by Tim Waggoner
But it turned out that the stories were true. He did get a lot of ass.
Not every day, but a couple times a week, sometimes more. Bored housewives whose husbands were at work and whose kids were at school would open the door when he stepped onto their porch to put their mail into the box. Sometimes they’d be dressed in tight T-shirts and shorts or maybe low-cut tops that displayed their cleavage. Maybe they’d be wearing a T-shirt and panties or sexy lingerie or nothing at all. They would ask him how he was doing, how his day was going, invite him in for a cool drink when the weather was warm, a hot drink when it was cold. And when he accepted their offer and went inside, they gave him a hell of a lot more than liquid refreshment.
He was young – only twenty-five – tall and broad-shouldered. He had a man’s body and a boy’s face, and a lot of women found the combination irresistible. It didn’t hurt that he had a larger than average cock, either. He didn’t know for sure, but he suspected the women on his route told their friends – their best friends, the ones they could trust – about what he had to offer. Word of mouth is the best kind of advertising.
As far as Norman was concerned, he was living his absolutely best life. He didn’t know how long it would last, though. Husbands might become suspicious and the women would decide not to put their marriages at risk anymore. And one day he wouldn’t look so boyish, and then he might not receive as many invitations to come inside – might not receive any. But until then, he was going to enjoy every minute he spent with other men’s wives. When he’d turned fifteen, his dad had given him some advice. Fuck as many women as you can as often as you can. Because once you get married, you’ll be lucky to get laid once a month, if that. Norman had taken his father’s advice to heart, and he intended to have as much sex as he could while he could.
This rainy afternoon he was in bed with Camille Barnes. She was almost twice his age and carried a few extra pounds, but she had large breasts and she fucked like a teenager. She was one of those older women who tried to appear younger by dyeing their hair in colors favored by millennials – in Camille’s case, a bright blue – and getting tattoos and piercings. Camille wore a nose stud, and she had an elaborate tattoo of a phoenix on her back, red flames trailing from its wings, eyes blazing with inner fire. Whenever he fucked her from behind, as he was doing now, he couldn’t escape the feeling that the phoenix was glaring at him, demanding he plow the bird’s mistress harder, faster, deeper. For this reason, he often kept his eyes shut while screwing Camille in this position, or sometimes he’d let his gaze wander around the room – anything so long as he didn’t have to look at that damn bird.
Camille was on her hands and knees, pushing herself back against him as he thrust himself into her, her large breasts making slapping sounds against her chest as they flopped back and forth. She had her head down as if she was concentrating, and she kept up a running monologue while they fucked.
“Yeah, that’s right, that’s good, keep it up, keep going, don’t stop, get in there, fill me up, fuck me harder, that’s good, right there….”
He supposed a lot of guys might be turned on listening to a woman responding like this while they were screwing, but he found it kind of distracting, to be honest. It was like she was trying too hard to have a good time instead of just having it. But each to their own, right?
The first time a woman brought him into her marital bed, he thought he’d feel self-conscious at best and like an absolute piece of shit at worst. But it turned out he hadn’t felt much of anything. In fact, the idea that he was fucking another man’s woman on the same bed that the two of them had sex on was kind of kinky. Besides, most of the bedrooms he was invited into had been decorated by the women, so they felt more like the wives’ spaces than the husbands’. Camille’s bedroom was done in variations of blue. Everything – the walls, the curtains, the carpet, the bedclothes – was different shades of blue. The air smelled blue too, like she was using some kind of air freshener or something. The décor was a little much for him, but he wasn’t here to admire Camille’s aesthetic taste. He was here to fuck this woman until she screamed.
Camille had opened the bedroom window several inches, high enough so they could hear the rain – she loved the sound of falling rain – but not so far that water got inside. It wasn’t raining so hard that the sound would mask Camille’s X-rated monologue and her cries and shouts as she approached orgasm. But if she didn’t care if her neighbors heard them fucking, why should he?
