The Girl Next Door

Headline from the Polaris County weekly Reporter, July 19, 2023: 

WOMAN FOUND RAN OVER OUTSIDE HOME SUCCUMBS TO INJURIES

From the transcript of Detective Washburn’s first interview with Abel Kingsley (July 17, 2023):

Q. You and Ms. Sheriza Collins were an item, were you not?

A. We were, sir.  

Q. Aren’t you a little old for?  She was nineteen and you… says here you are twenty-five years old.  

A. Well, I, uh – 

Q. How did that come about?

A. I knew her because she dated my friend first.  We all hung out together, became good friends.  Sometimes I was the third wheel, sometimes our friend, Hoss, came with us.  When Tobey and Sherry didn’t work out, Sherry and me kept on being friends.  One thing led to another and suddenly we were dating.  It wasn’t anything crazy or weird or creepy, I swear.  She’s technically of age… sir. 

Q. Yes, she is of age, technically, and that isn’t why you’re here.   

A. Why am I here?

Q. Can you tell me where you were the night of Saturday, July 15^th?

A. Wait, you don’t think I did it?  You don’t think I ran her over, right?

Q. Well, can you tell me where you were the night your girlfriend was run down in your vehicle?

A. I was at her house, but just for a little bit.  We argued that night. It got kind of heated, I admit it, but I didn’t run her over.  I swear.  I just walked off.  I never put my hands on her.  We’d been arguing a lot lately and I realized that was the better option, walking away.

Q. The night your girlfriend was killed, what were you two arguing about?

A. Hoss.  We were arguing about Hoss Dawson.

From Tobey Jackson’s guest essay “Hindsight” on the true crime blog The Death Knell (March 2024):

…Hoss and I met in high school.  It was the summer before our freshman year, and Abel’s younger brother, Aldwin, invited us both, and bunch of others, to a spot he and some other hooligans found exploring the woods near the school.  We had to walk down an overgrown path until we reached train tracks.  Hoss, I remember, was afraid that a train might come rushing around the bend and take us out.  He stayed as far away from the tracks as he could without climbing up back into the brush or down into more vegetation.  We had to climb down a steep, narrow muddy hill, and I busted my ass trying to keep my feet under me, but it was worth it.

Aldwin and his gang of misfits had found a stream, which they dammed up and turned into a little pool.  There were two rocks which rose high on either side of the stream right at its mouth, which made for prime jumping.  Somehow, we all ended up skinny dipping.  It was weird, but it was fun.  Innocent.  I always used to bring that up to Hoss, you know?  Like, “Hey, the first time we met, we saw each other’s assholes.  We’re stuck together.”

All throughout high school, we were best friends.  He lived with his grandmother and she loved me.  In fact, she’d be the one to suggest I sleep over when I would stay late at their house.  Hoss introduced me to his friend, Amber, and we dated on and off for three years, and he seemed supportive throughout the relationship.  To date, my relationship with Amber is my longest relationship, and I have Hoss to thank for that.  She was a big bitch, but he was a great mediator.  

Maybe that was something I should have taken heed of.  Hoss was always single, but gave great relationship advice.

I started dating Sherry after he went off to college.  She and her best friend Amanda had dated on the periphery of our friend group; it was only matter of time before they made their way to us.  Hoss and I stayed close, but he didn’t really come around while Sherry and I dated.  He was bust with school and everything.  But while he was away, she and her family moved from Torrington to Polaris County, into the house right next to Hoss’s grandma’s.  A weird turn of events, if you ask me.  

Soon after that I broke up with Sherry.  She was your typical teenage crazy.  Checking my phone.  Going through social media.  Wanting my location.  Needing to know at all times who I was with, and if she didn’t believe me, she’d want to speak with them.  None of my friends were females.  I was scared she’d try to kill them.  Sherry and Amber even threw hands once in the Brass Mill Center parking lot out in Waterbury.  Amber had sent me a text that said “Happy birthday.”

Sherry took the breakup badly.  She hit me up constantly.  When I wouldn’t answer my phone, she would call or text through Facebook and Instagram.  I couldn’t handle the crazy, so I blocked her every time she reached out.  My sanity was numero uno in my book.  Eventually, she gave up.  I thought – hoped, really – that she got the picture, understood that I wanted nothing to do with her.  Abel told me the message was clear, and that Sherry was, and I quote, “a psycho bitch.”  

After not getting texts and calls from random and blocked numbers for a few weeks, I thought the coast was clear.  Hoss and Abel did, too.  Sure, she lived next door to Hoss, but that wouldn’t stop me from seeing my boy.  And that was the plan when Hoss invited us over for the standard young adult bro sleepover.  Videogames.  Junk food.  Horror movies.  I arrived first, as usual. 

When Abel showed up, however, Sherry was on his arm.  Hoss and I acted like it was cool, and for me, I think it was.  I wanted nothing to do with her anymore, but if Abel wanted her, even after knowing what I went through, then good for him.  He was desperate to get laid like that.  It was harder on Hoss, though, for sure.  Abel didn’t stay the night like he was supposed to.  He stayed at Sherry’s house, right next door. 

Statement from Amanda Matos to the Hartford Courant (published March 5, 2024):

“Was she in love with Abel?  Love?  I mean, I wouldn’t call it love.  But we were young, you know?  I think she liked being around Tobey, and that group of people.  She got accustomed to it.  There was nothing wrong with Abel, but love it was not.  And I think he knew that.  Maybe not on the surface, but deep down where he keeps all his secrets, he knew it.  The sex is what probably made it okay for him.  Sherry and Abel fucked like all the time.”

From The Complete Journals of Hoss Dawson (published February 2024, Scribner):

5/12/23

I’m finally home for the summer.  My freshman year was something, let me tell you.  I really enjoy my psychology classes, but English still has my heart.  I think I may double major.  If I focus, I can do it.  But for now, I am ready for a hot boy summer with the guys.

Abel is supposed to come by around four.  I haven’t seen him in months.  Every time I come home, he’s busy with Sherry.  Tobey thinks it’s weird, that she’s using Abel to get close him, but he won’t tell Abel.  He doesn’t want to burst Abel’s bubble.  I get that, really.  This is the first time a woman’s been this interested in him since God knows when.  Usually, they just want a ride or for him to fix their cars.  Good for him, though, I guess. 

This summer is going to be great.  I can feel it.  Starting with tonight, I’ll make sure it’s one I remember forever.

5/12/23 (later)

It’s six o’clock and still no sign of Abel.  No texts or calls.  Tobey and his brother Alwin haven’t heard from him either.  He’s probably with Sherry, but I hope he’s all right.  Maybe he just lost track of time.  He does that a lot, the fucking airhead.  He – 

Abel just called.  Said he lost track of time (what did I say? lol).  He and Sherry were just out joyriding, he said.  He’s bringing her tonight.  He didn’t really ask.  It was more like telling me.  It was supposed to be just the boys, though.  Whatever. 

From the transcript of Detective Washburn’s second interview with Abel Kingsley (July 20, 2023):

Q. I need to know when shit hit the fan with you and Sheriza.  Spare me no details, son, she’s dead now.  This was already a serious matter, and now it couldn’t get any more serious.  Tell me everything.

A. Hoss and Sherry, they didn’t get along.  At first they did.  But things started to go downhill.  He didn’t want Sherry around anymore, but that, for me, wasn’t acceptable.  She was my girlfriend, you know?  She had a right to go wherever I went.  Hoss thought she was using me to get to Tobey, so he confronted her about it.  It was easy to do, them living next door to each other, and all.

Q. Were you there for this confrontation?

A. No, but Sherry confirmed everything he told me.

Q. And when was this?

A. The end of June, sir.  I think the twenty-fifth or -sixth.

Q. What happened during this confrontation?

A. Hoss accused her of, well, fucking me to make me her slave.  She told him she was thinking of ending our relationship because she felt smothered.  Sherry said I always insisted on being around or texting, and it was unbearable.  But what can I say, man?  I loved her.  I still do. She… she… said I was obsessed with her and everybody saw it, except me.  I… I….

Q. Do you need a break?

A. Please.

[There is a cut in the audio.  When it resumes, Kingsley has regained his composure.]

Q. Why did Hoss Dawson care so much, Mr. Kingsley?  

A. I don’t know.  Maybe he felt like Sherry was stealing me away from him.  Me and Sherry hung out a lot.  Guess I was smothering her then, too.  Hoss was jealous.

Q. Now what would make you say that?

From The Complete Journals of Hoss Dawson (published February 2024, Scribner):

5/21/22

I really don’t know if I should be writing about this… but I need to tell someone about last night, and I have no one else.  No one I can trust, at least.  

