by Tim Waggoner
The voice was female, and it came from Aaron’s right. He turned to see Caroline standing next to him, wearing a white examination coat encrusted with what Aaron thought might be cum stains.
“Roll it … I mean him over? What for?”
In answer, Caroline reached out, placed her hands on the creature’s sides, and gently urged it over onto its back. Its belly was smooth and pink, like the skin of a newborn rodent, but there was a seam running down the middle, something like an operation scar, though this was more pronounced, almost as if the skin hadn’t rejoined completely.
The bald man pointed at the creature with an index finger tacky with blood. “That’s what I’ve been talking about, Doctor! You need to do something about it — the seam keeps opening up and spilling Fluffy’s entrails all over the floor. It makes a hell of a mess, and the stains are a real bitch to get out of the carpet!”
Aaron was about to ask Caroline what she thought he should do next, but then he noticed that the examining room had disappeared. The four of them — Aaron, Caroline, the bald guy, and Fluffy — were now inside Penumbra’s front room. Instead of lying on an examination table, Fluffy now reclined on the black Naugahyde couch. The bald guy and Caroline were dressed the same as they had been a second ago, but Aaron was naked. He felt a slow draining sensation in his penis, and he looked down to see globs of yellow-white semen drip from his opening and fall to the floor in a steady rain of ejaculate. Plap-plap-plap-plap-plap … He willed himself to stop dripping, tried to tighten his groin muscles to squeeze his penis shut, but his efforts only made the sperm come out faster.
He looked up to see if either Caroline or the bald guy had noticed, but both of them were gazing at Fluffy with concern. The fleshy seam in the creature’s hairless pink abdomen was starting to split open. Slowly, bloodlessly, like a zipper it pulled apart, moving downward until its body cavity yawned open. The creature yowled in pain, its cry sounding uncomfortably close to that of an infant, and it began to thrash. Caroline grabbed the thing’s back legs to steady it, and Aaron pressed the fingers of his left hand on the creature’s chest to hold it down. The tail whirled around and the snake head shot toward Caroline’s wrist and buried its venomous fangs in her flesh. She shrieked and yanked her hand away from the creature, tearing open a wide gash in her wrist. Blood gushed out onto the creature, spilled onto the table, and Caroline cradled her hand to her chest and sobbed as she tried to staunch the flow of blood. Aaron saw the skin around Caroline’s wound was already beginning to blacken and swell. The snake’s poison was going to work.
Cum ran out of Aaron’s cock in a steady stream now, and the widening puddle of jism on the floor mixed with Caroline’s blood. Aaron pulled his hand away from the howling creature and took a step toward Caroline, intending to help her, but then the bald man screamed, “What did you fuckers do to my Fluffy?”
Aaron turned back in time to see the bald man pick up the creature and then hurl the yowling, thrashing thing straight at his face. Dark tendrils emerged from the gaping cavity in Fluffy’s stomach and wrapped around Aaron’s head. The bloodless slit in the creature’s gut — which now resembled a shaven vagina — slipped over Aaron’s head, cutting off his oxygen and plunging him into absolute darkness.
“Fuck!”
Aaron sat up. He reached for his face, intending to claw the goddamned conglomerate thing off him, but he stopped when he realized he could see his hands. He looked around and saw that he was sitting on the couch in his family room. Bookshelves, fireplace, entertainment center, flat-screen TV on the wall, the expensive abstract painting over the mantel, the one Kristen had insisted they buy, though it looked to Aaron like what was left after a bug collided with a car windshield at a hundred miles an hour … He was home.
Jesus Christ, what a shitty dream! He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that he’d have nightmares, though, after what he’d experienced tonight. He glanced at the cable box on the entertainment center to check the time, but his eyes took a couple seconds to focus on the glowing blue numbers. Middle-age sucks, he thought.
