“Girl’s gotta protect herself from weirdoes like you,” she said to the man stumbling backward into the wall. A board loosened, and out tumbled a maggot-infested corpse dressed as dapper as the gentlemen at Mahogany Hall, his once-handsome face eaten away by time and grubs. Her new guest tried to scream, only to have his own traitorous blood gurgle up out of his mouth and strangle him. He groped his way toward the door, leaving a slug trail of gore smeared across the wall, and popped off another board. An eighteen-year-old sailor toppled into the room, his skin now blackening and his open throat alive with squirming white larvae.
The man staggered forward, eyes already frozen in the eternal horror of those who died violently, and fell to his knees. The floorboards creaked, sprung up under the pressure of his body to reveal two more men buried face-to-face. They were little more than clothed skeletons now. Marie couldn’t remember much of them anymore. This was what happened when Vachel didn’t have enough room in the freezer. And he had cautioned her so many times not to kill on Fridays. In a devoutly Catholic town like New Orleans, who would buy meat that day? She tried to obey, but it was the only thing other than Vachel that had ever brought some measure of purpose to her life. The sheer thrill of smuggling the bodies out—“Only kill at night!” Vachel warned—was almost as good as sex.
He collapsed, air wheezing through the gash in his throat, hand clutching desperately at the wound in a last pathetic effort to stop his life from flowing out between his blood-caked fingers. Marie emptied his pockets before the final breath rattled out of his severed windpipe. They always had more money than they claimed to. She dragged her heavy wooden chest out from beneath the bed and tucked the greenbacks into it. It was really starting to build up now. Someday she’d hire the best dressmaker on Royal Street to sew the gown of her dreams. Someday she was going to dance in the Bourbon-Orleans ballroom.
When the man had finally bled to death, Marie picked up her shift from the bed and erased the blood from her face and arms. Pink smears remained on her skin, but Vachel lived only a few streets away, on Conti in the Quarter, and there she could have a real bath. Marie dressed, tucked her key in a pocket, and left the room as silent as the death it brought to those who entered.
* * *
Vachel caressed her with a sponge, and the water in which Marie sat turned pink like the juices of a rare porterhouse. “I told you to stop for a few days,” he said gently, as if she were his wayward daughter and not his lover. A memory of her father surfaced, rippled like the bathwater as Vachel dipped the sponge in, and then sank into obscurity. She could never go home again.
“You don’t trust your Vachel, do you?” he said, breaking her reverie. Marie smiled.
“‘Course I do, baby. I know you’ll take care of me.”
“That’s right. There, the blood is all gone.” Vachel held out a robe for her. She stepped out of the tub and into red satin, a gift from Vachel that she dared not keep in the crib. Together they walked into the bedroom, lit like the bathroom by dozens of candles. Marie always believed she looked better in candlelight.
More satin awaited her on Vachel’s four-post bed. Marie stretched out and flung her arms over her head. “This always feels so good. I feel like I’m on a cloud in Heaven.”
“Just where an angel belongs.”
“You say the sweetest things, Vachel.” She gazed down at the end of the bed. Vachel’s lips moved slowly along her inner thighs, and the familiar tingle deep in her stomach soon crept into her pussy with burning, wet insistence as Vachel flicked his tongue over her clit.
“No one does it like you, baby,” Marie moaned, her fingernails digging into the sheets. A hooker never received unless it got a john off to see her come. She spread her legs wider; Vachel licked faster, harder, coaxing her hips to join the same rhythm. He lifted his head slightly to look at her, and winked, then returned his full attention to the swollen nub in his mouth.
Marie watched his jaw work, saw flashes of his tongue, then closed her eyes and let her head roll back. The stubble on his chin scraped along the inside of her cunt. She grasped his hair in her hands, driving her hips up against Vachel’s face, knowing she would come any second. He took her clit into his mouth and sucked at it, rolled his tongue over it. Marie raised her hips higher, twisting as though to escape the unbearable pleasure.
Then an entirely new sensation shocked the moment away. He bit her.
“Ow! Christ, Vachel, that hurt!”
