The Minotauress

Before her lay the pile of freshly dead children. As if to verify what she already knew—that she was real—she ran her slender black hand through the tilled gut of the child who lay on top. Her hand came away wet, and slicked with cooling blood. Her fingers fondled the small shriveled genitals, and then, out of the strangest curiosity, she leaned over and sucked on the little penis. Perhaps her own reality would bring the sprig of flesh back to life but, lo, that didn't happen. The thing remained tiny in her unearthly mouth, and all that it gave up were a few suckings of stale urine. Pasiphae spat it out.

No, here, in this domain, the dead stayed dead. But from hers?

Gods and goddesses never quite died. They just slept.

Pasiphae was fully awake now. And so was her son.

She traipsed back to the opening of the pit, its foulness wafting up like honeysuckles in a warm breeze. Moonlight shifted through the forest. In the entry stood her son, darkness snorting from his fierce nostrils, his manly naked body corded with muscle, glistening in pungent sweat. His cock stood up hard.

There was love in the monster's eyes.

She knelt before the monument of her own womb, and the grand seed of Minos. Then she lay back and spread her legs of night, gasping as her beloved snorted and humped her in the dirt. Her obsidian flesh clenched in orgasm, and then her hot beast-son drained his loins in her, jet after jet of semi-god sperm drooling into her midnight cunt.

When it was over, she embraced him, a black tear of joy in her eye. The huge flap of tongue lolled against her cheek. She stroked the muscled buttocks.

"Tomorrow, my son," Pasiphae whispered endearingly. "Tomorrow you'll have more food, and I'll have more death. Both of us will feast."

Then she kissed each of her son's great horns and sighed into the twilight.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"I thought I told you to clean this dump!"

Daphne stood appalled in the open doorway, her bags in hand.

"I cleaned it," Dean said, lounging with his feet up on the couch.

Daphne dropped her bag. "It's a FUCKIN' SHIT-HOLE!" she bellowed. She left her luggage in the doorway, stomped upstairs.

Women, Dean thought. What pains in the ass. He glanced around. Dishes piled a foot high in the sink, the garbage can overflowing, empty beer bottles littering the floor. Looks clean to me, he thought and shrugged. Guess I better go straighten her out.

He swigged the last of his Hefeweizen, pitched the empty bottle to the floor, then went upstairs. "How was Chicago?" he asked. Steam poured out of the bathroom; the shower hissed.

"Huh?" Dean stuck his head in. "How was Chicago?"

"Leave me alone!" she yelled from the stall. "Clean the house!"

"How come you're taking a shower now? You just got home."

"I've got a regional merchandise meeting in an hour!" she wailed back. "I gotta pay the bills, remember? Now leave me alone and go clean the house!"

Dean nodded. That was about enough. He stomped into the bathroom, threw back the curtain, and grabbed Daphne not by the hair but by the face, and hauled her out of the stall. Water flew off her perfect-white skin, and her equally perfect breasts bobbed in terror. Her first shriek pierced his ears, but Dean put an end to that noise fast, with two solid right-crosses to the mouth. Whap-whap! Her pretty eyes went cockeyed, and now she was murmuring manically with blood smeared at her lips.

"So the house needs to be cleaned?" Dean asked, throwing his naked wife to the floor. "Well, how about the toilet? Let's see if it's dirty."

He got on his knees, then shoved her head into the commode. Gurgling noises spat upward.

"How's it look, honey? Clean or dirty?"

Her arms and legs flailed as she blew bubbles of terror in the toilet water. Dean's hand vised in her hair, holding her down.

"Think maybe you should lick it? That'd get it nice and clean, wouldn't it, sweetheart?"

He shoved her head in harder, with both hands now. The bubbles were literary bursting now; it looked like a full-tilt hot tub down there.

But then the bubbles stopped, and her naked body fell slack.

"Oopsie!" Dean remarked. "Goodness gracious what have I done?"

Daphne lay dead, her head hanging in the commode. Dean considered giving her a last poke but then said to hell with it. He'd been sick of that pussy a week after the honeymoon.

So instead of fucking her he simply pissed on her head, flushed the toilet, and went back downstairs for another brewsky—

"—it's a FUCKIN' SHIT-HOLE!" Daphne bellowed so hard little veins bulged at her temples. Dean was staring at her from the couch. He looked around and noticed the house was clean.

Just not clean enough, evidently.

By the time Dean's mind surfaced from this next—and worst—Jig-Jag, Daphne had already stormed upstairs. But Dean remained frozen on the couch: in the Jig-Jag, he'd—

I killed her, he recalled. I killed my loving wife!