The actual Homecoming dance was definitely not my style.  I had to rent a tux and it was itchy and didn’t fit right.  It was fun to hang out with my friends, though.  Seeing them all dressed in their suits and dresses and dancing made me happy.  If they’re happy, I’m happy. 

What I really want to talk about is the afterparty.  Misty had everyone over to her place, and of course, there were drinks and some pot.  Abel was there, even though he graduated years ago.  He might be older, but he’s one of us, through and through.  My grandma still thinks he’s too old for me to hang around, but what does she know?  Times are different.

Late into the night, I stumbled into a backroom and Abel was sitting alone at a piano bench, just tapping away on the keys.  He looked sad; his head hung low.  I slid over to him, and I don’t know why, but I sat on his lap and it all poured out of him, like a waterfall.

“Why didn’t she want me?”

I had no idea what to say.  I didn’t know who he was talking about.

“She left us all,” he went on.  “How can someone just up and leave their whole family, fly across the country, and start a new life with some dude they met on the internet?”

Then it clicked.  Abel and Aldwin’s mother had left them and their father months earlier.  The whole thing was quick, but messy.  This was the first time I saw him get emotional about it.  He started crying, sobbing and shaking while I sat on his lap.  There were no words for the kind of pain that species of abandonment brings, so I said nothing.  We held each other in silence as he let out all the hurt he’d be bottling up.  It was bound to burst, and now, as he buried his head into my chest, it did.

Many of us were too drunk to drive home, so a lot of people stayed over.  Me and Abel found ourselves in that piano room, lying on the floor under some found blanket, surrounded by a bunch of passed out high schoolers.  I cuddled up close to him.  He put an arm around me.  I placed my hand low on his stomach.

After a while like that he said, “Can I take my pants off?”

Confused that he asked me permission, I said, “Sure.”

Off came his pants and my hand crept lower, and groped the considerable tent he was pitching in his boxer briefs.  I’m still a virgin, but touching led to… Well, I think you get the picture.  

And yes, I am just as shocked as you are.

Facebook post from Misty McKenna (April 2024):

“Since everyone keeps asking me, we all knew Hoss preferred men.  He never came out & said it, but we knew.  It was like a unspoken open secret.  But Abel????? We had no idea he was [painted nails emoji], but honestly who the fuck cares??  Its the roarin 20s.  Hell, one time I kissed a girl and even liked it. Katy Perry said it best. If you really wanna question something, let’s talk about Hoss’s parents selling his diary to the book publisher.  Sick!!!!!!”

From Tobey Jackson’s guest essay “Hindsight” on the true crime blog The Death Knell (March 2024):

…Things were rough for a bit.  There was obvious tension whenever we were all together.  Sherry and I had our past, Hoss and Sherry had their own problems.  Abel and Sherry had some issues, too.

Sherry was super outgoing, and I guess that could come off as flirtatious to an outsider, or to a man who is madly in love with you.  Abel hated how much she interacted with other men on social media.  If she was on her phone too long while they were together, he’d snatch it from her.  He was controlling in that aspect.  Abel let his emotions get the best of him when it came to Sherry, which was weird because he was usually reserved.  His mother fucked off to Arizona and he didn’t shed a single tear.  But with Sherry, everything kind of set him off.  Once at a park, he pulled her away into a copse by the arm, and she resisted weakly but went along.  I could hear them shouting back and forth.  Sherry came out first.  After a few minutes and one final guttural grunt, Abel returned.  The knuckles on his right hand were bloody. 

When Hoss told Abel what Sherry had said about his attachment issues, and how she thought he was clingy, and wanted to break it off, he lost it.  He started throwing shit around the room; he broke the lamp his mother had bought for him when he was twelve.  It had heroes like Spiderman and Ironman on the glass lampshade.  He was fucking livid, but of course that was hurt and disappointment manifesting as the only acceptable emotion for men: anger.  Still, I thought he was stressed enough to murder someone.

Abel and Sherry didn’t speak for weeks, and during that time Hoss and Abel spent a lot of time together.  A lot of sleepovers.  I was there for a few of them.  Videogames, shit talking.  That kind of stuff.  There was one night – they thought I was sleeping – where I heard things happening.  I never said anything to them about it because why would I?  We never judged each other for shit like that.  They could have made sure I was actually sleeping, though.  

We three hung out the day before Sherry was found on her lawn.  Abel and I played Injustice 2 while Hoss sat on the computer watching music videos.  Abel’s phone went off.  The number wasn’t saved.  We all traded looks before Abel answered on speakerphone.  

“Abel,” Sherry began.  “I miss you.  I love you.  I’m so sorry for everything I said to Hoss.  I was just feeling so overwhelmed…”

He cut off the speaker and went upstairs for at least an hour.  Probably more.  Hoss slammed his fist down on the desk.  The crack of his fist against the wood startled a jump out of me.

When Abel returned he said, “Sorry, guys, where were we?”

“I think I was just leaving,” Hoss said, getting up from the desk.  

All he’d said to me while Abel was going was that Sherry is playing the fuck out of him.  I agreed, but I wasn’t so sure.  She had left me alone for quite some time at this point.

“But we were supposed to have a sleepover before the beach tomorrow,” Abel said.

“The feeling of my own bed, my own sheets is just more appealing to me than staying out tonight,” Hoss said.

Abel sighed.  “Well… if it’s okay with you, Sherry is going to come to the beach with us tomorrow.”

Hoss rolled his eyes slowly, dramatically.  “The more the merrier – isn’t that what they say?”  On that note, he grabbed his backpack and left.  If he went home that night is anyone’s guess.

Not wanting to be in the middle of this, as well as the cause, I left too, thinking, maybe, cooler heads would prevail in the morning.  It was longshot thinking, as my father called it, but it was all I clung to.  Things had to get better, and the beach trip could have been the start of healing.

But the trip, as we all know, never happened.

Notes from Detective Washburn’s interview with Lois Allen, July 20, 2023:

Spoke with neighbor, Lois Allen, 68.  Claims she heard argument suspected night of incident. Sun, 7/16/23.  Witness claims she heard two voices, male & female.  Looked outside living room window.  Noticed neighbor, “the Collins girl.”  Unable to identify by name male party, but said he looked familiar.  “Around a lot at the Dawsons, I think.”  Argument became heated.  Saw male grab female by the shoulders.  Claims male cried, “Why do you make me do this shit? Why?” Female was upset, crying.  Allen wanted to say something, but deciding against it, citing “back in my day, we minded our own when it came to spouses.” Shrugged and wished me a good day.

From The Complete Journals of Hoss Dawson (published February 2024, Scribner):

7/16/23 

I just got back from Abel’s house. I was supposed to sleep over, but I couldn’t bring myself to stay and trust myself not be a vicious bitch.

Abel and Sherry are back together.  Just like that.  A fucking phone call.  After all the shit she said about using him, and him being annoying.  It makes me so fucking mad.  He always wants to bring her around, and I can’t stand it.  Is he stupid or just that desperate to fill the hole his mom left in him?

Ugh.  I should be a more supportive friend, I know.  I want to be.  I will be.  Starting tomorrow at the beach, I’ll turn over a new leaf.  Sherry and I used to be friends, and I think we can be again.  Or at least be cordial.  I need to try.  For Abel.  For our friendship.  I owe him that.

I hope I can keep it together.  

From the Hartford Courant, July 21, 2023: 

SUSPECT ARRESTED IN POLARIS COUNTY LAWN MURDER CASE

…Speaking on the condition of anonymity, a source close to the case claims the victim’s boyfriend has been detained in connection with the murder.  Not only do police say it was his vehicle used in the slaying, but witnesses claim to have seen him arguing with the victim and getting physical with her the night of the savage motor vehicle attack.  

Sheriza Collins was found…

Various Facebook posts after the funeral of Sheriza Collins (July 28, 2023):

Parker Taylor: “I always knew he was little… off.”

Stephen Upton: “What the fuck?  I hope he gets what’s coming him.”

Damian Campanella: “That group of friends was weird.  A little too touchy-feely, if you know what I mean.  Not surprised that one lost his shit.  More surprised that the others haven’t lost theirs, too [crying laughing emoji x3]”

Isabel Davenport: “What a mess.  I’m praying for everyone involved.  My heart goes out to Sherry’s family for all the pain and suffering they’re going through right now.  I hope they can find peace with all these revelations.  And poor, poor Abel.  May there be swift and powerful justice served.”

Wilson King: “When’s the Netflix documentary coming?  Sounds like a love triangle for the ages? LOL”

From the Polaris County weekly Reporter, July 29, 2023:

LAWN MURDER KILLER CONFESSES!

