Life in Hell

This is kind of a strange story, but I put it in Loving Wives because that's where the prequel is. Just a couple of brief, very brief, sex parts, mostly humor, and I tried to offend just about everyone with this. Don't take it seriously.

*****

"Oh, my fucking head!" I groaned, audibly, but everything seemed really strange, my memory kind of weird. I don't remember drinking, but this feels like a hangover. I can't see clearly, like my eyes are full of junk, but everything seems unfamiliar. I can tell that I've been laying on some rocky surface, but it seems strange, not like the rock in Kentucky at all.

"On your feet, you lazy shitass!" Damn! Sounds like some hard-ass Marine DI screaming, but I can't figure out . . .

Ugghhh! Some son-of-a-bitch just kicked me in the gut, and now he's screaming at me to get on my fucking feet. Then rough, hot hands grab me, two guys, one on each side, as they're hauling me upright.

"What the Hell," I say, still trying to figure out where I am, and then, still looking down, I can see it, the arrow sticking out of my chest.

Then it comes back to me: some asshole shot me, in the chest, with a fucking arrow. I thought that I was dying, but I guess it missed vital stuff.

"No, it didn't, asshole, you're dead, and now, welcome to Helllll!"

Did you ever see Good Morning, Vietnam, with Robin Williams? That's how this guy said it, drawing out Hellll! Just like Williams did.

My eyes were slowly clearing, and I could see the guy yelling at me now. He was big, and hairy, with a gut overhanging his belt.

"Good afternoon, Gary Sizemore," he said. "Welcome to Hell, and the rest of your death. I'm Edmund FitzGerald, and I'm your underworld welcome and orientation officer. We have an orientation package printed out for you, which should explain in more detail your accommodations and responsibilities in Hell."

"Edmund FitzGerald? What, were you named after the ore freighter?"

Smack! The fucker hit me, smacked me right across the face with the long stick he'd been carrying.

"Listen, you shitass, I was the chief torturer and executioner for King Henry the fucking Eighth, and while I can't kill you here, you being already fucking dead, I can make your fucking afterlife a living Hell, as it were. I'm the guy who got to cut off that bitch Anne Boleyn's head in 1536, I burned heretic bastards at the fucking stake, and I laughed while I did it.

"And now I'm one of Lucifer's top reception and orientation officers, and believe me, you don't want to cross me. Do you understand me? Now, stand at attention!"

It wasn't like I had any choice in the matter. There were two guys, on either side of me, holding me up, while this clown named after a sunken ship was pacing in front of me, spittle flying from his mouth while he screamed what I guess were instructions at me, telling me how to live in Hell.

"Pardon me, sir," I finally ventured, "but just what has happened to me?"

"You don't remember?" He was laughing at me. "You picked up some guy's wife at the diner, took her home, and banged her. I guess that he didn't like that very much, and a couple days later he tracked you down and shot you. But, don't worry: him murdering you means that he reserved a place for himself in Hell. He'll get here soon enough."

Edmund was just telling me what I already knew, though it was really difficult to concentrate. Finally, I asked, "Did the cops catch him?"

Edmund laughed. "Dude, you just died, there hasn't been time yet for the cops to have caught him. You lived in a hidden cabin, and nobody knows that you're dead, probably nobody will know it for a while. By the time anyone gets up there looking, the scavengers will have ripped your body to pieces. A whole lot of you is going to wind up as coyote shit.

"Now, listen up, because I don't want to tell you this more than once. You'll be bunking in Level 376, Section 2014, that's one of the places that murdered hound dogs get sent. Don't worry, Lucifer likes hound dogs, so that's one of the better accommodations. The cucks, they get it a lot worse."

"So, the guy that killed me, at least he'll get it worse than me?" That was a fucked up thought, just maybe some kind of victory for me?

"Him? No, he wasn't any willing cuck, and he got his revenge, so he won't go to the cuck room. He had balls, so, who knows, he might just wind up in the same section as you, and then you can fight each other for the rest of eternity." Edmund laughed his ass off at that thought. "Still, he wasn't man enough to keep his wife at home, was he, so he might get sent to a lesser status room.

"Now get the Hell out of here, and down to your section. I've wasted enough time with you, and there's another poor son-of-a-bitch at the door, waiting for his orientation to Hell."

