Chapter 1

My name is Suzi Creamcheese, but if you read "Starfucker" by Inosolan you know that. "Starfucker" is mainly true, but, like Mark Twain, Inosolan couldn't resist putting in a few stretchers here and there. In this story, I plan to sort of avoid out and out lies -- at least, insomuch as my basic nature allows it, which may mean some mighty big ones get in here. (Of course, some mighty big ones have got in here [and down there, and back there, and... ], but that's not exactly what I mean... )

You see, I'm an undead. Well, yes, sort of like a vampire, but not really -- I mean, Buffy wouldn't try to impale me (I hope), though I wouldn't mind at all trying to see if I could get that hunky Xander to impale me a few times. Not to mention that sexy dyke friend of hers, Willow.

No, I got undeaded because I didn't listen closely to the conditions of a wish that I made when my Fairy Godfather granted it. Because of that, instead of the barely-pubescent-seeming 19-year-old that I was, I am now permanently the world's greatest rock'n'roll groupie and slut. Not that I'm complaining -- sex is what I live for, which is lucky since the curse that came with my not following the conditions of the wish basically requires me to cause one or more people to have orgasms almost every night, on condition of feeling Really Really Nasty if I don't. (There's also the matter of the two-inch-tall ghost of Frank Zappa who hangs around on my shoulder like Jiminy Cricket making smart remarks from time to time.)

You may ask, why do I have to cause orgasms? Well, it's related to one of those things They don't want you to know. Basically, when you have an orgasm, you release energy. I don't mean the energy you use up having sex, I mean actual power that can be siphoned off by properly-designed powerplants and used to power all sorts of things, like... well, that's another thing They don't want you to know, and, if I told you, I'd have to kill you. Anyway, this energy is part of what, for want of a better term, is called your soul.

Of course, you'd Really Really Enjoy dying if I did kill you, because basically I'd fuck you to death. And that's where the curse comes in; just as vampires need to drink blood to survive, I need to steal that orgasmic energy. When you and I make it, you have an orgasm (or two, or three... ) and each time part of your soul escapes, which, instead of it floating off into the aether or being captured by one of Their plants, I suck in. And, if I really want to, I can make a dead man cum (ask Frank). Several times.

In fact, I can make you keep cumming until I've abosrbed all of the soul energy in your body... At which point you die. Not a mark on you. No signs of violence, poison, foul play, or anything a medical examiner would recognise as a cause of death.

But the smile on your face would really worry them...

I was driving down Archipelago one frosty evening, wondering who i was going to score that night. The top was up and the heater was on, because I really sisn't have much on. Of course, when I'm out at night, I almost never have very much on, so this is not unusual.

That night I had dressed relatively conservatively -- a red spandex tube top that left my midriff bare above hip-hugger shrink-to-fit jeans that fit so well that there was obviously nothing but well-shaped grrl under them and knee-length red Supergirl boots with platform souls and heels a total of five inches high -- and I was definitely needing the heater to keep warm, unless until I found a playmate or two.

I was just passing the Kumaniwanlea Lounge when the door flew open and a woman ducked out. By the way that she looked frantically around, I could see that she was scared of something. Since I was right there, I swerved to that side of the street, reached over, popped the passenger door, and hollered "Get in, if you need to get out of here quick." She looked down, saw me, and obviously decided that I was a lesser evil than whatever she was ducking out the bar to avoid.

She climbed in as quickly as she could, considering that my car is a Mazda Miata (well, sort of) and she was wearing a tight mid-thigh skirt and spikes, which is not exactly the costume for entering or leaving any sports car quickly or modestly. I was honestly just figuring to help ot a fellow-female in distress until I watched that skirt ride up almost to her nicely-curved ass, revealing the tops of sheer blue thigh-highs held up with a genuine blue lace garter belt.

At which point I took a closer look at her as she slammed the door and we pulled away. (In the rear-view, I saw a big jock-type guy come slamming out the bar and look frustratedly around.) She was sweet. Probably not even five feet tall -- maybe like four-nine in her spikes, actually -- with long black shiny hair caught up into a long tail through a golden ring and Japanese eyes. Small as she was, she had a body that men would fight for and probably had -- long legs that seemed to be half her height at least, narrow little waist above hips that flared out nicely and an ass that would be the envy of most women, including me (and my body was artificially designed to be dead sexy). But it was really her tits that caught the eye -- she wasn't competing with Dolly in that department, but they were about the biggest and fullest they could possibly be and still not look out of proportion.

"So, what were you running away from?" I asked after a couple of blocks.

"Who said I was running away?"

"Honey, I've ducked out of enough bars and other joints to get away from one thing and another that I recognise the signs."

"Well, okay -- it was this football player. I thought he was kinda sexy, and I was sorta planning on letting him take me home, until I found out what an asshole he was. We danced a couple times, and he started acting like I was already a sure thing headed for his bed and got a little too frisky and when he grabbed my tit I threw my drink in his face and ran for it." As she said it she was looking out the window, and her left hand unconsciously came up to massage the mammary in question. "I think I'm gonna have bruises, he squeezed so hard."

"Too bad. I never go into that joint; even aside from the jocks, the male clientele there is about seventy percent asshole and the rest are mostly wimps."

Watching her tiny hand stroking that pretty globe inside her lowcut bodice was causing me to think all sorts of naughty things. Of course, the way I'm wired, looking at linoleum makes me think naughty things. And I could feel the magic starting to work.

I'm not sure if it's actually magic, or if it's pheromones, or some sort of telepathic power, but when I'm interested in someone, they usually wind up interested in me, generally with highly satisfactory results. Unfortunately, sometimes I get a little carried away

With a chuckle only I could hear, Frank Zappa's two-inch ghost appeared on my shoulder. "Thinking of eating Japanese tonight, are we?" he asked, lighting a miniature unfiltered Chesterfield. Sometimes I enjoy talking to Frank; tonight I was too interested in my passenger. I swatted at him like a mosquito, and he vanished with a nasty chuckle.

"My name's Suzi," I said, as I thought about what I was already planning for later tonight with her. "I was just heading for a place I like for a drink or two -- want to come along, since it seems as if your plans for the evening got disrupted?"

"Why not? The way my luck with guys has been running, I could stand a nice quiet night out with the girls. I'm Lee, by the way," she answered. Without really thinking about it, apparently, her hand continued to stroke her tit, and she shifted a bit in her seat.

As we walked into The Purple Chairs, I could see that Lee had had the same sort of moment of cognitive dissonance that almost everyone who walks into the joint for the first time is prone to; you notice the name of the joint, and you think you know what to expect... And then you realise that the chairs are white.