His postal uniform – along with his underwear and socks – lay on the floor where Camille had dropped them after undressing him. She’d met him at the door wearing only a skimpy black bra and panties, and they lay next to his uniform. Camille had removed them seconds after she’d gotten him naked. His carrier bag stuffed with mail sat propped up against the wall near the clothes. Whenever he was invited into a woman’s bedroom, he always brought his bag and put it where he could keep an eye on it. He was a professional, after all.
Camille wanted to switch positions, and a moment later, she lay on her back, legs up in the air and spread wide, mashing her left breast with one hand and furiously working her clit with the other while he continued drilling her. Both of them were slick with sweat, and Norman was wondering if she would squirt when she came today. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t.
He was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice a tendril of darkness slide through the tiny spaces in one of the window screens, pushing its way silently between the curtains, and begin slithering into the room. The Shadowkin arced downward toward the floor, moved across the carpet, then stretched upward along the side of the bed. The tip of its tendril reached to the top of the bed near Camille’s left shoulder, and then, swift as a striking cobra, it lunged toward her mouth. She’d been in the process of her sexual monologue – words coming faster, voice pitched higher, breathing more rapid as she got closer to climax – so her mouth was open when the Shadowkin’s tendril came at her, and it jammed itself past her teeth, over her tongue, and down her throat. Her eyes went wide with surprise, and she tried to scream, but the Shadowkin’s thick, dark substance filled her throat, preventing her from making any sound or, for that matter, taking in air. The Shadowkin continued flowing into her, doing so rapidly, and by the time Norman was aware there was some kind of weird-looking snake-like thing crawling down Camille’s throat, the last of the Shadowkin’s substance had come through the window screen, shot toward Camille, and vanished into her.
Her eyes rolled back in her head and she removed her hands from her breast and clitoris and grabbed Norman’s wrists. His hands were palm down on the mattress, supporting him while he’d been fucking Camille, only now he wanted nothing more than to pull out of her and throw himself backward off the bed in order to get away from her and the thing inside her. But her hands tightened around his in twin death grips, and he couldn’t free himself. The woman might’ve been twice his age, but damn, she was strong!
He watched in horror as bulges appeared on her upper and lower abdomen, and he realized the black stuff – whatever the hell it was – was racing through her, down her alimentary canal, into her stomach, then her intestines, and from there—
Her body arched against him, her muscles tightened, and she threw her head back. The tail end of the Shadowkin had penetrated deeply enough inside her that she was able to breathe again, and she used that breath to scream. It struck Norman that she was caught in the throes of pain so intense that it seemed like a grotesque parody of an orgasm. Something was happening inside her – something bad. He still couldn’t pull free from her grip, felt her fingernails cutting into the flesh of his wrists, but his cock – still inside her – began to deflate. Then he felt something tickle the opening of his penis, almost as if a finger was poking him from inside her.
Good Christ. The tentacle-thing had burst through her intestines, into her uterus, and had slid down her vaginal canal, where it was now fondling him.
“No!” he shouted. “No, no, no!”
He gritted his teeth, put everything he had into yanking his arms free of Camille’s hands, but she continued holding him fast, her grip like iron.
And then the Shadowkin entered him.
Norman had never been catheterized before, but it had always seemed to him like one of the most painful things a person – especially a man – could endure. But this was worse than anything he could’ve imagined. It was like molten fire had been injected into his penis, and he screamed without being aware that he did. He redoubled his efforts to pull free from Camille’s grip, but she continued holding on to him tight, so tight he felt the bones in his wrists grind together. If this continued, they might well break, but he didn’t care about that. He had worse things to worry about.
