I didn’t disguise my stare.
Her hips were wide and full, her flesh cooly pale as winter. The V of her groin was hairless, and the distended, pink lips of a human face parted there. A cunt that truly smiled. It looked utterly bizarre, unreal. The twisted product of a demented artist who tortured his sexy models by distorting them on-canvas. And as I expected, it turned me on instantly.
My gaze returned to her face, and then I saw the sleek aquiline nose and intensely blue eyes rested above what some men crudely call a “gash.” Even when I’m going to kill a girl I generally have more respect for her than to call it that. I stared forever at her face, taking her in pore by pore. The lips of her mouth were thin petals of pale pink flesh. Not firm at all, but rippled and wavy.
The lips of a pussy.
“Take off your clothes,” the old woman directed, and before I could start myself she was reaching up and unbuttoning my shirt.
I brushed her away and finished the job myself. For a moment I worried that she’d kill my fledgling hard-on; maybe this freakishness wouldn’t turn me on as much as I’d thought. But before I’d even slid down my jockeys I felt a stirring again; it flopped out awkwardly and in seconds was pointing across the room at her.
The old woman was reaching into a cabinet as I kicked off the pants and the buzz in the kitchen grew louder. I looked up and almost screamed. Her hand was buried in the thick waxy comb of a bee’s nest! We were only separated from being stung to death by the uneasy kiss of a cabinet door!
She pulled her hand back dripping with golden sugar and shut the cabinet door again, somehow not letting a single bee into the room. Then without a word she coated my cock and lips with the warm, sticky sweet liquid and nodded towards the back room.
“Go on then. Her pussy likes the taste.”
I followed the silent girl to the back of the house. She reached out, almost shyly, and took my hand as we walked. The older woman stayed behind.
Her bedroom was unlike the rest of the house. It was tiny, but neat. The walls gleamed a fresh coat of lilac, and the mattress on the floor was covered in a light linen to match. There was one dresser in the room, a man’s highboy, but aside from the dents and scars of probably 50 or more years, it was clean and uncluttered. She turned to me and made a grunting noise.
“What?” I asked.
Her eyes looked pained for a moment, and then her hands touched my chest.
Lightly. A feather’s exploration.
The sweat was rolling down my back and forehead but her fingers felt cool as they traced the line of my sternum and then followed the faint hollows between my ribs. She grunted deep in her throat again, and then nodded.
I guess I’d “do.”
I reached out to lift her shirt but she shrunk back.
What the fuck? She had her pants off already, and then I thought about it again. Of course she had her pants off. Her fucking mouth was in her crotch. She probably never wore pants. And if her pussy was in her head … shit. When the older woman said no oral sex, which hole did she mean? An abortion through your face would be a bitch! But maybe her ovaries remained where they belonged, in which case, no fucking with her “mouth.”
I suddenly didn’t know what to do. Did I go back and ask the old woman? My cock started flagging at that, and I laughed at myself. If this freak couldn’t tell me which way or the other it was her own problem. I reached out and pulled her towards me, and kissed her on the mouth.
On the pussy, rather. Whatever. I kissed the lips in her head. What a fucked up feeling. My tongue was buried in her cunt, but my eyes looked straight into hers. And she looked scared.
Of what??
She tasted salty, heavy. Not the sort of taste you expect from a first kiss. More like the taste of a woman after she’s fucked your two best friends and then wrapped her legs around your face.
But usually it wasn’t her nose that was in your face for that one.
I frenched her quickly, and the flower of her mouth seemed to expand around my lips. She grew wet; her eyes opening and then rolling back in pleasure. My tongue is legendary in some circles.
My hands caressed the rolling mounds of her buttocks, and slid upwards, dragging the dirty cotton rag she wore with them. She broke our kiss and shook her head no again, but I didn’t listen. With a yank I pulled it up and over her head, and then she was naked in front of me, her breasts drooping with a heavy fullness, slicked with sweat, and covered with scars. I saw now why she was reticent. Why her eyes looked scared. Someone had used her poorly.
