Something Wet

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Original Publication & Date: 
Gratia Placenti (Apex Book Company) - 2008

Warning: Sexually graphic material. May offend...well...everyone.


Gratia PlacentiMy name’s Les Littleton, and I’m a porn star.

Not that anyone would know it, of course. I’m only in the movies from the neck down.

I’m a Sensory Observer; what some lesser informed individuals glibly refer to as a “fucksuit.” My job is to have sex with the hottest girls in the industry – and be sure to have a damned good time doing it – while every sight, smell, sound, taste, and feeling is recorded for the Jackers who line up around the corner to buy this shit. It may sound like easy work, but it’s not. It’s my responsibility to provide customers with the most comprehensive and enjoyable sexual simulation experience money can buy, and my commitment to my craft is evidenced by my body of work. If you’ve ever busted a nut on Mindseye, chances are good that it was my dick you were fucking with. Done the deed with Precious Peirce, Ashley Humps, or Hannah Storm? They work with me exclusively.

I’m a no-bullshit guy. If a girl’s having a “not-so-fresh” day, I’m going to tell her about it. Jackers, they don’t shell out good money to eat virtual pussy that smells like yesterday’s tuna casserole, and it’s my responsibility to make sure that never happens. Quality control is as big of a part of my job as maintaining good wood, and the girls appreciate that. Sure, it may be a little embarrassing for your S.O. to halt production due to a vaginal fart or sweaty armpits, but could you imagine the potential fallout of letting a million fans experience the horrors of Lezlee Strongbox’s uncontrollable nervous gas or Monica Mounds stomach-churning meth-mouth just because your S.O. wasn’t confidant enough to suggest a digestive aid or a breath mint? A slip up like that is what ended Trini Towers’ career, and resulted in her giving a farewell hummer to the business end of a Remington auto loader. I don’t want that sort of thing on my conscience.

That sort of attention to detail, that’s what makes me one of the most requested S.O.s in the business.

And that’s how I met Random Sutton.

I’d just wrapped a weeklong shoot on an ass-worship flick called Spank Me Softly, Fuck Me Hard when I got the call. I planned on taking it easy for a few days, maybe catching up on some of the Hollywood Jacks I had piling up, or even watching a 2-D. I never got business calls at home – that’s what my agent was for – so when the phone rang, I answered with a cursory “yo.”

“Mr. Littleton?” The voice on the other end was tin-thin, a hint of an accent I couldn’t quite discern, which bothered me because I was usually pretty good at that sort of thing.

“Yeah, this is…” I replied. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Sutton,” the man said. “Random Sutton. You’re a hard man to track down, Mr. Littleton.”

Was it British? Dutch? No, not Dutch…

“How did you get this number?” I asked, just as interested in hearing his answer as I was in getting another sampling of his accent.

“A mutual friend,” he replied. “Jane Horowitz?”

South African.  Definitely South African.

“Jane…no, that doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I’m sorry, that’s her given name,” Sutton interjected. “You’d probably know her as Mercy. Mercy Merrimac?”

“Mercy! Oh, Yeah, sure. Shit, I haven’t seen her in…wow…two, three years? She married that rich old fucker, the investment guy from TV.” I hummed the jingle from the company’s commercials. “What was his name?”

Sutton laughed. It sounded like wind through a baby’s skeleton.

“That fucker would be me,” he said.

“Oh, shit,” I mumbled through the chunk of foot lodged in my mouth. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, no apologies necessary, Mr. Littleton,” Sutton said. “But, since I’ve got you on the proverbial ropes, perhaps I could ask a favor of you?”

“I guess that would depend on the favor,” I replied.

“Of course, of course.” There was a long pause followed by a fit of thunderous coughing. When he finally came back on the line, Sutton’s voice was reduced to a brittle croak. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Littleton. I’ve been…ill, you see.”

“That’s…that’s…geez, I’m sorry,” I said, maybe a little too dismissively.  Truth was I didn’t care; I was more interested in what he wanted from me. “You mentioned a favor?”

“Ah, yes,” Sutton said. There was another long pause before he dropped the bomb.

“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind sleeping with my wife?”