When his vision sharpened he saw that it was 4:48. He wasn’t sure what time it had been when Caroline brought him home, but he doubted he’d been asleep for more than two hours, if that. He was tempted to lie back down on the couch and sleep some more, but he resisted. In another hour or so his family would begin rising, and he had some things to take care of before then. Besides, now that he was awake, he didn’t feel all that tired. In fact, he felt pretty damn good. Rested, full of energy, like he could go outside right now and jog a few miles around the neighborhood without breaking a sweat. He remembered what Phillip had said just before Aaron had left Penumbra with Caroline.
You’ll be back to normal by morning. Hell, you’ll be better than normal.
It seems Phillip hadn’t been exaggerating. Grinning, Aaron stood and left the family room, walking with an honest-to-god spring in his step. He headed down a short hallway to the downstairs bathroom, went in, flipped on the light, then closed and locked the door. When he got home, he hadn’t gone upstairs and crawled into bed with Kristen for several reasons. One, he felt guilty as hell after what he’d done tonight. It had felt great, but there was no point in deluding himself: he’d betrayed his wife. And not only her, but his kids as well. He was their father, and it was his responsibility — along with their mother — to provide a stable home environment for them. Participating in orgies and bizarre rituals wasn’t exactly conducive to familial stability. Two, he didn’t want to wake Kristen. If he did, she might realize just how late he was coming home. This way, she’d (hopefully) have no idea how long he’d been gone — if she even realized he’d gone at all. Third, and this was the most practical reason, he smelled rank as hell. Sweat, semen, and the vaginal juices of two different women. If Kristen woke up and he was in bed with her, she’d be sure to smell the sin on him. So he’d decided to catch a few Z’s on the couch — actually, he hadn’t had much choice as he’d practically passed out on it — and then shower in the downstairs bathroom.
Just like a criminal trying to cover his tracks, he thought. But he didn’t feel as much guilt and regret as he had a moment ago. He couldn’t help it; he just felt too goddamned great to feel bad. He shucked off his clothes, which smelled about as fragrant as pig shit, turned on the water nice and hot, just the way he liked it, then stepped into the shower.
As he began to soap up, he started humming the eighties song that Caroline had been singing along to on the car radio. He burst out laughing when he remembered the title: “Tainted Love.”
Caroline lay spread-eagled on a cold metal table, feet up in stirrups as if she were about to undergo a gynecological exam, wrists and ankles bound by leather straps so tight they threatened to cut off her circulation. She was naked and her flesh was covered with goose pimples. Phillip insisted on keeping the temperature low down here so that her nipples would always be hard, just as they were now. Stiff and jutting, the flesh so dark purple that they almost looked black. Her discomfort was delicious.
They were in the basement, or as they referred to it, the “workshop.” The walls were padded with black leather, chains ending in fur-lined handcuffs dangled from the mirrored ceiling, and the white tiled floor contained drains set in strategic locations. The lights set into the ceiling could project different colors of illumination, and tonight Phillip had chosen red — Caroline’s favorite. Stretching the length of one wall rested a large worktable covered with dildos of varying shapes and sizes, along with parts cannibalized from leaf blowers, hedge trimmers, and lawnmowers. From these odds and ends Phillip constructed their homemade toys, and a dozen of the finished products sat on the table, nightmarish combinations of marital aids and mechanical equipment that might have been designed by the Marquis De Sade.
Phillip, also naked, stood next to her and gently stroked her inner thigh with his fingertips.
“How do you think it went tonight?” he asked.
Caroline closed her eyes and
shivered as Phillip’s fingers brushed her matted pubic hair. She’d wanted to take a bath once she got home, but Phillip had wanted her to stay soiled, as he put it. “You mean how did Aaron do?”
“Yes.” Phillip pinched the tender skin at the juncture of her leg and crotch between his fingers and gave it a hard twist. Caroline bit her lip and took in a hissing gasp of air.
“I think he did fine,” she said. “We might have found ourselves a new member.”
She kept her eyes closed, and now she felt Phillip’s breath hot on her sex. She wondered what he was going to do to her, and the anticipation drove her crazy. She was so wet she could feel her juices running down her thighs.
“I’m not so sure,” Phillip said, his mouth so close to her cunt that she could feel the vibrations of his voice shudder through the engorged flesh of her clitoris. “He enjoyed himself, sure. Who wouldn’t? But he seemed … I don’t know … hesitant, somehow. As if he were holding part of himself back. Besides, I’m leery about taking on a new member so soon after losing Morgan.”
