'Petroleum Jelly' by the Marquis Déjà Dû


"There's something about David Bowie and these pepperoni pizza potato chips that's making me absolutely batty!" she said as she stretched catlike out of her magical Ace Bandage body suit. Magical for, when a moment ago there didn't appear to be a single seam on the slinky nightclub ensemble, the thing now just fell off as if made of fog or rice paper or, as Petrol recalled, the consistency of freshly moistened edible panties.

This thought did not drag him out of his despondency in the slightest. He slumped deeper into his drink and said to the woman who was running her hands over her bra, head tilted back like some video-dame, "I bet you say that to all the men who pick you up at that sleazy place and take you home to have and to hold." He took a long drain on his dry Ouzo martini (a shot of the stuff in a froufy glass). "And then have again," he added the afterthought.

"Oh, no! This is different. You're different. I can tell." She spun gracefully if not flauntingly in front of Petrol, vapid, obsequious smile affixed to her face, and swooped down on the couch, laying across his lap, her chest region inches from his unresponsive face. She reached above her and grabbed another handful of the pepperoni pizza potato chips Petrol had picked up at the corner store on the way back from Dissipation when she whined playfully of her hunger and stuck her tongue in his ear.

Petrol was more interested in the fate of the potato chip than in the twit on his lap, and he watched its journey from the silver bowl, over the arm of the sofa (dropping a few greasy crumbs into the latticed doily on its path) and to her supple, pouting, and other overused porn-term-adjectives mouth.

It was a Lay's potato chip. 99¢ per bag. Wasn't much of an investment. Neither was she, he thought with disgust at the rut he seemed to be in. What defective synapse urged him, every Friday, to step into his costume, do his make-up and trudge to Dissipation? And once there, why could he not seem to leave without some dark, comely, vapid thing latched onto his arm like a growth? And where was his willpower to just say no when they invariably asked to return to his château to "get to know him?"

These racing, bitter thoughts must have been one of the reasons his friends nicknamed him Petrol. 'Peter' was his gift the day he was born, and as he matured, or didn't as his case may prove, his explosive nature earned him another appellation. Something altogether more unique, flammable and appropriately noxious to fit him. Upon first being called 'Petrol,' he fumed at the instigator of that name until it was jovially brought to his attention that his response only helped to fan the flames that inspired its creation. Mildly amused, he bore this moment, thinking it would be the last, but by the time the night had eroded down to a chalky dawn, the word had been repeated among the many who knew him in the club and it seemed he had been knighted with this annoying title. Occasionally, he would blow up about it, but it had proved to be fruitless to fight it, so he resigned to accept it and, sometimes, alone, in the dark, took to smiling about its aesthetics. But not now.

Nyquolytt was seductively sucking on her potato chip, vying for his complete attention, and sucking harder the more distant he became. He finally snapped out of his thoughts and noticed her.

"What are you doing ... what's your name again?"

"Nyquolytt. En-Why-Cue-You-Oh-El-Why-Tee-Tee. And I'm sucking seductively on a potato chip," she said with a wink and a smile and let her grease covered hand explore Petrol's upper thigh, being sure to surreptitiously brush against his crotch from time to time.

"It's physically impossible for a human being sucking on a potato chip to execute this manoeuvre seductively. And your name is ridiculous. You're going to have to leave now." He added after some thought, and unconvincingly, "Sorry."

Nyquolytt was used to the chase. It seemed most of the men she went after played hard to get. Wither went the days when a girl could saunter into a nightclub, pick out her prey, take it home and have her wicked, naked ways with it? As with most questions posed her, either by herself or others, Nyquolytt had no answer. None that seemed to apply to the question, at any rate. She was forced to put this train of thought on hold as she was presently being dumped from the lap of the most gorgeous guy she had met all night onto the Turkish carpet. Usually, when Nyquolytt was dumped onto the floor from some gorgeous guy's lap, she acted put-off, but as she began the engine in her mouth and commanded it to 'pout' mode, she noticed the carpet and was once again forced to put her actions on hold. She became entranced in the minute loomings of the carpet, picking at them. God, it was gorgeous! Must have been stitched by twelve virgin maidens over the span of eight aeons, or whatever. Must have cost so much, too!

"It did," said Petrol, arising from the couch and walking his drink towards the kitchen. Oops. She had been thinking out loud again. She was always doing that, and it just freaked the gorgeous guys out! She giggled to herself over her faux pas and gathered her discarded Houdini dress (how'd she get out of that one!?) and slipped back into it, planning on slipping out of it again at an opportune moment when her audience was in a more 'captive' mood. She trotted on her six inch heels toward the kitchen, flipping the Bowie record as she passed the Bang Olufsen stereo system.