Being a good S.O. meant getting a lot of “special” requests; independent stuff, shot “off the grid”, free of the red tape, restrictions, and regulations of Mainstream. Once Mindseye went public, the government stepped in and set limits on what you could and couldn’t do on a production. Everything from the volume of ejaculate applied to a woman’s face in the “money shot” (no dollops bigger than a quarter, and certainly nothing above the nose) to the amount of time an S.O. could observe a dilated sphincter following anal intercourse was unblinkingly monitored and rigidly scrutinized by a group we called the Spunk-Nazis: a small army of all-too-eager government stooges assigned to each production.  If you wanted to bypass the Spunk-Nazis, you had to shoot off-grid, and shooting off-grid meant selling Dark.

The government would have you believe that Dark Jacks were all snuff, bestiality, and kiddy porn; reprehensible stuff that I’m sure existed, but I’d never had the misfortune to come across. The reality was that, while just as illegal as a donkey fuck flick, the majority of Dark Jacks were usually nothing more than the same sort of extra-dirty porn viewers had grown accustomed to long before Mindseye and the government’s “grooming” of the industry. If you were into the real fringe stuff – bukaki, hardcore bondage, suffocation, watersports – you weren’t going to find that sort of flick in any slick, upscale Jacker Station or the electronics department of your local big box store. No, if you wanted to experience the virtual agony of a high heel shoe grinding into your scrotum or the sweat-slick buttocks of a 300 pound woman draped over your face like a piping-hot meat mask – all stuff that the government deemed in poor taste, even for pornography – you had to shop Dark. That meant trolling grimy flea markets, dealing with paranoid street vendors, or hoping the box of “scented candles” that you ordered from that internet vendor in Malaysia made it past customs, and, even then, there was no guarantee that you were getting a quality product, if even a Dark Jack at all.

I knew this one guy who shelled out a week’s salary for a night of the hot nasties with a well-endowed she-male and ended up on a virtual tour of Mount Rushmore. He was so keyed up for the experience that he apparently blew his wad while staring up George Washington’s left nostril. He said it was one of the best orgasms he’s ever had, but, still; caveat emptor, friends, caveat emptor.

I’d never worked a Dark. I’d heard the money was good, and I’d been tempted, sure, but I did all right doing things on the level, so I didn’t see the point in risking the fines, the legal hassles, and my union benefits for a few extra bucks.

At least, not until Random Sutton called me.

There was a whole other side to Dark; real stealth stuff, so far off-grid you couldn’t buy it at all; homemade, one-of-a-kind Jacks, privately filmed and funded by and for a privileged few. It was a whole new movement, really; big-budget “home movies” for the smoking jacket and mink stole crowd. There weren’t a lot of people on the planet who could afford it – the ticket on a decent Mindseye production rig ran in the high six figures – but if anyone had that sort of disposable income (not to mention the sort of cash it would take to bust my Dark cherry) it was Random Sutton. 

The limo veered off the main road, navigated between two absurdly tall granite pillars, and slowed to a halt at an intricately welded wrought iron gate. The driver held out his hand, and, after the lasers of the sentry cam put on a little light show in his palm, the gate slowly swung open, and we proceeded down a seemingly endless road lined with all manner of shrubbery pruned into perfect circles and squares – horticultural re-creations of the Sutton Group’s logo. 

The driver hadn’t said two words to me since he’d picked me up at my apartment, but I didn’t mind; the liquor cabinet was well-stocked with the sort of booze I’d only read about in fine-living magazines – you know; the rags you find in your doctor’s office waiting rooms, alongside titles like Porsche Enthusiast, Private School Journal, and Fleece the Middle Class Monthly– and I was too busy knocking back shots of Hennessy Ellipse to talk to anyone anyway.

The estate loomed in the distance, a stone giant twice the size of the high school I’d almost graduated from, fronted by a reflecting pool the length of a football field. The limo shook violently, sending a half-full glass of the $1800 dollar-a-bottle cognac spilling into my lap as we hit the cobblestone half-circle that served as the Sutton driveway.  A gaggle of men in pristine powder gray jumpsuits attended to a meticulously well-cared for collection of cars– four identical black Rolls Royces, a red custom-built sports car that looked like something out of The Jetsons, and a metallic silver Bentley – that sat lined up against a row of garages. A few yards away, parked crookedly alongside the front steps, sat a pussy-pink vintage roadster, replete with rhinestone-encrusted dolphins dangling from the rearview mirror, fuzzy white seat covers dotted with sparkling red cherries, and a license plate that read HOTNESS. It was the kind of car a trailer park girl would buy if she hit the lottery. And from the looks of things, Mercy Merrimac had hit it big time.

