zombie fucker : reloaded
by Alex Severin & Mike Philbin
A Few Minutes Ago . . .
Packed Press Conference: three days after psychiatric nurse Dahlia Winterbottom went missing, presumed kidnapped. There had been no telephone call as yet, no ransom note left behind, no inkling as to why she’d been taken. These sick fucks don’t always leave a roadmap to the scene of the crime, that’s for sure. Police funds were running low on this case and priorities had to be adhered to – put it bluntly, this press conference was a last ditch effort.
No show now = Missing Person.
On screen Autistic Alan, one of Dahlia’s real success stories, pleaded to the NGC News camera, tears in his bloodshot eyes, transparent snot rolling over his thick-lipped mouth. “...Dahlia is my bestest friend in the whole world. She is kind and good and clever nurse. I love Dahlia. Bring her back. Bring back my Dahlia. You shall not have her. No. Bring her back for me.”
The grey-haired skinny-looking man sat next to Autistic Allen was Dahlia’s father. He pulled the microphone to him, “We want you back, honey. All is forgiven. Come back home now. Daddy needs you right now, honey. Come home.” He made it sound like she’d run away, not been abducted. Surely he had to be suspect _numero uno_ – it always turns out to be family, those closest to you who fuck you the hardest.
Not So Long Ago . . .
She hated it here. She hated the heat and the dust. She hated the constant sensation of grit on her tongue, in her eyes, up her nose, from the sand particles in the air. It even managed to work its way into her pussy. She was sure that one day when she was an old, wrinkled woman, that she’d shit a lump of rock out of her cunt, a product of years of sand working its way inside her body. And she hated the way she always felt dirty here. She couldn't possibly be dirty - she showered half a dozen times a day out here, three times as much as she did at home in the city, just morning and night there. But here, many times, all the time. Dirty here, always. But it never washed off.
She hated the dryness of this place, the barrenness; she fancied it was like a post-menopausal womb, bereft of natural juices, devoid of the possibility of life. She longed for a pacific northwest city again - any city. She longed for the rain, and for the dark back-streets she would venture down alone late at night. There were no dirty alleyways to get fucked ragged by plaque-toothed, stinking-cocked strangers here. There was nothing for her here. She was dying here. It was too hot to even contemplate a finger-fucking session. It was just too damn hot to do anything.
She sighed heavily and stared out into the shimmering desolation of the desert, mourning the loss of the frequent filthy sex she once had in the streets, the cities. She had been an internet porn star, back then. Back before her career turned to shit. She had her own paysite, a friend at the hospital helped her with the technical stuff. Had her own fanbase, paying customers eager to see her doing what she did best. She’d started off easy with boys and girls - masturbation mostly; her doing them; them doing her - and got real bored real fast. She had the amazing brainwave of inviting filthy junkies and winos into her virtual life for kicks. She’d ply her street-scum with cheap booze, undress these unwashed dregs of society and suck their shrivelled stinking cocks live on air while her army of fans demanded sicker and sicker things – all the time the clock would be ticking and the money filling up her online account.
It wasn’t until someone suggested she shave one of the hobos that she really understood what dirty sex meant.
A Little Ways Back . . .
“Dahlia undoes her bra,” Dahlia spoke to the cine8 operator, “Come on, Dahlia undoes her bra, don’t look away my little honey-boy. You gotta keep me in the frame. Can you see my breasts? Yes? Can you see how I am licking the nipple? I gotta stretch my little titty... “ she giggled, “...to get that nipple into my mouth, don’t I, little honey-boy? You like it when Dahlia does that, don’t’cha? Want me to come over there and lick your balls?”
The cameraman, who was very shy, played with the zoom and rotated the camera on its tripod as instructed but was obviously uncomfortable with his role. After all, this was the local mental asylum, where Dahlia worked and he was a patient. All around them were the catatonic patients in their beds all huddled round the scene in a lazy arc. An audience literally stunned into silence.
