Domestic Bliss

Norman Plunchnik didn't know why he spent each morning lately lying on his back, with his secretary's thighs wrapped tightly around his cheeks, her juices pouring into his less than eager mouth for what seemed like hours. God knows, a five-minute quickie used to be enough. Once he got his rocks off, he could return to work. But no longer. And Pam had become absolutely insatiable. Right now, his tongue felt as though it had spent the last half hour in a blender, and still Pam rocked back and forth violently on his face, the walls of her cunt contracting around his nose as his obedient tongue lapped furiously at the bud of her clitoris. Her gasps were becoming quicker and quicker now. She grabbed his head and forced Norman's mouth even tighter against her mound. She jerked violently, threw her head back on her shoulders, and let out one of her patented shrieks, as orgasm number twenty-three overcame her. Norman wasn't sure why he bothered counting them. A way to relieve the boredom, he supposed.

He only prayed the new soundproofing he had installed in the office was working. Otherwise, the patiently-waiting Ellen Griebstein was getting quite a show out there in the reception area as she waited to see her mysteriously delayed attorney.

He wasn't sure why he had begun to indulge in such practices. Certainly, Monica's all too frequent bouts of infidelity had instilled a need for some kind of revenge. And the fact that she had tried to put out a contract on him last year hadn't helped matters. He still couldn't quite bring himself to forgive her for that one. Sure, her lawyers had proved beyond any doubt in court that it had been a clear case of entrapment by the F.B.I. and those bastards on CNN. Were it not for the U.S. justice system's amiable willingness to let any criminal defendant go scot-free if she (or rather Norman) could hire a Dream Team of attorneys to exploit every available legal loophole, Monica would be sitting down in the state prison this minute, right where she belonged, getting buggered alternately by bull dykes and redneck guards, as she deserved. Instead, she was sitting watching Jerry Springer, smoking cigarettes and tossing down whiskey sours back at the house, where she was undoubtedly getting buggered by the pool boy.

Monica had never quite been the same since their darling daughter Clara, she of the navel ring, barbed wire tattoo, shaved head and chicest of heroin addictions, had run off with those two bikers. No Harvard Med School for her. Still, that was no excuse for Monica's occasionally successful attempts to screw the lights out of every hapless male that happened to saunter by the front porch of their humble domicile, or for hiring some greaseball to pump five rounds of lead into Norman's admittedly defective brain, for that matter. He wasn't quite sure exactly why it was that he stayed with her. Perhaps it was because he suspected that he was at least partially to blame for her insanity. He could have been a better husband, he thought to himself, as he watched the delightfully bouncing bottoms of Pam's breasts, barely visible now as he peered up at them through her pubic hair. She lowered herself onto him more tightly and grasped his hair. He felt the increased flow of her juices into his still famished mouth and the walls of her cunt beginning to tremble against his chin once again.

Here goes number twenty-four, Norman thought, as he sent his enflamed tongue into even more feverish motion. He sincerely hoped that wasn't the beginning of a temporomandibular joint problem he was feeling in his jaw. As Pam began to shriek once more and threatened to pull the few remaining hairs out of Norman's already depilated head, Normal suddenly realized that he had left the briefs for this afternoon's session back at the house. He'd better drive back and get them right after he took care of the always patient Mrs. Griebstein. But first things first. After all, one had to have one's priorities in order. And he would need to finish taking care of Pam before he could get to Griebstein. He redoubled his efforts, feeling the beginnings of number twenty-six on his tongue. If he worked her hard, he could probably induce the next five in rapid succession. Thirty usually did it. Although the way Pam was lately, you never knew.

As Norman pulled into his driveway, the first thing he noticed was the mail truck, oddly parked on the street directly across from his house. "Et tu, Cliffy Claven," he muttered to himself as he shut off the engine. Postal workers were known to be a tad testy at times and prone to scattering each other's brains across the mailroom walls with various sorts of automatic weapons. Still, Norman figured it might still be fun to give the two lovebirds a little surprise. He silently opened the door of the house, sneaked through the kitchen and tiptoed up the stairs. As he grasped the handrail, he found it to be covered with a sticky substance having the general consistency of cum. He grimaced, wiped his hand on his shirt and continued to make his way to the top of the stairs. Once there, he noticed a trail of slime on the carpet leading from the stairs to Clara's old room, where Monica had taken to sleeping lately. From beyond the door, there emanated a rapid series of Monica's trademark denials and affirmations. "Oh yes, oh yes, oh no, oh yes, oh no..." she panted in seeming indecision.