Circles of scarred buttmarks littered her chest, and one of those abused mounds had lost its nipple. Bitten off? Cut off? She wasn’t telling. She crossed her arms quickly across her middle and lowered her gaze. But I would have none of it. Gently I massaged her shoulders, and then tipped her chin up to look at me. Her eyes were pools of tortured darkness, and I bent to kiss them, each eyelid. Then I tasted her forehead, her neck, and the bloom of her lips. Soon her arms slid around my back and we collapsed to her bed. The 69 position took a whole new meaning with her. In minutes we were slick with sweat, and her pussy lips were hungrily sucking my cock into her throat. Meanwhile, her thighs held my head like a vise as her tongue matched the timing of my thrusts. She stabbed me in the head with her tongue and I stabbed her in the head with my cock.
How fucked up is that?
It was heaven, and I wanted more. By the time I stopped slipping around on her bed, I had decided I might actually get a vasectomy so that I could get between her legs and fuck her mouth. I wasn’t looking for kids in this lifetime anyway.
* * * *
When I pulled myself together and got dressed, I went back to the kitchen in search of the old woman. She was washing dishes in a faded manila plastic washbasin.
“She everything you dreamed of?” she said and then cackled as she rinsed a mug with water from a tall pitcher.
“She was wonderful,” I admitted.
“You like fucking freaks, then?”
“Never have before, but seeing as I’ve fucked just about everything else …”
“Well, that pays my debt to Kyla,” she announced. “So next time, it’ll cost ya.”
“You her pimp or her mom?”
“Both.”
“Nice.”
“What do you expect me to do with a freak like that? She’s good for fuckin’, and not much else. And then only by perverts like you.”
“Sweet attitude.”
“You paying for sugar?”
“Naw.”
“Then fuck off.”
Nice.
“You got a bathroom here?”
“Nah. That’s what we use The Mouth for.”
“You’re a sick old bitch, aren’t you?”
She looked me over silently for a moment. Then she reached up and put one large ham of a hand on my shoulder. I hate to admit it, but I flinched.
“Listen. We live out here in nowhere. The Mouth’s a retarded freak. She got no teeth up top so she cain’t eat nothing but sauce and syrups. I got no money. Given where her taste buds are, she likes the taste of piss and shit. Hell, she tastes her own every day. So I saves up what I can.”
She nodded over at the glass of pale liquid on the table that I’d taken for apple juice earlier.
“You wanna drink, or donate?”
She laughed long and loud as I left.
Fast.
* * * *
But I couldn’t stop thinking of her. Every night, I dreamed of eyes staring back at me as I kissed the rippled flower of a pussy. And scat fantasies. I’d never been into it before, but suddenly I imagined myself pissing between her open lips, that mouth hungrily slurping up my waste.
She was suddenly all I could think of. Mostly though, I imagined plunging my cock into the pussy of her head. Fucking that mouth ’til she was choking. It was very disconcerting, this obsession. I’d had women live with me, naked on their knees for me whenever I called, and had them dispatched and forgotten quicker than
most men can cum. Why did I keep going back to this freak in my head?
I was making a pickup near the Areland Costume shop when I hatched the idea.
I bought a scar kit. Fuck if I was going to pay for a vasectomy. But I was going to fuck that girl’s pussy mouth.
The bees were buzzing warm and loud as I pulled up the decrepit backwoods drive to The Mouth’s house. I had a roll of $20s in my pocket for the old bitch pimp. The lust rolled off me in waves on the drive down. I could smell it. My cock got hard and long thinking of those pocked breasts in my mouth, that warped mouth going up and down on my pole. And afterwards, I’d stand up and piss right down her pussy mouth.
I was ready.
* * * *
The old bitch answered the door, slate grey hair matted to her forehead, a stain of sweat revealing the fat floppiness of her breasts. What a turnoff.
“You!” she snapped. “Lotta nerve, you!”
“The Mouth at home today?” I asked sweetly.
She didn’t answer, only glared at me. Then with a shrug of her head she motioned me inside.
“I take that as a yes,” I answered myself. Still she didn’t reply, only walked through the stink and hum of the kitchen and back towards the room of The Mouth. I followed.