The funeral of the slain Sheriza Collins, 19, of Polaris County was meant to be a solemn affair, a celebration of her life where loved ones could share memories of the deceased.  Collins’s parents and sister shared stories of beaches, Sheriza’s favorite things to do, and other colorful memories which painted the deceased in a flattering light.  However, the mood of the occasion changed when the last person to share spoke.  Seemingly waiting until no other person wanted to share, Hoss Dawson, 20, also of Polaris County took the podium.

Standing at the head of the church, he explained: “I heard them arguing that night.  I was tired of it, tired of her hurting him.  Tired of being overlooked and forgotten.  He was my best friend, and she was only using him as revenge.  It wasn’t even working.  

“It was easy.  After he walked off I slipped outside.  Sherry was upset, sobbing, and never saw me coming.  She had left her car running, and all I had to do was climb in and floor it.  I wore gloves, of course, but I always planned this confession, here at her funeral.  My life, too, I guess is over.”

Dawson started his speech with the words, “This is how I killed the girl next door.”

As he finished his monologue, he pulled a large pocketknife from his black dress pants pocket and went for his own throat, but an enraged Mr. Collins tackled Dawson before any damage could be done.

Speaking with the Reporter later, Mr. Collins said, “He thought he could murder my daughter and then take the easy way out?  No way in hell, which, by the way, is exactly where he’s headed.  After a lengthy stay Polaris County Correctional, that is.”

TV Eye

Squatting, she adjusted her black stockings and closed her sterile white lab coat over her jutting, dripping nudity. The pile of gutted TV’s rose on all sides of the capacious warehouse, as monitors fed back her image on video screens. 

“Silly wiring slobs,” she said. “Well, that’s what ya get for free.” 

The neurogreen circuitry frothed, hissed and emitted a belch. She took the scalpel to a mass of fused ganglia, hacked off a piece and dialog/dualoged with it. It spat out a fizzing phlegmy discharge on the floor, a spreading iridescent pool that began to nibble at her bare feet. 

“Alas poor Shmoreick, I knew him, Fellatio.” She glanced around to see if her partner, Dr. Herman Groinslab, was paying any attention whatsoever to her cutting wit. He wasn’t. She brandished the scalpel in his eye. “One of these days,” she muttered.

“You’re so sexy when you’re homicidal, Fontaine.”

Kandy Fontaine shook her short, sharp,shocking locks which looked like serpents of blue neon gas. She winked lewdly at her co-conspirator in Project TV Eye.

“When we’re through, no flesh will be spared remote interrogation by our box clones,” she said. “Everybody and their little dog will have the same bad dreams.”

“Do you actually speak that way, or are you just doing it for the meta-fictional fun of it all?”

“I suppose the latter would apply like a corporate decal sewn into your retina by nanospiders,” said Fontaine. She paused to take a heroic hit off her DMT vape. “And I know whereof I speak.

“Oh dear, mechanical fucking elves, and they’re getting down and dirty by the Luminous Shore,” she said after awhile.

“Never mind those weird fuckers, Fontaine. We have work to do!”

Without another word, Kandy Fontaine pulled the final hunk of slippery brain-plant muck out of the machineflesh cube and just slapped it into the cobalt TV Eye casing.

The fluorescent light battery sputtered, flashing a psychedelic Mario Bava display of alternating blue, red and yellow against the TV Eye array.

“They’re already starting to do Lucifer’s own work,” said Fontaine with just a hint of pride. “Baal be praised.” She did the sign of the Southern Cross.

Groinslab filtered some cannibalistic crumbs out of his bread, held the remote with a jittering hand, and stabbed at the “Go Go Doppelgangbangers” button.

The video screens filled with a lurid display of pornographic violence to make Caligula blush and cause Gilles De Rais just a smidgen of envy. Men and women were thrusting hacked off partially cybernetic limbs into the glistening orifices of a purple skinned whore. An assembly line of minotaur men squeezed off ghastly jets of glowing green jissom that splattered against the faces of priests and nuns who shamelessly masturbated themselves with bullwhips and whipped cream of corn. Cyclotron shit, kajillions of raw, peeled Dream Police, dripped down the walls. A man with lips for eyes shit in the gaping mouths of a highly mutated Mandelbrot sequence of Popes. Henry Kissinger’s skeleton was raped in perpetuity by a scythe machine for sore eyes. Und so weiter, und so fort.

Meanwhile, the general population was visited by nightmares so hot, torrid, morbid and carnivorous that it mutated consensual reality itself.

“Welp, I guess our work here is done,” said Fontaine, slipping off her nitrile gloves and rubbing her clitoris raw, killing her hunger with ecstasy. “And it’s only Monday. What will we do for an encore?”

Dr. Groinslab, deceased beneath mountains of black leather, beat his meat against the waves, eternally recurring like the Dutch sailors saddle-stitched together with the Sirens of the Thames estuary.

Safe Word

“Let me tie you up,” he coaxed eagerly, and brandished a length of soft rope for her inspection.

Where did that come from? she wondered. She peered at the rope and then at him. “You’re into bondage?” she asked him. “I…”

“I’m a part of the BDSM community, Claire,” he told her. “We use the ‘B,’ the bondage, to impose restraints on our partners in order to enhance the sensual experience.”

Claire had heard of bondage, of course, from books and films and dirty magazines; she just never expected the handsome man she knew a little from the bar and from school, to be into…

“I thought we were just gonna fuck,” she said bluntly. This man she had not chosen at random. She’d picked him up at the college tavern just down the street, and hoped to persuade him to give her a passing grade in the class he taught. Professor Ames had a reputation for being randy, but she’d never…

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, Claire,” the Professor went on. “It’s always mutually consensual, at least with me. And together, we set the boundaries.”

Claire peered up into his pale blue eyes, saw nothing but benevolence, and asked herself if she might actually go through with it. She bit her lip.

“You can trust me, Claire,” he said. “In the community we practice what’s known as Safe, Sane and Consensual (SSC) and Risk-Aware Consensual Kink (RACK) relations. Your safety and pleasure are my top priorities,” he assured her glibly.

Wow, thought Claire. This guy is like a used car salesman; he has an answer for everything. I wonder if next he’ll offer to check my oil? A spontaneous giggle leaked out. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked, as though he were lecturing in his classroom.

Questions? she thought wildly. You bet!

“Exactly what is involved?” she asked naively. Claire had never participated in anything this…erotic, before.

“Good question,” he said approvingly. “My plan is this: we’ll disrobe and then I’ll tie your wrists together behind your back with this rope. Then I’ll put you face down on the bed, spread your legs and tie them to the bedposts.”

Claire gulped.

“Next,” he went on, “comes the flagellation.”

Claire furrowed her brow. “Huh?”

“I’ll spank your backside with my belt,” he explained, pulling the wide leather strap from the loops in his pants. “Don’t worry, I won’t do it hard, just enough to make your butt red and more sensitive.”

“Then what?” asked Claire. She wished now she hadn’t drunk so many beers at the tavern.

“Then we’ll role play,” he said. “I might be a policeman who has caught a burglar or a prostitute or a fireman who has just saved your life. Or a teacher who has caught you cheating on an exam.” And here he smiled at his own little joke. “It can take any form. It’ll be spontaneous, impromptu, unscripted.”

She peered curiously at him. He smiled reassuringly.

“Where does the sex come in?” she wanted to know. “I just wanted to, you know, have sex.”

He nodded. “At some point in our little drama, I’ll mount you from the rear,” he said. 

“I can’t climax when I’m taken from behind,” she pointed out. “No clitoral shimulation,” she said drunkenly. Was she missing the point of tonight? she asked herself. Claire, at 19, had had only 3 lovers in her lifetime, and she felt woefully ill-equipped to…

He nodded again. “That’s the beauty of the dominant-submissive dynamic,” he explained. “While you won’t come, you will be highly stimulated, from the ass-beating and from the vaginal stimulation and from the helplessness you feel. You’ll feel like your head is going to explode,” he promised.

“Won’t I ever get off?” she asked.

“I’m usually good for three orgasms per evening,” he boasted. “The first time I’ll come in your puss; the second time in your ass; and…”

“My ass?” she yelped in alarm.

“It won’t hurt unduly, I promise,” he swore. “Sodomy is the lodestone of good BDSM sex,” he assured her. “Besides,” he went on, “I’m not heavily endowed and I think you’ll like it.”

Claire made a face. “I don’t…think I want that,” she said.

“Alright,” he said easily. “No sodomy.”

Claire exhaled.

“What happens next?” she prompted.