Norman pushed the door ajar and was instantly greeted by the unseemly spectacle of the mail carrier's undulating ass as he pumped his way in and out of the obliging Mrs. Plunchnik. The courier's bobbing butt seemed surprisingly tanned and well-toned as it completed its appointed rounds, forming a striking contrast to Monica's pasty, alcohol-soaked flesh. Surely the possessor of such an impressive gluteus maximus could find something better to diddle than his present company, Norman thought to himself as he switched on the light.

"I must say, you have found a very creative approach to tipping the mailman, Monica," Norman said. He turned to the steroid-enhanced mail carrier. "I came to collect my briefs and I suggest you collect yours," Norman told him, patting him on his well-developed rump. The postman's flesh was strangely oily and surprisingly cool. Norman felt a wave of pleasure come over him the instant he touched the mailman's flesh. He felt himself becoming instantly erect, surprisingly so in view of Pam's recent ministrations back at the office.

The postman turned and grinned at Norman, as if aware of Norman's state. The irises of his eyes seemed to spiral. Nonetheless, he proceeded to disengage himself from Monica and picked up his clothes. His movements were almost preternaturally swift and graceful. He seemed almost to glide out of the room.

Monica remained sprawled on the bed, her sagging breasts and potbelly a counterpoint to the postman's perfect flesh. She opened her legs wider, as if to taunt Norman with her splayed sex. "At least somebody around here can still get it up," she informed him, cackling and reaching across the bed for a cigarette.

Norman grunted and left the bedroom for the office to retrieve his papers, talking care not to step in the fresh trail of slime that led down the hall.

Heavenly shades of night had fallen by the time Norman returned to the house. He liked to postpone his arrival until well after dark these days. That way, there was a ninety-nine percent probability that Monica would be fully into her alcoholic stupor and he would be spared her usual diatribe. Tonight, for instance, he had eaten a sumptuous dinner of twice-cooked pork at the Hunan Pavilion, while trying to ignore the many eyes pitying him for his single-diner status. He had followed that up with a full hour of fascinating browsing at the CVS store next door to the restaurant, checking out the latest paperback releases and becoming intimately familiar with the contents of various brands of toothpaste.

Oh well, time to face the music, he thought as he turned off the ignition. As he got out of the Lexus, he noticed a light on in the bedroom of the house next door. He looked up. Sure enough, Helga Anderson was parading around in the buff again, her magnificent rose-nippled Viking breasts displayed to all and sundry with wanton abandon. It was high time he started to get to know his neighbors better, Norman thought. But not tonight. He barely had enough energy to insert his key into the lock as it was.

As he crossed the threshold, his nose was assaulted with a strange odor. Perfume. Monica never wore perfume. A red glow emanated from the general direction of the living room, the result of Monica's latest experiments with mood lightning. Reluctantly, Norman entered the living room, poised for yet another confrontation.

Improbably, he found Monica both unconscious and alone. But this was a different Monica. She wore the peignoir she had bought at Victoria's Secret during the first year of their marriage. Her breasts jutted firmly. Her stomach was taut. Her limbs were tanned, with superb muscle tone. Gone were the dark bags under her eyes and the nascent wattle on her neck. She looked truly magnificent, the perfect picture of health (and seduction).

"I'm sorry about this afternoon," she cooed. "Sometimes, I get so horny. Things haven't been right between us and I miss you, Normy." She gave him a Shirley Templesque pout of the lips and looked up at him with deep, strangely enlarged eyes.

As he came closer, Norman noticed the drying trail of slime leading up to the chair she was sitting in. He felt strangely compelled to reach out and touch her. He stroked her hair, and then reached down to cup her left breast, his hands tracing her erect nipple through the thin silk of her nightgown. As he touched her, an electrical charge seemed to surge through his body. He felt a strange tingling in his balls. His penis became not just tumescent, but granite hard. His genitals throbbed with a sweet but urgent pain he had not felt since he passed his eighteenth birthday.

