Jim Morrison's Adventures in the Afterlife (25 page)

Semple couldn’t let this pass. She decided the highest level of reproach that she could risk would be to pout prettily. “And you were going to give me to him, my lord?”

“But we didn’t, did we? If we were you, we’d be thinking about original ways in which we could express our gratitude.”

Anubis’s private suite ran to some twenty rooms, each of which apparently came with its own complement of handmaidens and Nubian guards. Anubis, however, showed no inclination to treat Semple to a tour of his private turf. Instead he marched straight for what turned out to be the master bedroom, although the very word “bedroom” was hardly adequate. The place was the size of a small ballroom and the bed could have accommodated ten or more, and
probably had. The color scheme was a bruised midnight purple that Anubis probably thought was decadent and erotic, but struck Semple as simply nightshade poisonous. Multiple mirrors were arranged in such a way that, from almost any point in the room, it was possible to see infinitely repeating images of oneself. A flickering, flashing, almost psychedelic lighting pattern confused and flattered these reflections, created moving pools of deep shadow and complex refraction patterns, while industrial-strength incense censers belched clouds of perfumed smoke. The mirrors had momentarily taken Semple by surprise. She hadn’t thought of Anubis as so overtly narcissistic, but it made sense. The dog-god’s boudoir was a place of smoke and mirrors, darkness and deception, and pretty much what she’d expected of her host and putative owner.

A large pyramid-shaped television set was placed so it could be easily observed from the bed. Anubis’s first move on entering the bedroom was to go straight to it and turn it on. Semple moved slightly so she could see the triangular picture. On the screen, a parade of naked women with fixed smiles desperately swayed and jiggled down a narrow catwalk. It had to be Fat Ari’s
Slave
Shopping Club—unless, of course, Fat Afi had competition. Before Semple could observe any more of the show, Anubis switched the channel. The screen now showed the God-King himself engaged in athletic, canine-style coitus with a moaning blonde, while a second, red-haired woman with a freckled back lay beside them, assisting him and his primary companion in any way she could. Was Anubis so far gone that he had to have sex to the accompaniment of a visual record of a previous triumph?

Anubis waved his hand abstractedly in Semple’s direction. “Remove your garments.”

Yeah, and peel me a grape, you son of a bitch. You could at least look interested. Hiding her contempt, she engaged a neutral smile. “Anything you say, my lord.”

Stripping in a place where the bulk of the population went topless was hardly a big thing. She certainly didn’t feel like treating Anubis to any kind of bump-and-grind routine and, anyway, he seemed more interested in his homemade porno tapes. On the triangular screen, the moaning blonde was either enjoying the orgasm of her life or creating an Oscar-winning simulation. Her piece de resistance was to run up a near-perfect vocal scale in high C, only to
blow the effect by going flat on the highest top note. With all the aloof elegance she could muster, Semple sighed discreetly to regain the dog-god’s attention and let the hawk-wing cape drop from her shoulders. A single tug loosened the wraparound skirt and it joined the cape on the floor at her feet.

“My lord?”

Anubis inspected her nudity and nodded with what she interpreted as grudging approval. At the same time he let his own kilt fall to the floor and Semple could hardly believe what she was seeing. It reminded her of the ancient adage of a baby’s arm holding an apple in its fist, except it was a deep mahogany, gnarled like the trunk of a vine, with long twisting veins standing out in clear relief. At first she thought that it must have been a put-on, an elaborate showboat codpiece, a strapped-on construct of wishful thinking. Only when it started to move did she realized that this was wishful thinking made fantasy flesh. Anubis again eyeballed her nudity, then looked down at himself and grinned like a proud Doberman. “Does it frighten you?”

Had Semple been terrified out of her mind, she would never have admitted it. Since he so plainly intended to fuck her, she did have a certain trepidation about being able to accommodate the thing without too much physical modification to her own body, but she had quickly buried that, approaching the experience with a kind of academic curiosity. Conducting herself as a connoisseur of the extremes in experience was infinitely better than tearing her hair and rolling her eyes like a degraded slave.

She deliberately arched an eyebrow. “Your . . . manhood is truly magnificent, my lord. I have never seen anything like it.”

Anubis smiled smugly. “I very much doubt that you have.”

Anubis beckoned to her, and Semple steeled herself with deliberately dark thoughts. Hold on, Fido. Semple McPherson’s day will come. She was now bent on not only escaping from Necropolis, but also putting the hurt on Anubis before she went. She didn’t particularly care how she hurt him—physically, emotionally, materially, spiritually, it was neither here nor there. She just wanted to hurt him where it hurt.

