He'd followed Lynch's advice and stayed away from the escort agencies. It had left him with a bad case of blue balls. His testicles felt so swollen it was getting hard to concentrate at work. Time to let off some of that pressure.

He stood over the sink and thought of Xie-Mu, the slender Oriental girl with the gorgeous body turned into a work of art. What a glorious ass she'd possessed.

Strange. His nose picked up that same salty tang of the sea he'd smelt back in the hotel room. Was it some kind of olfactory memory?

There were other memories he was eager to re-experience. He moved his hand up and down and recalled the sensation of pushing his cock up into Xie-Mu's deliciously tight cunt. He squeezed his shaft and his knees trembled as those strange lumps squirmed beneath his palm. Odd how he didn't feel anything from them, almost like they were stones or some other similar foreign object.

No time to dwell on that.

Oh.

Yes, he was- Ohhhh!

He doubled up with the intensity of the approaching orgasm. Fuck, he'd left it far too long. This was going to be huge. Enormous. He pumped his hand up and down his throbbing cock and shuddered and moaned as pleasure overtook him.

He couldn't get it out. It felt like there was a blockage in there.

Had he left it so long his pipes had clogged up? Was that even possible?

It was coming out. He felt something push up the inside of his dick. Oh fuck. It felt huge. The pleasure grew as it moved up his shaft, like the relief of emptying the bowels with a really large dump.

Or giving birth.

What was happening here?

It felt big. It looked big. He could see it from the outside, like his dick was a snake regurgitating its prey.

Smythe took his hand off his dick. There was a noticeable bulge moving up the shaft. He felt it stretch him on the inside. Apprehension, weirdness and sheer unadulterated pleasure jostled for dominance in his head.

What was happening!

The blockage reached the head of his dick and it swelled out like a juicy red apple. Smythe swayed on his feet. His eyelids fluttered as he strained to ejaculate it from his body.

A claw, black and shiny, emerged from the opening to his urethra. It clicked open and shut.

Smythe's eyes bulged. He stared at it in terror.

It was a claw.

There was a fucking claw sticking out of his japseye!

He didn't have too long to contemplate that. A powerful spasm rocked through his body. His eyes rolled upwards and he struggled to stay upright on knees that felt as though they'd been replaced with jelly. The opening to his urethra stretched wide, wide, wider.

Then it was out. He heard something clatter in the sink, something hard and chitinous. It was followed by a blissful outpouring of semen. He moaned as his cum gushed from his dick in a flood.

He didn't spend too long basking in the post-orgasmic afterglow. There was a thing in the sink. A thing that had forced its way out of his body. Slowly, slowly, dreading what he was about to see, Smythe looked down into the pristine white bowl of the sink.

It was a crab. Or at least the closest approximation his mind could manage was a crab. It squatted in the sink-black, ugly and baleful. Smythe only got a brief glance-not that it mattered, the thing was so alien his gaze seemed to slide right off it-before the horror scuttled away into the black depths of his plughole.

Smythe's stomach heaved and churned.

That thing had come from inside him. It had hatched, grown and gestated within his body.

He retched.

It wasn't over. His orgasm hadn't finished. His body shivered and convulsed and he felt the pressure building up again.

No, no, no! Not again. He couldn't bear to have another one of those things crawl out of his cock.

He looked down. His cock, his monstrous cock, was a seething mass of activity. Purple lumps shivered and vibrated underneath his skin.

His cock was alive with them. Infected. Infested. Gravid with their loathsome black carapaces.

Smythe threw back his head and grunted loudly. Veins stood out on his neck. He was coming. It was coming. A white spurt of cum dribbled from his japseye. It began to open out and stretch wider and wider as another glistening black oval body struggled to emerge.

No!

Smythe reached out and picked up the nearest thing at hand. It was an alabaster statuette of a buxom maiden reclining on a couch. It had the same approximate size and weight as a house brick.

No!

