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I Overpaid For The Best Sex Of My Life

“I want the best sex of my life.”

That’s what I told the old man I’d been looking for, the arranger of the affair, on Tuesday. I’m not going to tell you the name of the motel he runs. I’m not going to tell you what town it’s in. If you’re interested then that’s too damn bad; I won’t help anyone else get into the crazy mess I did. I’m not a bad guy, I’m just a man.

I just want you to understand that, Eleanor.

I’d slapped five grand in hundreds on the counter in front of the old codger when I told him what I wanted — that was the minimum, as far as I’d been told.

“I hear you have girls for that sort of thing,” I went on. “Really skilled girls.”

He gave an eager grin. He was an eastern-looking man, maybe in his 70s, and he didn’t wear any shoes or socks. “Ohhh, really,” he says. “Well, I suppose I do … for this kind of money, yes. Of course I do, sir.” Then his fading green eyes flashed at me from under his wiry eyebrows. His grey-and-white mustache twitched. “Only one thing, sir.”


“You’ll never have better.”

“That’s the idea.”

“No,” he says, and then his grin melted away. He leaned forward. “I mean it. Really. You will never find a girl that does it better. Never ever. Rest of your life. Ancient technique. You sure you can live with that, sir?”

I considered it. There was a small part of me that thought, What if my wife can’t satisfy me anymore after this? Then there was a bigger part that admitted, She doesn’t satisfy me anyway, and a bigger part still that suspected that this guy was just full of shit. I looked around the lobby, saw the vending machine with OUT OF ORDER scrawled in black marker on a paper taped to it, felt a headache coming on from the flickering fluorescents above me, smelled the redolent reek of curry and onions. I’d been cheated by places this shanty before.

How good could it be?

But I’d come a long way, searched long and hard for this guy, and saved up a stupid amount of cash to get what good authority guaranteed was the best. Ever since the baby, Eleanor and I’s midnight activities had added up to a big fat zero. Nothing. Nada. And speaking of big and fat, she showed no interest in losing her post-preggo weight. Look, I know that sounds terrible, but I told you I’m just a man; here I was, working 40 to 80 a week, providing for the kid and wife, and the cajoles were so loaded I thought I might go crazy if I didn’t empty the magazines soon. And besides … if this guy’s girls were also eastern, like him … if there was any bit of truth to the rumours … then I’d be damned if I missed out on some Kama Sutra stuff.

“Whatever,” I told him. “I’m fine with that. It really better be the best I’ve ever had, man. I need good. Like a porn-star experience.”

He shook his head and the grin crept back — only this time it seemed like something was just-so-barely off about it. A slyness, almost. “It’s even better, by Lili. Won’t be disappointed, sir.”

He took the bills, counted them, and then handed me a card with a phone number and appointment time scribbled on it.

I went outside, feeling a twinge of resentment. Maybe he was cheating me. This place is a shack. That guy was weird.

By Lili?

I felt slightly better, though, when I looked at the name written under the number and time:

‘Agrat bat Mahlat’.

I couldn’t resist a smile.


Ancient technique, baby.


I made the call from in my car. She answered with a voice so sweet that I found myself rubbing my crotch just at the sound. She told me to bring a blindfold and wear it when I arrived; it would be part of the sensual experience.

And, God dammit, that voice.

I looked at the dashboard clock. My appointment was in half an hour.

I went to the Dollarama, and picked up a sleep blinder.


I was standing in her room on the tip of my toes, wearing the blinder, with my body pressed against her tightly. Soft, soft lips brushed against mine, giving me the most gentle of kisses … my heart fluttered in my chest, and I felt as though I could fall backwards and simply float away.

“By God,” I whispered, and —

(By Lili??)

— then I became so hard it felt like the top button on my fly would pop off. “I need to see you. I bet you’re a smoking vixen.”

“You can see me after,” she said sweetly. “During round six. I’ll give you six times, my love. Six.”

I groaned delightedly and we continued on. It was right of her to deny me taking the blinder off; my imagination seemed to enhance every aspect of this and increase the anticipation of what was coming. Her movement in my arms was spry, sprightly, skilled beyond measure.

Then she undid my pants, and began working. I shoved my knuckles into my mouth, just barely cramming back a cry of pleasure. That massaging with her fingertips, the feeling … it felt like there were four sets of hands on me.


It was about five minutes later and she was gasping under me, my blinder still on … and even so, I desired her so completely that the whole of my existence seemed focused towards this singe goal. My perceived image of her was amazing in my mind; a woman exactly as I wanted her to look, and how I wanted her to be. Her body fit so perfectly well in my grasp. Her hair felt like it had been braided — my favourite.

How good oh God oh — oh LILI — how good can this be? How good can you be? How good?? How are you so — sooo —

I blew so hard it was nearly painful. My mind exploded from me in a starry burst. Incredible. In-fucking-credible. I’d had pretty damn good orgasms before, but this … this was legendary. I shuddered in delight.

When I finally caught my breath once more, I heard her whisper: “Again.”

And even though my penis was still sensitive, so very sensitive after that climax … I obeyed. Because, well … wasn’t there some other feeling coming on? Some overwhelming feeling of … well, dread? Dread at being left without her touch? The dread of feeling left alone?

