’t seen my married bitch couple for several days, until she texted, begging me to fuck her again. The first time she had confessed that she wanted to be degraded and roughly used. Being Master Tark, their bull, I complied. And, please, she also begged, make her husband Danny squirm. Make him suck you. My dick strained against my jockstrap just imagining the two of them on their hands and knees.

I drove to the cunt’s house after my gym workout, where I had been lifting weights and noticing a few male and female bitches eye me up and down. I’ve got a hard muscular build, not just from army drills, but from years of regular weight training. I always wear form-fitting, wife-beater tops to display my muscles. My legs are pretty well-developed, too. 

I had told her to be ready for me, to kneel naked on the living room sofa cushions and lean over the back of it, her ass exposed for a good spanking, her fine round tits pressed against the back. I’m not obsessed with tits but I appreciate a good pair, especially when nipple clamped, which was going to happen to her tits eventually. Too much time had lapsed, and she needed a reminder of her position and function. As instructed, Danny her husband stood, stripped to his underwear in a corner. He had also been emailing me scenarios like he was some kind of movie director and I was an actor. He had a thing to learn: I was the boss and he was nothing more than a piece of meat that needed fucking like his wife. Face the wall and don’t look until I give you permission. Understand, bitch? Sir, yes Sir, he replied. 

I also instructed Kim the wife not to look at me or say a word unless I gave her permission. She said in the email that she had been a bad girl and needed a good spanking. How bad were you? I asked in a reply. What did you do? She said that she had wicked thoughts about a high school boy down the road. She wanted him to pretend she was his teacher and fuck her on the desk. She wanted to suck his cock and swallow his young load while he pressed her head against his groin and called her slut and cunt, just the way I did. She played with her pussy, pinching and rubbing her clit, until she came, fantasizing about the student sitting on her face, his hard young tasty cock down her throat. And then Danny walked in and when he saw the high school stud face fucking his wife, he fell on his hands and knees like a dog, whimpering. Wasn’t that a bad thing to imagine, daddy? Is daddy angry? she wrote? I prefer to be called Sir or Master rather than daddy, but to humor the horny slut, I replied in the same spirit: yes, daddy was angry, and his little girl deserved a good spanking.

When I entered the room, I didn’t speak. I admired her still taut body and firm ass, not bad for a mature cunt. She was forty at least. They had eighteen-year-old twins, a boy and girl, both away at college. And I wondered if one day I’d be fucking them as well, create a private bull-owned family. Just a fantasy. For now, what was real were the parents waiting to be used. I dropped my coat to the floor, then I began caressing her ass, fondling, tickling, pinching, running my fingers up and down her pussy. She was already moist. She moaned in expectation and pleasure and when I suddenly smacked her ass cheeks hard, four times in a row, she yelped, but whimpered thank you, daddy, thank you. Then I slapped those fine cheeks harder and harder.

“Daddy’s little girl’s been bad, hasn’t she? Answer me!”

She groaned with pleasure:

“Yes, daddy, your little girl has been real bad, daddy.”

“Daddy’s little girl wants a high school boy to fuck her, doesn’t she?” And I smacked her so hard across one cheek that even my hand smarted. She yelped like a dog.

“Yes, oh, yes, daddy.”

“What a fucking cockwhore, you are, just a horny housewife bitch, aren’t you?”

Her “Daddy” whacked her buttocks so hard, she cried out and my hand was stinging, and her flesh blazoned hot red. She began whimpering and crying and begging Daddy to stop, but Daddy, getting warm, just smacked her ass several times harder and harder, even thought of flogging the hot bitch, but decided there would be another time for that. Shackle her arms and legs, spreadeagled. I’d have to see how far she wanted to go. Get that high school kid to fuck her. The way she was wiggled her flaming red ass and moaned proved how much she enjoyed and needed the spanking.

In the corner Danny whimpered and even begged to be allowed to turn around. I pulled my black belt off my military fatigues, looped it in one hand, and approached Danny who stood about 5’9 to my 6’3. He had a narrow waist and nicely rounded ass cheeks and looked like he took care of his body.

“What did you say, bitch? Did I give you permission to speak?”

“No, Master Tark, Sir.”

Then without another word I whacked his ass hard and loud with the looped belt and he screamed out “Holy fuck!” Which almost made me burst out laughing. But he didn’t turn around, although he tried to cover his cheeks with his hands. I must remember to tie them next time. Leather wrist shackles would do the trick.

“Move your fucking hands, bitch.”

