Tags: Cèsar Sanchez Zapata, microfiction
The Order of the Mantis
by Cèsar Sanchez Zapata
Greer always heard that shortly before death, a man’s life flashes before his eyes. He was not yet dead but, as doctors informed him, he was dying. It was just a matter of time. The cancer would not care that he was only thirty-five.
The night he found out, news channels reported a medical breakthrough which could mean the end of the P.M.A. outbreak. A pharmaceutical counteractant was being advanced through animal testing in hopes that this compound could avert further spread beyond quarantine.
The thought had percolated in Greer’s mind from the moment the doctor announced he had six months to live, but now he was convinced. He made the short trek to the river banks on foot, crossed over against the mighty currents, then slipped through the same breach in the palisade he’d used as a boy anxious to lose his virginity. It always seemed natural to him that the city’s prostitutes would gravitate to the other side of the wall. After all, what better protection could a sex worker hope for against mindless brutes, than a breed of woman whose very existence scared the wits out of all men?
Within minutes of penetrating the wall, Greer spotted a charming, little beauty sitting in a drinking hole where men typically sought the services of women. She wasn’t wearing an arm band. The prostitutes donned them to demonstrate they were not infected, but there was always a risk, logically. Not all carriers were beyond using deception in order to once more feel a man’s touch.
It was tragic, Greer thought; a girl so young, so delicate, relegated to this life, condemned to her unique version of hell.
Seemed like an eternity now, though it was closer to ten years, since scientists pronounced global populations had reached maximum sustainable yield. An evolutionary chromosomal mutation in women had resulted, aggravated with unlawful eugenic experimentation conducted by leading experts in obstetrics. What materialized was an unknown strand of polygenic disorder, colloquially titled by the press as the “Praying Mantis” Anomaly.
The rest of the world had watched in horror as male mortality rates steadily mounted.
“Hello, child,” Greer said to the young girl.
“No child,” she replied, promptly. “Eighteen years, hardly touched. No HIV, no AIDS. Real good price for this prize.”
It shocked Greer that she’d even contemplate the exchange of money, but he expected the disease had peculiar effects on their psyches. These younger ladies, especially, might not fully comprehend the magnitude of the compulsion, the demented craving that would consume their senses in the wake of orgasm.
Not his concern. He accepted her offer, and followed her through a short door carved from an aluminum plate, into a wide room with a filthy mattress at the center and lit by a single grimy bulb hanging from a string.
The government had always denied involvement, yet within three days of announcing the outbreak, military officials unveiled a fully-operational confinement quadrant designed to isolate all persons contaminated until a cure could be discovered. A decade later, more than seven hundred women were sequestered in what had rapidly deteriorated to a slum settlement unfit even for animals.
The young girl gestured for Greer to lie on his back on the mattress. He raised his hips to help her as she tugged off his pants then watched as she slowly undressed. She crawled on top of him, taking a firm hold of his prick. “You big, mister,” she said. “Biggest I ever saw.” He highly doubted that was true, but strangely enough, was grateful she’d bothered to lie. For a moment, she moved her petite hands up and down the skin, then unhesitatingly, adjusted herself and steered him inside her.
She felt and moved like a virgin, slow and cautious, but there was also something intimate about it; initially anyhow, something fresh like finding love. Before long, however, they were both panting, lightheaded with desire, and kissing brutally. She scratched at his chest, wild as a March hare, and he thought to himself with a sigh of relief, dear God, this is really it.
She howled whilst pushing feverishly against him, and with every passing second, he thrust up at her harder, plunging himself deeper, until he could hold it back no longer; his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he poured his essence within. Her pussy still throbbed, her hips still moved lazily. He dropped his head back, sprawling on the bed, and whispered to the darkness that she’d been absolutely brilliant.
So it was. Suicide by prostitute.
He waited patiently for a long while, but nothing further happened. When finally he asked her how it usually progressed, she seemed genuinely perplexed. Did she wait until he’d fallen asleep before murdering him? No, no—not her, she promised, she wouldn’t do that. “It’s all right,” he said, soothing her trembling arms. His cock was still hard inside her. “You’ll be unable to control yourself. It’s an automatism, like narcolepsy. You won’t even remember the episode until you awaken, soaked in blood. It’s all right. Truly.”
Her eyes implored, as she swore to him she was not infected. But—you have no arm band, he countered. “My mother is tramp,” she responded, “but she wants me to be teacher. Won’t let me wear band, even as she starves. We need money, mister. We are dying.”
Once the realization sunk in, he buried his face in her breasts, weeping, soaking her flesh with the tears he’d suppressed at the hospital. For that moment at least, he was not alone. She squeezed him closely, her first ever customer, stroking the back of his head and humming a tender lullaby.
A small coterie of women crept from the shadows of the room, their eyes glowing like a horde of felines. Their prowl was hungry. No armbands. He felt the girl grip him tighter.
We are all dying, he thought. It is just a matter of time.
Cèsar Sanchez Zapata’s truest passion is conjuring prurient fantasies of erotic bliss, the dirtier the better. In recent years, he has had stories published in many different erotic anthologies, under a number of aliases.