DOSE by Marc Shapiro

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The whore exploded through the door, pulling the tattered remains of her short shorts and halter top around her nakedness. She was the best $100 hooker that money could buy and she was up for any scene.

Except this one.

Ron appeared in the doorway, his stubbled face and sweaty body wrapped in a bed sheet. A bed sheet spotted with her blood and his seed. A bed sheet that could not disguise Ron’s third leg standing tall.

“Come back!,” he croaked in a low animal whisper. “I’m not finished with you yet!”

“Crazy motherfucker!,” she screeched as she backed her way slowly down the hall of his upscale high rise. “You’re more than finished! You’re history!”

She looked down at her crotch where a slowly expanding blood spot was turning her short shorts a mottled grey.

“You’re a freak! Look at that thing! It’ll never go down! And I’m not going to let you carve up my insides trying to get it to.”

Ron did not have to look to know she was right. He hung his head in frustration and despair as the best $100 hooker that money could buy turned on her round heels and was gone.

Ron slammed the door and walked dejectedly back into his apartment where the savaged remains of his hip, Yuppie furniture and objects d’ art gave evidence that his coupling for cash had gone incredibly wrong. He let the sheet drop, giving full freedom to his pulsating animal which was not doing what a prong that had gone off five times in the last hour should be doing.

He raced to the bathroom and hung his shaft, rubbed incredibly raw and bleeding from endless sex play, over the toilet bowl. His hand went to his member and he masturbated himself; generating and pain as he stood, a glassy eyed zombie until a thunderous orgasm showered his sperm to a watery grave. Ron’s breathing went from savage to labored to satiated as his heart retreated to a regular beat.

His dick went from hard to soft and immediately back to hard.

“No! No! No!,”he screamed in anguish as he turned and lurched, a madman in torment, into the living room. He reached under the couch and pulled out a ragged copy of T&A, one of the sleazier outcall rags in town, and turned to the back pages where ads promised total satisfaction.

He sighted on the most promising of the ads and punched up the number. He had long ago been reduced to giving a false name. But his address was a dead giveaway.

“Oh yeah? Who’d want to fuck your cows anyway!,” yelled Ron as he clicked off his cell and threw the offending device across the room. Word was on the street thought Ron as he collapsed on the couch. Don’t go near Ron with a ten foot pole…

…Because he had a ten foot pole.

Ron gave up and went to bed. He closed his eyes and thought of bills that needed to be paid, responsibilities that were not being met, goals he had not reached and never would and his extreme shallowness as a human being.

All things guaranteed to shrink any person’s manhood down to size. Except Ron’s which only throbbed and bucked that much harder. After a time his hand began its nightly crawl up to his extended shaft. He sighed and began a slow, easy stroke.

It was going to be another long night.


It had been pushed along city streets like leaves before an advancing wind. It was there since men first gathered in bars to brag and dream of conquest. His father had heard the tales and his father before him. And now, after hard days of playing at corporate raider, it was there for Ron and his cronies.

They would kick back with a Bud or a Vodka Tonic, discuss stock mergers, lays and, inevitably, the latest rumors of a phenomena  that made Loch Ness and Yeti pale by comparison.

“The best sex in the world,” exclaimed Ron’s cohort Eddie as he liplocked a Seven And Seven. “It’s out there somewhere! I know it is!”

Ron nodded in agreement. He heard it everyday. Somebody was having the best sex one could possibly have. But to Ron’s way of thinking, those who said they were were lying. “If there is anybody out there who is truly having the ultimate orgasm, he’s not telling. I mean would you let me know if you were getting the biggest bone known to man?”

“Yeah,” roared Eddie. “After I was dead and buried six weeks.”

They laughed and clinked glasses and dreamed that somewhere out in the night was a woman whose pussy had the power. It was a dream that just would not go away.

Often the obsession to the form of a fun loving ‘Snipe Hunt’ in which Ron and any number of his Wall Street buddies hit the streets, bars and whorehouses in search of the ultimate exchange of bodily fluids. Uptown, downtown, all around the town. On a good night it would add to their growing list of insignificant others. Throw in the occasional social disease or a girl with attitude and you had a bad night.