And he obeyed just in time for me to apply another resounding whack over his cheeks which immediately flamed. I dropped the belt and stood closely behind him, the fingers of one hand probing his asshole under his boxers. He flinched and seemed to fall back into my chest as if expecting to be embraced like a woman. I inserted two fingers in his mouth for him to suck and he noisily slurped on them as if he had been starving. Then I pushed the two fingers up his ass right to the second knuckle. With the other hand I reached around and grabbed a hold of his small but erect cock through the underwear and squeezed. He jerked and bucked as I finger fucked him, but releasing his pathetic dick, I grabbed him by the waist and pulled his body onto my fingers and probed faster, pushing a third finger in, as he writhed and moaned and begged please, Sir, please.

“Please what, bitch?”

That was all he said, please Sir. I fucked him a minute or two longer with three fingers, my own cock rigid as a telephone pole. I was ready to fuck him in the ass, but I hadn’t finished with Kim yet. Besides, I wanted him to pant and imagine how much more was coming to him.

I pulled my fingers out and ordered him to suck his ass juices off them, which he did hungrily. My fingers practically down his throat up to the knuckles he clenched around them as if he had been starving for that particular food. Thinking he had pleased me, he begged again: “please, Master Tark, Sir, may I turn around and watch?”

“First, lick my boots, cunt.”

I had expected resistance, but he fell to his knees and hunched forward like a dog and his tongue shot out to kiss the toe of my sand-coloured, army boots. He ran his tongue along the rim of one sole. I had a terrific urge to straddle his body and piss all over the wimp’s face, but decided to leave that pleasure for another time. My cock, proudly poking out of my fatigues, glistened with precum, as it always did, and I gave him permission to sit up and lick the tip of its thick rounded head. Not to take it in his mouth, yet, but just to pleasure himself with the taste of his bull’s cum. His tongue shot out and lapped at the piss hole leaking precum. I pulled away from his tongue, and leaned over to whisper in his ear:

“You want your bull to fuck you senseless, cuntboy?”

He looked up with tears of joy in his eyes.

“Oh, yes Sir, yes Sir, yes Sir.”

I ordered him to keep down on all fours like the dog bitch, but he could watch from the corner. And I turned my attention to his wife.

“You’re my private little cumslut, aren’t you bitch, just a whorish fuck doll.”

“Yes, daddy, please, please spank me. Been so bad, spank me.”

I slapped those cheeks six more times for good measure, hard, with my hand although one day she’d feel the belt also, then immediately stuck my fingers in her pussy: fuck, it was sopping wet! Pulling her hair back with one hand, I fingered her cunt with the other, eventually slipping my entire fist in her hot pussy as she pushed back as if she wanted to fuck my arm!! I stroked with my fist in and out and she cried out, “oh, daddy, daddy, please please.”

“You still want that high school kid to fuck you, bitch?”

She didn’t answer. But the murmurings, the panting, the groaning, the pushing back of her cunt onto my fist was answer enough. My cock was so fucking hard and huge it throbbed visibly and was ready to explode a geyser of hot white bull cum.

I turned her around on the cushions and lifted her legs around my shoulders. My cock reared like a stallion’s and I pushed between her pussy lips and rammed it home. I could feel the bulging veins of my shaft bruise against the soft wet walls of her cunt, and I jackhammered it furiously. She screamed out, and so did Danny, like I was fucking them both at the same time. I grasped her thighs and bulldozed her deeply; my balls pressed against her pussy as my cock bellowed its way home to her womb. It felt as if it were expanding wider and growing longer and reaching boiling point. My fatigues down to my ankles, my soldier’s tags dangling over her mouth as I pressed forward, her cunt muscles gripped tightly around my thick hard cock as she pushed up to meet every one of my down strokes, Danny’s saliva dried on my boots, I pummeled relentlessly, the cum boiling in my balls, aching to explode inside my bitch.

Then, fuck, without permission Danny crawled over to the sofa and with one hand touched my ass. I was so taken aback I pulled out of Kim’s cunt and turned around to face him, ready to give the disobedient wimp a powerful back hand just as my cum erupted. A heavy load shot out directly at his face, splashing over his eyes and nose and lips and his tongue sticking out. I couldn’t stop it, it just shot out in great streams of hot cum. My hand instinctively grabbed his hair and pulled him to closer, his mouth open.

“You fucking disobedient cunt! You’ll be punished for this.”

