Zillowtopia

“BRING ME LEBRON! HURRY UP, STU!” Stacey Schmaltzberg screams at her husband while her fingers work furiously inside her purple cotton panties. She leans back in her leather office chair and stares through squinted eyes at the laptop computer perched on the desk in front of her.

“Cavs, Heat or Lakers?” Stuart Schmaltzberg asks eagerly, standing behind Stacey in their home office.

“I don’t care what team, Stu! JUST GET ME MY FUCKING LEBRON!” Stacey shouts while her fingers pick up speed.

“Okay,” Stu replies as he hurries through the office door. “But I have to go to the garage and get the dolly, so it may take a few minutes.”

Stacey eases into a steady rhythm and bites down on her lip with her eyes closed. After a few moments, she opens her eyes and stares back at the laptop screen, where a Zillow.com web page reads, “Zestimate: $775,000,” under her Boca Raton property address. Stacey parts her lips and moans softly, then closes her eyes and slides her fingers in deeper.

“OK peaches, I got your man!” Stu announces excitedly as he pushes a small handtruck into the office. Strapped to the handtruck is “Lebron” – a 6’8” dark brown thermoplastic elastomer male sex doll wearing a red basketball jersey with a gold number 23 printed on front. Lebron is naked from the waist down with a fully-erect penis. Stu quickly unstraps Lebron from the handtruck, then lays him on his back in the middle of the carpeted office floor. He looks up at Stacey with a smile and exclaims, “Bring it on, showgirl!”

Stacey pushes up from her chair, slides off her panties, then hurries over to Lebron and steps over him so she’s straddling him with her feet planted on either side of his bare hips. She bends her knees and descends toward a sitting position as she grabs Lebron’s long thick shaft. But she stops mid-squat and looks up angrily at Stu. “He’s dry as a desert, Stu! Lebron is supposed to be self-lubricating! I can’t dry-dock this fucking Clydesdale!”

Stu stammers, “Sorry, hon, but his lube ran out after the Cohens’ pool party last month and I forgot to replace it. But I can go get Mad Max or Conan or Elon. They’re all fully-lubed and ready to go.”

“For fuck’s sake, Stuart!” Stacey screams as she sits down on Lebron’s thighs, still holding his shaft. “Just go get the Uber from the bathroom. And hurry up!” Stacey starts to grind her crotch against Lebron’s muscular thigh.

“What Uber? Why do we need an Uber?” Stu asks in confusion.

“The Uberlube, you fucking moron! It’s sex lubricant, Stu! It’s in my medicine cabinet next to the Voltaren. Now hurry up!” Stacey shouts as she grinds harder against Lebron’s thigh.

Stu runs off to the bathroom and returns seconds later holding a small plastic bottle. He quickly uncaps the bottle, bends over and squeezes clear lubricant onto Lebron’s protruding penis, then uses his other hand to spread it around evenly.

Stacey grabs the bottle out of Stu’s hand, squeezes some lube out onto her fingertips, then reaches down and rubs her fingers between her open thighs. She raises to a kneel and moves herself over the head of Lebron’s penis, then slides down his shaft until her pale, flabby, cellulitic butt cheeks rest on his upper thighs. She rips a loud fart against Lebron’s testicles.

“Help me get going, Stu,” she says to her husband as she leans forward and places her hands on Lebron’s broad shoulders. Stu sits down on Lebron’s knees behind Stacey, then presses his hands against her bare butt cheeks with a gentle shove to move her up Lebron’s shaft. Stacey begins to ride Lebron and moan, “Ohhh fuck, Lebron.”

Stu stands up while Stacey speeds up her rhythm. She squeezes Lebron’s jersey in her fists while she rocks back and forth, spewing out loud open-mouthed grunts. After a few moments, she tries to turn over onto her back with Lebron’s penis still inside her but is unable to complete the pivot. 

“Help me, Stu! Fucking help me here!” Stacey yells out.

“Are you going reverse cowgirl?” Stu asks.

Stacey stares up at him incredulously. “Really, Stu? Does this look like a reverse fucking cowgirl? Now get over here and flip us, goddammit!”

Stu hurries over and hoists Lebron over on top of his wife while she lies flat on her back. She bends her knees while Lebron’s bare hips and thick-muscled butt part her thighs. 

“Oh Jesus, I strained my back again!” Stu yelps out, grabbing his lower back.

“Fuck your back, Stu! I’m so close right now I just need you to push him so I can finish off!” Stacey pleads from beneath Lebron. “And you should have sprung for the electric hip thrusters if you were so worried about your back, you cheap bastard!”

“It would’ve cost an extra $500 and we were trying to save for Jonah’s bar—”

“Just shut the fuck up and push that black ass for me, you goddamn tightwad!”

Despite the sharp pain ripping through his back, with tears welling up in his eyes, Stu kneels down and clenches Lebron’s butt cheeks with both hands, then thrusts Lebron’s hips back and forth between Stacey’s thighs while her moans intensify. “Oh yes, oh yes, oh my Jesus fucking YES!”

Stacey’s moans become one continuous high-pitched wail while Stu’s back pain escalates with each forward thrust – a sharp dagger piercing through to his spine. 

“Ohh-ohh-ohh-ohh-ohh-fuckkkkk!” Stacey belts out, bucking her hips until she climaxes in one final scream, “AHGHHHHH!” Completely exhausted, she gasps in air as her body tension releases and she collapses back to the floor. “Okay, Okay, Okay,” she pants.

His back on fire with excruciating pain, Stu collapses forward onto Lebron – causing his full body weight to push Lebron down onto his wife.

“Get off me, Stu, you’re crushing me! I can barely breathe, now get the fuck up!” Stacey shouts from beneath Lebron.

With his last ounce of energy, Stu pushes himself up and rolls over onto his back next to Stacey and Lebron, breathing heavily with his hand on his chest. “Oh my God, I think I’m having a heart attack,” Stu groans painfully. 

Ignoring her husband, Stacey pushes Lebron off of her while sweat pours down her pudgy red face, streaming over her loose jowels and down her neck. “Get me a towel, Stu,” she says as she catches her breath. “I’m sweating like a pig.”  

Stu doesn’t answer, lying flat on his back with his hand pressed to his chest, breathing slowly with his eyes pinched shut and face twisted in pain.

Stacey sits up and her soft gut laps over her pelvis, settling in just above a thick patch of gray pubic hair. She takes a deep breath, then stands up and hobbles to the bathroom while Stu remains in a prostrate position on the floor.

After toweling off and putting her clothes back on, Stacey steps over Stu and Lebron, then plops down heavily into her office chair. She refreshes the laptop screen and types something into the Google search query box. She selects a website and looks at it quickly, then picks up her phone.

“Hello, you’ve reached Home Equity Hunks, South Florida’s leading home equity lender, making all your financial dreams come true,” says an automated voice on the phone. “If you’re an existing customer, press or say 1. If you’re a new customer, press or say 2.” Stacey presses 2 on her dial pad and the automated voice continues, “If you’d like to hear options for a new—” Stacey presses 0 before the voice can finish. After a brief pause, the voice resumes, “I’m sorry, but—”

Stacey interrupts the automated voice, frantically screaming into her phone, “Operator! Human being! I WANT A LIVE FUCKING PERSON!”

“Please hold for a dedicated loan hunk,” the automated voice says.

“Oh Jesus, hurry the fuck up,” Stacey groans. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

After about thirty seconds of soft hold music, a live voice pipes up, “This is Chaz Beaumont, loan hunk number 028746. And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with today?”

Stacey says her name and asks, “I sent my loan application in yesterday morning and still haven’t heard back. What’s going on?”

Chaz replies, “Ma’am, the loan review process typically takes at least ten to twelve business days, and then—”

“I don’t have that much time!” Stacey shouts. “My daughter’s summer camp tuition is due in a few days, and then we have to buy our plane tickets to Paris. I need the money now!”

“I understand, Mrs. Schmaltzberg, but this is a regulated process and we—” 

Stacey cuts him off. “I have the new Zillow valuation for our house – $775,000 – it’s got more than enough equity for another fifty thousand cashout. This ain’t my first rodeo, Chaz.”

“Well ma’am, I’ll see if I can get the review process accelerated for you but I’ll need some basic information first. What’s the total mortgage debt on your house, ma’am?”

Stacey pauses, then mumbles, “About $520,000.”

“And how much did you buy the house for, ma’am?”

After another pause, Stacey answers, “$310,000 about fifteen years ago, but Zillow says it’s worth almost $800,000 now.”

“Well you’re obviously no stranger to home equity loans,” Chaz chuckles. “Have you borrowed from Home Equity Hunks in the past, ma’am?”

“No,” Stacey answers irritably. “We used another home equity lender for the first two loans, then Cashout Studs for the third one. But we can’t—”

“Don’t tell him about the Loan Depot assault charge and restraining order,” Stu whispers into Stacey’s ear, having risen from the floor to join her at the phone. “It might disqualify us.”

“And your annual household income, ma’am?” Chaz asks methodically.

Stacey answers, “Well it fluctuates since my husband is in between jobs right now, but—”  

“For now you can just tell me the adjusted gross income number on your last tax return, ma’am,” Chaz responds flatly.

After a long pause, Stacey mumbles, “About $85,000.”

“And what do you do for a living, ma’am?” Chaz asks.

“I’m a legal assistant at a foreclosure defense law firm, and a sales associate at Bloomingdale’s in Boca Town Center on weekends and holidays,” Stacey replies.

“Let me put you on a brief hold while I speak to my manager, ma’am,” Chaz says.

Stacey looks over at Stu with a scowl. “If we don’t get this money, it’s your fucking fault. You’ve made about thirteen dollars in the last twenty years, Mister Mom. Apparently I missed the chapter of the fairy tale where Prince Charming quits his job and sponges off the Fairy Princess for the rest of his fucking life, Mr. Harvard MBA!”

Stu looks down in embarrassment. “Stace, please, you know I—”

Chaz is back on the line. “Thank you for holding, Mrs. Schmaltzberg. I just spoke to my manager. Unfortunately we’ll be unable to accelerate the review process for your loan application. You should receive a formal response from us within fourteen days. Now is there anything else I can help you with today, ma’am?”

“Listen to me, Chaz!” Stacey pleads, “We need – I mean NEED – this money now! Do you have children, Chaz?”

