Art Dump

There was a tense silence that held no feeling of safety for them; Coyle might have talked too much, but Marion liked it even less when they couldn't hear him at all. It was unnerving how quiet he could get when he wanted to surprise you. They never even got a chance to peak out from the barrel before they were wrenched from it by their hair. Their hands scrabbled and clawed at the gloved hand that was securely tangled in their ratty locks.

"Look-y what we got here. Slimy little ratfuck, ain't you?" Coyle mused, smug as they'd ever seen him.

As he yanked them forward, the barrel tipped, their legs kicking clumsily for balance but doing a lot more harm than good. It hardly slowed Coyle, he continued pulling them along. The burning in their scalp was almost nauseating.

"Waste 'a my fuckin' time. Where's your sense of pride? Hidin' like a fuckin' rat, makin' me turn this whole place upside down."

Marion cried out as Coyle twisted his fist in their hair, forcing them to look up at him. His face dropped into a sneer, like their face alone had somehow offended him. Tears were already spilling down their face, it was a tossup if they were caused by the searing pain in their scalp or fear of what was coming next.

"Now that I got my hands on you, you better believe I'm gonna make it worth my while."

He threw them to the ground, towering over them. It was impossible to tell where his eyes had landed behind those aviators, but they could feel the burning hate he was drilling down into them regardless.

The force of Coyle's boot knocked all the wind out of Marion as it connected with their side. They curled into a ball defensively, but it did little good. Another kick tore a strangled yelp from them. This seemed to amuse Coyle, his sneer of disgust starting to twist into a grin, that burning cigarette still clenched tight in his teeth.

"All that noise you're makin' is music to my ears, sweetness. Keep fuckin' squealin' for me."

Another blow, and another, and another. The throbbing pain in their gut matched the tempo of their heartbeat. They couldn't hear him laugh over the sound of the blood pulsing in their ears.

If he'd gone on like that much longer they might have pissed themself. Between wheezing breaths, Marion begged for him to stop. Though they could barely make out their own voice, so they doubted Coyle had registered it either.

Coyle groaned, apparently very pleased with the state he'd left them in.

"You look so perfect like that."

The impact of Coyle's sole onto their crotch made them cry out, their voice already hoarse. For that instant, their vision had blurred, and now tears were streaming relentlessly down their cheeks.

An absurd thought came to them: Did Coyle do this to the ex-pop? Other reagents? Surely this wasn't special treatment. Some awful, buried part of them wished it was.

Coyle's boot didn't pull away, instead it rubbed over their abused groin. Marion's eyes fluttered, and they struggled to focus their vision through the tears.

"Got an idea, piglet. You're gonna put on a little show for me, how's that sound?"

When Marion failed to respond, Coyle ground his boot down against their crotch. They clutched at his ankle, struggling to lean up enough to do so.

"Y-yes! I mean— Please just—!"

Coyle eased his foot off of them slightly, and Marion promptly collapsed back onto the floor, panting. They couldn't catch up with their own thoughts, between the adrenaline and the pain they felt like they were floating just above their body. The pilot stuck right outside of the cockpit, helpless to watch the ensuing crash.

"You're exactly where you belong. Dirt under my fuckin' boot. Ain't that right?"

"Yes," Marion agreed, weakly attempting to prop themself up on their elbows.

"Now you're gonna grind on it til you cum, is that fuckin' clear?"

Oh, Christ.

Just as Coyle started to press down against them again they started rutting against his sole. There was a moment that Coyle actually looked surprised, but he made quick work of covering that up. He kept steady pressure on them, and they struggled to hold onto his ankle as they rolled their hips.

"Needy bitch…" he grumbled, ashing his cigarette over them.

It was difficult to pinpoint the pleasure through the burning pain, but it was there. They screwed their eyes shut, hoping it would help them zero in on it.

Towering over them, Coyle was just as focused on Marion. Every little twitch, moan, whimper from them; he drank it up. They hadn't noticed, but he was already visibly hard.