As the limo ground to a halt, I managed to pour myself one more glass of the good stuff before the driver threw open the door and ushered me out. I swallowed the drink in one gulp, and tossed the leaded crystal glass back onto the limo’s floor as if it were an empty Styrofoam cup. I wiped my mouth on my coat sleeve and stumbled up the steps toward a pair of ebony doors that slowly swung open, revealing a stout, Latino maid. She balanced a gleaming silver tray with a single champagne flute in its center, its fizzy contents probably worth more than she made in a month.

Meester Sutton will join you on the veranda.” She purred that last word like a well-tuned chainsaw.

I picked up the glass, threw back the champagne in a single gulp, and carefully placed it back onto the tray. “Thanks.”

The maid glared at me like I’d just bitten off a kitten’s head. “Follow me,” she said curtly, and shuffled off with astonishing speed for someone saddled with such stubby legs.

She led me through a maze of dimly lit hallways littered with paintings, sculptures, and all manner of knick knackery, all tied together by the common theme of complete and utter tastelessness. Beautifully ornate antique frames housed velvet paintings of bullfighters and flamenco dancers, badly drawn pencil portraits of Elvis Presley, and one of those hideously morbid prints of deceased movie stars and musicians sitting around the counter of some sort of heavenly diner. Jim Morrison ate fried chicken next to Humphrey Bogart, while Marilyn Monroe slurped coffee with James Dean and Janis Joplin.

John Wayne dined alone.

Even in death, he was an asshole.

A life-size bronze statue of a muscular man endowed with a horse’s penis sat bookended between two lighted curio cabinets, each filled with at least a hundred different colored glass unicorns, miniature ceramic shoes, and bone-white figurines that looked like the ghosts of children with Down’s syndrome, each with blushed cheeks and disturbingly cherubic smiles plastered across walnut-shaped heads. Around the next corner sat a trio of life-sized carousel horses, with homely overstuffed rag dolls perched on each of their saddles.

Beyond them lay the cavernous maw that led to the veranda.

The maid ushered me over to a small marble table, pulled out a chair, and motioned for me to sit. “The Meester will be with you shortly,” she said.

I pointed at the empty champagne glass. “I’ll take another one of those when you get a chance.”

She nodded, turned, and darted off toward the house in a flurry of hushed Spanish profanity.

As I basked in the tranquil beauty of Sutton’s golf course-sized backyard, the hush was broken by the buzz and whine of what sounded like a remote controlled car. I turned to see an elderly man zooming toward me on a motorized cart, his bathrobe flowing behind him like a red velour vapor trail.  He came to a halt just inches shy of the marble table, clicked off the engine, and thrust a gnarled appendage at me.

“So glad you could make it, Mr. Littleton,” he said.

I shook his hand. It felt like a dead trout wrapped in silk.

“Not a problem,” I said. “Hell, just the booze was worth the trip.”

Sutton smiled, and, when he did, his face puckered like a cat’s asshole. “Good, good,” he said. As he started to climb out of his cart, I stood to offer him a hand, but he waved me away. “I’m old, but not that old,” he said, gingerly lowering himself onto the chair across from me. “This…contraption…” He nodded toward the cart with no small measure of disgust. “It’s just for getting around the house. My Jane, she insists that I use it.”

“So…will she be joining us?” I asked.

Sutton shook his head. “No, no. She’s down at the tennis court. Today’s her lesson. Besides, even though this is her…gift…to me, I felt that the initial business was best left between us.” Sutton’s gaze drifted down to a pair of balled-up fists in his lap. “She did tell me to give you her love, however, and says she’s looking forward to…working with you again.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I just nodded, forced a reassuring smile, and looked around nervously, hoping that the maid would hurry the fuck up with my drink.

“Obviously this isn’t easy for me,” Sutton croaked. “Asking – Lord, paying –another man to make love to my wife, I mean, I can only imagine what you must think of me.”

“Hey, if it makes you feel any better, people in my line of work, we get requests like this all the time.” It wasn’t quite true, but the ghost of a smile the statement put on his face made me feel a little better about what I was doing there.  “I mean, a lot of old…um…mature gentlemen…when they can’t, you know, get it…you know, get it going…” I illustrated the point with pops, whistles, and a wiggling index finger. Sutton looked on with what appeared to be a mixture of amusement, confusion, and simmering rage.

