Everything But the Smell of Lilies
by M. Christian
Warning! This story is intended for mature readers. It is sexually explicit. Read no further if you are easily offended or underage.
She is wearing spandex pants decorated with the bold black and white icons of half a dozen Tokyo corporations. Her hair is in dreads, spiced with glittering watch parts. Her shoes are new and intelligent, contouring to her feet as she runs out of the crowd towards the place. Her poncho is tiger-striped, the newest Eurotrash fad, and the bystanders can see, as she pumps those strong legs in those black and white spandex pants, that she doesn't have a top on, and that her nipples (flashing out from under the red and black of the poncho) are only covered by crosses of black electrical tape. She is a mix of black and something else. All can see -- even in the midnight glare of Broadway's brilliance of neon, lasers, fluorescents, and headlights from blurring cars -- that her skin is a brown like stained wood. Her face is high-cheeked, her lips dark brown, her eyes hidden behind mirrored image-intensifying glasses.
She is running for her life: down the street, through the sidewalk crowd -- panic in her strides, panting breaths.
It is drizzling, like static. The muscle at the door to the place don't like it because it messes up their radar goggles. The clients don't like it because it gets their furs and leathers all wet. The street drek don't like it cause it pisses off the money and the muscle and they usually take it out on whoever was closest and couldn't afford to fight back. The limos come and go, a high-class and costly river of black plastic and steel. The rich's banter is light and sparkling above the rain and it blends, as only it could in the 21st century, with the chatter from the muscle's narrow-band radios.
She runs through the crowd, pushing streetdrek and citizens aside, glancing back over her shoulder at every opportunity. Panic lights her muscles, her stride, and she looks for someone to --
The words finally come out in an oscillating scream as she slams against the first ring of genetically-enhanced, neurochemically boosted, electronically hot-wired thugs. True to their purpose, mission, and few remaining authentic brain cells, they smash back -- surrounding her with dense muscle and squealing radios and push her back into the crowd.
Her hands are grasping claws, her nails draw blood in a triad streak down the face of one of them (who didn't blink against his conditioning), and her legs hammer against his ballistic-nylon pants. Her scream sounds like some kind of a weapon and the few cheap, off-the-shelf, guards pull their own and track the high windows around and up -- unable to distinguish one crazed woman for an armed assault squad.
Then an arm snakes out of the crowd and with a clean, sure swipe slices her throat ear to ear.
The city is big, but not so big as to make the woman's throat opening up and a fine fanning spray of arterial blood commonplace. The muscle reacts first, being now freckled with potentially dangerously infected blood, and draws and aims... at nothing but the already twitchy street. At the sight of the weapons being quickly drawn and dropped to street level, anyone who has any kind of survival skills instantly turns and runs. To a street of people used to sudden urban violence, turning and running is called a riot. Luckily for the muscle and the few really innocent bystanders, the riot had a place to go: down the street like water down a cascade, away from the Men With Guns, away from the dangerous Blood, away from the Rich People being thrown into their cars by their over-reacting bodyguards.
The street is nearly quiet very soon after, save for the wailing of an approaching ambulance, called in a moment of rare altruism by one of the suits, and the last foaming, crackling bubbles from the woman's throat.
The ambulance, one of the new Matzitas, arrives with a pulsing Doppler scream, parting what few bystanders who linger over the cooling corpse of the woman. Pulling up to the low curb, it clamshells open and coolly -- as only micromechanicals and smartpolyplastics can -- reaches out and touches her with the preciseness of Japanese manufacture. Like born, the medic steps from the uncoiling and undulating machines, orchestrating their movements with a palm-sized control unit.
Screened, probed, touched, sampled, sniffed, smelled, the ambulance neatly picks her off the cold and dirty sidewalk and swallows her into its expanded interior.
Leaving behind the bodyguards giving statements, bored cops taking them, the impatient suits, and the hungry stares of the onlookers, the ambulance closes with her and the medic inside and screams away.
- - - -
Death is too easy for me. See it every day. No, that's a not a truth: Some days I sit in the hospital bay with the warm and humming ambulance and just wait for it. But the deaths I do see -- the leaking, shrieking, whining, crying ones -- reach beyond their occasions to swallow me, even when I do nothing but sit in the ambulance bay of the hospital and watch teevee. One of those deaths can last for days for me, stretching beyond their instant.
