20 more short stories presented by Outcast Press that don’t skirt around the many sides to sex work. Bad bitches and good guys. Creeps and kleptos. Nymphos and the needy. Eastern Bloc gangstresses to blackmailing e-girls. Yacht whores to yearning wives. Rent boys and triple-X stars. BDSM DVD kings and glory hole gawkers. Epstein wannabes and trafficking ring stingers. Dragsters and lot lizards. Every facet of prostitution, fetishism, and taboo/cathartic writing finds a haven here.

Includes the following pieces:

1. Razorblade Pussy by Manny Torres 
2. Boat Drinks by John Kojak 
3. Balloonatics by C.R. Abby 
4. The Doxxing Domme by Dan Baltic 
5. Toppings by Brandon Mead 
6. Girl Dinner by Paige Johnson 
7. Dead Fish by Annabel Costello 
8. Save Me, 6-Ft. Nazi Dominatrix by Charlie Babbit 
9. Eye Spy by Cody Sexton 
10. Honeysuckling by Ryan Warrick 
11. Cog Fuck by Neda Aria 
12. Ladyboy by Robb White 
13. Zombie Whorehouse by Sebastian Vice 
14. The Name of Your First Pet by Tom Leins 
15. Smalltown Boy by LG Thomson 
16. Perv Tax by Mark Burrow 
17. Deprivation of Character by Jeff Schneider 
18. Worms by James Jenkins 
19. Lot Lizard by JD Clapp 
20. Will-O’-The-Wisp by Aaron Paul Schaut 
21. Lewds by Slxt Vxmit

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The Splatter Meister Dies at the End

Krystoffer Beej Plutin knocked back another shot of rye and attempted to focus his swimming brain on the subject at hand: writing. 

Having just murdered his best friend, Roy Roy Buttecracke and his long-suffering cunty wife Murgatroyd, placing their duck taped bodies head to head in a walk in freezer, then watching them accumulate frosticles while he ‘bated, his writing felt turbocharged. 

And speaking of which, there was nothing like some classic fucking METAL to really rev his writing engine. He stabbed “play” on “Beyond the Realms of Death” covered by Andover, Mass. psychowhores Puke Graveyard, then changed his mind, got up from his taped-together chair, went out to the garage again, foraged deep beneath layers of old clothes and weathered copies of Mayfair edited by Graham Masterton, finally pulling out a raggedy-ass baggie with some poisonous silt of yellow rocks. 

He tucked the baggie in the front pocket of his black denim battle vest, covered with patches from Pussy Graveyard, Dick Delicious and the Tasty Testicles, Vomit Launch, Chunks Frenzy, Buttlicker Brummies and Horror Sleaze Trash Girls, brought it back to his study and began to chip relentlessly away at the stone, his balls crawling with desire, his three inches of hard mushroom cock leaking a trickle of clear liquid. 

“Me fer some of this low-grade meth shit,” he muttered to himself. Lifting his trusty tooter and doing a few bumps, he banged against the back of his chair, his entire body surging with the electric light orchestra. 

“I feel homicidal as shit,” he said. “Time for some more murder shenans.”

Without further ado, he used his new Onion router to delve beneath the surface of even the most taboo hardcore dark web shit to the truly nasty. Some of the images made him want to spew his Doritos, but he held it in, going in for the kill. Tightly cinched ligatures. Fixed and dilated pupils. Heads in bags with blood sludge smeared on the sides. Und so weiter, und so fort.

He logged into Facebook, then went live.

“Hey guys,” he said in his high-pitched nutless voice, “it’s the Four Twenty Double D D Goth Bitch Tittays Splatter Meister talkin’ right at ya live!!! How would you fuckers like me to show up at your door and cut your fucking head off? You’d like that, right? You’d even pay me for that privilege.”

Within a few minutes, he had 100 live viewers. By the time his obscenity-laced rant was over three hours later, he’d accumulated 3,000 viewers. Hot women were commenting with tittay flash. Even hotter women were dropping into his dm’s craving even a tiny taste of the Splattermaeister. They were blowing up his email with invitations to multiple beheadings, along with deposits to his Paypal.

***

“Welp, it’s been fun and games and shit, but now that I’ve sliced yer pretty face off and glued it to mines, played with your blood and slicked it over muh pud, ‘bated and busted out a nut rehearsing your murder in slow motion in muh head, saved some of the gooshier bits for muh spank bank, I’m exhausted if not somewhat demoralized.” He peeled the face away and dropped it on the floor, kicking the loathsome rubbery object away. A cat meowed, approached the face of its owner stealthily, then began to consume.

“How ya doin’ out there?” he roared into the microphone of his live podcast rig. 