Get down to my section? How the fuck do I do that? But, not knowing wasn't a problem: the two 'enforcers' Edmund had with him muscled me into an elevator, laughing at me, and throwing my printed orientation packet in with me. Next thing I knew, the doors opened again, and I was looking at my home . . . for the rest of eternity.

The place was weird. Hell, I figured, would be some underground cavern, dimly lit with fires going for what light there was. And it was sort of that way, but the 'cave' walls looked more like the fake cave settings in some of the original series Star Trek, complete with some smooth metal doors, painted red. There was a neatly lettered sign, Level 376, above the doors, and, on the doors themselves, Section numbers. Smaller signs, to the side of the doors in front of me, indicated that sections 2050 to 2099 were off to the left, and 2048 to 2000 were to the right. The doors dead ahead were labeled 2049. WTF, Hell was set up like a bad hotel?

Of course, I was still stupid, and I tried the doors to 2049 . . . and got zapped with an electrical shock, one strong enough to have killed me, if I hadn't been fucking dead already. The sign pointing to sections 2048 to 2000 started pulsing, telling me where to head. I groaned, looked at my orientation packet, to check the section where I was supposed to be, because I didn't remember.

It was a long way to section 2014, and it seemed like it took forever to get there, but, what the Hell, I had forever to get there, didn't I? When I finally arrived, the doors whooshed open, making exactly the same sound as the automatic doors in Star Trek. Lucifer must've had one fucked up sense of humor.

Section 2014 looked the same as the hallways, like a fake cave built by a low-budget 1960a Hollywood crew. There were torches set up, to provide flickering light, benches, tables, and what looked like sleeping alcoves scattered around. The strangest sight came to my eyes, as a decapitated man, holding what I assumed was his own head, walked up and introduced himself as Thomas Howard, fourth Duke of Norfolk. Judging from his clothes, I guessed that he'd been here since the sixteenth century. When he presented his ring to be kissed, I spat in his face . . . which was held in the crook of his elbow. Enraged, he drew his sword, an action which caused him to drop his head. When it fell, it rolled a bit, and his eyes were no longer on me, leaving him unable to direct his attack. I stepped aside, and kicked his head away. Since I was still wearing my steel-toed boots, it went pretty far, and I almost doubled over, laughing.

You know, Hell might not be so bad after all!

As the days wore on, life in Hell settled into a dreary monotony, mostly not too bad, but punctuated by bursts of pure Hell. I took my share of abuse, tried to fight it, but there was really nothing I could do. One of the worst things was a demon named Kriton. Let me tell the story:

A lot of what we do here is telling stories. Old Joe the slave was telling us, just the other day - not that 'days' mean anything down here - 'bout how he fucked Martha Washington while old George was out fightin' the British. Good thing Martha never had kids, he said, 'cause if she had, they'd have come out half black, and Old Joe was about as black a fella as I've ever seen.

Of course, I had lots of stories to tell, most of 'em about women. I was tellin' one of my favorites just yesterday.

Greg and Marcella had known each other since grade school, see, and they left high school just knowin' that they'd get married. Marcella was already wearing an engagement ring, back when they both started college at Penn State back in 1994. They were from a small town out in the western part of the state, and were both real religious. So religious, in fact, that they were both still virgins, and planned on that being the case right up until their wedding night. They were Christian church camp alumni, then volunteers, and of course they spent every Sunday at the Methodist church just off campus.

It was way easy to spot the religious girls in State College. They'd dress different, not in tight jeans or short skirts, but longer skirts, loose ones, skirts that didn't highlight their figures or show too much leg. They never wore heels, and always wore hose, a lot of times colored, more opaque stockings.

I never was sure what Greg was majoring in, but Marcella was majoring in elementary education, and we wound up together in this freshman level psychology class. I wasn't a freshman, but this was a general studies requirement for me as well, and I had to step back down to get it done.

The professor broke the class up into some study groups, and lo and behold, Marcella wound up in mine. Not sure if it was the professor's intention, but he'd set our group as three guys and three gals. How perfect it was to pair us off like that!

The study session ran long, and everyone was hungry. Bill, I think his name was, suggested Spatz, a Creole restaurant across the street from campus on College Avenue. Marcella demurred, but everyone insisted, and I'll admit it: I tried turning on the charm.