But at the end of the night, when they’d gather to add up their carnal wins and losses, nobody was willing to lie. Sometimes it was good but it was never the sex of their dreams.

“I’m out of here,” screamed Ron at the top of his lungs at the end of another wearing day. “I’m tired of making rich men richer! I quit!”

His co-workers looked up from their terminals and out of their cubicles and yelled in unison chorus “See you tomorrow Ron!”

“Yeah right guys. See you tomorrow.”

Ron stood on the curb, his arm out in a cab hailing wave. Too tired for the hunt. Too tired for action. Next stop something dark in a bottle and something X rated on the Sink The Pink Channel.

A gust of wind strayed and danced at his feet. Ron breathed in. It wasn’t the usual pollutant stew that came with the territory. The air smacked jagged and black against his nostrils. There was adventure, risk, danger in the air. If this wasn’t an omen…

A cab screeched to a halt in front of him.

“No thanks,” said Ron suddenly flush with what he did not know. “I think I’ll walk.”

Ron was feeling brave but not stupid. So while North was more in keeping with the rush, North was mugger central. South, with its trendy clubs, overpriced restaurants and business hacks and hackettes, would be his playground.

The sidewalk was a crush of post work humanity. It was wall to wall at the Zen $ Bar. Ron stared in the front window. At the bar, a shapely blonde caught his glance, smiled and waved. He knew her and wished he didn’t. She caught his vibe and flipped him the finger. Another day in paradise, he shrugged, and walked.

The scent that started him on this quest was in every breath. He did not know what it meant. But Ron reasoned that he was on the right track.

Light flashed out of an alley as he walked past, stopping him in his tracks. It flashed again. Ron looked sideways into the dark. He thought once, twice, thought better of it. But entered the alley anyway.

Stepping over overturned garbage cans, puddles that smelled of urine and a homeless person  crashed out, head inside a cardboard box, Ron maneuvered through the obstacle course to the alley’s end at the brick side of a building….

….Where a small, square billboard blinked blood red. With nothing on it.

“Weird shit!,” chuckled Ron, finding the dark humor in the cold shriek of fear that suddenly railed along his spine. “It must be something hip, something underground,” he thought. He cautiously looked up and around. Nobody was waiting to murder his ass. He looked down and found the stairway.

Ron stepped to the edge, looking down and deep. Raggedly cut concrete plunging into darkness, meeting more red light from behind a curtain, the entrance into….

Instinctively he took a step downward. Then another and another. Ron stood at the bottom. And then he thought about it.

“The boogeyman could be on the other side,” his saner side putting those mental cards on the table. He thought about taking a powder. Something in his ID shuddered. Ron’s penis went stiff in his pants. He smelled the scent of female.

He pulled the curtain aside.

Ron blinked into the gloom, blinking out a slow focus. Black on black paint slathered over even more black; a single red strobe spitting out texture. Ron continued to scan. Hardwood floor. A deserted bar shoved flush into an irregular corner. Next to a winding stairway leading up to a second floor and who knows what terrors. A round table, two chairs no waiting.  A second table, sliced at an angle of limited light and dark.

Ron’s gaze froze. His jaw dropped.

Three women were seated in various stages of prick tease. One black with exaggerated blonde hair, long legs crossed high and mini dress cut to expose ample cleavage. A Latina, pouty indifference on her lips, dressed in a private girl’s school uniform.  Finally another blonde, full on Nordic, poured into tight fitting black leather with matching stiletto heels. Toying with a riding crop as a cigarette dangled tantalizingly from her lips.

“Sit down!,” roared Ms. S&M, pointing at the vacant table as she left the henhouse. Ron, lost in his stare, hesitated. A bit too long.

“I said sit down!” Up an octave and bumpered by the riding crop cracking a rimshot on the table. Ron did as he was told. The chair was hard.

She half walked, half glided to his table, pulled out the chair facing him and stared silently. Ron fidgeted, arousal mixed with excitement and that ever present companion, fear.

A smile crossed her face. She snapped her fingers and the black in the mini stepped over and stood at her side.