Out in Internet land, the Splatter Meister’s jaded audience reciprocated his hard love for only himself. Hot men and women were peeling off their undies and stuffing then in their own mouths as they furiously ‘bated, looking straight at the camera so Krystoff could see their facial expressions as they worked length, girth and tight glistening snatch.

“Oh my goodness, this is better than sex,” he said to hisself, grunting and feeling his three inch mushroom rise once more.

“Should I write about this?” he asked.

The answer was a resounding yes.

He began furiously typing up his latest shenans as he continued to livestream. It wasn’t just the rock flowing through his veins, not even the certain knowledge that he had exerted the ultimate power, life and death, over other human beings, and done it repeatedly. It was the warm space cadet glow that accompanied understanding that the more outrageous the murder shenans, the more love, nay, adoration he received from his audience.

After a few months of house visits and livestreams in which he accumulated a body count to rival Gilles De Rais, after which he ‘bated and transcribed the results on his phone, he had enough for a collection, which he submitted to the top Splatterpunk publisher, an up-and-coming publisher called Skanky Bukkake Press.

The Splatter Meister began to win awards and the plaudits of his peers. He was interviewed in Cemetery Dance magazine and the revived Wicked Mystic and Bloodsongs. Tik Tok stans gave him rave reviews. He received so many thong panties in the mail that he started his own museum. People began to lop their own limbs off and use their last neural spasms and heroic surges of final life energy to mail them to him, leaking packages that revulsed him without causing him to quit his unboxing videos. He made more and more money, which in turn fuelled more murder junkets. He won five Splatterpunk Awards and received a special Bram Stoker Award that involved remaking the haunted house statuette in his own likeness. He was hosted by fans in South Africa and Brazil.

All of this murderous activity and his guilty feelings at long last caught up with him. Gulping blood thinners and chasing them down with vodka, he took his own advice and began to carve up his arms, making sure to cut across and not down, slicing his radial arteries till the red, red krovvy flowed. 

As his consciousness faded, Krystoff watched in abject horror as he saw one after another after another viewer leave his podcast and pop up on Books of Horror where his name was dragged through the mud. “Pollutin should have quit while he was ahead,” was the last nasty comment he saw on a new HWA forum thread. “Real murder is tired, and suicide livestreams are so 2015.”

His body had badly decomposed before it was scraped out of his easy chair by a crew in HazMat suits, who sealed it in a biohazard container and buried it in a landfill.

To this day, Krystoff Plutin’s sorry ghost weeps along the burning shores of Hell, telling his story to nobody. All his books were deleted by his publishers and within a few months after his death, he was completely forgotten.

THEES EES THEE ENT

Nips and Knives

Knife play, Anth thought, enjoying how the words clicked together like a bondage puzzle and bounded around inside her decadent mind. She’d never known or heard of its meaning or existence in the world of kink and fetish until she’d met D, when a chance meeting on Snapchat had brought them and their bodies together. “Mystery is the spice of life,” he’d told her one evening on the social media platform, his full name camouflaged from her.  

Dirty bastard, she thought, lying in bed. A pulse rippled through her g-spot, the nipples of her H-cup calcium cannons growing to bulbous proportions. Anth threw the bed covers off her, revealing her nude, racetrack-curved form, and looked down at the ginormous mounds of flesh attached to her chest which blocked out the view of her feet and toes. They make Devilish D squirt like an over-excited 13-year-old boy when he flops them out of my creaking bra. She smiled as the first few drops of love honey dribbled from her honey pot. Makes me so fucking horny. 

Anth’s hand went to her cunt, her index finger teasing the folds. 

“Mmm,” she said, biting her lower lip. Flesh crunched; a metallic taste flooded her mouth. Do I have time to click one out before her gets here with his bag of scream and orgasm-inducing tricks?  

Her digit slipped inside her slickness. Anth’s back arched, and her mind wandered to the top drawer of her bedside table. It was filled with various blades, stabbing and slicing weapons: butter, butcher, cheese, meat and fish-gutting knives. And, of course, the daddy of them all: the Bowie.

Let’s not forget the Kukri either, Anth thought, her breath exiting in trembling waves.

She gasped, her finger rubbing over the hard nub inside her twat’s hood as she thought about the night D had stormed into her house wielding the large Gurka weapon. 

* * *

Anth sat watching TV in nothing but a babydoll and a smile. Her front door stood ajar, as planned. 

What if he’s a lunatic? she wondered, wringing her sweaty hands together. The urge to close, bolt and barricade the main entrance to her house had her arse hovering mere inches off the sofa’s cushion. 

