Mae - 5. Grey Cell

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: General Erotica  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Featured Review on this writing by DampKitten

Paraplegic, Jelly Baby. Violated. Soft-centred. Imploding. Mae’s Jelly Baby. Jelly Man.

Paraplegic, Jelly Baby. Violated. Soft-centred. Imploding. Mae’s Jelly Baby. Jelly Man. Nick had never felt so tired. He’d endured the worst of Covid, long Covid, SARS, man-flu, the common cold. Nothing as debilitating as this. Mae’s kiss literally drained all the life out of him. His arms lay loose at his sides, his dead legs cocked at angles: flimsy, scarecrow’s legs. Useless. There were no sensations left in the prey’s skin, nose, tongue, nose, eyes, ears – genitals for that matter. The voyeur’s once-proud tool hung like a pork 8 freshly extruded from a sausage-making machine, resting, inert, on its numb bed of testicles. He was no longer of any physical or emotional benefit to Mae, in that respect.

Nick felt a muscle pull in his chest, a sharp, stabbing pain: his heart succumbing to her poison. He was out of shape, the facilities manager. Too many late nights in the office, planning, scheduling, organising, and coordinating furniture moves, minor refurbishment, managing the contractors, checking out the reports. Alone with his thoughts, a cold coffee, double cheeseburger, chips, fried apple pie, a one-pound bar of fruit n nut, the inevitable grab bag of cheese and onion crisps. Sometimes, he saved the treats till later, scoffed the sweet and savoury feast on the train home, brushing mess from his groin and thighs in full view of his travelling companion. Of Mae. She looked away when he cleaned off the food scraps, until he’d finished, until he was ready to concentrate on her.

Mentally, Nick kicked himself. He should have known, her teases, her erotic overtures to him were all traps, premeditated charms, to capture his imagination, to take him into this hellhole, their recess. What was that all about? He tried to rationalize Mae, the temptation of her, his full, bodily surrender to her on their last train, at the gates, the shady alcove by the Balti Hut which led him here. But he couldn’t, he failed, miserably. Reflecting on his insignificant life, Nick wondered why she chose him. He was hardly the most handsome, dashing, sexy commuter on the line. Why did she select him? How did she find him? Was their encounter really a chance meeting? He recalled Mae, sitting in the end coach, when he boarded at Bank. There was an empty seat opposite her. He’d seized the opportunity and watched her. This was all his fault.

He lay flat on his back on the stone floor staring up at the whorls in the ceiling, wondering if he was going to die, coming to the inescapable conclusion,

I will die if I don’t have my insulin injection. Come off it, Nick! Mae’s about to kill you. Why would she do that? To what end?

A bizarre thought flashed through his mind: the white inscription on the red mug that Sal gave him for his birthday:

Keep Calm You’re Only 48

Keep Calm?

Nick’s jaw flapped open, giving up the ghost. He tried to move his head. Couldn’t. His heavy eyelids fell, like broken blinds, over his weary eyes. The ache returned in his heart. He felt stomach cramps. An agonizing piercing pain, corkscrewing, twisting the inside of his prostate, his bladder - swelling, a caustic burning sensation in his urethra: Mae’s curse. Nick wet himself. The forcibly spurted release of hot urine over his thighs eased the pain. Anaesthetized by the woman’s deadly kiss, he fell into a satisfying sleep, and dreamed of life.

By now, her poison had etched its way into his viscera, penetrating the lining of Nick’s stomach, duodenum, jejunum, and rectum, entering the bloodstream, then spreading, her contagion, her mutated spiral helix virus, rapidly to the kidneys, liver, lungs, and bladder. It was only a matter of seconds before Mae’s pungent, acrid-smelling saliva dissipated in mauve plumes of plasma, congealing into luminescent cerise orbs, her killer cells, kiss-phage’s that digested the vulnerable tissue of the prey’s organs. He felt the orbs eat into his brain, and the marvellous memories: of Sal’s water births, holding his bloodied babies, patting sandcastles with Justin and Mindy on Clacton Sands, picnics on the stained tartan rug in the woods, picking blackberries, magic mushrooms, with his family. The family he neglected, in favour of his workaholic tendencies, his adulterous obsession, with Mae.

Riddled from crown to heel with the curse she carried in her sputum, Nick felt his body tense, conceding to her as the final vestiges of energy, his cellular barriers of resistance, were broken down by her cell’s gnawing secretions, exposing the prey’s DNA strands to mutation.

Mae put him out of his misery, squatting comfortably on his stomach, leaning forward to insert the full distended length of her abhorrent tongue down his throat, swell-suffocating him, killing him softly, with her to-u-u-u-u-u-ungue. She sang her favourite love song in her mind, extracting her whiplash, ciliated langue from his oesophagus, coating herself in his slime as she slithered out of him.

He’s dead, she considered, strumming his face with her fingers, Supper’s nearly ready.

There was a yucca tree in the grey cell housed in a bright red recycled Christmas tree pot. Her double bed sat beside the shrub: a mess of soiled, crumpled sheets, squashed pillows, covered with an interwoven ash grey quilt, a grey, tartan throw. No headboard. Mae never slept with heads. She stood over her prey, looking down on him, despising him for treating her like a whore, his so-called broad. She removed her blouse and miniskirt, crouched on the bed, and waited, naked, starving for human flesh.

The Balti appeared, a genie out of her lamp, at the end of her bed, dressed in only an iron mask, thick black rubber apron, and surgical wellingtons. Carrying: a butcher’s meat saw. He admired Mae: her baby blonde hair slopped over one side of her face, her rubbery lips, her soft, doughy breasts n puffy nipples, her perfectly formed abs, taut stomach muscles, the knotted blue veins, standing out of her sinewy arms, as she fisted the springy mattress,

‘Nice,’ he said, so wishing he had a bunch of roses to present to her, his beautiful heroine.

Mae smiled at him appreciatively, nodding towards the carcass lying prostate on the floor,

With that, the butcher grabbed hold of one of the prey’s swollen ankles and dragged him out of sight.

Submitted: June 25, 2021

© Copyright 2021 hjfurl. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:


francine mayes

Amazing twist. I thought I knew where it was going then another unexpected turn. Great read.

Mon, June 28th, 2021 7:23am


Thank you so much, Francine!

Mon, June 28th, 2021 5:03am


Here's something I need - a genie butcher and cook who does laundry on the side. That tongue thing; that smothering tongue. What a way to go. Nothing more horrific than a three foot tongue. Wait, what am I saying?

Your language and imagery are hypnotizing...

Poor Nick is tenderloin city. Mae could at least make the bed while dinner is being prepared.

Your culinary expertise just flows through this whole piece like gravy on a biscuit.

Thu, July 29th, 2021 2:05am


Beautifully put! I'm going to extend Mae - take Nick down to the abattoir, next time I write, lots of new dark ideas for the other girls with a moon tattoo on their slender backs. By next Spring, if I join them all up, I could have my first novel, sadly, due to the eye, I can only write in dribs and drabs which is why I do.

Wed, July 28th, 2021 10:59pm

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