I hadn't met her fiancé at that point, though I did later, and it was no wonder Marcella was charmed. At 6'2, I was a head taller than him, and way better looking. I was naturally good-looking, in a rougher sort of way, and just naturally well-built. Heck, I'd fucked over 200 girls in my lifetime, mostly because I had been blessed with good looks. Even without working out, I'd have had an impressive physique, but I did work out, and that left me with a chest and arms that were toned and cut. With a small-town girl like Marcella, well, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

Maybe this wasn't supposed to be pairing up, but you know how it is: when the numbers work out, men and women tend to do that. As it worked out, Marcella and I were the ones left over after the other two guys and girls started that mutual flirting.

I could tell that I needed to be easy with her; pushing too hard would drive her away. She pointed out that yes, she was engaged, but I could see it in her smile: she liked having another guy seeming to be attracted to her. Really, what woman doesn't want to be seen as attractive.

After we finally left - and we had kind of overstayed a bit - we wound up going our sort-of separate ways, the other two 'couples' heading off in different directions. It turned out that Marcella and I were headed in the same direction, and when I knew that we were about half-way to her dorm, while we were chatting and she was laughing at one of my dumber jokes, I simply reached out and took her hand.

Marcella looked at me, almost stunned, and I smiled at her, but she never pulled her hand away from mine. As we got to her dorm, she said, with a bit of a tremor in her voice, "Well, this is me." I already knew what I was going to do, and I bent down and kissed her, gently, kind of briefly, but I knew: I was giving her the kind of kiss that sets girls on fire, the kind of kiss that leaves them wanting more.

The guys in our corner of Hell were mocking me now. "What the fuck are you doing, dude, trying to write us a fucking romance novel?"

"Don't worry, don't worry, I'll get to the good parts soon enough. After all, it's not like we have anyplace else to be!

I was just about to resume telling my tale when Kriton popped in, literally popped in, as appeared out of thin air. "McGuffey," he yelled, "I'm fucking horny!"

Well, while Hell ain't as bad as it's made out to be, one of the real plagues around here is demons popping in, to sodomize us former mortals. That part really is Hell, 'cause demons have about 15 inch cocks, and demon cum really burns inside your ass. It's awful, it's miserable, it's really Hell, but demons are as strong as twenty men, and there's nothing you can do. Last time I saw a guy put up too much of a fight, a second demon appeared, and they spit-roasted him. He was in agony for weeks, but, of course, he healed up, because this is Hell, and we can't actually die again.

Kriton shoved McGuffey onto his hands and knees, ripped down his already shabby pants, and just rammed his demon cock up poor McGuffey's ass. Of course, McGuffey screamed, and cried like a bitch, which just excites the demons more. That's a good thing, 'cause then the demons cum faster.

Only good thing about demons is that they're naturally slimy, so it's like they come with their own ready-lubed cocks.

So, Kriton pounded McGuffey for about five minutes, and then, that huge, dark red demon cock hitting McGuffey's prostate, my poor buddy came in ropes. The demons love when that happens, calling their victims all kinds of gay slurs. Like I said, this place is Hell.

Thing is, those are the only orgasms we get, the only sex we can 'enjoy.' Masturbation is explicitly prohibited, and there are a bunch of guys walking around section 2014 with their hands permanently attached to their dicks, where punishment has left their hands fused there, but still unable to finish jacking off.

Still, that's better than what happened to two unhappy guys. You see, Lucifer frowns on homos, hates them with a passion, and when a couple of horned up guys decided, finally, that they needed to do something about it, well, I guess it was like being in prison or something, and after they got into a '69,' they got fused together, joined at the lips and dick, for all eternity.

But, I digress. Kriton finished up with McGuffey - I wonder why, Lucifer hating homos the way he does, allows his demons to butt-fuck guys, but what the Hell do I know? - so it was back to finishing the story.

Anyway, it was only a couple more classes, and I had Marcella wrapped around my little finger. It was Friday night, and I guess that Greg was wondering where she was, but where she was was in my apartment, getting her cherry popped. I'd had a few girls before, and knew just how to turn a woman on, and Marcella was like putty in my hands.