Once again it occurred to them that he was being far too quiet. Their eyes cracked open slowly, as if afraid they'd be punished for looking.

Quite the opposite. Coyle was palming his hard-on through his pants. Marion's eyes raked up his body before landing on his glasses, and Coyle chuckled through a low groan. Suddenly it wasn't so hard to focus on the pleasure.

In fact, Marion had never felt so good. Their intense focus melted away into base instinct, and a soft string of moans slipped from their lips. Never had they dreamed they'd be in toe-curling bliss just from humping that hillbilly's boot.

The line between this game and actual danger was so blurry, the reagent struggled to tell when they needed to start running, or fighting back for that matter. They had to assume that was Coyle's intention.

Keep 'em on their toes.

Unfortunately for them, Marion wasn't on their toes at that moment, they'd allowed themself to get too cozy under his boot. It was only natural more weight pressed down onto their crotch, drawing them out of their daze with a squeak. Coyle leered over them, leaning down against his knee. As his prod crackled to life, the sparks danced across his sunglasses.

That was the last vivid image they saw before everything went at stark white. Electricity ripped through both of their bodies as the baton pressed firmly into Marion's side. Rubber soles be damned, they weren't enough to spare Coyle from so much voltage. But he was well aware of what he was doing. Regardless of whether or not Marion had gotten off, that cop had cum in his pants as soon as the prongs dug into their flesh.

The mask falls away, and the silly thought of I'll never really know what he looked like crosses your mind. What remains of his jaw is ragged and rotting. Pieces of flesh dangle from bone in some areas. It suddenly becomes harder to swallow the lump in your throat, like it had gone dry without you even noticing.

His black tongue peeks out from between his teeth, then drags lazily across them. There's a low sound rumbling from the hollow of his chest.

This close, you could smell him. The wet, hot smell of decomposition. Your nausea must have been plain on your face, because the corners of his mouth twitched up into a barely legible grin.

"Don't get shy on me now," he warned, reaching out to stroke your cheek.

This did its job of disarming you for a moment, just long enough for him to slide is thumb into your mouth. If the smell hadn't been enough to make you gag, the sweet, rotten taste was more than enough. It took a lot of strength not to vomit, but the risk of offending him was exactly what you needed to keep it down. However, you couldn't keep your eyes from watering, or the inevitable faucet-mouth that came before getting sick.

The drool that trickled along his thumb drew a little sound from him, but he seemed far more intrigued that offended. He ran his thumb over your tongue, and the texture was almost worse than the taste. He was cold. God, he was cold. Worse still, there was a certain sliminess coating skin that felt leathery and a little thin. Your eyes clamped shut instinctively, tears now streaming down your cheeks.

"Oh, angel… You don't know what you're doing to me…" he whispered, eyes narrowed behind the mask.

When he finally pinched your tongue between his fingers there was an awful retching sound, and you almost couldn't believe it had come from your own body. His fingers didn't retreat however, but continued to stroke your tongue. It didn't take very long to make you sick. That switch was flipped, vomit shot out of you and over his hand with such force it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

Leaning forward, hands on your knees, you panted and spit whatever was left in your mouth. He watched, and you could tell by the way he squeezed his eyes he was smiling, or trying to. Idly he wiped his hand on his pants, leaving wet streaks behind.

It took you a minute or two to catch your breath, but he waited patiently. It seemed if being dead taught him anything, it was patience. Your eyes flickered up to meet his, wary of his next move. He beckoned with one finger, and even if you thought you might regret it, you obeyed.

His hands found your cheeks again as soon as you were in reach. For a moment, he just held you there, looking into your eyes. You had to imagine you were still some shade of green at this point, but maybe he thought it was a flattering one.

That awful tongue lulled between his teeth again. It reminded you of a leech, the way it hung there all black and bloated.

"I forgot how you taste," he said, voice tinged with remorse, "Remind me."