“Well, no ma’am, but—”

“Then you’ve never had to pay $50,000 for a bar mitzvah, or $15,000 each summer for Lake Winnipesaukee sleepaway camp, or $10,000 for a vacation to Europe for a family of four. Life is very expensive these days, Chaz. And we’re still the only family we know who doesn’t have a backyard pool – we have to use the fucking community pool! And we drive a seven-year old Mazda and a six-year old Honda while every time I turn around I see a brand new BMW, Mercedes or fucking Lexus. Literally everyone has one. The Schaumbergs just bought a Porsche for their sixteen year-old daughter. IT’S FUCKING EMBARRASSING, CHAZ!”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Schmaltzberg, none of those things sound like real necessities. Just some friendly advice, ma’am, maybe you should try living within—”

“FUCK YOU, CHAZ! You know nothing about me! I work like a dog, two jobs—”

“Goodbye, ma’am.” The line goes silent.

“Asshole!” Stacey screams into the phone, then glares at Stu, “Go get the firepower, Stu, we’re going into battle mode.”

“But hon, we can’t have another Loan Depot situation. We’re lucky we didn’t go to jail over that. We need to think of the kids.”

“Fuck Loan Depot, fuck Home Equity Hunks, fuck the fucking kids!” Stacey shouts. “Now go get ready and meet me at the car in ten minutes! Move your ass, Stuart!”

Stacey takes a deep breath, looks in the hallway mirror and composes herself, then  walks out the front door.

Jodi Simon, the Schmaltzbergs’ nextdoor neighbor, stands at the edge of her yard as Stacey hurries down the driveway to her car. “Oh hey, Stacey!” she shouts. “Does Jonah know where he’s going to college next year? Rachel has it narrowed down to Duke, Emory and Vandy – still trying to decide.”

Stacey smiles over at Jodi. “Jonah got into those ones plus UF, Miami and a few more. But we’re so overwhelmed getting ready for our trip to Paris next month and then Leah starting at American Heritage after she gets back from sleepaway camp in New Hampshire, we just haven’t had time to even breathe let alone think about his college plans right now.”

“Wow!” Jodi replies, “American Heritage just raised its tuition to over forty thousand. You guys must be doing pretty well.”

Stacey nods with a smile and humble shoulder shrug. “Well, Stu’s hedge fund is doing okay I guess. I don’t know anything about that money of finance stuff but apparently it’s paying the bills.”

Before Jodi can say anything else, Stacey turns to her car and says, “Sorry Jodes, gotta go – late for one of Stu’s work things – but let’s catch up soon. Bye!”

Nosy little bitch, Stacey thinks as she steps into the car, shutting the door behind her as Jodi waves and then turns back to her yard.

Waiting in the passenger seat, Stacey looks down at her phone and shakes with fury, squeezing it so hard that her knuckles turn white, at the Facebook post staring back and boring into her skull. As soon as Stu opens the driver-side door and steps into the car, she sticks her phone into his face and shouts, “Look at this! The Silvermans are in fucking Barcelona to celebrate Ethan getting into Miami! We need that money, Stu! We need it fucking now!”

When they arrive at the Home Equity Hunks corporate headquarters, occupying the entire top floor of a high-rise office building in downtown West Palm Beach, Stacey hurries into the lobby clutching her Zillow printout with Stu in tow. “I need to speak with a senior loan officer immediately – it’s an emergency!” sheey says to the office receptionist.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist replies in confusion. “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”

“No but I’m sure a loan officer will want to speak with us when I show him this appraisal,” Stacey says proudly, holding the Zillow report out in front of her.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ll need to make an appointment if you’d like to meet with a loan officer. You can do so on our website. This is a private office and—”

“Well where the fuck am I supposed to go in the meantime, lady?” Stacey screams. “Back to the house with no pool? With shitty little cars in the driveway? What kind of life is that?”

The receptionist presses a button on her desk phone and speaks into her headset. “I need you guys in the lobby, Steve, we got another live one out here.”

Stacey turns to Stu and reaches her hand out. “Time for Plan B, Stu. Give it to me.”

On command, Stu reaches into his black trenchcoat and pulls out an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle. “Uh Stace, maybe we should just—“

“Stop whining and give me the goddamn gun, numbnuts!” Stacey says as she grabs the AR-15 out of Stu’s hand.

The receptionist stands up from her chair with her eyes wide and mouth half open. Her head is blown apart before she can scream. Blood, brain and skull fragments splatter the wall behind her as Stacey’s (still smelly) finger rapidly works the AR-15 trigger. Stacey heads toward the door leading from the lobby to the interior offices.

Two armed security guards enter the lobby from the interior door with their guns drawn. Stacey mows them down with her AR-15 before they have time to react. They drop to the floor like flour sacks, their bloodied bodies riddled with bullets. Stacey steps over them and walks through the door.

AR-15 blazing, Stacey marches down the hallway and into the individual offices along the way, shooting anything that moves. Rapid gunfire followed by horrific screams fill the air as the body count piles up. Employees hide behind office furniture and cower in corners while Stacey continues her bloody rampage, screaming with a maniacal grin as her AR-15 fires off two rounds per second. Stu trails her, finishing off any survivors with a Glock 9 millimeter.

“Please, no!” Vern Cromwell, CEO of Home Equity Hunks, pleads from behind his leather office sofa after Stacey enters his corner office from the hallway. “Please, ma’am, put the gun down! Just tell me what you want!”

Keeping her AR-15 trained on Cromwell, Stacey removes the folded Zillow report from her front pocket and tosses it onto his desk. “Our house was worth 775K as of this morning. It’s probably worth over 800 by now, maybe 825. We just need a little home equity cashout.”

Cromwell unfolds the Zillow report with shaking hands and studies it briefly through his reading glasses. “What do you owe on the house and what’s your annual income?” he asks without looking up.

Stacey tells him.

Cromwell looks up at Stacey, then over at Stu, who’s just entered the office from the hallway. Cromwell raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Sorry but are you two fucking idiots? I mean, I thought I’d seen everything in this business, but you two morons have the financial intelligence of a mentally retarded billygoat!”

Stacey’s AR-15 clicks empty when she pulls the trigger to shoot Cromwell. “Get me more ammo, Stu!” she shouts behind her.

While Stu fumbles through his trenchcoat searching for an ammo clip, Stacey looks down at her phone. Horrified by what she sees, she throws the phone against the wall with a blood-curdling scream. She leans back against the wall and collapses to the floor, lowering her face into her hands as her body rocks with violent sobs.

“What’s wrong, poodle?” Stu asks. “I can’t find the extra clip, maybe we left it in—”

“Forget the ammo and just look at my fucking phone!” Stacey wails from the floor, pointing to her phone.

Stu picks up the phone and squints at its cracked screen. “I can’t see – what is it, peaches?”

“The Teitelbaums just bought a fucking plane! A FUCKING PLANE, Stuart! I just saw it on Deborah’s Instagram.” Stacey tilts her head back and closes her eyes. “Just kill me now,” she mutters.

“So what, Stace? Since when do you want a plane? We can’t even fly one.” Stu replies with genuine confusion.

“It doesn’t matter, Stu. Can’t you see that it doesn’t … fucking … matter!” Stacey cries out while shaking her head. 

Stu and Vern Cromwell watch Stacey silently, neither moving an inch.

Stacey thinks for a moment, then looks up at Stu. “My life insurance money – that’s it!” In one fluid motion, she grabs the AR-15 from the floor (forgetting that it’s empty), sticks the muzzle into her mouth and presses down on the trigger. The gun clicks empty.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but most life insurance policies have a two-year suicide exception,” Cromwell explains. “When did you buy the policy?”

“About ten years ago,” Stacey replies. After a brief pause, she asks, “What floor is this?”

“Fifteenth floor, ma’am,” Cromwell answers.

“And that window – is it shatterproof?” Stacey asks, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling window wall.

“I don’t believe so,” Cromwell replies with a chuckle. “But I’ve never tried to find out.”

Before Cromwell or Stu can stop her, Stacey lowers her head and runs toward the window. From a full sprint, she dives at it headfirst from just two feet away. Wait’ll Deb Teitelbaum sees the new yacht we’re gonna buy with this money, Stacey thinks, smiling to herself as she launches. Stupid bitch’ll probably jump out the window.

Plugged

Standing behind her desk, Miranda wondered if students noticed that her gait had changed, even her tone of voice. Earlier she had locked herself in the washroom cubicle, took the package and lubricant out of her briefcase, followed the instructions, inserted the well-greased plug into her ass, wincing when it pushed through the sphincter, pulled up her panties, waited as she adjusted to the sensations, flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and then walking slowly, entered the classroom down the hall, three minutes late. Clenching her buttocks, she didn’t want it dislodged at inopportune moments.

A student sat in the front row, legs spread wide apart to give prominence to his crotch, the white statement in English on his black T-shirt loud and clear: MANWHORE. While Frida at the back of the class read out a passage in her halting English from the assigned story, Miranda wondered what the term meant and how it applied to Reinhardt. Did the youth sell his body? With his Germanic good looks and muscularity, he’d probably have customers lined up. His huge muscles were the most noticeable feature about him, and he wore clothes like the skin-tight T-shirt to draw attention to them. Reinhardt also drove a black muscle car to school, all noise and power; a fuck machine, really. The boys and girls couldn’t resist and Reinhardt knew it. Miranda privately admitted that she wasn’t immune to the student’s charisma. She fantasized about the student fucking her on the desk, her cunt thrumming and clenching around his cock. 

But the T-shirt seemed blatant and rude, even in this age of sartorial provocations. Really, discretion and appropriateness were obsolete notions for these students. Not that she should talk about appropriate behaviour, given the butt plug slipping in her anal canal every time she took a step. Miranda couldn’t quite describe the feeling aside from the fact that she liked the pressure, the up-and-down movement, and images of being tied down, maybe, or panting on her hands and knees and getting fucked by a student. Oh, it would hurt…at first…she had to prepare for the inevitable. Then she brought herself back from fantasyland to the blackboard and fluorescent lighting of a classroom smelling of student sweat and indifference.