He scooped Monica up in his arms and began to carry her to the bedroom. Her skin felt oily and cool, not unlike the postman's this afternoon. Norman's always pesky and troublesome cerebral cortex slowly began to turn off its lights one by one. His brain stem was fully in charge now. Nevertheless, as he passed Clara's old room, some stubborn higher brain center registered the low moaning beyond the door. It was Monica's voice. The other Monica.

Norman eagerly tossed the new Monica on the bed. She immediately crawled over to unbuckle his pants and unzip him. She took his impossibly enlarged member in her mouth as she tugged his pants down his thighs. That mouth had depths no human mouth could ever have, Norman thought, as he stepped out of his shoes and pulled his shirt over his head. Nevertheless, he allowed her to lay him supine on the sheet, his cock still firmly embedded in her mouth.

She crawled on top of him, into full sixty-nine position and she continued suck away at his cock like a calf at its lost mother's teat. He could smell the sweetness of her vagina as it neared his nose, and he began to lap at the bud as the lips of "Monica's" cunt swallowed his nose. The soft walls of her flesh began to squeeze and milk his nose and face, displaying more motion and skill than any human cunt ever could.

The Monica-thing's mouth then left his cock to engulf both of his balls at once. The empty air of the bedroom felt cruel against Norman's throbbing cock and Norman longed to be enveloped by her flesh once more.

It was not long before his wish was granted.

The Monica-thing slid down his chest, her hot cunt pulsating against his enflamed flesh every inch of the way. She plunged Norman's swollen prick deep inside that sweet orifice as she took his balls in her hands and began to squeeze and rotate them as she slowly began to ride his shaft. Her motions became faster and faster, and her superhuman cunt began to pulsate around Norman's member and milk him for all the sperm he was worth.

She squeezed his balls tightly when he came, emptying their entire contents into her greedy cunt. As he poured his hot jism into her, Norman suddenly had the sensation of something entering his penis and flowing in the reverse direction down his shaft. He balls tingled and began to pulsate strangely as Monica lowered her soft flesh onto his pelvis and thighs. He fell asleep in seconds.

A fullness in his bladder woke him a couple of hours later. As he staggered down the hall on his way back from the bathroom, he cracked open the door to Clara's old room. There was the Monica of old, sleeping in her usual pose. Her flaccid breasts cushioned her like a pair of tires, and the cellulite on her ample rump was clearly visible even in this dim light. She slept the slow, dreamless sleep of the inebriated. Norman closed the door and returned to the master bedroom. He was careful to wipe the slime off his feet before getting under the covers. He looked at the new Monica, the Monica-thing that lay next to him in the bed. Clearly, she could not be human. Norman had watched way too many X Files reruns not to know that.

Suddenly, the Monica-thing opened her tremendous, soft brown eyes. The irises in them began to spiral again as she cupped his genitals with her hand. Another electric charge seemed to pass through his body. What the hell, Norman thought. Why look a gift horse in the mouth? In fact, Norman thought he knew the perfect thing to do with this particular gift horse's mouth. He straddled her and grabbed the bedrail with both hands as he prepared himself for the greatest ride of his not-so-young life.

Norman awoke to the smell of waffles and strawberries, one of the breakfasts that Monica used to make for him during the early days of their marriage. He pulled on his clothes and walked toward the kitchen. Out of curiosity, he peeked into Clara's room. The old Monica was still lying there, with her pasty butt still turned to the ceiling. Funny, he thought, she was usually up having her breakfast of Pabst Blue Ribbon by now. Norman supposed she must have really tied one on last night.

As he entered the kitchen, he found the Monica-thing clad in only a black lace bra and panties, carefully arranging the strawberries around his waffle. She turned to greet him.

He stroked her hair and opened up the refrigerator. "I think I'll just start with the other half of this grapefruit," he told her. "I need to wake up my mouth."

Monica sat down beside him as he placed the grapefruit on the plate. For some strange reason, the thought of eating his regular morning grapefruit seemed to nauseate him today, but he dug the spoon in anyway. A squirt of grapefruit juice hit the Monica-thing straight in the eye. She let out a shriek. A smoky vapor poured out of her suddenly empty eye socket, and the surrounding flesh on her cheeks seemed to be eaten away, as if by sulfuric acid.

"Sorry," Norman said lamely.

"It's OK," said the Monica-thing, turning her decomposing face away from him and shielding it with her hand. After a few seconds, she took her hand away. The flesh was somehow miraculously restored. The formerly ruined eye held Norman in its gaze, its iris spiraling wildly. "See, no harm done," she reassured him.