“Alan not comfortable.” Autistic Alan said in a hissed whisper, looking around.
“Who’s to know, my little honey-boy? Who’s to know?”
It was the middle of the night and this was nurse Winterbottom’s solitary graveyard shift. She could do whatever the fuck she wanted with the patients after all the doctors clocked off for the evening. Their well-being was her domain. Dahlia delivered her pap then, like a platter of ripe exotic fruit, to the roving eye of her jittery cameraman.
“Dahlia not in the shot!” Autistic Alan panicked, knowing that at all times he had to keep Dahlia in the shot, his acute autism would allow no other course of action.
“Hush now, rabbit. Don’t worry so. If Dahlia says it’s alright not to frame her, it’s alright not to frame her.”
“Alright not to frame Dahlia.” parroted Autistic Alan.
“If Dahlia says it’s alright to kiss Dahlia on the lips, then it’s alright to kiss Dahlia on the lips. Do we understand?”
Autistic Alan scrunched his face up like a boy but didn’t advance on nurse Winterbottom. She broke the distance between them with a sharp peck that made Autistic Alan’s eyes open. A line of dribble crested over his lower lip. A fly that had wandered into the Catatonia Ward saw through its multi-faceted eyes Autistic Alan’s cotton pyjama bottoms fall to the floor, saw nurse Winterbottom kneel at his feet.
Deja Vu . . .
Dahlia Winterbottom. Staff nurse. No one would guess that the person looking after their mentally ill son or daughter was this sick online fucker. Unless you looked into her dead eyes, that is. If you looked into Dahlia’s dead eyes, it’d be like looking into the eyes of a savage dog. You can’t tell how angry a dog is from its snarl you gotta look into its eyes. When you see the roiling mists and the turbulent depth of the ocean ringing a buoy’s bell then you know you’re up shit creek without a paddle.
Dahlia always had that look in her eyes. When she was bed-washing her nutters, when she was gossiping in the canteen, when she was sitting down on a tramp’s greasy erection from her paying punters...
Those were the good old days. Getting paid to fuck. Who could ask for a better life than that? And she chose the punters, too. It wasn’t like she was lurid street-corner decoration, people didn’t kerb crawl Dahlia – not if they wanted to live. She chose who she fucked and (though the punter would like to think otherwise) she chose how she fucked.
Something had called her back from the desert, the desert she never wanted to be in anyway. Something made her up-sticks and run back to the city, abandon her dribbling charges in the asylum and hot-foot it back to the dirty city.
Without a word, without so much as a message scribbled hastily on the back of a used envelope signed with a X X X, Dahlia disappeared.
An old contact hooked her up with a new gig the day she got there. She fell right back into it as if she'd never left.
This wasn't like what she did at the asylum - the grainy footage shot on super8 or old video tapes or webcams. This was more like her old position - she was a professional.
Dahlia was special, and Dirty Dave, her old sleaze-bag mate who always stank of sour apples from drinking cheap cider all day and all night, knew she was special. Dahlia was a star. There'd not been one like her before, or since, and when she left, his profits plummeted. He was the US producer and distributor of a company called Zombie Porn (does exactly what it says on the can).
Dahlia was quivering with excitement as the camera began to roll and the sound man signalled he was ready.
Scene One . . . Action!
She shaved the filthy drop-out’s hairy groin. It was like pulling a rake through a thorn bush of puke stains. The razor blade wouldn’t slide, it dragged and caught on bits of shit and all sorts of dried up spunk and things you wouldn’t wanna to talk about in polite conversation. She nicked him a few times but he was on a cheap bourbon high and didn’t feel shit. It wasn’t the blood that got her memories of them flowing back like elephant ejaculate.
It was the single living maggot that fell out of the uncircumcised top of his festering cock.