She felt the tip of Phillip’s tongue lightly graze her clit, and she was so hyper-sensitive after everything her body had experienced tonight that she almost came right then. But she managed to hold her orgasm at bay.
She practically purred as she spoke. “You know we have to keep our numbers up unless you want to increase our risk of dementing.”
“You’re right, of course,” Phillip said. “I’m just afraid that Aaron won’t be able to handle the next step.”
Caroline shrugged. “If that happens, then we’ll give him to the Overshadow and look for someone else. But he’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
She felt Phillip’s breath recede. “For his sake I hope you’re right.”
She heard her husband walk away, and she opened her eyes to watch as Phillip headed over to the worktable and looked over the variety of machines he’d created over the years. She knew them as well as she did her own body: the Violator, the Intruder, King Dong, the Tingler … She wondered if Phillip was going to treat her to something new or if he would select one of their old standbys. In the end, he hefted the bulky Devastator off the table, and Caroline felt her vagina clench with a combination of anticipation and fear. The business end of the Devastator terminated in a two-foot long clear dildo covered with prominent metal studs with openings at the tips. Phillip returned to the table and flicked a switch on the Devastator’s side. The machine came to life, its motor making soft chuf-chuf-chuf sounds as the dildo began spinning around at the same time as it thrust forward and back.
Phillip gazed down at her, his naked body bathed in crimson light and a wild glimmer dancing in his eyes.
“It looked like you and Gillian gave Aaron the fucking of his life tonight.”
Caroline stretched languidly, causing the leather restraints around her wrists and ankles to creak. “He gave as good as he got, darling, believe me.”
Phillip thumbed another switch on the Devastator. The internal tubing began feeding lubricant to the studs and clear liquid sprayed out of the nozzles as if the plastic shaft were some manner of bizarre pornographic sprinkler.
“As good as I’m about to give you, my love?”
Caroline grinned at her husband. “We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”
Phillip positioned the spinning-thrusting tip of the Devastator between his wife’s legs, and with a single violent motion shoved the studded dildo inside her.
Ricia woke to pain and darkness. She thought at first she was in a boat — the sound of a motor, the rocking motion — but then she realized she was lying on the backseat or a car and memory returned to her. She tried to open her mouth to scream, but her lips refused to part. She remembered then that they were sealed with duct tape, the same tape that bound her hands and wrists. She was going to scream anyway, as muffled and useless as the sound would be, if only to release the terror building inside her. But the pain throbbing through her body warned her not to make a sound, for if she did, he would beat her again and this time she might not survive. The fear had to come out somehow, though, and tears began to stream down her face, soaking into the upholstery she lay on. She forced herself to cry quietly and took a dispassionate mental inventory of her injuries.
Each breath felt like a knife sliding into her lungs, so she probably had some cracked or broken ribs. Her jaw throbbed and her skull pounded with every bounce and jostle of the car, which meant there was a chance she had a concussion. She remembered something she’d heard once somewhere, about how it was dangerous to fall asleep if you had a concussion. The thought almost made her laugh — right now falling asleep was the least of her worries. Her eyes — make that eye, for it seemed one of them had swollen shut — had adjusted to the darkness. She turned her head, making damn sure to do so quietly, and looked out the back window to get a sense of where she was. All she saw was black sky, ice-bright stars, and looming shadows that she hoped were trees. She didn’t think she was in town anymore, for the lights of Ptolemy kept the stars from coming through so clearly. But otherwise, she had no idea where she was.
Ricia Lockhart, twenty, worked at the Burrito Bungalow, a fast-food joint that was open twenty-four hours and located just off the exit from state route 75. It wasn’t the greatest job in the world, but it allowed her to set her own hours, which meant she could work around her college schedule. She was a sophomore at the University of Cincinnati, majoring in nursing, although lately she’d been toying with the idea of changing to respiratory therapy. Her uncle had died of lung cancer last year, and going into respiratory therapy seemed like a good way to honor his memory.
