Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

“Lick it like it’s your last meal on earth. You’re on death row. Warden just served you your last meal. Savor it. There might not be another.”

  Pearleen Bell complied. What choice did she have? Waited for the next command.

  He had her take her tongue out of his butt and back working on his member. Goddamn, his loins were about to blast one of the heaviest loads ever. He was also grateful the meds hadn’t fucked things up for him, hadn’t caused him to prematurely ejaculate. It happened more often than he cared to think about. Fucking meds. Never knew what the side effects would be or even when it would happen. Sometimes he shit his trousers, other times his dick dripped. Never could predict what to expect, until after it happened.

  For him, right at this moment, the pleasure was incomparable. He cursed to himself. Thought: She’s too good to dismember. I can’t kill this cunt. I’d be absolutely insane to kill her, ballbuster or not, man-hater or not, chip-on-her-shoulder feminist or not. Can’t do it. Don’t even think about it. No point to it. You can’t butcher a hot piece of ass like this.

  “You’re the best, baby. You’re the absolute best. Keep at it, baby. . . . Stay with it. . . . I’m getting ready to blast in your mouth. I’ll blast a heavy load down your throat and on your face. Hear that, cunt? It’s on the way. A milk wagon of white hot ball juice for you to gag on. It’ll be the heaviest load you’ve ever had in your hungry street whore’s mouth.”

  The more things Biggs uttered and the louder he uttered them the harder the woman worked. She did not always look up at him, up at the scarred, demented face—a glance now and then was enough. She was in control, if not of everything that had happened to her up to this point, at least she was in control of this very moment. She had him, she had this sick bastard where she wanted him. It was her one chance of staying alive, and she knew it more than anything, and she kept at it, doing a greater job of it than she had ever done before in her life because her very existence depended on it.

  Biggs gave out one final scream, and then a much quieter sound of sorts that emerged from deep inside his throat. The woman was not letting up, as she continued to work it much easier now but worked it nonetheless, getting it all, drawing it deep inside her warm mouth.

  Biggs had planted the palms of his hands on the back of her head, seeming to show gentleness strangely enough, just too spent to do anything else. He clung to her like this. Held her. Finally, there was no getting around it, being too sensitive down there right now, he had to withdraw from her mouth altogether. He let the stripper lick his fingers, all of them, one at a time, his palms, the back of his hands, and then he just kind of lowered himself down to the mattress and sat there with his back against the wall. Feeling drained, as well as at peace, or as close to peace as was possible for him. Biggs shut his eyes to savor the moment, to recoup and recharge his battery. This was just too good. He couldn’t believe it. Why had he waited this long to get his hands on her? Why had it taken him this long to get to Pearleen Bell? But then he thought: What does that matter now? All that matters is that she’s here, she’s right here with me. She’s mine to do with as I please.

  Just think of all the fucking and sucking you’ve got to look forward to. . . . Think of it. Wouldn’t have to keep on taking all those risks, at least for a while anyway. Think of it.

  He reminded himself: it wasn’t entirely up to him. It came down to the urge: to destroy, torture, and butcher. Slice and dice/hack and sack. Consume. Devour. And shit them out afterwards.

  CHAPTER 237

  His eyes were open now and he was looking right up at her, right up her hairy beaver, the glistening beads of sweat around it, the pearls of sweat on the small of her slick golden back and all that healthy golden ass.

  There was one thing on his mind just then: to get up and go for more. Get your rest, you need that, and then go again, and this time try for something else.

  “Baby, I want to go for seconds. How about you? How do you feel about it?”

  Pearl had managed to stifle what tears had been brewing inside her, and she had done a fine job of it, knowing that it would not have gotten her anywhere; on the contrary, it would have only made her predicament much worse. Tears and struggle only made matters worse. It wouldn’t have changed anything. It wouldn’t keep this sick bastard from doing what he intends on doing to me, she thought. She’d tried to fight her way out, hadn’t she?—tried to fight these psycho geeks in here, all these crazy, psycho ward candidates and it had only made matters worse for her. It had only gotten her bruised and bloodied.

  “Hear me talking to you? Huh?”