Her body began spasming more violently, as if she were caught in a massive seizure. Then her head snapped forward, and her eyes focused on him. For an instant, he saw awareness in them, along with absolute terror. And then her mouth opened wide and she vomited a torrent of dark blood onto him. It splashed onto his chest, so hot it almost burned, and then her eyes rolled white once again, her head fell back on the pillow, and her body – breasts and belly also splattered with blood now – fell still. Her grip loosened and he was finally able to pull away from her. He yanked his arms free so hard that he fell backward, slid off the foot of the bed, and hit the floor. He didn’t feel the impact, though. The agonizing fire in his penis – which had now spread to his lower abdomen – overwhelmed all other sensation. He saw the black stuff, looking like a thick ebon snake, protruding from the end of his cock and stretching up onto the bed where it was still in the process of exiting Camille’s dead body. He instinctively grabbed hold of the thing, intending to pull it out of him, but its surface was slick with Camille’s blood, and it slid through his hands with ease. The pain intensified as the dark tentacle pushed its way further into his body, and he no longer possessed the ability to think or act. His hands fell away from the tentacle’s blood-slick surface, and he lay back against the carpet and screamed. He saw the tail end of the tentacle wiggle into him, and once it was inside, his dick went fully limp, like a balloon that’s had all the air let out of it. He continued screaming, unaware that blood now bubbled up from deep inside him and ran down his chin and the sides of his face. He felt a sharp piercing pain just below his sternum, followed by an awful pushing and tearing sensation. A small fissure opened in his skin, followed by a trickle of blood. And then a clawed black hand burst upward in a spray of blood.
As Norman died, he saw the Shadowkin pull itself free from his body, and as the great dark rushed in to claim him, he had time for a final thought.
Should’ve worn a condom.
And then he was gone.
* * *
Blanche Tucker was eighty-three years old, and she could still get around on her own – more or less. She lived in a retirement community, Sunrise Hills, a stupidly bland name, but the place was a hell of a lot better than a full-fledged nursing home. She didn’t drive anymore, so she relied on Uber and Lyft to get from point A to point B. Her vision was okay, and while she wouldn’t be running any marathons in the future, she could walk just fine. Her mind wasn’t as nimble as it once was. Her thoughts came more slowly these days, and she couldn’t always remember things right away, but she showed no signs of dementia, thank the lord. Overall, her health was good. At least, as good as it could be given her age. She took a handful of pills in the morning and another handful at night, which was a pain in the ass, but they kept her functioning, so she put up with them.
People marveled at how active and mentally alert she was at her age. You should thank the lord for your good health, one of the other residents at Sunrise Hills had once told her. She’d received similar expressions of wonder combined with envy from other people. But although she was grateful for her health, she lived in a constant state of dread. For the thing about getting older was that each day brought her another day closer to death. This was true for everything that lived, of course, but only human beings were aware of it, and most could ignore this cold reality and get on with the business of living. But when you reached a certain age – which Blanche had done a while ago – you knew that there were fewer days ahead than behind. Each tick of the clock brought you closer to death, and while you didn’t know when the big event would occur – unless you took your own life, of course – you knew it would be sooner rather than later. It didn’t help that you got to watch so many friends and family members go before you did. Her husband (heart attack at sixty-nine), their only child (heroin overdose in her thirties), her sister (massive stroke in her mid-seventies), her best friend (breast cancer in her fifties). The parade of death kept marching on, and one day you’d have no choice but to join it.
So Blanche was paranoid about her health, always alert for any sign there was something wrong with her – seriously wrong. She washed her hands obsessively, used hand sanitizer when she couldn’t wash. She checked her pulse multiple times a day, monitored her bowel movements, never forgot to take her pills, and exercised to the degree of which her old body was capable. She ate right, avoided fat and sugar, stayed away from caffeine, and visited her doctor regularly. Too regularly. Whenever she had the least little concern about her health – a pain in her stomach, a stubborn cough that held on too long – she went to her doctor’s office. She went so often that during her last visit, the doctor had suggested that she make a regular appointment to come in once a month to be checked out, but otherwise she wouldn’t come in unless she was running a high fever or was in excruciating pain. And the doctor had emphasized excruciating. She’d reluctantly agreed, although she doubted she’d be able to stick to the plan. As soon as her throat got too dry or her hands began to ache – as soon as anything happened – she’d be back in. She couldn’t help herself. The doctor had never used the word hypochondria, but she knew that’s what the woman was thinking. The doctor was half Blanche’s age. Wait’ll you hit your eighties, she thought. Your definition of hypochondria will change then.
