The Irresistible Woman: A Micro-Horror Collection, Part 5

Content note: fantasy/horror violence, and plenty of it. Also some references to sexism, misogyny, misogynist violence, and some sexual content.

In response to this post on Facebook, from dating coach Jonathon Aslay:

How a Woman Becomes Irresistible To a Man… She chooses to set high standards for herself. She’s clear on what she wants. She knows the value of friendship before sex. She comes from a place of gratitude (not expectations). She is confident and willing to ask a man out on a date because she knows a relationship is a two way street. She demonstrates trust and respect by accepting him for who he is. She’s in no hurry to get to the destination. She can take of herself, she doesn’t need a man. She shows up interesting and interested. She comes from a place of compassion (not entitlement). Lastly, she knows how to inspire a man, because she leads by example. Did I miss anything?

Facebook feminists bring you: The Irresistible Woman. Part 5 of a series. All micro-stories reprinted with permission of the authors, credited and linked to (or not) as they requested.

DISCLAIMER: References to violence, death, destruction, physical torment, psychological torment, supernatural torment, world domination, eternal nightmares, or the warping of the entire space-time continuum to exact revenge on one sexist jerk, are all intended as metaphor. These are fictional expressions of rage and mockery, aimed at the impossible, contradictory, ever-shifting standards of female desirability, and at the barrage of advice given to women about how to meet those standards. None of the authors actually want to do these things, or think they should happen. No, really.


The irresistable woman only wears short skirts and long jackets, and has the theme song from “Chuck” in her head right now. She also has the intersect, and is even now foiling a nefarious terrorist plot while being charmingly unaware of how hard she is falling for you. Because you are a man. A studly, studly man, who has the power to 3D print an a la carte woman who strangely lacks any dimension that doesn’t point directly to you. -Emily Moskal

Somehow you manage to obtain one of those 3D printers that prints cartilage, prints meat. You program it painstakingly, designing her in a modeling program, equal parts Angelina Jolie and Marilyn Monroe, long legs and a round bottom, not *too* well endowed up top, but ample enough. You make her eyes blue, but with just a hint of green around the pupils. Her fingernails, you think, are the crowning touch. So delicate, so perfect. You. You created her in your mind and bring her forth with a touch.

You load the printer with the flesh gel and set it into motion with the click of a mouse, close out the progress window and leave. The suspense is too great.

You come back when the process is complete, a few dollars poorer and a few beers heavier, proud of yourself for respectfully not bragging about her when she isn’t even born. You open the door, throw the keys into the bowl, and notice an immediate metallic, salty odor.

You don’t know what it is, actually. Not blood, you’d recognize that. Something else. The carpet squishes under your shoe — you can’t feel it but you can hear it, a slippery squelch. You wonder for a moment if another pipe has broken, flooding your apartment with the upstairs neighbor’s bathwater, but when you flick the light on you see the truth.

She is here. She is everywhere.

Flesh spun like cotton candy or spiderwebs, over the walls, bunched in the corners, eyes and orifices, mouths, tongues, reasonably-sized breasts. It spreads like a colony of slime molds throughout the apartment.

Some yellowish fluid saturates the rugs and furniture; amniotic fluid, lymph, you have no idea how to tell which. The horror of it is overwhelming.

You stagger backward toward the door, doorknob banging painfully against your back. You reach for it, twist, feel the latch disengage but the door will not move.

You turn, and see that she has spread over it, gossamer tissue creeping, thickening, forming something. A knot of flesh, a *face*, lips parting in a sweet, sensual smile. A perfect, upturned nose, a beauty mark placed just so on that youthful but chiseled cheek.

Her eyes open. They are blue, with a little green just around the pupil. She is everything you asked for, and so much more.

You look into her many eyes and you love her. You love her so much. Her little fingers pluck at your sleeve, demanding you remove your battered Steelers jacket, and beckon you toward the bedroom.

She does not speak — you never intended her to do that — but you can sense it. How she wants to show you how grateful she is for her existence. Without you, she would be nothing. She loves you. And she needs you.

