A Womb Exhumed

"Ah ah." She wagged a finger down at him. "No use lover. You'll not speak again this Hallows' Eve. Listen, but not speak."

He panted beneath her. Meghan smiled and raked her eyes over him. He whimpered.

"Aww, what happened here lover?" She spoke to his shriveled dick as she knelt beside him, her face morphing into a theatrical show of frowny-faced sadness. "It's so small! And sticky!" She pinched his tiny slug gently between her thumb and forefinger and peeled it off his belly. She stretched it, held it for a moment, then released; it drooped into a pathetic heap on his thigh.

"No matter," she mused. "We'll take care of that. You may not be ready anymore—but she is. I'll get her now." She sauntered from the room.

Henry stared up, glass eyed. After coldcocking him in the home of a strange old woman, his wife had stripped him naked, immobilized him, and somehow blocked him from speaking. He tried his voice again: still nothing. A hot tear pricked his skin. He opened and closed his fingers and curled his toes, wanting to feel that he was at least workingsomewhere.

Henry could hear Meghan come back into the room with less of a clickety-clack and more of a click-thump, click-thump.

He risked moving his head again and found that with only a moderate amount of pain, he was now able to raise his head a couple of inches off the floor and look down his body at the scene before him. His neck strained.

Meghan was carrying the most emaciated creature Henry had ever seen. It was curled up naked in her arms like a giant baby bird, fresh from the egg and featherless, black-eyed and helpless, limbs akimbo.

"Here she is lover," said Meghan, a hint of exertion in her voice. She looked lovingly into Dahlia Corrigan's skeletal face, eyes sunk deep in their sockets, wisps of white hair floating about her mottled pate. Dahlia smiled back.

Henry could no longer hold his head up. He lowered it with a soft squelch. He winced, panting, and began to collect more energy for when he would be able to raise his head again.

"Shhh, shhhh," he heard Meghan cooing as she lowered Dahlia to the floor between Henry's legs. "He's not ready anymore, but don't you worry about that my dear. I can help if you need. It's ok. Don't be afraid. My Henry is very gentle. It won't hurt a bit. On the contrary my dear, it's going to feel very, very, good..."

Henry strained against his cuffs, but it was no use. He sucked in a breath and lifted his head again.

Dahlia unfolded her limbs. She began to crawl.

With Meghan's sure hands to guide her, Dahlia inched forward. Henry cried out, silently, as her bony fingers tickled up his thighs. Meghan supported her torso as she advanced.

The top of Dahlia's head pushed gently into Henry's scrotum and she paused there, gathering strength. Henry felt the warmth of her skull against his perineum.

"On three my dear," said Meghan, gripping Dahlia more firmly around her upper body. "One, two,three..." and she lifted and pulled Dahlia up so her face was buried in Henry's crotch.

She began to root around Henry's flaccid member, snuffling and huffing, her fingers scrabbling up his abdomen and chest.

Henry bucked with terror as the night's earlier images of zombie-Henry flooded his brain.

Jesus-oh-Jesus-oh-motherfucker-she's-going-to-eat-my-dick...

And she did put it in her mouth. She did wriggle her papery lips around it. She did rasp her sandpaper tongue over it. But she was not eating him. She was trying to make him hard.

It didn't work. Henry was petrified, sure she was going to mash his cock to a pulpy mess at any second, her mouth shockingly full of blunt, hungry teeth.

Henry twisted his head to look at Meghan kneeling on his left. She was tucked in close to him, her knees against his hip. She was studying Dahlia's frantic yet ineffectual attempts to draw heat to Henry's member. Her face was full of macabre appetite, lips curled, eyes hungry and shining.

"Easy my dear, easy," soothed Meghan, massaging Dahlia's bobbing head. "Don't you worry about that. I'll help you, that's why I'm here, shhhh...." She guided Dahlia's head from Henry's limp, chafed member and encouraged her to move further up his body. Her tits were non-existent. The word "tits" simply did not apply. Her nipples were like smeared raisins against her breastbone. Henry laid his head back again, his neck muscles aching.

Dahlia shifted and lurched her way forward until her head was on his chest and she was panting her hot, dry breath into his chest hair. Henry could feel her spindly legs spasming between his thighs as she hoisted herself up enough to take his nipple in her mouth. She began to rasp it with her tongue.