“This is Regine. Regine is to be eaten.”

Regine’s hand moved up under her dress and began to finger play her clit. Her face flushed, she bucked slightly and came. The vamp moved to Ron’s side, bent over and pressed the hand, sticky with her juices, to his mouth; gently prying it open and forcing his tongue to accept a taste.

Ron’s mind raced as he accepted the offering. This scene was scaring him to death. But he knew he was not going to cut and run. Regine returned to her table and sat down. Another finger snap. The school girl approached.

“This is Kathy,” black leather intoned. “Kathy has been bad.”

Kathy bent down and lean over her master’s lap. The woman, all the while smiling at Ron, flipped up Kathy’s dress with the riding crop, exposing white panties. She pulled them down with a rough yank and began whipping the girl’s bare bottom, drawing blood.

Ron freaked. This shit was hitting close to home. To that Catholic school down the street from his high school. To those fantasies  about what he would like to do to that forbidden fruit.

The spanking concluded and Kathy joined Regine. Ron eyed the woman in leather. Mentally daring her to offer him a sample of her scene. Because, at this point, he had the jazz coursing through his veins. In his mind and in his loins that he was ready for anything.

“Come upstairs.” A voice hauntling, lilting, feather light and emotionally dark drew Ron’s attention to the top of the stairs.

Where a naked, feminine shadow in the flickering black and red stood, arms outstretched and beckoning. Ron strained his eyes for details. But could make out nothing.

“Come upstairs.”

Ron rationalized a sense of urgency in her voice. Was she needing it? Needing it as bad as he was?

He turned back to his tablemate, looking for a sign that the preliminary stoking of his fires was over and that the main event was about to begin. Her smiling crease parted, showing teeth. She tapped the riding crop softly on the table, then pointed it toward the figure at the top of the stairs.

He had his answer.

Ron moved to the stairway, all the while eyeing this Siren who just might be luring him onto the rocks. He was half way up, hoping to see her face, when the woman turned and walked slowly down the second floor hallway. Ron reached the top of the stairs and moved cautiously behind her.

Cautiously because his last fragment of reason was making its presence felt. He could be mugged or worse. Was that even a woman? He might get AIDS or a dose of something equally evil and die a slow, agonizing death. But while he was thinking those dire thoughts, his eyes remained focused up ahead on the slim outline that walked the walk. Reason and sanity were counted out.

The phantom turned the corner ahead of him as Ron heard the distinct click of a door opening. His pace slowed as he stepped in the open doorway and looked into a small room, shrouded in blacker black and mixed with the occasional finger of red slicing in. Spotlighting a bed and the prone form of the woman lying on it. Ron took a tentative step into the room, then another.

He bent over the form lying on the bed. And stepped back with a start.

The woman, lying motionless on the bed, had no face. No mouth, no eyes, no nose. Smooth as an egg in human form.  Horror drove him toward the door. But as he did, he instinctively surveyed the rest of this abomination’s body.

His retreat slowed.

Breasts. Perfect orbs jutting out into firm nipples. A flat, perfectly rounded body that rose slightly with each breath that was coming from somewhere. Long, colt like legs. That were spread wide to reveal glistening womanhood wet in anticipation.

“Shit!,”.  his mind raced. “Was the best sex in the world going to be sex with a monster?” The hard on in his pants said yes.

Ron’s slacks hit the floor, followed immediately by his shorts. He stood over her, his blood engorged penis citing down on her opening like a smart bomb over the Persian Gulf. He mounted this woman or whatever it was. It made no sound and its body offered no resistance. Ron slid in and began his rhythmic dance.

He felt her wet warmth and a sense of something prickly damp seemingly coating the outside of his organ. It was as if something alive had awakened inside her and was making its presence felt. It was a sensation he had never felt in coitus before. But then this was supposed to be the best sex in the world.

Ron went off in ten strokes, a blinding crackle of light and fleeting phantom figures blazing across his mind’s eye. He collapsed in a heap on her body, disappointment crippling his thoughts. He had not been able to control himself. What must this creature think of his non performance? But the biggest blight was that while the sex had been good, it had not been great.

