Best Fantastic Erotica Read online

  “I’ll take good care of her,” the strange boy said, in a reassuring tone.

  Her mother was leaving; but Daphne herself was staying, it seemed. A sense of instant panic gripped her then. The idea of being abandoned there with the strange boy she didn’t know terrified her. But the adrenaline that suddenly flooded her entire body trapped her in that chair, paralyzing her instead of giving her the energy to get up and protest that decision.

  Her mother walked right past her, headed for the door, pausing only to touch Daphne’s arm. “Goodbye, dear,” she said, not even looking her in the eye.

  Before Daphne could muster the strength to rise, her mother was gone. The strange boy had walked out to the car with her to see her off, and he’d already come back inside when Daphne finally stood up, hoping she wasn’t too late to leave with her mother. But that ship had, in fact, already sailed. Her mother was driving back to civilization without her, and Daphne was stuck there in the place she least wanted to be.

  “What the fuck?” she said, finding her voice at last—her version of asking for a simple explanation for that shocking circumstance.

  “Time to get clean, young lady,” the strange boy replied.

  His tone put the fear of God in her in a hurry. That word he’d used—clean—was enough to stun her to silence. It was a dirty word, to her. It was what her mother always said when she mentioned rehab, before Daphne changed the subject or walked away. Rehab was another dirty word, obviously. She might’ve agreed to try it, if they would’ve let her regular dealer come with her, to keep her high. Since that didn’t seem likely, and she’d refused to discuss the alternatives, her mother had decided on an extreme solution, it appeared. She’d abandoned Daphne in the mountains with that strange boy, to go cold turkey.

  Daphne was trembling, as she realized what had been done to her. She was going to die there. When she ran out of dope, her heart would stop, after she suffered an unbearable state of withdrawal. And she knew she would hang herself before things got that far, or collapse in the woods and be eaten by wild animals when she tried to escape from that isolated place. She would be dead, either way.

  She needed to be fixed. It wasn’t time for her next dose yet, but that overwhelming sense of panic caused her to shake with a craving for the copper. So she stumbled away from the strange boy, desperate to get to the bathroom, where she could be alone and get to her injector and stash, hoping her hands would be steady enough to cook a batch without spilling one precious drop. She didn’t make it that far, though.

  He tackled her. Which was dangerous, because he might’ve damaged her injector. And, in her state, she was prepared to fight—to kick, claw, and kill, if she had to—to get her next fix. He pinned her down, though; she struggled, ready to spit, bite, and buck like a bronco, but he held her down. From his pocket, he retrieved a handkerchief with his free hand, then put it to her face and pressed it over her nose and mouth.

  He was trying to smother her, she thought. Or worse, he was crazy and he would torture her first, after knocking her out. Because that handkerchief smelled funny, and she believed that it was soaked with chloroform, to render her unconscious. So he could tie her up and rape her then, or slice her open with a knife, or do things she couldn’t even begin to imagine. She only hoped he didn’t find her dope.

  But she didn’t pass out. She stopped struggling, because she just lost the will to resist for the moment, but she was still awake. The strange boy released her, but she couldn’t move; she wanted to get up and run, but her whole body felt numb.

  He stood up and turned to a cabinet along the far wall, where he found a green glass bottle on the shelf. He took off the cap and then poured some of the clear liquid it contained into his cupped palm. He didn’t drink it himself, but knelt down beside her and offered her his hand. She still couldn’t sit up, but she gladly took a sip. She hoped it was something ninety-proof or stronger, which might help take the edge off her cravings, but that stuff tasted sweet.

  The numbness receded, but her arms and legs felt heavy then. So she sat up, but she didn’t have the strength to stand or get away from him. And she didn’t really want to. She wanted another taste of what he’d just given her, in fact. He had something else in mind, though.