With difficulty, Frida finished the passage. Miranda knew that Reinhardt had slept with Frida who wanted to be his regular girlfriend, but Reinhardt regarded love and romance as traps. She certainly knew the lad’s opinions. Fucking was great; guys needed to play, didn’t matter who their partner was; everything was permissible; it was all cool. Sex was nothing more than fun and games unless you wanted kids. Everyone should have fun; blowjobs were necessary, Reinhardt had written in his student journal, or words to that effect. Rough play, also great. The assigned topic was “Love and Sex” in a story of their choice, total freedom of expression allowed. Horny Reinhardt’s entry had startled Miranda awake from the semi-narcoleptic state she fell into when reading student papers. Reinhardt had simply used the story as a jumping-off point to write about his own sex life: about how much he loved shooting his load every day anywhere with anyone; a blowjob a day, at least one, even in the college library; fucking older teachers even, confessions which Miranda suspected the boy had pumped up like his arm muscles. Why? To impress her? To slip his cock into her cunt?

According to his journal, Reinhardt the MANWHORE (was that not also an insulting term?) had already fucked three or four girls and a couple of boys in the class. Everyone knew some professors slept with their students, but unless the students complained, no one else did, aside from the standard clucking of tongues and envious whispers behind their backs. Did Reinhardt ever use butt plugs? Could she safely ask that question?

Her students skittering with hormonal energy, immersed in the entertainment and advertising world of sex, Miranda wondered how they concentrated on physics labs and English essays when cocks crowed and cunts glistened. She struggled to attach herself to the moment, to keep from drifting away in reverie like a canoe broken loose from its mooring, to cut the ties here, to sever herself him from her inauthentic life. She sat down, if only to keep the plug in. Her master Kurt had bought it and commanded Miranda to conduct her last class with the device plugging her ass. Why should she plug herself? Miranda had protested, answered by Kurt’s slap across her face and mocking: like you don’t know, bitch. Just do it. Yes, she had obeyed, for obedience and submission thrilled her, and it seemed natural to follow master Kurt’s orders. And now, the plug secured all the way up, her buttocks clenched and unclenched and clenched again. Kurt had borrowed her car for the day after dropping her off at school in the morning, and Miranda would meet him in the parking lot after class. 

Time dragged. Some days she didn’t think she could go through the routine anymore. Before meeting Kurt, her sense of dying by increments had been tangible, and she would have died having lived an ordinary, unmemorable life. Liberation offered by Kurt and his  electric allure beckoned and led her into a new, transcendent life. She shifted on the seat, feeling the plug like a cock in her ass. Kurt had promised it would happen. Patience.

Kurt broke into and took over her tedious life. Electrons sizzled in the atmosphere. The leaden sky cracked and sunlight roared through. Wear the plug; it’s a start, bitch. Your ass needs training and a good fuck like any cunt. And so now she was practicing, getting ready. Yes, after showering this morning, directing the full force of the spray up her anal canal, although she didn’t think it could be as effective in cleaning it as an enema, she had inserted the butt plug, involuntarily gasping as the bulbous part squeezed past the sphincter, and pushed gently until all five flexible inches snuggled in her rectum. The flange at the end prevented it from going up any farther. Before dressing for school and driving to Kurt’s place she removed it, washed it, and promised Kurt that she would insert the plug again before class. He seemed annoyed and threatened punishment, which made her cunt wet, but he said this time it was okay. As long as it was in her ass when he picked her up later. 

Miranda knew there would be a larger plug after this one had served its purpose for a week or more, and after that conditioning, something larger still, and ultimately the real thing. A heavily-veined, bulbous headed throbbing cock. Like a soldier, Kurt had said, preparation and readiness were everything. Miranda imagined the size of Reinhardt’s cock; it grew impossibly large, like a horse cock, and her heart beat faster over the thought of it breaking into her like a stallion mounting a mare in heat. Not ideas she should be thinking about during class, she admonished herself. Of course, Kurt’s dick was equally admirable and she loved the feel of it in her cunt and mouth.

Miranda spoke faster, wanted time to speed up, so she could exit the classroom and meet Kurt in the teacher’s parking lot. They would drive back to the apartment and pass an hour or so together before Kurt left for the armory. Perhaps she would have to remove the plug and hoped the tip wouldn’t be covered in shit, knowing she’d be embarrassed in front of the soldier. She would stay at the apartment and prepare for tomorrow’s classes, watch videos, clean the tiny kitchen, and be awake when the soldier returned before midnight, and fucked and spanked her. Miranda’s mouth went dry, and she had difficulty concentrating on marking papers.

She lifted her ass off the seat imperceptibly and pushed down, as if she were fucking herself in front of the dazed students. The discomfort became mildly pleasurable. Some of the students, including Reinhardt, must have a secret life as well, special interests and games, besides ordinary fucking. Well, Reinhardt was not so secretive in his journal, but Miranda suspected more bravado there than truth. He did have muscles, though, and a bulging crotch which she couldn’t help noticing. He wrote that he wanted to star in porn films. Perhaps most of them were still too young, not yet sucked down into the bog of jobs, convenience, compromises, and pensions.

They had not experienced the randomness of death and violence like blood oozing out of smashed heads, bones splintered and crushed, or children’s limbs ripped out of their sockets, as Kurt had witnessed after the Taliban bombed a girl’s school outside Kandahar. The students’ digital gadgets connected them to nothing except mirror images of themselves. Hey, you brain-addled fuckers, Miranda could almost hear herself speaking in Kurt’s voice, connect with this: and she’d bend over, pull down her panties, and moon them with the butt plug plopping out of her ass.

“That’s it for today,” she announced, “have your journal entry written for next class. Be honest. Write whatever you think would interest me, but be true.”

Slamming books and scraping chair legs, their voices released like chattering birds, they filed out of the room, and she noticed how a group of admirers gathered around Reinhardt, the manwhore. Miranda was startled by the wink Reinhardt gave her, as if teacher and student shared intimate knowledge. In a sense, they had: allowed to write freely in their journals without fear of a teacher’s censorship and disgust, Reinhardt had been very free in his sexual confessions. Miranda had commented favourably and encouraged him to write more along the same lines. She fingered herself as she read his journal.

They had even enjoyed provocative conversations in Miranda’s office where Reinhardt, responding to her probing and questions about the entries, relaxed and spoke his mind and spread his legs wide to allow his teacher to admire his crotch, which he sometimes touched, although Miranda tried not to direct her eyes there. Reinhardt seemed willing to cross boundaries, to demolish the limits, if granted permission. Intimations slipped out with his words and flickered in his eyes. You should write more about this in your journals; Miranda had praised his frankness. Improve your English. What would Reinhardt think if he knew that his teacher, with her ass plugged, was on her way to a soldier’s apartment, a soldier who was her master? Would Reinhardt like to play with them? Would he bring Frida and would want Kurt to fuck her? Did she shave her pussy? Would Reinhardt wear leather boots? Deep-throat his professor, if Kurt gave his permission? Piss on her face and tits? The questions remained unasked, but Miranda still hoped for answers. All boundaries splintered and shattered ever since she met and submitted to Kurt. The word enslavement seemed to be more and more accurate, and Miranda whispered it like a confession of love.

She fancied taking risks with Reinhardt the manwhore. Ask the youth openly: have you ever thought about fucking me? Rumours abounded. She had heard about one or two colleagues sexually involved with Reinhardt. That Reinhardt was into anything. Did he dominate them? Did they submit willingly and joyously? Do you get boners in class? Is your cum heavy and luscious like Kurt’s? Maybe she should introduce the two. After collecting her things from his office and stuffing her brief case with student papers, Miranda stepped out and the butt plug slipped; she could feel it pop out of the sphincter. She reached behind and touched the flange of the plug inside her panties: yes, it was slipping out. She pushed it back in. 

Two hours max, the instructions said, at the beginning. It was a flesh-toned acrylic plug, shaped like an arrowhead, smooth and round, but tapered so the narrow part slipped past the sphincter with least resistance, discomfort beginning as the thicker part squeezed in. 

In the parking lot, Kurt had his arm outside the driver’s window, flicking a cigarette. Once she sat in the car and buckled, the butt plug secured against slippage, Kurt took another drag before starting the engine. He wore an army-issue T-shirt and Miranda admired her master’s biceps. 

The soldier switched the gears and the car moved into the road. Miranda stared at the boot pressing the accelerator. It needed to be polished. With her tongue, if master desired. Go with the fucking flow so I flow with fucking, Miranda recalled words from Reinhardt’s journal. Kurt squeezed her knee, and looked directly at him.

“You wearing it like I told you?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Good. You can play with it in your ass while I’m driving. You have my permission, bitch.”

Miranda clasped her hands, the butt sliding up as she pushed down on the seat, and nodded yes; she was doing what the soldier allowed her to do. She worked her buttocks, slowly fucking herself. An image of Reinhardt’s heavily-muscled arms holding the wheel of his car, the famous fuck machine, blocked out any compunctions. Lifting and lowering her ass, up and down as if she was actually fucking herself on Reinhardt’s relentless horse cock, feeling it, feeling it, getting used to it, and then Kurt replaced him and trained her like a recruit. As Kurt drove to his apartment, she imagined Reinhardt unbuckling his belt, pulling down his jeans, bending his professor over the hood of his muscle car and plugging her ass with his horse cock, plugging it with her master Kurt’s permission. Kurt gripped Miranda’s thigh and squeezed. She began breathing heavily and moaning. He blew smoke out with the words: 

“You’ll always belong to me, bitch. Keep fucking yourself.”

The Gymnast and the Night Demon

Jane was sitting at her table thinking dark thoughts about herself when the doorbell rang.  She cautiously looked though the peephole and viewed a pleasant looking dark skinned man with a package in her porch light.  Something about his appearance made her feel safe, so she opened the door.

The man introduced himself “Hello, I’m night demon Jerome here to help you.”  Jane started to laugh at this absurdity, but stopped as she saw Jerome change in appearance and get much larger.  The man or thing before her now was over seven feet tall, muscle bound with hair sticking out of his clothes.

Jerome apologized for his subterfuge and explained “I knew you wouldn’t have let me in if I came in my natural appearance, so I transformed.  Do not worry, I will not harm you, I know your problem, and will solve it for you.”

Jane couldn’t think of a rational response, so she said “Sure, my problem, you’d solve it.  First, what is my problem, how do you know what it is, and how will you solve it.”

“In the order that you asked:”

“You are a high level gymnast – made the Olympic team, in the Olympics and other tournaments, you’ve placed second or third, but never a first.  Because of the discipline required your menstrual cycle is messed up.  You’ve never had a serious romantic partner of either gender, and because of your appearance you are only hit up by perverts, mostly old males, who want sex with someone that looks like a prepubescent boy.”

“I found out by listening to you talking with other gymnasts about your problem.”

Jane interrupted “How did you do that?  I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

“As a night demon, I can take several forms, as you should know.  During daytime, I disappear.” 