Then I rammed my cock, still hard and erupting down his open throat and pushed his head against my pubes and he gagged and bolted as if about to bring up what he had no choice but to swallow. 

Not the way I had planned it, but it showed me what Danny craved, what they both needed. And Kim just folded herself on the sofa and moaned, a strange smile on his face, her eyes open but glazed as if hypnotized. I knew I still had a lot of work to do.

Where Are You?

The actor John, portraying Uncle Ted, opened the door slowly, stepped through the shaft of light into semi-darkness, and, accompanied by a grin reminiscent of a lusty demon and a rumbling raspy voice born in a Kolkata sewer, said, “Where are you?” He hunched his back like a leprous wolf, spittle dripping from the corners of his gaping maw.

“Cut!” called the director. He pondered the moment as he gestured to his First A.D., Amy, to open the closet where the children were huddled. “John, you made some interesting choices there. Good for you playing with the words. The downside is that this isn’t a horror film. It’s a happy story about Uncle Ted playing with his niece and nephew when he’s babysitting them.”

“So, too much, then?” asked John, determined to do the best he could in his first film.

“Yeah,” said the director. “Rein it in, perhaps say ‘where are you?’ as if you’re playing a game of hide-and-seek, which is actually what you’re supposed to be doing.” The director remembered John was the grandson of the woman who was financing the movie. “Oh, and don’t step through the light. Stop right there so we can see your face.”

“Got it,” said John.

The children in the closet had finally stopped crying, and they were all ready for another take.

After the standard lightscameraaction, John opened the door and stepped into the light. “Stepped” is not the correct word. It was more of a hop/prance/pirouette/twirl followed by an ancient Greek eunuch’s “Where are you?”

“Cut!” said the director.

The children ran out of the closet to their respective agents, and were never seen again.

“How can I say this?” said the director. “That was a little too ‘light’, if you know what I mean.”

“So, somewhere in between,” said John.

“Good note,” said the director. “Amy, can you find a couple of kids who aren’t so easily, uh, terrified?”

“On it,” said Amy, who immediately called her sister, who had her kids on set within three minutes because they were waiting outside, expecting the prima donna kids to fail. Amy and her sister understood that their family progeny were too “animated” to originally get the parts but they knew the film biz was mercurial, so…

Takethreecameralightsactionallthat.

John opened the door and stepped into the light. As neutral as neutral can be, he said, “Where are you?”

The new children exploded out of the cupboard. The little boy launched himself at the waist of the drained ogre, and knocked him to the concrete carpet. The little girl sank her teeth into John’s left cheek (face, not bum), tore away a chunk of pasty flesh, and spat it out.

“Method actors,” said the director to himself, disapprovingly.

The little boy stuck his fist into the left side of John’s mouth, and yanked, creating a perfect twisted smile on John’s left-half-face.

John convulsed for a few moments as his face gushed. The camera continued to roll while the kids explored their characters and the inside of John’s skull.

John’s body shuddered three times and then was still. His death scene was better than Spencer Tracy or Walter Huston or Robert De Niro ever did, probably because none of them ever died on screen and in real life at the same time.

The camera continued to roll as Amy’s nephew and niece pursued their acting careers.

There was a lot of blood but actually not as much as you might expect.

Peace. Depending on your definition.

The set settled.

Someone called Emergency Medical Services but they were apparently busy with other things.

The director said, “I think we have something here.” He wandered around the set for a while, then said, “We might need a re-write. Maybe something that fits in with these new, uh, uh, developments… Where’s the writer?”

“I’m over here,” I said. “In fact, what you have here is the original script I wrote before all you assholes tinkered with it beyond recognition and turned it into some lame Hallmark weepy. Well, ‘original script’ except for the idea you killed the actor. Outside of that, it’s pretty much the same screenplay. How about we shoot the scene where the kids eat Uncle Ted? I mean, he’s already there, and I think we have a small window of opportunity before EMS shows up.”

Sigil in Silk

The nanospiders arrived at dawn.

Kandy Fontaine lay sprawled across her velvet-drenched mattress, one thigh draped over a copy of Hand of Doom, the other tangled in a pair of shredded fishnet—last night’s ritual, pushing the outer limits of flesh, where pleasure and pain collapsed together like a quantum waveform.

Her lipstick was smeared across her cheek like blood. The air was thick with absinthe vapors, strawberry incense and the faint metallic tang of sex magick.

She blinked awake to the sound of clicking—tiny, rhythmic, a thousand stilettos tapping across her hardwood floor.

