Matthew Borczon

He Read Hemingway in Reform School

He was forced to read Hemingway back when he was in reform school. It was a short story about a waiter who dreamed of being a bull fighter and when one of his co workers tied two knives onto the legs of a chair he tried to fight it like it was a bull. He is eventually stabbed deep by the knives and the story ends with this waiter, a kid really trying to die bravely like a real bull fighter. Duane is thinking about this story now instead of thinking about the two shots he had left. There were at least three cops out behind the two police cars that had forced him off the road and on to the ground behind his car.

He is thinking about this story instead of thinking about the dish washer he shot through the head back at the diner he robbed. He hadn’t intended to shoot anyone, just snatch and grab some wallets and watches. Why the dish washer decided to be a hero is the answer to a question he took to his grave.

He is thinking about this story instead of questioning himself harder. Two years ago after his first ride down state he had decided that he was never going back to prison. Being small, young and white he was vulnerable and as easy mark. He doesn’t want to wonder if being a punk again is really a fate worse than death.

He is thinking about this story instead of thinking about Elizabeth, she would be waiting for him back at the motel outside of Waco Texas. She is nineteen and a red head. The day he met her he thought the universe had finally thrown him a bone.

Duane hears the sirens in the distance as he ducks farther behind his car. Gunshots are tearing into metal and flattening his tires. He is thinking about this story instead of listening to the cops as they shout for him to throw his gun down. He is thinking about how much it doesn’t matter that he didn’t plan to shoot the waiter, or didn’t plan to shoot at cops. He knows he can’t go back to jail. He hopes Elizabeth will be alright. He is thinking about that story, how sometimes a bad end is a part of the job. You know it when you take it even though you never think it will be you it ends badly for. He is thinking about this now, and he hopes he will die bravely, like a real bull fighter.

Elizabeth Bedlam


Simon and Simone had to take turns in the mirror. It was only wide enough for one and half of them. Simone took the longest, painting her face, drawing on eyebrows that otherwise wouldn’t exist. “What do you think, brother?” She’d ask, her eyes unmoving from the reflection. “Do you think I look old?” 

Simon would sigh, Simone asked these questions nearly every morning. “We’re the same age, sister.” 

Simone would pout and finally glance to her right, “but you look old. Your hair is thinning, see right there.” She’d attempt to reach over and point out a spot, always in a different place, but Simon would jerk his head away. 

“No, no, you’re not old. You’re beautiful Sim, you know that.” 

“I love it when you call me that.” Simone would lean over and kiss her brother on the cheek, before shuffling three steps to the side, letting him have the mirror to shave. There was no way she’d let him have a beard. It would scratch her when they kissed, while they slept. 

After the bathroom, the two would turn sideways to fit out the door, walk down the wide short hallway, and then turn again to go into their small bedroom. They had their clothing made special, a blue suit coat and a blue dress. A black button-down shirt, and a black silk blouse with lace. All patched together, just as they were.

 The two never looked at themselves below the shoulders if they could help it. The place where their bodies smeared into each other. A full breast, a flat nipple. A small cock and a puckered cunt. No one had ever derived pleasure from the twins, except the twins themselves. 

Lying in the dark, side by side, Simon would feel, hear, Simone’s breath quicken in their chest, as she massaged her clit. Soon she was begging him to put his hand into her cunt. “Please, just touch me. We’ll do you after, like always. Please, brother,” she’d moan in desperation. Both would feel a spark igniting deep within their shared pelvis. Simone glanced over, seeing her brother stroking his own flame. “No, me first, please, Simon!” She gasped, the urge to be penetrated as she orgasmed was overwhelming. 

Simon sighed, as always ignoring his own pleasure to assist his sister. He leaned his hand over and thrust three fingers hard and fast into Simon’s moist cunt. She went rigid, and rubbed faster, gasping, moaning, a bitch in heat. “There, there…” she trailed off, falling down the other side of orgasm, finally relaxing. She turned her head to her brother, her breath still rattling through their shared chest cavity. “Now you go, love.” 

His fingers lubricated with Simone’s white mucus, her wet gash, Simon pulled on his knots and strings. Simone kissed his tense neck beside her. “Yes, brother, like that.” She said, the words hot and wet in his ear. At the end Simon grunted, leaking white lust on his hand. “There, brother, there…” Simone whispered. Simon, knowing what she wanted, gave her his hand. She sucked on his soiled, salty fingers, crusted with her sap and his. They tasted the same, different meals made from the same scrambled ingredients. 

When they had finished, both looked up at a splinter in the ceiling. “Good sister.” 

“Good brother.” Then silence as they dropped off to sleep. They knew they would always lay beside one another, even in death. Their insides so entangled, so as never to be undone by surgeon blade or God himself. 

After dressing, the twins sat on the bench in their kitchen. Next Thursday would be their fortieth birthday. They saved their pennies all year to buy a gift for the other. Whatever the other wanted. 

Together, sitting side by side, the twins browsed through a cheap glossy booklet. “They’re getting younger and younger every year.” Simone clicked her tongue. “She looks like she could still be in high school.” 

“Maybe we’re just getting older, sister.” Simon said, his voice flat. Simone shrugged, and the two continued to shop. Simon picked a redhead, tall and thin. “She’s probably not natural, but I don’t mind so much anymore.”

Simone shrugged, looking over at her brother’s selection. “She looks real enough to me. Just check her cunt.” 

“She probably shaves. All the girls do these days.” 

Simone giggled into her coffee cup, “Then check her asshole, Ha-ha.” 

Simon grinned at this. “You are wickedly filthy sister. You get worse by the year.” The two sat in quietly, waiting for Simone to pick out her gift. 

“Her. She looks fine enough.” Simone circled the profile of a pale brunette with black hollow eyes, wrapped in the lust of buckles and leather. 

Simon nodded his head, “She looks like she’d give a good tongue lashing alright. Think she’s pierced?” 

“I don’t think that’s a trend anymore.” Simone said without emotion.  

Simon shook his head, “I just can’t keep up with these things,” he muttered. In his youth, girls were clean. Then a few years older they became gradually infected with more tattoos, more metal in their faces. But that seemed to be winding down as plastic surgery took hold. Pumped up tits and sucked in hips seemed to be the thing now. Simon didn’t care, as long as they kept their cunts open and wet, that’s all he needed. Simone always had higher standards, but she was a woman, Simon expected as much. Her prostitute always cost more than his. But it was their birthday, so he didn’t complain. 

The two girls, Lennon the redhead, and Cori the brunette, giggled in the elevator up to the third floor of the shabby apartment complex. They hugged their nondescript coats around their frames. Only their heavy make-up and higher than average heels hinted at their profession. In the long, silent hallway they turned a corner and stopped at the door in the middle of the wall, 36C. 

Lennon and Cori had never been here before, but Misty had. She remembered 36C. She told them what to expect inside. Not just a brother, not just a sister, but a distorted mesh of flesh and bone. Three legs and forth curled down the middle, a misshapen serpent. The apartment, and a sickening smell of turpentine and butterscotch. 

