Cold Air: A Bit of Lovecraftian Erotica

We hope you enjoy this dirty little Mythos tale. Read with the door locked and maybe have a tissue or two handy. BECAUSE YOU MIGHT BE SO SCARED, YOU MIGHT CRY, OKAY? Perverts.

You would’ve done it too. She looked like a cross between Dita Von Teese and what you picture when you masturbate about WWII bomber pinup nose art. Lips the color of a spicy tamale, skin so creamy white you could paint a Bob Ross mountaintop with it, eyes like a police sketch artist would draw if you only said, “smoky bedroom with a touch of startled arousal.” And her voice, oh, that voice that sounded like a panther purring while being spanked with a leather strop.


I admit it—at first I thought she was a Vegas hooker. When she asked me what I did for a living, I told her, which I wouldn’t have done with a woman whom I was trying to interest other than financially. “I sell burial plots.”

Her smirk tipped into a smile as she checked to see if I was putting her on. When she saw I wasn’t, she leaned in to me and said, “Really?”

“Yes, indeed,” I said, ready to say goodbye. In fact, I was so confident that I had irredeemably repelled this beauty that I asked her, “And you? Are you, um, at work right now?”

“You think I’m a hooker?” she said with a laugh. “No, I’m a helicopter pilot. I fly tourists up and down the Strip at night.”

“You’re missing quite the opportunity in that Jessica Rabbit dress, not being a hooker.”

She grinned and leaned in close. “So what’s it like when you remind people they’re going to die?”


There was a moment there that I thought she was a prostitute, yes. But then I thought she was perhaps just batshit crazy. She asked me question after question about “being in the death business,” like I was the Grim Reaper on vacation in Vegas instead of just a guy who sold holes in the ground. That said, she was hotter than a dog in a car in a Walmart parking lot, and getting this kind of attention from her was making my heart race. So I did what any honest, regular Joe kind of fella would do: I made my work sound like the most exciting and romantic adventure since James Bond played Chemin de Fer over a tank of sharks.

“What’s really satisfying is helping lovers stay together for eternity, like the end of The Notebook.” I always slipped in The Notebook if I had a newlywed couple in front of me. The girl always melted and the guy always wanted to show what a romantic he was, so there was a sale as good as made.

“I like you … so, what’s your name?” my Bettie Page asked with a chuckle.

“Phil Howard. Yours?” I asked back, expecting something along the lines of “Anna Phylactic” or “Punchin’ Judy” or some roller derby name like that.

“Believe it or not, it’s Jane Doe.”

I didn’t believe it, but it hardly mattered. She looked like a sex doll made of porcelain.

“Listen, Phil Howard: I want you to do something special for me.”


“And after you do it, I’m going to take you inside me. I’m going to fuck your brains out. Okay?”

After I got done picking the pieces of my exploded skull out of the wall, I said, “What do I have to do, knock over a liquor store?” Maybe she was a hooker.

“All you have to do is take a bath,” she said, and fished the cherry out of her cocktail with her long, perfect tongue.

I blinked and tried to restrain myself from trying to switch places with the cherry. “I can do that,” I said.


“I can’t do this,” I said, watching her dump a freezer chest worth of ice into the already cold water of the claw-footed standalone metal bathtub.

“Come on, baby. It’s something I’ve always wanted to try,” Jane purred, putting the cooler aside, then undoing my shirt buttons with her teeth at the same time she unbuckled my belt. She was obviously good at multitasking. “I want that chill.”

Then you take the ice bath, I wanted to say, but her teeth had undone all my buttons as she moved down, and now that her hands had slipped off my unfastened pants so that my stiff penis was in her face, I was somehow, shall we say, distracted.

“Imagine how good my hot mouth will feel on that icy-cold cock,” she said as she blew onto my overheated rod.

I looked at the ice floating in the full bathtub. It wasn’t melting much, which meant the water was right at 32 degrees. If she hadn’t had a hold of my balls, they probably would have succeeded in their mission of retracting into my pelvis. “Um, problem,” I managed to say. “As soon as I hit that water, Mr. Peppy is going to shrivel up and hide like a shaved rabbit in a snowstorm.”

“Not a problem,” the lady pilot said, and reached into the cabinet beneath the sink, coming out with a leather strap with a metal snap keeping it in a ring. “This will hold all that wonderful blood right where it belongs, and then the cold will make you even harder.”

“Harder?” I yelped, looking down at her expert hands as they unsnapped the cock ring, wrapped it around my best friend, and then snapped it together again. “If I get any harder, I might exceed the recommended capacity for my skin.”

She laughed and helped me slip down into the tub—

HOLY JUMPING JESUS, THAT’S COLD!” I screamed casually to Jane, who just smiled. And even as my toe, then my foot, then half my calf tried to cramp from the freezing water, I realized that I hadn’t asked this beautiful dream girl why, exactly, she wanted to fuck me only after I had taken an ice bath. It didn’t really matter — whatever her reason, it wasn’t going to make the water any less cold, and it certainly wasn’t going to make me want her any less — and it wasn’t even that I wondered why she wanted me to do this. I only wondered why I didn’t wonder why more than I did. (And I think we all know the answer to that question.)