The desire intensified as the dog-god crooked an imperious finger. “Come here and kneel in front of me.”

She had assumed that he’d be content to simply stick it in her and have done with it. She now realized she was expected to fondle
and play with the monstrosity. It was becoming clearer and clearer that, in Necropolis, on all levels, absolutely nothing came easy.

Jim groaned and closed his eyes. He didn’t want it ever to stop. He didn’t care that it was all alien illusion. He didn’t care what the aliens might be doing to him in reality. Reality had never been this good to him. He could cruise all the way to infinity locked in this custom fantasy. Epiphany’s thighs gripped him, encircled him, held him fast, while a hundred hands with a thousand fingers seemed to move over his body, and even caress his very nervous system.

“Epiphany, don’t stop.”

Her voice breathed inside his head. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t stop until you beg me.”

It was only moments earlier that Epiphany’s hands, the same hands that were now driving Jim to the edge of insanity, had gone seductively to the silver ring fastening of her bubble space helmet.

“I’m going to have fun with you, Jim Morrison.”

One turn had detached the helmet, a second turn had caused the hard shell torso section simply to disappear. Jim didn’t know how she pulled the trick of the disappearing space suit, and she didn’t give him any time to puzzle over it. She was standing in front of him in long boots, long gloves, and nothing else, demanding and getting his total attention. Slowly and suggestively she pulled off the gloves. “Oh yes, I’m going to have a great deal of fun with you, Jim Morrison. Do you think you can handle all the fun I’m going to have with you?”

It scarcely worried him when he noticed that Devora had made no attempt to divest herself of any part of her suit. Jim was now beyond caring. So Devora wanted to play the voyeur? So what? Wasn’t Epiphany promising him the stars?

“Stars like you never imagined, baby.”

Together they had sunk down onto the surface of the blue Jetson ovoid, and sensual delirium had immediately overtaken Jim. It was only as he went down for the last time that he saw that Devora had unholstered the phallic art deco ray gun and was applying a clear lubricant gel to the barrel. By then, it was far too late to do anything about it.

Semple groaned and closed her eyes. She wanted it to stop. She’d had it with the infinite reflections of herself, spread-eagled under the weight of the dog-headed god. She’d had enough of Anubis slamming into her with his absurd oversized penis. She was tired of his lapping her breasts with his rough dog tongue, and worst of all, she was tired of being expected to moan appreciative clichés to make the idiot feel omnipotent. “Oh my lord, it’s so big, it hurts, it hurts so much, please, it feels like it’s going to split me in half. Oh, my lord! It’s hurting me, but don’t stop, please don’t stop . . . ”

At first she had managed to hold gagging revulsion at bay by disengaging from her physicality, distancing herself first from what she was expected to do and then, as things progressed, from what was being done to her. From this point of view the cavernous purple bedroom with its drifting layers of scented smoke, the picture of the powerful and rapacious dog-headed creature crouched over the prone white body, positioning and repositioning it as it gasped and groaned beneath him, had a certain Pre-Raphaelite pornographic charm. Her undoing came when, in that state of detachment, she had perversely started to enjoy herself. The moment she gave in, she was reminded what a sick piece of slime Anubis really was; repulsion had elbowed its way in, detachment had taken a cab.

But then, just as she started to reached the limits of her tolerance, something new began to happen.

Something new began to happen. Jim’s senses were already in serious disarray. Epiphany was somehow simultaneously all around him, under him, above him, and front of him, a Mobius continuation, the galaxy made rhythmic flesh. The blue ovoid room came and went. Forward and back, the two of them in sync to the erotic pulse-of-the-spheres. One moment the room, the next a state of free fall above the methane and ammonia atmosphere of Saturn. The rings arched over them and left them gasping in the vacuum, reality capriciously disengaged. The only constants were that Devora, still in her midnight-blue space suit, was always behind him, at the periphery of his distorted vision, and that some foreign object had
penetrated his body. And yet, the intrusion in no way bothered him. Quite the contrary, it only added to the mind-thrashing fun he was already having with Epiphany. If his unexpected paramour’s companion wanted to bugger him with the lubricated chrome of her ray gun, who was he to complain?

When the flash came from out of nowhere and almost blinded him, Jim was concerned that Devora, in some moment of cold alien excitation, had inadvertently—or maybe even deliberately (a little mantis in everyone)—pulled the trigger on the ray gun. He was still conscious enough to know that could mean trouble. Jim felt as if his spine were going to snap, his brain boil out through his eyes. He was hard-pressed to tell agony from ecstasy. Then, suddenly, he was in another place.