“Mr. Littleton,” he interrupted, “I assure you that my desire – our desire – to make this Jack has nothing to do with something as simple as an inability to get an erection. Christ, there are pills for that.

Sutton got to his feet, and started to fumble with a balled-up knot on the sash of his robe.

“For this, however, there is no such remedy.”

He threw open his robe and, all at once, I felt a little liquid seep out of nearly every orifice in my body, followed by a shrill, girlish scream I’d not thought myself capable of.

He stood before me, a mass of dusky, baggy flesh, all squashed grape nipples and veins and arteries. The remnants of a once-healthy belly reduced to a sagging flesh bowtie that draped over what should have been his genitals, but was now nothing more than a gaping  chasm of necrotic flesh stuffed with wads of yellowed gauze bandages, and framed by a swollen donut of freshly sutured skin. A filmy plastic tube protruded from its center, and ran down Sutton’s thigh to a plastic bag sloshing with urine as dark as triple malt scotch. Another baggie protruded from his lower abdomen, half-filled with what looked like balls of brownie batter floating in a cup of coffee.

So caught up in the horror of the sight of Sutton’s disfigurement, I’d hardly noticed the smell; a sweet and sour chemical odor that, once fully realized, filled the back of my throat with a sizzling pool of bile and Crystal.

“That stink is the cancer,” Sutton said. “It started in my testicles. The doctors said they’d never seen it spread so fast.” He waved a hand toward the manse behind him, mercifully letting his robe fall closed. “All of my money, the best medical minds in the world, and this is the best they could do for me.”

“I’m…I’m so…” I couldn’t find the words.

Sutton wagged his finger at me. “No, no. I’ve learned to accept it,” he said. “And my Jane – oh, she’s…she’s a rock, you know? She’s been so good…so good about everything.”

“So, this Jack, it’s her way of…”

“It’s her way of giving herself back to me,” he interrupted. “It’s not just the sex; it’s the closeness. I miss that the most. That’s why it’s important to me that this be done…tastefully. I want you to make love to my wife. It can’t just be a ‘fuck.’ I need it to be more than that. I also want to be there, while it’s…happening.”

“What, you mean watch?” I asked.

“No, Mr. Littleton. I mean there,” Sutton said. “My people have assured me that I can “take part” in the experience as it’s being recorded. Is that a problem for you?”

I shrugged. “Well, no, not really. I mean, I’ve never performed “live” before, but it’s been done. Still, wouldn’t you rather wait until it’s mixed and mastered? I mean, a raw Jack…it can be kind of…boring. It’s in the editing that my performance really, you know, shines.”

Sutton shook his head. “No, no. I don’t want any of that. I want this to be a completely genuine experience. No sensory enhancements of any kind. I want real sex, not some special effects wizard’s interpretation of the act.”

“Sure, I mean, yeah, that’s totally doable, but I’m not sure it’s going to feel like you remember it feeling. I mean, I’m not in love with your wife so…”

Sutton cut me off. “That’s why you’re here. Jane says you’re the best in your field. She says that if anyone can give me what it is that I’m looking for, it’s you.”

“Well, I will certainly give it my best, Mr. Sutton,” I said.

He winced.

“I’m sure you will, son,” he said. “I’m sure you will.”




It was no accident that folks called the place Greasy Nick’s.  The owner, a perpetually sweaty bearskin rug of man, with body odor you could almost see, was famous for the way he prepared his Coney Island hot dogs. He would arrange the buns along a hairy forearm, lather them with three-alarm spicy meat sauce and an inch-thick slab of mystery cheese product, and then drop the whole shebang onto a dirty orange tray coated with a sheet of wax paper. Three bucks bought you four, six bucks bought you ten. The beads of perspiration that rained upon them from his forehead came at no extra charge.  It wasn’t healthy, but it was cheap and plentiful, and tasted damned good as long as you didn’t mind plucking the occasional short and curly out of your teeth.

Sitting there, eating sweat-soaked, hair-flecked hot dogs off of a dirty tray didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. After all, I was waiting on one of the richest women in the state. I should have been cracking lobster claws and scooping up caviar by the ounce, but this was where she wanted to meet, and, seeing as how I was now working for her husband, I wasn’t going to argue.