She sat back down, eyes darting towards the clock. Two minutes to midnight. 

“Be ready for me by the stroke of 12,” he’d told her. “I won’t be late.” 

Anth squirmed, her bladder pleading with her. 

I could just lock the door and turn the lights out. He’d think I’ve gone to bed, fed up with waiting. Was he seriously coming, or was he like all other men on social media: full of shit?

She glanced at the clock, her sexy nightie now glued to her back. Five past midnight.

Her heartrate slowed and a trembling laugh escaped her. Another one full of BS, giving it the big man, she thought, getting up and switching the TV off. Mind you, there must be something wrong with me, agreeing to something like that. Especially on a first—

Her front door kicked open with such force that it rebounded off the wall, causing a bang so loud it tore the stillness of the night in half. Anth thought her throat and lungs were going to tear asunder as a terror-scream emerged from her. 

A large, balaclava-wearing figure stood in her doorway, shoulders almost touching either side of the frame. 

“Now you’re going to get it, bitch,” he said. He parted one side of his army jacket and withdrew a Kukri from the waistband of his trousers. The living room light glinted off the steel as he slammed the door shut with the heel of his G.I. boot. 

“Jesus Christ!D . . . Is that you?!”

“Did I say you could talk, slut? I’ve seen you out on the streets, shaking those tits and wiggling that arse. You’ve been asking for it.”

Anth took a deep breath. It is him, she thought, recalling the scripted words he’d said he would utter as he ‘broke in.’

He strode forward, his heavy footwear thudding along her wooden flooring.

“Wait . . .” she began, but her breath hitched in her throat as he grabbed her hair and wound it around his gloved hand. 

He forced her up against the fireplace.

“Shit,” Anth said, her head yanked back. Liquid dribbled down her thighs, and she didn’t know if it was piss, jism or a mix of both. 

Anth screamed again, her lungs on fire, as he forced the blade beneath the hem of her flimsy garment and ripped upwards, tearing it open, her tits flopping out.

* * *

“Fuck. I’m coming, I’m coming!” Anth said now, her finger working overtime inside her pussy, the sheets under her soddening. “D,” she screamed. “D!”

Anth threw her head back, eyes closed, and then a rough, calloused hand wrapped around her throat. The tip of a thumb and index finger pushed up and into to the corners of her jaw. He’d informed her it was the safest way to do choke play.

Right on time, she thought, wondering when he’d sneaked in and how much he’d watched. “Don’t stop,” she said. “Please, D.”

The grip around her oesophagus closed and a squirt of come flooded out of her, followed by a second and third gush. “Fuuuck, D! Fuck. Let me feel it. Please, let me feel it. Now!”

“Not yet,” he whispered in her ear, and with that, his grip was gone and his weight was off her. 

“You fucking tease.” She laughed, opening her eyes. His six-foot-five naked frame towered over her. “Ooh, what do you have there?”

He smiled. “A new toy,” he said, holding up a knife with an eight-inch blade, its base wrapped in a gleaming black handle. 

“What’s that symbol on it?”

“That’s the best part.” He winked. “It’s a German knife, and that sign on the haft is a Swastika. Apparently it belonged to an SS officer, and it was stripped off his dead body at a prisoner camp. The officer was, by all accounts, a specialist in sexual torture, acts of depravity, devil-worshiping and human experimentation.”

Anth’s mouth formed a perfect O. “How do you know all this? It sounds made-up.”

“The guy I buy all my military stuff from down at my local ex-serviceman’s shop gets his hands on the odd specialty item now and then, which he keeps to one side for me. He knows his shit, trust me.” He shrugged. “He also said it’s possessed by the officer. Not that I believed him for a second.”

Fresh excitement arose in Anth. “Use it on me,” she begged. “Threaten to cut up my clit and cleave my tits off.”

“Oh, that was the plan,” he said, stepping forward. 

The sight of his erection caught Anth’s eyes and she giggled. “Are you going to poke me with that thing too?”

He nodded. “Goddamn ri—Fuck!” D said, flying forward as if yanked by an invisible force.

The tip of the blade plunged into Anth’s neck.

* * *

She gargled as, inch by inch, the steel sank deeper into her flesh. 

“Anth!” D said, tears streaming down his face.

He failed to stop his hand from turning. The knife twisted in her throat and violently ripped out against his will. And he found he couldn’t release his grasp on the hilt no matter how hard he tried.

D’s hand lashed out again and again, tearing an eyeball free, hacking at Anth’s face, slicing her nose off, mutilating her tits. Blood pissed up the walls behind the headboard and pooled around D’s feet, gluing him in place.

“Anth! Anth! Oh, my God!” 