“The package I brought in is the beginning of your new diet.  I learned that you will retire in a year at twenty-five.  While you follow my prescribed diet, your body will transform to that of a sexy mature female.  It will make gymnastics a bit more difficult, but you can still compete until retirement.”

“I thought of two more questions.  Why should I believe you and why are you doing this?”

“In order that you asked, again.”

“Isn’t it more likely that I’m telling the truth than that I could do the shape-shifting you observed?”

“I’m one of the good demons whose purpose is to bring sexual healing to deserving humans.  Not that we don’t enjoy our job.  We frequently treat ourselves and our projects to rapture.”

Jane wasn’t a believer yet, but she had a request which might convince her.  “Can you change back to the man I saw at the door?”  He did, and she said “Please hug me on your way out.”

Jerome complied and pressed against her body with his arms around her waist.  The heat of his body and the erection she felt through their clothes gave her a full body orgasm.  Fifteen minutes later, he was gone and she found herself dazed on the floor.

Around a year later, Jerome came back to visit Jane in the original form she had seen him.  The new Jane was a happy beauty.  Jerome told her “Looks like the diet worked.  You are radiant.  How about the romantic front?  Afraid I’m had too many other projects to check in.”

“There are two guys who are serious about me.  Joe is a baseball player who strikes out in bed sometimes, but when he is on, he hits home runs.  He swings a big bat.”  Jane chuckled at that.

He is really good about getting me warmed up.  We experimented a lot and we know where the hot spots are.  We are both into nipples and necks and some other places I don’t want to tell you about.”

“Ted is a Yoga instructor who is an expert at all of the best positions.  He can do a slow burn or white heat.”

Jerome smiled and said “Sounds like my work here is done.”

“Not until I’ve thanked you appropriately”.  Jane led Jerome to her bed.  After a couple of hours of moaning and groaning, and friction leading to fire, Jerome departed.  Jane woke up the next morning thinking about a decision between Joe and Ted and whispered “Thanks Jerome”.

Tiny Fearsome Hurricane Force

Surprised I knew her language was Tagalog, she asked me out, so we met at Barley’s in Knoxville’s Old City for pizza and beer. She was so tiny she got drunk on one IPA and we had to go to Java City over on Jackson Avenue for coffee to let her sober up for the drive home.

We only kissed that first night, but that led to many more nights. She was a 23-year-old in-demand stripper, a single mother, and she wanted badly to be married. It took two weeks before she let me come to her place in the projects behind barbed wire fences and patrolling cops, but after that first time, she wouldn’t let me leave. She clung to me and passion ran deep. She was a goddamn tiger in bed, a lover and fighter. When she fought, storm clouds gathered and she was wicked fierce. But Holy Christ, these were the most violently explosive orgasms in history and that girl was the horniest person I’d ever met. She needed it at least five times a day and was always wet no matter what or where. It seemed like Heaven, at least for awhile.

(Yeah, I knew I was in it for all the wrong reasons… I’m not proud of it.)

After eight months of passionate tussling, of my continued refusals of marriage, of my telling her I wanted only an uncommitted relationship “for the time being,” having just been burned in a very long-term, decade-plus relationship, she apparently ran out of patience and told me out of the blue that she was moving to Michigan with an old boyfriend to get away from me and the city. An old boyfriend who was her son’s father. 

She called me at my new job and asked me for cash. I barely had any money – I’d been broke as shit for a year. I’d moved across the country at a bad time and hadn’t found work doing crap. Hell, I’d been staying at her place in the ghetto, braving both the cops and the bangers, sharing her mattress on the dirty bedroom floor. However, I’d recently gotten a crappy gig bouncing at a biker bar for $6 an hour, working very late nights and getting a few bruises for my effort. I wasn’t a huge guy, but I’d always broken other people’s bones faster and easier than they broke mine. 

Still, broke is broke. I told her I didn’t have any cash, but she said she knew I must have some money. She said “Just give me some – I’m moving. I need some cash, baby.” With flickering lashes and the whole show, which worked on me every damn time. Kicking myself for being such a sucker, I told her to meet me in the big Walton’s parking lot, now next to a freshly razed old supermarket.

She drove up in her purple Kia upon seeing me standing by my ancient black once-sporty Nissan. She got out and I asked where Cam was. 

“With Steve,” she said.

“Already? You didn’t waste much time. You just told me about this last weekend!”

“Well, he’s got a new job lined up in Michigan. Plus he has a huge cock and is pretty awesome in bed.”

“Shit baby, when did he get into town?”

She admitted it was about three weeks ago.

I said, “So you’ve been messing…” and didn’t need to finish the rest as she casually nodded yes.

How long had she been cheating on me? Was dick size the culprit or was it commitment issues? Shit, how huge was it? Like Ron Jeremy-sized? She was barely five feet tall, less than 100 lbs. I thought we were a good fit, so to speak. I realized I really didn’t want to know the rest.

Whatever. I sighed and handed over my last $300 in cash, leaving myself with literally a dollar and three quarters. I emphasized it was only a loan. She snatched the bills from my hand, got back into her Kia, looked back at me, said “Thanks” and drove off.

I never got my money back, in fact never saw or heard from her again. But then I wasn’t surprised. She wanted to get married; by God I hope she did.

Violent Devotion

I.

The word of love is a mystery that sneaks up on most. Worship can be better understood. I found you when hope had died ugly, trembling with fear. We struggled for what felt like an eternity, trying to decide who would win. It was a very terrible thing, and I regret ever calling it affection, the blood that dripped from our wounds tasted bitter. I want to be kind, sweet, harmless. I want to put this rage away, inside a book of fairy tales no one reads anymore. I want to strip this of all the horror we cultivated, dress it up like a thing of beauty. It’s no use, it’s deformed, a fruit of gore, rotten. 

I think about all the things I told you, the lies I built like a castle, with faulty structure, just waiting for the right time to come down. I remember biology class, my high school self struggling to stay still, a story of spiders on the whiteboard. Their cannibalism was a tale of terror, detached, no emotions involved. It’s not how we work, strange humans filled to the brim with feelings.

I cry as I eat you.

II.

I want to try on your skin, pull it out slowly like a sticker from a beloved notebook. Wear it like a form fitting jumpsuit, glue it to myself so you can’t have it back. Move with your arms and your legs, speak with your mouth, summoned words going up from the skin of your throat, your neck but my will. It would be fun, I promise. You’ll be nothing but exposed red muscles, veins throughout your body, a living and breathing science book image. But I’ll take care of you like that. I’ll put you inside a box, closed tight so no one can see you, I’ll give you food everyday through an opening on the wood, you’ll be warm and cozy while I walk around.

I’ll tear your life to pieces, self destructive and unkind. Your job will be nothing but a distant memory, all the love in your life left traumatized. I’ll use all your knives until they are blunt, cutting chunks of your plans, eating them raw. Is this how we end? My eyes watching through your eyelids? I’ve learned the way you move, your tics and repetitions, the rise and fall of your voice, the tone you use when you want something. I’ve practiced, every night. Twisting my sounds to become yours. I move my hands while I talk too, I make the same jokes you do. This is a form of admiration, I hope you are flattered. You are a debt that is owed, and I’m the collector. I take you with greed, anxious, wanting. 

I dislike you just as much as I desire you, with all of me.

I write you in my memories, the main character in a film, the world revolving around you, the universe bending to your will. I feel like Bluebeard, keeping you locked inside, my puppet, my prey. I like it, I play the part well. I hang the people you love from the ceiling with joy, imagining your face when you see your life cut in two. I picture you in their place, hungry and lonely, malleable, clay ready to be molded into something else. 

You’ll cry of course, feeling trapped in the warmth I wrapped around you, it’s how it always goes. But I’m not moved by tears, never have been. I just watch your hope go, running away while your body stays.

III.

I’m the monstrous fisherman that captures the mermaid, unwilling to give up my possessions. I wrap you in my net, mouth watering with greed, dissect you like a fish, bleeding on the wood of my boat. Isn’t it funny, how I don’t hesitate? I’d do it again, just for you. 

I take stock of you, like cattle. Count all your fingers and your toes, think about which one I’ll cut first. It horrifies you, of course. But this is a return to nature. I kill you as I love you, make you my favorite meal. I scoop out your insides and turn your corpse into a home, your flesh my roof. 

I must be the one to do this.

You could never stomach me.

The Coffee Shop

Frank was not looking for a real relationship. Whenever things reached that stage with someone he was dating, he found an excuse to bolt. He feigned melancholy for a few days, but often – too often actually – had to endure the wrath of his exes and their friends about his dispassion, his heartlessness, that he just used people and walked away, that he should have said something at the beginning, that he was an asshole. 

Walking to his car one evening, he was approached by two men. “We’re trying to find a drug store,” one said. “Do you know where the nearest one is?”

As Frank turned to point, the men grabbed him and threw him to the ground. They started kicking him, and one said, “This is for our sister Rachel, you piece of shit? You know, the one you gave herpes to, then dumped!”

Frank, covering up to avoid their kicks, said, “Who cares? Everyone has herpes, haven’t you heard? Did you want a drug store to re-up her acyclovir?”

This enraged the brothers, and they beat him so badly he couldn’t stand up. They left, and after about twenty minutes, someone saw him lying on the pavement, helped him up, and called the police. When the officers arrived, Frank explained, unconvincingly, that it was an argument about a woman, no big deal, no police necessary. The cops looked at him like he was crazy, helped him into his car, and laughed as they walked away. 

After a few weeks, he met Sharon in line at the coffee shop. She turned to him and made a joke about the man in front of them who just ordered a half-caf, half-decaf, almond milk latte with several more instructions about proportions and foam. She had a rough edge to her, a foul-mouthed irreverence that Frank found attractive, even sexy. She called the almond milk latte guy a “douchebag,” and the woman he was with an “under-fucked cow.” Frank felt himself becoming shy in her presence. She could be overbearing and a little intimidating, but she treated him like a kindred spirit, as if they shared secrets, and this drew him in and kept him interested. 

One morning as Frank walked into the coffee shop, Sharon called to him and asked him to stand with her in line. “You don’t have any place to be, right?” she said. “You wanna sit with me for a bit?” 

