Charlotte the Harlot

By Shequila Rayne

This story appears in Stiff Things: The Splatterporn Anthology.

 

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Charlotte was the ugliest whore in a village where no harlot was particularly pretty, thus she was barely able to eke out a living. Even cross-eyed Theda whose hut always smelled of fishy farts did better business than poor Charlotte. She did get an occasional customer, but only when the other whores were backed up on festival nights or deathly ill. Famine and plague had ravaged the village, but the whoring trade was improving.

But not for Charlotte. She was hungry all the time, and her health was poor. She was thin and bony, her skin pockmarked from the pox she’d contracted in the early plague years. She knew she was not cut out for whoring but she had little choice in the matter. Her husband had died, the bastard, and left her and their baby to fend for themselves. So she was left to cater to the old, sickened, malnourished men of the village—the dregs the other whores usually turned away. Somehow even in the midst of the plague and its aftermath, their cocks continued to work. Pigs.

She glanced at her baby daughter sleeping fitfully in her straw-stuffed crib. At least the girl wasn’t hungry, but Charlotte knew a mother’s teats would run dry if she didn’t get enough to eat herself. She resented the baby for having food at the ready. She sometimes wished she could suck her own teat for good warm milk. But of course her bosoms were too small for that otherwise tempting feat.

She’d had no customers in two days, and she was hungry, her stomach grumbling for food. As she lay there contemplating ending her life, a putrid miasma enveloped her and a shadow filled the doorway. A big one.

She looked up expectantly, then choked out a scream. In the doorway stood a huge, rotting corpse. His sickly yellow eyes stared at her hungrily, his skin festered with a greenish pallor. The stench suddenly struck her with full force. She gagged, and covered her nose and mouth to block the sickening smell.

It was Bernard. She knew of him, but had never had dealings with him. He was the son of Mary the stump witch who lived alone in a shack at the edge of the marsh. Rumor was that Bernard had died some time ago of the pox, and old Mary had brought him back to life using her magic spells—some said she’d made a pact with the devil. He’d wandered into town once, apparently had gotten loose of the chains that Mary was said to have used to keep him from roving away and scaring the devil out of people. That was a few years ago, and no one had seen him since. It was rumored that he’d eventually died, again, this time for good.

But no, here he was, alive and well. Well, he was well, sort of. She didn’t know about alive.

He took a step backward, as if her stifled scream had startled him. His expression didn’t change, though. He still had that stupid, dead look on his face, his mouth hanging open, fat lips cracked and caked with something Charlotte couldn’t name.

“Get out of here!” she yelled. “Go! Before I have you throttled!”

“Guuhh.” he replied in a deep, bass, guttural voice. He stayed where he stood.

“Go on! Leave now!” She flattened herself against the wall behind her bed to stay as far away as possible.

He lumbered a few steps into the room. He was wearing filthy pants with a rope tied about the waist, and one hand was behind his back.

“What’s that? What have you got there?” She yelled in a shrill, quivering voice.

“Gaahh!” he intoned. He brought his hand out from behind his back and held out a dead chicken.

“Ahh, I see. Okay, now. I’m not sure this is a good idea.” She was already thinking about that chicken in her pot, though. God, she was so hungry.

“Gaahhh!!” He came closer, thrusting the chicken in her face, its head flopping on a broken neck.

“All right, all right. Just calm down, big fellow. What’s wrong, all the other whores too busy for you, huh?”

“Uhh!”

“Great, thanks. So, I was the last resort, is that it? Bastard, just like all of them. Even dead, you can’t see past that cursed baby-maker down there, can you?”

She wondered how stupid he was. “Why don’t you just set that chicken down there and run home to your mama? She must be wonderin’ where you are now, ain’t she?”

He didn’t move.

“Gods have mercy on me.” She brought her dress hem up to her mouth and nose, holding it there. “You stink to high heaven. Don’t you ever bathe?”

He looked down at himself, ashamed and forlorn, and she almost felt bad for the admonishment.

“What is it you want then?”

“Huuhh!” he blurped, shaking the chicken at her again.

“Put the damned chicken down, Bernard.” She snatched it out of his hand and set it aside.

“Let’s see what you got here then.” She inched forward on her knees until she was right in front of his crotch. He looked stupidly down at her, not helping at all. With two fingers she gingerly and slowly pulled the end of the rope holding up his pants. The rope came loose and his dirty pants slid down, revealing an encrusted, boil-covered limp penis. She fought down her gagging. She didn’t want to vomit all over him.