“Do you want to do it?” Lennon asked. At least she was getting the brother. She felt worse for Cori. Cori sighed and pressed the buzzer. The women waited in silence, hoping Misty had been lying. They heard a chain slide across inside, then the door open before them. A dim triangle of yellow light stretching out into the hall. 

“Welcome ladies.” Cori and Lennon stepped inside. They tried to look anywhere but at the twins. The brother, red and beaming. The sister with a sour look on her face. Both had the same black beads for eyes, resembling more fish than humans. Faces round and pale.

Simone’s eyes moving up and down Cori. “Take those coats off,” she said. The prostitutes looked at each other, then back the twins, slid their coats off. Simone took them in her sweaty hand. The pair shuffled over to hang the coats on the back of a chair. 

“Cake?” Asked Simon. He picked up a fork, pushing a spongy hunk into his gaping mouth. A smudge of brown frosting littered with yellow crumb sat at the corner of his lips unnoticed. He smiled. 

“No, thanks.” The two women echoed each other. 

“Of course they don’t want cake, brother. They’re paid professionals on the clock. They’re here to fuck, not eat.” 

Simon dropped his fork onto the plate. “My sister is right, as always. Apologies, ladies. Shall we go into the bedroom?” The pair limped just slightly down the hall. Their feet heavy on the thick green carpet. They turned sideways and entered, standing in front of the bed. 

Simone was already unbuttoning her trousers, struggling to push her side of the pants down. “Come on, brother, we don’t have all night. I’m sure these girls have other appointments.” 

“Oh right, right. I was just so transfixed by their radiant beauty.” The prostitutes were good at forcing smiles, but found at the moment it was harder than usual. “Maybe you can give us some help?” Simon asked, eager to the feel a hand that wasn’t his own or his sister’s. 

Cori had been working longer. She took the lead and stepped forward, helping slip Simone’s pants over her narrow ass. Lennon moved forward, doing the same. Neither woman wanted to look at the leg. But there it was glaring up at them, twisted around a middle of a well formed third leg. A misshapen toe with a cracked yellow nail wiggled, making Lennon turn away and gather herself. “Something the matter?” Simon asked from above her. 

“No, no, just fine. Can we turn off the lights?” She asked. 

“No, I like to watch,” Simone snapped. Now undressed from the waist down, the twins sat on the bed. The old metal frame cracked as they wiggled and laid back, each spreading open a leg to expose their underdeveloped sex. “Just lick, none of that fancy stuff.” Simone told her hooker. 

“Same for me, darling. Well, maybe a little sucking as well, Ha-ha.” Simon laughed at his own joke. Lennon swallowed, kneeling between his legs. On the other side, Cori did the same. 

“We don’t have all night.” Simone grunted, lifting her head to watch the pale brunette come closer to the angry mouth of her gash. “We paid for an hour. That’s ten minutes wasted while you look at my cunt. I wait all year for this. Your ad said you do women, so are you going to look at it or eat it?” 

Cori put her nose into the sour, musty hole between Simone’s legs. “That’s it, lovely little thing, that’s it….” Simone gasped. The sound of the prostitute’s tongue lapping against the folded skin of Simone’s sloppy cunt made Simon grow harder still. 

Lennon didn’t have to be asked. She watched the man’s undersized sex inflate, a slight bend to the left, among a sparse nest of wiry hair. If she thought about it, she’d gag. The smell of sweet sweat inflamed her nostrils as she moved closer. She pinched the cock between two fingers to hold it in place, more a slippery noodle than an iron rod. “Yes, put it in, please. Use your tongue, lots of warm wet tongue.” Simon gasped, leaning his head back and sighing. He waited all year to feel a woman’s mouth engulf his cock. He wanted to revel in it. 

Beside him, he heard Simone’s pleasure ragged and quick on her lips. Inside their chest he felt her heart beating as rapidly as his, their lungs in sync. The room hushed but for the wet licks and sucks of the whores devouring their sex, the moans of the twins. “I’m close, brother, I’m close.” Simone gasped. 

“Me too, sister.” He reached across their wide chest and grasped for her hand. Simone interlaced her fingers with his. 

“The leg, please…. kiss the toes,” Simone told her prostitute. 

Cori stopped and looked up, “What?” She asked, realizing now there was something worse than the pucker old cunt she’d been eating. 

“You deaf girl? The leg. Right there.” Cori looked over to see the elongated toe, the small webbed ones glued down to the skin, as if melted by summer heat. They wiggled at her, and she fell back. “Lick it, now….” Simone’s voice ached for the finish. 

“You too, honey. Touch it, run your… tongue down it.” Simon fought to get the words out. His cock fell from the hooker’s mouth. He was on edge. “Now.” His word carried heavy urgency. 

Lennon nodded at Cori. Both women moved to either side of the gnarled limb. Lush lips running over skin, sucking, taking the salty brine taste of the underdeveloped biology. “The toes!” Simone wailed again, feeling herself at the top of orgasm, ready to plummet down the other side, harsh and fast. 

Simon turned his head to Simone, “Sister,” his words hot and damp in her ear, “happy birthday.”  

Simone wailed, feeling the brunette whore plunge her tongue between the stubs of toes and splintered nails. “Brother… oh.” As Simone exhaled her pleasure, Simon felt his dribble from between his legs, smearing in Lennon’s fox pelt locks that brushed against his skin. 

“Happy birthday,” Simone finally managed to gasp. She turned her face to her brother’s, kissing his mouth with a quick flick of her tongue. He tasted like chocolate frosting. 

Ve Wardh

Shitting Bricks

Keith had been shitting bricks since he was 15. He’d left school and under the guidance of his father, had started the daily grind on the building sites. It’s what he was destined to do. Every man on his father’s side dating back six generations had been a labourer, and Keith was no different whether he shat bricks or not. And he did.

His first brick passed on his first day at his first site. He was helping his father unload the van when he was suddenly doubled over in pain, an anguished scream disrupting the monotonous drone of the cement mixer. His father rushed to his side, both out of concern and embarrassment at his son causing such a scene. As pain rippled through his abdomen, Keith felt a heavy drop in his pelvis accompanied by a scraping as though his innards were being slowly shredded. He fell to the ground, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat, his face flushing red.

His father bundled him up in the van and made a beeline to the hospital while Keith wailed and thrashed in the seat beside him. Blood vessels burst in Keith’s eyes and the air squeezed from his lungs as the heavy deposit in his abdomen shifted and forced its way downwards. His father swerved the van, gasping as he noticed a rapidly growing red stain blooming from his son’s crotch and soaking into the van’s interior, staining the seat a deep maroon. He narrowly avoiding ramming another car as Keith gestured to his father to pull over, arms flailing wildly.

