David Owain Hughes

Johnny Boogles and the Gap-Toothed Bitch

Cath lay there frustrated, exasperated, her diddling fingers doing jack shit as her deformed clit played hardball more than ever. Next to her, rolled onto his side with his tiny, flaccid dick resting on his inner thigh, was her husband—or Noodle Dick, as she’d caught some of her co-workers referring to him—fast asleep, farting, snoring and drooling.  

“Okay for some,” she muttered, slamming her fists into the duvet on either side of her. “Noodle Dick.” Cath giggled, but then recalled the cock someone had drawn into her mouth on the photo at the front of her store. Bastards. If I do ever find out who did that . . .

She unclenched her fists and balled them again, scrunching up handfuls of bedclothes. 

“Kinda looks like a rocket ship with sparks, not a squirting prick,” one of her customers had commented, passing her by in the shop foyer, where the offending article stood on a plinth.

The large, crudely sketched appendage had the words HUBBY’S COCK etched up its veiny centre, along with the words—which someone else had clearly added, as the handwriting was different—NOODLE DICK. 

“Take it down!” Cath scolded the morning cleaner. “Now!” she added, stamping her heeled foot. Fucking twit, she thought, giving the staff member a death glare. Her face burned scarlet as she gazed at the added words again. Fuck’s sake. “Get rid. Immediately,” she snapped, clicking her fingers. 

Breathe, Cath thought, relaxing her hands, looking again at her husband of over ten years. Pathetic. A three-pump wonder. 

However, she knew she was being harsh on him, as no man could make her come thanks to her warped clit, which had looked much like a miniature cauliflower ear since birth. Hell, she could only get herself off every now and then, and that was only because she had found that being a total bitch and cunt to her staff, friends and family got her hot. 

Some days, when Cath was a mega-twat, she could orgasm without touching herself; memory alone was enough. On the days and nights she had the urge to stroke her clitty cat, or was struggling to orgasm with hubby, she would think of times she’d embarrassed people. Stepped on them. Talked to them like they were utter shit, knowing they couldn’t do anything. She held the power. She was their God. She could fire them at any time, for anything, and nobody could stop her.

So what’s wrong tonight? she wondered, unable to climax even after slating her husband’s naff performance, thinking his humiliation would serve her purpose. But nope, nothing. Not even a twinge. 

Cath had even conjured some of her favourite berating recollections while hubby had plugged away, such as the dozy baker who worked for her. “The weirdo with a beardo,” she whispered, smiling. One day the big bastard had thought he could cow her down with his size and aggression, but she had soon put that puppy in its place, breaking him in two by wielding her power axe and threatening his job. Since that tussle, the baker bowed to her. Kept his nose clean. 

It’s beautiful, having such a beastly specimen under my power, she thought, thinking that would spark a bolt of pleasure through her pussy. But no, nothing. 

Cath lifted her head off her pillow to stare past her flabby pouch of a belly. “You little bald bastard. Why won’t you work for Mammy?”

Her FUPA flopped back into view and her face twisted into something ugly. She could feel it’s grotesqueness, knowing then that most of her colleagues had seen how obnoxious and horrid she was.

“Watch out, the gap-toothed bitch is coming,” she’d heard someone say once. 

“Seen her teeth? Could park a bike between them!” another had said. 

“A regular werebeaver,” a third mocked. 

“Tits like limes,” a fourth teased. “Itty-bitty, with a zingy-zangy taste.”

The past laughter of her staff echoed in her ears. 

Fuckwits. They’ll all pay soon enough, one at a time. They’re just fucking numbers. 

Well, not all of them. There was Motormouth Miguel, who shit-stirred, caused trouble, spread lies and triggered fear and panic among the ranks. A rat. A danger. MM would spy and go running to Cath with any scrap of news or gossip he could find. My pet, she thought.

Then there was her other general, that faggotty, long streak of piss and rent boy, Tomasino. He was a special case, and once she’d gone through his phone and found photos of him wearing women’s underwear and sticking various objects, like knitting needles, down his urethra, he quicklyforgot about his ambition to replace her as store manager. Watching him quiver and hearing him stutter in her presence set her little cauli-clit to tingling on many an occasion.   

All these thoughts and images had rekindled her sex life over the past few years. But for the past fortnight or so, nothing, no matter how much she tried.

I’ll have to start being extra cunty on Monday, she thought, grinning. But it didn’t look like she was getting any satisfaction tonight.