She needs you *so much.* –Amanda Gannon

In response to someone named James, saying they loved the thread:

The Thread loves you back. Its love is eternal. Even when the stars burn out and the universe contracts in on itself again in a massive, cosmic heartbeat, only to propel a new Creation out of itself in the next moment, The Thread will love you. It will remember your name as it wanders through the husks of stars, stalking the ghosts of fading nebulae. James, it will say. James, you were one of the good ones. Sing to me again, James. Make it like it used to be. And you, from within the birdcage of her galaxy-spanning ribs, begin to sing your favorite song. What is your favorite song, James? Sing it. Sing it now. –Amanda Gannon

In response to two comments from men (who will not be named here, as they do not deserve it), one saying that “a woman must be a FILTHY FUCKING WHORE,” the other saying “That girl better shave that pussy if she wants head and if she uses the words diva or yoni she’s getting kicked outta the car on the side of the freeway.”:

But even her filth is a trick to ensnare the weak. The yoni, ever-welcoming, hides chasms of madness within its depths, seeking only to consume all energy within a twenty-mile radius. Her silken pubic hair is sibilant starlight, lusciously serrated to lacerate those who come within its grasp, and you will.

You will. -Gertrud

A reassuring susurrus surrounds you with blissful ease. “It is all right,” the voice whispers. You do not see the pincers until it is too late. You would do it again. -Gertrud

The irresistible woman has a pussy decked in spiderwebs, Medusa heads, scorpion pincers, Dear John letters. Her pussy draws you in with the power of a black hole, a black velvet hole. She absorbs your entire body through her pussy, in one gulp. If she finds you distasteful, she will vomit you out, projectile vomit your macerated remains out through the car door onto the side of the freeway, screaming one word: “Diva!” She will gargle the taste of you out of her mouth with Jack Daniels, pussy juice, and men’s tears. –Greta Christina

She can get head without shaving her pussy. It’s easier to, actually. Get heads. Take heads. Her pubic hair is formed of sticky sundew feelers and paralyzing jellyfish tendrils. They wrap around your throat. They pull you in, venom weakening you until you can no longer even struggle, but you feel the pain of their burning. They pull you in and in and in, her cavernous vagina opening wider and wider, carrion-red and black, speckled like the throat of an orchid. It grins like a shark, rows and rows of teeth. Your head slips inside, and though you fear you will smother, there is not time. Her hips churn as she closes her pelvic jaws, teeth grinding, sawing through the tough trachea just above the Adam’s apple. Gore spurts in a menstrual gush. Bone grinds. Stringy tendons stick betwen triangular teeth and snap as she places one foot on your shoulder and kicks your twitching carcass out of the bed where the slim, naked, three-headed hounds that are her pets can tear at it. She has no use for the rest of you. Only the head. The seat of your consciousness. You were uncertain of the idea of the human soul before, but not now. Not now in this humid prison. How else are you still alive? How else are you still witnessing this? The shifting of your skull against the skulls of your brethren, none of you able to draw breath to scream but each as conscious as you, as she performs her kegel exercises with your severed heads. –Amanda Gannon

The irresistible woman claims “FILTHY FUCKING WHORE” as her title. She who loves the lowest crawling thing finds no shame in filth. Fuck is her favorite word, and she a fucking irresistible. And whore? Of course she’s a whore. The men who fling it at her as they run in terror have no idea the beauty of that word, the sacred breath of it. She draws the world into her vast lungs and whispers the word through the eons, a balm, a memory that sustains, a call in the depths of the soul to rise up against those who would take your words from you. Yes. Filthy fucking whore. –Yvonne Rathbone

The irresistible woman only has wanton sex with whoever she damn well wants after wallowing in a mud puddle.

Her symbiotic relationship with nitrogen fixing bacteria really adds something special to the experience. –Kassiane

The irresistible woman wakes at noon with the familiar ache in her loins — well, whatever passes for “loins” in her true body. She puts out the call, a series of clicks and chants, signalling “Open for Business.” At once her supplicants quietly put down what they’re doing, and appear at her door.

She sorts them quickly: looks each in the eyes for a nanosecond, sees them, SEES THEM. The ones who do not find favor in her eyes… well, that’s an uncomfortable topic. Waiting at her door, her supplicants don’t much like to think about that. Although it does add a frisson, a note of apprehension that gives the anticipation some edge. They wonder a bit why they came here, why they’re taking such a risk, they know what could happen if… Did they even choose this? Did she enchant them, hypnotize them, use feminine wiles, subliminally write “I AM IRRESISTIBLE” in their pictures of ice cubes? In a cause and effect world, is free will even a coherent concept? The irresistible woman has an instinctive understanding of the true nature of cause and effect and freedom, has had it since she was a child. But it would take too long to explain, and right now, she has more important things to do.