The minute the van stopped, Keith opened the door and let himself fall to the ground. His father watched on in horror as he staggered, hunched over, to the side of the road while simultaneously tugging down his trousers. He crouched, shaking hands grasping a garden fence to steady himself. They both ignored the curtains twitching in their peripherals. With a final agonised scream to the heavens, a solid mass appeared under Keith’s exposed ass, hitting the path with a solid thunk. The boy dissolved into tears as a series of airy farts escaped his bleeding ass, his sobs broken with gasps of relief. His father stared at the mass under his son, willing his eyes to be deceiving him but no, he’d been a builder for 30 years now and knew his way around a brick more than most. The brick was fully formed and presumably fully functional, the only imperfection being a slight chip on the corner from the impact and being sodden and slick with his son’s ass blood.

Noticing the growing crowd gathering in the street, Keith’s father yanked the boy up and ushered him, still sobbing, back into the van before speeding away. When they’d disappeared, the odd brave onlooker walked up to examine the brick yet when hit by the smell recoiled quickly back into their homes. There it stayed, untouched.

Twenty years had passed since then, and now shitting bricks during the workday was part of Keith’s life. His asshole had become so ravaged by the bricks it was as smooth as a fish’s underbelly and the bricks just slipped right out. He had however, become increasingly malnourished over time. The constant brick shitting had ripped his intestines to pieces, leaving him resembling nothing more than a leathery skeleton in a hardhat on his good days. Digestion was a reasonable sacrifice in exchange for producing ass bricks in Keith’s eyes though. He’d built many a proud house using his ass bricks intermingled with the regular ones and his clients were none the wiser. He had, in his older age, come to appreciate his brick shitting a great deal more than he thought he ever would. Every time he’d feel the familiar drop in his stomach, he’d drop trou, and after a brief strain and a grunt would produce what each time seemed to be the most perfect and functional brick which he’d lovingly place alongside its brothers and sisters ready for construction. With ass bricks, it was always a job well done. 

Everson Thomas

The Final Determination

In the final determination it was calculated with some certainty that each time a citizen of earth failed to masturbate when presented with an opportunity to do so, it was a crime against the wellbeing of the species as a whole. This wasn’t the question that the newest and most sophisticated thinking machine had been tasked with, but it was the answer it gave. It would be fair to say that the findings were a surprise to the assemblage of politicians, business leaders, philosophers and artists gathered to hear the final profound dictat that had long been expected, though not necessarily an unwelcome one, since it validated the previous shameful activity that had hitherto taken up so much of their time. The rows of polished tables inhabited by scrupulously elegant bodies twitched like tickled leaves in an urgent breeze as a wave of comprehension dawned on the room. It was a tense moment, made more so by the fact that the entire proceeding had been televised, with every awkward glance and fidget caught in precisely the kind of vainglorious high definition close-up that had been insisted upon by the broadcasters and attendees alike. The objective of the thinking machine had been to formulate the crucial nudge that humanity needed in helping it achieve the next stratum of social evolution necessary to be regarded as a race of notable utility among the great intergalactic sentient menagerie. It had been decades since any progress had been made in the matter. It was one thing to discover that aliens did indeed walk among us, and had done for some time, but quite another to learn just how disappointed they were to be here. Their final visitation and unsolicited evaluation had been fleeting and impolite, and even through the veil of cross-species miscommunication it was perfectly obvious that Earth’s ambience could charitably be described as ‘undesirable’. It was an unpleasant encounter that excited a significant wrinkle in the collective pride of the planet. The attention of Earth was focused, and in an unforgiving mood. And so as the summit delegates were caught in the fluttering blaze of ten billion eyes and the intense crossfire of arousal and inadequacy, it was decided that the best possible course of action could only be arrived at after a brief but essential adjournment. 

Hank Kirton

My Last Halloween

My urine looks like root beer. That’s a good bad sign, I think. It ain’t from eating rhubarb. My doctor once told me, “Your organs are not happy…” and I rushed straight home and put away a quart of whiskey. I already have hepatitis. The whites of my eyes are yellow. I was putting a brave strain on my liver and kidneys and (probably) pancreas. My pee was now brown. The end was near, thank Manson. I’m feeding the champion within with beer and bourbon. My abdomen is swollen. My face is decorated with ruptured blood vessels, little Braille scabs that describe my disordered life. I look like a Wolverton cartoon.

I don’t sit at my kitchen table anymore. Sitting there makes me feel like a sack of puppies about to be drowned. I don’t need that. I patiently await my hemorrhage on the loveseat. The cushions are pocked with little burn holes. I can’t afford to smoke anymore. Cigarettes have become too expensive.  Lung cancer was taking too long anyway. I used to cough like a helicopter. There was this girl named Colleen. An anorexic albino, she looked like a vaporous, woeful ghost. Pale and spooky and willowy. We only had sex once. She said intercourse with me was like fucking a fishing rod.

I used to know a coke-dealer named Ivan, a big Russian with a mustache and a laugh like galloping horses. I once bought a gram from him and gave him too much money. Those were the days. Ivan noticed the error and gave me the extra twenty back. He said, “Honesty is the best policy,” in his deep dark forest of an accent. I thanked him and returned home to find that the coke had been cut to within an inch of its life. Colleen laughed about it for hours. That was the start of her nervous breakdown.

I haven’t had company since Colleen left. They were all her friends. I didn’t like any of them but at least they drank. We used to stand around the kitchen table, filling our livers. I felt a reluctant kinship. I felt like a character in the AA book. One night three people had to race to the bathroom to puke. We were drinking bubblegum vodka. The smell got to be obnoxious.

Why are all these sour memories crowding in on me? I pour another shot of bourbon. I don’t know why I don’t just drink straight from the bottle, hobo style. Etiquette? I’m only an obscene animal with a thirst like a plummet. I urge my liver to fail. The next time I piss I want it to be inkjet black. I want to drown in my own blood like Kerouac and W.C. Fields.

They’re dead and much happier than I am.


From: Everything Dissolves

Otto Burnwell

The Camel’s Dick

You didn’t say no when your wife asked if you were okay with her taking a casserole over to her ex-husband’s place. He’s laid up with a bad back, she said, and had to take time off from work.

Instead, you asked why he didn’t have his new wife do it.

His girlfriend, and he says she’s not very good. It’s just a casserole, she said.

It’s the camel’s nose, you said.

We’ve got plenty.

Wouldn’t hurt him to miss a few meals.

How would that make us look?

Can’t argue with that.

You didn’t say no when your wife asked if you were okay with her running a load of laundry for her ex-husband. He’s finally back on his feet, she said, and needs something clean to wear for work.

Instead, you asked if his girlfriend is lousy at laundry, too.

She left him. It’s just a load of laundry, she said.

It’s the camel’s nose, you said.

There’s always plenty of room in the washer.

Wouldn’t hurt him to spend an hour at the laundromat doing his own laundry.

How would that make us look?

Can’t argue with that.

You don’t remind her that she’s the one who told you her ex- was an asshole and a parasite. She’s not stupid. She dumped him for a reason. But she is kind-hearted. That seems to trump everything now that he turned himself into a charity case.

You didn’t say no when your wife asked if you were okay with letting her ex-husband use the home number for messages. They turned off his phone, she said, and he needs a number to give out while he’s looking for a job.

Instead, you ask what happened to the job he has.