I was on my third Coney when Mercy Merrimac’s pussy-pink roadster pulled up alongside the rows of orange fiberglass picnic tables. She slipped out the car, tugged her miniskirt down to mid-thigh length, and waved at me. Heads turned, but only for a moment. This city teamed with money and celebrities, and the locals were usually unimpressed. Besides, unless you were a lucky old-school Jacker (Random Sutton had long ago made sure his wife’s catalog was no longer available to the public), Mercy Merrimac was just a pretty face in a town full of even prettier ones.

“Heya, Mercy,” I said.

“It’s Jane, now.” She smiled coyly as she sat down beside me, crossing her legs and giving me a fleeting glimpse of the nothing she had on under her skirt.

“Yeah, well, you still look more like a Mercy to me.” I coughed.

She shook her head. “Random doesn’t like that name.” She produced a gold cigarette case from her handbag and flipped it open, revealing a dozen pencil-thin smokes with floral designs on the filters.

“You used to smoke Marlboro Reds.” I laughed.

“I used to do a lot of things,” she replied. The smile faded from her face, and the tears soon followed. “I juh-juh-just…d-d-don’t nuh-nuh-know who…I am…anymore.”

I’ve never been much good to a crying woman. Sure, I’ve had to calm some nerves on the set, talk the occasional girl through a tough scene, or lie and tell them it wasn’t their fault I couldn’t get it up, but this, this was different. This was real. Mercy Merrimac – aka Jane Horowitz Sutton – was hurting inside, and all I could do was sit there and pat her on the back like I would a wounded Labrador.

“You don’t know what it’s been like,” she said. “It’s…it’s just…so hard!”

I kept on petting her and tried my best to sound soothing. “I know, I know. I mean, it can’t be easy seeing him like this.”

“What?” she croaked.

“I’m just saying that seeing someone you love suffer like that, I mean, I just can’t imagine...”

Mercy turned to me and laughed.

“I’m not crying because he got cancer, you stupid asshole,” she said

“I’m crying because the bastard survived!”





I tried to tell myself it wouldn’t be murder.

Random Sutton was an old man; a sick man. If we did what Mercy said, if we did it the way she’d planned, it would just be nature taking its course.

“I want to fuck you so hard that the bastard’s heart explodes,” she said.

She reminded me of the scene we did on her first “feature” Jack, Have Mercy on Me (an actress knew she’d hit the big time when her name became part of the pun in a title). Just the thought of it made my own chest ache.

“Mercy, you’re talking about…killing a guy,” I said.

“I’d be doing all of the work,” she cried, rubbing her hands together nervously. “All you’d have to do…is just…just keep up.  Just keep up and, I promise you, you’ll never have to work another day in your life.”

“I don’t know, Mercy, I mean, this is just…”

She grabbed my wrists and pulled me toward her. Her face was a mess of swollen eyes and runny mascara. Bubbles of snot popped in her nostrils, and threads of silvery spittle webbed her lips together. Even in that state, she still looked hot as hell.

 “I know what I’m asking you to do…to be a part of. But if you knew the truth; if you knew what he’s put me through.” Mercy let go of my wrists and cradled her head in her hands. “You…you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” I said.

We spent the next hour huddled beneath an overpass around the corner from Greasy Nick’s, a rare Los Angeles rain spilling down on either side of us, while, underneath, we had our own private waterworks. In that hour I went from being scared, to sad, to sick, to downright fucking pissed off, and, in the end, it wasn’t just the money that made me decide to go through with it.

It was what Mercy told me about the real Random Sutton that truly sealed the deal.

That frail old man I met on the veranda that day – that sad-eyed and sentimental cancer survivor with the big oozing hole where his junk used to be? It turned out he was one hell of an actor. All of his talk about love and dedication and loyalty, the things he’d do for his wife. He didn’t mention the part about locking her in their bedroom for a week because she came home late from a spin class, or the daily workout regimen and liquid diet he forced upon her so that she could maintain her figure. He didn’t say anything about the beatings and humiliation, or speak of the “private parties” he held where he watched, laughing while his rich friends each had their turn with her. 

She cried when she told me that the Jack I was hired for – the one he claimed was her gift to him – was actually slated to be this year’s Christmas present to his board of directors; after he got a taste of the quality first, of course.