Petrol was standing at the sink violently banging a bag of ice against the counter to break it up. He hadn't witnessed her entrance. Too bad really, because it was such a cool entrance. She'd been practicing it all week. She had rented "Rain" and studied Joan Crawford's grasp-by-grasp grand entrance into the doorway for about a week now. Over and over again she would play the scene where Joan pulled herself through the door, cocking one foot against the other, and scowling, cigarette dangling out of sneering lips. She watched herself in the mirror to get each little nuance juuuust right. But it was a wasted act in this case as Petrol was busy in breaking up the ice and hadn't bothered to turn around. Nyquolytt shrugged her shoulders and smiled to herself. Oh well. Just meant she could do it later when he'd be watching. Now it was her turn to watch.

Standing in the doorway, she examined him across the room at the sink. God, he was gorgeous. Big, strong, broad back, but slight in physique. Long legs all curvy like a woman's and such a cute butt! Black clothing that clung to his body and actually made Nyquolytt jealous, wishing it were she who clung to him so. His face retained the make-up he had applied before he left the house -- the make-up consisting of some whitener foundation, black eye-liner and a deep black-red lipstick which accentuated his perishable lips and invoked a sense of urgency in Nyquolytt to get on with her conquest lest those lips lose their ripeness. Maybe he was going a bit far with the ice routine, though. He was now raising the bag completely over his head and bringing it down full force against the corner of the counter with a primordial grunt. Dishes far away rattled at the seismic disturbance of his strange ritual. He looked like Joan Crawford in "Berserk," thought Nyquolytt fondly of another role she had studied some months ago for another one of life's little one-acts. This guy was just made for her. So dark and deep. Still waters, and everything. She thought him quite poetic. Okay, so what he was doing to the bag of ice, barbarically smashing it down, putting all his body's ... all his perfect body's strength into it was maybe not exactly of the still waters ilk. But poetry it was. She held onto that word and said it over and over in her head. "He's physical poetry. Every movement is a ... is a ... a stanza or a Cantonese, or whatever they're called. Mmph!"

Petrol turned suddenly, then. His eyes were full of the fury and madness only attainable when one deals with an extremely stubborn bag of very old ice. He was breathing heavily. Nyquolytt's knees became jelly. He tilted his head down, keeping his eyes on her, assuming the most demonic of countenances with his eyes rolled up in his head that way. His mouth seemed to be a rabid snarl. Nyquolytt was afraid, for a mere moment, that he could not distinguish her from the bag of ice he had so violently been attempting to destroy. Only a moment of fear, however, because then beautiful thoughts clouded her head. "Savage, much? Ooh! He's just a dream!"

She called playfully to him, "Cujo?"

"Good, you're dressed. I'd offer you another drink but this fucking bag of ice is incorrigible." He drop-kicked the bag from his hand, to his boot, across the floor. It spun heavily at Nyquolytt's feet who imagined that it must have hurt like hell -- the contact of the heavy ice on his manly foot. "You can use the phone to call a cab and you can wait in the foyer."

Nyquolytt wasn't quite sure what 'incorrigible' meant, but it sounded so sexy the way he used it. She didn't ever want to leave this man. She wanted only to stand in his kitchen and watch his perfect movements, listen to his foreign tongue, and fantasize about that tongue in ways that made even her blush.

Petrol put his hands on his hips and huffed, staring angrily at the girl. "The foyer's down the main corridor, through the French doors and to the left." No response but for the flitting of lashes from Nyquolytt. "There's a blood red velvet couch there. You'll probably like it. Anyway, once you find it, you know you're in the right place." Her smile was unshakable as she seemed to undulate as his spouted his commands. "There's mints," he said making shooing movements with his hands. Nyquolytt was positively ready to swoon. To use such a phrase as "There's mints," as a dismissal. He was gorgeous, poetic and hella smart, too!

She sighed happily, "Okay, Petrol. Bye-bye. See you next Friday at Dissipation? We'll do it again? This was real fun. I think you're real cool. If you're nice to me, I might let you, y'know." He did nothing during her monologue but continue motioning her away with his hand in the same manner one motions to a servant when their services are no longer required and their presence is aggravating.