Smythe slammed it down hard on the end of his dick, trapping it between the sculpture and the hard marble counter. The crab burst with a loud crunch. Purplish ichor and his own red blood oozed from the mangled opening to his urethra. It wasn't enough. The rest of his cock still crawled with repugnant motion.

No! No! No!

He brought the rectangular statuette down again and again and again. He felt the parasites pop and crunch beneath his skin. His cock, swollen with blood, ruptured. Blood stained the white base of the sculpture, sprayed across the mirror, splashed into the pristine white sink. Smythe didn't stop. He couldn't. Not until every last little scuttling abomination had been crushed.

Smash. Smash. Smash. Smash.

"So you're telling me he laid his dick flat on the counter and hit it with a brick until it was smashed to a pulp? For no reason?" DCS Lynch asked.

"Looks that way," DI Myatt replied.

Lynch shook his head. What a sick sick world.

Joe Boyega Picks a Bad Night to Become a Rapist Joe Boyega tracked the woman in the black dress and white fur stole as she walked up Donohoe Road. She didn't notice him. He was just another city kid hanging around a bus stop. In this environment his dark blue hooded top functioned as effectively as camouflage fatigues in a jungle.

The woman was elegant and sexy. Class followed her in a tangible cloud. She breathed it in and out. She was totally different to the girls on Joe's street. They acted like they were gonna be celebrities-pop stars, actresses, models; it didn't matter-but anyone else could see they were nothing more than low-class skanks. They didn't want Joe and he was happy with that. He didn't want them either.

Joe wanted the woman in the black dress and white fur stole.

This woman had it... refinement. She looked like a real star. Her black hair was cut in an exotic Cleopatra bob that framed a pale, ethereally beautiful face. Joe had never seen the whole of her face. She always wore a pair of large fashionable shades that hid most of it whenever she was outside. To Joe she seemed less a human being than some kind of aloof alien-as perfect as a fine art sculpture-gliding effortlessly through a sprawling morass of humanity.

She was a whore.

He'd figured that out after watching her house for the past month while he pretended to wait for a bus at the stop across the road. Him staking out her front door had come about by accident. At one time he used to catch the bus from here to take him up to The Cornish Block, a pub on Whittaker Road, where he'd worked behind the bar. That hadn't lasted long. The owner of The Cornish Block had been dealing drugs out of the back and the feds had bust him, taking down The Cornish Block and Joe's evening job with it. It was during his waits for the bus he'd first noticed the sexy girl in black.

It was easy to work out she was a whore. All the different men coming and going through her front door had been a giveaway. There were way more than could be explained by an active dating life, and they were of all types and ages ranging from fit young men to silver-hairs with the expanded waistlines brought about by late middle age. The one thing they shared was money. They all looked well off, but then everyone looked well off when compared to Joe's circumstances.

There could have been an innocent explanation-some other business she was providing-but Joe doubted it. He'd watched men both come and go. When arriving they'd approached the door in a furtive, sidling manner. As if they knew they were up to something that wasn't quite legit in the eyes of society. It was totally different when they left. When they walked out of that front door their chests were puffed out as if they'd just successfully negotiated contracts worth millions of pounds. One time Joe had even glimpsed the woman through the door as she waved her client goodbye. She'd been dressed in nothing more than frilly black lingerie that had contrasted with her pale white skin. He'd also been surprised by the number of tattoos covering her exposed flesh.

Then he supposed it shouldn't be that much of a surprise. She was a whore after all.

It was that puffed up feeling, like he was worth a million pounds, Joe wanted. That's why he'd picked her to be the one.

And because she was a whore.

He reasoned she'd be more used to it. For her it would be less... traumatic.

Joe paused as he contemplated what he was about to do.

...traumatic.

Shit. Was he really going to go through with this?

The reptile part of his brain reared up and asserted control.

She was a whore. She'd be used to this. It was what men paid her for day in and day out. He would have paid her too... if he had the money.