  Pearleen Bell nodded her head. “Whatever you want, honey. That’s what I’m here for, ain’t it?”

  “You have got the best lip-lock I have ever experienced in my entire life—and that is definitely a compliment.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “You better appreciate it. Because I don’t grant many compliments. What do we do for an encore? What do we do this time? How do you want it?”

  “Whatever you say, lover.”

  “Is that right? Whatever I say. . . . I like that.”

  Biggs wiped his forehead with his shirt. Took a drink from the jug and handed it to her. Pearleen had some water. Thanked him.

  “It’s a damn shame we couldn’t have met years before. Yeah. . . . I was a little more stable back then . . . believe it or not. I was okay. I wasn’t always this mixed-up. Truth is . . . the whole thing just got out of hand . . . with the buzzing in my head, the flies and flashbacks. . . . All of it. . . . I never thought my life would turn out this way. . . .”

  Pearleen nodded her head as though she understood.

  “I know what you mean.”

  He looked at her.

  “I do. You expect things to turn out one way, the way you planned, the way you dreamed of wanting things to turn out. . . . Before you know it, you’re stuck in a life and a rut so far removed from your goals and dreams that it don’t seem like your life at all.”

  “You’re right. That’s how it happened. Things got out of hand. All of it. Out of hand. Then again, maybe they were supposed to. Could be you’re right about the rut part. Could be I am in a rut—but what a rut to be in. Sure, my numbers could be better. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. I’m working on it, though. ‘Dreams and goals’ don’t happen overnight.”

  He studied her for a bit. Wasn’t certain he cared for the way she clearly appeared to be scrutinizing his psyche with what he felt were carefully chosen words and phrases. What did she hope to gain? Upper hand? You never knew with a bitch.

  “And here I am, and here you are. At least you’re with me now. . . . Don’t worry, nothing is forever. Nothing lasts. It isn’t supposed to. That’s life. About the only guarantee you get in this world: doom and demise. Taxes notwithstanding. We die. All of us. Fate. One-way road that always leads to a dead end. So don’t lose sleep over any of that. It isn’t worth worrying about. See, the smart ones know it’s all a big con anyway, a trick.”

  Pearleen’s lower lip was trembling now and she was well aware of it and could not do much to stop it. Her fear was showing through and it could be fatal for her. She collected herself. Swallowed hard.

  “Am I going to be taken out?”

  Biggs was looking at her again. Noticed her lip doing things. Twitching. “What have you got to be afraid of? Live for the moment.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t mean by you—I meant by the others.”

  “In here, no one makes a move without my consent—unless they want to spend time in the pit. I’ll have to think about it. I can’t make a decision like that right now. You don’t expect me to be able to do that, do you? My mind is on something else at the moment. . . .”

  And he gripped his semi-limp organ in his right hand. Held it like that. Stroked it a few times and watched it grow to its full size: all six inches of veiny, rigid, thick-rounded hunk of meat. He spit in his hand just then and ran it over the rather large mushroom-like h
ead of his erection.

  “Damn, that feels good.”

  No matter how she fought this time to hold back the tears, Pearleen Bell found herself losing the battle as a teardrop rolled down the right side of her face, the side Biggs could not see. Pearleen got rid of the teardrop by rubbing her face against her bare shoulder.

  “Here.” Biggs was looking up again. “Turn this way some.”

  Pearleen shifted so that her pelvis faced him and was just above his forehead.

  “No. Move the other way. Right. Yeah, I want to be able to look up your ass. I want to see that tight asshole. I want to be able to look right up that beautiful bronze butt, baby. Yeah. . . .”

  He continued to give himself slow strokes while looking up at the woman’s glistening buttocks.

  “Bend over some, Dolly. That’s it, Pearly-Girlie. Bend over like that. Stick your ass out toward me.”

  Pearleen did as she was told. Biggs was up on his knees now with his tongue hanging out. He had both his hands on the woman’s buttocks and began licking, running his tongue all over perspiring flesh. He planted kisses across the small of her back and down one cheek, across part of her vagina and rectum, across the other cheek and up again, and soon his tongue was back probing her cunt. The juice was still there; it was all wet inside and he extended his tongue as far as it would go, way in there; wiggled it around inside, brought it back out again, and ran it across the outer edge. Biggs found himself kissing her rectum, parted her legs some more and was moving back down toward that wet bush, the pubic hair, unable to get enough of it.