Down below, Meghan was taking control.

He could hear her amassing great gobs of spit in her mouth and horking it out. Her slimy hands smeared her hot, bilious expectorant all up and down his dick, swirling and pulling and massaging his rubbery member, working her gut-juice into a tacky lather, then spitting and massaging some more.

And Henry thought, oh.

Oh. Oh no.

Oh god—oh—oh—oh.

He was responding. His dick was stiffening, slowly at first, then in pulsing waves, stretching and thickening and rearing up from his crotch.

"Ahhhhh," breathed Meghan, "Ahh, ahh, ahh... yes lover. Yes, yes, yes. She's going to be so pleased with you lover, so pleased. You're doing so well Henry. I'm so proud of you. I see how committed you are. I canfeel your commitment. It feels good Henry. It feels so right. So... right... so... right..."

Henry squeezed his eyes shut against the silky sound of his wife's voice, but it was no use. The more she egged him on with her words, the more blood she drew to his cock. Her spit was sliding down his shaft in little goopy waves, blending with his pre-cum and pooling at his root. Even without seeing her he could sense her lips hovering a hairsbreadth above his cock as she whispered to it.

"He's ready my dear Dahlia. My Henry is ready for you now. He wants to be inside. Oh, he can't wait to be inside."

Meghan transferred Henry's cock to her right hand and he heard her hork more spit. "Ah," she breathed, "I can feel you now my dear. Let me help. It won't take long."

Suddenly Dahlia's gyrations gained a renewed fervor as Meghan fingered her ancient, corrugated labia and reminded her poor forgotten clit what pleasures could be derived from such attentive, finely-tuned ministrations. Dahlia was like a cockroach, her body stuck to Henry's as if pinned to him through her midsection, her limbs stuttering incoherently in a helpless frenzy, scrabbling for purchase while Meghan stoked a long-dormant fire in her waiting womb.

"There, there, my dear, there there. Gently now Dahlia, I'm here. Feel that? Do you feel it?" Henry could hear the soft sucking sounds of Meghan's fingers at play over Dahlia's parts. Dahlia's frantic movements settled into the familiar rhythm and pace of a woman getting off.

After another minute of working on both of them, Meghan said, "Let's finish this."

Meghan shimmied further up the floor toward Henry's upper body. The bottom portion of her right leg bumped against his fist, clenched so tight his fingers were practically numb. He eased his hand open and her leg was there, waiting for his touch. He rested his aching hand on the smooth curve of her calf and took what little respite he could.

"Meghan," croaked Henry, silently, to no one—not even to himself.

Meghan put her right hand on Dahlia's shoulder and returned her left hand to Henry's cock. Henry felt the tip of his dick kissing up against Dahlia's century-old pussy as Meghan eased her backward. It took a few seconds to get lined up, what with Dahlia's larval wriggling and squiggling, but soon enough, Henry felt her smooth, warm muscle slurp down around him.

Henry pushed. He had to. It was what he was made for, that biological imperative embedded deep in every cell of his body. To push himself inside a woman. To make a new life.

Plus, it just felt so fuckinggood. Ease in. Ease out. Ease in. Ease out. Dahlia wanted to go faster, but Meghan didn't let her. Her grip on Dahlia's shoulder was firm.

"Yesssss," groaned Meghan, as if feeling Henry's penetration of Dahlia herself. "Ohhhh,yessssss. How's that my dear? Didn't I say? Didn't I tell you how good it would feel?" She leaned further over Henry and Dahlia. She was drooling onto Henry's thrusting cock to keep the action lubricated.

Now that she was taking deep dick for the first time in however long, Dahlia had finally begun to vocalize. Her voice was surprisingly supple, thought Henry. Her breathing was short and sharp and even girlish on the way in, while on the way out, her exhalations were long, deep and rich. Dahlia was, in a word, moaning.

"You're doing so well, both of you, I'm so proud," said Meghan. "He's going to put that baby in you, dear Dahlia. Just like we planned. Just like we need. He'll push it so far up into you, you'll feel it in your heart. You'll feel the life we created, together."

Henry could feel his orgasm building, the pyramid rising layer by layer. The base was laid, the middle levels were stacking up, up, up, higher, higher, narrower, tighter, ascending toward the geometrically inevitable apex.