“Yeah, baby, get nice and cold for me,” Jane cooed, knowing I needed the encouragement.

My scrotum touched the very surface of the water and my balls jumped up so hard they dented the inside of my skull. “MOTHERFUCKER, HOLY MOTHER OF GOD FUCK!” I said, sharing the experience with my new friend.

“You’re doing great,” she said, visibly excited, “It’s all going to be worth it.”

I nodded, frantically trying to tell myself that was true. I would’ve expected my junk to shrink to beanlike proportions in the freezing water, but Jane’s pleather ring kept it engorged, the cold if anything making it even harder. For the time I could still feel it, it felt pretty good.

“ ’Atta boy, Phil. Keep going.”

Slipping very painfully further down into the giant tub, I managed to ask, “I-i-s th-th-i-s-s g-g-ood?”

“Almost there, baby. You have to do your head.”

“I think th-that m-might give m-me a s-s-stroke.”

“Just dunk your head for 30 seconds, baby, then this” — she stood up and shrugged off her sexy red dress, revealing her fabulously naked body — “is all yours.”

I took a moment to strengthen my resolve by running my gaze down her perfect, creamy white, curvy body. It was like a dirty playing card painted by Botticelli. Ice plunked against my forehead as I went under.

Imagine having your teeth drilled without Novocain while at the same time sticking a running egg beater deep into each ear and being punched under the jaw by an iron fist. You imagine it — I no longer had to. Thirty seconds? I had no idea how much time had passed with my head submerged (I lost track after the first century) but when I finally surfaced, Jane was smiling, so I guess it was enough.

She pressed the back of one firebrand-hot hand to my cheek. “Perfect,” she said.

“B-b-blumphiebablumph,” I told her, meaning every word.

“Now I’m going to get into bed — when I call, you come, okay?”

Oh, I’m sure I would come, all right. I decided to forgo saying anything, since now I was shivering so hard I couldn’t really open my mouth, and simply nodded. I tried to give her a smile, but I think I just looked stricken.

She patted me on the head and slinked off to the adjoining room. I could already smell jasmine or something else I assumed was a pheromone, and I watched her peach-like ass sway into the darkness, then tried not to die of hypothermia before she could call for me.

“Come on, baby,” she called.

“B-but I’m-m-m w-w-wet.”

“I’ve got it all taken care of. Now get in here, loverboy.”

If I had suffered a stroke from being plunged into the icy water, right then I would have found a way to drag my deadened half out of the tub and crawl across the tile, then the plush carpet, to get myself into this goddess’s bed.

Turned out I didn’t need to. Once I lifted myself out of the water and was standing in the tub, the arctic jet stream of air-conditioning assaulted my naked body and forced me into motion. It hurt so much I just wanted to just keep moving, like I had just stubbed my entire body. But I was careful enough sweeping my legs out of the tub (banging my rock-hard penis against the metal sidewall) and then stepping onto the bathroom floor that I was able to tippy-toe the fifteen feet from the tub through the door into the bedroom, dripping wet.

And there I stopped. I was so cold I wanted to dive under the blankets — but there were no blankets.

And that was not a bed.

The silky, luscious form that was Jane Doe naked stood next to something that looked like a cross between an ironing board and a stainless steel kitchen sink, covered with a Taj Mahal’s worth of incoherent scribbles scratched into the metal. It was like a Pharaoh’s hospital gurney with a drain installed at one end. It was like … like …

It was, like, fucked up.

Jane patted the metal top like it was a Tempurpedic. “Hurry or you’re going to warm up!”

Yes, that would be terrible, I thought. And then it hit me: “Is that an autopsy table?

She leaned back onto the actual bed which was just beyond the metal table and spread her legs, her labia glistening in the light from the bathroom. “I want to fuck you, right now.”

I would fuck her in a stable / I would fuck her on a table / I would fuck her, Sam-I-am / Any way that I am able. I moved as quickly as my agonized legs could carry me, lay my back down on the (autopsy—shut up) table and whipped my legs up. My skin was so ice-cold the metal felt warm.

I hadn’t noticed the restraints built into the table, but Jane quickly looped the Velcro cuffs around my wrists and ankles, and then, before I could even protest, she used the bed for leverage and straddled me. Her shaved pussy felt lava-hot against my wonderfully stiff and frozen cock, which she positioned against her labia and then eased down onto.

Picture if you will an oven made out of rose petals, turned up to “heavenly broil.” Also imagine if you can a man making a sound that was something between the creak of a diving submarine’s hull and the roar of an air-raid klaxon. Yes, that good.