“I’ll unbind your wrists, turn you over on your back and then fuck the shit out of you!” the Professor promised roughly. The whites of his eyes glinted eerily.

“What if you can’t get it up again?” she asked practically. He had had lots of beers too.

He was growing a little impatient. “Then I’ll eat you out,” he said shortly. “There’s one more thing,” he said at the last moment.

More? Claire thought. What more could there possibly be? Getting a passing grade — even a B — in his class was beginning to seem like an imprudent rate of exchange.

“What’s that?” she asked suspiciously.

“Your Safe Word,” he replied.

Claire shook her head uncertainly. “What’s that?” she asked again.

“The Safe Word,” said the Professor, “is what you’ll say if you suddenly — and for any reason — want the sex play to end and to be released.”

They settled on their Safe Word and then the play began. Claire discovered that, to her surprise, she was soon invested in the sexual dynamic. Always a leader, at school and work and amongst friends — she was in the Student Government at university, and a shift leader at the pizza joint where she worked — it felt good to step back and relax and take a submissive role. And the Professor, despite his feigned assertiveness, was in fact quite gentle. When he beat her ass with the belt, she felt, as he’d predicted, as if her head would explode, she was so turned on. 

Just before Ames went down on her, she asked him, “Have you ever been in love?”

“No, never,” he said.

When the sex play was over and her lover had departed, Claire sat cross-legged on her bed and reviewed the evening’s events. The Professor had not mustered the stamina he’d promised, getting hard only twice and then for only short periods. She had almost laughed at his frustration, but she felt pity more than scorn. She’d never had occasion to utter the vaunted Safe Word. After he’d released her and kissed her goodnight, he had told her that “Next time, my love, you can be the dominant one.” She thought about that for a long time.

In class on the following Monday, Ames seemed impassive, neither making eye contact nor paying her any mind. She felt a bit miffed at first, but then recognized that anonymity was probably the best policy. She looked around the room, at the other nubile coeds, and wondered which of them he had been “tied up with.” Again, a giggle  escaped her lips. But when Professor Ames passed back the previous week’s essay, Claire was happy to see a “B+” etched in purple ink across the top of the paper. This was two full grades higher than her previous score.

Two weekends later, Claire found herself back at the college tavern where she’d picked up the Professor. The previous weekend, she’d had to work at her job as assistant manager at Pizza Hut and so seducing her teacher then had been impossible. He’d called her nearly every day. Claire was intrigued by the promised role reversal; it was her turn to be dominant. At the bar, Claire spotted her erstwhile lover, talking to another teacher who was the Professor’s age, or 20 years older than Claire. When he spotted her, he forsook the other woman at once.

“Catch you later, Maeve,” he said, turning away. Maeve, a hot-looking brunette, shot hateful daggers at Claire as the Professor edged his way through the tightly packed tavern. He stood before Claire, smiling warmly. Their date for after the close of the pub was unspoken, but understood. Precisely at 2 a.m., following Last Call, the two of them walked the four blocks to Claire’s small house.

Sequestered once more in Claire’s bedroom, they again discussed boundaries and limits and what the other would and would not countenance. The Professor, as it happened, was amenable to more radical treatment than Claire had been willing to endure. “Really give me a workout,” he said huskily. At this, Claire’s eyes opened wide. Finally, they settled on the Prof’s Safe Word; for simplicity’s sake, he selected the very word that Claire had herself chosen weeks before.

In order to prep for the experience, Claire had used some of her tip money from Pizza Hut to order a couple of  risque videos from Amazon. After Ames had been stripped and bound, she worked him over. Rather  than use the Prof’s leather belt, however, she turned up her Pickle Ball racket and beat him relentlessly until a tiny drop of blood surfaced on his cheek. She kissed it away.

“God, Claire,” gasped Ames, only half in jest, “I think I’m in love!”

Claire had read in a book, “The Joy of BDSM Sex,” that this was not unusual for the recipients of flagellation. Twisting her lips thoughtfully, she pulled out a prodigious dildo, which she cinched around her narrow waist. She allowed Ames to see what she was doing.

“My God,” he said, panting excitedly, “it’s so freaking big!”

Claire plied the instrument of love for all she was worth, until at length Professor Ames gasped, “God, Claire, I AM in love!”

Claire smirked and felt that an A was well within her grasp. Their relationship, such as it was, continued apace, until it didn’t. Several weeks later, the Professor and Claire made a date to meet for lunch at a high-end restaurant on the top floor of the college’s Student Union. Claire had never eaten there before; it was beyond her means. The maitre de acknowledged her reservation and escorted her to a table. Minutes later, Ames joined her. Smiling, he took a seat. Claire had something important to discuss with the Professor, and Ames had suggested the restaurant.

“Have you ordered yet?” he asked.

She shook her head no. As if by magic, a waitress appeared at their table and they placed their order. They engaged in small talk, and when the food had been served, Ames turned to Claire and asked, “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

“My grade on my last essay,” she replied. At his inquisitive look, she continued, “I got a C-, Jeffrey,” she complained.

Ames took a drink of water and nodded. “That’s the grade you deserved,” he told her.

Claire only stared at him. “But, I thought that we…”

He shook his head. “There is no ‘we’ with respect to your identity as a student, Claire. Our relationship in class is that of instructor to student. You didn’t expect me to amplify your scores based on our sleeping together, did you?” he whispered. “That,” he said primly, would not be ethical.”

As Claire sat looking at the Professor, the wheels were going round inside her head. “You  mean ethical,” she began, “as in the ethics of your having sex with a student in your class?”

Now it was his turn to stare at her. Suddenly there was a bead of sweat on his upper lip. “Claire,” he said, “do you think that you’re the first student to try to extort a higher grade out of a teacher? What problems do you think you can possibly create for me? I’m a tenured professor.” He chuckled softly.

Claire had never before noticed just how beady Jeffrey Ames’s eyes were. She stared back frankly at him.

“Everything, Jeffrey,” she told him, “is political.” He raised his brows in exaggerated fashion. 

“Meaning?” he asked, dabbing delicately at his soft lips with a napkin.

Claire shrugged. “I don’t know; do you feel that your academic reputation might suffer if your colleagues knew you’d been butt-fucked by a 19-year-old student of yours? Could be unseemly at student conferences and faculty soires, what have you,” she suggested. When he said nothing, she picked her large purse off the floor and grasped the huge dildo with which she had sodomized him on many occasions. She pulled the head out several inches.

“It’s your word against mine,” he said, glancing nervously at the phallus.

“Jeffrey,” she asked, “how do you know that I didn’t video our…encounters?” Claire pulled the fake penis several inches more from the purse.

“Put that damn thing away!” he hissed, gazing furtively at the other tables. Rather than comply with that request, she slapped it down hard on the table top, rattling the silverware. 

“I’ll just leave this with you,” she said serenely and, closing her purse, took up her wrap and walked out of the restaurant. She didn’t look back.

At the tavern some weeks later, Claire was drinking pitchers of beer with friends when she spotted Professor Ames across the bar, eyeing her. She paid him no mind. At length, while Claire’s friends were dancing, Ames approached and stood before her, swaying on his feet. Finally, Claire looked up.

“Professor,” she said neutrally.

“Claire,” he said, then burped. “Alright if I sit?”

She nodded.

He stumbled into a chair. He was really drunk, thought Claire, but she had little sympathy for him. She was a little intoxicated herself. It had been some weeks since they had been bedmates. Claire’s grades had plummeted too. More than that, she had experienced an unexpected sense of loss.

“I want us to get back together, Claire,” he slurred. “I miss you.”

She stared at  him impassively. “What’s in it for me?” she asked.

“Transactional, eh?” he asked.

“You bet.”

“What do you want?” he asked, pouring a beer from her pitcher and spilling it across the tabletop.

“An A for the course,” she said crisply.

He nodded his head ponderously. “Done!” he agreed. “Let’s go to your place.”

“After grades come out,” she said. “The semester ends in two weeks. I see an A on my report card, and I’ll take you home with me.”

He stared at her.

She stared back.

Finally, Ames nodded. “I’ll see you on the 19th.” That was the day that grades came out. He stumbled to his feet and left the bar.

On the 19th, grades were posted to her email account and Claire was beside herself with joy. She had aced “Literary Masterpieces of Antiquity,” the required backbreaking course taught by Professor Jeffrey Ames. Ames had called her earlier, telling her he was coming over to collect. She considered blowing him off, but fair was fair. Besides, she’d never been so turned on as when she was in the throes of BDSM. Her relationship with Jeffrey was complicated. So she told him to come on by. Still, he was full of himself and a bit creepy; besides, with the skills she’d learned, she could find other like-minded partners. Partners with more stamina. Still, she’d felt safe with Jeffrey.