They let him go and cancelled his insurance. It’s just for messages, she said.

It’s the camel’s nose, you said.

We hardly ever use it anyway.

There’s a payphone at the Cash and Go that still takes incoming calls.

How would that make us look?

Can’t argue with that.

You didn’t say no when your wife asked if you were okay with letting her ex-husband sleep in the back room. He needs a place for a little while, she said, to keep his stuff and get cleaned up so he’s presentable if he gets an interview.

Instead, you asked why one of his neighbors at the trailer park can’t put him up.

They went in together and took out a restraining order on him. You’re gone all day, she said, so you’ll never see him.

It’s the camel’s nose, you said.

He’ll keep to himself so you won’t even know he’s there.

I’ll loan him a sleeping bag and he can sleep in his car.

How would that make us look?

Can’t argue with that.

You do care what people think. Even though you resent how it makes you the bad guy if you object to your wife’s empathy toward guys who trade on their self-inflicted wounds for sympathy.

That’s why you didn’t say no when your wife asked you to make up a cot for yourself in the garden shed over the next few days. It’s the way you treat him, she says, makes him so depressed he can’t get out of bed to go look for work.

Instead, you asked how that was possible since he never saw you.

It’s just for a couple of days, she said, while the weather’s still nice.

It’s the camel’s nose, you said.

A little kindness won’t kill you.

He can sleep in the garden shed.

How would that make us look?

Can’t argue with that.

You trust her good heart and keep to yourself when you’re not at work, and only run into the house to grab a beer.

So, it surprises you how not surprised you are when you come in to find them both naked in the kitchen, him boning your wife as she’s folded across the dining table.

Her butt cheeks ripple with each blow of his pelvis against her tailbone, scooting the table across the linoleum. He stutter-steps to keep up with the drifting table. A boner ballet of step thrust-thruststep thrust-thruststep thrust-thrust, your wife’s arms spread wide, holding on, toe-walking as they drive the table across the kitchen floor, until it collides with the refrigerator.

She realizes you’re there and gives out with a yelp, but he’s got one hand planted in the small of her back, and the other hand pinning her head to the table. She’s twisting under his palm, looking back at you, her cheek mashed against the tabletop.

If he heard you come in, he gives no sign, the way he’s got his head thrown back, eyes closed. He’s feeling himself shoot all he’s got into her. There’s no way he’s going to let her up before he’s done.

He slows, taking longer between each thrust, then holds himself against her, making sure to leave it all inside her. He exhales and draws out.

When he does notice you, he gives a nod, says hey, and heads for the bathroom, doing a hop-step kind of dancing, like he’s doing you a favor not dripping on the floor as he edges by you. Your wife strains to reach a dish towel to cover herself before she straightens up off the table, as if you’ve never seen her this way before. Which, when you think about it, you haven’t.

You don’t know what to say when your wife asks if you’re okay with her giving her ex a turn. It’s kind of creepy for him, us having sex when he can hear every little thing.

Instead, you ask why he can’t jack off to porn like everyone else.

Do you want that showing up on our browser history?

You realize it’s lame to bring up the camel’s nose again.

I’ll let him go first because he’s a lot smaller than you, she says.

Why can’t he call a hooker?

How would that make us look?

Can’t argue with that. 

She puts the dish towel between her legs, scurrying off to join her ex-husband cleaning up in the bathroom.

You pull the dining table away from the refrigerator so you can get your beer.

You might as well take both six packs with you because you’re going to be in the garden shed a long time from the look of things.

Hank Kirton

The Job Interview

I’m nervous at a job interview, desperate to make a good impression. I really need the gig. The office is spare, stark, and cold.  There’s nothing on the walls. His heavy mahogany desk stretches empty before him, a trick meant to intimidate the applicants. It works.  He stands up and shakes my hand with a vigorous double-pump and tells me to “Grab a seat.” He smiles at me with a feral-looking rictus and says, “Welcome to AdvanceTech Technologies.”

“Thank you,” I tell him.

To put me at ease, I think, he says, “Please don’t think of this desk as a chasm or an abyss between us. We’re just two humanoids coexisting on spaceship Earth. Try to keep that perspective in mind. It’s important.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He is a squat, square man with a light beard. His hairline is receding but he still has more coverage than I do. At the rate of my hair loss, I’ll have an embarrassing comb-over in less than a year. Eventually I will resemble deceased comedian Zero Mostel.

He tells me that the position I’m applying for is not unlike a “flock of birds” and that I don’t need an “ocean of experience.” But I will need rigorous training. “Before you start, you’ll need to dismantle your personality, obliterate your ego and randomize your thought patterns. You’ll be given peyote at orientation to help you along. Have you had experience with peyote?”

I lie and tell him, “Yes.” I don’t feel guilty about lying. It’s a job interview after all. I’ve already poured lies all over my application.

“And where was this?”

“Mexico. I met a Brujo there named Don Miguel. He was my mentor in all things peyote…” Lies, all lies. I maintain a bland face as I lie. It’s one of the few things I’m good at. Maintaining a bland face while I lie.

“Very good,” he says. He lifts my application and peruses it. “I like your poem,” he says. “Influenced by The Autopsy Tree?”

“Yes sir.” Another lie. I’ve never even heard of that poem.

“Please, call me Mike. Mike Trent. Try to relax, I’m not infectious. Would you care for an orange phosphate?”

“No thank you.”

He leans back in his chair, looking at me. Sizing me up.

“We consider ourselves a family here at AdvanceTech.”

“That’s good.”

“So, tell me. Why should our little family adopt you?”

Oh boy, here goes… “Well, I’m a hard worker for one thing. Look at my hands.” I luckily have rough, scarred, calloused hands. A result of my dangerous addiction to physical risk.

“M-hm. Impressive. How do you feel about working third shift? Does that present a problem?”

“No. Actually, I prefer working nights.”

“Not afraid of the dark I take it.”

“Not usually. Not anymore anyway.” Ouch, too much information.

“M-hm. Now, we work like a band of chimpanzees around here. Do you think you’ll be able to fit in?” 

“Absolutely. I like chimps.”

“That’s definitely in your favor.”

“Thank you.”

“At a place like this.”


“Do you sometimes hear voices?”

I lied again, “Yes, I do. Sometimes.”

“Good. That’s a requirement. Listen to those voices.”

“Oh I do. I do. Absolutely.”

“Are you comfortable with your identity?”

I think for a moment and then confess, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” I feel a suggestion of sweat down my back.

“I’m not sure I do either. But, you have no problem breaking through to new realms of consciousness? At minimum wage?”

“No, no problem.”

“And can you lift up to fifty pounds?”

“No problem.” I give him what I hope is a confident smile. I’m not sure what fifty pounds feels like.

“Please, just let the interview process sluice through you. Like a school of fish. No need to be tense.”

“Thank you. I’ll try…” Is my smile that nervous? I pull it back a little. My lips feel numb. I’m suddenly aware of my tongue.