Nyquolytt turned from the kitchen and made her way towards the foyer, as instructed, but as she passed the stairs, she giggled to herself and tiptoed up the flight, finding Petrol's bedroom door and entering. This boy wanted to play games with Nyquolytt, and Nyquolytt was certainly in the mood to play with him. This could turn out to be quite a groovy evening.

She paused in the doorway of the bedroom. She had been impressed with every part of his château that she had yet seen, but the bedroom! Oh, là-là! Crimson velvet brocade wallpaper lined every square inch of the fifteen foot walls, giving way to darkly stained engraved drop-ceiling. The stain of the wooden intricacies was, in the feeble, haunting glow of the crystal chandelier, nearly black, though Nyquolytt supposed it would be 'mahogany' or one of those expensive type materials if brighter lights were available. Not that she wanted brighter lights. Not that she wanted anything to change about this room. A four post canopy walnut bed, three feet from the floor with red bedcovers, only slightly brighter red than the walls remained corrupt from his last night's fitful sleep therein. Looking at the crumpled bed sheets in the otherwise immaculate room began the first sexual urges Nyquolytt had felt all night. Everything prior to this inviting landscape was simple adoration -- elemental infatuation -- nothing she wasn't used to. But the ornate surroundings and the decadent lifestyle illustrated by Petrol's things caused Nyquolytt's libido to act up which was something rather frightening to her. She liked to be in control and was rarely found otherwise. Having this involuntary reaction occur left her yet a little more giddy. She needed a moment to figure out her plan. She crossed to the cherry wood bureau and sat in the plush, but not too froufy Queen Anne chair. The computer on the bureau stood out conspicuously among the otherwise antique decor of the setting, but, again, temptingly for Nyquolytt. The machine was on, and the file "Journal" was open on the screen. She began reading:

November 43rd, 1897 --

Tina, I think her name was, proved to be quite adept at the art one creates in the bedroom. However she left me drained in most every sense of the word, not the least being emotionally. I sent her away when finished, barely giving her time to attend to her needs in the bathroom, and felt oddly guilty about it. Strange. I used to be able to manipulate my prey in the most vile and inexcusible of fashions and escape without my conscience ever suspecting a thing was amiss. I must be getting soft. Now when I manipulate people, women, men, whomever I (for some reason or other) invite to share in the intricacies and intimacies of sex, I sometimes feel, much later, a pang or two of -- well, not exactly regret, but some thought as if I should try to be kinder to those whom I use.

Oh, it's ridiculous, really. I'm quite aware that I'm being used just as much as my victims are. Albeit perhaps less facetiously, but they want my body, my surroundings, the ability to refer to me as "someone they had" at Dissipation and these are selfish thoughts. My psyche says that for this, they should be punished. Harshly. But my soft, old man's morals say that their reproachment can stop satisfactorily at the 'fuck-n-chuck' level. Love 'em and throw 'em out. There's very little fun to be had this way. I really much more enjoyed destroying people from the ground up. Now, I only scratch the surface.

Resolution: I must attempt, perhaps even tomorrow, to regain my old standards and fuck someone up so thoroughly, both literally and figuratively, that they, despite their ecstasy, will eventually come to regret ever having said "yes" to my indecent proposals. I only hope I'm not too tired of the game -- too tired of myself -- to have this resolution become an unattainable goal.

Ah, life. There is a fresh, unopened bottle of Ouzo, I think, that I found in the cabinet downstairs the other day. It calls as loudly as my own despicable, but highly self-amusing antics.Boredom is no Longer my Love,

This was the end of the most recent entry. Though the date was, of course, silly, Nyquolytt concluded it was written last night, and that she was the prospective victim he was deciding what to do with. A flaw in Petrol's façade made itself apparent to her through his sending her away 'unharmed' this evening. Oh, what she longed for more than anything was to be his guinea pig, but a swell of sadness, perhaps even pity swept through her that he had broken his resolution to himself.

His wicked, decadent thoughts she found most titillating and she took it upon herself to reawaken his resolution. It was the least she could do for this gorgeous guy who stirred in her those remote emotions she seldom felt -- genuine passion! Not like in the Davis and Crawford movies she adoringly studied. She put her head in her hands and began concocting a plan, but was stopped short as the echoes of Bowie were abruptly aborted from downstairs. A glass or two clinked, a chair was moved, and Nyquolytt heard Petrol ascending the stair.

