Woom

by Duncan Ralston

He examined her body with clinical detachment: a gynecologist's gaze. He was neither aroused, nor repulsed. She was merely a vessel. A thing to be filled and then discarded.

Nodding, she said, "The nuns gave us the CliffsNotes version in Sunday school." She seemed to catch something in his look, because she added, "That's right, the prostitute was a good little Catholic schoolgirl."

"Do I strike you as someone who has any right to make fun of the way someone looks?" She shrugged. "I dunno. I like bald guys. And that scar makes you look like a James Bond villain, which is kind of hot, to be honest." Angel laughed.

That was really funny

"Back to my original point," he said, "I don't believe in ghosts. But I do think places, like this motel room, I think they hold on to bad things, the way people hold on to memories. Grief. Pain. Disease. Addiction. I think when you enter a place that's absorbed enough bad things, it pukes them out at you. It drenches you in them. So a relatively innocuous room, like this one, will appear evil. Because bad things happened here."

very reminiscent of "The Shining" that whole bad places are haunted by the bad things that happened there idea.

"You don't mean that," she said. "C'mon, Johnny, we had some fun." The fun was so long ago with so much disappointment in between he could barely remember their trip to Vegas, the bungie jumping, those first few dates getting to know each other, their first tentative kiss, and their giggling fumbles to get each other's clothes off in the dark of her bedroom that first time. He pushed her away coldly.

he said, and the look on her face told the story of their relationship in the span of three seconds.

"Don't get all smug about trigger warnings. I know they're bullshit, but can't a woman just not want to hear about rape without it being a goddamn thing? Every time you turn on the TV there's another woman getting raped and murdered. Every time you flick past the news it's 'rape culture on campus' and celebrity sex assaults and some new moral fucking panic. Enough already."

ANGEL FELT SHYLA'S body shudder through the hand he used to work the dildo. "That story made my pussy want to shrivel up like a salted snail," she said.

You should always listen to that voice when something doesn't feel right. Always look out for the red flags. Stop worrying about being nice, about making a scene.

But everyone at school knew. They pitied me. I could see it in their eyes." "What did you do? How could you go on after something like that?" "I did what I had to. I survived. Just like I did when my mother died in the tub." He traced the scar on his face with a finger, the scar made by his mother's coat hook. "With one more scar to add to the collection." "That was you, too," she said. "Mary's boy."

It was a recurring nightmare... but he couldn't shake the feeling something was terribly wrong. He had to get out. Now. He pulled. Muscular flesh held his chin firmly in place. He couldn't move. He was stuck. Stuck inside an unconscious prostitute's vagina.