They were everywhere. Crawling across her notebooks. Her vinyl collection, hundreds of rare pressings of Deathrock and Goth classics. Her altar of broken glam figurines, Rozz Willliams in a bondage harness, Gitane Demone in bandages, and melted candles. Self-archiving nanospiders, sent from some future where memory was currency and every orgasm a data point. They skittered across her skin, whispering in binary, recording her dreams, her moans, her whispered curses.

She didn’t scream. She arched her back and let them nest in her hair. They skittered through her Siouxsie-style bed hair and seemed to be enjoying themselves. She felt the first rising “thwang” of gorgeous blood in its lakelet surge towards her pussy. 

One of them paused on her inner thigh, just above the sigil tattooed in ultraviolet ink. It pulsed once—softly, like a heartbeat—and then the mirror across the room lit up with a message etched in acid green bile:

“The Horror Clown is coming.”

Kandy sat up, her body aching in all the right places. She lit a clove cigarette with a match struck against her nipple ring and stared at the message. The Horror Clown. Not a man. Not a myth. A woman named Miranda Vex, once a promising horror novelist, now a greasepainted stalker with a vendetta and a cracked psyche.

Miranda had sent her lipstick threats on torn Fangoria covers. Had left voicemails reciting Sylvia Plath in a helium voice. Had once mailed her a dead hummingbird wrapped in a rejection letter.

She believed Kandy had stolen her career. Her voice. Her soul.

Kandy exhaled smoke and whispered, “Let her come. And not in the good way. Although…” 

She dressed slowly, deliberately. A corset laced with barbed wire. Thigh highs held up by safety pins. A trench coat made from repurposed Cradle of Filth merch. Her lipstick was black cherry, her perfume was called “Funeral Kiss,” her boots blessed by a drag priestess in a condemned church.

The nanospiders followed her, crawling into her purse, her cleavage, her hair. Her witnesses. Her archivists. Her familiars.

Outside, the Hollywood sky was bruised purple. The Rainbow Bar & Grill glowed like a haunted jukebox. Kandy walked past the ghosts of glam rock, past the alley where Lemmy once pissed on a paparazzo, past the mural of Wendy Dio that someone had defaced with glitter and semen. 

She felt the presence before she saw her.

Miranda Vex stood across the street, face painted in cracked white, eyes smeared with rage. She wore a tutu made of rejection slips and carried a balloon sword that pulsed with psychic venom.

Kandy smiled. “You’re late.”

Miranda didn’t speak. She raised the sword.

And then the hearse pulled up.

Joe Oroborus at the wheel, eyeliner smeared, cigarette dangling. Reynaldo, the World’s Smallest Circus Bear, in the passenger seat, sipping absinthe from a thimble and muttering Latin hexes.

Kandy didn’t resist. She let them bind her in neon duct tape, gag her with a vintage tour shirt, toss her into the velvet-lined coffin in the back. And leave her there, twitching, moaning and drooling. 

She was aroused. Beyond fucking belief. 

This was ritual.

This was revenge.

Inside the hearse, the air was thick with patchouli and static. Joe played a bootleg cassette of Magica backwards, letting the reversed riffs summon something ancient. Reynaldo lit a candle shaped like a severed tongue and whispered, “She’s watching.”

Kandy writhed against the velvet, her body a sigil, her breath a spell. The nanospiders crawled into her bloodstream, activating the glyph etched into her thigh. Her orgasm built like a thunderstorm—slow, electric, inevitable.

Outside, Miranda Vex followed in a rusted ice cream truck, its speakers blaring distorted readings from her unpublished novel The Clown’s Gospel. She believed she was the chosen one. She believed Kandy was the devil.

She was half right.

Kandy came like a cathedral collapsing.

The sigil detonated. The nanospiders pulsed. The hearse shook.

Miranda screamed from the street, clutching her balloon sword, her face melting in the heat of psychic backlash. She saw every phantom enemy she’d ever invented. Every imagined slight. Every silenced scream.

She collapsed, twitching, her career ended not with a scream—but with a whimpering laugh.

Joe lit a cigarette. Reynaldo toasted Kandy with a thimble of blood.

Kandy Fontaine walked away, heels clicking on broken glass, nanospiders trailing behind her like a bridal veil of vengeance. She was already writing the next chapter in blood and eyeliner.

The Horror Clown was gone. The archive lived. And Kandy? She was just getting started.