After Professor Ames arrived, Claire offered him a drink, but he demured. He was sober for once, she noted. They swiftly disrobed and climbed into bed. “What’ll it be tonight, Jeffrey?” asked Claire. “Do you want to be dominant, or shall I?” She licked her lips in anticipation.

“I just want to hold you,” he said unexpectedly, and they extinguished the light and drew a sheet over themselves and lay in one another’s arms.

Claire didn’t know what to think. Was Jeffrey ill? She pulled him close and lay with her cheek against his chest. She was surprised when, hours later, she awoke to find out she’d slept the night away. Jeffrey was awake and looking at her.

“What…what time is it?” she asked. He told her. “What happened last night?” she asked next.

“I had an epiphany,” he admitted.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m in love with you, Claire,” he said softly.

“Love?” she repeated, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

“Yes,” he said. “Love.”

Love had been their Safe Word.

A Dream That You Dared To

She had a dream about her mom’s dick.

Even in the dream she was confused.  Like, why does mom have a dick?

Her dad was there, too.  She asked him about it.

She said, “Why does mom have a dick?”

“Shhh,” he shushed her.

His eyes were fixed on the dick.  He nodded at it, eyebrows up, like ‘Get a load of THAT.’

It wasn’t too long, but it was wide — a chode, they call dicks like her mom’s.  And it was all fucked up.  Diseased, for sure.  But like, naturally fucked up too.  Birth defect fucked up. The squat shaft was covered in boils and the coiled skin piled like soft serve on a cone.  A giant vein snaked back and forth up the shaft and ended at what looked like some sort of underdeveloped pig-faced burn victim with botched skin grafts.  The penis hole was wide, and every time the vein pulsed, the hole stretched wider like it was gasping for air.

Her dad came up behind her and whispered in her ear. 

“Suck it,” he said.

She didn’t want to suck it.

“I don’t want to suck it,” she said.

He sighed and she could feel his disappointment.  The feeling said, ‘All your mother’s done for you?  All she’s done, and you can’t even suck her dick?’

She looked away from the preemie burn victim pig face of a dick and up at her mom.

Her mom looked patient, with a kind smile and soft eyes.  Her mom nodded, just a little nod.  A nod that said, ‘It’s okay.’  

The nod made her feel safe.  She said to herself, “It is okay,” and dropped to her knees.

She put her hand around her mom’s dick.  It was clammy, a little sticky.  

It stiffened.  The penis hole gasped quicker, opened wider.  The vein pulsed with her mom’s rising heart rate.

She looked at her dad.  He was trembling, shifting his weight back and forth.

She scooted in, brought her face closer to her mom’s dick.

And then she heard something coming from the penis hole.

Singing.

She put her ear to the hole.  Puffs of air tickled her hair. The voice was beautiful, a child’s voice, and it was singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’

“Waaaaay uuup hiiiiigh,” it sang.

She knew that voice, that penis hole voice, familiar in a comforting way.  Her apprehension lifted. She smiled.  And opened her mouth.

Her jaw unhinged, and she took her mom’s dick in her mouth.

The whole thing.

Preemie pig faced burn victim and all.

The whole thing.

Boils ruptured.  Puss ran from her lips, dribbled down her chin.  It tasted wholesome.

She moved her mouth up and down on her mom’s dick.  

Bobbed her head.

Her dad squealed, hopped in placed while clapping his hands.

She gripped the shaft, bobbed her head faster.

And faster.

And faster.

Her mom groaned, thrust her hips.

And then…

And then…

Her mom ejaculated.

Her mom’s preemie pig faced burn victim dick became a hot spring, and she gulped with each pulse, in rhythm.  

But it kept coming.  The pressure was too great.

It shot from her nose, her ears, dripped from her eyes.  It pulsed through her pores, entered her bloodstream, moved through her organs, into her heart.

Joy.  Electric joy, ecstatic joy.

And then it was over.

She sat back onto the floor and cried.  Cried tears of joy. Of joy and cum.  Her parents came to her, wrapped their arms around her, cried with her.

And then she became someone else, somewhere else.  She was a child – she was her mother as a child.  She still sat back on her knees, but on a worn rug in front of a black and white television.  Judy Garland was on the screen, wearing a checkered dress and a look of nostalgia.  

Judy was singing.

“Sooooommewheeere oooover the raaainbow…”

Her mother’s voice sang along, her child’s voice tender, matching Judy’s nostalgia.

“Bllluuuuuue biiird flyyy

Aaaand the dream that you daaare to

Oooh whyyy, ooOoh whyyy caaan’t Iiiiiiiii.”

Fortunate One

“Hey baby, come take a ride in my T-bird.” Jimmy took the last drag off his smoke and tossed it on the ground near the little cutie’s blue sandals. He scoped her body from that sparkly pearl polish on her toes up to her high waisted short shorts. He paused at her knit tube top, which matched her sandals, and settle on that unimpressed frown she wore on a pair of juicy pink lips, which were wrapped around the red plastic straw of a Slush Puppy cup. He licked his lips, thinking she probably tasted like cherry slushie and cotton candy too. 

That’s how most of the high school girls tasted in the summer time, and they all smelled like cheap drug store perfume, heavy on the coconut and tangerine. He liked that just fine. Trashy was his world, and these young ladies didn’t have enough life experience to know that a man living in his car and drinking Jack straight from the bottle was bad news. 

Jimmy had two things going for him. One, his good looks. Like James Dean and John Travolta were lovers then some how one of ‘em pushed out a puppy. And two, he had the gift of the gab. That was thanks to his uncle, Tony the Wop. His whole family were wops, if he was being honest, but he didn’t do honest so much. He liked to fancy himself one of them hispanics from across the border. The girls liked them better. Something about them being seen as ethnic instead of grifters.

The girl pulled down her Ray-Bans and gave him a gander. Jimmy flashed his teeth. He liked to show off his gold caps so the girls knew he had money even if he didn’t. 

“Who you calling baby?” she said. 

Jimmy cut the engine. John Fogerty belting “It ain’t me,” over the radio fell into silence. The distant tinkling sound of the merry-go-round and drunk carnival revelers filled the car.  

“Well, I fancy that’d be you, baby. What do you say?” Jimmy stroked the leather seat beside him like he was caressing a woman’s thigh. 

“Not interested. Thanks.” But she didn’t budge just the same.

“And why not?” Jimmy craned his neck, taking a gaze around the drive-in parking lot, then behind her to the fair. “You telling me these jock boys with their varsity jackets and heads square enough to shove in a socket got more to offer than Jimmy? 

“Jimmy is it? I heard of you. You come into town creeping on high school girls.” 

“Creeping, huh? No. You got a look about you. That blonde hair like a halo.” He crossed himself. “I wouldn’t steal an angel from the lord and savior. Now, I don’t know what you heard about me girl but I just wanna be friends. My intentions are pure.” 

“Mhm,” She mumbled skeptically and crossed her arms. “Like they were with Carolyn Deary?”

“Can’t say I know that name.”

“How about Hannah Jeffrey?” 

“Not that one neither.” 

The girl rolled her eyes and looked like she was fixing to walk off.

“Look baby, you got me wrong. I swear. Come in my ride, we’ll have a nice private chat and clear things up straight.”

“You wouldn’t try to take advantage of me?” 

“Cross my heart, baby girl. Anything you don’t want, I ain’t offering. I mean, you might just change your mind, and I’m not gonna promise I can say no to you. Because oof…” Jimmy made like he was outlining her body with his hands. 

“Aren’t you 25?”

“I seen 26 summers to be exact, but I can’t see how that means nothing.” 

“Maybe ‘cause I’m jailbait.” 

“Like Carolyn and Hannah?” 

“Thought you didn’t know them.” 

“I don’t. Look your age don’t bother me.” 

“It should.” 

“Tell you what, we drive up to the old mill, look out on the valley, pop a little Jack in your slushie. We’ll have a good time.”

“Daddy told me not to get the car with strangers.” 

“Daddy ain’t here baby, and you’re big enough to make that decision without daddy’s help. I can tell.”

“Think so?” She put her hand on her hips and flashed him a grin. She liked that.

“Oh I know. Come on baby what do you say?” 

“Maybe I am, but maybe my answer would be, no thank you mister.” 

“Ooh what I gotta do to get you in my car, huh? Didn’t you hear from your girlfriends Jimmy’s a lot of fun?” 

“I heard you gave Hannah the Clap.”

“Ain’t true. None of it.” 

She leaned against the car. Jimmy reached out and stroked her shoulder. She shrugged his hand off like he had leprosy. “You been framed, huh?” 

