Sally smiled down at her now youthful lover and reached down to remove his mask. Jim was moaning within its suffocating embrace, his sexual exertions transformed into a single word repeated over and over: a plea, a prayer to his one true Goddess: “Sal! Sal! Sal! Sal!”
When Sally awoke, the bedroom was dark. With a guilty start, she realized she had been touching herself, clutching at the warmth of her body, the only heat left in this cold night. The ghost of a nightmare fluttered by her—something about Jim—only to slip from her grasp before she could fully catch hold of it.
A sound from downstairs brought her back to reality. It sounded like someone calling. Someone a thousand miles away, the voice muffled and faint.
Sally sighed and tried to get back to sleep. But the moment was lost. Her mind, now awake, fastened upon the distant sound as though awaiting some prearranged signal. And there it came again, a muffled syllable repeated over and over, but closer this time. Now it sounded like it was coming from inside the house. Downstairs, in the hall. Rising slowly now, the voice was punctuated by the muffled creak of foot against stair.
Angry at her own overactive imagination, Sally sat up in bed and flicked on the bedside light. She pulled herself from beneath the covers and flung her dressing-gown about her. Rising to her feet, she threw open the bedroom door, eager to see her nightmares evaporate in the harsh glare of reality.
Instead she stopped, dumbfounded, at the sight that awaited her. For there, standing in front of her upon the landing, was the figure of Jim Macmillan.
Sally tried to tell herself that she was still dreaming, but this reality could not be denied. The figure that stood before her was nothing like the erotic fantasy figure of her dream. No easily roused sleeper this, but a gone-off, loathsome thing that belonged in a grave. Jim’s naked flesh appeared marbled and grey. The veins on his naked body stood proud, as though trying to uproot themselves from his skin. A dark sheen of blood seemed to have gathered about his head, painting the deflated plastic that still shrouded him a dull crimson. My husband looks like a toffee apple, Sally thought deliriously, and started to cry.
Sally stumbled backwards into the bedroom. Her husband followed after her, his movements unnaturally fluid and lithe. Only Jim’s penis seemed affected by the touch of rigor mortis. Its swollen length thrust before him like the prow of a ship. Backing away, Sally found herself flat against the far wall. Jim stopped before her. Her dead husband’s expression was unreadable beneath his mask of plastic. Jim reached up and pulled the bag from his face, and Sally finally began to scream.
She tried her best to struggle as Jim lifted her in his arms, but he had always been the stronger. He carried her to the wardrobe, ignorant of her pleas. Sally cried for help, desperately hoping that a neighbor might hear, but the words died in her throat as Jim pulled a stocking tight about her neck.
As Sally struggled for breath, her vision began to fade. She became aware of her heartbeat, roaring louder and louder in her ears. How long did she have left? she wondered. How long until she joined the abomination before her in death?
And then, the strangest thing happened. Despite the nightmare before her, despite the rapid approach of her own mortality, Sally felt something moving deep within. Something was blossoming inside her, some fragile flower flickering into being at the very moment of her death.
Staring into the vacant gaze of the corpse before her, Sally Macmillan put her hands between her legs and felt the spark.
DIRTY LITTLE FISH STORY
Tonia Brown
Buster hated fishing. He’d hated it his whole life, but, like clockwork, every Friday night, he dragged his fat ass down to the lake to put the boat in the water and drop a line. It was his old man who did it to him, ingrained this idea that real men fished. Well, actually the old fart used to say that real men did three things: fought, fucked and fished. Buster hadn’t been in a fistfight since Dale Clemet broke his jaw five years ago. He also hadn’t been within licking distance of a pussy since that same night, so he reckoned there was only one thing left for him to do to prove his worth as a real man.
Fish.
Which he hated.
At least it was a peaceful hobby. Nice quiet lake. Quiet boat. Quiet line. Quiet fish. Fish didn’t nag you. They didn’t boss you about either. When fishing, there was no one to talk you into spending your whole paycheck for a little slip of a nightie that she wasn’t gonna have on for more than five minutes anyway, with the assurance that she wouldn’t fuck you again until you got it for her. No one to invite you over for the whole weekend while her husband was supposed to be out of town, then cry rape when said husband came home a day too early and caught you banging the wife’s gong. Yeah, fishing was a swell enough hobby. Better to chase a fish than chase that stupid old cunt. There was very little difference in the smell, and if you happened to put your dick in a fish, you didn’t end up with your jaw broken.
Be that as it may, Buster still hated fishing.
He supposed he hated it for the same reason he did it in the first place: ‘cause his old man loved it so damned much. Buster didn’t hate his dad. No, it was more like the other way around. On a normal day, which is to say just about every day, Dad never had more than four words to say to Buster, and those went something like, ‘hand me another worm’ or cricket or chicken liver or whatever bait they were working with that day. Buster didn’t want to hate his dad—no young man really does—so he spent his youth cultivating a loathing disgust for even the very thought of fishing instead. Then Dad died, and all Buster had left was his hatred for fishing and the family boat. He soon learned that old folks passed on old adages because there was so much old sense in them.
In this case, old habits were very hard to break.
For a time, it was just him, the boat and the usual lonely Friday night fishing fest. And lonely it was. Lake Jackson was enormous, so big you couldn’t see one side from the other. A guy could set out in his craft and lose sight of the shore before he knew what had happened, which was just what he liked about this body of water. Buster supposed he could have stuck to the popular spots, made fishermen friends and spent those Fridays swapping tales of conquests and not being so lonely. But he had gotten to where he liked other folks even less than he liked to fish. Well, there was that and the fact that he didn’t want to share his secret spots with other folks.
Specifically, other men.
The truth of the matter was simple. Buster’s dad didn’t just teach the young lad the merits of good fishing while spending night after night on the waters of good old Lake Jackson. He also taught the kid how to work a pair of binoculars, and which kinds of lake folks didn’t think to pull the shades at night. It was a sloppy education in the female body and the deeds of sexual congress. Now, as a man, Buster certainly didn’t need to stoop to the act of peeping when he had the Internet full of porn back home, however, once on the lake, he found again that old habits were indeed very hard to break. With a line in the water and a hand down his shorts, Buster kept his habits hard.
Until, one evening, his habits changed.
The better part of this particular evening was spent watching a busty forty-something MILF get fucked up the ass with a strap-on by a woman so identical that the pair could have passed for twins. The sight of this sin drove Buster to almost tear a hole in his pants in an effort to get to his pecker. He came twice at the display, less than an hour apart, which was a record for him. Then, the bitch ruined it by going ass to mouth on her sister, shoving the strap-on down the girl’s throat without so much as a swipe at the thing with a tissue. That put Buster off his nut for what he thought would be the rest of the night.