Most people who knew Sam Hughes always figured he’d meet his death at the hands of a
jealous husband.
Sam himself saw no reason to think otherwise. He’d been obsessed with women for nearly
half of his thirty-two years and had learned long ago that most of the women he was
attracted to carried around a slew of complications. Some of these complications came in
the form of mental or behavioural issues while others dealt with more dangerous realities,
such as husbands or boyfriends. Sam’s downfall was that he didn’t care. If the woman
interested him, he simply went after her.
Sam was not tall, handsome or athletically-built. He was of average height and looks,
but his baby face, big blue eyes and harmless manner served him well. Women noticed him
wherever he went. They felt the immediate need to protect him--to hold him in their arms
and chase his demons away.
Sam welcomed their advances with the eagerness of a starving man accepting food scraps
tossed his way. He’d lived and dreamed sex ever since he was old enough to experience
his first hard-on. He’d lost his virginity at twelve, to the older sister of a
neighbourhood friend. The sister was eighteen and should have known better, but like Sam,
she didn’t care. She considered him just as cute and as cuddly as the teddy bear she’d
slept with as a child, and pulled him into the back seat of her second-hand Firebird only
minutes after she met him.
Ever since, Sam had nailed every woman he could lure into his bed.
Ursula interested him from the first moment he laid eyes on her. Tall, slender, and
almond-eyed, she was the attending R.N. of St. Cloud Hospital, where Sam went for X-rays
one Saturday morning after hurting his shoulder lifting boxes in the mailroom at work.
Hot-blooded, with strong urges and a natural compulsion to flirt, Ursula took to him
immediately. Sam quickly learned that he favoured her very first boyfriend, who’d
recently died in Iraq. And since her pawnshop owner husband was in Miami on one of his
business trips, leaving her alone for nearly a week, Ursula saw no reason why she
shouldn’t treat herself to a sexually-charged adventure.
While they awaited his X-ray results, Ursula led Sam into a deserted storage room. For
the next half-hour she pounded him senseless, bringing him to full erection orally, then
pumping him wildly, slamming him relentlessly with her hot, drenched pussy, until his face
and dick glistened with her sticky wetness.
For the next three weeks, they met at bars and in motel rooms, as well as in the back of
Ursula’s utility van. Their luscious rendezvous were planned during lunch breaks,
sometimes for just a quick blow job, other times for a longer, more involved pounding
between the sheets.
Ursula began calling him Stud Muffin Sam. Or sometimes Sexy Sam. Or, on a few
particularly steamy sessions, Slammin’ Sam.
Mostly everyone else he knew simply called him Sam. Or Hughes.
Hughes was the last name he heard before the lights went out. It was the name Ursula’s
husband uttered, followed by a long, heated string of profanities, only moments after he
broke into their bedroom, found Sam in bed with her, and promptly blew him away with the
satin silver .45 long-barrelled Smith & Wesson he’d brought along for the special
event.
Sam didn’t have time to see what happened to Ursula. He’d died only an instant
following the horrific explosion caused by the huge slug slamming into his brain.
Everything turned black and warm.
Sam realized he was falling. And falling. And as he fell, the blackness grew warmer.
His thoughts reeled. Panic sliced through him. He was dead--he had to be. The
explosion so close behind him, the terrible fireball that had torn into the back of his
skull--proved that it had finally happened. Someone had killed him.
But that wasn’t the important thing right now. What concerned him was the darkness
enveloping him. And the fact that he was falling.
And why everything grew warmer as he fell.
In the midst of his rationalizations, his fall ended abruptly. He landed with a
sharp-sounding splat! on what felt like warm, muddy ground.
He sat up and took careful inventory. Nothing broken or twisted. Everything seemed to
be where it should be. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t hurt.
Which baffled him. Such a long drop should have killed him. Or at least turned him
into a mass of broken bones.
But if he was already dead, such a drop wouldn’t have fazed him.
He was dead, wasn’t he?
Or was he?
He had no idea what was going on. All he knew was that his back, side, and arm were
covered with warm mud. And that it stunk. It smelled like shit. No. Worse. It took
only moments to determine its strong sulphurous reek.
Sulphur?
That meant only one thing.
He pushed the forbidden thought aside. At least, for now. There were more pressing
issues concerning him at the moment.
His big concern was what happened.
The darkness surrounding him extended as far as the eye could see. And the warm air
drifting toward him brought about even more of a heavy sulphur odour. His eyes stung,
watering so badly that he could no longer look at the darkness.
He rubbed them. At first, he didn’t feel them.
But after a few seconds, the sulphur dissipated slightly.
This was something he could not understand. It made no sense. He couldn’t even
understand why his eyes stung in the first place. If he was dead, how could a pair of
non-existent eyes have any feelings? Why would he have hands to rub them with? Would he
have senses that needed to acclimate to this new strange environment?
Why did he have anything, for that matter?
If he was a spirit, he wouldn’t have much of anything. Everyone knew spirits were
merely masses of energy floating around in the atmosphere. Spirits were nothing more than
residual lives--hazy images of the dead seen only by mediums or other spirits.
He had to find out what was going on.
