Terminal Point

She gave him two dreamy kisses as he brushed salt crystals and grit from her back and ass cheeks, as she gently stroked his cock, already quite hard, leaking pre-cum that pooled in her fist.

"Darlin'," he moaned.

She knew what he was about to say. It was that obvious. In situations like these ghouls always said the exact same thing, over and over, like they were reprogrammed with a broken phonograph and could only talk about that need of theirs.

"Right now I really need to be inside you."

"Just do what you need to do."

He was too ill and weak to move so she climbed atop him, kept kissing him for a few minutes more. Savoring the taste of living while it lasted.

Fear and arousal collided inside her, but fear won once again. Once again, she thought. I'll make him cum. That's what he wants. That's what everyone wants. I make everyone cum.

She knelt, raising her hips, gently guiding the tip of his cock to the entrance of her already flame-filled cunt. She descended very slowly, letting him spread slowly insider her, letting him push her girl-lips wide apart, letting him glide. In the dawn sunlight vultures cast tall-tale shadows over their bodies. She let the sweet, greasy cock edge forward, slowly, slippery, easily. Then he was fully within. Consumed. Then she finally drew a heavy breath.

That was why she had left it, why she had to put on a mask and flayed human skin and disappear out into the wide, wicked world. "Fools and savages try to explain what they can't understand," Dr. William Withey Gull once said. "Wise men understand what they can't explain." It had known that that there was no logical argument to explain this, why mortals on this brief world did what they did, in the same way that there was nothing logical about the actions of that first infected French soldier who kept on fucking, despite the plague he knew that slept in his blood and ravaged his face. It wasn't because she or he or it were too stupid, or too desirous or too cruel to understand their actions, but rather because none of them couldn't help themselves. Even dipsomaniacs had more self-control than Bertholmeu le Jandre.

She took a better hold of his shoulders and began rocking harder, rolling her hips, letting that sweet shaft slide ever deeper, allowing it only barely any length outward of her cunt on the up-stroke, that halfway-in/ halfway-out ecstasy, over and over.

"Is this what you want to do?"

Already the transformation was spreading, the pink of his skin fading to gray. His eyes clouding, milky. Cracks appearing at his fingertips, his toes, his tongue.

Full motion. F-stop. Faster.

She felt that he was trying to impale himself up to his balls in her, commit everything, fuck away his last scranton of fear that had control over him. That was all that mattered when it came to the sort of end that he wanted. That he got to cum somewhere, in someone ... in something. She bounced on him faster, faster, letting his flesh into her again and again and again, watching the skin across his ribs desiccate and mummify and rupture.

"O! O gal! D-d-damn that's ... so ... g-good," he said in a strange, weak whisper, his teeth caving into the maw of his open face, gagging him, disappearing into the dark.

She felt him throb in her and let her hips come down once more, letting him dissolve inside her deep fleshy purple parts. Like rock grit in the rain. Like desert salts finally finding the ocean. The last chilling touch of mortal frustration refusing to let go, refusing to be anything other than pure need, a sex machine. Such a narrow fantasy, because no machine can ever last the night.