“Yes, ma’am. I am an innocent man.” 

“Innocent, huh?” She leaned her elbows on the window frame and popped her head in the car. She gave Jimmy a sniff and assessed the car’s interior.

“Everything check out? Yeah, she’s a cool ride. Smooth too. Come give her a test run, baby.”  

“You even know who I am?” 

Jimmy scratched his chin. “Billy or Betty. Something like that.” 

“Bobby. Bobby Sue Constance.” 

“Yeah, that’s right. See I knew that. You coming, baby?” 

“I tell you what, Jimmy. I accept your invitation and go for a ride, there’s two things that’s gonna happen.” 

Jimmy slammed his fist on the steering wheel and squealed.   

“Hot dog, girly. You got it. What do you need?”

“I’m choosing where we go for our chit-chatting.” 

“Fair enough.” Jimmy was already thinking about pulling that periwinkle tube top over his neck and wearing it like a collar while they tested the suspension. He leaned over and opened the passenger door. 

“You listening, Jimmy?” 

Jimmy popped his head back over to the drivers side.

“You still standing there? Get in girl.” 

“You haven’t heard my second conviction.” 

“Sounds a touch churchy but shoot.” 

“No kissing. No cuddling.” She leaned in and ran her fingers down his nose and shoved one in his mouth. “And no caressing.” Jimmy let out a sweet little whimper like a puppy at the teat. She hooked his bottom lip. “Understand, baby?” 

“Uh-huh.” Jimmy nodded. 

Bobby Sue dragged her fingernail out of his mouth.

“Good, I’m young enough to get you tossed in Folsom.”

Jimmy sucked his lip and tasted blood. Watching that fine little vixen strut around the front end of his T-bird, Jimmy’s heart started flapping in ways it never had before. She dragged that nail across the hood and kept her eyes on his. He didn’t care none if she scratched the paint. This girl was his kind of woman. 

She crawled in and blabbed on about going this way and that. Jimmy went through the motions, turning the wheel when she said, stopping at a red light when told, nodding the affirmative while she smirked and sucked that slush puppy. Jimmy was busy eating up the way her shorts crawled up her thighs like panties, and thinking about the trouble they could cause if he convinced this sugar plum to run off with him. Jimmy had never considered taking a girlfriend, but Jimmy and Bobby. Now, that had a nice ring to it. 

Now don’t be a fool, Jimmy boy. This girl’s pushing seventeen. Maybe. Ooh but the way she lifts her brow when she glances my way. She’s no angel. No sir. She could be my little devil. 

“Cut the engine right here, Jimmy.” 

“Well then, we’re in an alley, baby.” Jimmy peeped the light flickering over a rusty metal door, looking like the back entrance to a slaughter house. The far end of the alley was walled up with bricks. No doubt, this place gave him the creeps, but he had to admit it was cozy. 

“Not quite as romantic as the old mill, baby.” 

Bobby threw off her belt and put her feet up on the seat. She sucked the last of her slushie noisily and grinned.

Jimmy’s eyes went places they shouldn’t with a girl saying “no touching” and the like. He wiped his mouth. “Ooh girl. You’re asking me to break my promise, aren’t you?” 

Bobby kicked off her sandals. Those bare feet slithered across the seat then wriggled around his leg like a python. 

“I have done no such thing.”

“What are you playing, little lady?”

“I’m getting you into trouble.” She pressed her foot into his manly business.   

He moaned. “Oh mhm, you are, girl.” 

Jimmy took a gulp of Jack. The warmth spread through his chest and tingled his head. He passed the bottle to Bobby then massaged her foot. She held the bottle out, wagging it from side to side. Not taking a drink. Just watching him with a naughty grin. 

Jimmy crept over, sliding his hands up her thighs, and laid a kiss on those cherry lips. She shoved her tongue his mouth and twirled it around like an expert. 

“Ooh girl, you’re delicious like strawberry cream. I wanna taste the rest of you.”

“I said no, Jimmy,” she whispered. 

“Your body’s telling me something else, baby.”

He went in for another kiss, to which she obliged. 

The alley exploded with light like an asteroid burning up in the atmosphere. Jimmy cocked his head like a rooster and felt his retinas sizzle. Blinding white like search lights. They started to dance around the interior of the car.  

“What in the hell you suppose that is, baby?” Images of little gray men pranced through Jimmy’s head. He was not a man to lose his cool but this was something.  

The passenger door opened behind Bobby. One of the spotlights blasted Jimmy directly in the face. 

Bobby. Were they stealing her for one of them experiments? 

Jimmy pawed around trying to keep hold of his little treasure. No way space men were stealing this morsel from him. He found her breasts in the confusion and said, “Bobby, baby, you feel me?” 

A hand closed around the collar of Jimmy’s shirt. The damn space men had infiltrated the drivers side too. An arm wrapped around his chest. The grip was firmer than he expected from someone who spent all their time on a space ship. Jimmy squawked. 

“Shit, help me, girl. Them aliens got me.” 

Bobby didn’t scream. She didn’t kick up a fuss. Nope, the girl sat there giggling. 

The landing lights shifted behind her and Jimmy saw a face. Not a green sickly face with black bug eyes over a pinched, lipless mouth, but a thick black mustache and a peaked cap. Bobby looked at Jimmy and smiled. She handed the bottle of Jack to the officer behind her and said, “Hey Daddy.”

“Hey Honey. What kinda trouble you get into?” 

“None Daddy, but this big man was looking to do impure things to me.” 

Jimmy felt like he’d taken a bullet in the chest. This girl was bad, badder than him, no doubt. Two officers pulled him out of the car. One of them saying to Jimmy, “you must be some kind of stupid parking out back of the station.”  

They dragged his ass around the trunk toward the street. He craned his neck trying to catch one last look at that naughty vixen.

Bobby’s father, chief badge on his hat, helped her out of the car. The beating in Jimmy’s chest came to a full stop. 

Look at me baby. You’re gonna break my heart.

Bobby sashayed around the back end of the car like a pointy tailed succubus and tossed Jimmy a smirk. 

Jimmy fought the arms around him but it was useless. He resigned himself and screamed, “Bobby Sue, I love you.”

The Flu

Sunday morning Bob set the kitchen clock behind an hour like Lisa, his wife, had asked him, moments after she gave him a blow job, while he sat at the kitchen table having his morning coffee. He wanted to come on her face, but she wouldn’t let him because she had already put her make-up on for the day. Instead, she lifted her shirt and let him pop on her tits with a paper towel in hand.

On Monday morning, the same time he left for work every day, he noticed there was something different, but it didn’t register that it was darker, the sun was barely up. Bob’s brain felt lazy, slow to fire. He had stayed up way too late watching dwarf porno online. Most men had fantasies about a threesome with two women. Bob’s fantasy was to make love to a pretty little woman with stubby legs and a hairy bush. He fantasized that she was passing through town with the circus.

Late Monday afternoon his manager told him not to work too late. Bob groaned and continued to stare at his computer screen. “I got to get this done,” he said.

“It’s a full moon tonight,” the manager said.

“I know,” Bob said. Everybody knew. They announced it all day long on the radio, before and after every commercial break, before and after the news and weather, and before and after every song. Any idiot knew there was a full moon tonight.

Bob’s phone rang. He answered quickly. “Bob here.”

“It’s dark out! You’re still at work?!” Lisa screeched.

“What?” Bob said. “I’II be right home.” He hung up the phone, and quickly logged off his computer. “Bob, you dumb shit!” he yelled at himself. How did I forget that it was no longer daylight saving? What kind of stressed-out moron forgets a thing like that? Me, that’s who. Stress. It plays on your mind in many subtle and covert ways. It sneaks up on you and causes disaster, sometimes a heart attack, sometimes a stroke. This time the danger is much different.

Bob had no one to blame but himself.

“Don’t stay too late. Remember. It’s a full moon tonight,” his manager had announced over the intercom after lunch.

No shit dumb ass.

Lisa called him around four o’clock in the afternoon, “Make sure you leave before dark.” 

“I know, got to go. Busy. Love ya.”

Now, a couple of hours later Bob walked out of the building into the light of the full moon. It was sharp and bright in the clear, crisp autumn night. Conversations from the day buzzed around his mind. His coworkers, George and Monica had prattled on about the Flu and everything everyone already knew about it. How it makes you emotionally and physically hypersensitive. It turned the mildest mannered individuals into violent psychopathic sex fiends who would be in their glory if they could beat you after they screw you, or even vice versa. That was how it got the nickname, FFF, Fight and Fuck Flu.  