He felt bad about it, but he had to pop that damn cherry. It was driving him fucking insane.

The woman in the black dress walked up a short flight of steps and started to unlock her front door. Joe glanced to his left and right. No-one about. Perfect. He crossed the road with brisk strides, bounded up the steps, and then bundled her through her front door and closed it behind him all in one smooth movement.

"Don't cry out," Joe warned.

He held up a big kitchen knife. It glinted in the light cast by the streetlamp outside.

The woman in the black dress didn't cry out. Or show any kind of alarm. Her pale face floated ghostlike in the gloom. Her expression was guarded and enigmatic. Her large black shades made Joe think of the eyes of a bug for some reason.

"This goes down exactly as I say and you don't get hurt," he told her.

"What do you want?" the woman in the black dress asked.

Her English had traces of an accent Joe couldn't place. Maybe she was one of those Bulgarians or Romanians the papers said were coming over to steal all the jobs and slob around on benefits.

"You're a hooker, right? I want the same as what the other men pay for, only I ain't got no money."

He held up the knife he'd taken from his mother's kitchen before leaving the house that evening, challenging her to have a problem with that. She didn't. She looked at the blade, looked at Joe's face and simply nodded.

She stood up. "You can put the knife away," she said. "I'll do what you want, but please put the knife down. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

Joe didn't lower his knife. He had to stay on his guard. She seemed unusually calm about all this.

The woman turned to go. Joe shot out an arm and grabbed her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

The woman froze on the spot.

"To one of my bedrooms," she said. "That's where I take all my other clients."

"Okay, lead on."

He released her. She started to walk away.

"Wait!"

Joe's arm shot out and he grabbed her shoulder again.

She was too calm. Like she had something up her sleeve. It made him uneasy. What if she was leading him to where she had muscle, alarms, weapons, or all three stashed away? He had to be fucking careful here. As desperately as he wanted to pop that damn cherry, it wasn't worth a twenty-year stretch in prison, especially if he never got to pop that damn cherry in the first place.

"You ain't got some big hunk of muscle hiding back there, have you? No bodyguard to take care of the rowdy cunts?"

"No, I live here alone," the woman in the black dress replied.

"Ain't that risky in your line of work?"

Joe thought he was pretty good at reading faces. From her he got nothing. Her white face could have been a mask.

"My clientele are fairly exclusive," she said. "They're not the sort to cause problems. I think you know this already. You've been watching them come and go for quite some time, I believe."

Shit. She'd made him. Sirens went off in Joe's skull. She'd been observant enough to notice him hanging around the bus stop. Did that mean he'd have to kill her once he was done with her?

No, no, no. Fuck that shit.

Not unless things got really fucked up. That's why he had to project the attitude of stone-cold muthafucka. So she wasn't tempted into any stupid ideas that might cause the situation to get really fucked up.

He followed her through her house.

Fancy crib, he thought with a twinge of envy. Lying on her back and opening her legs to fat old rich fucks had done well for her. Probably had a couple of sugar daddies to milk too. Fuck it, he was no less a man than them. She could lie on her back and open her legs for him as well.

"My name is Nicole," the woman in the black dress said. "I know you won't want to tell me your real name, but it doesn't matter. I won't be going to the police. They don't believe sex workers when it comes to rape."

"John," Joe mumbled.

The corner of Nicole's mouth turned up in a faint smile as if she could tell he was lying.

Yeah, like he was going to give her his real name.

Her house went further back than he expected. And they headed down rather than up. He supposed she must have multiple bedrooms-one that was hers and others where she carried out her business.

The bedroom where she carried out her business was well fancy. Really plush and decadent. Exotic sex acts were graphically depicted in the paintings adorning the walls. A massive round bed with shiny black silk sheets took up most of the room.

Joe entered cautiously and checked around the room. No big fucker lying in wait behind the door or hiding behind the furniture. No obvious cameras.

That he could see.