“You gonna take care of this?” the old woman asked as we entered The Mouth’s room.
She was lying on the bed, sweat from the heat of the summer day rolling off her forehead in lazy beads. Her eyes were large as cows’, that same deep brown look of open innocence that a bovine faced with a shotgun to the ear has. Her fingers toyed gently with the pussy lips of her face, teasing and stroking it in a masturbatory fugue.
“This is all your fault,” her mother announced. “What are we gonna do?”
That, was a very good question.
Apparently, I’d chosen the wrong mouth. The Mouth’s neck was swollen to the size of a small melon, that delicate white skin stretched and almost translucent. Spider veins snaked around and up from her bare chest to meet in a web of blood pulsing right where her Adam’s Apple would have been, had The Mouth been a man.
I’d chosen wrong. If her pussy was in her head, and she pissed from those same lips, naturally her uterus was in the wrong spot as well. Or unnaturally.
Which would make her about two months pregnant. And she was gasping for breath already. Three months would kill her.
Abortion through the head? Could they do that?
I went to her. Put my hands on her face and kissed her forehead. There was a sick pain in my heart that I thought had grown impervious to stabs of guilt. Not so.
Those brown cow eyes looked up at me in trust. In fear.
And the hands of an old bitch began pounding on my back.
“You did this. You did THIS!” she shrieked. “You gotta fix it. You got money. Take her. Fix her.”
I stepped back, took the old woman by the shoulders and shook.
“I’ll take care of it,” I whispered. Sharply. “Go. Leave us alone for a bit.”
She squinted at me then, as if not trusting my motives. But what else could I do to her freak of a daughter at this point? I’d already fatally knocked her up.
When the door closed behind her, I dropped my pants to the floor and pulled the shirt over my head. Naked, I joined The Mouth in bed and kissed her swollen neck, her musky lips. Her eyes rolled back with each thrust as I lay my cock between her teeth, between her legs, and fucked her the way I should have the first time. I wondered as she swallowed my cum in the mouth between her thighs if she could taste it there.
Afterwards, when the sweat had dried on her chest and my hardon had diminished, I asked her if she was thirsty. She nodded vigorously and I let her drink from me. I coated my finger with some honey from a discarded comb lying half eaten on the floor by her bed, and tenderly fed her glistening lips the sweetness. They slurped together like an infant’s, hungrily sucking at the teat. Then I stroked her hair softly, until her lids closed and a steamy slumber overtook her.
She didn’t stir when I put the cold steel next to her ear. But I kissed her lips before it went further. Once more for dreams. Her eyes opened then; confused but happy, they stared into mine.
And then with a small but thunderous pop, her brains were against the wall and The Mouth kissed no more.
I was crying when the door slammed open and the old bitch screamed. But I had another bullet and wasn’t nearly as careful about where I placed it. The result was that I had to pull the trigger twice more to still the woman’s wailing, choking cries. Those didn’t phase me. All I could see were the deep brown eyes and trembling, half opened pussy lips of The Mouth as I gave her the abortion she—and our baby—both deserved.
Fuck.
Nine Cops Killed for a Goldfish Cracker
David James Keaton
* * *
“I asked her for water. She brought me gasoline.”
—Howlin’ Wolf
The junkie folds the thousand dollar bill in half nine times, swearing it’s a new world’s record. Jack watches the money transform to a tiny green cube, disgusted that everything he owned, every record, movie, and dirty magazine, even his best platform shoes, could be reduced to a piece of paper so small it couldn’t even effectively wipe a spider’s ass.
“I said, ‘no,’ ” Jack mutters.
Ignoring him, the junkie shuffles over to a huge aquarium along the wall, an endless green coffin so thick with green muck and stink that during previous visits Jack never imagined anything alive in there among the empty beer cans, dirty dishes, and long-forgotten plastic scuba divers.
