The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [54]
★★I’m not cleared for sex magick,★★ I tell her, gritting my teeth. But she sends me a touch-sense picture of herself: the warm weight on her chest, Marc’s head lolling, the turgid stretch of her vulva occupied by a dead man’s dick, a delicious sense of proximity to catastrophic nothingness, teetering on the edge of a cliff—and I clutch myself and begin to spasm wildly because I’m still massively turned on from the overspill of her sex. The sense of doom recedes immediately, and then something I wasn’t expecting happens—Ramona comes, taking me completely by surprise. She goes on and on and on until I’m almost ready to scream for mercy. Finally the waves of sensation finally begin to slow down and recede, leaving her panting and pinned beneath Marc’s cooling cadaver. A warm afterglow floods her with life. I can feel her reveling in it.
★★Thank you,★★ she says fervently, and I can’t tell at first whether she’s talking to me or to the dead serial rapist. ★★If you hadn’t joined in, it would have had me for sure.★★ The corpse’s head lolls on her shoulder, a drop of spittle dangling from his mouth. She reaches up and shoves it aside. ★★Was it good for you, too?★★ she asks, and tenderly kisses his soft, unresponsive lips.
My skin crawls. ★★You enjoyed that a whole lot,★★ I tell her before I bite my tongue. But it’s too late.
★★You enjoy eating, too, but pleasure’s not the only reason you do it,★★ she snaps. ★★And don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy this.★★ I cringe at her anger: What will Mo say when she finds out? It’s not sex—no, it’s just having a simultaneous orgasm with a consenting adult, my conscience jabs me. Oh hell, what a mess. I gingerly sit up and shuffle towards the bathroom and a late-night appointment with the shower.
★★Hey, what about me?★★ Ramona complains bitterly, bracing herself to dislodge the drained husk of her prey.
★★I don’t want to talk about it right now,★★ I mutter. I twist the shower dial, feeling dirty.
★★Typical fucking male ... ★★
★★Look who’s talking! You’re a real piece of work.★★ I turn the temperature right up until it hurts, then bite my tongue and stand underneath it. ★★You wanted to get into my pants, didn’t you?★★
★★Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole, monkey-boy? If I wanted you I’d have had you right there on the casino balcony, instead of nearly dying in a shit-hole.★★ She’s working on getting her clothes back into a semblance of order. Marc lies on the floor beside the bed. She lashes out and kicks him hard enough to hurt my toes, and I suddenly realize she’s shaking with adrenalin, the aftermath of a terror trip. ★★Bastard!★★
She’s really scared. That’s my conscience talking; he’s been beating on the door for the past couple of minutes but I’ve only just heard him over the racket in my head. Why wouldn’t she be telling the truth? I swallow, forcing back stomach acid. She likes me. Fuck knows why.
I force myself to come up with an apology. ★★Being scared makes me more of an asshole than usual.★★ It sounds weak in the silence afterwards, but I don’t know what else to say.
★★You bet,★★ she says tightly. ★★Go back to bed, Bob. I won’t bother you again tonight. Sweet dreams.★★
I WAKE UP WITH THE EARLY MORNING LIGHT FROM the window as it streams in across my face. One of my arms is lying over the edge of the bed, and the other is twisted around someone’s shoulders—What the fuck? I think fuzzily.
It’s Ramona. She’s curled up against me on top of the sheets, sleeping like a baby. She’s still wearing her glad rags, her hair a wild tangle. My breath catches with fear or lust or guilt, or maybe all three at the same time: guilty, fearful