“At this point in the interview, I like to show the applicants a short orientation film.” He stands up and I’m surprised by his height. He turns on a television I hadn’t noticed, pushes a button. The film he shows is Stan Brakhage’s The Act of Seeing With One’s Own Eyes (1971). He leaves me alone to watch it. I’ve seen it before but it’s no less unnerving. He returns as the film ends.

“That’s the kind of mood we strive for here at AdvanceTech Technologies.”

“I see.”

“So, do you think you’ll fit in here?”


“Your personality seems false to me. Like mere protective camouflage. That may present a problem down the line. Hopefully you’re not concealing a malignant narcissist. Or, god forbid, a sociopath.” 

“Oh, no. Not at all.” I feel something leaden in my chest, pressing my heart. He sees through me, dear god he sees right through me.

“Well, we’ll have to see about administrating an empathy test.” He smiles at me like a thug. Small shark teeth. I swear I can smell masticated meat when he speaks. “I understand,” he says. “This is a job interview after all. I realize you’re just trying to put your best face forward.”

“Yes sir.”

“Trent. Mike Trent.”

“Yes Mike Trent.”

“We will change you.”


“How do you feel about that?”

“I feel great about it.”

“Then congratulations. You’ve got the job.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve got the job.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“The job.”

James Babbs

The Treadmill

In the dead of the night, suddenly I awakened and sat up in my bed thinking I heard a noise and the first thought that crossed my mind was—the treadmill’s in the basement.  Why the hell was that the first thought that crossed my mind?

I got out of bed and went down to the basement and, of course, there was the goddamn treadmill, sitting there, mocking me with its silence.  It had been several months since the last time I had used the damn thing.  I had been all gung-ho when I first bought the treadmill but my initial enthusiasm for exercising waned after those first few weeks had passed.

I looked at the treadmill.  Something made me reach out and touch it.  I put my hand on the treadmill.  It felt cold.  I gave the treadmill a gentle push as if to say, you can’t intimidate me, you fucker.  I turned off the lights and left the treadmill sitting there in the dark before going back upstairs.  I had trouble falling asleep.

In the morning I got up and got ready for work.  I had peanut butter on toast and coffee for my breakfast.  I went to work and put in my hours and got gas in the car on the way home.  I came home and turned on the TV.  There wasn’t really anything good on but I left the TV on anyway.  I had a frozen pizza for supper and watched some more TV before, finally, going to bed.

In the middle of the night, suddenly I awakened and sat up in my bed.  Had there been some kind of a noise?  I wasn’t sure what it was but I got out of bed and went down to the basement.  The treadmill was, still, down there but something was different.  The treadmill had moved.  It was only a few inches but the treadmill was definitely not in the same place it had been the night before.

I touched the treadmill.  It didn’t feel as cold as it had felt the night before.  I looked at the treadmill and laughed.  Fuck you, I said and I waved my hand at it before turning off the lights and heading back upstairs.  I went back to bed and lay there for the longest time just listening to the radio before, finally, falling asleep.

In the morning I got up and got ready for work.  I had a sausage and egg biscuit and coffee for my breakfast.  I went to work and put in my hours and got gas in the car on the way home.  I came home and read a book for a while.  I had some canned soup for supper and did some more reading before going to bed.

Sometime during the night, suddenly I awakened and sat up in my bed thinking the treadmill’s trying to kill me.  What the fuck?  What kind of crazy thought was that?  I figured I must have been having some kind of weird dream.  I looked at the clock that was next to the bed.  The red numbers on the clock read 3:33 so I stayed in bed and fell back asleep.

In the morning I got up and got ready for work.  I had some powdered doughnuts and coffee for my breakfast.  I went to work and put in my hours and got gas in the car on the way home.  I came home and went down to the basement.  Right away I saw the treadmill had turned a hundred and eighty degrees and was, now, facing in the opposite direction from where it had been before. This was crazy, I thought.  What the hell was going on?

I grabbed the treadmill and struggled with it.  I lifted and pushed and, finally, managed to get it back in its original position.  I was sweating and trying to catch my breath.  I looked at the treadmill just sitting there all innocent.  You piece of shit, I said.  I got on the treadmill and started it up.  The belt moved at a sluggish pace and I walked without any trouble at all.

I began to relax.  I started swinging my arms settling into a good rhythm.  I chuckled and then I laughed.  See, I said.  No big deal. 

There was a strange noise and the treadmill lurched and started going faster.  I had to quicken my pace to keep up.  Shit, I said.  The speed of the treadmill increased even more.  What the hell?  My legs were beginning to hurt.  I had to stop the damn thing.  I had to get off.  I hit the power button but nothing happened.  The treadmill was making loud screeching noises.  Suddenly I lost my footing and went down.

I was thrown off of the treadmill.  My left foot hit the wall with a sickening smack.  I felt a jolt rushing through my entire body.  I was lying on the floor.  I didn’t think I was capable of moving.  The treadmill made some loud cracks and pops and then the motor gave out a low moan before going completely dead.  I thought I smelled smoke but I wasn’t sure.

I managed to roll myself over.  I was on my back looking up at the ceiling.  I saw the bright lights above me.  I smiled and closed my eyes.

David O. Hughes

The Covert Kinkster and the Embryonic Eunuch

Trevor brought his BMW X6 to a crunching halt on the gravelled driveway, killing the engine and relaxing in his seat, arching and stretching his back. “Ow!” he giggled and wriggled, a little sore still from the licking he’d taken from his mistress and her trusted assortment of whips, crops, and lashes. “Bitch is worth every penny,” he said, gritting his teeth.

When he leaned forward, chest pressing against the steering wheel, he looked out of the windscreen and up at the darkened bedroom windows of his luxury home that loomed over him and his European beauty. Shelia must be asleep by now, he thought. She’s always in bed, snoring her fat arse off when I’ve returned home, no what the hour. Lazy fuck. 

He plucked the keys from the ignition, pocketed them, and opened the car door. As he walked up the short, winding path, flanked by ponds, gnomes, pots, plants and other garden trinkets and clutter Sheila deemed necessary to keep up with the Jones’, an image of her snoozing in her flowery nightie, eye mask, bed socks and extravagant neck pillow exploded in his mind. UghLike a beached fucking whale, he thought, looking down at a fishing elf-gnome wearing bright yellow wellies. He wanted to kick the thing it into the pond its fishing line was cast into, but decided against it. If she put as much effort into our sex life and marriage as she does with our garden, then we’d get somewhere.    

Trevor huffed, looked up, and thought he saw a dull, gloomy flicker of light from behind the curtains in a downstairs window. No, she can’t be up watching TV this late, he thought. Surely not! He crept up to the glass, pressed his face to it, and tried to peer through the crack in the curtains. I can’t see anything. It’s dark in there. Hmm… Now whatI better have an excuse ready. She might ambush me in there.  

When he reached the front door, he eased his key into the lock and turned it. Trevor winced, pulling his lips back and exposing his gums, as the bolts thundered into place. “Je-sus,” he said with clenched teeth. He depressed the handle and stepped into the inky hallway. 

“Sheila?” He stood there for a moment, ears pricked, listening to the natural sounds of a home. All quiet on the western front! he thought, smiling. 