Her loins quivered at the mere thought of him coming into this darkened bedroom with her, alone, but her better senses told her the closet was probably the better place to be. She darted into the walk-in closet, closed the doors and hid among the multitude of expensive looking, and mostly velvety and silken clothing, biding her time while her mind, though often muddy, eventually tried to come up with a good plan.

Petrol opened the door to his boudoir and stood still for a moment, leaning in the frame. Listlessly, he leaned backwards to flip off the corridor light. The house was now completely dark except for the dim lighting from the adjustable chandelier. This he dimmed even more and a murky, milky blackness swirled through the room making it difficult, but not impossible to view the objects stationed around.

Slowly, he made his rounds throughout the room, lighting candles on the bureau, the dresser, the headboard shelves of the bed. The numerous glasses of Ouzo he had consumed had dulled his senses mercifully, as he was feeling rather down about having sent away that pretty little twit who invaded his space this evening.

He pondered her name. Nyquolytt. A slight snicker escaped his lips. What a pretentious name. Not that he had anything against pretension. Often, he survived on it. But his was, at least, internal, fortifying his ego silently, while this girl seemed to thrive on the attention her affectations drew. Pathetic really, but then, who was he to judge someone else pathetic when he had not only let go, but sent away his instrument of salvation.

Petrol was broken. It didn't seem like a 'phase', however. His listlessness and lack of desire to pursue what he previously pursued with vehemence was not the same type of deviance from his usual course as he would expect to find when afflicted with something temporary like, say, a cold, or some such outside factor that may put him out of the races momentarily. Something fundamentally was missing. His urges. His calling. His muse. The will to fuck and be fucked up. Vanished, it seemed, as quickly and inexplicably as ... what's-her-name ... Nickel-whatever had earlier.

He crossed to the bureau and began typing:

December 0, 0 AD.

Last night's ideals fell through, not by anyone's fault but mine own. A truly perfect morsel of fluff was mine to be had and abused at will tonight, and I sent it away, even after it had disrobed most of its stylish, affectatious clothing and squirmed on my lap. What is wrong with me! A most tasty crumb indeed. Tall, black bob of hair. Rounded features as from an Edvard Munch litho. Truly the finest, most desirable species of girlhood that has wandered into my trap, of late. She was begging for it, really, and my old self would have only paused to calculate the maximum damage I could have incurred in the cur --

He paused for a moment, then decided against continuing this entry. There was nothing new he could tell himself ... nothing of any substance that would bring light upon his dismal situation. He hit command-S to save and left the bureau. He disrobed, hanging his clothes over the backing of the bureau chair and gazed at himself in the full length gilded mirror stood up by the wall. What he saw sickened him. A likeness to the Portrait of Dorian Grey, he fancied. All his evils making themselves apparent upon his body since now, it seemed, the evils stopped. While still committing crimes against humanity and nature, the scars of these crimes stayed well-hidden. But in the soft glow from the dimmed chandelier and the flickering candles, he thought himself becoming a 'good' person in the American Way term and this thought invoked the strongest contempt and the most frighteningly gruesome of bodily scars and facial deficiencies in the mirror.

He went to his bed and with a sardonic smirk at his own actions, knelt before it and put his hands together in praying formation, closed his eyes and sank into circular thoughts.

Nyquolytt peeped through the keyhole of the closet door, the lock being of the old fashioned kind, allowing her a generous view of the room and of Petrol. When he had begun taking his clothes off, especially after his strange, sullen behavior, she thought she was just going to die from passion. Her excitement was at such a level that she had seldom, if ever, known before and, even within the confines of her stunted vocabulary, 'horny' seemed too inadequate a word for her longings.

She fondled the naked, kneeling Petrol with her eyes a while, his quirky prayer adding fuel to her inferno of lust. Perhaps needless to say, she had come to no conclusions about what course of action she should take in regards to him, and decided to wait for the moment to present itself when she could execute some spontaneous plan.

Petrol arose, unknowingly facing her and stretched, arms up towards the canopy and head tilted back. If she had thought his body appealing in his clingy black clothing, it was nothing compared to the sight of his deathly pale skin and trim, but muscular figure disrobed. Earlier, on the couch, when she had fondled his thigh, she had no idea what a perfect thigh it was and she silently berated herself now that she had let that thigh, and other perfect parts of his body, go so easily.

Having stretched, he slipped under the covers and fell instantly asleep. Nyquolytt waited for his breathing to become of the sleep variety. It was a sound with which she was very familiar as she used to sing songs in her head to the rhythm of her partner-o-the-eve's sleep breathing. When it reached the steady, deep, slow cadence of dreams, she ever so quietly opened the closet door and stepped into the room.