She turned off the bedside lamp and settled down in the darkness, thinking about the odd, annoying occurrences from the past week. It had started with her coffee tasting slightly bitter and off from Monday, then the weird phone calls at all hours began, and she had got the shits after eating gone-off doughnuts from work, and finally her car had refused to start. Maybe that was why she was having problems coming? Stress?

Karma, a voice at the back of her mind suggested. 

Nah, that bitch knows better than to fuck with me! 

Cath’s mobile vibrated on the nightstand beside the bed and she jumped. A groan stuck in her throat. Not again, she thought, snatching up her phone and answering the call. “Yes?!”

“How about another dad joke?” the caller asked, laughing idiotically. “Or, why don’t I tell you why you were really sick after eating those doughnuts?”

Cath froze. The hair on her arms and at the back of her neck stood on end. Is this freak watching me? Cameras? Phone tap? “Who the fuck are you?”

“I squirted extra special cream into those doughnuts for you. Pew-pew-pew!,” he said, giggling. “You got my ickle, pearly white swimmers slithering around inside your guts, child. Hee-hee-hee!” 

Cath’s stomach flipped. “Is this Greg?” she blurted, thinking maybe it was a role-playing thing, and maybe this would be the catalyst to her finally achieving an orgasm.

“No, it’s not your hairy baker, who thinks he’s the dog’s bollocks.”

Cath sat bolt upright. “Then who are you, you little twat?!”

“Been struggling to come this week? Ha-ha-ha! That’ll teach you, being such a venomous cunt,” he said. “And to think, it was working out so well for you. Had you not pushed your cuntish ways so much the last couple of weeks, I, Johnny Boogles, would not be . . . haunting you.”

“Haunting?”

“Yes. You see, I’m the Cunt Demon, and, when someone has been too much of a cunt to innocent people, then I’m brought in.”

“For what? I’ll call the police!”

Johnny scoffed. “Best of luck with that one. And in answer to your question, well, that’s a simple one. I was brought in to annoy the living shit out of you, for all eternity. To out-cunt the cunt.”

He’s a fucking nutter!“I’ll have you arrested, and I also know people who will—” 

“Who will what, Catherine? Do me over? Scare me off? Again, good luck with that, as I’m a demon. I’m not of flesh and blood, you dumb cu—” 

Cath ended the call. She worked to control her breathing, then muttered, “Fucking fre—”

“You can cancel my calls,” the caller’s voice boomed, “or hang up on me, or not answer at all, but I will always be with you. Forever. Until the sun burns out.”

Cath screamed, her knickers dampening, a dribble of piss trickling down her leg. 

From the darkness came the thing of nightmares, stepping into a shaft of moonbeam that speared through the window and slightly parted curtains. 

A breath hitched in her throat. She pulled back, sinking into her pillows, pulling the duvet up to her chin. “W-what are you?”

“I’m Johnny Boogles, the thing that pissed in your morning coffee every day last week, who squirted hot jizz into your doughnuts, and who’s been constantly ringing you with prank calls and crap dad jokes.”

“You did something to my car too?”

Johnny smiled. “Yes. Sugar does awful things to an engine.” 

Cath looked at the black, floating thing hovering above the foot of her bed. Its body, cloaked in raggedy black clothes that flapped wild as though a tremendous wind howled through the room, looked squashed. Crushed. Ribs jutted out here and there, along with squished organs and flat hands and feet. Johnny’s face and head resembled a mangled pumpkin, his brains oozing out of a smashed skull. 

“Pretty, aren’t I? My beauty is the result of being an absolute tool. It got me killed, in the end, and the gods thought this image befitting of me in the afterlife as I come to do Karma’s work. She’s the real bitch, you know. You’ve got nothin’ on her.”

Cath’s stomach cramped, her eyes lowering to Johnny’s horse-sized cock, which hung from out of a hole in his shredded trousers. It was warty and oozing pus. 

“Oh my fucking God,” she said, turning her head and throwing up on her husband. He didn’t stir. When she was done heaving, she wiped warm bile and chunks from her lips, scowling at him. “How can you sleep though this, you dickhead?”

“Because he’s dead,” Johnny said. 

“Dead?” She turned to look at Johnny, his pendulous dick setting her off again.

“Yep. Karma sent me for him too.” Johnny licked his lips and grinned. “I know you like to dish it out, but I hope you can take it too. Because you’re in for a world of hurt, you gap-toothed bitch,” he said, cackling.