It's easy to die, when you're like me. I mean it's easy to die, period, man. Slip in the tub, get iced for your wallet, the new strains, acts of god -- all of it man. Easy as pie to lay down and croak -- and it's easy when you're like me to get right back up again.
I try not to get used to it, try not to have them stretch so far that they start to die in my dreams, when I eat, when I'm away from the ambulance. But I've been at it too soon -- they die in slippery, out-of-focus dreams and even when I sit down for dinner. Soup becomes blood, meat becomes...meat. I look into everyone else's eyes and expect to see the things I've seen reflected back at me, but I don't. I don't know what they see, but it sure isn't what I see -- what feels like every day.
Like me, yeah. Painful, sure, but you just gotta lay back and think of the money. Isn't that how it always is? Fucking for money, getting fucked for money -- I just happen to get fucked over for money, that's all. The big fuck, maybe, but still...I'm a whore. A whore with a specialty, that's all. A real specialty.
I look at people differently, I guess. You do that when you see them dying, when you see them hurt and crying. I don't see them as they always look -- smiling, laughing, getting angry...kissing or touching...I see them broken and leaking, discovering that they're meat and bones and blood. I see them in pain. Had a few girls in my life, even have two myself, now, but it's strange to see them, hear them and even crawl into bed with them when you see the things I see. I keep expecting them to break, to leak, to cry. I see it all the time -- so often it doesn't seem right that they aren't hurting or dying.
Morley rigged it, the sick bastard. "There's a need, babe, a need we can fill." Yeah, you bastard -- creeps like to fuck dead girls, so what do they need? You fucking guessed it. Problem is your usual dead chick will get all, kind of...unappealing after a point, right? What you need is a dead chick who can get up and walk out when the John's finished. What you need is me -- or me after Morley.
Sometimes, the most real women I see are the ones who are lying still and cooling in the ambulance with me. The rest of them, the rest of the people I see, are just waiting to see me.
"Just rearrange you a bit," he says and gives me to his pals with the machines, the plastic parts, the implants. Technique noir, black tech, nasty bedroom tech. I remember one of them, this fat Chinese with skin like cheese -- a clicking and whirring part of his face looking me over with god-knows what: radar, microwaves, frigging sound for all I know. I remember him for the clicking and the whirring, and how he only spoke a few words of English. He also fucked me, I'm sure, while I was zoned under his machines, under his knife. My pussy smelled bad the next day, something that could've been come leaked out -- smelled an awful lot like cheese, too.
Like this one, here: they look so peaceful, so rested and still. Their skin is so cool, so smooth. Even with the blood...but I can fix that, a little swipe with disinfectant, a dab or two with a biohazard absorbent towelette. Such a long wound, a thin slice from ear to ear. Clean, must have been a fractal knife, or a monomolecular wire. Still, she is beautiful. Striking. Frozen at the peak of her beauty by the knife, or maybe that wire. Smooth skin, cooling skin. Her face is like a magnet, and I have a hard time doing the routine things I'm supposed to do. The implant and blood-screen fall away because of my entrancement. It's all I can do to sit in the back and let the ambulance drive itself to Mercy, locked into the magnet of her face: high, sharp cheekbones; a nose with just enough of a upturn; lips full but not cartoon. She has such a natural, wild look, this one has. I can see her not laying, cooling, chilling, in the back of my ambulance, her negative signs showing on half a dozen flatscreen monitors, but rather running under a hot sun somewhere, naked and warm, wild grasses shushing by her fine, perfectly turned legs, not-too-big, not-too-small breasts bobbing and swinging free and bare under the same glowing sun. She isn't a casualty, a DOA, a streetdrek; she is a forest primeval huntress, a priestess of a land long ago paved and sterilized.
I'm a corpse. I'm a professional victim, a stiff for hire. Pull my string (okay, slit my throat, strangle me --), and I do my little number. And while I'm down there on your floor, on your bed, you can do whatever you want to do to me. Special job, as only Morley's dark doctors could have done. Don't know all of it myself -- one lung gone for a refillable tank of air (so no breathing), blood now flowing through the back of my neck so my throat can get sliced or crushed if you like that kind of thing. On cue I get all cold, my nipples get all stiff, my cunts chills, my eyes lock up (in case you like to see you reflection in them when you fuck my stiff self) and I'm dead. Everything but the smell of lilies. Pay in advance, don't break the rules, and you can kill me, fuck me, and go back to the wife and kids. It's a living, dying is --
So beautiful. So natural she looks, even cooling and stiffening. She is a statue, an image on clear water. I try to be quiet, watching her, so as not to wake her. The image of her, quiet and still and not really, truly, dead is so strong it's almost enough to dissipate the clean wound across her throat, the whining instruments all crying she's dead and the few specks of blood that remain on her poncho.