She’d decided to do some early Christmas shopping for her great-grandnieces and nephews, and she’d gone out even though it was raining. A lot of the residents at Sunrise Hills wouldn’t set foot outside if the weather wasn’t absolutely perfect. Not Blanche. She’d put on her coat, grabbed her umbrella, called an Uber, and had the driver drop her off at a small shopping plaza not far from downtown. There was a store there called Blue Elephant Toys that specialized in items you couldn’t find in big box stores, funky educational toys, as well as playthings designed to exercise children’s imaginations. No Barbies or Pokemon here. She’d spoken with the owner the last time she’d stopped in, and the woman had told her the store carried a curated selection of toys. Blanche liked that word. Curated, like in a museum.
She stood outside the store now, the building’s overhanging roof protecting her from the rain, so she didn’t need to use her umbrella. The Uber driver had dropped her off here, but after paying and getting out of the car, she hadn’t gone inside the store. The instant she stepped out of the car, she started having trouble catching her breath. She told herself that nothing bad was happening. She got winded sometimes, especially if she pushed herself too hard, and she’d spent the morning cleaning her apartment and doing laundry. Did too much, that’s all. She only needed to stand here a few moments and give her lungs a chance to relax. She’d be fine then, and she could go into the toy store and find something that, hopefully, would delight the children on Christmas morning. But as she stood on the sidewalk in front of the Blue Elephant, rain pattering on the overhang above her, making a rushing-hiss sound as it came down on the parking lot, she still couldn’t catch her breath. In fact, it was becoming more difficult for her to draw in air at all. Her pulse raced. She could feel it fluttering at the base of her throat, pounding in her temples.
You’re having a panic attack. You’ve worked yourself
up to the point where you’re afraid you can’t breathe, and now that’s what’s happening. A self-fulfilled prophecy.
If she could relax, calm herself, her breathing should return to normal and she’d be okay.
She was well aware of the weight of her purse hanging from her shoulder, of the phone she kept inside. She could pull it out, call nine-one-one, wait for paramedics to arrive and tend to her, take her to the hospital if necessary. If she waited too long to call, if she was stubborn and denied the possibility that she was experiencing a medical crisis, she might die right here, now, in front of a store that sold playthings for children. Wouldn’t that be a lovely surprise for the next child whose mother brought him or her to the store? Mommy, why is that old lady lying on the sidewalk? Is she asleep?
She didn’t want to be weak, didn’t want to give in to her fear. But she didn’t want to die, either. She reached into her purse and grabbed her phone. But before she could remove it, she saw them. They came running across the parking lot, lean, long-limbed creatures formed of featureless darkness. A half dozen, maybe more. They wove between parked vehicles, slashing out at them with clawed hands, digging gouges in the metal, shattering window glass. But the damage didn’t end there. As the creatures moved on, the vehicles began to lose their shapes, melt and liquefy, the falling rain hastening this process until they lost structural integrity entirely, sagged, and collapsed into piles of thick, metallic-colored goo. Within seconds, the shadow things destroyed a dozen cars in this fashion, and they continued destroying more as they headed in Blanche’s direction. She understood instantly what she was witnessing. These were creatures of death, and they were coming for her at last. She didn’t intend to stand there and wait for them, though. She’d spent eighty years and change avoiding them, and she didn’t plan on giving in to them now. She turned and rushed inside the Blue Elephant, concerns about her breathing and heart rate forgotten. She had more immediate threats to contend with.
