© Jordan Shelbourne August 2003
Everybody knows if you have sex in a horror movie, you die. People had died all around Veronica and Henry.
Veronica was a slut. A grade-A, bona fide, boned-inside, man-hungry, cock-hungry, come-hungry slut. Henry didn't realize there were any girls his age like that. Well, Veronica wasn't a girl; Veronica was a woman.
When Veronica gave Henry the come-hither, emphasis on come, he didn't think about the folks who had died. He thought instead about the little death, petit mort, and he found a way to be alone with Veronica, though they were both supervised.
Nothing stimulates the creative juices like those other juices.
Part of it was lust. Part was the lure of the forbidden; Henry just wasn't supposed to do that sort of thing.
They kissed, Veronica as eager as he was, eager to have his mouth on hers, to have his hands on her breasts, his weight on her body, his cock in her hands, in her pussy. They had to hurry because they might be discovered at any time, but they were both ready. Both of them had been thinking about this for a while.
Henry's fingers trembled as he stroked her nipples, as he caressed her belly, as he felt her guide him in.
He felt a fierce glee as he entered her, at knowing he wasn't supposed to be doing this and was anyway. It was independence: it was manhood. She gasped; he groaned.
Henry fucked her hard, as hard as he could, as fast as he could, as deep as he could, as long as he could, until his heart gave out, and the nurses and doctors came to take his corpse off poor Veronica. Not the first time in this retirement home.
In some horror movies, you don't even need a monster.