As if he hadn’t even heard her, Vachel continued to bite, each one harder than before. Marie kicked at him, trying desperately to land a good hard jab to his chin so he’d bite his own tongue, but he was far too strong for her. He pinned her legs down, and though she kept bucking, her struggle didn’t faze him in the least. Her inner thighs were damp with what she knew was blood. Yet Vachel gnawed at her, ripping at the most tender of human flesh, and there were no razorblades to save her. Her skin peeled away to expose the raw, oozing tissue beneath.
“Vachel, please!” she wailed, but he was deaf to her. More flesh tore away. “Vachel! Stop it!”
His lips smacked as he chewed, a wet and monstrous sound. Blood glistened in the brown of his moustache, painted his lips like a whore’s. She could no longer feel anything but the searing pain that electrified her body, radiating from the ruins of her cunt. With the strength she had left, Marie lifted her head to see what was left of her livelihood. Crimson pulp and matted hair, no lips, no clit, just a ravaged hole.
Vachel’s teeth sank into her lower stomach, the meat so soft and running red with fluid. He lapped it up like a starving dog. For a few more moments, Marie swam in a pall of semi-consciousness, unable to fathom that this time the stench of raw meat was her own.
But then it occurred to her that Vachel was protecting her the best way he could, hiding her inside of himself, away from the crib and the johns and the cops who would eventually come sniffing around. Vachel was only doing what he promised. That had to make it all right.
He’d always been clever, that Vachel.
Her Body, Incarnate
Eric LaRocca
Grant knew the tooth was bad.
He recognized the small cap was rotten and needed to be pulled. For the last three days his tongue had been careful to avoid disturbing the tiny calcium growth gently stirring in a jellied bed of spoiled pulp. Painkillers helped with the pain. He was far too preoccupied to be concerned with a matter as trivial as a dentist appointment.
After all, it wasn’t every day that a surgeon from Saint Joseph’s was summoned to the Leatheran family home in Litchfield. That kind of invitation did not go neglected in the state of Connecticut. The family had been respected figures in the community since the family patriarch licensed a viable freight railway line running from Hartford to New York.
Although the three-storey neatly manicured French-manor was an enduring reminder of the wealth and integrity of the Leatheran family, the interior was an alarming disappointment. Grant figured the family’s previous affluence must have been squandered in markets other than housekeeping as he surveyed end tables coated with dust, armchairs soured with burgundy stains, and ivory drapes permeating a damp, musky smell.
However, the surviving matriarch of the family was everything that had been described of her and more. Mrs. Leatheran did not so much as speak as she did squawk like a tropical bird. She was an old woman outfitted in a pale blue kimono and a tightly fitted turban that hid what Grant guessed was a nest of ashen grey hair.
He studied her wide, expressive eyes trimmed with lavender mascara, sharp cheek bones generously freshened with dark rouge, and a wrinkled mouth that easily frowned. He noticed a panic in her neatly manicured presentation. The assaulting desperation in her appearance’s neatness shrieked an unflinching nervousness to redeem a beauty that was a mere vapor by now.
She sat perched on a pink feathered pillow in her gilded trimmed armchair. An assortment of tubes plaited the woman’s skull and gently coddled her nose as they guided oxygen
in and out both nostrils. A small oxygen tank sitting beside her makeshift throne was her only companion.
She dragged a heavy lungful from her cigarette, blew a puff from her crumpled mouth, and wheezed a trill so hoarse that it complimented a rusty squeezebox. “I’m afraid I’m still doubtful, Doctor. Many specialists – your contemporaries – have argued that Charli’s condition is entirely irreversible.”
Grant stirred as he held a sweating glass of scotch and half melted ice. Her skepticism didn’t sway the doctor in the slightest. He could scarcely afford to lose this commission. Of course he was utterly floored that Mrs. Leatheran had sent for him in the first place considering his recent track record. After all, he was a critical subject of scrutiny after being suspected of negligence during the surgery of a young boy. Although the young patient did not die on the operating table, he was severely brain damaged and died outside of the hospital’s care. The boy’s mush brains only had to thank Dr. Grant and his cocktail of pain-killers and bourbon.