I couldn’t stand it, and right then I rolled over to embrace her once more — then I was surprised to find her holding me away.

“Got a wife?” she asked primly.

“Yeah. So what?”

“Ohhh, you’re a bad man,” she said, and I could hear her saucy smile in her voice.

Dirty talk now.

“Nah. Not a bad guy, baby, just a man. Just had a kid. Sex life evaporated. You know how it is. Are you a bad, bad girl?”

“Oh, I’m the baddest, my love.”

“Bad, bad girl’s need a real man. I’ll be your man, babe. I’ll be your man all night long.”

She sighed a throaty, lusty sigh and put her arms around my neck.

We did it again.

And again … and again … and again …

And each time after, just as that feeling of crept up on me, just before its total manifestation, she’d rescue me from it with the warmth of her sweet wet cunt. Her legs and arms bundled my body into her bosom, and I felt like I could meld into her. All the while her fingers working with an almost incomprehensible fluttering up and down my spine.

It was ecstasy.


A couple hours later, and it was the final round. This time she had her lips wrapped around the tip, tongue doing things I never thought possible. Nothing … nothing I had ever done in my years had felt like this. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand, not entirely sure when I had started to cry tears of joy.

“Hey,” I managed to say.

As she worked: “Mmm?”

“Can I — oh, Christ, can I take the … off … can I take the … blinder … off! I need to! I need to see you, babe, OH, OH — GOD!!”

I blew the absolute hardest, most mind-seizing orgasm of my life. Even better than the others. My hands clenched into tight fists as I felt myself pumping, shooting, imbuing everything that was me into her.

Only …

Only …

Only this time … something felt … very wrong.

It felt like my life was being sucked out of me. I heard the delighted giggling of the woman as she drained me dry, leaving my body feeling —

I reeled backwards helplessly, withdrawing from her warmth, and flopped onto the bed. I felt lighter. Much lighter. Too light.

“Quite pleasing?” She laughed softly. “Would you like to do it again?”

“Yes,” I uttered. “Yes, yes.”

“Ah. A woman like me … a man would do anything under her thrall, don’t you think?”

I nodded without hesitation. “Yes, a man would …” But hearing the word she used there, ‘thrall’, gave the sweetness of that voice a whole new meaning.


“You may take the blinder off.”

I did take it off.



And then …

I was looking at a thing of such intense, alien beauty that even its flesh, rippling and undulating like boiling wax, gave me no pause. Her ‘hair’ was not hair but strands. Thin, slender tendrils that didn’t look too unlike very long earthworms. She held her arms upwards, veiny fingers stretching, and stretching, and stretching, until the tips reached the ceiling. There were far more than five on each hand.

How can I explain — how can I tell you how much I yearned for this thing, despite its complete otherworldly form? Digitigrade feet. Underarms that resembled the underside of an oyster mushroom. A mucoid cavity between her legs that by all accounts looked diseased. It was absurd. It was witch’s magic. It was disgusting.

I should have been horrified.

“Yes. A creature such as me,” she crooned — it crooned — “a man would do anything. Even the most terrible, heinous, vile deeds.” She grinned, red-irised eyes gleaming insanely. “As you’ll soon find out.” She opened her mouth, smiling endlessly.

That’s at last when it came: fear as cold as winter’s first breath, hard as bone.

Her tongue lolled out of a dark maw where yellow fangs protruded. That tongue, a spongy thing, was at least a foot long and had lolled out from one side. With morbid fascination I watched fresh blood, thick and foamy, course all down along it, and drip to the floor with sickening splats.

It was flecked everywhere, that blood. On the sheets. On my legs. Some of it seemed slightly drier, slightly older, maybe only by an hour or two.

I looked down at my still-erect manhood. Polished to a sheen. But the whole thing was a deep hue of purple. Like a hickey. Then, to my repulsion, I watched goggle-eyed as a final bead of the red stuff oozed out of the urethral opening and then trickled down the shaft in a crooked rill.

Had she?

Could she?

Yes, I supposed she had.

I tried to speak, simply couldn’t find words. And still … still I found myself yearning painfully for her twisted wiles … even as she shrieked and screamed and laughed.

Even when she told me what she wanted.

Who she wanted it from.

And only then could I be her man again.

That night I drove home, screaming and raging in the car. How I hadn’t passed out or totally lost my mind, I don’t think that’s for anyone on this Earth to know. I cringe at the possibilities. All I knew right then was that I could feel the distance between us with every mile, like it was some spike being pushed harder and harder into my heart. Every mile, I felt emptier and emptier.

Every mile brought me closer to what she wanted.

That feeling: that goddam empty feeling. Had it been the blood-loss? Had it only? Or was it something else? Something more elemental?

“I’m not a bad guy!” I screamed. “I’m not! I’m just — a man. That’s all.”

Then I cried.

Or maybe I laughed.

I can’t quite remember.


Eleanor, when you read this, I just want you to understand that. I’m not a bad guy. I’m just a man. And there are things in this small, tiny bubble of a universe that we inhabit which are neither man nor woman nor dream or nightmare. They exist, Eleanor. I don’t know how, but they just do. And they are stronger than men.

I just want you to understand that, by Lili.

I want you to understand that when you tell the police.

I want you to understand that when you find the empty crib. TC mark

Original weird fiction and dark fantasy.

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