The Weeping Thing

Donald set the thing down, slid the bowl under the bed, and hurried on with his tasks.

That night, Donald had another dream. He was in the woods again, and surrounded by those alluring, enticing, and mesmerizing nymphs. They were dancing around him, smiling and giggling as before, but instead of Donald reaching for one of them, they were taking turns reaching for him. Each of those sweet vixens was moving closer to him with every turn that they made around him, until all six of them were close enough to slide their warm hands and arms across his body. They were touching him all over, sending Donald into a daze with their smiling, glowing faces, combined with his own growing want for them.

All together, the women embraced Donald and dragged him to the ground, and with their hands, and their mouths, and their bodies, they made love to him among the leaves and twigs of the woods.

High above, in the broken canopy of the trees, Donald could see dozens of crows staring down at him.

Trying to keep his composure and demeanor cool, Donald arrived home from work a little later than usual the next day. He'd worked a six hour shift, instead of the usual four.

His expectations were riding high, as he unlocked the front door to the house and stepped into the living room, but his spirits were quickly drowned when he observed old Margaret sitting on the couch with a glum look on her face.

Donald's first thoughts were that she'd discovered the weeping thing.

Instead, Margaret said, "Goddamned doctor wants me to go in for another blood test. Can you believe that shit? They've sucked enough blood out of me to fill a blood bank, and now they're telling me they need to take out more? Why can't they just use the blood they sucked out five days ago?"

Tactfully, Donald said, "I don't trust doctors."

"Goddamned right." Margaret agreed. "I guess they're taking a full gallon this time, because the doctor said I might end up feeling light-headed, and that I should have someone drive me this time."

Donald had an active license, but no car, and he wondered if Margaret was indirectly asking him for a favor. Wisely, he kept quiet, while she kept talking.

The old woman was shaking her head. "Jenny's supposed to take me, but she should have been here ten minutes ago. If I have to reschedule thanks to her, I'm going to give her a good piece of my mind."

Donald tried hard not to look relieved, when they both heard a car horn outside.

"Guess that's her." Margaret struggled up to her feet, and ambled toward the door. Just before she opened it, she turned back to face him. "You've been eating a lot more than usual, haven't you? How come you're not getting any fatter?"

The boarder knew the old woman well enough to infer that she thought he was feeding a second person. He held his arms up in a strongman's pose, and grinned. "I've got to feed these muscles. I've been doing a lot of push-ups the last couple of weeks."

Margaret stared at Donald's puny arms for a moment. "Yeah, you're a regular Hercules now. Lock up after me, will ya?"

From the doorway, Donald impatiently watched the old woman mosey over to Jenny's vehicle, and a couple of minutes later, the car pulled out of the driveway and rolled away.

Donald hurried over to his room.

He pulled the salad bowl out from under his bed, and with something approaching rapture he stared at the blob that was now threatening to overflow its boundaries.

"Last night's dream, with those women in it, that was a very nice dream." He said, as he lifted the thing up and took a seat on the edge of his bed. "I know you sent that dream to me, just like you sent the others."

He stroked the weeping thing a few times, but today Donald was impatient. He steadied his breaths, and set his hand on it, and sure enough, the thing responded by opening its many mouths and stretching out its many tongues to caress his hand.

"Oh." Donald moaned quietly. "You've no idea how much I want a real woman to do that same thing to me."

As the erotic actions continued, there was enough growing warmth on Donald's lap that he shifted the weeping thing on its side to take a look at what was going below it. Donald watched as two of the small mouths seemed to gravitate toward one another, and when they met, they joined together and formed something altogether different.

Donald was taken aback at first, for this new shape had many distinct folds on it, and he instantly recognized it for what it was. The labia majora, the labia menora, the clitoris, it was all there, and it was already glistening with moisture for him.

Donald stared down at the weeping thing, and at its newly formed vagina, sensing its growing hunger for him. He too felt drawn to it, felt his own lustful desire beginning to overwhelm him, felt his prick straining beneath his pants and underwear.