Hundred-Dollar Grilled Cheese

I think offering seventy-five percent below asking price is generous. And when I only offer someone fifty percent below asking, I think I deserve a thankful handjob in return at the very least. People’s standards have never been lower and that gives people an arbitrage opportunity to turn something bought for two dollars into something sold for a hundred. Not many have the confidence to pull off the low-ball. But I do. And I do it left, right, center.

It’s because I was raised different from everybody else. Tougher, than everybody else. When I turned six, my old man handed me two dollars in small change and said I couldn’t come home until it was a hundred in medium-to-large bills. He was the kind of dad that parented on the outskirts. The kind that left an impression through hard knocks, like someone who punches the pinball machine instead of using the bumpers. And I knew my dad was serious about his two-dollar bullshit—because when I came home the next day having spent my two dollars on a corner store grilled cheese, he whooped my ass like a pinball machine that ate all the cash he had in his pocket. 

I learned quick that, to survive, you need to make that two dollars into a hundred. It’s not easy at first. But you can pull it off if you want to live. The first summer my dad threw me out, I mowed lawns. And in the winter, I’d shovel sidewalks. Pocket change from the neighbors and landlords, that’s all I got at first. But then, I’d make conversation. Widows would give me more when I’d show the welts on my forearms. The married men, or men like my father, or ones that wished they had the stones to be like my father, would also give more when I’d show the welts on my forearms—but only if I’d say they didn’t hurt much. To survive, you have to realize that human life is the product and all I did was learn how to sell it better than anyone else.

But shoveling shit won’t get you far in either summer or winter. You need an opportunity to take something cheap and sell it for a lot more. That’s how everyone else made money, at least. So I’d steal from the corner stores, things other than grilled cheeses. In the South End, I’d stuff candies and cigarettes into my pockets. You know, things that kids would kill for. Then I’d hang around the high schools in the North End and sell it all. I’d always hawk something cheap, something I could steal outright if not practically, to sell it at a markup. Arbitrage. And I made a killing.

Looking back, it wasn’t about the money. Not at first, because when I’d come home, it wouldn’t be my money anymore. I’d show my dad the wad of ones, fives, tens, and he’d transform it into objects only seen at the cusp of a South End kid’s imagination; new snow tires, tobacco-stained teeth, booze that’ll make you go blind, and women—girls, more like. All for the man of the house, he’d say. For the guy who’s smart enough to parent at the outskirts, who’s smart enough to punch the pinball machine and get his knuckles bloody every once in a while.

But before long, he hated that I’d learned how to make money hand-over-fist. When I got old enough, he’d send me out on a Friday afternoon and I’d be back home by midnight. His parenting had backfired. The outskirts of fatherhood kept encroaching on him at the worst times, when something important was happening for him. Namely when he’d have a girl over and he was getting some strange.

One of his girls, they saw me coming in with a wad of cash and it was like they hadn’t seen my dad altogether. Is that all it took to get some strange, just some small-to-medium-to-large bills? Money didn’t matter to me. It was cheap. But strange? That was important at the time, sure. Worth something. So, arbitrage. I offered her fifty-percent less than what she charged my dad and she agreed to a handjob because her standards must have been low since, after all, she was fucking my old man. I’d like to think he respected the move. But then he just whooped me, anyways.

It was then that I arbitraged myself all the way out the door. And in return for never coming home again, I had a hundred dollars all to myself. In large bills, this time.

See, a lot of people want to hire a guy who can turn two dollars into a hundred. And as always, the key is finding things that are only worth two dollars, things you can practically steal. Used cars, misplaced jewelry, deceased parents’ property. Things people want to get rid of since they don’t want to consciously think about them. And because they can’t think anymore, because their expectations for the future are rock-bottom, everything can be bought for only a couple of bucks. Fifty percent below asking. Seventy-five, preferred. And with a spread like that, you just need to perfect the low-ball. Or at least have the confidence to throw it.

When I found my niche, my business, the one I’ve been doing for three decades, all it took was confidence. All it took was remembering what I learned as a kid—that human life is a product and you’ve got to sell it better than anyone else. And if you want to get that arbitrage, that good spread, you’ve got to steal it.