It was when she started to hyperventilate, as she tried to tell me what he made her do with his accountant’s Rottweiler, Blitzkrieg, that I came to the conclusion that Random Sutton was one twisted fuck who truly deserved to die.




The limo arrived five minutes early, giving me a bit of a head start on the cognac. I would have finished the bottle had the driver taken the freeway, but he knew better than to engage that clusterfuck at this time of day and took the back roads, dumping me on Sutton’s doorstep a few drinks shy of oblivion. Two men in matching black everything greeted me, as I stumbled out of the back of the limo, and ushered me into the foyer where Sutton’s maid waited, eyeing me with the requisite amount of disdain.

“They’re not ready for you,” she said, knocking me back into an uncomfortable wooden chair. “You wait here.”

She click-clacked off before I could ask her for a drink, but I doubted she would have brought me one, anyway.

I sat there for at least a half-an-hour, my ass throbbing in protest, when a ruckus erupted in the other room. I peered out of the foyer long enough to catch a glimpse of Mercy arguing with one of the security goons as they roughly escorted her upstairs. I started after her, but a hand the size of a lion’s paw dropped upon my shoulder and scooped me back into the foyer.

“Mrs. Sutton’s having a…difficult…morning,” the guard said in a voice deep enough to loosen my stools. “I’ve been told to apologize for the delay.”

“Difficult, huh? Um, okay, but can I get a drink…you know, while we wait?” I asked, hoping to ward off the encroaching sobriety.

“Absolutely,” the guard said. “What would you like?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about a hundred-year-old scotch?” I laughed.

The guard pressed a finger to his ear, lowered his mouth to his lapel, and mumbled something into his chest. He nodded several times, mumbled something else, and then turned back to me. “The oldest we have is a ’37 Macallan Royal. Will that be acceptable?”

“Well, I guess that’ll have to do,” I said.

He nodded and mumbled into his chest again. In the time it took the guard to crack each of the vertebrae in his neck, a reedy old black man appeared in the doorway. He had charcoal gray hair so closely cropped to his ebony dome that it looked sprayed on, and he sported a marshmallow-white servant’s outfit that made him look like that old black chef on the Cream of Wheat box. He presented me with a glass of booze bottled three years before my Granny Littleton was even born, waited until I took a sip, and then smiled a pink, gummy smile as he bowed his way out of the room.

“Smooth,” I said.

The guard offered a single affirmative nod.

I lowered my still-throbbing ass back onto the impossibly small chair and wondered aloud why anyone would own such a thing, let alone pay good money for it. I shifted around uncomfortably for another fifteen minutes before the maid returned and whispered in the guard’s ear.

 “Mr. Littleton?” The guard stepped aside and motioned for me to pass. “They’re ready for you.”




Prepping an S.O. for a Mindseye production used to be a fairly involved process, but they’ve streamlined the shit out of it in the short time the tech’s been around. These days all you need to do is drop a couple of nerve stims, inject the sub-dermals behind your ears, run a quick test of the levels, and go for it. The old man had contracted some hotshot university outfit for this Jack, with super high-end gear, some of it real bleeding-edge stuff I’d never even seen before. 

 I was brought into Sutton’s room, told to disrobe, and assured that Mercy would be joining me shortly.

“What, no fluffer?” I asked, only half-jokingly. The techs looked puzzled by the request so I waved them off. As I sat on the edge of the ridiculously soft bed and tugged myself to a respectable half-hard, a distorted voice hissed through a small speaker on the nightstand.

“Very good, sir. The readings in here are almost optimal. Would you mind… giving us a second to make some calibrations?”

“What, you want me to stop playing with my dick?” I asked.

“Umm, yes sir. If you could…err…stop…that would be great.”

“That’s all you had to say, bro,” I said.

“Okay, you may notice a bit of…”

The rest of his words were drowned out by a loud hum that gave way to a searing pain I can only describe as a million ice cream headaches all at once. The next thing I knew I was lying on the floor halfway across the room.

“Jesus Fucking Christ on a unicycle, what the hell was that?” I cried.

“Sorry, sir. Just a little glitch in the syncing software.”

“A little glitch?” I said, climbing back onto the bed. “Just watch it, will ya?”

“It should be fine, now.”