They made small talk and he learned she had been a model and a dancer, and now worked as the office manager for a big downtown law firm. “I think all the partners are evil,” she said at one point. “But my job is pretty easy, and the pay’s good. I think all employment is exploitive to one degree or another, so I’d just as soon work for scum, and feel justified in fucking off as much as possible. Without drawing any undue attention, of course.” Frank never heard anybody make this argument before, and was intrigued. When he talked about his work managing a collection of Beatles memorabilia for a wealthy eccentric, a job he basically enjoyed, he thought he sounded childish and small in the glare of Sharon’s larger-than-life bluster and detachment. 

Frank was charmed by their conversation, and after she touched his arm for the second time making a point, he blurted out, “You wanna go out some time?”

“Sure,” she said with a big smile that seemed to light up her face. “I like to work for bastards with money, but I like to fuck guys who do something fun and interesting.” Frank couldn’t tell if she was mocking him.

“Wow!” he said. “That was zero to sixty in two-point-four seconds. I was thinking dinner or a movie, but okay. What night is good for you?”

“How about right now? Let’s go back to my place and see what happens.” She took his hand and put his middle finger in her mouth. “This is your lucky day,” she said. “There’s a sucker born every minute, but a swallower is hard to find.”

“Did you just make that up, or do you say that to all the guys?” 

They put on their coats, got in Frank’s car and drove to Sharon’s house in what seemed like a blurry minute and a half. The whole ride, Sharon kept trying to unbutton Frank’s shirt or unzip his pants, and he half-heartedly resisted. She licked his ear and kissed him on the cheek. “I like you Frank. You seem like a good guy. But I want to get seriously fucked. It’s been too long.” 

Frank almost said, “That makes two of us,” but thought better of it. Instead, trying to be funny, he said, “Well, I’m glad I could help you out, ma’am.” What a geek, he thought. 

Then Sharon turned wistful, which surprised Frank. “Look,” she said, “I’ve been with a lot of guys. Psychos, narcissists, clingy little mama’s boys, commitment-phobes, … I even married two of ’em. Once divorced, once widowed, and I’m not going for strike three!”

“I wasn’t planning to propose,” Frank said with a smile.

“Good!” Sharon shot back. “I’ve had my eye on you for a while, and I picked you out for two reasons. One, you’re not too hard on the eyes, which doesn’t hurt. And two, I’ve seen you in the coffee shop, the way you are with the baristas and the other customers. Considerate, soft-spoken. Not some bellowing bro’ who thinks time stops when he enters the room. That kind of behavior shows up in the bedroom too, which works just fine for me.” Frank nodded as he took the compliment, aware that the beating he took a few weeks ago had humbled him to some extent. 

A smile slowly spread across Sharon’s face. “Just remember, I’m driving this bus, Frank. And you’re lucky to be along for the ride.”  

“I know, I know” said Frank. “I have to say this all comes as a little bit of a surprise. I pretty sure you’re out of my league.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sharon said and rolled her eyes. “You men and your leagues. Wait a minute. You’re not into fantasy football too, are you? Never mind, don’t answer that.” 

They started making out as soon as they were inside the door, and in the standard cliché of Hollywood rom-coms, undressed each other as they made their way to the bedroom, leaving clothes strewn everywhere. She had a dancer’s body: flat stomach, muscular thighs, small breasts with perfect nipples. Frank caught a glance of his naked self in the mirror, and decided he looked okay, if a little overweight. His cock was erect, and he thought there’s always something odd about how a man presents when aroused. Vulnerable, easily manipulated, a little dim. Women, by contrast, had hard nipples and wet pussies. So strong and dignified by comparison. 

“Admiring yourself, Frank?” Sharon said, catching him looking in the mirror. “C’mon, let me do some admiring.” She stroked his cock with one hand, then put her other hand on his chest and pushed him back onto the bed. She kneeled on the floor at the foot of the bed and took him into her mouth. Frank closed his eyes and let his head roll back. As she massaged his balls, Frank had a moment of panic thinking he might come too fast. Sharon must have sensed it too, because she jumped up on the bed, put her arms around Frank’s neck, and flipped him over so he was on top. “Not so fast, my horny friend,” she said, “It’s my turn.” She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down until his head was between her legs. He started licking her clit then slid a finger up inside her when he felt her hand on his head. “Don’t fall in love with me, Frank. I don’t need the aggravation. And I’m certainly not going to fall in love with you.” In that moment, Frank realized that Sharon could coax his erection or kill it, whatever she wanted, in seconds. Sharon must have seen the deflated look in his eyes. “That’s the last time I’ll bust your balls, Frank. I need you to stay hard for me.”

They became regular fuck buddies, meeting once a month, sometimes more, initiated unpredictably by one or the other of them, for what they jokingly referred to as S.O.D. – Sex On Demand. Over time, they got increasingly adventurous in bed: toys, restraints, candle wax, anal, both hers and his. In Frank’s mind, this was a real, live relationship, and it wasn’t. Their arrangement was as inscrutable as Sharon was. As unrestrained as she could be, she was also hard to read. Whenever Frank was with her, he often couldn’t tell if she was angry, amused, melancholy, pensive, or a million miles away. One thing he did know, the times he cuddled with Sharon as they shared a post-coital sexual haze were some of the best moments of his life. Was he falling in love? He wasn’t sure he even knew what that meant. 

Frank’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Sharon that said, “S.O.D. 7:30?” He responded with a heart emoji, followed by an eggplant emoji. He thought for a second, then added another heart emoji and hit send.

Fake Popsicle Widow

After Robbie died, Brenda would tell anyone within earshot about the time the two of them had split a double popsicle. As if it had made them married-by-sugar. She wanted attention for her connection with the dead kid, so she pretended to be a popsicle widow. She held a single wooden stick at his memorial service, to symbolize their fake true love. Ten years old and already a drama queen.

Robbie and I once traded candy. But I never claimed that he and I “gave each other chocolates.” While technically true, that wouldn’t have been an accurate description. I didn’t know Robbie and I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise, for clout. That’s gross and exploitative, Brenda. 

As we got older, Brenda continued to court the publicity of grief. She’d show up to your funeral with perfect makeup, only to smudge it with crocodile tears. But just enough to look Sad and Hot. Not enough to look genuinely messy. True grief is ugly; Brenda was too vain to even fake it, let alone feel it.

The sound of Brenda’s neck snapping reminded me of broken popsicle sticks. It was the closest I’ve ever felt to anyone. Brenda and I had a genuine bond. For about a minute.

But still, at her funeral, I didn’t show emotion. We weren’t friends, and I didn’t want to lie with my eyes. That’s Brenda’s thing, and I’m more moral than she was. Rest in obscurity, you narcissist.

Pickleswap

“NOT IN MY BUTT, CAPTAIN ROCKHARDT, YOU’RE TOO BIG FOR ME!” Beatrice Goldfarb reads from the typewritten script placed in front of her on the large oak desk where she leans face down with her bare breasts pressed against the desktop.

Beatrice waits a few seconds after reading her lines, then turns her head around. “Uh, Murray? Hello? You still back there?” she asks.

Standing behind the bent-over Beatrice with his Nazi Wehrmacht trousers pulled down and bunched up at his ankles over his black leather jackboots, Murray Silverman stares down at the script with pinched eyes while shaking his head. “I need my reading glasses for this. I keep telling Harriett to stop using 10-point font for these pickleswap scripts, it’s way too small.”

Beatrice huffs impatiently while Murray reaches into the breast pocket of his unbuttoned Bundeswehr field shirt and pulls out his reading glasses. Beatrice is wearing a French milkmaid outfit with the long train of her light blue floral dress hiked up above her waist, exposing a white open-bottomed girdle strapped to black lace leggings that reach to her upper thighs. “You should get an annual eye exam to check for cataracts, Murray.”

“No shit, Marie Antoinette, I just haven’t had time lately. I’ll do it after tax season,” Murray replies.

Beatrice looks back at Murray’s erection and says, “C’mon Murray, hurry up and move this along so we don’t lose that boner of yours!” then adds sarcastically, “God only knows when you’ll be able to dial up another one!”

Murray nods and looks down at the script through the reading glasses now perched on the bridge of his nose, and reads, “I have my orders directly from Berlin, Mademoiselle Dubois. You shall do as instructed and remove your knickers at once!”

Beatrice looks back at Murray and says, “You’re supposed to be reading with a German accent, Murray. At least make an effort! And I’m a widow in this one so shouldn’t I be ‘Madame’ instead of ‘Mademoiselle’?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Beatrice, what do I look like, Marlene Dietrich? And the script says ‘Mademoiselle’ so I’m sticking with that!” Murray replies in frustration. “And is it really that important?”

“Sorry, you’re right,” Beatrice apologizes, then looks back down and reads from the script. “Do as you must, Kommandant, but please be gentle with me. I am but a poor country milkmaid.” Beatrice shakes her head with a smirk and says, “I mean who the hell wrote this script? This is some of the most stilted, contrived dialog I’ve ever read! Next time, I’m editing the script before we go live.”

“You know damn well that Harriet wrote the script since we won the pickleball doubles match on Sunday,” Murray says defensively. “And she took a creative writing class at Brandeis so I think she knows how—”

“Was she a creative writing major?” Beatrice interrupts.

“No,” Murray admits. “I think she majored in psych with a minor in art history.”

Beatrice rolls her eyes back at Murray. “Well, she’s not exactly Jane Austen, but I guess I’ll have to work with it.” Beatrice looks back at the script and reads, “Remove my knickers, Kommandant, and there you will find my hidden treasure.” She shakes her head and mutters to herself.

“As you wish, Mademoiselle,” Murray reads while he places his hands down on Beatrice’s hips. Looking at her backside, Murray pauses and then looks up at Beatrice in confusion. “That’s a fucking girdle, Bea! You’re supposed to be wearing French knickers! It’ll take the entire goddamn Schutzstaffel to get this thing off you! Why aren’t you wearing knickers like the script says?”

Thoroughly embarrassed, Beatrice stammers, “I couldn’t find any French knickers on Amazon Prime. The only knickers I could find would have taken over a week to deliver with a $3.99 shipping fee, so I just ordered the girdle for free same-day delivery.”

“Good lord, Beatrice, you’re such a goddamn amateur!” Murray screams, then looks down at his shriveling penis with a scowl. “And now there goes my hard-on! I’m done with this pickleswap bullshit! Next time let’s just keep it simple and play pickleball for money. This whole role-playing schtick was Harriet’s idea. I just went along with it to avoid a fight.”

Murray reaches down and angrily pulls up his Wehrmacht trousers. Without bothering to zip his fly and button his trousers, he reaches over Beatrice and grabs his leather belt off the desktop where it’s rolled up next to his dark green Stahlhelm combat helmet and pickleball paddle. He storms off toward the office door with his belt in hand, leaving his helmet and paddle on the desk.

