Trolley No. 1852

I refastened my trousers. “Jealous?” I questioned but suddenly the notion made sense. Not only was I possessed of more substantial genitals (the utmost symbol of masculinity) but I had also demonstrated a further degree of sexual superiority over them: my efforts alone had brought Selina to a devastating climax, whereas theirs had not.

“Will they let us go, now that we’ve done as they ordered?”

Selina knelt as she faced me; her shoulders slumped. “Not… just… yet…”

It was the clothed motorman who approached, then slapped me across the head.

“What?” I blathered. “What is this?”

“They’re furious that you out-performed them, Morgan,” came my sister’s disconsolate reply. “They won’t let us go back until you’ve sufficiently debased yourself. It’s their way of getting back at you, for proving that you’re more masculine than all of them.”

I couldn’t imagine what she might be implying, but then imagination was hardly necessary a moment later when the motorman lowered his trousers and extracted the harrowing genitals.

“You have to take him in your mouth,” came Selina’s regretful words.

“In the name of all things decent and pure!” I caterwauled.

“And you’ll have to swallow it all. Only then will they be satisfied… That way, they get their last laugh, in spite of your manly prowess… by turning you into their bitch, so to speak.”

Despair couldn’t have lengthened my face further. Since the motorman’s release with Miss Aheb, enough time had passed to permit full sexual revivification; the thing was ready again, in other words, and to that state of readiness I could all-too-awfully attest. The grotesque organ had already become engorged by the thing’s mere thought of what impended.

“Just do it, Morgan,” my sister pleaded. “You don’t want to know how many times I’ve had to…”

To this end I resigned myself; I’d be doing it not only to spare my own life but Selina’s as well. So I steeled myself with every mental fortitude… took the appalling thing into my mouth.

Having had no experience in such things, however, I hadn’t a clue as to what I was doing. I harnessed initiative only via the deduction that I must do my best to imagine the proper technique…

In only seconds that dreadful “carrot” hardened to full size in my quivering mouth.

Inept as I was sure my oral subventions were, the motorman seemed overly pleased by the effort. Each time I drew my lips rearward, along the organ’s tapering form, I increased the suction, which caused the beast’s hips to fidget.

“Faster now,” Selina instructed. “And… get ready…”

I forced the implication from conscious thought, proceeding as instructed. Then…

The motorman’s “jism” poured into my mouth.

The effect was worse than any conjecture. My face seemed to turn to stone after my first gulp. To assign simile to the taste of the evil slew defied possibility. Gout after gout, it issued, each mouth-filling allotment seeming thicker than the previous, and more lumpen.

“Keep swallowing, Morgan!” my sister implored. “Don’t spit up!”

Easier communicated than achieved. Numbed to my brain, I forced myself to mechanically pause, then swallow, pause, then swallow. The stuff was hot, and I could swear I actually felt spermatozoic constituents moving around on my tongue each time my oral cavity was re-filled. I could only imagine that the forced consumption of carrion or even excreta would be more agreeable than this…

I reeled on my knees after the abatement of the motorman’s final spurt, that last deposit being thick as gelatin. My stomach threatened to heave and properly eject the violation, but I gathered all my forbearance, fisted my hands, and, shuddering, swallowed the whole gelatinous mass.

“You did it!” Selina congratulated.

When the hideous lump at last sunk to the pit of my squirming gut, I collapsed posthaste into a dead faint.

2.

Some inestimable time later, my senses seemed to rise, akin to putrefactive gases voiding from a lime-pit. It was upon the pristine floor of Miss Aheb’s lavish yet eldritchly lit bed-chamber that my consciousness re-found me; in fact, my first sight was that of the corrupt chandelier suspended overhead, shimmering in its queer anti- light.

Of the dimension-transcending trolley-ride back, I remembered nary a detail. I was alone, however, and as I roused myself, I checked my pocket-watch to see, to my dismay, that the time was but four-thirteen in the morn…

Only one minute later than when I’d checked so long ago!

The watch continued to tick, though, the second-hand revolving…

Just like Erwin mentioned. This place, and that horrendous domain I’ve just returned from, must exist in some daedalic contravention of time…

A strange tapping cut into my ruminations, tapping which I recognized eventually as footsteps. It was my sister, maskless but dressed once more in her conductor’s garb, who crossed the mosaic flooring. The chamber’s bizarre acoustics lent to her voice an uncanny echo. “Oh, Morgan, I’m so sorry about what they made you do.”

“It was of my own free volition that I came here in the first place, and of my own free volition that I smuggled myself aboard Trolley 1852,” I recited. “All in the interest in finding you.”

“You’re such a gallant man, Morgan. I can only imagine your disgust with me.”

“Disgust?” I asked, irked. “You’re my only sibling, and I love you with my whole heart. Please know that.”

“But to learn that your only sibling could stoop so low as to submit to prostitution…”

“My dearest sister, what you must also know is that I fully understand the travails that force women to resort to such alternatives. In these times of economic cataclysm, women even more than men suffer from the throes of subjugation.” Groggily, I sat up. “This, believe me, I comprehend, and I love you no less.”

Selina seemed relieved to hear this, relieved enough even to sob. But what I simply could not reckon was the hideousness of her maligned complexion, the once-beauteous countenance made appalling by the swirls of phlegmatic-green mixed with fish-belly white. “I had no choice but to consign myself to the life of a common street-whore but even then I was homeless and barely able to eat…”

“I understand that,” I reiterated. “But… what I don’t understand is…”

“The change,” she finished for me, and touched her face with loath. “Eventually some girls corralled me into the club, but as I briefly explained earlier, I did not service johns for long after my arrival. It turned out, Miss Aheb fell in love with me, so… she changed me…”

“Your skin,” I knew. “She effected a metamorphosis, to make your skin like hers”—I gulped—“and like the skin of Pyramidiles and the thoggs.”

“With this, yes,” she explicated, fingering the pendant. “The change allows me to live forever, but this is what I’ll have to do… forever. She wants me all to herself; and when I’m not servicing her, I conduct the trolley and, every week or so, see to the transport of our… collection across the ingression threshold.”

Collection, I thought numbly. The constant collection of human semen to be used for God knows what by the Pyramidiles…

“The legend is true,” I droned. “The club’s matron, Miss Aheb, and the witch-priestess Isimah el-Aheb of thousands of years bygone are one in the same!”

Did the chandelier’s counter-light suddenly climb in intensity? It was Miss Aheb herself who next strode into the chamber, adorned in the diaphanous black gown which highlighted her preeminent physique. Yet the sleek arms and legs, the plunging decolletage, and her face remained abhorrent by her skin’s similarity to that of the mountainous Pyramidiles. I knew now that the leviathanic monsters had, through some occult mode, shared their hideous skin with Miss Aheb and Selina. What other traits beyond appearance might this dermal metamorphosis