First Time For Everything


First Time For Everything
He saw her sat at the bar; she was beautiful, if a little pale.  The paleness of her face emphasised all the more by being framed in a bob of long raven-black hair.  Such was her deathly pallor that he wondered if she was on drugs, a junkie, a smackhead, or heroin addict.  No, she didn't look the type.  But at the same time what was the type?  She was so pale in fact that she looked like a ghost sat there.  Everyone could see her though; she was attracting a lot of admiring looks from men, so apparently she wasn't.

'I want you to bind my hands behind my back and then punch me in the face.  Then I want you to fuck me.'  That's what she said when he'd got her back to the room.

'I've never ... done anything like that before,' he told her.

She smiled, quite an innocent smile for what she was proposing he did to her, the smile of an angel in fact.  'There's a first time for everything,' she said.

She goaded him: 'Hit me!  Bust my nose you bastard!'

He couldn't do it, she was too angelic looking; child-like almost.

'Hit me you fucker!' she said.

He still couldn't hit her.

'I bet it's tiny, I bet you couldn't satisfy me anyway,' she taunted.  'Not with that fucking maggot!  It would be useless - you spineless shit!'

This got to him, he hit her, he did not hit her hard, at least he didn't think he had, but he knocked her out.  A trickle of blood escaped from one nostril. 

He panicked, he looked about the room as if it would give him some answer; the room didn't give him an answer.  'Of all the stupid things I could get myself into!' he cried out and then reached behind her back to feel her pulse, there was none.

'Shit!'  He'd killed her, with one blow.  'I only punched her once and not so hard,' he told the room.  Again the room remained silent, apart from the echo of his words off its walls.  He'd murdered her, how would it look?  He'd tied her up, and punched her!  In the eyes of the police, he'd be a sicko, a pervert, a psycho - a fucking murderer!

He began to pace the room, he always did this when he had something on his mind - and this was something!  He'd never thought of himself as being violent before, he'd never raised his hand to a woman - at least he hadn't until tonight.  And she had instructed him to do so, to turn her on or whatever.  He only did it to get a shag and now, this.  He was a killer. They'd lock him away in prison, and he knew what they did to people who hit or kill women in prison - he'd get beat up; they'd sort him out; probably even get killed himself if he ended up in a place like that.

'I thought I told you to fuck me afterwards.'

He spun round, her eyes were open and she was alive.  'I thought you were dead.'

'I am but that still doesn't mean I don't want you to fuck me.'

'But you were dead - you had no pulse.'

'I had no pulse when you met me this evening.'

He thought about it, remembered thinking she had looked a little pale, but dead?

'I've been dead for three years now; I just haven't lied down yet.  Well except for getting fucked.  Now are you going to screw me or am I going to have to find myself another fella?'

'But if you're dead and I fuck you - that makes me a necrophiliac.'

'Yes, I know - cool isn't it!'

'How come you haven't decayed or anything?'

'I don't know, weird isn't it?'

'So how many guys have fucked you; since you've been dead?'

'I dunno, I don't keep count.'

'There's been a lot?'

'Hey, I enjoyed life so now I'm enjoying death!  It doesn't make me a slag.  Now are you going to fuck me?'

'But I never fucked a corpse before, animated or otherwise.'

'There's a first time for everything,' she said, repeating her earlier remark.

Copyright David Barton 2003

back to Short Fiction