The ones who do not find favor in her eyes, she handles quickly. We’ll get to that in a bit. It’s an unpleasant business.

The ones who do find favor in her eyes, she counts. She effortlessly divides herself into perfect copies, one for each — or, okay, two for some, or three, or occasionally more. She takes each favored one to a private room. They can see only her, they only have eyes for her — but she sees all of them at once. She is separate yet whole, the perfect Trinity, three in one, or twenty-seven in one, or a hundred, or six thousand that one time. She’s got this. She closes all the doors.

She looks at her favored ones, and sees. She sees everything. She ministers to everything. The desires they’re ashamed of, she caresses. The body parts they despise, she makes perfect: not by transforming them, but by loving them. She sees their desires, all of them, and she gives time a gentle twist, and she fulfills all of them. Yes, ALL OF THEM. What — you think this is beyond her? Or beneath her? She transforms her body into every body they desire. She transforms her skin into costumes: showgirl, space pirate, corporate executive, shoe model, lizard queen, nun, schoolgirl but in a totally consensual non-creepy adults-playing-at-it way. She transforms her hands into implements: feathers; whips; dildos of the perfect shape and size, like human penises if her favored ones desire it, like sparkle rainbow unicorn cocks if that’s what they’re into; fur gloves with tiny spikes embedded; Catherine wheels; sweatsocks; vibrators you don’t have to turn off after twenty minutes because they fucking overheat. At a moment’s notice, her fingers sweat lube, she hates having to scramble for the bottle. She exudes a magnetic field that stimulates the pleasure centers of their brains, bringing them just to the edge of ecstasy, and keeping them on that edge, and keeping them there, and keeping them there, for what feels like forever. Perhaps it is forever. Time is an illusion. Lunchtime, doubly so.

She gives herself equally to all her favored ones: man, woman, neither, both. And of course, if you don’t want her, if you want him instead, she can do that. She has a man inside her. Thousands, if you want to get literal about it. She can go there.

And when forever is over and everyone is finished, the irresistible woman gives each favored one a parting gift. She looks at them with her eyes, the thousand eyes inside the two. She sees their best self: sees them at their most thoughtful, most generous, most imaginative, most fair, most loving, most funny without punching down, most compassionate. She removes one of her thousand eyes — don’t worry, it’ll grow back, who do you think she is? — and places it on their tongue. They swallow. They will carry their best selves with them for the rest of their lives. Her favored ones will recognize each other, of course, the soft pink glow in the throat is a dead giveaway. They will find each other, and see each other’s best selves, seeing through her eyes. They will find each other, and smile, and get a room. Maybe for the evening, maybe for the rest of their lives.

They will, of course, never have an encounter as perfect as the one with her. They know it can never be repeated. And yet, there will be no resentment, no regrets. Every encounter they have, every flawed coupling of frail human bodies straining to become infinite, will contain echoes of this perfect one. When her favored ones find each other and couple, a small deposit is made in her account, ten percent of their joy, as a finder’s fee. She is, after all, a whore.

Oh, the ones who didn’t find favor? The ones who treat their lovers with contempt? The ones who want pleasure, but despise the people who share it with them? The ones who mistake cruelty for power — and not in a consensual, non-creepy, adults-playing-at-it way? Well, yes. We do have to address that, I suppose.

She sees them, too. She takes care of them before her favored ones, it’s an unpleasant business, she likes to get it over with. She sees them, too, and she plucks out one of her thousand eyes for them, too, she’s nothing if not fair. She sees their worst selves — sees them at their most selfish, most callous, most petty, most greedy, most brutal, most vindictive, most indifferent. She plucks out one of her thousand eyes, and jabs it into their throat like a needle, swift, just the pain of a pinprick at first. Her curse will lodge in their throat. It will stay there forever. It will be a dead giveaway, the harsh light in their throats like the blue light of television, their worst selves glaring through their skin like embarassingly bad porn. Anyone who fucks them will know. If they can ever get anyone to fuck them again, that is. And of course, they will live out their lives seeing the favored ones around them, seeing that gentle pink glow, knowing the kingdom they’ve been shut out of. Some will try to find the way to her door again, hoping to beg for a second chance. She will laugh, and fuck up the GPS on their phones, again. Some will slit their own throats trying to remove the curse — but she always knows, senses it immediately, heals it with an instant touch. She is not merciful.