  “I could eat this forever.”

  Biggs right hand was down on his groin, stroking, manipulating. He slid a couple of fingers inside her. Got enough juice on the fingers, and then rubbed all that juice over the knob. He was ready now for round two, more than ready, Cecil figured.

  He rose to his feet, spread the woman’s cheeks, and guided his member toward her cunt. Slid it in. Stroked several times, backed out, and then squeezed it inside and up the stripper’s tight butt. He heard her wince, but it was not much of a sound.

  Damn, it felt good in her like this. Snug fit. It was warm inside her asshole and he stroked it. Heard the woman emit a gasp or two. He thrived on that, of course. The louder the better.

  “Oh, yeah. . . .”

  He gripped handfuls of her ass and pressed the cheeks against his groin and held on to the buttocks this way. Bitch continued to make sounds. Even tried to shake him off at times, it seemed. Biggs stayed right in there.

  “I think Trusty’s in love, Pearleen baby. This must be love. . . .”

  He eased up some. Only because he’d wanted to make it last longer, draw it out. Gave her a few more strokes. Cupped, then gripped her tits in both hands. Gripped some more, pinching her nipples, as he proceeded to climax deep inside her. Had his arms wrapped around her wet back and belly during this part of the phase and held on for dear life . . . until totally spent. Subsequently, he jammed it in her mouth and had her finish him off.

  CHAPTER 238

  Later that evening members of the “inner circle” were seated at the large dinner table in the kitchen on the first floor. The menagerie consisted of Julian “Red Menace” Ionesco, “Big Tex” Leo Nix, Miss Betty Lou Rutterschmidt and her daughter Mildred, Patience McDaniel, Lawrence “Sassy” Sassounian, Norbert Fimple, Olin “Swine Vomit” Goodfellow. Marvin R. Muck was seated in a barber’s chair off to the side getting his curls clipped by Biggs with a hair clipper. Greta Otto, the cook in the Cupid mask, served her specialty: that suspect jambalaya that Norbert Fimple seemed to favor so much and never could get enough of.

  Biggs finished up with Marvin. Gave him the hair clipper, and sat at the head of the table to his strawberry-and-cream-filled Twinkie, chased with a cold soda. Picked up the Wall Street Journal.

  “Who be next?” Marvin was itching to clip hair. Biggs pointed to Julian Ionesco.

  “You’re up, cabbie.”

  “Ja ja, kurva,” said the Rumanian, the “cabbie” moniker having rubbed him the wrong way. He rose from the table and sat in the barber’s chair. Kept on how upon first arriving in America with his “dear wife” he’d been forced, forced to operate a taxi for a living.

  “I have better life in Rumania, much better.”

  Marvin didn’t give a damn about any of that. Ran the clippers over the guy’s skull. Not doing a great job of it, either, but he was getting it done. Biggs was saving money this way by not having to pay to have anyone’s hair cut by a professional. That was all that mattered.

  “I am tired of all you foreigners coming over here and running down this country, my country.” Biggs snapped at the fat man. “What the hell you greasy bastards come here for then if you don’t like it?”

  “Free Ride” Muck was nodding his head and agreeing with his mentor. “That be right. Tell him, Brotha Trusty. America be good.”

  “I come to see Cowboy and Indian.”

  “Boo-shit.”

  Biggs looked at Ionesco good and hard. “You come here chasing the dollar. Commie bastard.”

  “My wife and me we have dream: Go to America. All people say America is best country.”

  “Yeah, I know about dreams. Don’t tell me about dreams. I dream all the time: about big, ugly, fat, green flies—that’s what I dream about.”

  “How much of this mofo’ hair I should get, Cecil?”

  “All of it. Get it all. Do all of them the same way. You know the routine.”

  There was hair behind Ionesco’s ears that Marvin was overlooking, not that it mattered. He got most of it.

  “My beloved Rumania; I was engineer . . .”

