The Last of Us [No, Not Hardly]

Sweet Wild Wench (by William Campbell Gault)—she was slim, leggy, and [DD] stacked, and the gold of her hair matched the gold of her bank account. In a word, she had everything. The trouble was she was way too eager to give it away. The money too. I’m Joe Puma. I was hired to investigate some crackpot cult she was playing around with. The crackpots were mixed up with mugs, the man-hungry blonde got mixed up in murder, and I got mixed up with the blonde. And somewhere a mixed up killer was waiting to strike again.

 

Her forty-eight hours are up. Miss Kane stands in front of the flophouse underneath which Mrs. Peel resides. Mrs. Peel is nowhere in sight. The leechgirl is clean and pristine. Two breasts. No moog, killer tongue, or serrated teeth. A hard, pretty face. Klaw. Unsmiling—harsh, haughty, and aloof. Cold, blue eyes. Yellow blonde hair. Bolshoi. Etc. She looks very blonde, very straight, and very “normal”. In a word: mainstream. The physical appearance of the Borg dominatrix is reset to the way it was two days ago. Conventional looking, in public. Not so conventional, in private.

Underneath her Koo, she’s again wearing her own sexy undergarments, the usual pair—i.e., a fancy lace torpedo bra [with a risqué French cut] and plain flesh-colored bikini-cut latex panties [minus the Borg print]. She’s wearing her own perls as well. The hygiene mode for the bra, panties, and perls is in force.

As a side note. The bra is white and is a Clara Bra. Other than its puritanical color and its floral print, it is identical to her Lane Bryant, the “Black Dahlia 3-Part Cup Bra with Stays 5851 from the Elizabeth Short Collection”. In white, the Clara bra’s designation is a “Bosom Envy 3-Part Cup Bra with Stays 6977 from the White Virgin Collection”. The same parent company owns the Clara Bra and Lane Bryant line of bras, ultra-feminine bras characterized by their extensive use of satin and lace.

Of special note. The floral print of her Bosom Envy is period. It is authentic Victorian Era, and specific to severe librarians of that straight-laced and scandalous era. Staid librarians who were closet drunken junkie whores.

The cut of the bra and the suitcoat shows off a lot of her cleavage. And, as a Victorian would say, she’s got plenty to advertise.

Sternka and sternns—sexually repressed never looked so good. Holster, phone, and purse clipped to the waistband of her suit’s miniskirt. Careys. Prudz. Etc. In a word, her “normal” stiff-backed librarian attire.

Her lizard brain and pineal gland have shrunk back down to their “normal” size. No longer mindless, she remembers what she did when she was mindless and revels in the graphic memories of her debauchery.

A very long time ago, a Carole “Penny” Marshall got corrupted and compromised playing with fire. In a word. She got kraved by a Parasite queen who was posing convincingly as a lesser, a something that was completely out of her league. It was an addiction that ultimately undid the closet drunken junkie whore.

Millennia later, the very same mistake was made by an Agent Sarah Lane with the very same Parasite queen who was posing convincingly as a lesser. The addiction ultimately undoing another closet drunken junkie whore.

Frau Schmidt, the openly woman-hungry dyke, gets out of a Yellow Cab and walks over to Miss Kane. They greet by kissing. Each sticking their tongue deep into the mouth of the other. Their tongues frolic. Minutes pass. A couple of squad cars pull up. As the police officers get out of their cruisers, the two women break their wanton embrace and get down to the business at hand.

Frau Schmidt is the detective in charge on the crime scene.

“We’ll find it in the basement, correct?”

“Yes, you will find the Parasite in the basement.”

“So all of this was caused by a junkie’s psychosis?”

“Yes, a fugue state induced by the kraving. A very self-destructive side effect. Likely only happens when you do it with a queen, else this wouldn’t be such a rare occurrence.”

“So the Otterbox is completely imagined. The victim’s subconscious fills in the details of the conspiracy. Eventually, the person’s mind gets overloaded and just pops. Of course, there are other associated side effects—which mimic a rather brutal death caused by homicide.”

“Yummy, indeed. The conspiracy aspect is always the cornerstone of the psychosis. But. The details are scripted by the Id of the person being used by the Parasite queen.”

What Miss Kane isn’t saying, and what Frau Schmidt has yet to discover, is that the implosion of the mind of an extensively used only happens for sane victims. Miss Kane is insane. As mad as a hatter. As such she cannot share the same fate as her sane counterparts.