“Awe, sonofabitch,” he in uttered, and all the implications of his blunder came into focus. This was bad, very bad. “You get me out of this one, God, and I’ll…” Bob didn’t want to commit to church every Sunday. That was unrealistic, and God knows that would be a lie. “I’ll, I’ll. . .” The list was too long and unattainable. “Please God,” was all he could say. 

Bob ran to his car, the hard leather soles of his shoes cracked on the street and echoed through the buildings.

Damn these shoes! Why didn’t I wear my sneakers? Those with the FFF have acute hearing. He was the fastest runner in high school. From then, his fitness had gradually gone downhill until this moment when he labored out of breath with every weak stride.

About a couple of blocks away, he heard the howl, the excruciating half-human bleat of someone inflected by the FFF. Bob knew how fast they could run, the distance they could cover in a hurry. The mutation caused by the FFF with the catalyst of the full moon made them physically superior but not immortal.  It was very similar to lycanthropy, being a werewolf.

No distance was a safe distance.

Terrified and exhausted, Bob limped to his car. 

I’m not going to work tomorrow.

The car beeped when he unlocked it. It sounded as loud as church bells to those with the FFF.

His hand was shaking, so he found it difficult to put the key in the ignition. A deep breath gave him a momentarily steady hand. The car started, and he was on his way home. Things were looking up. Before he pulled onto the street, he popped open his glove box and grabbed his 9mm pistol.

On a normal day of the week, there would be traffic, others commuting, but tonight because of the full moon, there wasn’t a car in sight. Without stopping, Bob turned left on a red light onto Hwy 14 across the marsh towards home. The full moon looked brighter in the dark marsh. 

Bob’s risk was less now. Those with the FFF didn’t go after fast moving vehicles, even as crazy as they became. His next worry was when he got home. He would have to slow down to pull into the driveway and into the garage, and that’s why the gun was next to him. Bob heaved a sigh of relief, thinking he would probably get home safe, as the song Riders on the Storm came on the radio, and it eerily became background music to his life. 

Up ahead Bob saw something on the road glittering in his headlights. He was on top of it before he realized what it was. When he saw the jagged edges of broken bottles, it was too late. His two front tires blew violently and immediately, so he pulled his limping car to the side of the road.

“Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” Bob groaned. He squeezed the steering wheel until his body shook with self-loathing. Then he banged on the dash one time for good measure. “God, you must want me fucking dead!” He yelled at the ceiling of the car. He grabbed his gun and checked the clip. It was full. He looked up and gave a disgruntled, “Thanks.” Then he dialed 911.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the female voice asked.

“My tires blew on Highway 14 as I was crossing the marsh. There are shards of glass all over the road.”

She didn’t ask what he was doing out on a full moon. There was no judgement. “Are you in imminent danger at the moment?”

“Do I see anyone with the Flu? No, not yet.” He didn’t tell her he was armed, because he didn’t have a permit to conceal and carry.

Then the dispatcher said, “We are getting multiple calls about broken glass causing flat tires. We believe it’s those with the Flu causing this. I need you to keep your lights and radio off. Make as little noise as possible, and we’ll get an officer there as soon as possible.”

“Busy night?” Bob asked.

“Always on a full moon,” she said.

“I lost track of time at work. Forgot it wasn’t daylights savings.”

“You’re not alone. Be safe sir. Good-bye.”

Bob didn’t like her “good-bye.” She said it like no one would hear from him again.

He quickly texted his wife to let her know his predicament and that he didn’t call because he had to be as quiet as possible. 

“Oh, no,” she texted with a sad emoji.

“The police are coming,” he texted back.

She replied with a smiling emoji.

In the distance, Bob couldn’t tell how far, he heard a chilling howl. It cut loud through the heavy dark. Bob looked at the clock in his dash. Only fifteen minutes had passed since he left work.

The car felt stuffy, so he cracked open his window to get a little fresh air. The buzzing cacophony of insects in the marsh sounded very loud to him. The howling stopped, but there was the shuffling sound of feet on the asphalt road near the car. Bob stared intently into the darkness, but before he saw anything, there was a rap on the passenger side of the car and a strained gravelly voice called his name through the crack in the window. “Hey, Bob.”  

“What the fuck!” Bob startled and pointed his gun at the window. 

“It’s me, George from work.”

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Bob rolled down the window to talk to George, but when he took one look at George’s bulging eyes, slobbering jowls, and pins of coarse hair all over his face, Bob rolled the window right back up.

“Roll down the fucking window!” George shrieked. 

“You got the Flu, George.”

George pounded and pawed at the window. Bob waited for it to break, ready to shoot the moment it did. George gave up on the window and kicked the door. It pissed off Bob as much as frightened him.

“Stop kicking my goddam car!” Bob yelled.

“Come on out, so I can fuck you in the ass and cum on your face, you pussy!” George yelled and leaped onto the hood of the Corolla. George’s vertical jump impressed Bob, since George was a chubby guy that moved like a sloth at work. But Bob knew it was the FFF that gave George the spring in his step.

“Get off my car, George,” Bob ordered and pointed his gun at him through the windshield.

“Go ahead, shoot,” George dared. “If you miss, the windshield will still break, and I’ll be standing over you with my dick in your mouth.”

“I won’t miss,” Bob said. He stared into George’s pus-filled yellow eyes and felt sorry for him.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. You’ll have the Flu soon anyway,” George snickered.

“What?” Bob asked.

“She fucked you too, right?” George slurped and drooled onto the hood of the car. 

Bob shivered from the chilly reality of the situation. 

“Who?

“You know who. Pammy-poo that’s who,” George tittered then snapped. A shot of fury jolted through George’s fevered body. Dirty infected hormones multiplied and blasted through his veins.

“Oh shit,” Bob said. He had not used a condom when he had sex with Pam. 

“Oh, shit is right, buddy boy,” George said excitedly. “But she sure was a good fuck, wasn’t she?” 

Pam, the woman from the Milwaukee branch, came to town to give a seminar last Friday in the Sunset Hotel conference room. Later in the bar after a couple of drinks Pam whispered to Bob, “I know you want to fuck me.” Pam was short and chubby with stubby legs and small breasts. She had a cute bookish face with big glasses. Her dress suit was gray and drab and all buttoned up, but when she tossed her clothes off, and Bob saw her bushy dirty blonde snatch, he got as hard as concrete. She was as close to Bob’s dwarf fantasy as he had ever come. Bob was so turned on by her, he popped twice, one in the mish position with her heels pinned to her ears and the other from a voracious blow job. Afterwards, Bob took a quick shower to rinse her off before he went home. While he was in the bathroom, she yelled, “I’m going back down to the bar.”

“I’ll be heading home. It was nice seeing you,” Bob laughed. He wondered how long it was before she brought George up to her room. Even before someone went through their first full moon transformation, the infection caused nymphomania. 

George dropped his pants and exposed the purple head of his erection. He massaged his balls and slapped his dick against his belly before he wrapped his hand around it and stroked it vigorously.

“Stop it! Stop it! Or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you, George!” Bob knew what was going to happen, and it happened sooner than he thought. He hardly had a chance to react before George was ejaculating all over his windshield with three hefty ropes.

“Oh, baby!” George bellowed. “There ya go motherfucker, take it all.”

“You asshole, George. You were an asshole before and you ‘re asshole now,” Bob said.

“You want asshole? I ‘II give you asshole,” George said, and as an encore he turned his ass towards Bob and sprayed muddy light brown diarrhea all over the windshield. It gushed out in one huge spurt.

Bob gagged. Irate, he jumped out of the car and shot George three times in the chest. The gunshots blew George off the hood of the car. Bob had to walk around to the other side to see him. George was lying on the ground, pants at his ankles, and his dick was still erect.

“Oh man, you didn’t have to shoot me,” George groaned. “I was only having a little fun. I wasn’t going to hurt you. I just wanted a little piece. I’m horny as hell.”

“You would have fucked me to death, George,” Bob said. He still aimed his shaky gun at George.

“Am I going to die?” George sobbed. 

“I don’t know. I think so,” Bob said. 

“Could you do me favor?”

“What?” Bob asked.

“Suck my cock?” George asked with a raspy laugh and placed his hand over his crotch before he died.

Bob stared at the moon and heard the ear piercing sirens approaching. He felt a little tingle in his groin and the urge to kick someone’s ass.

The Second-Hand Painting

‘Not much gothic rock, is there?’ Ophelia said, placing a CD on the counter.

‘We only stock what people donate, dear,’ the old woman replied. ‘I could check the stockroom?’

‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.’ She watched the cashier hobble away.

Ophelia swept her nail-bitten fingers over the mood rings and slid one onto her wedding ring finger. It shifted from blue to amber under the shop’s dreary light.