“Ooh, you’re so cold,” Jane breathed as she took the very last of me inside her, then lay against my frozen skin. I would have asked her if this was a good thing, but her squirting kind of tipped me off. “Don’t move. I’ll do the moving, okay?”

I nodded or something. I don’t remember.

Then she did move on me, around me, curling her hips in such a way that I forgot that I was probably going to get pneumonia, forgot all about the strange sigils craved into the metal of the whatever-this-thing-was, forgot completely the trickling of chilled water from my body down into the drain, pat-pat-patting in a pan beneath.

Her lips pressed against my freezing mouth, and I could feel her taking in the cold of my skin. Of course, to me it felt like I was taking in her heat — but she lingered on every part of me as she fucked me, the way that I longed to do with her, except of course I was shackled into place.

“You’re warming up,” she whispered in my ear. “I’m bringing you back to life.”

“Yeah, baby, I …” Wait, what?

“Rise in him, Great One, fill him with your life,” she said in a slow, deliberate cadence, I assumed not to me. “Take his body and be my lover!”

“Um, Jane?” I said, my mind all at once putting the weird symbols together with what was essentially a stainless steel version of an Aztec sacrificial altar, right down to the drain. And it wasn’t easy to concentrate enough to do that either, as Jane alternated the pressure in her vaginal muscles to play my dick like a flute. (Or like a woodwind? Cue rimshot.)

Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn! Rise in him, rise in me, Great Cthulhu!”

This was chilling the shit out of my soul, but my body was feeling pretty much warmed up now, what with Jane pumping me like an oil derrick trying to uncork a geyser.

“Come to me, Cthulhu! Come into me!” she roared, and not stopping her pistoning for a second, deftly reached down and unsnapped the cock ring at the base of my penis —

(There is a concept in science called a “Planck time,” which is the shortest period physically possible, defined as the time it takes a photon moving at the speed of light to cross the distance of an atomic nucleus. Now, if you take the Planck interval and divide it by three, that’s how long it took me to cum after Jane removed the ring.)

— and I shot forth like magma from a really horny volcano. Jane collapsed on me, breathing hard and happily. “That was … everything,” she said at last.

“It was sure something,” I said, and she immediately sat up and looked hard into my eyes.

“Great One?” she said, suspiciously.

“Absolutely. How was it for you?”

“It didn’t work,” she said, and slapped her palm against my chest. “I can’t believe it didn’t work.”

“Well, it didn’t work yet,” I said with a coy smile and a saucy flick of my tongue, “but let me do my magic down there and you’ll —”

“NO, shoggoth-dammit! Your body was supposed to be the vessel for my god to rise through! The Necronomicon says that making love to a cold body while chanting the unholy phrase was the way …” She broke down into sobs. “I h-had the altar made and ev-ev-everything!

I felt bad for my lover and tried to make her feel better, because I am a complete idiot. “Well, maybe ‘cold body’ didn’t mean just ‘cold.’ Maybe it meant —” I said and then stopped abruptly, my mouth puckering shut like a new prison inmate’s asshole.

She turned and fixed those airbrushed eyes on me. “Maybe it meant what?” she mused, then it came to her: “Maybe it meant ‘cold’ as in dead!

“Uh, no! That’s not what I was going to say! I was going to say … um … ‘cold’ as in ‘not dead!’ ” WHAT? Fuck you, brain.

She gave herself a V8 slap to the forehead and pulled a knife out of a bedside drawer. “Of course! Great Cthulhu can’t occupy a vessel that’s already full! And rigor mortis makes the cock hard! That’s it! I have to give myself to an already dead body!

Oh shit fuck shit goddamn shit fuck… “Yes, a dead body — not necessarily my dead body.”

That stopped her, but I could tell just for the moment. “But you’re right here.”

“Um, sure, but it takes a human body like twelve hours to fully enter rigor mortis. You’ll have to put off awakening Great Thoo-thoo —”


“Right, him. You’ll have to put off awakening him for a couple of hours minimum, and who knows if you’ll be in the mood then? You don’t want to lose the moment, especially when it comes to Great [mumble]-loo.”

This, finally, gave her pause. “So what do we do?”

“You’re a new pilot. Does flying get you hot?” I asked.

“Fuck, yes, it makes me wetter than R’yleh at high tide.”

“Then let’s get your bird in the air and down to the cemetery. I know where a body just got delivered — a male stripper, too! Hot stuff. Got caught by the groom at the bachelorette party and his family cashed in the burial plan and didn’t leave enough — anyway, long story short, he must still be fresh.”

“Well, uncuff me and let’s get you laid. Um, again.”

“You know, when Cthulhu rises, he’s probably going to torture everyone on Earth to death.”

What do you say to that? I said, “Probably best to get it over with.”

“Unless you’re one of his disciples, like me.”

“Then sign me up! But untie me first, okay?”

She put down the dagger, then undid my wrists and ankles.

I rubbed my hands together and blew some warm air on them. “But hey, before you fuck a dead man and we destroy the world, how about a hot bowl of soup?”



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