Aside from a broken, bloody nose, Constance Gibbons was a knockout. A lithe figure, with pretty, vacant green eyes and toenails the color of eggplant.
Her husband, Rick, had given her the broken nose. His eggs were runny. After he’d corrected her for this grievous infraction — breakfast being the most important meal of the day and all — he’d bent her over the formica countertop in their kitchen, threw down the sweats she was wearing, tore aside her panties, and got himself ready to mount her. As a courtesy, he spat on two of his fingers and primed her pussy before he slipped inside her.
To start, there was always the brief exhilarated shudder Rick gave as he gripped her hips, and the walls of Constance’s pussy gripped him. At this point, Rick would slap her ass — often multiple times — with real fury and agitation, as though he were shocked and angry that Constance was capable of doing this to him, making him shudder and quake just by hugging him with her pussy. Rick would then embed his fingernails into Constance’s hips till he saw red blotches on her skin, and once he was over the initial shock of her engulfing him, he’d gyrate himself towards orgasm with no particular rhythm or skill.
“How’s it feel, fuckpig?” he would ask her between gasping breaths. “Feel good, fuckpig?”
“Yes,” she said, robotic.
“Ahhhhhh,” he said, getting closer. “Fuckpigs don’t talk. Fuckpigs oink. Oink for me.”
“Oink,” she said.
“Squeal for me, fuckpig,” Rick said. “Squeal loud.”
“Squeal,” she said.
“I said fucking squeal!”
Constance licked her lips, tasted the all too familiar coppery flavor of her own blood.
“Weeee,” she said.
Rick shut his eyes and cried out, “Fucking squuueeeal!”
“Aw fuck yes!”
He was getting close.
“I want you to snort, piggy, big ol’ fucking snort,” Rick said. “And look at me while you do it.”
She turned to face him and, without a trace of self-consciousness, opened her mouth and snorted. The lower half of her face was coated in blood and snot.
Rick shut his eyes and concentrated on his thrusting. He was so close now.
“Fuck yeah, piggy!”
The squealing continued. It grew whiney and hoarse. The grip on Rick’s dick grew steadily tighter, till it was holding him like a vice. The urge to come was momentarily stalled by panic. Constance had never felt this tight before. She was starting to hurt him.
He opened his eyes. Only Constance wasn’t there. He was fucking a boar. Unmistakably, a boar. Only a pair of pretty, vacant green eyes gave anything away.
Hell was an ammoniac slaughterhouse. Rick was up to his knees in pig-shit. Little white piglets nipped at his heels and curled themselves between his ankles, making it difficult to move without falling. Strangely, these piglets were without snouts. And Rick couldn’t see their eyes either.
He bent down to examine the little piggies more closely and saw they weren’t pigs at all but giant white maggots.
Suddenly, Rick couldn’t breathe. His throat was on fire. His nostrils flared and whatever was living in the air of this charnel house found its way onto his tongue. His senses of taste and smell were so befouled he yearned for a cup of burnt ash to imbibe. His skin was peeling. His eyes stung. His fingernails were shed as though being slowly torn out by invisible pliers.
He regained consciousness in the kitchen. It was dark now, but light enough for him to see the boar and what it had done to him. His knees began to buckle and he fell, hands clasped over the gaping wound where his cock and balls used to be. Blood poured through the slats between his fingers.
The boar turned to face Rick, its long, distended belly dragging across the kitchen floor.