Grimoire Diabolique

much the same as a hand wringing milk out of a cow’s gorged teat. Exhausted, then, she switched positions with Rena, who immediately exclaimed, “It’s like fucking a rolling pin, Wendy!” as she inserted the elephantine penis into her slick bald snatch. Wendlyn found no exaggeration in Rena’s previous affirmation; when she pressed her own downy-blond snatch to Larry’s face, a tongue of utmost dimensions delved at once up into the beslickened furrow. She came again in minutes, leaving Larry’s face shiny as wet shellac, and then Rena, too, tensed up and shuddered in wave upon wave of deepest orgasm, at which time Larry’s own crisis unloosed, warm gouts of semen fat as worms rocketing up into the squirming purse of flesh. Rena’s face strained, her hands opened on his belly, as she squealed in glee, “He’s coming in me like a fucking garden hose!”

“Whew!” Larry replied, relaxing back against the handcuffs. “That was one dandy nut. I knew you girls were hot.”

“And we’re gonna get a lot hotter,” Wendlyn promised. Larry didn’t notice Rena leaving the room, too engrossed via the next distraction: the application of Wendlyn’s mouth to the flaccid, veined penis. It didn’t remain flaccid long, though. In only minutes, back to turgid life it sprang. Wendlyn 69’d him, already anxious to feel that long tongue slide back up into her groove’s salt-wet depths. To her surprise, however, and in an ultimate display of male bravado, the tongue bypassed this usual fissure and forced its way instead into the tight, flinching button of her rectum. It took quite a man to offer his tongue to this less-dainty orifice and, likewise, it took quite a woman to sufficiently perform fellatio upon a cock like Larry’s. She could scarcely get the glans in her mouth much less the tumid shaft—she’d have better luck sucking a summer squash! Eventually she took to drawing her pinkie in and out of the big peehole, the sensation of which Larry tittered at as his visage remained vised in the cleft of Wendlyn’s buttocks.

But when Rena reappeared, she climbed off. “You said you wanted a hot time, right, Larry?”

“Oh, yeah, oh, yeah,” Larry concurred. His penis bobbed, like a ludicrous puppet.

“Well how’s this for hot?” Rena stepped into the light, wearing sunglasses, for a reason that would become apparent in another moment. In her left hand she held a match. And in her right hand she held—

“OH, MY GOD!” Larry justifiably screamed.

—a blowtorch.

“This should be real hot, Larry,” Wendlyn proposed. She pressed her breasts together in sheer, erotic delight. “And I mean real real hot…”

Rena lit the blowtorch and adjusted its flame down to a hissing, white-blue point. “Hot enough for you, Larry?” she inquired, applying the 1200-degree-plus flame to the tip of his dick. The tip shriveled at once, like a smoking marshmallow. Ditto as for the big testicles. Rena languidly roved the torch flame back and forth across the crisping scrotum, while Larry screamed so hard the whites of his eyes turned red in hemorrhage, and thrashed with such force the bed rocked up and down on its legs.

Wendlyn waved away at the stinking smoke, laughing along like a naked blond cheerleader from hell. Rena next bore the flame down on the center of Larry’s flabby chest, straddling him as he bucked horselike in agony better left undescribed. The flame burned down down down, disintegrating flesh and bone alike, opening up a great black smoking pit in which Larry’s heart cooked, then broiled, then collapsed to ash.

So much for Larry.

“Yeah,” Wendlyn remarked, grinning down through the odiferous smoke. “I think that was hot enough for him.”

««—»»

Wendlyn sauntered nude to the garage, to fetch a dropcloth.

Her big orbicular breasts bounced quite nicely with each step, and her big smile made no secret of her satisfaction. Chalk up another one for womanhood, she thought. One more greedy, lustful, pussy-hungry woman-exploiter for the deep six.

Back in the bedroom, though, she froze.

“What the…fuck?”

The bed lay empty. At first she thought Rena must already have unlocked the corpse, but a closer glance invalidated this suspicion. Each set of handcuffs remained secured to the bed’s brass rails, yet each set was clearly missing its counterpart. In other words, the cuffs had been broken…

And above the lingering smoky stench of fried human flesh, Wendlyn smelled something deeper, more pungent. Like fresh sewage enlaced with something else…

Then she glanced to the left—

Glanced down—

And screamed.

Out of the room’s shadow, Rena lay sprawled in the corner, glassy-eyed in death. Some heinously sharp instrument had lain open her abdomen, and from this gaping insult most of her lower g.i. tract had been yanked out. Shiny pink intestines formed squiggles on the floor, like queer garlands. Kidneys, spleen, and pancreas glistened. Worse, though, was that Rena’s adorable, pointy little breasts were…gone. Bitten off. And the same too for that silk-smooth hairless pubis: gnawed out from betwixt the askew legs.

Beady eyes glinted. From the shadow, the huge angular head lowered as similarly huge jaws spread, baring white teeth the size of masonry nails. Rena’s face was then eaten off the skull as a child might eat the icing off a cupcake.

A cascade of warm amber pee flowed freely down Wendlyn’s plush legs. Her mouth froze open. She couldn’t move. Then the voice croaked, but it was no human voice at all—just a ragged, unearthly suboctave, a succession of rasps, rattling like phlegm.

The voice said this: “You picked the wrong guy to fuck with tonight, baby.”

By now Larry had transformed to near completeness, and this ancient and mystical metamorphosis had fully repaired Rena’s earlier handiwork with the blowtorch. Three lone facts stood before Wendlyn now which, despite their impossibility, she could not deny. One, Larry was alive. Two, he was pissed off. And, three, he was a werewolf.

Wendlyn gulped.

Correction. He was a big werewolf, and in more ways than one. No reckoning would save her now, nor would any defensive action, and certainly no plea. Despite her understandable horror, however, and the paresis from which she could not release herself, the cogent agreement sparkled in her mind. Yes. Yes, you’re right. We definitely picked the wrong guy to fuck with tonight.

So much for counter-exploitation.

The creature rose, the vulpine face grinned. Well-hung as a man, Larry was even bigger as a lycantrope, the evidence of which now bloomed in obviousness, the doglike sheath sliding back showing glinting, shiny pink. Poor Wendlyn easily acknowledged the deduction: Now that Larry had eaten, he was ready to get down to some serious exploitation of his own.

— | — | —

EVER NAT

Gray had seen the girl hitching down the Route several nights in a row. Pure-bred redneck, he could tell, but… Christ, she’s cute. Faded cut-offs, halter-top, sleek bare legs flashing in his headlights as she trod the road’s gravel edge. He’d read in the county section that prostitutes were known to hitch on the Route….

Gray worked in the city: 125k a year now, assistant programming director for UniCorp. Not bad for 40. And switching him to 4-to-12s dropped another ten percent in his pocket as a night differential. The adjustment came easy: fewer people in the office, fewer distractions and ringing phones—more time to work. Gray had no wife anymore and had never really cared about a social life; the way he saw it, work was the only way to make anything of himself. And I have, he thought now. His car, in part, was proof. An onyx-black Callaway Twin Turbo Corvette: sixty grand. A $15,000 VTL/Apogee stereo at home. And home wasn’t shabby either, a three-bedroom luxury condo, waterfront. The good things in life—that’s what he worked for….

But at times like this, during these incalculable drives, he got to wondering. What else is there? Good question after two marriages and two divorces, plus the handful of nickel-dime relationships in