More work for her. She had to get him hard to boot. Great. She wrapped her hand around him, and moved it up and down.

Nothing happened.

“Bernard, I’m not sure this thing works.”

“UUUGGGHHH!!!”
“Let me try something else then.” She scrunched up her face, and took his flaccid cock between her lips. He tasted just like he smelled, rotten as a two-week-old dead goat. It was the worst thing she’d ever tasted, surely the foulest thing she’d ever had in her mouth but she was starving so she kept at it, knowing he would take his dead chicken and leave if she didn’t give him want he wanted.

It was working, though, and she felt the thing hardening in her mouth. Praise the gods for small miracles. Well, big miracles, as it was turning out. It was huge, and soon was too big to fit its entire length in her mouth. He lurched forward, apparently enjoying that, and shoved his cock down her throat.

She jerked away, gagging as she vomited inside her mouth, and she spit it out. That wasn’t going to work. He would choke her sure as she was alive.

He was all excited now, and was waving his arms around, making terrible noises. She was afraid he’d rip her apart if she didn’t do something soon.

“Calm down, sweetheart. It’ll be okay. Charlotte will make it better.” She thought for a moment, and decided the safest thing would be for her to be on top. “Just lie down here like a good boy.” She patted the cot invitingly, and finally coaxed him into a prone position. She straddled him carefully, holding his huge monster in her hands, and lowered herself onto him. He was hard, but squishy at the same time. She tried to block the thought of that fat, squishy, oozing thing from her mind.

He went berserk. He thrashed under her, his grunting grew alarmingly loud, and she held on for dear life. But then everything changed. She felt her own surge of warm wetness and she truly wanted this brute. She began grinding her cunt onto his swollen dick. She’d never felt this way in her life, not even with her husband. He shoved into her so hard that a couple of times she vomited, spewing yellow bile onto his chest, but he didn’t seem to mind. As her orgasm spread through her body, she felt him jerking inside her, flooding her with semen and she clenched as hard as she could, clamping her twat on him, then relaxed.

Bernard lay still under her. “Uhh,” he moaned softly.

She lifted up from him with a sickening slurrrp and looked down in horror at the thick, stinking, yellow semen gushing from her hole. As it streamed onto the dirt floor, she saw maggot-like things wriggling and twitching in his foul cum.
“Good gods.” Rushing to get a cloth to staunch it, she glanced at Bernard, who now seemed to be dozing on her cot, and felt a burning tingle in her belly that became a wrenching pain, as if unseen hands were twisting her insides into knots.

***

Bernard took to visiting her every day. He would usually bring her a chicken, and occasionally a lamb. She wasn’t hungry anymore, and she began to look forward to his visits. Although she would always get sick at the stench, and end up vomiting all over him, the pleasure he gave her and the food he provided was worth it. Better than her husband had ever done. And he didn’t mind her vomit splattering him. Truth was, he seemed to like it and would sometimes scrap it off his mottled chest with grubby blackened fingers and stuff the puke into his mouth like a starving man eating lumpy gruel.

Word had gotten around that Bernard was seeing her on a daily basis. The other whores and some male villagers would come by and ask her if they could watch them fuck. She tried to shoo them all away. But then they started bringing food as payment, just to watch. And she so let them. They would bring food for Bernard, too, who preferred his meat rotted and bloated, at least a week dead.

The crowds grew bigger, and even though they had to stand around with rags held to their noses, gagging and making disgusted noises, they watched nonetheless, fascinated by the grotesque spectacle.

The whispers of horror from the crowd reached her, but she paid no attention.

“How revolting!”

“Disgusting woman!”

“That’s some sickening shit.”

“Them’s the dirtiest fuckers I ever seen.”

Yet they stayed.

“The most vile thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

But they never looked away. Some of the men even pulled their puds and shot their loads when Bernard did.

Charlotte began to enjoy the attention and played it up for the crowd, moaning and screaming, and she learned how to make herself vomit—not too difficult—as they seemed to like that. She soon discovered this resulted in more offerings. Occasionally she would let him bugger her when the crowds were big enough, and he would get so excited by sticking his pizzle up her asshole that he would shit himself, to the hoots and hollers of the onlookers.

“My Bernard,” she would whisper to him after the crowd had dispersed. “How could I ever do without you now.”

The words had barely left her lips when a withered, old crone dressed in rags came storming through her doorway.

