Cage of Bones & Other Deadly Obsessions

by John Everson

  “Promise. You like her, you get it fixed. Then you kin fuck her mouth. Only then.”

  Again I agreed, and she led me past a brown couch, stuffing leaking from its belly and into a brighter kitchen. She pointed to an old white wooden chair and I sat, noting the drone of bees was louder here. I thought the window over the sink must have been the one I’d seen from the drive.

  What the hell had Kyla sent me into? Was this a punishment for something?

  The inside of the house was no more kept up than the out. And in the heat of summer, with no air conditioning and no open windows, the air was stifling. And sour. Flies bumped heads against a grease-blurred window, and on the table a handful of mugs and glasses remained full of recent leavings. A glass of tomato juice, another of some light golden juice, maybe apple. A mug of coffee was in front of me, and I pushed away its curdled contents in disgust. Something with a lot of legs ran across the broken tile at my feet.

  The old woman came back then, this time with a younger woman. At first glance, she was a beaut. Long, raven-black hair flowed over her shoulders, and a thin, ratty tank clung tightly to her and did nothing to hide the fullness of her breasts. The dark point of her left nipple pressed tightly through the fabric. A wide trail of sweat ran from the hollow of her neck to the point just above the deep pock of her bellybutton. The shirt ended there, and so did her clothing.

  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, thankfully, 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 guessed I’d “do.”

  I reached out to lift her shirt but she shrunk back.

  What the hell? 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 messed 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 screwed 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 do 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 screwin’, and not much else. And then only by perverts like you.”

  “Sweet attitude.”

  “You paying for sugar?”

  “Naw.”

  “Then fuck off.”

  Classy.

  “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. Hell 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 afterward, I’d stand up and piss right down her pussy mouth.

  I was ready.

  The old bitch answered the door, slate gray 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, then 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.

  Afterward, when the sweat had dried on her chest and my hard-on 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.

  When you’re a kid there are monsters under every bed, killers in every closet and witches in every neighborhood. But sometimes the most frightening parts of growing up are the discoveries of our own nature.

  Creaks

  he noise broke through my dream as sharply as if somebody had tossed ice on my bare back. I woke up tense, heart beating so loud and fast, I worried it might pop. “And what a mess that would make,” I thought.

  Shaking and quivering under the downy comforter grandma had given me just last month, I listened hard at the night. I strained to hear and willed my heart and the blood pumping madly through my veins to silence itself. My body was drenched in sweat, but I wasn’t hot. And then I heard it again: a faint shriek, as if a small animal – or maybe a girl – were being throttled somewhere in the house. For a moment, I pulled the covers over my head and hid from the sound, but a moment in the dead black tent of my bed convinced me I was better off if I could at least see what was going to kill me. I pushed the covers back.

  I don’t know where the courage came from. I was really quite a shy boy – not ever standing around where a fight might find me, never laughing rudely at jokes about the teachers or girls’ private parts – the stuff the bully boys made their reputations on. But still, somewhere in my 10-year-old frame I found a spark. A monster was loose and I would vanquish it. Save the girl it was trying to eat. I crept from my bed and grabbed the only weapon I could find: my little league baseball.

  I stepped into the hallway – and almost wet my pants. Ahead of me a sharp staccato sound reverberated. Creak. Creak. Creak.

  I knew houses settle and my dad had often told me the hows and whys of those midnight noises that used to send me quaking to my parent’s bed. But this was different. This was… unnatural.

  In my mind: a ghoul as it raised a blackened face, lips missing from around its fangs, eyes glowing with hellfire. It wore a black cape, but I could see
the white bones beneath and smell the stench of decaying meat. It must be coming down the stairs, I thought, not being able to come up with any other explanation. The creaks were the pads of its hairy clawed feet coming down from the attic. One, two, three. How many stairs were there? I panicked, frozen to the spot halfway down the hall – completely exposed to its claws. Why hadn’t I stayed in bed? Maybe it wouldn’t have seen me. Maybe it would have eaten mom or dad – or better yet, my sister – and left me alone. Tears were filling my eyes and my bladder threatened to burst and still my feet were rooted. Creak. Creak. I’d dashed up those stairs a million times and I couldn’t remember their count. Ten? Twelve? Thirteen? Then the creaking stopped and the house was still for a second.

  It was going to leave me alive! I rolled the league ball in my hand and tried to listen over the angry noise of my heart. A freeway rushed in my head, despite the leaden silence of the dark hallway.

  No. Everything was not still. Somewhere something moaned, or cried. The monster was here and it had somebody! Maybe my sister? I hoped. Maybe my mom, my heart leapt at the thought. I steeled my will one final herculean time and forced my feet forward. One step. Two. Three.

  And I was in the living room of our house and the creature was not as it had appeared in my mind. Oh, it was there, but across the room it appeared bone-white and sickly. An amorphous blob of pulsating flesh that rose and fell on the couch. And as I quaked with fear, I heard what made the noise and I saw my mother’s face hanging back in apparent agony over the edge of the cushions and I knew that I alone could save her. Taking aim through the murky darkness at the widest swath of flesh that lay atop devouring her, I let loose my beaten, rough, grass-stained little league ball with all the force of a future pony league pitcher just as my mother hissed through the pregnant silence, “Oh God, yes!”

  The ball hit the monster with a resounding slap and it was only at that moment, as I heard the voice of my father groan “Yeah. Slap me baby,” that I knew the severity of my error. The monster was my dad, and he was doing something horribly disgusting to my mother. And she was enjoying it! The couch was creaking and my stomach was turning inside out and the sight of his heaving white buttocks was the end of my childhood, I think. It was certainly far more frightening than any red-eyed monster I could envision.