Of course the investigation against Grant was dragged around like a butchered sow, but brought nothing incriminating to the table, and the inquiry was dropped. With Grant’s reputation in mind, it was no wonder why he was surprised at the offer from the famous Leatheran family.
His voice fluttered with intensity, but he was careful to hide his impatience. “Mrs. Leatheran, I’m entirely aware that your grand-daughter will prove a daunting responsibility.” His wounded tooth throbbed sharply. “I’m confident that I’ll be able to offer invaluable services that even my colleagues cannot match.”
He expected a wince of approval guaranteeing him that he had foreclosed the old woman’s purse, but the only prize he seemed to receive was Mrs. Leatheran’s soured grimace. “My grand-daughter’s condition may – disturb you, Doctor. Countless specialists have refused to even examine her.”
Grant returned her candor with a look of smugness. “Unfortunately, not much disturbs me, Mrs. Leatheran.”
“You must forgive my unease. It’s just that since Charli’s parents passed, I’ve been her sole guardian.” She rocked with worry. “She’s all that I have. Charli had a younger half-brother from an illegitimate physical transaction between my daughter and another man. Naturally, I did all I could to look after the boy, but he was ill and he died.”
Grant relaxed his scrutiny on the old woman and heaved a sigh. “I understand perfectly, Mrs. Leatheran. Before I meet the girl, however, I think it’s best that I’m thoroughly briefed on her condition.”
Mrs. Leatheran was visibly shaken by the doctor’s request. Her lips quivered as if rehearsing the right words to suit the doctor. After a moment, she weakly forced out, “To put it frankly, she has been mutilated from birth—”
She rested for a moment. Her words hung in the air, quietly flickering like the fleeting haze from her cigarette. Grant watched as the old woman slavered in anticipation of the punch-line.
She closed her eyes as her tongue wiggled with revulsion. “Her body has been cursed with this – grotesque mutation.”
Although the corners of the excited woman’s lips were bubbling with drool, Mrs. Leatheran came to a halt and fell quiet. Finally, she spoke. “No. I can’t, Dr. Grant.”
A sudden desperation seemed to overcome her as she choked on a gulp. She immediately reached for the doctor’s hands and drew them closer, petting them with the gentlest care. “Doctor, you must help Charli. This biological – disfigurement – prevents her from successfully bearing children.”
Grant shook, bewildered. “And that’s so significant compared to your grand-daughter’s anguish—?”
The old woman seemed as though she expected his puzzlement, but had already prepared her artillery of defense. “You don’t understand. The Leatheran family’s legacy rests with my twenty-three year old grand-daughter, Dr. Grant. Without a functioning uterus, our long-lasting family name will be obliterated.” Her voice firmed cold and hard as her eyes centered in on Grant. “I’ve commissioned you for a reason, Dr. Grant.”
Grant figured he may have already lost the commission as his tenor curled in uncertainty. “Well, I’m afraid I’m rather a poor substitute for a venereal specialist.”
“I made it clear that I want a surgeon’s expertise,” the old woman clucked. “And while you may suffer from a rather checkered past—”
If Grant seemed deflated it was only for a moment as he silently cursed himself.
“—you’re one of the best surgeons Saint Joseph’s has on their pay roll.” Her tone changed, however, and seemed to wane with its firm sharpness. “You see, I’m no longer a rich woman, Dr. Grant. I certainly don’t remain in this house because I can afford to. Naturally my husband left us some generous funds when he passed on. But, there were terms accompanied with his will. Not a nickel will be distributed until Charli gives birth to an heir.”
And suddenly the old woman’s fat purse that Grant had been imagining seemed to shrink and droop listlessly. He figured she must have caught his unabashed disappointment as she was incredibly swift to add, “However, if you succeed with effectively completing this operation, you can bank on a public statement of endorsement from the Leatheran family as well as a generous donation made out to Saint Joseph’s.”
Grant was floored. He knew that kind of public endorsement from such a respected name could supply him with the credibility that he had lost.