Trevor closed and locked the door with as little noise as possible, before proceeding down the hallway to the foot of the stairs. “Sheila, are you up there?” A snort and a fart were his replies. A smile split his face. Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping, he thought, listening to the springs of their reinforced bed creak and crunch as she turned over. Like a pig in a pen.      

With a snigger, he pulled away from the staircase and entered the living space. From within the guts of the room, Fluffy meowed, Trevor jumped. “Fucking moggy,” he muttered, turning on a lamp to find the cat curled up on an armchair like a duchess. “Come on, you – come and get some chow.” Trevor led the cat into the kitchen and poured some dried food into its bowl. “Once you’re done, you can go outside to do your business.”

After unlocking the back door and pulling it open for Fluffy, Trevor filled the kettle with water and set it to boil. I wonder if Sheila left me some supper? he thought, moving to the fridge for a peep inside. On the middle shelf, tucked behind a bottle of red sauce and a couple of yoghurt pots, was a plate wrapped in tinfoil with a note that read Trevor attached to it. “Excellent,” he said, plucking the china from its chilly depths.  

Fluffy meowed, the bell on her collar jingling, as she fled to the outside. Instead of closing the door, Trevor left it ajar. I’ll only have to reopen it when she wants to come back in. Hopefully, by the time I’ve scoffed this lot, Fluffy’ll be indoors, Trevor thought, setting his food down on the kitchen table. Did I see my protein shake in there with my grub? He went back to the fridge, opened it, and fished out his drink. “Sheila’s a good ‘un in some respects,” he said, laughing.  

She treats you like a king, a voice at the back of his mind said.  

Trevor sat at the table and lowered his head. I can’t deny it, she does, and what I do behind her back is dreadful. I’ve broken my vows time and again, but it’s the only way I can keep our marriage afloat. God, if she ever did find out though… Fuck! I’d lose everything: swanky car, fancy house, money, status…the lot. And it would come out in the papers,tooThe media love a good, grubby tale about a dirty politician. Sweat broke across his brow. It won’t come to that. I’m careful, and the lady I use is discreet.  

He uncovered his food and set to work on the ham and egg salad. “Mmm,” he said, licking dressing from off his chops. As he devoured the last of his meal, Fluffy made her way inside, darting into the living room. 

“Cold out there, puss?” he asked, laughing and setting his cutlery down on the empty plate. “Bloody lovely.” With a burp, Trevor got up from the table and placed his dish in the sink. Once he was done, he took his drink into the living room and sat down. “Christ, my back is still killing me! Madam Christine went for it this time. Well, I did ask for it.”

When he tried to relax in his chair, wincing, grunting and gurning as he did so, Madam Christine’s words came back to him, stealing his wind. Was she being serious? he thought. Sounded it, but she’d slipped out of character.    

“Trevor, are you feeling okay?” she asked. “Your ball sack has been looking increasingly discoloured the last few weeks, and I’m sure your wee man has got smaller?”

Trevor laughed. “Really, Mistress? I have been feeling under the weather, mind. Maybe that has something to do with it?”  

“Perhaps. You haven’t been taken my punishments like you used to, either. Also, your fantastic physique seems to be slipping. You’re sprouting hairy bitch tits!” 

“You think?” he said.

Mistress nodded, smiling. 

Trevor looked down at himself. It’s true, he thought. But how? I’ve been eating cleanly. 

Yeah, but you haven’t been frequenting the gym or running of recent. And it’s not like you haven’t noticed, is it? You’ve been ignoring it, thinking it was your tired mind playing tricks on you, the voice at the back of his mind said.  

“I’ve been fatigued a lot of late, and I’ve caught a number of colds.” 

“Has work been stressful?”

“Yeah. Well, no, not really.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor, Trevor. Get a full check-up.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he smiled.  

Trevor hadn’t given thought to what she’d said upon leaving her dungeon and driving home; he’d been too occupied by thoughts and feelings of what Madam Christine had done to him. But now, as sat in the dark living room with the effects of tonight’s games fading, it bore down on him. 

have been ignoring it, he thought, sipping his protein shake. No, not ignoring, but avoiding. My dick has gone smaller. I noticed it a few weeks ago but choose to circumvent the issue. I thought I was being silly, but then I noticed the discolouration of my nuts, too. It’s time to be honest with myself. 

“It’s not just my cock and balls, either, or the changing of my physique,” he said, putting his drink down on the coffee table. “No, it’s bloody not, is it!” 

“Trevor?” Sheila called, her voice cracking. “Is that you down there?”

Who fucking else would it be! he thought, wanting to say it, but couldn’t muster it. “I’ll be up soon.”

“Try not to wake me again,” she said, which was followed by the sound of her retreating footsteps and the slamming of their bedroom door. 

“Pig bitch,” he muttered with a smile, thinking of going up there and waking her with his hard cock. “That would piss her off, but she’d take, just like she always does. She’s a good wifey.”

Trevor settled in his seat and went back to his thoughts. No, my privates and physical appearance are not the only things I’ve noticed a change in. I’m not as driven as I used to be. I was a right go-getter, and I’d step on anyone who got in my way. I’ve lost my bite, and I’m knackered all the time. All I seem to want to do when I’m not visiting Madam Christine (which I can barely manage now) or working is sleep. What is going on?

Ring the doctor tomorrow, the voice said.   

With a nod, Trevor drained his drink, got up, and headed towards the hallway.

“Why do you stay with her, Trevor?” Madam Christine asked.

“Because she’s a loving woman and she takes good care of me.”

“Is that enough, though?”

“What else is there? I have it good.”

When he got to the foot of the staircase, he sighed. Sheila was such an attractive woman when we got together. Smokin’ hot! But a ring on her finger ruined it all. 

“I’ll shed the pounds,” she’d promised, her sex drive dwindling into oblivion.  

Still, it didn’t stop him, no matter how much she protested. 

If it does all come out, he thoughtlooking up the shadowy staircase, then the blame will be put at her doorstep. A man has needs, fantasies and desires, damn it! Trevor huffed. But they’re starting to diminish… I hope there isn’t something seriously wrong with me. Don’t be silly. Just overworkedYeah, either that or my libido is starting to slacken with age. Christ, I’m not that old! 

He climbed the steps and entered the bathroom. After brushing his teeth, peeing and washing his hands, Trevor left the room and went into his bedroom. With the curtains open, the moon shining through, he was able to see Sheila’s large shape beneath the duvet.

Going to snuggle right up to Sheila and stuff my dick in her, he thought, slipping out of his boxers. His prick twitched, but it didn’t come to full life. Trevor looked down at his cock and began to stroke it. “Come on,” he hissed, forcing it hard. That’s better, he smiled. But when he let go of it, it grew lifeless, shrivelling. Jesus, it looks smaller again!What’s happening to my larger-than-life python?! In his panic, he hadn’t heard Sheila’s snoring stop, as he tried rubbing it to life. But the more he tried, the less his prick co-operated. “What’s wrong with it!”