It fascinated her. She stared at the twitching, writhing creature with wonder, like she'd discovered some unknown species of fauna, deep in an unexplored jungle. Her mouth was open as she gazed at it, open in awe at the exquisite putrescence of the man in front of her. She'd never seen such a dirty bastard. And she'd never smelled such an ungodly stench.
But then she looked through the man. He had triggered something inside her and she looked beyond him as if searching for something in the distance behind him. She shook her head, dismissed the deja vu and carried on with her ministrations.
Then she looked at him more closely. Peered into his face, searched his eyes. But there was nothing there. Nothing lay behind the dry darkness. Vacant. Empty. His eyes were like the darkened, smashed windows on a derelict building - it went without saying that once it had been filled with life and the living but now all that remained was a shell, an empty shell. That's what she was staring into - an empty shell. The shell of a being that had once been a man.
She looked more deeply into him, concentrated on finding even a spark of humanity. She found nothing. Then something moved. She thought there was a tiny flicker of character in his gaze, a cheeky glint, she moved closer to him, just an inch from his eye. She smelled the scents of death emanating from his every pore and orifice, smelled the remnants of his last meal rotting in his gut, endlessly sloshing around in putrefied bile and gastric juices. Her gorge rose; she felt tiny pieces of vomit worrying her aesophagus as her diaphragm muscles contracted.
She pressed her knees tightly together as her pussy began to overflow.
Her heart was racing, thundering against her rib cage. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as it dried with excitement.
The thing in front of her opened its mouth. The remnants of its tongue flopped from between its lips. It was mostly black, partially dried, but discolored with green, yellow and purple bruises – sure signs of muscle decay. A foul smelling discharge like runny custard oozed from the decayed organ and the stench almost knocked her backward. It stung her nose, made her eyes water, made her engage her gag reflex once more, and her gnawing hunger to taste the sweetmeats of this monster's sex made her mouth overflow with excited saliva. She licked at the corner of her mouth as it overflowed and ran from her lips.
This was it. This was just about the only taboo left for her to break. She'd broken all the rest of them. She'd done live shows from her room way back in the rear of the home where she fucked and fellated and tortured her drooling, senseless captives. She'd done old women with dried-up cunts and old men with dried-up cocks that she had a hell of a time ramming into her own arse. She'd done all sorts; animals, inanimate objects, machines, coma patients - everything there was to do.
The only line left to cross was the mortal line - corpse fucking, the defilement the dead. Because this thing in front of her, she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt - was dead. Dead as Dillinger. Deceased. Not alive. An ex-person.
In the Recent Past . . .
“Alan done good.” Autistic Alan appeared very proud of his ability to ejaculate again and again.
“Yes, my pretty peach, Alan done good. Alan done real good.” Dahlia stroked Autistic Alan’s still-pulsing cock. She loved the way it twitched when she thumbed the underside, there, right at the tip. Thoughts of the cattle being herded to their execution down at the abattoir, their eyes immense with apprehension at the stench of death that blustered up this way as friend after friend disappeared into the deep red horror chamber. But being human didn't give one the franchise on death and sex and the instinct to procreate. Even with a cold bolt dead-centre between the eyes, a bull might die with a prize-winning erection. Dahlia loved to think of death when she got horny like this. Nothing could stop her. She loved to fuck, be fucked and think of death. You know, some idiots would call that an unhealthy pre-occupation. And that’s their God-given right. There’s no arguing with the Lord when it comes to fucking the dead, no siree.
“Get yourself dressed, Alan,” Dahlia was already on her feet buttoning her nurse’s uniform, straightening off her skirt, “One day, I’ll share something with you, let you film me in my element, like you’ve never seen me glow before. A phoenix revealed by the flame. You’re my baby angel, aint’cha?”
Autistic Alan stood there looking dumb and uncomfortable, but undeniably cute. Dahlia moved closer to him and kissed his spittle-shiny lips. Licked his chin. Then plunged her tongue into his gaping mouth.
"Too fucking warm,” she hissed under her breath as she turned away, they’re always too fucking warm.
