9:00 p.m. And she giggles.
The gutters moved from one end of its filth to the other and he raised his hand and cleansed her soul with a scouring pad laced in metal wool, masked by a fragrance of lavender and a hint of breathing blood prior to sticking his face between her monumental folds, his nostrils cavernously inhaling and exhaling as his tongue laced in soft thorns pricked her cleavage in long tender strokes just enough until the velvety of her flesh pricked and the wounds opened and debarred the scent of virgin jasmine mint blood.
And the legs straddled high, parted in peace, riding the invisible stallion. Humping up, humping down, her ass bumping the soft rugged cushiony seat beneath as it grazed her maximus with rug burn.
The stallion rode her deep, extending his bruised head longer, expanding her tiny womb greater before her orgasm, before his orgasm, the antiquity of his metallic sword then glistened against the moonlight, bright like a child’s smile, and curvaceous like a woman’s body, as it sensually grazed the smooth of her elongated neck until the shrill of her orgasmic cry forced the metal sheath to penetrate through her skin, erotically severing flesh from bone until there was nothing but her headless corpse convulsing in rhythm to her orgasm.
The Headless Horseman observed in absolute amusement as the body continued to writhe beneath him while her vulvanic muscles continued to contract around his mass up until the moment it seized into a dead end sex. Without warning her pussy turned abruptly cold. Beautifully damaged she was in all her glorious naked glory, and in the back seat of his taxi, he observed, of all places.
And the Headless Horseman sulked. The grisly scenario presenting more of a trajectory of dissatisfaction when the orgasmic flow of his hot juice reminded him that he was still alive and she was dead dead. Now to dispose of her body remained the question as with the bodies before. He pulled his Victorian-esque trousers back over his hips and scratched the hallow of his head. Confused over his emotions he was as always before. He self-consciously stared over his shoulder, at the commuters commuting in costume for this dreadful Halloween night. He only picked her because she was standing there on a corner looking uninvitedly distressed and dressed like a period Maid in a sexy corset while her long lean legs pranced around in sheer black stockings. And the thin black line running up and down the backs of both her svelte thighs and vanishing within a pair of strappy black stilettos did not help his conquest in having her.
The Headless Horseman originally wanted to fuck her, not fuck her then, while in the throes of his climax, sever her head. It was fair to say, and to anyone reading this shit, that the Headless Horseman was in absolute distraught. Not because he killed, yet another beauty who dared flirt with him, but this was how he looked all the time: Headless with a dead head. A man, at some point in his life, riding a horse. And his MO: severing the heads of those summoned to beheadedness. But it had been years-centuries, it seemed-had he been summoned to carry out such grisly atrocities. . .that is. . . until he succumbed to becoming a taxi cab driver, solely to survive on the heads of others. But this beauty was different. There was something about her. He felt a connection spiritually, as if she were a mate of some predestined past particularly when she glanced his way from having stood on a corner two blocks down had their eyes locked in factual unison.
And now she was dead. . . or was she? Because it wasn’t until the Headless Horseman began pondering on the convictions when her headless corpse unexpectedly sat up and began redressing itself in the same fashion as it first dressed itself late that afternoon.
And it didn’t matter that there was blood red blood spilling from her flawless neck. Or that there were pieces of raw matter, like tissue and nerves and muscle pulsating with every move she made. It wasn’t until the strap to her second stiletto had been re-fastened had she turned her corpse toward the Headless Horseman and said: “May I have my head back, please?”
The Headless Horseman who had been staring at the mutilated corpse in a state of shock and awe, and what seemed like for hours, through eyes paralyzed beyond belief, had to pick up his jaw from beneath his icy chin just to say, “Excuse. . .me? Your. . . your what?”
The corpse quivered beyond a shake of a laughter heard fainted somewhere from within his taxi.
“My head,” she said pointing directly at it. It was on the floor, resting still, beneath his murky feet.
The Headless Horseman swallowed a buffet of insects that had gathered at the very back of his throat; insects he had to drive to the pit of a soiree cumulating within the depths of his desecrated tomb. Within a state of slovenness, the Headless Horseman reached beneath his seat and gently picked up the beauty’s head and carefully handed it back to her.
“Oh, God,” the Headless Horseman balked within a sickened whisper, “This can’t be happening? I killed you. You’re supposed to be dead?”
The beauty’s head snapped back on, and the soiree of insects pinched at the Headless Horseman’s deceased nerves. He jerked.
“Death never becomes me,” the beauty stated as she reached into her purse and pulled a vanity mirror. Surveying her neck at first, then her lips still stained in rouge, she then looks at the Headless Horseman and smiles. “Yup!” She says slamming the mirror shut then gesturing with her hands here and there as if she had been speaking for the last five minutes. “In the undead world, I’m referred to as a Serial Groupie. . .you know, like those human girls who wait around after shows to bed the headlining stars. . . that’s me, only I wait around in dark places to have sex with the undead, such as yourself, whom can’t have sex with the living because they‘re always subject to death in some form or another.” The groupie, no longer a beauty, then smoothes the creases of her Maid’s costume skirt against her stocking thighs. She wants a cigarette. She bums a cigarette from the Headless Horseman who shakes his head. It too makes a snapping sound, and the groupie giggles. “You’re cute,” she says touching his chin. It’s warm to her touch. A sensation lingers between her legs. “You know, I’ll be available next Halloween. . .in case you get interested in chopping off my head again.”