Mercy finally entered the room, wearing a long, silk robe that she immediately discarded, and sat down beside me.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

I rubbed at my temples. “You’re telling me. That frat boy in there nearly fried my fucking skull.”

“No, not that,” she whispered. “I mean, look at all the extra security here today. I can’t even walk around my own house! I wanted to ask Random what the hell was going on, but they wouldn’t even let me near the bastard’s study.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” I said. “They’re your security goons, too, aren’t they?”

Mercy laughed. “Yeah, right. Like I have any kind of say. In the end, everyone works for Random Sutton.” She ran a finger down my cheek and winked. “Even you, doll.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “For now.”

“For now,” she whispered back.

“Okay,” the tinny voice buzzed from the speaker. “Mr. Sutton is prepped and ready. We’ll be merging the feeds momentarily, Mr. Littleton, so if you two…want to…umm…get started, that’d be…uh…great.”

The tech counted down from five, Mercy and I shrugged, and, with the sort of enthusiasm most people reserved for tasks like mowing the lawn or doing the dishes, we started to fuck.

We kept it nice and slow, just like we’d planned it. Mercy writhed about beneath me, running her hands over herself, kneading her perfectly sculpted breasts, pinching and twisting her nipples. She let out some throaty moans, a couple of catlike mews, and even threw in an exaggerated shriek of ecstasy or two. She may have been away from the industry for a while, but she hadn’t missed a beat. It was a perfectly executed foreplay session, with lots of flickering tongues, probing fingers, and the obligatory five minutes of him-‘n-her oral stimulation. It was all perfectly soft and loving and boring as hell; just the way Random Sutton wanted it. 

Then Mercy pinched my shoulder.

Twice, like she said she would.

It was the signal.

I rolled onto my back, and Mercy climbed on top of me, slipping me inside her, hips gyrating, gaining momentum.

It was on.

The idea for the “Cowgirl Blitz” came to Mercy during a promotional tour for one of her first Jacks. She was the featured dancer at a seedy topless honky-tonk in Bakersfield called Wiley’s Pork ‘n Pussy Revue – Boobs, Beer, and BBQ. The place featured a mechanical bull the locals called Triturador De la Bola –“the ball breaker” that Mercy rode naked on a liquor-fueled bet. Not only did the little cowgirl manage to stay on the bull for the full two-minute ride, but she came eight times in the process. 

She called it the best fuck she’d ever had.

When it came time to shoot Have Mercy on Me!, she wanted to try and replicate the experience for her adoring fans – with me standing in for the bull, of course. We’d spent days rehearsing what would be the Jack’s “grand finale”, as well as what Mercy hoped would become her signature “move.”

Tragically, the Cowgirl Blitz would not catch on.

Have Mercy on Me! was pulled from the shelves within two weeks of its release after more than three hundred consumers reported everything from dehydration to exhaustion to full-on cardiac arrest as a result of the Jack. The director was fired, the editors were blacklisted, and, at the time, it looked like the end of Mercy’s career.  However, when the news hit the mainstream media, her popularity soared, and, after the requisite amount of hush money fell into all the right hands, Have Mercy… was re-cut, repackaged, and reissued with a boastful red warning label (despite the fact that the Cowgirl Blitz had been all but completely edited out), and a new tagline that proclaimed Mercy Merrimac as the owner of “the fastest hips in the west!”

Now those hips were back in action, and picking up steam.  Pelvic bone ground against pelvic bone, and, with every thrust, a feral grunt escaped her. Her eyes locked with mine as her breasts spun wildly out in front of her, her nipples blurring into purple/pink halos that hung in the air before me. The air grew thick with the smell of us. The bed shook, the headboard pounded against the wall, the box spring squealed in protest. My heart raced as our sweat-slicked bodies slapped together with superhuman rhythm


I could feel it in my temples, my jaw; every inch of me throbbing. And I could feel Mercy, too. Down there; pulsating all around me.

And then I felt something else; something in my head. It was as if the back of my skull had opened up, and something was crawling around inside.

Something cool.

Something dark.

Something wet.

And then came the black.





There are 22 bones in the adult human skull.

Judging by what remained of Mercy Merrimac’s face, more than half of hers were reduced to powder.