  He raised her arms, since she couldn’t lift them herself, and he pulled her loose blouse off over her head. He quickly discovered the injector on her back, and she felt a sharp pain as he ripped the tape free and removed it. He unhooked her bra and yanked it off, too, and the two lighters she’d hidden in the cups fell to the floor as he tossed it aside.

  She sat there, barechested and embarrassed, ready to cry because he’d found those items she needed to get high. She looked down at her own huge tits, as if she’d forgotten how big they actually were, recalling the times she’d scored a bag by giving a dealer a peek at those beauties or even letting some lowlife touch them.

  The strange boy wasn’t done with that strip search, to her great dismay. He untied her ratty sneakers, which she’d tried to sell to a homeless bum for ten cigarettes not too long ago, and removed them. Then he pushed her back down to lie on her back, and he quickly unsnapped her jeans and pulled them off. That revealed the spoon tied to her calf with rubber tubing, which he also confiscated.

  He didn’t hesitate before stripping off her panties then. And he rolled her over and, despite her desire to be spared that indignity, he discovered her stash in its very private hiding place right away. Because she’d left most of the watch chain hanging out of her asshole, to facilitate the removal of the treasure within when the time came. He wasn’t the least bit gentle as he yanked that old pocketwatch from her rectum with force, either. He opened the cover and found those last two baggies, and she knew that her life was over.

  She was lying there, bare naked in front of him, and all she cared about was her dope. He’d disabled her and stripped her, but she cried because she believed she’d never get high again. If he was going to torture her, she couldn’t imagine him doing anything worse than denying her that next fix. If he was going to kill her, she hoped he did it quick, at least.

  “To be made clean,” the strange boy told her, instead. “You must be born again.”

  That sounded sort of religious to her—the last thing she might’ve expected from the man who’d just undressed her.

  five

  Daphne’s rebirth began out in the backyard.

  The strange boy guided her there, once she’d regained her strength enough to stand and put one foot in front of the other. She was still naked; he’d gathered up her clothes, as well as her dope and paraphernalia, and put all of it in a brown paper bag. Then he took her outside, so her new life of cleanness could start.

  The smell of the mountain air, so crisp and fresh, nearly made her sick. She even tried to use her hands to hide her huge tits, though there weren’t any neighbors’ prying eyes to worry about so far from civilization.

  He led her away from the house to a large rusted barrel, up on concrete blocks. Where he poured what smelled like kerosene from a metal can, then used a handy blowtorch to set whatever trash was already in the barrel on fire. He handed her the brown paper bag then.

  “Toss it in,” he said.

  But her dope was in the bag. She didn’t care about the clothes, especially her ratty old sneakers; but her injector and her last two baggies had to be saved. Or so she believed. As the thought of how much she craved yet another dose came to her mind, her hands threw the bag containing her most precious possessions into the barrel, as if she couldn’t control her own actions.

  Everything she cared about in the world was burning to ashes before her eyes. She wanted to reach into the flames and rescue her treasure, willing to blister her flesh for one more fix. But she just stood there and watched it, hypnotized by the pretty colors it made.

  He uncoiled a garden hose connected to a spigot on the back wall of the house, but he didn’t use it to extinguish the fire. He sprayed her instead, striking her bare skin w
ith the cool water. Which finally drew her attention away from the barrel, where her dope (and clothes) had been destroyed. But she didn’t react; she didn’t try to block the spray or dodge it. She just stood still, as he moved in a semicircle and aimed the hose at her from every angle. Until her hair was soaked, and she was dripping wet all over.

  He turned off the water, then took Daphne back inside. Without saying a word, he grabbed a handful of her wet hair and dragged her to the rear door, through the den where that entire adventure began, and down the adjoining hall, leaving damp footprints on the rug. He guided her into the bathroom, where he forced her to kneel in front of the toilet near the far wall.

  “Time to get clean,” he repeated, pointing at the open bowl. “Throw up.”