“Halloween?” The Headless Horseman repeats amidst a sour note.
“Oh, I know,” the groupie sympathizes, touching the Headless Horseman’s face again, then his hands. They’re bone thin beneath the mask of human skin. The groupie doesn’t mind, as she squeezes, then leans forward and kisses the back of one of his hands tenderly. She parts her lips. Her moist tongue swivels in circles, embedding a pattern the Headless Horseman can’t make out, but he’s genuinely turned on. The groupie lets go of his hand and surrenders it back to him. She turns in her seat and reaches for the door handle.
“Wait!” The Headless Horseman calls out desperately. His hand on her frail shoulder. “Where are you going? Halloween isn’t quite over with yet. There’s still time. . . you know. . . to chop your head off again.”
“I’m sorry to fuck and run, Headless, but I do have other serial manly callers expecting me.”
“Are you shittin’ me?”
The groupie giggles again. “I’m sorry to disappoint your ego, Headless, but there are other undead killers out there.”
“You know. . . like Freddie, Jason, Michael-”
“You know, those other modern day killers, the one’s they make movies about. You know, Freddie with his fingers of death. Jason with that devilishly hockey mask of his. Oh, and Michael with his loyalty toward our God, Samhain. They too need some form of pleasure. And believe me, just because they go around killing people, especially pretty young women doesn’t mean they don’t desire the comforts of a woman’s sex. . . they do, and as much as the next man does. . .only the movies tend to leave that part out. I guess the idea of women having sex with boogiemen on camera just isn’t proper enough, yet stabbing, chopping, slicing, dicing, and mutilating seems to be acceptable. In my opinion, murder and sex combined sells. Man, I just don’t get Hollywood. Do you?” The Headless Horseman shakes his hallow head. His brain sways. It sounds like slush. The groupie giggles and steals a kiss from his chilly lips. “Happy Halloween!” She then croons before slamming the taxi door behind her. In the semi-dark, the Headless Horseman watches speechless backed by a hint of delusion as she storms off. A kick here, a swing of her hip there, until she disappears, literally, from sight.
Before the Headless Horseman can ingest what has just happened, his radio beeps his next fare. He curses, and eventually hops into the front seat. He starts the engine and clears his fare box. After, he glances into the rearview mirror and slaps both sides of his mawkish face, chanting beneath his breath: “It was a dream. A dream. It was all a dream.” He then throws the gear into drive, yet the possibility of the dream lingers. . .
A mile down he picks up a young couple who squabble within the cab. She’s pissed because he’s lost his edge for the bizarre and strange of what Halloween really represents. He ignores her and stares out the window. She sighs out and glances toward the front of the taxi’s cab and smirks at the driver through the rearview mirror.
“Holy shit!” The guy shouts.
“What?” Says the girl startled.
The guy picks up his hand. “There’s fucking blood on this seat!”
The Headless Horseman turns a disbelief ear. . . Blood? He questions, blankly. It can’t be? He argues. Then it wasn’t a dream! She was real. The fucking groupie was real!
“Oh really?” Says the girl through a wicked grin, pulling the Headless Horseman from his party of arguable thoughts. “Hmm,” she then drones surveying the blood on her boyfriend’s hand. She inhales the blood. “It’s fresh,” she says in a sensual state of grotesque. “Oh, Jimmy, I’m so turned on right now.”
“You’re sick, you know that!” Jimmy then yells, snatching his hand from his girlfriend’s face. “Sir, are you aware that there’s blood on your seat?” Jimmy then drills the Headless Horseman.
The Headless Horseman ignores Jimmy but he doesn’t ignore the girl. He sees she has a beautiful neck. And a beautiful face. The stallion stirs within.
“Sir!” Jimmy shouts. “S. . . ir” were the last words to then escape Jimmy’s mouth. He slumps forward. And the sound of metal retreating from flesh and the gurgle of blood seeping out from within a damaged cavity was enough to cause the woman to scream, only her screams now was of pure pleasure as the stallion rode her high, then deep, prior to beheading her once and for all.
For the next several minutes, the Headless Horseman waited in anticipation for the woman’s corpse to arise like the groupie’s, but it was to no avail-she was, without certainty, dead. And this, he realized, and without question, not a dream.
“Damn!” The Headless Horseman bitched after an hour. “Damn,” he then murmured holding the precious head of the dead girl within the palms of his pale thrashed hands. “Damn,” his words at long last echoed in regret.
And somewhere beyond that echo of regret, she giggles beneath Michael’s half naked brawny body. She then giggles louder, and the knife comes thrashing down hard over her bare breasts. Thump! Thump!
By Devlin De La Chapa
DEVLIN DE LA CHAPA has been published here and there, and is scheduled to appear elsewhere. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and was recently awarded Editor’s Choice at The Camel Saloon. Devlin edits at BoySlut.