"I warned you Henry." Henry's eyes snapped open. Meghan's voice had turned, a dark drop spreading through the syrupy sweetness of her formerly encouraging words. "I told you, no more upheaval in our lives. No more dragging me from place to place on your work whims. But you didn't listen, and now I'm doing something about it. We're setting down roots here Henry. And you're planting the seed..."

The pounding was over. Dahlia's pussy grabbed hold of Henry's cock and didn't let go. Meghan held Dahlia fast, all three of them swaying for a moment on the precipice. "That's it, here it comes, here he comes Dahlia, can you feel it? Feel it Dahlia, feel him coming! Ohhhh,yessssss...."

Henry gripped his wife's leg and tipped over. They all tipped over together.

Henry's orgasm propelled his cum into Dahlia's parched vaginal maw as deep as it could go. He grunted long and loud (in his mind), a guttural string of g's and n's and u's and r's pushing their way through clenched teeth and straining muscles. His bonds bit through his skin.

Dahlia was vibrating hard enough to cut glass. Her pussy seized around him. Meghan shook with the effort of pressing their bodies together, forcing a seal so tight not a drop of jizz could have escaped Dahlia's clutching lips.

And then they hit bottom, Henry first, all his muscles slackening into the floor in a droopy discharge. Dahlia quivered tautly a few seconds longer then crumpled over him, clinging and sucking into him like a cellophane wrapper. She blasted him with her foetid breath as her head slumped onto his chest. Henry's dick flopped out of her.

"Wonderful," said Meghan. "So wonderful you two! I'm so proud!" Her face glowed in the orange light of the candles with a sweaty, matronly sheen. She got to her feet, smoothed her skirt, then leaned down to scoop Dahlia, who appeared to Henry to already be asleep.

Meghan rocked Dahlia in her arms and whispered a lullaby as Henry fought to regain his senses. Their fuckstink hung in the air. It smelled as if they'd fucked at the bottom of a swamp, coupling in layers of leech-infested muck collected over a thousand thousand years.

Henry gulped air. He blinked and moaned, soundlessly. He raised his throbbing head. Something warm and wet leaked down the back of his neck.

Meghan looked at him beatifically. "Thank you, lover. For planting your seed. For putting down roots in this place. My sweet Dahlia has been such a willing vessel. Her womb is old and tired, but with my loving touch, its hidden contours have been revealed and its fecundity multiplied tenfold. He will be born anew, and rise, and the world will tremble before him."

Meghan stepped to the door with Dahlia bundled to her breast and turned back to Henry. Henry saw that somehow, impossibly, Dahlia was starting to show. His baby—or something born of his seed—was taking shape inside of her. Her parchment-skinned belly tightened with internal pressure right before his eyes.

"So thank you again Henry, truly, I thank you. Your work here is done. Goodnight lover."

As the door closed behind Meghan the candles flickered out and Henry felt the restraints around his wrists and ankles slacken. He pulled his limbs free from the cuffs, rolled to his belly, and heaved himself to his hands and knees.

He couldn't tell whether the greasy warm sludge between his buttocks was shit, cum, blood, brains, or all four blended together in a gut-churning stew. His head was bowed; he felt another cupful of warm goop slither from the back of his head and down his neck. It plopped to the floor.

His eyes may have been rolling in his head uncontrollably. In the utter blackness it was hard to tell. Either way, when he finally stood, he staggered left, then right, unable to keep his balance, lurching across the room like a sailor in a tempest, battered and beaten and quite literally on his last legs.

He found the door and pitched forward into the hall, arms outstretched to meet the floor. He figured it would be better just to crawl the rest of the way home. Home, he thought. Jesus.

But his hands never touched the floor. He fell down, down, and down. He spun through the stinking blackness.

Then he heard a sound. It was not his ears that detected the sound, for he had no ears—he had no body at all.

It was his soul that heard, and in so hearing, trembled in fear.

Fear of what it meant for his eternity, and the infinite eternities of every person who had ever lived and died, now that a faint, high-pitched mewling cry could be discerned, drifting through the void, taking form in the dark, solidifying, growing in strength and purpose.

My child, thought Henry, as the last nanoscopic fragment of his flickering consciousness was subsumed in molten blackness.

My child is coming.