The next week, Marcella moved in. Maybe I shouldn't have let her, but hey, I was still just 20, young, dumb and full of cum. She learned to give head, though she was never really great at it, and she learned to swallow. She learned about anal, too, and I took her butt several times. She even offered it to me a couple of times, even though I knew that she wasn't that much of a fan of butt sex, because she was trying to keep me.

But, when the semester ended two months later, I left State College, and Marcella went back to Greg. He took her back, too, giving her all sorts of Christian forgiveness, and I heard that they got married at the end of the summer, returning to Penn State in the fall as a married couple. I counted Greg as the first guy I ever cucked, cucked so bad that I took his future wife's cherry. The thought of that always put a smile on my face, 'cause like I said, I'm an asshole.

That part of the story, the other guys in section 2014 liked. We were the hound dogs, and Lucifer liked us dogs.

There were plenty of other stories to go around, certainly not all of them mine. If they were all to be believed, the young mothers of the fifties and sixties weren't as Ozzie and Harriet as we were told, and not a few of the guys laughed about other men raising their kids. Well, you know what they say: mama's baby, papa's maybe. Who knows: there might well have been a couple of cucked husbands out here raising my bastards!

It was about a year later, or at least a year on the outside world, that Kriton popped back in, and we were all dreading it, wondering what poor soul was going to get his ass reamed again. I'll admit it: I've been raped by demons several times since I've been here, and it's no fun at all. Sometimes I think it's punishment for us having fucked girls in the ass while we were alive, but it's no comparison, demon dick and flaming hot semen, to what we dished out. At least I never ass fucked any chick who didn't want it, or at least consent to try it.

A couple of guys down here even volunteered to be the demons' willing ass. No, nobody liked it, the homos all being in other sections, but a couple of guys thought that if they volunteered, the demons would think that they liked it, and pick other victims instead. It didn't seem to work out that way, and we guessed that he demons had figured out what was going on.

"Sizemore!" Kriton yelled, and I thought, oh, fuck, he's going to rape me this time. But, I got lucky. He was just here to talk.

"Hey, asshole, guess what? They found your body!"

"Really? Cool, maybe now they'll catch the asshole who murdered me."

"Not likely, dude. Your body had been out there for a year, the weather and the scavengers had gotten to it. What was left had been scattered around, and right now your 'cause of death' is listed as unknown, body too decomposed and disturbed to test. They never found the arrow.

"And your cabin's ruined, too. Seems that without any heat, the water lines froze. Then, when they thawed again, water started flooding your house. That was how you got found: the water company realized that you'd gone from virtually no use to thousands of gallons, and sent someone up there. The floor's ruined, bunch of other stuff not in good shape.

"Gets even better. They found pot in the cabin, so the state is seizing the property, not that you had an heir anyway, taking it under asset forfeiture, and it seems that the guy who killed you might be the one who buys it from the state. What goes around, cums around!"

Kriton was laughing his ass off at this one, and then he decided to get me even worse, forcing my mouth open and shoving his demon cock down my throat. This was way worse than even getting my ass reamed, 'cause at least an ass-fucking doesn't choke you, but there's just nothing a man can do against a demon. You can't even bite, 'cause demon cock literally is rock hard.

Heartburn? Ain't enough Prilosec in the world that can sooth fiery demon cum shooting into your stomach!

Demon cocks never go soft, even after they cum, so I was risking a lot here, but after Kriton had finished with me, and, as soon as I could talk again, I asked him, "Well, what about Judy?"

"No tellin'," he said. "Seems she got religion, started goin' to church, and asking God for forgiveness. We might just lose her to Heaven."

Section 2014 was getting new people. It's hard to tell how much time has passed in the outside world, so I don't know when they died, but our all-male section got Hillary Clinton. It was obvious: Clinton hated men, and despite her being the only female in our section, no real man would ever fuck her, so she was here as much for our punishment as hers. I mean, you want to claw your own eyes out, 'cause instead of one of her ugly pants suits, they left Hillary in here in a halter top and miniskirt. What kind of sick sense of humor did Lucifer have, anyway?

We got a couple of other famous people here, too, as the Devil changed things up. It seems as though it was part of their punishment, but we got Jerry Sandusky and Larry Nassar when they croaked, and they were totally isolated. After a period of real abuse, they were just shunned, essentially put in solitary with thousands of other guys around them. Sandusky got demon raped all the time, though Nassar didn't get abused any more than the rest of us.