  She was confused, unless he thought she’d swallowed more baggies or tried to hide one under her tongue. And as queasy as she felt, she couldn’t make herself throw up at the moment. Before she put her finger down her throat, he took a small vial out of the medicine chest, dipped his finger in it, then smeared something across her upper lip. It didn’t smell rancid, but the strong fumes had an immediate effect. She vomited repeatedly—her last meal, what felt like her last ten meals, and most of her internal organs—until she was sweating and dryheaving.

  He helped her kneel at the sink, where he washed her face with warm water from the tap. Then she heard a strange sound—a buzzing like bees, or a high whine like a drill—and she saw that he had electric barber clippers in his hand, turned on. As he brought them closer, she shut her eyes and cringed. But there was no pain, of course. All she felt were the large clumps of hair falling onto her bare shoulders, as he used those clippers to shave her head. She’d needed a trim, she knew; she never wasted money getting her hair done, so it’d grown out into a mess of chopped ends and short bangs that she’d cut herself. He wasn’t just taking a little off the top and sides, though.

  When there was only a thin layer of stubble left on her shiny scalp, he cleaned away the clumps of hair he’d cut with a towel, then helped her lie down on the tile floor. He pried her legs apart and proceeded to use the clippers on the thick patch of curly hair between her thighs. He used a bar of soap to make fast lather, which he spread on her round head; then he used a handy safety razor to begin shaving her scalp completely.

  “To be made clean,” he said once again. “You must be born again.”

  And he finished that task by spreading her legs again, applying more lather, and also shaving her vulva clean.

  six

  Daphne shared his bed that night.

  All they did was sleep, though. His only interest seemed to be saving her from her addictions. So he kept his clothes on, while she remained naked. She didn’t even have anything to wear, unless he let her into his closet; her overnight bag was still in the car when her mother drove off and left her behind. To prevent her from trying to escape while he slept, he’d tied a leather leash to her ankle and secured it to the bedpost. But she hadn’t even considered running away in her present state—nude and shaved clean, lost in the middle of nowhere.

  When he saw that she was awake, he took her to the bathroom. He let her urinate, but he stayed in the room and watched her, unwilling to leave her alone even for a minute. And when she was finished, she got a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the sink and barely recognized her own face. The big tits looked familiar, but the shiny bald head made her think she was seeing a stranger. He put her in a tub of hot water, then bathed her with a bar of soap and his bare hands.

  “Are you clean?” he asked, as he washed her bald head. “Do you still crave drugs?”

  She didn’t, she was surprised to find. As far as she knew, she hadn’t thought about dope since she woke up. But her first response was to say fuck you to the man who’d destroyed her last two baggies and what small scrap of dignity she had left. The words didn’t quite come out right, though.

  “Fuck me,” she said, and it sounded like she meant it.The strange boy didn’t have a reply to that suggestion. He helped her out of the bathtub and then positioned her on her hands and knees on the rug to dry her off, since her arms and legs still weren’t working well. Then she saw him take a ceramic basin out of the cabinet, she heard the water running in the sink, and she felt him spread the two halves of her ass and insert something into her asshole. And it wasn’t her father’s old pocketwatch.

  She was getting an enema, it seemed. She was going to be clean on the inside as well as the outside, and everyplace else. It was a hot water enema, she learned soon enough. And it was quite thorough-five doses, each one warmer than the last. Until she felt completely reamed out.

  Then they went to sleep, after he leashed her ankle to the bedpost in his room again.

  If the hot water enema wasn’t bad enough, the five doses of cold water he gave her the next morning was worse.

  Her arms and legs seemed to be working much better, but when he took her into the bathroom right after waking up and brought the basin out of the cabinet, she willingly assumed the proper position with no resistance, even when the hose went in and she felt the first shock of the icy water.

  When that was finished, he took her to the den to feed her the first real meal she’d had since arriving there. And what he served, and the way he served it, fit with that same theme of infancy.

