Trolley No. 1852

“But of course, I’m aware you and the Thogg were preparing the trolley for the next ingression…”

My head turned atilt. Thogg? What was that? And what did she mean by ingression? And what was this ‘awful stuff’ she’d referred to? What I’d seen thus far assured me there was nothing at all awful about how she appeared.

“I’m ready now,” Madam Aheb said and sat eloquently in a spectacular spoke-backed Revolution-era chair.

My view of her was blocked when the conductor stood in front of the madam and, with a linen towel, appeared to be wiping off her arms, shoulders, and graceful legs. “Good, good,” she half-moaned. The conductor’s hands kept busy in their task but remained a frustrating visual blockage to exactly what was being done. Nevertheless, he continued to wipe the exposed skin of his mastress.

What in the name of Pegana is he wiping off? I pondered.

Still blocked by the bulk shape, Miss Aheb stood up from the chair; and it was the movements of the conductor that led me to believe he was now removing the madam’s gown.

“Ah, there. That’s better. I just so much prefer to be naked…”

When the silent conductor stepped away, Miss Aheb stood in full view to my prying eye—

The image forced me to press my hand across my lips; otherwise the horrific image of what I now saw would’ve surely caused me to scream quite blood-curdlingly…

I was looking at a dichotomy of unspeakable magnitude: a collision of obscene and utter opposites stripped bare; indeed, the force majeure of physical beauty and physical horror. I say, Miss Aheb now stood naked, and in her nakedness came the accentuation of the sum of all her parts: flawless contours and perfect feminine lines; the sweep of impeccable legs; a sleekness that was robust and healthily slender simultaneously; and high-riding, distendedly nippled breasts that existed without flaw.

The horror was in her complexion.

Any impeccability of Miss Aheb’s physique was howlingly counter-weighed by what I could only conceive of as some ghastly epidermal defect or pitiable disease. Every square inch of her exposed skin was made appalling by a condition far worse than the pallor, say, of the conductor’s face but instead by a skin-tone that was absolutely revolting. It was not the strange un-light that held dominion in the room: of this I was sure. It was a physical fact of the woman’s heredity.

Her skin looked like the unpleasant white of a bullfrog’s belly marbled by swaths of a mucoid green.

The image nearly overpowered me; I nearly voided my stomach’s contents. It occurred to me now that what the servile conductor had been wiping off was no doubt some mode of cosmetic make-up to conceal the madam’s true appearance to this evening’s guests; what’s more (and I don’t know how I knew this) I felt all-too-certain that this aberrancy of Miss Aheb’s skin was her natural condition!

Between her protuberant yet malignantly toned breasts hung a modest pendant whose elongated stone reminded me of a common stalactite of chalcedony, nearly colorless and rather lackluster. Yet from the thin, two- inch-long stone, after I stared a moment, I took note of the pendant’s only uncommon characteristic…

It seemed to, however irreducibly, generate some aspect of the room’s overall anti- light. And as this registered, my eyes slowly roved upward to the most macabre chandelier I’ve ever beheld. Uneven elongated crystals hung from each setting in the same stalactite fashion (hundreds of them, each quite similar to the pendant) inexplicably giving off the light that was not light.

Miss Aheb grinned to her servant in an almost vulturine way. “I simply adore you so much,” came a wanton whisper and with it her gracile hand to the conductor’s crotch. “Kiss me now…”

The conductor’s gloved hand came to his chin—

“No, no,” the appalling-skinned madam interjected. “Keep the mask on—”

So I was right! I thought. It was a mask the conductor wore!

“—I want you hideous at first,” she continued. “I want you repulsive! It makes my juices flow all the more hotly…”

I forced my thoughts to still, and merely watched—

—as the conductor’s waxen face lowered to Miss Aheb’s, and their mouths joined.

Minutes passed; the oral contact roused Miss Aheb noticeably. She stood in a slowly rising craze as the mouth-hole of the conductor’s abhorrent mask ranged from her lips and down the slope of her scum-hued throat, then lower to suck into its lurid parchment aperture each gorged nipple.

“Yes, yes,” panted the raven-haired madam. “Harder… That’s just… so… lovely…”

The conductor continued his ministration until a veritable gloss of excitement effused from Miss Aheb’s vulval groove and shined down the insides of her thighs. Eventually, rapid-breath’d, she pushed her servant’s counterfeit mouth away and ordered, “Get the thogg. I’m ready now…”

There’s that strange word again, I mused. Thogg…

While the conductor parted, Madam Aheb lay back on the high, plush bed and crudely brought her knees to her face, whereupon her mal-coloured hand began to titillate the furred pubis. Again, I was in paresis from the dichotomy of her unflawed curves made monstrous by the mysterious skin disease.

When the conductor returned he brought with him the equally masked motorman…

No words were spoken then as the demented procedure began. My stomach quivered, for when the bulky motorman displayed his hand, I recalled my impressions when I’d glimpsed it getting off the trolley, dismissing a trick of moonlight as the cause for my initial alarm.

I now saw the fact of the matter.

It was no real hand that existed at the end of the motorman’s arm but instead a hideous facsimile: a cluster of elongations of boneless, jointless flesh. Just as harrowing, though, was the hue of the boneless flesh: the same grub-white spotted by pond-scum green.

First, these fingers, if one could call them that, extended, then wriggled; and then they curled inward to form a parody of a fist which then incredibly swelled in size, then shrank, swelled, then shrank, as if throbbing with some unearthly pulse. Miss Aheb seemed delighted by the demonstration, her splayed legs tensing and buttocks writhing at the sight. Next, her fingers parted the shining lips of her vulva within the nest of hair—a lewd invitation.

Without abatement, the motorman contorted the boneless digits forward and inserted his “hand” into the teeming, pink purse of Miss Aheb’s vaginal vault…

In and out, then, the monstrous hand delved, begetting a regular slick, wet sound that reminded me of one trudging through mud, the digits obscenely undulating and obviously heightening the pleasure of his (or I should say its) mastress. Soon the derrick-like penetrations probed deeper, to the extent that Miss Aheb’s reproductive orifice had swallowed the motorman’s hand nearly to the point of mid-forearm…

“Now,” the abyssally-skinned woman panted. Her pleasures mounted to tighten every muscle and tendon in her body.

It was to the stoic conductor that the order was directed, for first he removed his gloves, then woolen regulation-blue jacket, then the white shirt beneath…

Expression gaping, I now beheld the length of this evil ruse: when the conductor’s clothes were tossed aside, his nudity revealed him to be no “he” at all, but a woman, and one with a physique nearly as comely as Madam Aheb’s.

My shock racked me at my peeper’s post.

But the conductor (or I should say now the conductress) even in her stunning beauty, shared some of the same hideous dichotomy as the madam and this “thogg”: that nauseous sickly white skin-tone blended with the mucous-green splotches.

The carnal aberration I bore witness too now was surely a scene forged in hell…

Butternut hair fell when the regulation cap was undonned, and then the conductress removed the parchment mask…

Simultaneously I felt on the precipice of cardiac failure and a fit of madhouse screaming. How I was able to stave off both, I know not. But this was the coup de grace of all I’d visually attested to thus far: the revelation of the conductress’s face, which I suspect the perseverant reader has already