Spunk Tales! (The Ghoul)

Silversun Pickups - Rusted Wheel


     In the backseat of a midnight blue Lincoln Town Car parked at the dimly-lit edge of The Red Lion lot, to the right of a sighing Rodger McCormack, the woman with the multicolored mane sits stroking his erect penis with detachment etched upon her face. She told him that her name was Megan; and it’s not so much a lie as it is a matter of trivial concern, for her name could be anything -Aunt Jemima comes to mind, if only because the situation elicits vague recollections of procuring syrup from a bottle- and it wouldn’t make the slightest difference.

     Rodger mentions something about being quite fond of her hair, to which she nods as she continues working diligently on the task at hand. It’s so terribly disinteresting, this situation, but it’s something she needs, something she craves, that which is contained within her libidinous friend. Megan’s right hand, her better hand, grasps his manhood firmly; twisting, shaking, and shifting, her fingers imbue pleasure upon the appendage and its fleshly mooring, though she herself feels only the faintest flutter of anticipation. She had felt alive, truly alive throughout the extended karaoke performance but here, atop a plush, spacious seat, she harbors nothing short of utter disdain and yet continues stroking, eager to behold the viscous results of her labor.

     Rodger moans as he runs his fingers through roots dyed blue. Hoping to take things a step further, he tenderly attempts to push Megan’s head toward his crotch. This time it is she who sighs, and she calmly grips his wrist with her left hand, dragging it down to the seat. Though he surrenders, her hands remain in their respective positions, each a testament to who dictates terms.

     She tries to remember the taste of semen. There is a word that comes to mind, but it can’t be right, or can it? She simply must know, and so she assails Rodger’s penis with increasing vigor, all the while paying the man attached to it no heed whatsoever. He grunts repeatedly, and amidst the shadowy interior of Rodger McCormack’s automobile Megan spots the first droplet of semen emerge from the tip. For the first time since they took their places, she smirks; since here and now, as one hurtles toward orgasm, the scent creeping into her nostrils is excessively familiar. She knows exactly where Rodger has been, but that’s not the only reason she’s in the back of a Lincoln Town Car.

     Accompanied by a series of harsh groans, milky lava erupts from Rodger’s throbbing penis, spurting onto his exposed stomach and then, in a series of less profuse discharges, upon Megan’s still-moving hand. The woman with the blue, white and red hair slows down, allowing him to finish peacefully, after which she runs her fingers across his flesh, gathering the excess ejaculate till said hand is dripping wet, and sticks a gooey index finger in her mouth only to remove it quickly.

     “Hmm” the woman muses aloud, not quite disappointed but terribly so. “It’s just not the same,” Megan laments, staring at her finger dejectedly. Rodger expresses confusion regarding the matter, and she’ll grant him that. “I mean, I remember it tasting, I don’t know, somewhat metallic, I suppose.” He laughs and questions her judgement, to which Megan responds “Yeah, maybe. Try it and tell me what you think?” alongside an appropriately devilish grin. His face scrunches up with revulsion. “Oh, come on. You have no idea how hot it would make me,” she coos seductively, “and it’s not like you have to put my whole hand in your mouth or anything. Just let it touch your lips, okay?” After a moment or two of head-tilting, eye-shifting and what she can only presume to be a tumultuous internal debate, Rodger acquiesces, albeit reluctantly, to her proposal.

     Gingerly, Megan’s soggy hand creeps across Rodger’s chest, neck and comes to rest with the palm beneath his chin as her fingers dance across his lips up to his nostrils. From her vantage point, she watches him squirm at the thought, taste, touch and smell of his own ejaculate with a an ever-increasing azure twinkle in her eyes, and Megan can scarcely resist the temptation to snicker at the atrociously sublime spectacle as she sticks two fingers into those very nostrils he most certainly holds dear. He recoils in disgust, yet her hand only follows him, pushing his head against the back of the seat while her other hand, still clasping his left wrist with a strength surely unforeseen by her salacious companion, pulls his arm in the opposite direction. The woman’s palm presses harder, forcing his head to tilt toward the ceiling and at this point, as people are apt to do, his disgust transforms into panic, for Rodger undoubtedly knows what he should have known from the very beginning: there is something horrifically wrong with this situation.

     “Come on, Rodger!” she whispers with artificial zeal, “Tell me what you think! Is it sweet, sour, or does everything simply taste like chicken to a guy like you?” even though an answer is impossible, for his jaw has been forced shut and his teeth are beginning to crack. As she pushes and pulls harder and further with preternatural force and manufactured glee, her slender fingers tear into the skin just beneath his nose. The flesh slips from the bone like steamed pork at a barbecue and thus Megan’s reddened fingers readily progress into the gum line of Rodger’s upper jaw, there encountering firmer resistance. “Questions abound! I know, I know,” Megan says, continuing her mock enthusiasm while Rodger’s free arm attempts, however ineffectually, to break her spidery grip upon his face. “It's like, is the arm or neck going to break first, or will you simply bleed to death? Such a conundrum. On top of all that, I can only assume that you're ever-so-curious as to how we arrived at this very moment.”

     Megan tilts her head in mirthful observance of the convulsions his body exhibits before offering an answer of sorts. “Well first of all, your” -snap- “neck will be the first to go ‘cause that’s how I roll and besides, it’s the most humane of available outcomes.” Guiding his flopping neck and head downward so that his fading eyes, once so deliciously vibrant, meet hers, now so maliciously ablaze, she continues. “Now I’m aware that on some level you can hear me, if only momentarily. The thing is, my good man, is that your dick has been all over the place; and all things considered, you simply wouldn’t believe who had requested my assistance even if I were to divulge such information. Seriously. In other words...” she begins, but his eyes have grown dark, lifeless as they are wide.

     Her fingers, now bathed in several fluids intertwined, return to her lips for the purpose of savoring the amalgamated flavor. It tastes better, more metallic yet flawed; which is to say, not quite divine. Typical. Gazing at the man’s flaccid penis, Megan’s teeth begin to grind, for although she has long since given up trying to galvanize the loathsome denizens of this decrepit town into recognizing just what -or perhaps, in a manner of speaking, who- slowly gnaws upon their collective sanity, the fact of the matter is that old habits die really, really hard.