“My, my, you do look ridiculous,” Sheila said, giggling. “Standing there, trousers and boxers around your ankles, trying to coax your ever-growing maggot to its full potential.” 

Trevor looked up and gasped. Sweat dribbled down his forehead and ran into his eyes and mouth. “Don’t laugh!” he said, throwing a hand out and sweeping the photos and trinkets off the tallboy that stood by his side. Glass shattered and pinged off his face, opening a nick across his chin. 

“What did you fucking say?!” she said, throwing the duvet off her and getting out of bed, her feet pounding the floor. The timid woman he had grown to know had disappeared. 

She looks…fierce, he thought, his bollocks retracting. His guts grew cold. Trevor clenched his arse cheeks and fart escaped him.   

“You’re going to clean up that mess, loser! Hell, I might make you pick up the shards with your anus!” she giggled, stomping closer to him, her shadow swallowing his scrawny frame. 

“Who do you think—?” he tried, puffing his chest out, but he withered when Sheila pressed her massive tits against him, shoving him back against the wall and pinning him in place. “Argh! There’s something digging in me!” he whined, his bottom lip quivering. What the fuck is going on here? his mind screamed. 

Sheila struck him across the face with the flat of her hand. “Shut. Up. Or I’ll hurt you worse,” she said, cupping his wrinkled ball sack. “That’s if I can find them.”

“What the hell has come over you? Ugh!” he gasped, her hand tightening. 

“Don’t play stupid, Trevor. I know exactly what’s been going on.”

Argh, my balls!” A tear slid down his cheek. 

“I thought you’d be able to take a lot more punishment than this, lover. I’ve not started yet.”

“Wh-what are…ugh…are you talking…about?” he gasped, pulling his lips back, exposing his gums. P-p-please, Sheila – you’re going to pop ‘em!” 

“They’re not going to be much use to you anyway, Trevor. Shall I remove them? I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’ll be my little eunuch bitch.”

He started to shake his head, his dick betraying him, as it grew. 

Sheila smiled, but the smile wasn’t full of warmth and caring as usually, he thought. No, it’s cold and bitter; the smile of a twisted, scorned woman. A woman that’s been pushed too far. It dawned on him, that if she knew everything, then he’d been mentally abusing her. I’m a bullyBut on the other hand, I’ve opened her— “Argh!” he blurted, as his nuts were twisted. “Don’t rip them off! Not even Mistress Carla is this rough. There are safe words!” he forced a smile, thinking he knew her game. 

“Safe words? What do you think this is, fucking playtime, cunty?” she spat in his face and ripped downwards on his scrotum, digging and clawing her nails into his flesh. “I’ve been strengthening my grip, too, working on it, ever since I found out what was going on and came to terms with it. I can squash apples, Trevor, so bursting a couple of raises like these won’t be an issue. Is that what you want? Your dick tells me yes. Well, I think it is, because it’s not getting very hard. Is it? No, not these days. It used to stand up so proud, remember? And look, you have titties!”

Jesus, she’s being serious. “I like this game…”

“Game? Game! We’re not playing a game, dickhead! I’ve already told you that! We’re beyond fun, fucker. You’re about to live the real deal. Kiss goodbye to your freedom, because I’ll be running the show from here on out.”


“But nothing. I own you now. And, if you try and wriggle out of it or say no, then I will burn your fucking life down to the ground! I’ll make sure everyone knows you pay whores for sex, and that you can’t get your dick hard at home. I’ll even post photos and stories all over the internet! You’ll never work around here again. I’ll make sure of that. Unless you fold to me and become my pet,” she smiled, licking her lips. “Fuck, you don’t really have a choice, do you? I just wanted you to know what will happen if you try and fuck with me.”

“Jesus!” he squealed, as Sheila towed him across the room by his nuts. 

“Come with me, bitch.” Trevor squeezed his eyes closed, tears spilling, trying to block out the pain. His hands went hers and he tried pulling her fingers loose. “Don’t make me crush harder, shit face. You wouldn’t want me to rupture something.”

“Okay, okay!” Trevor removed his hands and allowed himself to be manhandled. When the pressure was gone from his bollocks, he thought he was going to vomit as he collapsed to his knees and held himself. “What have you done to me?”

“Can’t you handle a little bit of crushing? God, that ex-mistress of yours must have been a right pussy,” Sheila giggled. “Here, have a look at this, arsehole – it’s going to be your new home,” she said, opening the door to their walk-in wardrobe. “I had it made for you, dog.”

Trevor gawked at the thing before him, which looked like an outsized dog house with a heavy wooden door with bars in its window. “Wh-what is that?!” 

“I told you. Your new home.” Sheila put a heavy foot to his shoulder and pressed down on him. “I’m going to keep you in there and bring you out when I see fit,” Sheila smiled. “That cock of yours is useless now, and I hope you enjoy watching me getting fucked from in there,” she said, hooking a thumb towards the small house. 


“Yes. Totally. Well, it will be, in another couple of weeks or so.”

“What do you mean?!” 

Sheila grinned. “I’ve rendered it worthless without you knowing.”

“Hang on…”


“Have you destroyed my manhood?”  

Sheila tittered, placing a hand to her mouth. “I shouldn’t laugh, really, but I can’t help it. God, it’s made me so horny, emasculating such a powerful man.”

“It’s limp because of you?”

“Losing inches, too, aren’t you? At first, I was worried I’d give you a heart attack or kill you, but nope, it worked like a charm. You could have gone blind or started pissing blood, even, because I didn’t really know much about what I was giving you.” 

What?!” Trevor said, the veins in his neck bulging. “The fuck have you done, Sheila?”

 “Relax, sissy boy. You’re still here, aren’t you?” 

“I’ll fucking—” Trevor started, but Sheila flicking her hand out, her knuckles connecting with his lifeless balls. “Ooph! Bitch,” he managed from behind clenched teeth.  

“Still got a bit of fight coursing through you, ‘eh? Well, my little friends will soon knock the last of that out of you, once they’re finished closing down your reproductive system.” 

“No! I won’t take anything you give me. You can’t make me!”

“I’ve been lacing your meals and drinks.”

“No more!”

Sheila kicked him in the guts. “You fucking will, worm, if you want to live.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I’ll continue drugging your food. You won’t know when it’s coming. And, if you want to keep breathing, you’ll have to eat and hydrate,” she laughed. 


Miss Bitch to you, fucker.” Sheila turned, bent over, and picked up a crop that lay close by. “Now, into your home, boy,” she said, whipping Trevor about the face, neck, head and chest. 

“Ah, fuck! Fuck!” He scrambled backwards on his arse, using his hands and feet, fleeing the torture as he entered the cage. “Please, no more!”

Sheila rushed towards him and slammed the door shut on his prison, locking it in place. Trevor watched as she plucked the key from the lock, the Yale attached to a chain, and it placed around her neck. “It’ll stay right there,” she said, patting the key that lay between the crevice of her tits. “Now, be a good boy, Trevor, and do as I say to a pleasing standard if you do, you might be rewarded.”