Deeply aroused, Donald set the weeping thing aside, and lay back on the bed. He undid his zipper, pulled his cock free, and after taking a long, deep breath, he brought the weeping thing over his crotch and settled its brand new cunt over his body.

Smoothly, it expanded to take him in, and right after, it gripped around his cock, snugly, and it started doing the erotic work all on its own.

Donald moaned and squirmed, but remained enthralled as the weeping thing coaxed him into making love to it, and eventually brought him up to an unexpected and sensational climax.

Finally, when Donald's member had been fully spent, and lay there weak and flaccid like a dead fish, he set the weeping thing aside and slipped away from the bed long enough to retrieve a quick grab of napkins. He wiped himself off, but when he went to do the same to the bizarre thing on the bed, he was stunned to see that a tongue had emerged from the vagina, and was busily licking away the last of his seed from around its edges.

He stood there, staring at the thing, wondering what it all meant, before he got busy himself and began looking for a container that would accommodate the thing better than the salad bowl. As he emptied a box of clothes out, he heard a serene hum being emitted by the weeping thing, as if it was telling him that everything was all right.

Donald half-grinned. At that moment, everything was all right with him too.

Early the next morning, Donald began to stir awake. He wasn't scheduled for work that day, he thought with no little amount of satisfaction, and after casting a casual glance at his clock, he simply shut his eyes and went back to sleep for another hour.

When he was good and ready, he roused himself out of bed, and the first things he did were to click on his lamp and step over to his closet, where he'd set the box with the weeping thing in it. As a further safeguard, he'd placed a second box on top of it, and after removing it, he dragged the lower box out into the open.

The box felt heavier than before, and once he'd removed the lid, he knew why. The weeping thing was much bigger than it had been the night before, by about a third.

"My, how you've grown." Donald stared at it, amazed. He felt a mischievousness thrill through his being, as he thought of the previous day's encounter. "You wouldn't be agreeable to having another go with me, would you?"

In reply, the weeping thing basked in a shade of red that could only be considered a deep blush, before a single opening formed on its fleshy substance. Of course, the opening was shaped like a nice, moist vagina.

"I've corrupted you, whatever you are." Donald said, hotly, as he lifted the thing and took it back to bed with him.

Again, the thing began to fuck him, and it damned near made him scream out loud and jostle old Margaret awake. He started laughing like a lunatic, and had to cover his mouth, as he thought of the old bitch bursting through the door, and saw her shocked face as she witnessed him getting throttled by the expanding lump of flesh.

"Ah!" Donald's voice sought to escape past the sides of his hand, as the thing quickly brought him up to a climax. He clamped both hands tight to his mouth.

Perfectly balanced over his abdomen, the weeping thing kept up its motions, as if it were a wild beast of a woman, madly slapping its flesh onto his. The only things missing were a woman's moans of passion.

Donald's hands left his mouth, and gripped his bed sheet as he felt himself burst into her, into it, and the orgasm caused him to close his eyes tightly.

He saw them then, behind his closed eyelids; those same nymphs from his dreams, five of them dancing in a half circle around his bed, while the sixth one rode on top of him and called out his name.

"Fuck me, Donald!" The woman cried out, and for a moment they were both out in the woods, and old leaves and twigs dug into the man's nude body, while a cool breeze brought a slight shiver to his arms and chest. "Fuck me!"

Donald opened his eyes, certain that the beauty's scream had carried all over the house, but no, it hadn't. There had been no real scream, only the one heard in his mind, and as he looked down to his lower half, he saw the weeping thing suck away the last of his expulsion with its vagina-slash-mouth. When it was done, the creature somehow managed to roll itself off his torso, and with a gentle flop, it rolled off to rest at his side.

He heard it purring at him like a pleased pussycat.

Donald dared to close his eyes, just for a moment, and he found himself back in the woods, with half a dozen young women giggling around him, taking turns kissing him, caressing his chest and belly, and stroking his cock as if they were intent on making it rise again. It was such a pleasant dream, that Donald wondered what it would be like to wander into that dream forever.

He smiled at the fantasy, as his hand absently reached down and started rubbing on the thing resting beside him. In his imagination, he was touching a woman's supple lower back and rear end, and in reality, that's exactly what it felt like.

