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?”

What A Diff’rence A Year Makes

Apologies to the late Dinah Washington

I suspected that Judy was about to dump me, but I didn’t really care.  Inadequate and unexciting sex, differences on politics and religion.  I didn’t care about her clothes, which was her main interest, and she took no interest in writing, which I did as a hobby.  When my older sister Alex suggested she had an upgrade for me, I said fine, despite my sister’s odd interests.  Alex spent hours studying witchcraft and the paranormal, so I wondered who she would fix me up with.

I wanted to be upfront, so I told Judy I was going to date this friend of my sister, Lilith.  Maybe I shouldn’t have been so honest; Judy told me she had been seeing a guy who might be the real thing for her.  Oh, well.

Lilith and I set up a trial meeting at Freddy’s, a local pub, to see if there was any spark.  Seven PM at Freddy’s I spot a lone woman at a table by herself.  Bright red hair, pale complexion, and an outfit which revealed some very attractive parts.  I went to her table and said “I hope you are Lilith, and if you are, wow!”

She responded with “I’m Lilith, and if I may be unoriginal, wow yourself!”

“What would you like to drink, Lilith?”

“Bloody Mary, please.”

I got her drink and a local beer for myself.

After prompting she said “I’m working up to partnership in the law firm Dante and Drake.  I’ve been there for a few years, and I’m getting close.”  I knew about Dante and Drake, it is the premier law firm in the Portland area, and seldom loses at its corporate law cases.

“Wow, again.  I can’t compete with you at jobs.  I do the ordering for the Champion store chain.  My biggest thing I can come up with about my job is my mistaken order for mostly green winter clothes when red was the desired color that year.  I’ll have to get by on my looks.”

Her reaction to that bad joke was a surprise.  She smiled wolfishly and said “You’ll do just fine.”

After a couple more drinks, we started telling jokes both clean and anatomical.  We were laughing so loud, the whole place was looking at us.  We quickly made arrangements for a date in a couple of days.  I walked her to her car.  She leaned against the car door looking at me appraisingly.  When I was too slow, she pulled me to her and began to suck face.  I immediately got hard.  Rather than either of us being embarrassed, she pulled me tighter and I started to grind on her.  I came in my pants, something that hadn’t happened since I was a teenager fifteen years ago.

She spoke for both of us “Let’s both get ready for maximizing our upcoming date and say goodnight now.  Come prepared, so to speak.”

I was reminded of a Tom Petty song “The Waiting Is the Hardest Part.”

That night I a wet dream, another first since I was a teenager.  A woman, who resembled Lilith, entered my bedroom, threw back the covers and went down on me.  After she finished, I woke up expecting to see her, but no one was there and I required some clean up.

On our next date night, I had taken some precautions against pre-ignition I had experienced earlier.  After a quick drink at Freddy’s, we went to my place.  If possible, I experienced repeated pleasure beyond my expectations.

Before I left her I got the courage to ask Lilith “Are we an item now?”

To my great relief, she smiled and said “You bet, kid.”

Everything seemed great; I was thinking marriage, a couple of kids, the whole thing.  A couple of very odd events made me reconsider.

After a couple of weeks, we went to Dante and Drake’s monthly office party.  It was the first time I saw her fellow workers.  The men all looked like my idea of gigolos.  Sideburns, slicked back hair, or shaved bald.  They were all tall and athletic and dressed in tight suits which demonstrated what they had in their pants.  The women came in a variety of sizes, but all wore clothes, which like the men, showed the goods which were very good.  All-in-all, they did not look like my idea of lawyers, but maybe their looks worked well in the court room.

When I asked Lilith about it, she just said “Oh, we hire a type, and it works for us.”

Other than that, it was a standard office party.  Some comments and jokes from the boss, and drinks and treats.

After pestering Lilith for a couple of weeks to visit her house, she finally invited me to come over for lunch.  While she was in the kitchen, I noticed a series of what appeared to be the back side of pictures.  Out of curiosity, I flipped one over.  It contained an old photo entitled “Sam Hauser 1865-1920”.  Because I didn’t want to be accused of prying, I didn’t mention my discovery to Lilith, but I memorized the details.

Lilith had fixed a great lunch, and we had an even better nooner.

That night I dreamed of an unchanged Lilith pushing an aged me in a wheelchair.

After going through many genealogy websites, I found Sam Hauser.  His lifespan was what I read, and he was survived by his wife Lilith.

I couldn’t pretend something strange wasn’t going on.  I asked Alex what she knew about Lilith.  “Well, you know I have a lot of weird friends.  Some claim to be night demons, some witches.  Lilith says she is a succubus.”  That word meant nothing to me, so Alex continued “Succubi are creatures that have sex with men who are sleeping or dreaming.  They steal the semen from men to give to their male counterparts, incubi, who inseminate human women with the stolen semen.  Of course I thought Lilith was playacting because succubi aren’t supposed to exist outside of dreams, but now I wonder based on what you told me.”

What Alex told me was unbelievable, but fit perfectly with my experience with Lilith.

When I saw Lilith next, I told her what Alex had told me.  She was quite composed and said “What Alex told you is essentially correct.  Not only that but our office only employed succubi and incubi.  What do you think about us now?”

I didn’t immediately answer, but the idea of growing old while Lilith stayed young appealed to me.  I couldn’t imagine meeting a smarter, more attractive woman in this lifetime, and we are extremely compatible.  I was ready for a ride not normally allowed to mortal men. We married exactly one year after we met.

Only one thing upsets me.  If I wake up anytime between midnight and two AM, she is always staring at me in the dark with bright red eyes.