The junkie giggles at him, dangling his idiot’s origami out into the smoky space between them. Then he tosses it into the tank. Equally confused and insulted, Jack watches the green cube swell and soak up the stagnant water, and it’s just starting to unfold when a streak of copper pushes through a puff of fish shit and algae to gulp the money down. Jack stands up so fast that the card table flips off his knees. Three coffee cans blow soggy cigarette butts into his face, reminding him of his woman’s last kiss.
“Why the fuck did you do that?” Jack shouts, running to the tank while shaking ash and filters out of his greasy curls.
“Because it meant more to me than it did to you,” the junkie laughs. “I mean, more to you than it did to me? Whatever. What do you care! My money now.”
Jack shakes his head. This prick had insisted on a $1,000 bill to pay the debt. Not just the amount, but that particular bill. Last circulated in 1969. Series of 1934. “Not that rare,” someone shrugged. It took a little time, but Jack did find one. And when he first saw it framed behind his parole officer’s desk, Jack couldn’t believe his luck. Then he couldn’t believe that this one slip of paper would solve all his problems. But when his asshole P.O. turned around to yell at another ex-con on the phone and Jack had time to slide the frame a little closer and read the inscription …
“Legal tender for all debts, public and private.”
… he started to believe it might after all.
* * * *
It looked like something you’d see in a cartoon with all those extra zeros, and he broke in and stole it the same night. A $1,000 bill was not that rare but still rare enough to be worth almost twice as much as the numbers in its corners, so Jack knew the junkie would erase his woman’s debt the instant he held it under a streetlight and first noticed Grover Cleveland staring up at him with his big, Nieszchian, toilet-brush mustache, something that most junkies, usually slick and hairless as grubs, could never grown themselves.
When he first walked in and looked around the apartment, Jack noticed that the junkie had a telephone shaped like a football. Scrawny as he was, the junkie did claim to be a football fan, Cleveland Browns of course, when the Browns still had a team. Maybe that’s why he wanted Grover’s tiny portrait so bad. Then there was that goddamn cookie jar …
He remembered his daddy slapping a football out of his hand once and telling him, “No self-respecting th
ug has any love for sports.”
“You dial where the stitches would be,” the junkie had told him when he first saw him staring at the phone. “Too bad it’s not real pigskin though, huh?”
Jack didn’t get the joke, but he knew he’d remember it forever because it was the first time he ever saw a junkie smile.
And now he knew the junkie would never smile again.
Jack thought about calling his woman to yell at her about what he was enduring to settle her debt. But he knew he would have looked stupid arguing into a football.
“Can you even spend it?” he asked when he first handed the bill over, right before the junkie made the mistake of folding it up and feeding it to his fish.
“Didn’t you read it? ‘Redeemable in lawful money at the United States Treasury or any federal reserve bank.’ ”
“Yeah. I read everything on it.”
“How long before your parole officer knows you took it?”
“Hell if I know. I swapped it out with some Monopoly money so maybe he won’t notice for a little while.”
“Wait. What Monopoly money?”
“Well, they don’t make a $1,000 bill for that game, so I put two $500s instead.”
“Good job, dumb ass. He’ll never notice with them being bright orange and all.”
“Who cares. He sees 20 ex-cons a day, maybe more.”
“Hey, you want to see a magic trick?”
Five minutes after Jack said, “No,” the junkie was folding up the money. Ten minutes after that, Jack was still punching a purple stain on the floor where the junkie’s head used to be.
* * * *
He calls his woman on the football and tells her that the junkie let him keep the money, says he put her on a payment plan, says maybe they’re gonna be okay. She tells him that if he can pay the landlord by 7:00, they won’t have to move out, says maybe he better hurry since it’s 6:00 right now, says they’ll never be okay.
Jack’s trying to listen, but he can’t stop staring into the green water, trying to figure out which one swallowed the money. The tank that had seemed empty before now has a swarm of goldfish nipping at each other, apparently waiting for another thousand-dollar snack. Then he hears a distant siren and knows he doesn’t have time to perform half-ass surgery on a dozen fish bellies to find that bill. His eyes dart around the room, panic setting in. The voice in his ear is squawking louder. Now his woman wants to know why he wasted a quarter in a pay phone when she’s only a block away.
The Death Panel Page 20