He opened his eyes and tried to see into the darkness. It cleared slightly, becoming a
hazy red mist.
Straight ahead, the mist suddenly faded. Just beyond it, a bizarre figure shimmered
clearly.
A large throne surrounded by a wide circle of flaming coals appeared just twenty feet
straight ahead. The throne seemed to be made of stone, glittering in the darkness as if
painted or splashed with a thick gloss. A huge naked female sat upon it. At first Sam
thought it was a statue. But when it moved, he realized he was looking at a real woman.
Her beautiful flawless face was reminiscent of a Victoria’s Secret model. Her enormous
dark-blue eyes stayed dead-steady on him, watching his every move. Her long, flowing,
fiery red hair blew softly in the foul breeze, sliding across her shoulders and down her
arms.
Although she appeared to be twice his size, her features were in perfect proportion. A
magnificent pair of huge breasts burst proudly from her chest. Each light-brown nipple
seemed the size as a golf ball. Her arms rested on the padded arms of the throne.
Occasionally she raised one of them to gently push her hair away from her face. Her long,
shapely legs were spread wide. A luscious pussy glistened like precious gems in the haze.
But her pussy wasn’t the only part of her that glistened. Her smooth white flesh
gleamed in the reddish mist. Her arms were covered with rivulets of a thick, clear
liquid. Streams of the stuff flowed between her breasts, continuing down her flat stomach
and gathering at the diamond-shaped bright-red mound crowning her pussy.
Sam was both intrigued and aroused. She really fit the bill if you liked your lady
huge. In the right circumstances, such a babe could be a great success at a party or
simple get-together.
But this wasn’t the right circumstances. Sam was dead. He wasn’t positive of this, but
his present surroundings seemed to suggest such a conclusion. He’d been shot in the back
of the head and had fallen into a hot, sulphurous pit. If this wasn’t Hell, it could
easily serve as a neighbouring suburb.
But although this babe was gorgeous and naked and covered with goo that looked
suspiciously like cum, Sam was also extremely wary. Dark, icy vibes emanated heavily from
her huge orbs. Tendrils of flame flicked from her mouth and nostrils with every breath.
And each time she lifted a naked arm to push back her hair, a thick cloud of almonds mixed
with sweat and the unmistakable tang of sex wafted his way.
He decided to reserve judgment--at least for the time being. He was in a strange place,
facing a huge, dangerous-looking female. It wouldn’t very bright to do or say anything
stupid.
Her arm extended. Her hand inverted, the index finger beckoning him closer.
A good sign? Probably not. If this was Hell, he couldn’t imagine this turning out to
be a mellow, feel-good-type situation.
But he didn’t have much choice. Obeying her seemed the only sensible option. She was
probably the one in charge of this place, wherever this place was. And if he’d learned
anything in life, it was that you did whatever the in-charge said. And if the in-charge
happened to be a female, you made doubly sure you did what she said.
Nervously he took a few cautious steps closer. When he was about five feet away from
the front line of burning coals, the heat grew unbearable. He backed up a foot or so and
used his arm to shield his face.
The babe’s index finger beckoned again. Sam took a tiny step forward and carefully
lowered his arm.
She opened her mouth. Flames shot out, nearly reaching his flesh.
He was dead. He no longer had flesh. So how could he feel heat?
The fact remained. Whatever he still had, whatever he still was, registered heat and
light. Such sensations were just as intense now as they were when he was alive. But he
forced himself not to cry out. Holding it all in seemed a much better career move. He
didn’t want to anger this chick. Her stare reminded him of a hungry wolf eyeing a
wandering jackrabbit.
“What is your name?”
Her low-pitched, breathy voice was strong and full. The voice every man wants to hear
in the bedroom.
“Samuel Hughes. You can call me Sam--“
“I will call you Maggot.”
Maggot. The name didn’t actually fit him but he decided not to argue. He didn’t think
it would be a very smart move. At least, not now. He’d learned long ago that it wasn’t
wise to get on the wrong side of a powerful woman. And this woman was definitely
powerful.
Maggot would be all right for now.
“What did you do up there?” she asked.
“Up where?”
“The mortal world--where else?”
He wondered what his profession as a mailroom clerk had to do with this situation. It
wouldn’t hurt to find out, would it? Asking for clarification certainly shouldn’t incite
her. “Why do you want to know?”
More flames shot out of her mouth. “I said, what did you do?”
So much for clarification not inciting her. . .
“I worked in the mail room of a computer company.” He took one slighter step back to
avoid another possible barrage of flame.
“What else did you do?”
“You mean in my spare time?”
Another flame--as well as a heavy blast of burnt almonds--brushed him. He strongly
suspected he wasn’t getting on her good side.
“What did you do that made you what you were?”
Strange, her wanting to know about his character. . .
What was this? Some sort of job interview?
Sam had always considered his womanizing his strongest factor. He’d been married and
divorced three times in his short life, had bedded more than a hundred women and was
caught cheating at least three dozen times. Which explained why his marriages never
lasted very long.
Even now he was thinking that if this babe wasn’t so huge and frightening, he’d find a
way to scale those long legs and chow down on that wet pussy.
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