She lay on her stomach, clawed and bloodied, chunks of flesh torn from her neck, breasts, and abdomen.  Her arms and legs were bent at impossible angles; her head twisted 180 degrees so that her shattered chin rested upon a shoulder blade. Mercy’s eyes stared back up at me, oozing out of their shattered sockets like soft-boiled eggs balanced on beveled fragments of cheekbone that protruded through nearly transparent skin.

I held my trembling hands out in front me, bloodied up to the elbows, frayed skin revealing the glistening white bone of exposed knuckle. A chunk of an incisor was lodged in the meat of my palm. Clumps of hair and blood were gathered under my fingernails. My mouth tasted of copper and salt. As I ran my tongue across the back of my teeth, I felt the tickle of bits of fibrous flesh wedged between them.

Panic welled inside of me. I scurried off of the bed, and fell to floor in a heap of gore-soaked sheets. My arms and legs twitched. My spine sizzled. I got to my knees and felt a spasm in the pit of my stomach. A geyser of blood and glistening oysters of half-digested tissue splashed out onto the hardwood floor before me.

I got to my feet, and bounced against the walls as I shambled down the hallway. When I reached the top of the stairs, inertia did the rest, sending me tumbling ass over tea kettle down the steps until I found myself splayed out on the cold marble floor of the great room.

As I lifted my head, I heard what sounded like a hundred guns cocking at the same time. 

“Easy, gentlemen,” a familiar voice croaked. “Lower your weapons.”

Sutton stood at the entrance to the great room, swimming in a checkered hospital johnny that draped over his withered frame. His hotshot university Mindseye techs stood on either side of him, each trembling like they’d stumbled into a cave full of vipers.

“What is this, Sutton?” I nodded toward the guards.

“A simple precaution, Mr. Littleton.” Sutton hobbled toward me, motioning for the guards to put away their weapons. “They’d warned of the potential for residual psychosis following a merged Jack. Especially one…so intense.” He stood above me, now; the stink of him burned in my sinuses. “I couldn’t have you running around tearing up the place, now, could I?”

“You son of a bitch,” I hissed. “I thought you said you were just gonna strangle her? You beat her to a fucking pulp!””

Sutton smiled. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, son. It’s just that I felt so strong. Stronger than I’ve felt in a long, long time.” He held up his hands and balled his fists. “I’m afraid I just got…carried away.”

“Carried away. Right.” I spat a dollop of glistening red saliva onto the black and white marble floor. “You fucking ate her, man!”

“Mr. Littleton, you of all people should understand the importance of good showmanship!” he cried. “Was it a little over-the-top? Perhaps. But my friends – they think they’ve seen and done it all. This, however, is something I can be fairly certain they’ve never experienced. I’m giving some very bored, very jaded individuals a nearly priceless gift.”

“Nearly?” I asked.

“Mr. Littleton.” Sutton winked. “Everything – everyone – has its price.”

That was the second time he’d said that to me in two days.

The first time was that night after Mercy came to see me.

He’d had her followed of course; even she knew that.

She just didn’t figure on him listening in.

Sutton didn’t deny anything she’d told me. As a matter of fact, he’d seemed downright proud of it. He even giggled a little when I mentioned the Rottweiler, the sick fuck.

What it boiled down to was that he made me the better offer, plain and simple. Mercy, she’d never have gotten his money, anyway; Sutton assured me of that. If he died, she wouldn’t see a penny of it, and neither would I. That would’ve made me worse than a murderer.

It would’ve made me an unpaid murderer.



It’s been going on six months now.

I’m still making Jacks, but just to keep up appearances. It’s getting harder to explain how I can afford to live the way I do on an S.O.’s salary, but I figure I’ll put in a few more months, and then disappear before the IRS catches on.

Disappearing’s easy; just ask Mercy Merrimac.

I still haven’t changed my mind about Sutton. The man’s a creep, and he deserves to die. The thing is that men like him, they only die when they’re ready to die. And he’s got people on the payroll to make sure of that.

It’s just like Mercy said. In the end, everyone works for Random Sutton.

Even me.

my first reilly short story

  This is the first short story I've read by Mr. Reilly and definitely won't be the last.   Very cleverly written with just the right amount of gore and sex.  Love the ominous tone that kept me eagerly reading until the end.  Also love the fact that there was no shyness regarding the sexual content.   An amusing, funny, grotesque little tale.   Can't wait to read the next one!

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