Carefully, so as not to wake her, I move the poncho aside to better see her breasts -- and so lovely they are: just the right size, somewhere between a nice cleavage and too small. They are fine, tight cones of deeply tanned skin. I can't see her nipples, covered as they are by crosses of tape (in a recent style). I notice as I move the poncho that her pants end a bit below her navel, that her navel is pierced with a steel ring, and that she has the tiniest of bellies -- a gentle rise to her stomach that seems so perfect on her. It adds something to her, this little belly does -- when everyone can look like anyone (with enough money, of course) this little pot brings her right down to me, in the ambulance. She is a woman, a wild and fiery woman -- all heat and hunger. Dead yes, but more alive than most of the meat I haul to the hospital.
Doesn't help that I like it. Yeah, Morley, make me into a dying doll. Yeah, you freaky creep, remake me so I can die on cue. Wouldn't work, you knew, if I didn't get off on it, too -- maybe not croaking for every fat, rich slob, but -- shit -- I dig stepping into even the weirdest fuck's fucked-up trip. I don't get off, really, about lying here all dead and all, brain still clicking away but body faking being all cold and still, but I sure as shit do when I watch them hunp my stiff body. That's what gets me off, man, that's what Morley saw as he sucked my toes and came in my shoe -- that I come when you come from doing your weirdest shit. I get off watching them all -- yeah, Morely, too -- dig down in their weirdest shit and make me do it. That fucking makes me come --
My still little angel. Justine Moor, 27, type B+ the info from the ident card in her slim little wallet going past my eyes, into the mind of the ambulance. I watch her still chest, her fixed and dilated eyes. Even with a clotted line across her throat she is more alive that anyone I have even seen. She is more alive, more vital, than Ruth or Vivian, more than the other attendants at Mercy Hospital, than the doctors, than the people who flash by the window of the speeding ambulance. She is immobile, chilling but more alive than anyone, than me -- I can't resist. She pulls me down to her with the force of her dead aliveness and I stroke the cool belly, run my quivering fingers up her sides to her lovely, pert breasts. I glide my hand up to cup them, to hold one like a still pillow, her nipples powerfully erect beneath the crosses of tape. My breathing is a hammer in my ears and my cock is painful iron in my uniform pants.
Yeah, Morley sure can pick them. "Justine," he said with that smile, that voice, "become a hardwired dead girl, a chilling and stiffening hooker. A corpse for rent." Slice my throat, strangle me, fuck me -- pay me. Pegged me, looked right into these eyes and picked just the right job for a fucked up rent-a-corpse like me. Like tonight, man, Morley comes right up and says "--die for me, babe." Sure, no thought, no problem, man. I die for clients, right? So why shouldn't I die for my fucking pimp? Some bent job, some need for a diversion -- what better than little me doing the poor streetdrek routine, right up to the suits and their rented guns, then Morley with his straight-edge right on cue to slice my pretty throat. Just another Saturday night for me. All I gotta do is get to the damned hospital, turn myself back on, get up and get out. Morley's got his distraction, I got my money. All is right with the -- what the fuck? What's this guy doing? Shit, man, of all the fucking ambulances I gotta get one with a perv. Fucking a' man, just my luck. Shit --
So still and quiet. So perfectly frozen. Carefully, I remove the tape from her breasts. Her nipples are hard -- big but not too big. Little fingers, not thumbs. Deep brown like chocolate babies, wrinkled and hard like tire rubber. I taste one, the right one, and it reminds me of a pencil eraser dipped in chilled water. It seems to fill my mouth -- the fear, the excitement, the humiliation making it balloon till the universe is just me, the background whine of the ambulance, and this dead girl's nipple in my mouth. My hand moves without me to cup the breast, to feel the weight of it, to gently squeeze to know its shape: it is a firm breast, a young breast. Not warm, no, but soft like silk with a thick African-mixed skin. She has the weight of a black woman's skin but the color of coffee with way too much cream. As I lick and suck at her glorious nipple, my cock aches with the feverish pounding that fills my head and pushes the whine of the ambulance's electric motor to somewhere in the deep background. I hear the sound of my lips suck and kiss her breasts and nipples. I hear my hammering heartbeat and the hurricane of my breaths going in and out.
