Conrad Williams - Decay Inevitable

She slid down on the sofa until his cock was level with her mouth. She saw the pictures in the magazine and gently enclosed the head with her mouth, moving her head slowly down the shaft until his balls were flush with her lips. He gasped.

“Nobody did that before,” he said. “Nobody took the lot. What are you? Linda Lovelace?”

She ignored him; she didn’t know what he was talking about. She continued to suck, remembering the pictures, remembering to keep her hand moving on the base of his cock, remembering to keep it wet, keep it moving, keep it moving. Never let up. He began to tense. She remembered the magazine. The readers’ letters. Rhiannon from Newcastle. He began to jerk and she moved her hand underneath him, between the hard, muscled curves of his buttocks. The tip of his cock began to pulse and spasm – she had read about this too – and she slid her forefinger deep into his anus. He cried out and rammed into her mouth. She felt his come, so much of it, too much of it, jet against the back of her throat and she gagged. She pulled away and he fell back against the sofa cushions.

“Me now,” she said, wiping her mouth.

“I’m knackered, babe,” he said.

“No,” she said. “Me now.”

“Tomorrow. Let’s get some kip.”

“ No ,” she said. Something in her voice made Derek’s eyes snap open. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want it all. I want you to suck my clit and fuck me every way there is.”

He knelt before her. His cock was ebbing, dwindling, its tip endowed with a pearl of come. The sight of her pale, smooth thighs didn’t resurrect it. Neither did her pink, liquid core as she yanked off her knickers and spread her legs. Her cunt yawned before him.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he said.

“Put some of that powder on it,” she demanded. “That coko. Put some on.”

“The music needs changing.”

She clamped his head with her calves and, leaning forwards, pressed a fingernail against the bridge of his nose. “Do. It.”

Derek collected the dregs of the coke from the mirror and rubbed it into her lips. Cheke gasped and screwed her eyes shut. She clenched her buttocks and thrust her crotch up against his fingers.

“Easy, girl,” Derek said. He continued to rub, his wet fingers slithering against her clitoris, slipping up her cunt, or sliding against her anus. He changed the rhythm and pace, the depth of his strokes. Cheke was crying with pleasure. He leaned forwards and covered her vulva with his mouth. Cheke’s eyes flew open. She reached out and grabbed Derek’s hair, pressed him deeper into the soft, hot centre of herself, a place where she no longer seemed to hold any sway, a place that didn’t appear to have any substance or structure any more. Waves of heat were rolling deep inside her. She locked her heels behind his back and squeezed him deeper. It wasn’t enough. She needed him inside her. She pulled him up alongside her and began working his spent cock with her hand. Nothing was happening.

“Fuck me,” she whispered to him.

“I can’t,” he said. “The beer. The coke. I’m done in.”

She forced his cock against her and pressed with her fingers, trying to nudge the flaccid tip between her lips. Again, she locked her heels at the small of his back and dug down. “Come on,” she said. “Come on .”

“Susannah, you’re hurting me. What’s the rush? Susannah ?” He grunted and his eyes bulged. He lifted his chin off her chest and tried to speak but only tiny noises were bursting from the back of his throat.

She felt his pelvis pulverise under the persistent crush of her feet. “You fucker,” she said. “You miserable fucker.”

She let herself come through.

Cheke watched Derek’s eyes, hazy with pain, as her body changed beneath him. The puckered mouths emerged through the taut flesh of Susannah’s torso and gulped at him. Her own cunt grew and broadened until it trembled beneath Derek’s shattered groin.

“Give me what I need,” she said, and sank him into her. Before too long, Derek was unable to say anything, even if his mouth had been able to form the words. The blood, so much of it, could only get out of him that way.

HER INDUSTRY WAS not to be questioned, surely, and she had done well so far, or so she thought. Gleave came to her at the house, stepping through the drying waste of the hallway with the look of a man who had just found a hank of hair in his soup. She had been warned of his arrival; her inner eye, recalling the previous night’s excesses, had been interrupted. She envisioned Gleave’s car sweeping into the street, saw his grey face press up against the window pane as the neighbouring houses rushed by. There had been enough time to change: another of Susannah’s black dresses, sleeveless, short, generous around the bust. In the mirror she checked her colouring and sucked out a deep, plummy colour from the palette of mouths in her memory, dusted her cheekbones with the hint of blush Jonathan had sported when she took off her robe in front of them, before he understood what was happening to him.

“What are you doing?” Gleave asked when they were seated in the living room. Cheke had left one of Jonathan’s magazines open on the coffee table in the hope that Gleave would see. She wanted him to do to her what the men in the pictures were doing. She wanted to do to him what the women were doing. The more she did it, the closer she would come to knowing the secrets. Maybe in this way she would understand what normal was. What it meant to be human, to be a woman.

“I thought you’d like to see me being less unusual.”

Gleave took something from his pocket and sat down on the sofa next to her. He trawled the fingers of his other hand through his soft, white hair.

“Do you like me like this?” she asked. She said: “Can I call you Daniel?”

Gleave turned and smiled savagely at her. “No, you cannot call me fucking Daniel,” he snarled. He showed her what was in his hand: a canister that fit snugly in his palm. He flipped off the lid and sprayed the contents full in her face. He calmly replaced the lid and slid the canister back into his pocket. Then he stood up and clasped his large, soft hands in front of his greatcoat, watching her all the while.

“I think,” he said, “that it’s time you understood what pain is.”

Cheke blinked at him. She brushed away the spray from her eyes and waited for him to go on. She was not yet aware that half of her face had come away with her fingers.

“Pain is master, anywhere you look in the animal kingdom,” Gleave said. “So it is with us.” He spotted an errant hair on his cuff and tweezered it off with his elegant fingers. He removed his lenses and polished them on a white handkerchief which he then folded precisely and kept in his palm. “I thought you were aware of the job you had to do for us,” he said at last.

“I am,” Cheke wanted to say, but the words would not form, in the same way they had failed in the seconds after she was withdrawn from her resting place. The word am didn’t have any closure about it. It drifted on instead: ahhh . Drool glazed her chin. She felt for her mouth and there was no bottom lip for the top one to shut against. As if triggered by this ghastly discovery, a flood of heat wound tightly around her lower jaw. She made a gagging sound and dropped to her knees.

“You will know pain,” Gleave said. “Maybe that’s where we went wrong at the start. We should have tied you to your job with the threat of pain. You must not underestimate us, Cheke. We need you, but there are others. Do as you are told and then we can discuss your rehabilitation.”

He stepped towards her suddenly and she flinched. Gleave smiled. “It’s good that you are afraid of me. Good that there is something to scare you. Fear is an ally. It will help you to stay alive.