C. LaSart - Ad Nauseam - 13 Tales of Extreme Horror

She laid back slightly, the pleasant feeling causing her to moan. There had been no one since Michael’s death, no lovers beside her own infrequent masturbation, and the unexpected rush paralyzed her with pleasure. It spread to the other breast and she nearly cried out from the intensity. Twin lovers suckled her breasts, though no one shared the pool with her and her hands floated by her sides. The tickling wove from her hip around her thigh, where it traced its way across her clit and into her vagina. She gasped and let her thighs fall open, arching her back and thrusting her pelvis upward as the first ripples of orgasm flowed through her body.

Her breasts throbbing with pleasure and her pelvis awash in ecstasy as wave after wave of climax rocked her body, Stella whimpered, all thoughts of the darkness and leaving the pool lost in a haze of sexual splendor. The lights came back on, but she didn’t notice, shuddering in the water as her phantom lover worked his magic on her senses, making her cry out her joy. The sensations battered her until she feared she may lose consciousness, drowning in her own pool to be found blue and lifeless in the morning when Andrea came for their shopping spree.

Reluctantly opening her eyes, bewildered by the power of her arousal, Stella glanced down at her body where it floated in the water, and a scream bubbled out of her throat. Something small and strange had attached itself to her tattoo, a jelly-fish like creature with short tentacles and a translucent body. She flicked at it with her hand, but it clung to the flesh, unwilling to be dislodged.

With a cry that was part terror and part revulsion, she squeezed its soft body, gagging as it let go with the sound of a suction cup peeled off glass. She threw it over the edge of the pool, her eyes wide in shock as she looked at what the awful parasite had done to her body. Her legs numb as orgasms continued to rip through her, she crawled up the steps and got to her feet, making her way unsteadily into the house and to the bedroom. Standing before the mirror, hands braced against the wall, her legs threatened to give out as yet another climax rocked her body. Her breasts still throbbed with sensation, though it now bordered on pain.

Stella began to cry as she gazed at her reflection in disbelief. She took one hand off the wall and ran it over her flesh, sobbing as she traced the lines of the tattoo.

Thorny vines that had once encircled the small rose bud on her hip, now streaked up her torso, encircling both her breasts and darkening her nipples. Her torso resembled a demented puzzle, thorny lines covering it in crazy jags. The vines also trailed over hip and across the shaven mound of her sex, disappearing in the cleft.

She bent her knees slightly and spread the fleshy lips apart, crying out when she saw the tattooed vines disappearing into her vagina. Her slick flesh visibly rippled with the force of the pleasure/pain that gripped her pelvis. No, no, no. It can’t be! What the hell is going on? This can’t be happening to me!

Movement on her chest caught Stella’s attention, and she looked up at her reflection, her eyes wide in her pale face as she watched the vines grow, dark ink sliding under the skin, across her chest and up to her neck. Crazy. I’m going crazy! Large buds began to form on either side of her throat. Her legs gave out as orgasms continued to shake her, now more painful than pleasant. Dropping to her knees, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, watching as the buds continued to grow, starting to bloom on her skin.

An unwanted vision rose in her head. Andrea finds her dead on the bathroom floor and shakes her head, a voodoo priest replete with painted skull face and feather bedecked staff stands beside her and points at Stella’s lifeless form accusingly.

The buds bloomed fully, revealing a pair of hands that wrapped around Stella’s throat, the ink moving fluidly as it spread under her skin. Her face turned red, then purple as she began to cough, no longer able to draw breath as she felt pressure on her windpipe. She could see small blood vessels rupture in her face, dark blotches appearing in spider web patterns. Sliding down the glass, she fell to the floor, her face pressed against her own reflection.

Her own face faded from view, replaced by a ghostly reflection of Michael in the mirror, his face purple with death, but his eyes boring into her own, accusing, knowing.

Though there was no way he could’ve seen into the living room from where he had collapsed onto the floor that night, Stella knew that he knew exactly what happened. And he knew why. Looking into those hate-filled orbs, she saw herself rushing from the kitchen and finding his coat slung over the chair. Grabbing the Epi-pen from the pocket, she watched herself freeze, a look of panicked consideration on her face. She knows what was going through her own mind at the moment. He’s going to divorce me. He will leave me with nothing.

Stella stands for a moment with the rescue syringe gripped in her hand, then she throws it under the couch, tears streaming down her face as she walks back to the kitchen. Michael reaches a clawed hand toward her, his mouth moving, but no sound emerges. She can read his lips. He says, ‘Please.’ Grabbing the phone off the cradle, she waits another five minutes after Michael has ceased moving to dial 911. She sobs into the phone asking for help and really wanting it, wanting someone to undo what she has allowed to happen, but it’s too late. The events can’t be undone.

Stella lay on the floor, unable to breathe as the blood pounded in her head and her chest burned with the effort to draw in air. Her face was pressed against the mirror, but she could no longer see herself or Michael as bright flashes of light overtook her vision. She heard a roar in her ears and a cracking sound as the cartilage of her windpipe gave way. I take it back. I didn’t mean it. I was afraid. I’m so sorry! I take it back! Darkness took her sight as she drifted into unconsciousness, a searing pain in her chest as her heart sputtered and stilled.

I’m sorry.

“Goddamnit!” Emily tripped over the box on her way out the front door of her duplex. Hot coffee sloshed over her hand, causing her to drop the mug. It didn’t shatter, but the remaining liquid spilled out, soaking the package that had caused all the trouble.

Picking up the coffee mug and placing it on the glass-topped patio table alongside her cigarettes and ashtray, Emily turned back and got the box from where it sat. She carried it over to the table and set it down. She shook a menthol out of the pack and lit it. Taking a deep drag and holding it, she closed her eyes to relish the first cigarette of the morning. With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the package.

The bottom wasn’t too wet from the coffee, and it didn’t really seem to matter all that much, since the box wasn’t in the best shape to begin with. Stained and torn, its construction appeared to be more masking tape than actual cardboard. Nearly illegible, a name and address was scrawled in the lower right hand corner in black marker, but nothing else. No return address. No post marks.

Emily pulled her reading glasses off the top of her head where they were perched more often than not, and squinted to make out the writing.

Dominik Bettancourt . The address was in the city, somewhere downtown.

So how the hell did it wind up out here in the ‘burbs? she wondered. Her house was at least an hour and a half drive from downtown, and that was if the traffic was light. Emily shook her head and took another drag of her cigarette.

Lifting the box again, she tested its weight in her hands. Slightly larger than a shoebox, it was fairly heavy, and something inside rattled when she shook it. A frown creased her brow.