"I wonder what your name would be?" Donald wondered, right before he heard the weeping thing make some sort of noise it hadn't made before.

What was it telling him?

Going by instinct, Donald shut his eyes, and found himself outdoors and on the ground once again. The woman who'd been riding him, who'd brought him to his climax, had stretched her body up closer to his head, and her pert breasts now rested on his shoulder and chest.

Into his ear, she whispered, "Emelina. My name is Emelina."

"Such a sweet name..." Donald said, only to be jolted by the sound of a pounding at his bedroom door.

"Who's in there with you?" Margaret called out. "I can hear you talking and moving about from my bedroom. Open up this door!"

The weeping thing, apparently more agile than it had been before, easily rolled off the bed and disappeared under it.

Donald sat up, briefly pausing to make sure he was semi-presentable. He left the bed as well, and hurriedly pushed his boxes into the closet, before he stepped over to unlock the door.

Wearing her powder blue pajamas, Margaret pushed her way in and started inspecting the room.

"I was just having some kind of nightmare." Donald excused himself.

"No, you weren't." Margaret refuted. "You were tussling about on the bed. I could hear you from my room. Now, where is she?"

This time, Donald grew irritated. "Well, if you're so sure about that, why don't you find her yourself?"

Margaret shot him a menacing look, before she stalked around the room. She poked her head into the closet, and even went as far as shuffling the clothes on hangers all to one side, before she got on her knees to look under the bed.

Donald cringed.

Margaret dropped down, her head close to the carpet as her hand shot out and swept the bed-skirt aside. Her fat ass was sticking up in the air, tightly stretching out her blue pajama bottoms, and Donald could barely keep himself from swinging back a leg and launching a kick that would probably send her through the back wall.

The old woman used the edge of the bed to groan her way back to her feet. "I know I heard you talking to somebody."

"I'm telling you, I was just having a nightmare." Donald insisted. "I can't even remember what it was about anymore, because you knocked me out of it when you started banging on the door."

Margaret huffed, and did an old woman's version of stomping out the door.

After waiting until her footsteps had grown faint, Donald went to shut the door, and rushed toward bed. The weeping thing rolled out, almost casually, as if it too sensed that the immediate danger had passed.

"Into the box," Donald whispered as he scooped it up, and hurried toward the closet. "Until Margaret's gone out."

Before he set the lid back on the box, Donald recalled the dream of six young beauties, all nearly nude and frolicking with him in the woods. He grimaced in a sad way, as he covered the box up, and stepped away from the closet.

Even a couple of hours later, Donald was still grumbling over the incident. It was still too early for Margaret to head off anywhere, and he'd tried to keep himself busy by perusing women's profiles on a dating site. He saw his recent history on the site, and the seven or eight profiles he'd checked out just a few days ago, and then he looked up how many women had visited his own personal page.

Zero, he discovered. Zero women had bothered to look him up, to browse through what he thought was a witty, original, and honest description of himself and his current station in life. Zero women had stopped by to view the couple of pictures he'd uploaded, one a self-shot of him smiling and wearing a blue, long-sleeve button shirt; what he called his business look, and the other of him in a more casual environment, at the beach in a tee shirt and shorts, a picture Sallie had taken of him not that long ago.

Donald was still thinking of her when he left the dating site and redirected his browser to his email server. There, half-hidden in the quagmire of the usual spam advertising booty calls, pharmaceuticals and Viagra, he saw a message from Sallie. Eagerly, he clicked on it, and scoured over the first few lines.

Sallie had always been a long-winded sort, as she was prone to lengthy explanations and verbosity, and that had been one of the things he liked most about her. It wasn't until Donald got halfway through the message that he figured out what it meant. It was a departure letter, a farewell note, a goodbye message. His mind abbreviated the stretched missive into something more compact: It's over between you and me, Donald.

It shouldn't have hit him so hard, as they'd hadn't talked much in the last few weeks, but nevertheless, it did. The end of the relationship, in this long letter from Sallie, served as a microcosm of his life. It reminded him that he would always live alone, on the fringes of and being ignored by the rest of society. No matter how many people he associated with at work, no matter how many women he sent messages to online, he knew, they all knew, that he was destined to be an outsider.