“Bernard! You come home this instant!” It was Mary, Bernard’s witch mother. Mary turned her scorn on Charlotte. “You whore, you have defiled my son! This will stop now, and he shall never return.”

“What? Defiled? Have you smelled your son lately, old woman? He is the most vile thing on the face of the gods-cursed earth!”

“Harlot!” Mary spat at her. “Come, Bernard, now!” She grabbed Bernard’s arm and attempted to drag him out the door.

Bernard let out a mournful howl. He obviously didn’t want to go.

“See? He is happy here. Bernard, you don’t have to go home. You’ll stay here with me! Forever, my love.” Charlotte grabbed his other arm and pulled mightily. With her other hand she grabbed his flaccid cock and held tight.

“Bernard! You know what happens to bad boys, don’t you? Do you want to feel the horsewhip again?”

Bernard seemed to weigh the question a long thoughtful moment, then decided he didn’t want to feel the horsewhip, so he jerked his arm from Mary and walloped her across the head so hard she flew across the room and landed with a blap! against the far wall. He stomped over to her limp body and fell on her, sinking his brown teeth into her face and ripping out large chunks of old wrinkled flesh and swallowing it down. The old woman came to her senses, screaming as her dead son bit off her crooked nose and ate it. He hammered his big fist on her face until she stopped screaming. Stopped moving or breathing.

“Bernard, good for you to stand up to the old woman. You’ll stay here with me.”

“Ugh,” Bernard agreed.

“Now go throw her into the river and come straight back here, you hear?”

So the show went on. Charlotte soon had enough goods to move back to her small farm. She and Bernard still spent the days at the harlot shed, where she received food enough to keep their stomachs full.

One day while they were performing for the crowd, there was a ruckus outside and several ruffians stormed in, pushing aside the onlookers. They were big burly men, brawlers by the look of them, and they grabbed Charlotte by the arms, pulling her off of Bernard with a wet squelching sound and tossing her aside, then they grabbed Bernard, put a heavy burlap bag over his head and carried him away. Charlotte could hear Bernard howling in anger and she rose from her knees and ran after them.

Helplessly she watched as they threw him in the back of a horse-drawn cart, and sped away in a fog of dust.

“Noooo,” she screamed. “Bring ’im back, he’s mine!”

***

Three months later.

Charlotte was hungry. And she had no customers. No one would touch her, not after she’d been fucked and buggered by reeking Bernard for so long. She lay in the harlot’s shed, her daughter whining plaintively in the corner, hungry again. There came a sudden commotion outside. Voices were raised. The other whores were gathering on the dusty road.

“Huh?” She lifted her head toward the road and saw everyone running. She dragged herself up and outside and stumbled along behind the crowd. “What the hell’s going on?”

Soon the carriage came by. It was a fine carriage, pulled by a team of four black gleaming horses. Obviously the property of some wealthy person from inside the fortified walls of nearby Ipyr, where the lord of the realm resided. As it approached, everyone picked up rocks and started pelting the carriage.

The curtain parted and Charlotte saw a beautiful woman—a real princess in a jeweled tiara—peeking out, frightened. But who was that ox next to her?

Bernard! He had been cleaned up and was dressed in fine clothes and looked like his face had been powdered to hide his unsightly skin.

Charlotte’s rage rose to an unbearable pitch and with the last of her strength, she picked up a rock and threw it. It struck the carriage door with a sharp thud. The curtain closed quickly.

“That’s my man, you bitch! Bernnardd! Bastard!”

A pain wracked her womb and she fell to her knees, sobbing. It felt like something was chewing its way through her insides and trying to get out through her pussy. She covered her stomach with a hand and then smiled. Bernard Jr. The little bugger was growing with unholy speed. Good.

She would protect him at all costs. How long would it be before he could perform, before he could get his little dick hard enough to stick it inside her?

Slowly she made her way back to the harlot shed. Her daughter was still whining. Hungry again. But Bernard Jr. was hungry too. Without proper nourishment, the little fucker would die and rot in her womb.

Picking up her daughter by the arm, she leaned forward, cooed to her and gave her a kiss. Then she broke its little neck and bit a chunk out of her chubby arm and chewed, slowly at first, then ravenously. She didn’t stop until there was nothing left but gnawed bones, gristle and uneaten guts.

The gnawing pain in her stomach was gone.

The living dead thing inside her was satisfied.

For now.