Prom Night

Silent gasps escaped from Megan's throat as her boyfriend thrust into her. His grunts were muffled by her soft neck and delicate shoulder. Sweat covered their naked bodies. Long blond hair covered the pillow beneath Megan's head. She whimpered and moaned as Brian's penis moved within her. He hadn't looked that big to her, but he felt enormous inside her virginal cleft. There had been pain, but it was leaving now. Building pleasure replaced it.

The prom dress Megan had saved for since her eighteenth birthday lay in a heap on the stained chair in the corner. Clouds of orange stuffing vomited from holes torn in the brown, orange, and yellow upholstery. The pieces of Brian's tuxedo lay strewn on top of her dress, like a dismembered corpse trying to mimick the actions on the bed.

In even worse shape than the twenty year-old chair, the bed screamed and groaned under the shifting weight of the young couple. It thumped against the wall but there was no one in the next room to hear it. The motel manager was the only other human within miles and he was shut safely in the office, six doors down, obliviously partaking in his own frantic lovemaking. His pumping right hand and the May 1986 issue of Penthouse couldn't hear the banging of the bed either.

Brian rose up onto his hands as he continued to thrust. Megan felt suddenly and intensely exposed. Her small breasts bounced with the meager force of his hips. The bed thumped, thumped, thumped against the wall, ticking away the moments of her first sexual experience. Moments she would never get back.

His face twisted into an ugly grimace and Megan suddenly became aware of the smell in the room before a strangled grunt burst from Brian's throat. She could feel with surprising clarity his penis begin to convulse inside her, spilling his seed into her fertile womb. Rotten meat. That's what the smell was.

Megan lay motionless on the bed while her prom date ejaculated into her vagina. His face kept getting more and more ugly as he climaxed.

Finally, his body began to relax. He slipped out of her, breathing heavily, and fished a beer out of the cooler he'd left at the foot of the bed. He stood naked, drinking. His penis was soft now and wet with his own sperm. It shone with the flashing red light of the motel sign outside their window. Megan began to cry.

She didn't want it to happen this way. She lay on her back, legs still spread as the trickle of semen from her dirty-whore hole began to turn pink.

After countless, anonymous minutes, the tears began to subside as the tingling in the back of her mind grew stronger. Pain, embarrassment, and shame faded, replaced by confidence and power. It always comes when I need it, she thought to herself.

Brian was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from her. He was still drinking the beer. Megan began to think about his little penis, visualizing it in her head; glistening in the intermittent light of the sign, beginning to dry, hanging between his slender thighs, resting atop his spent testicles. She felt the image click in her mind and knew she had it right. It became vivid then, as if someone had turned on an overhead light. The strong, comforting feeling of control swept through her.

Megan imagined Brian growing hard again. His penis throbbed with each heart beat, the veins delivering more blood than they took. Slowly it began to stand between his legs, longer and thicker. She was caught off guard when a hand closed around the shaft in her mind, but recovered quickly. She could see Brian stroking himself, both in her mind's eye and in front of her.

"Take me again," Megan said with a grin. It was just what he wanted to hear. Brian threw back the last of the beer and turned around. His penis was erect. Megan laughed silently to herself. The poor boy had no idea. He mounted her and guided himself back into her warmth. He paid no attention to the small trickle of blood leaking out from between her swollen whore-lips.

"Does that feel good?" she asked, lifting her hips to meet his.

"Shit yeah, babe." His voice was slurred with the effects of the beer. His thrusts were slow and clumsy.

"Fuck me then, Brian. I'm your little whore, aren't I?" She grimaced with the words. They hurt her to say them, but she knew it was how he felt. What he wanted her to say. She was just a pussy to him.

"Yeah, you're a trashy little slut," he agreed. His teeth were clenched with intensity. It was arousing him more.

"That's all I am," she said, mostly to herself. The admission settled onto her and she embraced it. She was a slutty little whore. That's all she ever would be.

Being able to see what she wanted to manipulate made it much more easy. Brian was looking down at her, excitement and dominance shining in his eyes as he pistoned his hips. Megan locked the image of his face in her mind and closed her eyes. A half second later, she flexed her mind like she would a muscle.

The spray of blood and brain and muscle and bone was warm and slippery. The headless body of her prom date collapsed on top of her, pinning her to the bed with its dead weight. It twiched and flopped like a dead fish. When she opened her eyes, blood was gushing out of the stump that had been his neck. It felt warm and comforting on her breasts. Filled with relief, her mind flexed again, throwing the convulsing body across the room to crash against the door.

Blood was all over her. Another mental flex and she was clean. She gathered her prom dress and (flex) moved the corpse out of the way.

The night air was warm. She'd sleep well tonight.