Dejected, rejected, Donald rolled his chair away from the small desk and got to his feet. He stepped to his single window, taking in the early morning view of the woods behind the house, and he was uneasy as his eyes took in a shock of crows watching him. There might have been over twenty of them, standing on the sturdy posts of the empty clothesline, on Margaret's old barbecue pit, or pacing back and forth on the ground and cawing as if they had an important matter in mind.

He'd barely started counting them, when the old woman valiantly appeared on the scene, wielding a broom before her and swatting away at the large birds. They all hopped back and cawed their protests, easily and repeatedly moving out of harm's way, as Margaret complained of all the shit they might leave behind, shit that she would have to clean up later. When she realized how ineffectual her broom was, she instead armed herself with the water hose, and flung a forced stream of liquid at the nearest birds. The first crows flew up and away, and the rest soon followed, and thus, the brief siege was over.

Margaret gave Donald a face of disgust, as she trampled back toward her back door, and saw him standing there on the other side of the glass.

Donald merely watched her go by, as Sallie's words had left him entirely devoid of emotion.

It was past noon when Margaret finally left the house. Donald knew this because that was the time that the weeping thing began humming again, and he stepped out of his bedroom to make certain. Indeed, the old woman was gone.

Still downcast and feeling hurt over Sallie, Donald went into his closet and pulled out the box holding his pet, and he took the thing with him and sat it beside him on the bed.

"It's just you and me, I guess." He sighed, as he stroked the thing's soft skin. A moment later, he chuckled. "And old bitch Margaret."

The weeping thing surprised him by rolling off the bed, and positioning itself in the widest floor space in the bedroom. The thing began to melt before his eyes, to expand all across the carpet as if someone was pouring out batter.

In horror, Donald stood up. His first thought was that the weeping thing was dying. His second thought was of how he'd clean the mess up before Margaret got back.

The thing halted him from moving further, by singing its droning lullaby of joy, and in effect telling Donald that everything was going to be all right.

Still anxious, the man began stepping around it, watching as the thing stretched out further, thinned out until it was perhaps an inch thick. It was shaping itself into a large rectangle, becoming nearly as large as the blanket on his bed, Donald compared.

"What are you up to?" Donald asked, as he stepped near the window.

The crows, he noticed, were all back again. Perched, standing, pacing, all of them watching him, even as he was staring out at them. This time, there were more than twenty of them.

He thought of sliding his window open, and screaming for them to leave, when the pitch of the weeping thing's song changed. It was calling him, he knew, and Donald walked back over and stood beside it.

It had become a thin blanket of meat, and in its song, the weeping thing told Donald of how comfortable and peaceful he would feel, if he only took off his clothing and lay down on top of it. It promised to take him away from that house, away from his useless job, and from his lonely life, if only he would trust it, and lie down on it.

Donald took a breath, for somehow, somewhere deep in his psyche, he knew this might happen. He might have suspected this earlier, or only become aware of it now, but that didn't matter. He knew very well what the weeping thing was asking of him.

"I've got my job and Margaret on the one hand," Donald compared. "And six lovely nymphs in the woods on the other one." He grinned. "It's a tough choice, isn't it?"

He sobered up quickly, though. "Will this hurt?"

Of course not, the weeping thing consoled him.

As nervous as he could ever recall being, Donald stripped off his clothes, for he doubted he would need them where he was going. When he was finished, he stepped onto the thin rug of flesh and settled his body down over it.

He waited for something to happen, and he was near enough to panic that he almost felt like rolling away from the thing, snatching up his clothes, and running out of the house again, this time forever.

He shuddered, as a new expanse of flesh started to rise from one side and slowly slipped over his frightened form like a pink tidal wave. It went over his head and body, enveloping all of him. Just like a Venus Flytrap would do to a juicy morsel.

As the flesh draped down over his face, Donald could see dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of little teeth forming, but when the last of the weeping thing had enclosed him, he was left in the dark, and could see nothing at all.