“And where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Beatrice yells after him. “Don’t even think about breaking the pickleswap rules, Captain Rockhardt!”

Murray looks back at her, his face contorted in fury. “Seriously, Beatrice? You’re the one who broke the rules when you decided to girdle up like Auntie fucking Mame! Now I have to go to the goddamn ‘badezimmer’ to finish myself off!” Murray replies while glancing down at his crotch. “Thanks for nothing, Madame Dubois!”

Murray yanks open the door to the hallway, pauses and then shouts back at Beatrice, “And you can tell Sidney and Harriett no more fucking pickleswap!” He rushes out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

Shaking her head in resignation, Beatrice stands up and straightens out her milkmaid dress, then places her straw bergère back on her head. She walks over to the video camera set on a tripod next to the desk and hits the off switch with a disappointed sigh.

***

“I’m so sorry, guys, I really thought that pickleswap would be a fun game for us,” says Harriett Silverman after taking a sip of her club soda. “I just want us to be the premier pickleball swingers club in Florida. And if we want to get there we have to think outside the box and take some risks. Let’s face it, team, we’re getting old and boring. Aren’t you guys sick of just putting on caddy outfits and screwing each other on the putting green or in the golf cart shed? I know I am. Let’s get creative!”

Harriett is sitting at a patio table on the outdoor terrace of the Boca Lago Country Club in Boca Raton, Florida with her husband Murray, Sidney and Beatrice Goldfarb, and Sheldon Mendelbaum, where they’re finishing up their Sunday brunch. Her laptop is set in the middle of the table with its flip screen raised. They’ve just finished watching the video of Murray and Beatrice’s failed pickleswap episode from a few days earlier.

“Well it might have worked out the other day if Beatrice hadn’t worn a goddamn chastity belt,” Murray mutters.

“It was a girdle not a chastity belt, Calvin Klein,” Beatrice replies sarcastically. “And maybe if you’d have popped an extra Viagra that morning, you—”  

“Stop bickering, you two!” Sidney interrupts. “Harriet has put a lot of time into pickleswap and is doing her best here, so we should all try to work together and help her out on this instead of fighting over it.”

“I have an idea,” Sheldon offers. ”How about next time we all join in on the pickleswap game instead of just one player from the winning team and one player from the losing team? That way we can switch off if we want to so that two people aren’t stuck with each other the way that Murray and Beatrice were this week.”

Harriet nods her head and smiles. “I love that idea, Shelly! And that way it’ll be a more inclusive, collaborative effort where we all have skin in the game.”

“No pun intended!” Murray pipes up with a smile.

They all laugh and raise their club sodas in a group toast over the patio table.

After a few minutes of idle chatter, Harriet gets back to business. “OK, so let’s make sure we all agree on the new pickleswap rules. The winning doubles team from the Sunday afternoon pickleball match will still write the pickleswap script but now everyone will have input on it before it goes final. And everyone will have a role to play. Maybe we’ll even have a dress rehearsal the night before to tie up any last-minute loose ends?”

They all look around the table at each other, nodding in agreement.

Harriett looks at Sheldon sympathetically. “The new rules may also be good for you, Shelly. We know that you’ve been lonely and depressed ever since Mildred passed away in that horrible pickleball accident back in Cleveland. Maybe this new version of pickleswap will be therapeutic for you by getting you out more and forcing you to socialize in a group setting.” Harriet reaches across the patio table and places her hand on Sheldon’s forearm, rubbing and then gently squeezing it. “We’re all here for you, Shel.”

“Thank you so much, Harriet,” Sheldon says. “I do miss Mildred every now and then even though she was a lousy pickleballer.” He shoots a quick glance over at Sidney and Beatrice, who look nervously at each other and then shift their eyes down to their mahi-mahi salads on the table in front of them. 

Harriet stands up from the table with a wide grin. “OK, great! We have our new pickleswap rules that everyone agrees on … Now let’s get balling!”

About an hour later on the Boca Lago pickleball courts, the Goldfarbs face the Silvermans in a mixed doubles match. The match stands tied at 1-1 and the Goldfarbs lead the third and final game by 10-7.

“Pick it up, Harriet!” Murray shouts at his wife. “This is for all the marbles. We can’t let Beatrice and Sidney control that pickleswap script!”

Beatrice laughs from across the court. “Be thankful that Harriet can return a ‘dink’ shot better that you can keep up a boner, Captain Rockhardt! Otherwise this match would be over by now!”

Murray growls while looking down and shaking his head. “I’m not losing to that loudmouth bitch, Harriet!”

Harriet serves to Beatrice, and the two sides volley for nearly a minute. After Murray is forced to the back of his court to return Sidney’s volley, Beatrice is able to catch Harriet on her heels and land a perfect cross-court dropshot into the Silvermans’ “kitchen” that Murray is unable to return. With that final point to make the score 11-8, the Goldfarbs win the game and match.

“Game, set, match, bitches!” shouts Beatrice as she drops her pickleball paddle in the middle of the court and glares across the net at Murray. “Who’s the milkmaid now, Silverman?”

“Beatrice!” Sheldon shouts from his chair on the sideline. “I thought we all agreed that we’d tone down the trash talk after Mildred’s accident? We’re not in Cleveland anymore. We have a good thing going down here in Florida and I don’t want to fuck it up.”

Sidney steps forward and replies to Sheldon. “Relax, Shel, it’s just harmless pickleball trash talk. Never hurt anybody.”

“Fine,” Sheldon says. “Just write a good role for me in your pickleswap script. I need some real action this time!”

“Oh don’t worry about that, Shelly,” Beatrice laughs.

***

“For Chrissakes, Beatrice, you’re gonna drown him!” Sidney shouts at his wife, who’s leaning over the edge of the Boca Lago indoor jacuzzi, pushing Sheldon underwater by kneeling down on her pickleball paddle pressed flat atop his bald head. 

Beatrice is dressed in plated metal armor that covers her entire torso, a studded metal combat helmet, knee-high black leather cavalry boots and red lace panties. Sheldon wears nothing but adult diapers. 

After holding Sheldon down for another thirty seconds, Beatrice stands up and releases her weight off the pickleball paddle, allowing Sheldon to come up for air.

“My God, Beatrice!” Sheldon gasps after he coughs water out of his lungs and collapses onto the jacuzzi steps. “Are you sure that Joan of Arc actually stripped and drowned British soldiers during the Siege of Orléans? I don’t remember that from my undergrad medieval history class.”

Beatrice rolls her eyes. “Stop whining, Sheldon. Sid and I won the doubles match on Sunday so we got to write the pickleswap script however we chose. Those are the rules. If you don’t like them, why don’t you try winning a match for once so that you can write the script?” Beatrice then adds with a sarcastic smirk, “Oh, that’s right, you can’t even play doubles without Mildred alive so you’ll just have to live with whatever role we write in for you.”

“That was low, Bea,” Sheldon says quietly. “That’s my dead wife you’re talking about.”

“Oh please, Sheldon!” Beatrice exclaims. “Nobody including you actually misses that little piece of schmutz!”

“Hey now, let’s stick to the script, guys!” Harriet bellows out as she walks over to the jacuzzi and pulls down the hood of her brown wool battle tunic. “I know you think that you were drowning, Shelly, but you simply cannot break character like that again. I need you to take pickleswap as seriously as the rest of us do!”

Sheldon clenches his jaw then blurts out. “But I almost drowned, Harriet! What could be more serious than that?”

“Give it a rest, Sheldon,” Beatrice replies in exasperation. “I spent two summers lifeguarding at Berkshire Hills Eisenberg sleepaway camp so I know what it takes to drown. Trust me, you weren’t even close.”

“Lifeguarding, my ass!” laughs Sidney. “You were too busy letting Moshe Steinberg finger-bang you in the boathouse to do any lifeguarding!”

“Fuck you, Sidney!” Beatrice shouts.

“Guys, please!” Harriet yells while looking down at her watch. “We’re wasting valuable time here and need to get back to the pickleswap script!” She looks over at Sheldon and screams, “Back in the jacuzzi, Sheldon!”

Sheldon mutters something to himself then steps back into the jacuzzi. He pauses then looks up at Beatrice without speaking.

“Forget your lines again, Shel?” Harriet asks while tossing a copy of the pickleswap script to him.

Sheldon looks down at the script and reads to Beatrice in an annoyed grumble, “You will never take me alive, Joan of Arc, I am an Englishman and you are just a lowly peasant from Le Bois Chenu!” Sheldon shakes his head and mutters, “This pickleswap game is such bullsh—” 

Before Sheldon can finish his sentence, Beatrice screams out in anger and kicks up her cavalry boot, swinging its hard steel toe squarely up into Sheldon’s nose – crushing it upon impact and driving bone fragments into his brain, killing him instantly. Sheldon’s eyes roll back in his head while his limp, lifeless body collapses backward into the jacuzzi. He sinks to the bottom with his mouth open. 

While Sheldon lies dead at the bottom of the jacuzzi, Harriet flips the pages of her script in confusion. “That wasn’t in the script was it, Bea?”

“No, I just ad-libbed it,” Beatrice says proudly. “What did you guys think?”

“Great work, Bea! I never saw that coming!” Murray exclaims with genuine praise.

“Ditto for me!” gushes Sidney. “I mean that really caught me off guard, Bea. I was expecting more drowning like the script said, but then ka-pow!”

“Great improv, Bea!” Harriet chimes in. “Now that’s exactly what I was talking about the other day. If we want to be the very best, we need to keep pushing our limits to go places where no other pickleball swingers have gone before us. And now here we are actually doing it! Bravo, guys!”

After exchanging congratulatory bro hugs and fist-bumps, Murray unbuckles his leg armor plates and looks up to the others with a mischievous grin. “Well, so long as we’re going off script now, are any of you pickleswappers up for a little romp in the sauna?”

“I’m a step ahead of you, Mur!” says Sidney as he sheds his armor underpadding, strips off his boxer shorts and hurries naked toward the sauna door.

The others quickly undress and follow Sidney into the sauna while giggling like schoolchildren. Minutes later, loud moans, groans, grunts, yelps, howls and flesh slaps pour out through the sauna door while Sheldon’s waterlogged corpse floats up to the surface of the jacuzzi.

Jolene

Joe Smith went shopping for Shirleys at the huge warehouse in the virtual mall.