Zombie Porn is the New Black . . .
Dirty Dave's punters were gonna be cumming for weeks on the pungent memory of this, Dahlia thought to herself as she tugged down the zombie’s grease-and-shit-stained jeans. The undead lover let out a chilling sewer-stinking grunt, long and loud like the lowing of cattle as she struggled to get his jeans over his abattoir boots. She took the blackened cock into her mouth and started to suck. Her fingers found her own seeping sex and dug in deep, trying to cause herself pain, any sensation would do. She thought of black pudding, plucked from the market meat hook as she sucked on the distended organ ripe with decay, her fingers scratched at her clitoris. Her mouth filled with maggots and she gulped hard, coughing and gagging as most of them went down as the thrust three fingers into herself, deeper; deeper. What she couldn’t quite swallow ended up on the bed doing their panicked little gyrations. She shuddered as the climax tore through her, thighs quivering like jelly, head went back – in the back of her throat, white things wriggled. A gurgling exaltation filled the room.
She knelt there looking at her monitor – the air was electric and no-one was saying a word. She finally had her captive audience.
Unanswered Questions . . .
But she wasn’t 16 any more. She was 32. And that’s a whole valley of water under the bridge. Dahlia was a woman reliving a girl’s fantasy. Did zombies even exist? Where the hell was her daddy? He should have worked it out by now. Should have returned to the farm to save his little girl...
Misty Watercolor Memories . . .
Of course, she suspected - in her heart of hearts she knew - where this zombie had come from; she was just a tad surprised that she’d found him out in civi-street so far across the desert, so far from her daddy’s farm. Dahlia had a special memory that her father had spent years and thousands of dollars electro-shocking out of her sick little brain. Who can tell what’s real or not when some doctor’s been stirring up the contents of your skull with a surgical steel whisk?
A hot desert breeze.
Vultures circling overhead.
A soft low groan.
Fingers grazing the wire mesh fence.
Dead cold hands reaching out to touch hers.
No, that’s not how the human brain works, she told herself – aware that the lingering embers of that delicious past could never be truly gutted by a bit of dicking around inside her skull. It was so vivid, the revelation; so clear even now after all the ‘therapy’ she’d been through. She gasped as the full force of her past life returned to her in the scrape of teeth down the stinking flesh of a dead cock.
She was a zombie fucker.
She had always been a zombie fucker.
The realisation made her gasp as it filled her senses, as she once again felt the warm kiss of the desert wind through the thin fabric of her flimsy summer dress. She felt the hot metal mesh of the security fence burning the milk-white flesh on her firm young thighs and her tiny tits. Her nipples poked perfectly through the diamond-shapes in the fencing. The sensation of a finger, bereft of flesh, scraping at her teenage nipples made them harden to solid peaks. A bony, rotted hand forced itself through the metal mesh, the remainder of the skin and sinew that still clung to the bones was sloughed like an old snake skin, exposing clean white bone beneath.
Dahlia couldn’t hold back. She grabbed on to the wire fence, though the heat burned her flesh. She held firm to the wire mesh and kicked off her sandals. Bare foot over bare foot, she climbed up the fence until her bare feet were at the same height as her clinging burning hands. She placed her naked cunt on the rotting hand that continued to press through the fence. Placed her glistening papercut over that dead lump of sinew and bone. And slowly, ever so slowly like a daydream that should never be allowed to end, she eased the cold dead fingers into herself.
The zombie on the other side of the fence pushed his face up against the wire and pressed forward until the diamond wire cut into his dead flesh, disecting his own face. He stuck his tongue through and Dahlia devoured it. Not sucked it. Not licked it. Devoured it. Actually sunk her teeth into the rotted tongue meat and took a fucking big bite. The zombie watched her with total love in its dead eyes, total adoration - a spark of humanity lived inside all that raw, primal hunger after all. Chewing on the fetid meat, Dahlia was close to orgasm. Banging down on the boney fist, Dahlia was close to orgasm. Rattling the wire with her entire body, head thrown back, her summer dress lifting in the hot, dry breeze, Dahlia was close to orgasm. So very close...but not quite there.