Mrs. Leatheran flashed him a row of teeth with all the sheepish conceit of a door-to-door salesman. Although Grant was smug and eager to hide his appreciation, he threw her a glance of a deal. Even the old woman’s oxygen tank seemed to chirp in agreement.
Grant was told that he would find the young girl beyond the door settled at the end of the corridor. Of course he quietly ran over the careful instructions the old woman had croaked at him. If his mind meandered for a moment it was only to appreciate his aching tooth. He didn’t indulge in the pain for too long, however.
He reached the end of the hall and turned the handle. Another corridor opened up before him. The floor was littered with shattered glass and broken vases. The walls were flaking with shreds of paper and were running slick with a thick creamy glaze of amber and dark crimson.
Grant gently toured his hands along the wall and brought his fingers syrupy wet with the buttery gelled slime. Before he could be distracted for too long, he noticed a door quietly parting and spilling a sliver of yellow haze out into the hallway.
The door separated even more and gave full definition to the impatiently waiting shape of a young woman. Charli was a petite figure with a pale face and sweeping dark auburn hair. The bandaged cloth covering her right eye did not spoil the view for Grant, however. In fact, that bandage appeared to be the only visible indication of any kind of disfigurement. He almost felt foolish for humoring the old woman’s petition for ultimate care.
Charli’s broad shoulders and shapely chest tapered down to a slim waist, and her soft and darkened eyes were exaggerated by generously curled lashes. Oddly enough she was suited in a black latex corset with matching pumps and a studded collar. Her eyes firmed as they locked on Grant. Fingers gently toured the small breach between her thighs.
Grant drew further into the room as he carefully studied the young woman sitting on the edge of the divan. Her lips separated slightly, giving definition to an eager tongue. He could tell she was salivating as she gently led the sprawling pink muscle across her lips as though eagerly anticipating something.
At first, Grant’s opened mouth could merely force a grunt. “Charli—?”
Charli winced and the latex seemed to squeak as if it were relentlessly mocking Grant in the form of a high pitched chirp.
She carefully ran a finger along the length of her lips. “You’re the doctor?”
Grant could hardly ignore the steady stream of fluids sweating from the clefts in the walls. They were collecting into pools of clouded whitish broth along the floor. The sight of this trickling syrup was paired with the jellied sound of liquids s
quishing. The walls seemed to inflate and shrink in rhythm as if they were masses of naked, living tissue.
Grant was hasty to swallow a gulp of frothing apprehension. “Your grand-mother sent for me.”
“My grand-mother wants me to have babies.” Her voice was soft and saccharine sweet. “But, not for the sake of having grandchildren. All she wants is the inheritance.”
Charli’s legs spread even further, but Grant was reluctant to even throw a glance her way. She licked a finger slowly and her eyes softened, whining an unreserved invitation. It was a summons that Grant signaled with acceptance as he neared her. As he kneeled, she brought his trembling hands down to her waist and guided them up the length of her bodice.
“Grandmother says you did something,” she panted. “Something very bad.”
Without warning, Charli slammed a balled up fist against Grant’s temple and knocked him aside. He clutched the warmed pink cheek, looking at Charli who was salivating with sudden exhilaration. He tried to return to his feet, struggling against the gelatinous glaze coating the floor, but she struck a second blow and followed it with an excited bite.
Stewing in his own dread, Grant swayed with trepidation. Before he could do anything, Charli struck him again, letting out a wild battle call. He met her venerated strike with a swift blow against her nose that immediately leveled her on the bed. Grant withdrew almost instantly as he watched Charli’s fingers sweep beneath her nose and catch dark red drops of blood. He expected a soft cry or a soured grimace, but he was met with neither. Instead he was confronted with a shamefaced smirk of appreciation from the young woman.
Before Grant could allow himself to become too insecure with the sudden roaring gale of pleasure, he thrust all of his weight on top of her. She raked her head back and moaned in unadulterated ecstasy as he pecked her neck and his hands mapped the stretch of her waist. Charli forced his fingers upon her breasts and he circled her stiffened nipples. Grant shuddered with excitement as he suddenly ripped the bandage covering Charli’s eye.
Of Devils & Deviants: An Anthology of Erotic Horror Page 14