Petrol had left the candles burning. A man of danger. She liked this. She liked him so much, from his reputation at Dissipation to the events and sights she had experienced this night, that it was almost painful. She restrained herself from bounding to his bed, ripping back the covers and encompassing his vulnerable, desirable body.

Instead, she crept up to his bedside silently. In the closet, she had removed her shoes and her bare feet made no sound on the plush reddish gold carpeting. She stared down at his face and recognized the distant countenance of sleep. And even in sleep, his jaw was clamped shut in a scowl, daring her to continue with her plan. Nyquoltt nibbled on a fingertip to stifle a giggle. She scanned her immediate area and found, much to her delight, several coils of rope poking out from under the bed. Not surprising really, after what she had read. Her plan now came to mind and she dexterously slipped once again out of her Houdini garb.

When she was as naked as Petrol she bent over and picked up the rope coils, cut, it was apparent from their length, to be the perfect size to restrain one to the bedposts. There were four of them and she took this as an invitation, their very presence alluding to his desires and previous practices. She gathered from what little she knew of him -- his actions -- the journal entry she had read -- that he was usually the one tying people down. This might be a neat treat for him, then!

She chose his right arm to start with as it was, not only closest to her, but outstretched above his head inches from the corresponding pole. Testingly, she slipped the rope around his wrist and anxiously concentrated on what she could see of his face in the dimness of the room. There was no reaction. Not even a sleep-induced stir. Thank god for Ouzo, she thought as she deftly wrapped the rest of the rope around the bedpost and knotted it according to her nearly infinite wisdom and experience in these matters. There. One hand secured. She knew from being in his position that no amount of struggling could undo the knot she had just applied to the rope, but the free person could, in a moment, undo the confine should it be necessary for circulation of furthering one's passion.

She thought it best to do the arms first, and circled the bed to the other side, passing the mirror on the way and seeing herself momentarily in it. Again, she stifled a giggle. It was really a kinky scene, she thought. This gorgeous (she was well aware of her allures) naked woman holding three dangling pieces of rope that brushed her thighs, stomach and pubic area. If Joan Crawford had made movies in the 90's, she would have made them like this, thought Nyquolytt. So film noir!

Once on the other side, she slowly, cautiously lifted Petrol's unresponsive limb and dragged it to a similar position as the right. Quickly she tied the necessary knots and he was, for the most part, secured. If he were to awaken now, it would not prove too difficult to overcome him, though she would like him strapped down as much as possible.

Fearing the chill in the room would arouse him from sleep, she pulled back the bedcovers being careful not to cause a breeze from the rustling. Again, Petrol remained conveniently catatonic to her actions. That liquor must really fuck you up! She gazed a moment at his body, seemingly glowing in its whiteness in the otherwise darkened room. Not able to restrain herself, she put one hand out and softly placed it on his warm flesh and felt an electricity she had never felt before when touching a man, tied or otherwise. Oh, this was going to be a good night! Fairly certain of his unbreakalbe state of sleep, she easily tied the rope around his foot and to the bedpost. Then, the other. Petrol's sleep did not seem disturbed through any of her manoeuvres. That would change soon enough, she thought, smiling girlishly and biting her lip.

Standing at the base of the bed, she crawled up onto the mattress with her knees and looked at her prize, restrained and laid out in front of her. She licked her lips, bent down to his feet and went to work.


Petrol was dreaming. There was a war. His army had been killed off, painfully blown to bits, one by one, leaving him to fend for himself. He had found a foxhole and quickly jumped in, covering himself with a tarp. The tarp was ripped off, suddenly, he shivered underneath it and he saw himself standing above him, looking down, pleadingly. He started abruptly and reached out his hand to help this familiar stranger when one of the enemy popped up behind this mimic man and deftly slit his throat open -- gallons, it seemed, of warm blood cascading down on Petrol in the foxhole coursing down his body and legs.

His eyes shot open and he noticed a familiar, peculiar sensation. A warmth, a motion. His head still muddled from the dream and the waking stage could not place it, but his senses quickly snapped to as his restraints bit him harshly when he attempted to sit up. He began squirming, though not to escape the restraints. His squirming was due to his arousal, both from sleep and from what Nyquolytt was doing to his penis. He looked down his body to find that wretched girl furiously going down on him in devourous circular motions.

Nyquolytt noted his change in demeanor and snapped her head up, fistful of her prize and smiled, toyingly. "Hi," she said.