What a fucking freak, man. What a professional, roaring, twister! The guys who do me know I can snap out and sit up, right? This guy ain't one. He's a corpse fucker and I'm his girlfriend, man. This guy ain't playing a fucking game with a specialty hooker and I almost switch my heart back on and take a nasty ol' breath and sit up and sock him one, right? But then I remember Morley, with his cold eyes and his jailhouse tattoo of chains going around his neck (one link per year) and I remember those chilling words: "Just give me enough time." And I'm fucked, I'm screwed, Ścause it ain't been enough -- not nearly enough -- so I gotta lay down like the nice little stiff that I am. At least the guy knows how to suck a tit -- dead or not.
I burst into flame, then, I light on fire. The heat of me blasts through my head and my cock and my lips. I kiss and lick her other nipple, squeeze and knead her other tit. She is under me, cold like from an ice water bath, but I am flaming, smoking from my lips and cock. Roughly, more rough than I would even have been with Ruth, Vivian -- anyone breathing -- I grab at her pants and give them a hard pull down, relishing in the smoothness of that glorious little belly. I get them down, and for the first time see her cunt. It is a glorious cunt, precisely shaved like hair was never there: a coffee-too-much-cream triangle padded with a delightful layer of so-soft skin. Her lips are tucked inside, so all I see is a faint brown crease, that delicious mons, and the hint of pearly clit. I struggle with her pants, stretching and pulling at the elastic stuff till I realize they are not coming off over her shoes. I quickly take out the safety shears and slice them away, leaving her strong legs and glorious cunt free. Now that I have completely fallen in, I am feverish and panicked: it is a long trip to Mercy, but not that long. I have minutes but not all that many. But, still, she is here, and my panic only adds an edge to my straining cock --
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -- not only a fucking corpse fucker but a fucking corpse rapist. Shit, shit, shit! I almost pop my cork, blink and tell him to get the fuck away from my cunt when I remember again Morley's cold eyes and stay down. How many ambulances, man? How many tricks in this city. And I pick the two on the one night when I can't screw up. Great. Just. Great. Oh, man, not the fucking pants, man, they aren't cheap -- oh, well. I'll get Morley to get me some others when I -- oh, Jesus, this is one sick fuck, man, one sick fuck ...
I couldn't resist. Even dead her pussy is wine, a pure lovely vintage. In the cramped inside of the automatic ambulance, I get down between her strong legs and part them just enough -- just enough to get my face down to her cunt, spread her lips and taste her. Her clit is big, her juices are chilled. Not white wine, red -- not blood, just served cold, chilled. Her lips are so soft, like fine silk and I explore her cunt with my tongue, feeling her tiny inner lips, the hard cleft between her clit and her cunt proper. I slide my hand under her hard ass and squeeze, feeling the softness there, too, but also the relaxed, dead muscles that I could tell would have been iron, knotted steel when she was alive. Somewhere along the way I reach and grab my cock, start to roughly yank at myself, driven by the high-octane of her and the whine of the ambulance that I was sure, at any second, would drop as we enter Mercy's medical bays. My fear and disgust and excitement rams into me and makes my cock an iron, burning rod at my waist.
God, he's a fucking freak! My cunt's sopping, man. I'm dead and he's licking my corpse cunt, teasing my clit and I'm fucking coming. Can't move, can't until I pop my programming cork and climb all the way out of my "zombie" act, but that doesn't stop my clit from jangling like a bell. The comes echo and bounce around inside me. Can't cry, can't scream, can't grab the fucked-up freak's ears and jam his maniac face down hard onto my clit but, fuck, fuck, fuck I can damned sure fucking come. Can't scream, man, can't jerk and yell and cry and all that damned embarrassing stuff I do normally when someone's going after my clit like trying to dig the pearl out of an oyster, but I sure as fuck am coming and coming all over the place: I can feel it ripple and surge and tear and buck my brains out. My eyes are for crap anyway when I'm dead but now they're strobing and flashing all these gorgeous colors and all I can think, all the words that I can get to run through my head is that I hope he's so weird, so fucking bent, that he fucks me -- cause I really want to get fucked, like, real fucking bad.