He didn't wait for you to process the command, he simply dragged you to him. The remnants of his lips pressed against your mouth, a little too wide, a little too limp. What choice did you have but to open your mouth? Let him in? That foul, fetid tongue slid inside easier than you'd have liked. It ran over your own, a texture you imagined probably resembled that of a slug. You could feel the bile rising in your gut again.

He moaned into the kiss, eyes closed blissfully. You were so focused on his tongue that you hadn't noticed his hands had found their way to your rear. You squeak into the kiss when he gooses you, and it allows him to slip that tongue just a little deeper into you. It reaches the back of your throat, and you're certain you won't be able to hold it down this time.

He squeezes and rubs your ass rhythmically, and it's almost enough to distract you from how awful he tastes. Almost, but not quite. You tense, and squeeze his shoulders, hoping to warn him that your gorge is just waiting to betray you. He doesn't budge.

Instead, his tongue slides down your gullet, probing you deeper than would have been possible if he wasn't whatever death had made him into. He seems to glide out of you, just in time for you to puke down his chest, clutching his shoulders for support. It comes in a few spurts this time, mostly hot bile and little else. You're trembling. He grips your biceps and holds you steady. Maybe it's all the puking you've done, it's got you a little dizzy, but he looks so dreamy like this. There's something like adoration in his eyes.

"Didn't expect you to have such a weak stomach. Look at the mess you've made."

He sounds a lot more amused than disgusted.

"Naughty thing. Maybe I should make you lick it up."

You whimper and try to retreat a little into yourself, but his hold on you remains firm. Still holding your arms, he starts to push you down, down til you start to get to your knees on your own.

Now how is this going to work?

He unzips his fly and pops the button, slides his pants down just a little. Absurd that you still have to undress as a corpse. He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear and slides them down enough that his cock is exposed. It doesn't quite spring free like it used to, but he is hard. If you're being honest with yourself, you hadn't expected it to be intact at all.

You convince yourself you're used to the taste of his skin by now, not that he gives you much of a choice but to take him into your mouth. You let your jaw go slack and slide your tongue down the shaft, making it easier for him to cram as much of it in at once as he can. Your poor throat is already sore from all the acid that's gone through it in the past few minutes, but you doubt this is something he'd even consider. If he does, he doesn't care. One hand rests on the back of your head, he tangles his fingers in your hair. The other slides under your jaw. Quickly you understand he won't be needing your help with this, he fully intends to do it himself.

At first his hips roll, slowly and tenderly, like what he's doing is sweet and gentle. You have to wonder why he does this, plays these little games with you, tries to get you to believe he's being kind. At this point, you know he's going to rip it all away, he always does.

His hand balls into a fist in your hair, and when you wince he adjusts his stance slightly, like he needed better leverage to fuck your face. Like he wasn't quite hitting the right angle. His hips snap forward suddenly, and if he hadn't been holding your head you might have been knocked off balance.

This new pace has you fighting for breath again, you scrabble at his waist, clawing at his greying flesh. He keeps jerking his hips, his cock occasionally teasing the back of your throat. In life he'd been just as brutish once he got going, he'd gotten carried away more often than not. There was no way the spot where your jaw meets your neck wouldn't bruise after this, and the burning in your scalp was becoming a steady throb. All you could do was keep swallowing, keep thinking about the sounds he was making during all of this.

It seems unlikely that he can hear himself, he seems lost in the sensation of you. All his little moans and whimpers, his shaky breaths. He has to be getting close. Just when you think you really have gotten over the smell and taste and feel and—

His cock pushes down your throat, and your body reacts. He pulls out, but not as fast as he'd moved away when you'd been kissing. Puke erupts past him, onto the floor, onto his shoes. His cock is slick with drool and stomach acid. But not even this seems to bother him much, as he strokes himself to completion in your face, holding you close enough so that not a drop hits the ground.

You burp, collapsing further onto the ground once he lets go of your hair. It's all you can do to keep yourself from just lying on the ground. You breathe slowly, mouth hanging open, drool and whatever else hanging from your chin.

The Grabber chuckles and pats your cheek before tucking himself back into his pants and redoing his fly.