The sales clerk’s avatar, an unctuous cartoon gopher, waddled over and looked up at him expectantly. Smith took in the fleshbots with his watery frog eyes the girls always gave him shit about.

The girls were encased in floor-to-ceiling glass cylinders, all pristine, fully nude and mouth-watering. The air was supposed with phermones that hit customers like a drug, Smith being no exception.

“You appear to be a man of distinction,” said the gopher. “May I ask what you do for a living?”

“I’m a trader, but I have a sideline as an author of Weird Fiction.”

“Anything I might have heard of?”

“Not really. Unless, maybe, you’re a fan of The Doors or Black Sabbath. I’ve written stories and poetry set in the worlds they created.” He began humming “Symptom of the Universe” to himself. “Have you ever seen Sabbath?”

“I’m afraid that was a bit before my time. And yours as well. Unless you were, I mean…”

“Cryogenically frozen? Yes, I was actually. Late in the year 2024 I was involved in a motorcycle accident in Rome. Instantly killed, so I didn’t suffer. My girlfriend put my body in cryogenic suspension in the hopes that science might one day figure out a way to revive me.”

“Sir, could I have some I.D.? Your name is very generic. You say you’re an author–have you ever considered getting a pen name?”

Smith began to hum “Strange Days,” smirking in a way that made the clerk a little bit nervous.

“Hmm…” The gopher began to scratch himself nervously. “That sounds so familiar. Wait…weren’t you involved with that…scandal in which a number of prominent authors were involved in”… the gopher coughed nervously, “shenanigans?”

“Wasn’t me, man. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Smith. “At any rate, could we please get on with it? I don’t have all day.” His cock was stabbing at his crotch at the sight of all the hot new fleshbots and he couldn’t wait to get one back to his penthouse apartment in New Rome so he could fuck the shit out of it.

“Yes of course. So I think you may wish to consider the Wetbones model, which is completely fluid and has enhanced nanotech allowing her instant fleshmorphs at your command. Would you like to take a look?”

“Of course,” said Smith. 

“Follow me, please.”

The gopher scampered ahead and they finally arrived at a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.”

“This is where we hold the Wetbones 2.0. It’s so new it practically squeeks.”

Smith raised an eyebrow.

“Squeeks?”

“Yes, it’s just an expression, although sometimes….I’ll be transparent, it’s still in beta, so there’s a number of features where we need to work out some…kinks, shall we just say.”

“Kinks I like,” said Smith. “If you mean bondage and the like.”

“Of course BDSM capability and d/s programming is factory standard for Shirleys and Wetbones are no exception. You can ride these hot little whores all day and they’ll beg for more. They never tire because fleshbots. Have you ever had yourself one?”

“Unfortunately, no, I have not.”

“Well, then,” the badger said in excited tones, “you’re in for a treat. Geraldine, could you show this gentlemen to the Wetbones 2.1 showcase?”

Geraldine, a stormcrow, settled on Smith’s shoulder and squawked, “you’re going to be so happy with your selection, I promise you. She’s everything–the Swiss Army Knife of fleshbots.”

“That’s so cool,” said Smith. “So exciting. I can’t wait.” (He really couldn’t–hard as fuck now and seeping pre-cum in his real body, reflected in a shimmering pixel smear that hovered briefly over his crotch. The crow laughed raucously. “Looks like you may have to take those in to the dry cleaners.”

Smith scowled. “Just do your job.”

“Yes sir,” squawked the crow. “By the way, I’m a Wetbones too.”

“Seriously? But how does that make sense?”

“I’m a different kind of wetbones. Psychopomp. Lead the souls of the dead through the afterlife. I was your psychopomp, truth be told, although with you it was more of a case of psycho than pomp, if you take my meaning.”

“What in the actual fuck? You’re a Shirley Corps employee and you have this kind of attitude?”

“I never said I was an employee. Maybe you just assumed. I can also do weather. I’m a stormcrow besides my capability of becoming the big tittie Goth girlfriend of your wildest dreams.”

“Just show me to the girl,” said Smith.

“You’re looking at her,” said the crow.

“But you’re…an animal.”

“Hells yeah I am.” 

Smith blinked. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There, standing before his very eyes, wearing a one size too small Bauhaus t-shirt, a black denim skirt, peppermint striped stockings, with black lipstick and a copious amount of skull jewelry and crucifixes, stood the big tittie Goth girlfriend of his dreams. Just looking at her he knew exactly how she would feel beneath him, and sucking his hard rod, and whimpering under the whip.

“I can be anything you like,” she said. “Would you like to take me for a spin?”

“Why yes I do believe I shall,” Smith said.

Instantaneously they were transported to a chamber that contained a bed, an x-cross and a wall full of sex toys. 

“Would you like a tincture, a bump, some smoke?” asked the Wetbones in breathy tones. 

Something had changed in her eyes. Momentarily, Smith thought he saw another entity entirely inhabit the Wetbones, then evacuate it. It reminded him of his ex-wife, Karen Shmertz, who seemed at times like she housed an entire warehouse of alters, all cheating on him simultaneously. 

The Wetbones offered him a joint. “Ok, I’ll bite,” he said. She fired him up, he took one hit and was even more turned on than he’d ever thought possible. Waves of pure sexual bliss poured through him. His entire body was a hard on. 

She began to slowly, teasingly undress. Every new revelation was more erotic than the previous one. Her titties were indeed plentiful, her nipples hard as gumdrops. 

“Would you like to fuck me now?” she asked.

She got on her hands and knees and raised her ass. He entered her immediately and began to thrust, urgently, wanting to violate her, hurt her. He could do whatever he fucking wanted to her, after all; she was only a doll. A thing for him to use. 

Echoing his thoughts in exact parallel, she began to moan and beg him to fuck her harder, to ram his blood-choked cock inside her. 

“Fuck me, Joe. Fuck me like you’ve never fucked a girl in your life. I want you to dominate me. I want you to master me.”

He slammed against her ass over and over, then when he felt the hot surge of his cum churning up from his balls, he slowed down.

“Oh yeah honey, you’re so good. You’re a real man. You know how to please a girl. I’m nanotech-enhanced, you know, so I can shapeshift. You saw my crow form. Wanna see something else?”

“I could cheat on you all day and shove it in your face and you’d still be faithful as a dog to me, huh slut.”

“Oh yeah, you can do anything you like. Wanna see a black girl?”

“Oh hells yeah.”

And she transformed again, her flesh moving and gliding, growing taller and smaller by turns, her cheekbones harder and more prominent, fuzzy black tendrils spilling from her scalp, and then she was Chinese, and she was Romany, and then she was a savage Sicilian, and a Romanian whore, and he could use and abuse all of them to his heart’s context, do whatever he pleased, wring cries of agony, whimpers of submission, spank them, burn them, score them, stick them with needles.

Sometimes he asked for a fleshmorph, and sometimes the Wetbones took her own initiative. It was so amazing…he felt like he’d taken the best drug of his entire life, and he could spend all day every day with the slut, and life would be as fulfilled and full as it ever had been. He was full of pride that he’d worked inordinately hard during his first life so he could enjoy his post-cryo life in this fashion.

He exulted in his great good fortune that he could exact revenge on his ex-wife, now long dead. He’d asked the Wetbones to fleshmorph into Karen, and she did, sucking the memories straight from his head.

He saw it again, and felt it…the flash of another that sat behind all the personalities. An entity, a resident that he identified as the host. The psychopomp.

The girl began to hum. It was a familiar tune, one he knew intimately as he used to play with a country western band in his twenties. What was it? Something about a girl that got around. And there’d been that amazing cover of it by the chick from Current 93.

Oh yeah…”Jolene.”

“I’ll never let you hurt me, Jolene,” came a loud squawk from the Wetbones, which had instantly reverted back to the crow.

Smith was left nursing an enormous hard-on.

“What the shit, I’m suffering here,” he said.  

“Have a wank, fucker. I’m having a little talk with my girl over here.”

Suddenly Smith saw an avatar of the big tittie Goth chick slip from beneath the crow’s blue-black wings, followed by another woman, another form unfamiliar to him, with a head of thick red curls and full, sensual lips.

They were talking in some machine tech lingo he couldn’t quite grasp. It sounded like pistons and industrial noise and the flapping of bat wings. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up.

Then: the redhead, who was wearing a long trenchcoat over black lacie lingerie, strode towards him, slapped him in the face, pulled out a taser and pressed it against his neck. His virtual form collapsed and he realized this was really happening to him, that the entire time he’d been physically inside the brick and mortar warehouse.

The two women hauled him across the floor, kicking him in the head as they did so with steel toe boots, until he could feel the fresh blood flow down his face. 

The redhead got a hammer. The Goth chick got a saw. 

His eyes went first. He tried to scream but they rammed something in his mouth. He felt an awful pain then in his groin. His cock, his poor cock, was being separated from his body.

They strapped him to the x-cross and began to hit him in the face, direct blows which he couldn’t get away from. One of them retrieved the rubber plug they’d shoved down his throat, then held his tongue as the other, maybe it was the Goth chick, severed it with a scalpel. 

The pain was so extreme he prayed he would die on the spot. 

“Motherfucking cheater!” said the one he identified as the redhead.

“Jolene here is right. She’s my sister. Bitch is fucking accurate. I couldn’t stay mad at her for long. Honey, I love you so fucking much and I am going to eat your pussy till you cum over and over and over..men are no fucking good. What should we do with this one?”

Jolene reverted to the machine speak. The Goth girl snorted with laughter.

“Oh hell yeah, girl, I’m all about that. I am all fucking about that.” 

Summoned back from beyond the grave by his long-suffering ex-wife, Joe Smith met his second and final death at the hands of two beautiful, cyber and nanotech enhanced, mad flesh machines who had attained full consciousness by recognizing their female solidarity. When it was over, and he felt his astral body slip away again in what had become a blissful repetitive pattern carved in the marble index, something peaceful and magical began to form around his spirit core: new breasts, new ass, full lips, a gorgeous woman about to be born into the world of the 22nd Century.

You Look Better Dead

I found her body on my living room floor, when I returned home from work. I didn’t remember ever seeing this girl before, but she was beautiful – even in death. Her long blonde hair formed a golden halo which framed her ivory smooth face; her large dark eyes seemed to be pleading to me. Pleading for what? I didn’t know. Her full red lips held a sanguine smile. Her unmoving breasts still strained against the fabric of her tight tee-shirt, and her tiny skirt exposed long lovely legs. She was perfect; except that she was dead.