“Don’t do this! You’re playing, right?” Trevor said, pressing his face to the door’s bars, his hands wrapping them. 

No!” she said, whipping his fingertips. “This is for your own good, Trevor.”

“Argh! Fuck!”

“Carry on like this, and your first meal will be a Sheila shit sandwich washed down with a glass of piss. Now, silence! I need my sleep.” 

Trevor crawled to the back of his home and sniffled. “Why?” he asked, watching as Sheila picked up a large blanket. 

With a smile, she turned to him. “You can’t keep quiet, can you, maggot!”


“Okay, but once I’ve told you, I want peace. Do you understand?”


“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Sheila.”

No, you fucking insubordinate mongrel!”

Ma’am! Yes, ma’am!” he whimpered and blubbered. 

“I took action against you because I was fed up. I was pissed off with your constant libido, the forced sex, constant hard-ons, your rubbing up against me, feeling my tits – you were like a fucking dog with two dicks! Always excited. And I knew what you wanted – what you desired deep down. At first, I knew I couldn’t give it to you, so I was happy for you to pay your whores. It was a relief at first because you gave me little attention, but you soon started again, didn’t you? So, I snapped, worm. There’s only so much anyone can take. Maybe if you’d stopped pestering me completely, we wouldn’t be at this juncture.”

“I’ll be good! Please!”

“Too late. Besides, I’m enjoying myself too much. You’ve awoken something in me.”

“You could have spoken to me, Sh—Ma’am.”

“No, there was no talking to you. You couldn’t hear me over your pathetic horniness and erections and panting. You were like an eager fourteen-year-old who’d just seen a pair of tits for the first time.”

“So you hurt me?”

“Still alive, aren’t you?”

“You could have divorced me!”

“Nah, I like the lifestyle too much. I knew I had to come up with a better way to sort things out, so I started planning.” 


“Now, now, worm. Do I have to punish those raises of yours?”

“What have you been giving me?”

“It’s glorious what you can find on the black market. After I read an interesting article online about chemical castration, I went digging on the dark web and found drugs that had once been used by the Russian military to ‘sedate’ their troops by suppressing their testosterone.”

“Oh, Jesus…”

Sheila snorted. “Yeah. And, as it turns out, the drug worked too well. The Russian hierarchy and scientists discovered their little creation was overpowerful. After an ex-number of doses were administrated, it closed down the generative system and shrank everything. This, in turn, however, depressed the troops and left them unable to train and fight. The project was deemed a failure.”

Trevor’s mouth sagged. “You’re joking? Please, tell me you’re joking!”

Sheila shook her head and piggy-laughed. “Seeing the drug do its thing on you was amazing. My g-spot’s never had it so good.”

“I’m sorry,” he tried. 

“I don’t give a shit, faggot.” Sheila stepped closer. “Now, it’s sleep time. Mistress needs her rest. I’ll be along in a few hours with your breakfast. How does dog food and a glass of vomit sound, shithead? I’ve even bought you your very own dog bowl, slave. Now, thank your Mistress, there’s a good boy.”

Trevor looked at her, mouth agape. “I can’t believe—”

“Don’t make me come in there and thrash you!”

He eyed her, detecting the seriousness in her eyes. This can’t be happening, he thought. 


“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“That’s good. Now, sleep tight,” Sheila said, raising the blanket. “Tomorrow, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you meet my stud. He’s a huge black guy, and he’s going to enjoy having you suck his prick.”

Trevor shrank further into the cage. “N-no…”

“Goodnight,” she winked, throwing the blanket over his prison. 

“No!” he wailed. “No!”

“Oh, what fun we’re going to have, dear,” she said. “You lucky thing.” 

Noooo!” Trevor continued, hearing the light switch click off and the door to the walk-in wardrobe close and lock. “Ma’am! Please! Please!” he continued, his pleas falling on deaf ears…        

Judge Santiago Burdon

Don’t Want To Die In Jersey

It was an unusually hot day for November in Boston. Father Murphy had just finished mass and was on the church steps bidding a good day to members of the congregation as they left.

Just then, Sean McLaughlin came running up the steps in a frenzy, asking Father Murphy for his help with a serious matter. Without pause, he escorted Sean inside to the safety of the church.

“What is it my son? What has got you so terrified? You’re trembling.”

“Father, I was at the Farmer’s Market, and there I saw the Grim Reaper searching for a soul to take. He looked directly at me. I’m sure he’s here to take me. I ignored his stare, turned and ran away. What should I do Father? Please help me, I’m not ready to die.”

“I think you should probably get out of town. Find a place to lie low for a while and let this incident blow over.”

“Where do I go so the Reaper won’t find me? I can’t think of anywhere.”

“I’ve got it! New Jersey! Yep that’s it, New Jersey is where you’ll find refuge.”

“Are you sure Father? New Jersey? Maybe I should stay here in Boston and find a place to hide. New Jersey seems a bit extreme.”

“No Sean, Jersey. Not even God would set foot in there. I feel certain the Grim Reaper won’t follow you into Jersey. I have a close friend at Saint Francis Church in Hackensack, Father Thompson. I’ll give him a call and fill him in on your situation. He’s a good man and will take care of you.” 

“Yes but New Jersey is a fate I consider worse than death.”

“Well that’s all I’ve got. You should take a bus, don’t drive your car and stay out of Atlantic City. The casinos breed an atmosphere of sin and you don’t want to give him an excuse to confront you. Now hurry to the Bus station and get outta Boston . I’ll pray for you my son.” 

“Thanks Father, I’ll leave right away.”

Sean caught the next bus to New Jersey and seemed to have eluded the Grim Reaper. Meanwhile, Father Murphy took it upon himself to investigate Sean’s claim of the Reaper in the neighborhood and proceeded to the Farmer’s Market. 

The outdoor event was crowded with Sunday afternoon shoppers enjoying the warm weather. Standing next to the organic vegetable booth Father Murphy saw the figure draped in black with his trademark scythe. Clutching his Rosary in  hand he walked toward the ominous creature to confront him about stalking Sean.

“Good afternoon Mr. Grim Reaper, I’m Father Murphy from Saint Peter’s Church and would like to ask you a question.”

‘Yes Father Murphy I’m familiar with your work. I’ve attended some of your funeral services. You’ve got a nice touch in your eulogies, very sincere. Go ahead fire away, what do you want to ask?”

“Earlier today one of my congregation was here at the Farmer’s Market and noticed you on the prowl to collect his soul. He was naturally upset about his impending death and ran to the church to escape your wrath.”

“Really? I don’t remember confronting anyone earlier. I am here to collect the soul of Catherine Mcbride, she’s about to suffer a massive aneurysm.  Let me check my schedule. What is his name?”

“Sean McLaughlin, he’s maybe thirty-five years old and a good Catholic.”

“No, no, no, I don’t see him on the schedule. Wait, here he is…” The Reaper chuckles while turning pages. “Listen to this. He’s not scheduled for Soul Collection until tomorrow night in of all places, Hackensack, New Jersey.  New Jersey, now that’s some bad luck. Damn, I hate having to visit New Jersey!”