Listen. You, the one sitting at the end of the stiff’s hospital bed, the person whose expectations for the future are rock-fucking-bottom. I just need sixty seconds to change your life:

One word. Organs. Heart, lungs, the humble liver and kidneys. People need them. Don’t you agree? And people like your ( spouse / child / lover ), in their present ( comatose / post-mortem ) condition, they have no use for them. It’s sad to say, but let’s face it, they won’t be able to do anything anymore. Except help. Your loved one, they can help someone like nobody else can, like a boy in need of a new ( heart / kidneys, set of / liver ). It’s a big question. But don’t you think your ( spouse / child / lover ) would want to spread some good in this world by selflessly giving away a piece of ( himself / herself / themselves)?

See, a dead loved one—that’s the perfect product to low-ball. An almost-corpse that somebody used to love, something they created, or something they probably fucked; it’s something you can steal, if you’ve got the confidence. That’s the key, that’s always been the key, having the confidence to arbitrage a two-dollar body into a hundred-dollar organ transplant. For me, it’s a killing because, like I’ve said, people’s expectations have never been lower.

When I got into this business, it was a lot tougher. They wouldn’t usually let me in the surgery wing. I’d sit outside on the hospital stoop, waiting for the ambulances to roll in. Then I’d be at the payphone, checking the white pages. Expecting a sobbing wife? Easy sell, just have to work the empathy. A sad-sack husband? Mixed bag. Some of them, you just know they couldn’t find another woman to put up with them, and they’d chase me away while hoping for a miraculous recovery. On the other hand, there’d be the others, the ones who dreamed of girls like their secretaries and the neighbor’s daughter returning from college. Strange, occupied their mind. Those were the easiest, since they’d get both the payout and the reassurance of watching me pull their wife’s plug to make sure the broad flatlined. It’d be arbitrage. Their two-dollar freedom, but my hundred-dollar grilled cheese.

After making my first million, I indulged in the most extreme limits of a South End kid’s imagination; prescription drugs from well-greased doctors, a wife who looks like a girl when viewed from a distance, and a ’79 Cadillac, cherry red, like the one my old man once found off the back of a truck. I couldn’t help but think of my dad. I wanted to give him a call. And I wanted to rub it in. Having a son of your own will make you want things like that, I guess. It’ll raise your expectations from the usual South End dreams and think you’re entitled to something you’d never get as a kid.

When I dialed my old man, I got a home caretaker. One from the state. I thought he’d be in cuffs but he was in a coma on account of his heart, and most importantly he was broke. And you know what that meant for a guy like me? For a South End kid who used to have those welts on his forearms and a handful of small bills for the girls he’d pick up from my school parking lot? For someone who can take two dollars and turn it into something other than shoveling shit? That’s right—it was an opportunity for me to change someone’s life in just sixty seconds. Even my old man’s. Which—for me, for only me, for the kind of guy my old man made me, me—is always a killing. Want to know what he was worth?

A brand new set of snow tires. Got them at a discount, too.

Then half a decade passed after that, as it usually does. By then, it was time to do the right thing. It was time to parent my kid from the outskirts—but more importantly, I wanted some strange, and the only way to do that is to get the kid out of the house. I gave my son two dollars and told him he couldn’t come home until he had a hundred in large bills.

But the little prick had the audacity to ask for more than two bucks. Said I was low-balling him. Wouldn’t leave the house until he got twenty. I threatened to whoop his ass like a pinball machine, like my old man would to recoup a little of the parenting investment. Said I wasn’t the kind of guy to use the bumpers. But my kid didn’t understand what the fuck I was talking about. So I went and told my wife about that bullshit. I said I wasn’t going to waste my life on a kid that doesn’t know when to beat it so I can get some strange. 

But when I asked for some strange, for a second kid to hedge the bets since the first one’s a problem, my wife said no to me. The most she’d offer was a handjob. Which—fuck me—is a real low-ball. And with that news, that shouting match, I just about dropped dead. Just about. 

See, like my old man, I had this heart condition, and it put me in the hospital with one of those caretakers. When I was good enough to talk to the doctor, that surgeon with the greased palms, he asked me if I’d ever thought about changing my mind on becoming an organ donor. Since one of my salespeople had gotten my wife’s signature, they just needed mine, too. Then my kid made a good point. Really sold it to me. They could always wait until I fell asleep again, so wouldn’t it be good to actually help someone for a change?

That’s when I noticed it. The real value of human life, or lack thereof. It’s like one day, as a society, we all woke up with two dollars and needed to turn it into a hundred. Everyone was low-balling each other. Left, right, center. Everyone, from the underage girls to the surgeons, to the widows and married men, everyone’s standards had finally hit rock bottom. Everyone but mine. Which, I’ll admit, presented a sort of arbitrage opportunity, didn’t it?