Ron started to pull out but suddenly went hard again. He felt the charge again, hotter, more electric as if something less damp and more alive were probing his member, seeking entry. He did not know what was happening but question and concern quickly gave way to instinct as he got up and began to ride again.

As he plunged in and out with renewed ardor, his mind played a demented carnal tape. Enlarged male organs penetrating enlarged female organs against a backlit black and red universe; their sexual contortions beating a deafening tattoo into his brain. Cut to kinescope flickers of Ron doing sexual rough trade to his favorite female characters from Star Trek: The Next Generation, Beverly Hills 90210 and, yes, even The Mickey Mouse Club.

His physical charge leaped with each thrust, pumping an endless supply of animalistic hot blood to his other brain. Ron remained hard for a full 20 minutes before his heart two stepped, he cried out and exploded in an orgasm that ended a full minute after it started.

Ron lay still between the things’ legs, heart beating rapidfire, sweat slipping from his body, his entire being in a wrung out state of physical and emotional bliss.

“God!,” he managed. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had!” He was not worthy but the Gods had not seen it that way. Ron’s smile broadened as he started to pull out And couldn’t.

The thing’s vagina muscles had turned to steel, holding him fast. He pulled harder and felt a stretching pain. “This isn’t funny!”, understated Ron.

Just as the bees came.

Not exactly bees but that damnable prickly shock/charge that had returned and was stinging his buried penis with a vengeance. Ron screamed as the attack became more pronounced. He felt his foreskin yielding to the onslaught. Something was crawling inside, invading his penal gland, fortifying the rush of sex blood in a maddening rush to his head.

And making him grow hard once again.

Ron’s mind screamed. He stared at his faceless concubine which was turning into a thing that was in him, unleashing sex lust like he’d never felt. Or desired. Madness filled him, a madness that featured the giant fornicating organs and other horses from his mental merry go round. A madness that pointed toward only one way out.

Ron’s body rose and fell, a piston shaft, out of control and driving home. For minutes, a half hour, many hours, a day. Ron blacked out.

He slowly came out of darkness into darkness. Alone. Naked. His dong a flaccid memory of…

It jerked and sprang to attention. Ron rifled the sheets. His sex beast was gone. Leaving him with his desire standing tall and painfully alive. His hand instinctively found his erection and whipped it like a Central Park perv until he came on the very sheets where he had confronted ultimate lust and won.

Or had he really lost?

He dressed in a rush and ran from the room and down the stairs. Where the kinky trio who had primed his pump sat. They looked at him and smiled. Not the smile of congratulations, the hoot and pat on the back he’d gotten after bedding the office tease.

It was a smile that said your shit is weak.

Ron raced from the hell hole, up the stairs, down the alley and into the street. He stopped, breathing heavy but feeling he had, somehow, outrun his demons as a late night crowd passed around him.

He felt the bulge rise in his pants.

Ron’s eyes flashed wildly. His hands dropped in a futile attempt to cover his crotch. He fled back into the alley where he found nothing. No blinking signs. No steps down to his own private hell.

“I’ve got a dose!,” his mind going ballistic as he dropped to his knees in a fit of frustration, anger,  fear and exhaustion. Worse than the worst case of Syph, Crabs or Tijuana Clap. He’d settle for ten leaky dicks at this point. What he was stuck with was a terminal case of the hards courtesy of a bitch from the dark side.


Ron zipped down his pants and took out his pulsating staff. He beat it. He whimpered.

Ron shuddered and came, the sensation of his seed exploding into the toilet bowl dragging his mind out of the past and how he got this way and into the present. He wiped off on an already extra crusty/flakey sheet. He should probably do some laundry. But as he got up to warm some coffee and found himself already standing up and facing him, he reasoned why bother? He poured soupy grounds into a cup and slouched on his couch, pulling his pud and looking back on the hand a bad dose of monster disease had brought him.


Why bother with things like laundry and shaving when he rarely went out anymore. He didn’t have a job to go to. Spending more time in  the men’s room playing pocket pool  than conducting business had resulted in the old heave ho.


Read the rest of the story in the Book of Horrors II

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