Norman looked down at his grapefruit, his appetite suddenly ruined. "I'm not very hungry anymore," he informed her.

"I'll be the judge of that," she said, stroking his nipple. Another electric charge went trough his body. Once again, a PET scan of his cranium would have revealed little if any activity in the higher centers of Norman's brain. As Monica took his throbbing cock in her hand, he reluctantly decided to let his brain stem have its way with him once more time.

And when he parted the lips of the Monica-thing's vagina and probed it with his tongue, he discovered that Monica was right as usual. He really was hungry after all.

On the way to work, just to be on the safe side, Norman bought himself several gallons of grapefruit juice and a Super-Zapper double-pump Uzi water cannon squirt gun. Things sure were fun right now, but it didn't hurt to be careful, he figured.

Norman spent an atypically productive day at the office. The only oral attention Pam received from him was his dictation, which she received cheerfully, if somewhat reluctantly. His body and spirit basked in the afterglow of his sessions with the Monica-thing, although he did notice a rather strange sensation in his abdomen from time to time, almost as it worms were crawling around inside his belly.

He had been in such a hurry to get home and resume his tryst with the Monica-thing that he almost forgot about the speed trap on Elton Drive. Ticketless nonetheless, he screeched to a halt in his driveway, grabbed the bags containing the grapefruit juice and fully loaded squirt gun, and barreled through the front door.

The Monica-thing was waiting for him, looking as enticing as ever in an unfamiliar pink teddy as she lounged on the sofa. The smell of London broil wafted out of the kitchen, and he noticed the lit candles on the dining room table. The Monica-thing shook her lustrous black hair, stretched her fabulous legs and smiled at him. "What's in the bags?" she asked him.

"Oh, nothing. Just some wine and stuff for the office party tomorrow. I'll put it away," he told her and then headed upstairs for the bedroom, taking care to avoid the slime trail on the steps. As he passed Clara's room, he peeked in. The old Monica still lay on the bed in an apparent coma. But as he peered more closely, he could see that her eyes were wide open and seemed to be tracking his movements. Pleading with him. But she could not move her mouth to speak. He hastily closed the door, went to his own bedroom and stashed the squirt gun and the grapefruit juice under the bed. He then bounded down the stairs in eager anticipation of another night of wedded bliss.

As he arched his back in the most powerful orgasm of his life (numbers three and two had occurred just moments before), Norman collapsed on the Monica-thing's naked torso as she held him tightly inside her, not wanting to relinquish him for a moment. His body throbbed with electric excitement as her fingernails teasingly traced their way down his lacerated back.

It was then that he once again felt the sensation of something invading his penis, traveling down its inner passages in the reverse direction. His shaft felt as though it had been burned from the inside, and he had the distinct sensation of something beginning to crawl around inside his balls. That something seemed to penetrate through walls of flesh to gain entrance to his abdominal cavity. There was a searing pain as the thing ate its way through the flesh of Norman's internal organs. He tried to lift his head to tell the Monica-thing about his predicament, but found that he could not move. The Monica-thing seemed to sense his failed attempt at communication. She pressed her fingers to his lips. "Shhh, it is time," she said enigmatically. "The changes will come now." She turned and walked out of the room. Norman caught one last glimpse of her gorgeous ass and silky hair as she walked out the door.

Again he tried to raise his head, but found himself quite immobile. His abdomen burned. It convulsed.

He lay in the darkness of the bedroom for what seemed like hours. He felt the things inside his body working their way up his intestines, into his stomach. They penetrated his heart, his lungs. He seemed to feel his thoughts altering, becoming more indistinct and confused. He supposed the things were eating his brain now. His abdomen was burning up and the pain was excruciating. Still, he was unable to move. He felt about ready to burst. Finally, he did. Something seemed to pour out of his nostrils. He caught a glimpse of worms wriggling beneath the dot of his nose at the bottom of his visual field. More worms poured from his anus in a soupy diarrhea. He opened his mouth to vomit putrid oceans of worms. He went momentarily deaf as a torrent of the slimy creatures burst through his eardrums and flowed out onto the bed. He felt himself grow hard and ejaculated once again, this time discharging a bloody spurt of worm-jism in a painful orgasm that mocked his previous pleasure.