Attracted by the stink of sexual commotion, the army of zombies wandered over in her direction. She saw them through the myopia of her encroaching orgasm. She saw them staggering lustily out of the sun-burned dust-haze. She could hear their lusty groans and smell their decayed excitement. She felt their pressure on the wire fence. She felt their undead insistence. Fingers thrust through the wire, grasping at the heat of her flesh.
She couldn’t have been more than 16 years old then – but that didn’t stop her orgasm from exploding against the wire like a nuclear shockwave that made her undead lovers stagger back before coming in for more.
Today’s Spectacular Footage
They finally came to get her, liberated her from her shack in the desert. She’d been cooking in that prison and she had the ache for undead sex. It had all come full circle, being out here where her childhood had been raped by the fingers of corpses, where her life had been transformed, where her daddy had discovered her hideous penchant. They had come to save her, the Zombie Fucker.
There was a hole under the zombie fence that they’d dug, her captors.
Why isn't daddy here? He'd know what to do.
He would save her, despite his research.
“Surprise, surprise, nurse Winterbottom!”
It was Doctor Peregrin. He actually looked like a falcon with his bronze hair greased back like that and that hook nose upon which perched sliver half-moon spectacles. Christ, he even had his lab coat on, talk about melodrama.
“You’ve already met my ‘technical assistant’ Alan. Alan, say hello to nurse Winterbottom.”
‘Autistic’ Alan looked up from his technical adjustments with the camera tripod.
“Dahlia the greatest Zombie Fucker in the whole world. She kind and clever. Nice tits, too.” He winked, totally breaking the shell of his character. His eyes shone like sweating diamonds.
Dahlia's brow furrowed in confusion. She knew him - he was her patient, Autistic Alan, her little honey-boy, her little rabbit. But he looked like a Doctor now, or a lab technician. He was also white-coated and bespectacled and didn't look as simple as he once had.
Dread filled her gut. This wasn't right. This was not the way things used to be. She remembered none of this. Everything seemed back-to-front, reversed. Everything was arse-over-tit and she hadn't a clue where she was or who the fuck Dr. Peregrin was.
She realized she was shaking, but it was not a fear-tremble, not the sort of shaking she'd done when she was hiding from her father's cock as a little girl. This was a need-shaking. A want-shaking. This was the shaking one did when one's body needed something inside that was no longer there.
And she began to sweat. Cold, sweat almost sizzled on her burning skin. Her eyes and her arms and feet itched and she clawed at them with dirty nails.
Dahlia screamed as she caught a fleeting glimpse of herself reflected in the lens of the camera.
She didn't look like Dahlia anymore. She looked like a crack-whore who had staggered in off the street looking for a fix and a five-buck fuck.
She didn't know if this was real or not. She had no recollection of this reality - if that's what it was. She didn't remember being here as a patient, now, as an adult.
What she remembered, what was Dahlia's self as she recalled, was the beautiful, internationally renowned Zombie Fucker. She was the one all the up-and-coming net-whores wanted to be. She was the one they talked about to their friends, saying that they'd show her how it was done and that she was all washed up and now they were going to be da shit.
But they were all blog-trash.
Wannabes with a cheap-ass web cam and and free webspace.
I am the Zombie Fucker!
Alan! Let me out of here you retarded little fuck!
But the words were no more than thoughts and no sound issued from her mouth.
Her tongue was long-since gone. Ripped out, live on a streaming video session for www.zombie-fuckers-r-us.com, devoured, swallowed whole by the ravenous ghoul banging away between her thighs.
But she was oblivious. Drugged up to the eyeballs.
Dahlia wasn't even sure her name was Dahlia anymore.
© Alex Severin & Mike Philbin 2005