Well, what did you think would happen?

When she is finished with everything, she pulls her selves together. She sends her favored ones home, finds taxis for them, she knows they’re in no state to navigate anywhere. She’d like to chat, but she needs some down time, she’s pretty beat, this takes it out of her. She wraps herself in her bathrobe, the nice terrycloth one she stole from the hotel, and calls for takeout. She tells them to charge it to her account. They know the account she means. She always gets the best takeout. Her friends want to know her secret.

Some say that the irresistible woman is sorting us, proceeding systematically until all adult humans have been marked, at which point she will bring about Judgement Day. They clearly don’t get it. They don’t understand the unique place they’re in. They don’t understand that Heaven and Hell are here on this planet, intertwined, finite. They don’t understand that on this planet, every day is Judgement Day. She’d thought that was pretty obvious, wonders if she should spell it out at some point. But it would take too long to explain, and right now, she has more important things to do. –Greta Christina

As so many responses to this thread have indicated, The Irresistible Woman’s love is a nightmare dressed like a daydream. Her love is a blank space. She will write your name. She will speak it. Only once, but it will echo forever in the never-thawing hollow that is her frigid vaginal canal. She is your last mistake. You thought it was a game. You are sorry you played. But she showed you such incredible things. . . . –Amanda Gannon

Taylor Swift is, of course, an Irresistible Woman. One only needs to look at her to know. One only needs to look at her second face, under the first, the yellow moons of her reptilian eyes and the opalescent scales around her gaping mouth, the hair that breathes, and the secret second voice like the roar of a crematorium’s fire. Unmistakeably woman, unmistakeably irresistible. –Amanda Gannon

No one can resist Taylor Swift. –Yvonne Rathbone

The irresistible woman is draining color from the world. Nobody is sure how she is doing this: whether she is simply making all humans color-blind, burning out the cones in their eyes and the color centers in their brains — or whether she is transforming the fundamental structure of light itself, altering the prism from colors to grays, shifting the ends of the spectrum to ultra-black and infra-white. It is a difficult question to investigate, since they are beginning to forget that color ever existed. What are they investigating? Spectrum? Prism?

Nobody is sure why she is doing this. She would tell them if they asked her, though. She read an article in a men’s magazine, advising women that black is sexy. –Greta Christina

She considers primordial black holes as kin. She shares their irresistible pull. She is indescribably old. She can hide behind a mote of dust, and bide her time for the ideal prey to evolve over billions of years and achieve sapience and hubris. –Scott David Weitzenhoffer

She has already devoured you while you were reading this. –@oncomingspork

Just some of you. –Yvonne Rathbone

Her legs go all the way up. Through the ceiling, into the attic, shattered roof tiles clatter to the ground as these unstoppable limbs climb inexorably towards the heavens. The atmospheric bubble of earth parts to make way for them to traverse space and puncture the singularity at the heart of time.

She knows to use them, too. –@oncomingspork


The Irresistible Woman: A Micro-Horror Collection, Part 1
The Irresistible Woman: A Micro-Horror Collection, Part 2
The Irresistible Woman: A Micro-Horror Collection, Part 3
The Irresistible Woman: A Micro-Horror Collection, Part 4
The Irresistible Woman: A Micro-Horror Collection, Part 5
The Irresistible Woman: A Micro-Horror Collection, Part 6
The Irresistible Woman: A Micro-Horror Collection, Part 7

Comforting Thoughts book cover oblong 100 JPG
Coming Out Atheist
why are you atheists so angry
Greta Christina is author of four books: Comforting Thoughts About Death That Have Nothing to Do with God, Coming Out Atheist: How to Do It, How to Help Each Other, and Why, Why Are You Atheists So Angry? 99 Things That Piss Off the Godless, and Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More.

The Irresistible Woman: A Micro-Horror Collection, Part 5
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