  On the couch in the den, he offered her an actual baby bottle. So she curled up close to where he sat, turned with her head practically in his lap, and she took the rubber nipple in her mouth and drank. It tasted like milk, but it was thicker and sweeter, and she couldn’t get enough of that nourishment. He held the bottle for her in one hand and used the other to rub her bare back, as if he expected her to burp. She just closed her eyes and suckled as if she was starving, believing that she really was a bald naked baby for the time it took to finish that meal.

  She seemed to be in some kind of trance as he guided her to lie down on the floor then. Her eyes were half-open, and she barely noticed the jar in his hand. It looked like it might hold homemade preserves, complete with a handwritten label that read “12 Places,” to her confusion. He dipped his hand in, then applied whatever that substance was to the palms of both her hands. It was warm on her skin, like some kind of balm that made her feel sleepy. He applied more of it to her ticklish underarms, causing her to drift slowly into dreams. Then she felt his fingers smear it on her huge tits in turn, concentrating on her sensitive nipples; and he dabbed even more in a circle around her navel, making her curious about what the rest of those twelve places on her body might be.

  He parted her thighs and applied the balm quite liberally to her bald sex, using his thumbs to massage it into her plump pink labia. He spread more of it on the soles of both her feet, as her eyes finally closed and she went limp. So it was easy for him to roll her over onto her belly, pry open her ass cheeks, then probe her asshole with one coated finger. Then he completed that episode by turning her back over and smearing the balm on her lips, gums, and tongue.

  She felt incredible, as if she’d entered a wonderland more glorious than any state of intoxication her precious dope ever sent her to. In her mind, she was in a pure white room and she was flying high through it like a kite on the wind. She rose up, but there was no ceiling; she soared in great wide spirals, but there were no walls; and she drifted down, but there was no floor. That room was an empty void that she could float across forever.

  But then she saw the large pink lump, and she realized that it was an enormous tongue when she glided close to it. She reached out to it with both hands, and it felt wet on her palms. And she knew that she wanted it to touch her everywhere the balm had touched her, in twelve places. So she let it slide across her underarms in turn, pressed her breasts into it, rubbed her belly against it, tried to trap it between her thighs, stood on it, sat upon it, then licked it with her own small tongue.

  It was only when she finished that ritual that she realized why that part of her vision felt so real to her. It was because the strang
e boy’s tongue had actually been touching her in those dozen places while she dreamed of that enormous pink one spreading its wetness all over her body.

  She lost more time then; so that when her eyes finally opened again and she found herself lying spread eagle on the floor of the den, he had another bottle ready for her supper. She crawled up onto the couch and cuddled up close to him, so he could feed her the thick sweet milk through a rubber nipple again. It tasted like heaven to her.

  Then he took her to the bathroom for a hot water enema, before they went to bed.

  seven

  And so things went for the next week.

  After the second night, he stopped leashing her to the bedpost, because it was no longer necessary. The idea of running away from that place was unthinkable to her; the concept of leaving his side was difficult for her to imagine. She craved the sweet milk, but could only enjoy it if he fed her with the bottle. She couldn’t live without the daily application of the magic balm to her twelve places, followed by visions of flying through the white room—and his tongue repeating that tour of the tender flesh of her body. She’d even grown accustomed to the cold water enemas each morning and the hot water enemas each night.

  At the end of the week, her hair had grown back enough for him to shave her clean again, using only lather and a safety razor. He helped her into the tub and bathed her then, just as he did once a day. This time, he asked a familiar question, though.

  “Do you still crave drugs?” he said, rinsing off her bald head.

  She hadn’t even thought about her precious dope in days. She was cured of her addiction, she had no doubt. He probably could’ve made a fortune marketing that program of rebirth to every rehab clinic in the country, though some parts of it—the shaving, bottle-feeding, and enemas—might not quite catch on, she thought. And, in her case, she’d merely replaced her addiction to dope with a child-like dependence on the sweet milk and the magic balm. Her response to his question was the same, though.