  “Here we go again. You were a peasant. Learn to tell the truth around me, or keep your mouth shut.”

  “How you know what I do? Who tell you? Leo Nix tell you?”

  “What’s the difference?” Biggs wanted to concentrate on the Journal. How was he doing? Was his portfolio up? Years of studying the stock market was paying off handsomely. Compensated for the loss in income at having his haunted house shut down. Not entirely, but it did help. Had no idea when he’d be able to re-open, either. It was on his mind. Couldn’t stop dwelling on it. Loss of that kind of revenue was not unlike losing an extremity. Caused greater anguish. No doubt about it. Goddamned wetbacks. See: kindness backfires once again. And all this dumb Commie can think to whine about is this obsession he has with the Wild West that never existed. “All you Reds are the same. You were a cab driver over there and you drove a cab here. A lowly cabbie. Let that be the end of it. And, oh yes: you had that gig in Beverly Hills as ‘gardener to the stars.’ Good for you. Your wife Anastasia did janitorial work, cleaned toilets and wiped some forgotten silent movie star’s wrinkled bunghole after he took his daily dump.”

  “Bunghole? I am sorry, I do not understand.”

  “Butt crack.”

  “Asshole, you say? No. Never. We do not do this. We refuse.”

  “You were refusniks.”

  “Of course. Refusniks.”

  “Fine and dandy. I stand behind my claim: Janitors and dog walkers. Wiped little Timmy’s dripping nose and changed old geezer Tom Mix’s underwear, after you and your loving wife first gave him a careful and cautious sponge bath, making sure his sweaty balls and smelly rectum were properly swabbed.”

  “No janitorial. Never. We do not do this. We do not go near privates, or this bunghole you talk about. I do not know this Tom Mix, you speak of, sir. I never see one single bunghole in Beverly Hills or Bel Air, not one; it is also true we see many assholes. My wife was nanny, please. Nanny. I was butler.”

  CHAPTER 239

  Marvin was finished with the former Beverly Hills butler and nudged him to get his heavy ass out of the chair and let Big Tex park his skinny one in it.

  Ionesco reclaimed his seat at the table, dug into the stew.

  “How you get Rolls-Royce and Cadillac, Bishop Cecil? My wife always want Cadillac for me. She love Cadillac for me. Very nice. Co
mfortable. Class automobile, no?”

  “Eat the goddamn jambalaya and shut up about Rumania.”

  “You are boss, Tovarich.”

  The Rumanian ate his stew. Norbert Fimple indicated with his hands and slobbering tongue that he was ready for seconds. Julian looked at Lawrence Sassounian who still wore Lana’s scalp on his head. Long strands of matted hair dangled over his eyes and below. Sassounian adjusted the scalp so that the hair did not block his mouth. He wiped some more. Picked up the cutting board Greta Otto had left on the table and began to hammer himself over the head with it and stayed with it until blood materialized from underneath the scalp. Soon enough Sassy lost consciousness and his face fell forward, landing into the nearly empty bowl before him, and dozed. Some stared. Biggs wasn’t bothered.

  “At least he’s not banging away at walls and bunks, as is the norm for him.”

  Marvin Muck was smiling and shaking his head. “That ain’t for me. Ain’t no way I could do that to myself. Man gotta be a fuckin’ ’tard.”

  “He do all the time.”

  “One of these day’ that old fool gonna mess up all his brains, then what he gonna do when he don’t even have enough sense to piss and shit in the crapper like Norbert was doin’ all that time? Goodfellow, too. Guess who gonna be followin’ after the mothafuckah wiff the honey bucket pickin’ up after him? Me; I be the one.”

  “I talk to him. He tell me he do this to find what make him tick.”

  Big T. looked at the foreigner. “How’s that?”

  “He hope for revelation. Vision will come if he hit brain long enough, special vision—”

  “You shit, too. He don’t talk to nobody about nothin’.”

  “Why he wanna put himself in pain?”

  “Don’t ask fool questions, boy,” said the man from Texas. Added under his breath: “Dumb sumbitch.”

  “You think he feel guilty about something in his life that happen many years before?”