As Eric lay dying in Saint Bartholomew’s hospital, four ghastly figures gathered around his bed.
“Hello, Eric,” said a skull-faced fellow who carried a scythe. His dark robes flapped in the still air of the room.
“Who…are you…guys?” Eric gasped. His oxygen mask was not up to the task of reviving his failing lungs.
“We’re the Four Horsemen,” the skull-faced man explained. “I’m Death. This is Plague, Famine, and War.” He pointed to each of his companions. “I’m afraid to say your time in this mortal coil is up. We’re here to collect.” He looked to the others. “Before I take Eric, does anybody here have a claim on his soul? Speak now or forever hold your pea—”
“I gotta claim on his soul!”
The hospital room door banged open and in strode a blousy broad dressed in a mint green jacket and skirt. Her frizzy red hair shone like a bright copper penny and she flashed Eric a million dollar smile.
“Oh shit, not HER,” muttered a horseman dressed in armor. He must be War, Eric thought.
“Hey, look,” Death said to the woman in the green suit. “You can’t keep barging in here at the last minute like this–”
She shoved him aside. “Go soak your head, Bony. I got a date with this guy, and he ain’t getting out of it.”
She yanked down the bed sheet that covered Eric and then yanked up his embarrassingly ugly hospital gown to reveal his limp cock. “You ready to rumble, pal?” she asked. Without waiting for his answer, she touched a gold tipped fingernail to his flaccid member and instantly it sprang to life. Grinning broadly, the woman hiked her skirt all the way up to her hips, showing off a pair of green silk crotchless panties with a fistful Benjamins tucked into the waistband. She climbed on top of Eric in his hospital bed and grabbed a firm hold of his erect cock.
“Do I…know you?” Eric gasped. Her grip on his genitals was cold and merciless. She literally had him by the balls. He squinted at the shiny name tag pinned to the lapel of her suit. “I…Ir…Iris?”
“Yeah, you know me,” she replied as she straddled his hips and lowered herself down onto his dick. “I’m the fifth Horseman, and I’ve been a constant in your life for many a year! Why, you swear at me on a regular basis. But that’s okay,” she leaned forward to whisper. “I don’t care because I know I’m gonna get what’s mine!”
The woman began to grind her hips enthusiastically, raising and lowering herself onto Eric with relentless glee. The four Horsemen, still gathered around the bed, shifted from foot to foot and looked everywhere but at Eric and the woman who rode him. Eric was suddenly very glad he had a private room.
“You like this big boy?” the redhead crooned. “Maybe you do, maybe you don’t, but you’re gonna pay me for it anyway!” She waved her hand at the locker by the wall. The door flew open and Eric’s wallet came flying out. It landed in the redhead’s hands and she flipped it open, snatching at the bills she found inside. “Money, money, money! And it’s all mine! I’m an expensive broad, I’m not cheap! Everyone pays me in the end. Even old Bony!”
Eric glanced at the Grim Reaper, who somehow managed to blush in spite of his lack of flesh and blood. “It’s not like I enjoy it,” he muttered. “But what else can I do? She’s got the government behind her…”
The others nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” said War. “Even I don’t get the kind of support they offer her!”
Eric wanted to ask what they were talking about, but he felt a tightening in his groin, and slow waves of ecstasy began to ripple through him, a precursor of what was to come. Even as he was dying, he was on the verge of orgasm. The redhead, Iris, threw her head back and whooped.
“I feel a payload coming on!”
Her pussy clenched around his cock, squeezing it so tight, Eric thought she might pull it off. Iris whooped again and drew his orgasm out of him, throttling it out of his cock, making him come and come and then come some more. He came until he thought blood would spurt out the end of his dick, or until money would fly out his wazoo, and maybe it did because the woman seemed to be pulling dollar bills out of everywhere to stuff into her panties and bra. Then, only when she had wrung him dry, did redhead give a satisfied cry of her own and collapse on top of him.
“Whoo! That was a good one all right!” Iris swung a leg over and dismounted Eric. With a few quick movements, she straightened out her skirt and jacket. Her face was flush, her smile broad. “Okay Boney, I’m done with him. He’s all yours now.” She strutted out of the room and was gone.
The Grim Reaper shook his head then turned to his companions. “Okay, anyone else got a claim on this guy, or can I take him?”
“He’s yours,” said War.
“I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole,” Plague whined. “Who knows what diseases that whore is carrying.”
“Yeah,” agreed Famine. “I’d rather starve than feed off of his soul now.”
Eric grabbed the Reaper’s arm. “Wait, that woman? Who… who was she? I don’t know…anyone…named…Iris…”
The Reaper scowled. “Not Iris, you dumbass. I-R-S. As in taxes, you fool. She came to collect before you died.”
“Oh,” Eric whispered. “No wonder…I got…so thoroughly…screwed…” And then he died.
Three of the four Horsemen filed out of the room, leaving Death alone with the body. He studied it with his empty eye sockets, taking in every detail—the twisted sheets, the rucked up hospital gown, the rapidly cooling spots of semen spattered everywhere. “Lovely,” he said. “Just lovely. I hate dealing with that bitch’s sloppy seconds.”
© 2008 Helen E. H. Madden. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.