She got off work at ten, and she clocked out and left the restaurant by the back door. The employees were required to park behind the building so that prime spaces would be open for customers. She was anxious to get back to her cramped apartment, take a quick shower, and study for a physio exam she had tomorrow. She wished she could take off college in the summer, like so many of her friends did, but she already had too many student loans to repay. The faster she graduated and went to work, the better. Plus, she’d be able to quit working fast food all the sooner.
When she saw the blue VW bug parked next to her gold Saturn, she didn’t think anything of it. She’d never seen the car before, but that didn’t mean anything. There were always new workers starting at the Bungalow — the turnover rate in fast food was high — and she figured the beetle probably belonged to an employee she didn’t know yet. But as she got closer to her car, she saw the silhouette of someone sitting behind the wheel of the Volkswagen, and a warning chill rippled along her spine. Ricia was a petite woman of Asian descent, with long black hair bound in a ponytail and a model’s slim build. She wasn’t a particularly fearful person, but she was a realistic one. Small as she was, there wasn’t a lot she could do to defend herself physically. For an instant she considered going back inside the bungalow and asking one of the guys, maybe Artie Schaeffer, who was sweet and mild as a lamb but built like a line backer, to walk her to her car. But then she thought about how much studying she needed to do, and she decided to just hurry to her car and get in. After all, it was only ten o’clock and the parking lot was lit well enough. Even if the guy in the VW wanted to try something, he’d be crazy to do so. Unfortunately, the one thing Ricia hadn’t counted on was the possibility that the man in the Volkswagen was, in fact, insane.
She was less than five yards from her car when the man got out of his. She knew at once that he wasn’t a fellow employee. He was too old for one thing, and the way he was dressed would’ve gotten him a write-up from management for sure. He looked like a homeless person and even from this distance, she could tell that he smelled like a backed-up sewer. As he came toward her, she saw the cold dead look in his eyes, and she opened her mouth to scream. But before any sound came out, the man with the dead eyes rushed forward and shoved his hands toward her face. She saw that he held a length of silver duct tape, and then he pressed it to her open mouth, sea
ling the lips together.
Now that she couldn’t scream or call for help, she knew she had two options: run or fight. Though she was small, she’d learned enough about human anatomy in the last couple years to know the vulnerable areas to strike at: the eyes, the throat the genitals … But knowing the best places to attack and actually bringing herself to lash out at another human being — even one who was in the process of assaulting her — were two entirely different things. Ricia had only a split second to make her choice and, as she was introverted by nature, she chose to run. It was a mistake. She did managed to turn away from her attacker, but before she could take a single step, she felt something hard strike the base of her skull — the man’s fist? — and bright light flashed along her optic nerves. Her knees folded beneath her and she lost consciousness before she hit the ground.
Ricia had regained consciousness a couple times since then, but each time she’d made too much noise and managed to upset her captor, and he’d hit her until she passed out again. He struck her enough times tonight that she feared she might have permanent brain damage, might even be bleeding inside her head. What was that called again? A subdural something-or-other. Whatever its name, it was nasty and could kill her if she didn’t get medical attention soon. But to do that, she had to escape her captor, and she had no idea how she was going to accomplish that miracle. She decided she would just have to remain conscious, keep alert, and hope a chance presented itself, and when it did, that she’d be in a condition to take advantage of it.
She did her best to relax on the backseat and ignore the pain throbbing through her body as the Volkswagen continued going wherever it was going. She had no idea how long she lay like that — time meant nothing to her right now — but eventually the car slowed and turned. The ride became bumpier now, and the bug moved more slowly. Ricia could hear the crunch of gravel beneath the car’s tires, and she decided they’d left the main road and were now traveling down an unpaid side road, or maybe a country driveway. And then, far sooner than she expected the car came to a stop. Faint fluorescent light filtered in through the Volkswagen’s windows, though from what source, Ricia couldn’t tell. The man put the beetle in park and then turned off the engine. A moment passed as she listened to the engine tick as it cooled, and then the driver turned around and looked at her with those dead eyes of his.