I want to fuck her. My cock hurts, and the one place, I know, that will make it feel so much better is the cold, wet and stiff confines of her cunt. With the taste of her still on my tongue and all over my face, I fuss and mutter with my belt and pants, finally getting them down as the ambulance rolls neat and computer-assisted into a high-banked turn and I know I have maybe five or ten minutes before the bay, before Mercy, to finish. My cock is finally out, and I clumsily position myself and move her cool legs out of my way. Despite the pain I feel from my cock, the horrible tension, I resist just sinking myself into her -- wanting to make it last just so much longer until I taste her dead cunt with my cock --
Fuck me fuck me fuck me -- fuck! I hate when they fucking tease! Get it in me you sick fuck, I scream in my paralysis, in my cooling and immobile jail cell of my re-engineered and re-designed body. Fuck me, you sick fuck!
I sink myself into her. Her cunt is cool, but not cold -- maybe my own heat warming her, maybe her core temperature is still pretty high. But you can't think of medicine and science when you fuck...fuck a corpse. I push myself in and feel her froth and juices swell around my cock, feel her tight yet loosening muscles surround and squeeze my cock. I think two things as I fuck her, my mind split by excitement and a cramping shame: I think of this beauty I am making love to, think of her incredible body, her nipple that I again put in my mouth an suck and kiss and nibble, and I think of fucking a sucking chest wound, of a sultry corpse, or a grave-rape. My cock is ramming, hammering into her beautiful cunt, into this delicious corpse and I tighten and spasm and jerk and scream as it all starts to come out --
Fuck fuck fuck -- that's it, I've reached my top. How many fucking (fucking fucking fucking) times is a fucking corpse supposed to come, man? Fuck Morley and his rip, fuck him and me as his little distraction for the guards and the suits, I think the magic word, twitch that nerve-cluster I didn't have before Morley got his black medical hands on me, and I come up and out with a rush of heat, a screaming wave of fully re-activated nerves. I pull myself up and out of the grave, restart my heart, take a deep, painful, breath, feel my skin awake with a S/M crash of blasting pain (imagine your whole body falling asleep then waking up) and I scream into his face as he fucks me. I put my legs up and around and lock them behind his back, in that special place guys have just for this kind of thing and I fucking ride his own screaming bucks. He lets go of my nipple and gives me the cutest look of pure lust and fear I have ever seen, but the sick fuck doesn't stop fucking, doesn't stop jerking himself into and out of my now-warming, now steaming honey-pot. He screams and yells and keeps fucking then jerks and squirms --
I ain't done yet, man, I ain't at all done yet. I push and pull and his stiffening and quivering muscles until I've had my own -- and it comes like it has never come before: a fucking torrent of good stuff crashing down and all over me and I scream like I never screamed for Morley, for a client (when they're into murder), I scream the best scream I have ever screamed, bucking and clawing at his cooling back until I can't move any more --
- - -
The ambulance arrives at Mercy. It whines, fading to a simple warning burst of sound as the medicals pour from the hospital's service bays. Nestling into its sockets and data-ports, it opens organic and precise, spilling out its gurney into their waiting arms.
With technological precision, the body is brought into an emergency suite and the hospital sets to work with a array of micro-surgical tools resembling a squirming, undulating, chrome palm-frond. Fluids are pumped, charges are sent, nanomachines are injected, and even a cloned and altered heart the size of a large orange are mated to his body. These and many other (as many as his body and minimal medical insurance can stand) attempts are made but in the end, after some four or so minutes, his body is simply dumped into the hospital's vast and frightening organ storage facilities for recycling -- and his next-of-kin is automatically sent a apologetic videomail message.
Walking home through a drizzle that is creeping towards a hard rain, she doesn't feel any of it. Some stare at the pale gash that runs from under one ear and across her throat to end at her other ear -- but since it closely resembled a new young fashion statement, most dismiss it casually.
Justine doesn't think all that much as she walks the three or so miles back to her capsule apartment, but once she thinks very, very clearly, cleanly: Morley, Morley, Morley...I hope it was a good score, a grand score. You owe me, you motherfucker and you owe me big --
You sure can pick them, Morley: next time I get to fuck a corpse -- next fucking time, man, you get to be all cold and stiff.
Hope you like playing the corpse, man. 'Cause I just developed a new -- hmm -- taste...