What the police will find in the basement of the flophouse is a Parasite queen, but it won’t be Mrs. Peel. That impostor will either be destroyed or kept for further study, by the authorities—likely the latter, since the Parasite can be put to many nefarious uses by the government. Miss Kane has her own nefarious plans for the genuine article.

Miss Kane parts company with Frau Schmidt, and begins walking slowly down the street. She will be leaving Mars very shortly. But, before she departs she has unfinished business. Once she’s sure she’s out of sight and is in a CCTV blind spot, she slips just inside of the mouth of a garbage choked alley and waits. She doesn’t have to wait very long.

The real thing. Mrs. Peel, possessively pushing its shopping cart, emerges from the bowels of the alley. It beelines for the girl. Once it is upon her, it abandons its cart and pushes her up against the grimy walls of a building.

Miss Kane purses her [legitimate] bra and panties. What comes out of her purse and goes on her underneath her clothes are her biomechanical underwear [i.e., BorgWare], the hand-bra and Parts that Mrs. Peel constructed for her to wear. Initially, there is the smell of burning flesh as the biomechs “wear” her. But, they do not fuse seamlessly to her creamy-white flesh. They stay separate and distinct, like conventional underwear.

There is no longer a need for the creature to make any sound to induce kraving in the girl. All that’s needed are for its eye to fluoresce blue in close proximity to, and in direct line of sight of, the girl. As such. Mrs. Peel’s eyes glow blue. The girl’s body goes slack. Her big, ugly mouth opens slackly and drools. Its clothes shred as it transforms into its native form. The girl’s sternns purse themselves. Her hair lets down into that geriatric krazed. Her blue eyes go kraved—i.e., light grey eyeballs, red constricted pupils, and no irises—ravenous, ghoulish eyes.

It yanks down her skirt exposing the massive erection of her Parts—i.e., she’s literally hung like a horse. She ejaculates all over Mrs. Peel. In response, Mrs. Peel spews its douche-mix, its enslaving mix of venom and pheromones, into the girl’s hard, pretty face. Her biomech bra and Parts go parasitic and venomous. Its killer tongue spews out of its cavernous maw. The Parasite’s long lingual parasite thrusts deep into the leechgirl’s large wanting maw. It feeds with mean intentions.

A few people pass by to stare and look for a moment or two. But most people simply walk by and ignore the girl’s wanton violation. She’s just another well-dressed junkie getting her fix. Nothing special in this part of town.

It pulls its tongue out of her mouth, unbuttons her jacket, and gropes her chest. Then, it bites off a huge chunk out of the leftside of Miss Kane’s face. It affixes its hideous mouth over the large gaping hole in the girl’s now ruined face. Again, it feeds with mean intentions.

The girl’s right tit goes moog. Her lizard brain and pineal gland expand explosively, completely displacing her frontal lobes rendering her mindless—i.e., mentally, she’s for all intents and purposes a Parasite. Her ghoulish eyes remain hungry but become empty. Physically, she’s a Leech with a wrecked face and decidedly Kum overtones. Overtones resulting from her previous Kum addiction.

For the girl. No three tits. Just two. No killer tongue or serrated teeth. No extreme weight loss, sunken cheeks, or dark circles around the eyes.

It would seem that as a mindless cunt, her attention focused totally on getting a fix, that her head would be an easy forfeit. That couldn’t be further from the truth. She is anything but an easy target, because even debilitated as she is now. Her reflexes are still those that of Death incarnate. If she were anything less, the Goon [Fats Waller] who owns her would have eaten her long ago.

About H. P. Lovelace

Pen name: Howard Phillips Lovelace (H. P. are my real initials, you guess my real name); DOB: March 27, 1990; Sex: Yes - Thank You!!!; Gender: Female; Preference: bi - interested in men and women; Fetish: S&M, B&D, H&D, "regular" sex (not a fetish unless you're bent, but included for completeness); Straight: cunnilingus, felitio, anal, vaginal (any position); Current City: Saint Louis, Missouri USA; Hometown: Eastbourne, East Sussex (left there when I was three, so don't expect the Queen's English); Blog: theendlessnight.com; Tidbit: I love cats (I tolerate dogs); Author of hardcore Vampire Noir in the tradition of Nancy Collins’ "Sonja Blue" novels: adult content, explicit sex and violence. If you’re looking for something in the vein of Anne Rice or Bram Stoker; the reading material is also gothic, erotic, and religious-themed. And, yes, there are overtones of H. P. Lovecraft and his Old Ones. Humor too. Thanks for looking.
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