Funeral For Sores

"You were so brave to speak at the Children's Defense Fund without make-up, my desert flower," Huma whispered.

"Harder, Huma. Harder."

"You don't need make-up. You have such beautiful skin."

"Harder."

"But I don't want to hurt you, my love."

"Don't worry about that."

Huma arm-wrestled Hillary's enormous, angry clitoris back and forth while keeping her elbow firmly planted on her flailing pseudo-penis.

"I'm about to, I'm about to," Hillary gasped. Huma worked the stiff clitoral hood, producing a sound like celery being crushed underfoot.

"I'M ABOUT TO!"

The pseudo-penis tore itself loose and reared up at Huma, striking at her face. She caught it in her mouth and bit down it until it sagged, falling limp along with the rest of Hillary. Huma settled on her bulk with a contented sigh.

"Your skin," Huma said, gathering slack handfuls and kneading it. "Never wear make-up again."

Hillary ran her hands through Huma thick black hair.

"Don't be silly, dear. Even though my body beginning to revert back to mere human, there will always be… structures that will have to be hidden. My skin was drinking the make-up that day, yet I still had to appear in public. At least the air was no longer eating my skin away."

"Yes, my love."

"And we found a solution that didn't require The Vessel. Maybe in four years…"

"Won't he be too old?"

"Yes, for The Old One to inhabit, but it may have other uses."

"And you are well, my love?" Huma whispered into Hillary's gray and lolling breast sacks. She poked a finger into the shrinking maw in Hillary's midsection and pulled it out playfully before the tiny ring of teeth could close.

"Yes, I never knew fisting interns could be so nutritious."