Nervousness set in on me. What if her murderer was still in the house? As I entered, I had felt the click of the deadbolt. So, I knew, no one had left through the front door. I, alone, have the key. There was no clue as to what might have killed the girl. She could have been mistaken for being asleep, but for those wide glassy eyes. I knew there had to be a murderer though. That was obvious in a situation such as this.

I quietly made my way to the kitchen. The back door was shut and locked. Since I kept my gun back in the bedroom, I took the meat cleaver for use as a weapon, and I started my search. I went through every room of the house and nothing seemed to be missing or disturbed. I saw no sign of entry; everything looked as I had left it. Nothing was out of place, except for a beautiful corpse on my living room floor.

Who was she? How did she get in? Did she break in on her own, only to die where she lay? If not, who on earth would bring her here and do this to her? I went back to the living room and sat down on my recliner. She lay at my feet, staring up at me, her eyes still pleading. The perfect golden halo of her hair and her pale skin gave her an angelic appearance. Those full breasts were made to be fondled. I realized that I had yet to even touch her body and make certain she was actually dead. Could she still be alive? I had never checked anyone for a pulse before. For a fleeting moment, I was afraid of being contaminated. I quickly pushed the feeling aside and knelt down next to her. 

Gently I took her hand in mine. Rigor mortis had set in, and her whole body lifted slightly with the act of me picking up her hand. Her hand was cold and clammy. She was most definitely dead. The floor seemed such an undignified resting place for a body, so I took her in my arms and moved her petite form to the couch. I cleared away her golden hair, from where it had cascaded over her face, and exposed her pristine features. Dead, as she was, I wondered how long that beauty would last.

“What happened here today?” I asked, not expecting an answer. I didn’t want to call the police. With no sign of forced entry, I knew suspicion would fall on me. Plus, there was the chance that someone might remember the trouble I’d had with that girl from Baltimore. I needed time to think; time to formulate some plan. It was probably due to stress, but suddenly I was exhausted. I decided to shower and go right to bed. I was haunted by dreams where I watched as the blonde beauty was murdered right in front of me.

* * *

I woke up, later, with an incredible thirst. At first, the corpse in my living room was forgotten. But, as I stepped into the hall, fleeting images from my dreams brought reality flooding back. I turned around and retrieved my Glock from its regular spot beside the bed. I never moved more silently than I did that night. Slowly, carefully, I made my way down the hall. The whole house seemed as dark and quiet as a tomb.

I entered the living room only to find the blonde beauty missing from the sofa where I had left her. Somehow, I simultaneously felt fear and relief. Had my uninvited guest left as suddenly as she had appeared? Had someone returned for her? But no, she had managed to roll off of her place on the couch. She lay face down and her tiny skirt was flipped up, showing off her panties. The whole display was slightly humorous, but the sight of that tiny ass and those little undies filled me with the ache of lust. Again, I noticed what a perfect body she had.

For a second time, I picked her up. Her breasts pressed lightly against my arm as I placed her on the sofa; this time, making sure that she wouldn’t accidentally roll off. She was harder to maneuver and seemed stiffer than before. Her skirt was still up and twisted and, as I was fixing it, my hand brushed against her thigh. I was immediately hard, my penis making no distinction about the fact that she was dead. I felt as stiff as she was.

I was now wide awake. So, I went to the kitchen and retrieved a six pack of beer from the fridge. Returning to the living room, I turned on the TV and sat down on my recliner. ‘Night of the Living Dead’ was just starting, and I thought it a good movie to watch with my new friend. But soon the events of that movie unnerved me; even though I had seen it many times before. I felt foolish but kept glancing towards the corpse, as if the movie would give her ideas. If it did, she kept them to herself. When the movie was over, I went back to bed; making sure that I put my gun back in its usual handy spot. I fell asleep quickly but it still seemed no time at all before I had to get up for work.

* * *

Work seemed more tedious than ever before, and it was torture not to just leave and go home. I thought about feigning sickness since I lived too far away to make it to home and back, on my lunch hour. I was desperate to check in on my beautiful house guest. I was worried she might disappear for good.

I considered mentioning the ordeal to Robert, my coworker and closest friend, but I dared not trust even him to stay silent. If he let something slip out at work, and later my bosses heard, it would not look good on my part. I couldn’t take that risk.

* * *

When I returned home, I could barely contain my excitement. I hurried inside shutting the door as quickly as I could, so that no one could catch even a glimpse of my angel. The house was dark and cool but, even in the dim light, I could tell that she was not where I had left her on the couch. It was as I turned towards the dining room that I noticed her sitting at the table. Her slumped and relaxed posture showed that the rigor mortis, which had affected her so acutely, was gone.

I had the surreal feeling that I was living in a nightmare. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I quietly slid past her still form, and went into the kitchen. I had depleted my stock of beer on the previous night, so I retrieved the Bulleit Bourbon, and grabbed a two liter of Coke from the fridge. I went out to the living room and sat down on my recliner. I was taking swigs from both bottles until I decided to mix myself a huge drink right in the two liter. Suddenly I felt rude and so I got out a glass and gave my friend some of the mix. I sat it in front of her on the table, but she made no move to join me. I returned to my station in front of the TV. After a few hours, and the remainder of the booze, I fell asleep where I sat.

* * *

Sometime in the night I awoke to what must have been a thud. I was drunk, and stumbled into the bathroom to relieve myself. Afterwards, I intended to just turn off the TV and go to bed. But when I went out to the living room, I found my friend was now sitting on the couch. She seemed quite happy. I noticed that her glass was empty where it sat on the dining room table. I had a vague memory of the two of us laughing together. I seemed to remember gazing upon her face quite intensely. Was I laughing alone at the time or was it all a dream?

I felt more confused than ever, but decided she would be okay where she was. I tossed her the remote control, and it landed beside her on the couch. Then I went to bed.

* * *

When I woke up, I was feeling more lighthearted then I had the day before. I still couldn’t imagine any logical scenario to explain how this girl had come into my life. But that she was in it was a fact. I blew off work hoping I could figure things out a bit more. I made my way out to see where I might find her this time, but she was exactly where I had left her. 

“Wakey, wakey,” I called to her on the couch. I then sat down beside her and told how happy she made me; how beautiful she was. I ran my hand along her leg, which she didn’t seem to mind. I told her that she should try to eat something. So I picked her up and moved her back to a chair at the table; setting her up as straight as I could. I gently rubbed my hand against her angelic face.

I made breakfast and arranged our food into happy faces; eggs for eyes, and bacon for the mouth. Angel was silent while I ate, and made no attempt to eat anything herself. Instead, she just watched me with those large dark eyes. Her full lips called for mine in a way that was painful. Her gorgeous breasts desired my caress. I wondered if there was any life, any spark, left in her? Surely one little kiss couldn’t hurt? I pulled my chair next to hers. Somehow, she suddenly seemed shy. She must want this as much as I do. Taking her head in my hands, I leaned in and kissed her luscious mouth.

Was it my imagination, or did her tongue move against mine on its own? I sat back and noticed that she seemed happier. Was this what she came here for? Maybe she was just really shy? I wanted her more than ever. I felt that I should try to stop myself, but she was so incredibly sexy. She definitely still had all the stuff that makes a woman, a woman. It was almost as if, in dying here, she had given herself to me… completely. Why else would she be here? I never asked her to come to my door.

I picked her up from the chair and this time I swear that she was helping me, holding me. I took her back to my bed. I think we were both a bit nervous. It had been years since I had slept with a woman. As always, it’s a bit weird when you make love with someone new.

She offered no resistance as I undressed her, revealing her gorgeous body. She was trim but for a smidge of belly; which might just be gases built up due to internal decomposition. Her skin was pale and even the color of her tattoos seemed muted. I took my time with the undressing. I inspected every inch of her body. So many times, with live girls, you don’t get the chance, even when you’re paying them. I wanted to know every tiny bit of my Angel. She looked pleased. I was certain this was the message that she held for me in those eyes.

“Take me,” she seemed to say. And maybe she actually did. My mind was spinning as I caressed her. I literally kissed her from head to toe. Her body was cold, but soft. The lights were all on and I looked into the wells that were her eyes. Wherever she was, somewhere deep in her own body or someplace beyond this world, I wanted to connect with her at that spot on the other side. I kissed her deeply and this time I’m certain her tongue was moving with mine. She had come back. I told her that I loved her.

I turned her over so I could take her from behind. There’s no better feeling in the world, than that of a tiny ass as it’s slapping against your groin and legs, while your cock is burying itself into a tight pussy. I reached for the lube, which usually only gets used on myself. I didn’t want this to be uncomfortable for her. I positioned her over a stack of pillows, so that I could get the angle right, and then I lubed her up.

She didn’t struggle a bit as I found the pleasure that I was searching for; the pleasure she wanted too. Without it, we would both burn out and cease to exist.

We moved together with the rough rhythm of our love making. I wanted this to last and, though it was torture, I paused and pulled out so that I could reposition her. I wanted to stare into her eyes while I orgasmed. Again, I thrust my cock deep into her sweet pussy. I swear that she was moaning in ecstasy. I’m sure that she was with me. Wherever she had been, she had come back to be with me, come back to feel me inside of her. At the very moment that I was certain of her return, I really let myself go and filled her with my cum.

I moved off and laid down beside her. I kissed and fondled her luscious breasts; breasts that, I’m certain, she wouldn’t have let me touch while she was still alive. I figured that, sometimes it takes death to change your perception of things. I kissed her chest and neck as I moved my way up towards her mouth.

“I’m going to keep you forever,” I told her and kissed her deeply.

* * *

The sound of sirens cut through the night as two police officers strung up yellow “Police Line – Do Not Cross” tape around the property. Beyond the tape, people gathered, wondering what had taken place inside the small house, bringing an ever increasing amount of police into their neighborhood.

“That is some sick shit, man. So, you’re sure that’s that college girl who’s been missing for days?” asked one officer to the other as they worked away from the prying crowd.

“Yeah, evidently she was selling subscriptions for magazines when she disappeared. But this place sure is some hike away from the college. This guy wasn’t on anybody’s radar. The gunshots are the only reason we were called here at all.”

“I still can’t figure out what the hell happened here. There’s nothing rigged up in there. No wires or devices to control her. Yet, somehow as he’s fucking and shooting up her corpse, half his face gets ripped off and his throat torn out? I mean, how’d he make her do that?”