As her body twitched, her numerous wounds now dribbling instead of gushing, his knife hand turned on him.

“No, Jesus, no!”

The steel swept downwards, emasculating him, and then the tip of the blade rammed through the underside of his mouth, pinning his tongue to his palate.

D stumbled backwards, smashing against bedroom furniture, crashing to the floor.

His body writhed a few times before lying still.

Overheard, Overlooked

Mother didn’t waste any time when Father took off and left us. Her taste in men deteriorated sharply. That was only my opinion, however. To judge from the sounds that emanated from her throat and other orifices, and her room, which was uncomfortably next to mine, she enjoyed her new mate with considerably greater volume and vigor than I’d experienced when life at home was still normal. 

The neighbors upstairs could hear. Maybe the ones around the block as well.

Though I knew it wasn’t possible, I was sure the other girls at school could hear her too. They’d say, my mother would never make sounds like that. And I was mortified for no reason.

He never made a sound, might as well not have been there. I can’t say what would’ve been more disturbing, his presence with, or his absence from her.

He claimed to be a writer, although I never saw him write anything, or even do so much as pick up a pencil. He wasn’t famous, and was most likely unemployed, otherwise he wouldn’t have had so much time to spend with Mother in her boudoir.

At other times, he sat in the living room and pretended to think. Stared into space so anyone present might suppose he was involved with plot and character. Mother said not to disturb him. Clearly, I alone saw through this charade. 

Some time after he’d installed himself, when it was obvious I wouldn’t dematerialize or go away on my own, he made various approaches, in the form of recommendations of books he thought I ought to read.

He stopped after I told him what I thought of his proposed sacred texts, Naked Lunch and Lolita. 

He never behaved inappropriately, however. He was trying to be friendly. Which was even creepier.

One evening he suggested we go out for dinner and a movie. He wanted to see The Shining. The reviews were panegyric.

“Stephen King,” I said. “Now there’s a real writer.”

He shot me a strange and knowing look. 

To my disappointment, the movie was nothing like the book. Some people’s innate ability to speak silently to those similarly gifted, and to hear the thoughts of others, living and dead, is incompletely explored. But I identified strongly with the weird little boy, who was nothing like me, and the hysterical freak who was nothing like my mother. The writer on the screen was the identical twin of the fellow who’d occupied my father’s spot on their loudly complaining mattress, and I told him I thought so. “You’re just like him. Except for the typewriter. You don’t even have a typewriter. I bet you don’t even know how to type.”

“Well you’re right about that. So…you think I’m crazy, huh?”

“Yes, I do. And no doubt even worse than that.”

He smirked, raised an eyebrow exactly like a frame from the movie we’d just endured. A shudder ran through me, which he caught.

“Not too smart, to tell someone whom you think might be insane that you think he’s nuts. Especially if he’s a writer.”

“You’re no writer. Stephen King’s a writer. He works hard, and sells millions of books. And I hope that scary bear from the final scene comes and devours you so I never have to hear…so I never have to see you again.”

He looked at Mother, who tried to seem appalled at my outburst. “Hear that?” he said. “She wants the bear to eat me.”

He growled like a bear, and licked his teeth with his repulsive tongue. Mother giggled. I covered my ears, closed my eyes and shook my head.

That night, the apartment echoed with bestial roars and moans from the depths of my worst nightmares.

From that horrible evening on, whenever he suggested restaurants or the cinema, I said I felt unwell. 

Since he’d failed to influence my taste in literature and film, he might’ve thought he could push his crude aesthetics my way. 

One of Mother’s friends had been awarded a show at a gallery located on an avenue known for really important art galleries. We were on our way to join her there for the opening. 

Some contemporary art charlatan had filled one of the gallery shop windows with a rotten mattress dredged up from the river, covered with greenish-brown stains and remnant sewer-weed. He or she’d tied it in half, so it looked like what the hippie girls at school see when they give themselves gynecological exams with their handmirrors. 

He noticed I was looking at this thing and must’ve read my thoughts. He stopped, pointed, leered. “Hey what’s that remind you of?”

Didn’t even think about it. “Your face,” I said. 

A moment passed, in which I thought he might pull a cleaver from his coat. Instead, he laughed maniacally. 

“That’s good,” he said. “You’re ready to face the world.”

The writer took off not long after that incident. Mother was inconsolable. Disgusted with men, she bought a dog, and called him Culo.

Culo was unusual. Unusually large, for starters, and he tended to stare at one. Without even opening that big slobbering mouth of his, which looked disturbingly like an engorged, diseased vagina, he told me, “You’re the writer. Don’t worry if you can’t think of what to write. I’ll tell you.”