Petrol's acute sexual emotions stopped him from kneeing this girl roughly in the crotch which would have been all too easy, had he chosen this route. There was a small amount of play in the foot constraints and her pelvis was poised over his knee. Dumb, dumb girl. She had been working on him quite a while, he supposed from the extreme arousal he felt and, though he should have been angry, his body now begged for release.

"Hi," he said gruffly. "You're crazy, you know."

"Mm-hmm," she said, filling her mouth again with his taste. For a while he succumbed to the sensations of her expert manoeuvres, then interjected.

"Let me up," he said, loading this phrase with the promises of what he would do once free. Nyquolytt was in her element and recognized this tone of voice and conceded, undoing his restraints with little resistance from the ropes.

In an instant he was on his knees, as was she, pressing himself tightly against her and embracing her with his arms. He kissed her madly, furiously, hating what she was, hating himself for doing this, but reveling in the sensations and tastes of her mouth and the slick, hot friction of grinding himself against her stomach.

Presently, he threw he onto her back, taking a moment to visually graze her. She was really quite an appealing thing. A slim waist rather dramatically curving out to what, at that point, seemed to be the most accommodating hips Petrol had ever laid eyes upon. Only for a moment did he pause, however, as his flesh commanded him to do more than look. He fell on her heavily, plunging in between her legs and savoring her ecstatic yelp of surprise.

Slowly at first. Always slowly at first, but her actions while he was asleep seemed to have fast-forwarded his usual routine for intercourse. This, and the strange turn of events leading to her being in his bed caused his motions to go much more quickly and with much more force than he usually exerted.

Then, it snapped. There he was, doing what almost seemed like a full time job, granted this time with much more verve and personal enjoyment, and the old familiar feeling flooded back from some unsounded rivulet. The feeling was as exaggerated as his arousal and he looked down on the shut-eyed, classically beautiful face of the woman and saw her as he had yearned to see her earlier. His toy. His treat. His experiment.

The -- what he considered -- normal modes of thought now took over as if they had never lapsed. She was in his bed, had come quite willingly, and it was his job to mess her up. To fuck her with such force and hatred that the moment would be with her forever.

Then, another thought crossed his mind. Quite a rational thought, he believed. And that thought was questioning why she should have this moment to look back on with fondness, with fear, in her old age. Why should she be suffered to live that long? Would he not be doing the world, himself, and perhaps even Nyquolytt a great service if he snuffed this little candle of a girl right now?

Yes. Yes. Quite so. That was the ultimate good deed he could hope to accomplish in the present situation.

He descended upon her so that his chest was in her face. He being a stately 6'4", this was easily accomplished. Her vocal responses changed with his shift in position and she continued her grind, oblivious to all his actions save but the one that counted most. Blocking her vision thus, he reached above her to the shelf over the bed and pulled down a six inch knife with a curving, snakelike path to its blade, ornately inlaid with gold and serpents and the such.

And before Nyquolytt could comprehend how the situation had changed, she felt the warm flow of her own gushing jugular as it spurted its fluids in a fountain -- blood falling down in an arc over her breasts, her face, her everywhere.

The state of shock she had fallen into mercifully dulled her senses and she was aware only of the rhythmic pushing and pulsing of Petrol between her legs, and the warm, sticky, strangely erotic lubricant flowing everywhere. She was aware of this only momentarily, however, as she quickly lost consciousness and was rendered quite dead.

Dead, but not useless.

Petrol, maniacal with laughter, and lethal with his sex, continued banging away at the bloody corpse, taking pains to rub his body against hers, smearing the blood more over her and himself, but never stopping the rhythm. Only for a few moments could he sustain this heavenly state of being when his loins began to tense and he ejaculated with such a force that he promptly fainted from the exertion.

A few minutes later, Petrol came to. He was disorientated for a moment, recognizing well his familiar draping canopy, but not being able to place the face of the girl next to him, or the reason for her pallour. He put a hand to his lips and tasted the salt of blood and remembered.

"Thank you," he whispered, feeling his bosom swell with gratitude and delight. He lightly kissed the woman's aghast face, and dismounted the bed. Naked and dripping with blood, he traversed the room to the computer and, in response to the pontifications previously written by him about the loss of his willpower and his demotion of self-appointed rank, etc., etc., he typed three characters:


NOTE: This story originally appeared in Diva Z online magazine's Poe-Fest page.

To learn more about the author, the Marquis Déjà Dû,
please check his Bio on the Editors Page.

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