From above the counter, painted green eyes watched her. She gazed at the portrait of a rugged gentleman dressed in a black frock coat. He stood tall beside an ornate chair, and his scarlet lips twisted into the grin of someone who knew her darkest secrets. Fucking eerie, she thought. I must have you.

‘I’m sorry, dear,’ the cashier said. ‘No more CDs.’

‘Never mind.’ Ophelia pointed. ‘How much is that painting?’

The cashier turned and removed it from the hook. ‘There’s no price on it, dear. I don’t think it’s for sale.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘It’s all for sale.’

‘There’s always a price,’ the cashier said, scratching her chin.

Ophelia snatched the painting by its ornate, gold frame and inspected it. ‘Did the tag fall onto the floor?’

The cashier wheezed as she bent over to search for the price tag.

Ophelia scribbled a number on the back with her eyebrow pencil. ‘Oh, here it is,’ she said. ‘Two pounds.’

‘A bargain,’ the cashier said.

Ophelia returned to her shabby apartment building. In the hallway, Albert stopped her.

‘Doing a bit of Christmas shopping?’ he said. His blubbery lips curled into a smile that revealed his nicotine-stained teeth. ‘I hope you didn’t spend too much on me?’

‘Albert, you got the rent?’

‘Yes, I got it,’ he said. ‘But you’re looking too skinny, so I brought you some homemade lasagne.’

Ophelia unlocked the door, and he followed her inside.

He set the plastic container on the coffee table. ‘Need me to hang that painting?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly. That’s a man’s job,’ he said. ‘You want it in the bedroom?’

She propped the painting against the small couch. ‘No, it’s going in the hallway.’

‘Well, it’s decided,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch my hammer.’

The night came with relentless, drumming rain. Ophelia settled into her dinner routine with a horror film.

‘I have a special treat for you, Mister Nosferatu,’ she said, and forked sardines from a tin into her cat’s bowl. Her black Siamese devoured the pungent fish as Ophelia dug into the lasagne.

In the television’s flickering light, she plucked a curly dark hair from a mouthful of bland béchamel sauce. She examined it and gagged. That’s the last time I accept anything from that frog-faced fucker.

The alarm clock showed three in the morning. Ophelia writhed in her damp bedsheets. In her dream, the painted gentleman lingered at her bedside. He leaned in, his soft lips brushing her earlobe. ‘I must have you,’ he whispered. His fingertips trailed through her thick pubic hair. She inhaled a sharp breath as his fingers slipped inside her and massaged her vaginal wall with a gentle rhythm. Red patches bloomed across her pale stomach. He climbed onto the bed, and her pelvis arched to meet his erection. It filled her up and sent her heart rate into overdrive.

It was almost ten-thirty when Ophelia woke to the persistent buzz of her doorbell. She dressed in yesterday’s clothes and answered the door. ‘Yes, Albert?’

‘Filia, I must apologise,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have commented on your weight.’ He handed her a bottle of white wine. ‘Here, I brought this for you.’

She spotted the one ninety-nine sticker price. ‘Thanks?’

‘Are you okay?’ Albert said. ‘You’re quite sweaty. I didn’t interrupt you polishing the pearl, did I?’

‘No. The apartment is too hot,’ she said. ‘It’s the radiators.’

‘Well, get the kettle on, and I’ll check the valves.’

As Albert tinkered with the radiator, Ophelia spied on him through the cracked bedroom door. He held her worn briefs to his bulbous nose and slid his fat tongue along the stained gusset. She covered her mouth with her trembling hand and rushed to the kitchenette. ‘Is it fixed yet?’ she called.

‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to call a plumber.’

At night, Mister Nosferatu pawed at the snowflakes swirling past the front window. Ophelia drained her glass of Albert’s vinegary wine and stood before the painting.

‘Visit me tonight,’ she whispered, and wandered to the bedroom. The room spun, her vision fizzed with vibrant colours, and she fainted.

An hour later, her eyes snapped open to footsteps thudding in the dark. She pulled herself off the floor and noticed a silhouette crouched in the hallway.

In a raspy voice, it said, ‘You’re such a disappointment, girl.’

‘As I told you on your deathbed, Mildred, go to hell.’

The silhouette dragged itself upright and stumbled backwards towards Ophelia. Its hand scuffed the wall and created an agonal gasp.

‘You can’t hurt me anymore. It’s all a dream.’

The shadow inched near. ‘I’ll see you soon, child.’

Ophelia scrunched her nose at the shadowy, bloated face of her mother. She flicked on the light. The hallway was empty. She expected to wake up at any moment.

When she realised she was awake, dreaded thoughts carouseled her hazy head. A hallucination. It’s Albert. The food. The wine. He’s spiking me. It all makes sense. I need to call the police. But where will I go?

A faint cry drew her to the painting, now a black canvas. ‘What in the world?’ she said. As her hand slid over its furry surface, bestial teeth emerged and savaged her wrist. She collapsed, wracked by electric pain shooting up her arm.

In the morning, Albert found Ophelia slumped on the bedroom floor. He shook her until her eyes sprang open.

‘Filia, wake up.’

‘Albert, what are you doing?’

‘I came with the plumber. You didn’t answer, so I let myself in,’ he said. ‘You’re cut. What happened?’

Ophelia glanced at the gash on her wrist. ‘The wine glass,’ she said. ‘I fainted and must have fallen on it.’

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s clean you up.’

When Albert left, stars glimmered in the evening’s lilac sky. Mister Nosferatu pounced onto the bed and snuggled against Ophelia. She stroked his chin. ‘My favourite sweetheart,’ she said.

As time passed, the room grew black. Sweat dewed her forehead. She swallowed the painkillers Albert left her, and her eyelids grew heavy. Such a disappointment, she thought, as tears slipped from her sleeping eyes.

A finger trailed her damp armpit hair and disturbed her slumber. ‘You’re back,’ she whispered, half asleep. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I must have you,’ he said, and pushed his fat, vinegary finger into her mouth.

She spat it out and turned on the lamp. Albert stood naked near her bed. His plump hand lifted his greasy, gelatinous gut, and he tugged at his acorn-sized erection. He snorted as ropes of hot sperm shot against her lips.

Ophelia snapped awake, hyperventilating, as she surveyed the dark bedroom. I need to get out of here. Calm down. It was a dream. It was a dream.

A meaty hand smothered her mouth and forced her head deep into the pillow. Her fearful eyes studied the silhouette bearing down on her.

Its face shifted from Albert’s pathetic snarl to the painted man’s devilish grin, then to her mother’s scabby lips. She kicked and fought, desperate for air, until an unbearable weight crushed her trachea.

Two weeks later, the rotten smell seeped under her door and alarmed the neighbours. The news reported on her murder, revealing that her cat had survived by feeding on her corpse, defleshing her face to the bone.

‘The last girl who lived here loved the apartment,’ Albert said.

The girl glanced around. ‘Why did she leave?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, and rubbed his fat earlobe. ‘I came back from my holiday in Thailand, and she’d gone. Guy troubles, I reckon. You have a boyfriend?’

‘Not at the moment. I’m focused on my career.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a hair technician.’

He ran his hand over his bald head. ‘Can you do anything for me?’

The girl smiled. ‘It’s a fantastic space for the price, Mister Brown.’

‘Call me Albert.’

‘Okay, Albert. I’ll take it,’ she said.

‘Excellent.’ He gave her a thumbs-up. ‘I’ll start the rent on Monday, so you’ll have three days to move in and settle.

‘Thank you. That’s so kind of you.’

‘Not a problem,’ he said. ‘I live on the same floor, but you won’t see much of me.’ He handed her the keys and made his way to the door.

‘Albert,’ she called. ‘What’s the deal with that?’

He turned to her. ‘Deal with what?’

She pointed to the hall’s end. ‘That creepy painting of the man sat in the chair.’

Wedding Gift

After showering, Reinhardt drove his black Porsche to a photo shoot in a luxury condo outside of Berlin: a commercial for men’s body wash. Which meant taking another shower. Following the director’s orders, an old man who wore a brown leather jacket and red foulard, he stripped and showered in a stall covered with Italian marble. Wash your arms and chest, raise your legs one at a time, slowly lather your muscles, finger the foam, rinse off: the director issued staccato instructions. 

The camera followed Reinhardt’s every move, focussed on water dripping down his pecs, back and quadriceps, to be edited and broadcast when the manufacturer chose, after approving the images. He knew his body pleased, hence the phone call from his part time agent, who had also landed him roles in the porn industry and a couple of small movie parts, plus modelling gigs now and then. 

They all paid well, especially the commercials. Not as much fun as fucking but equally lucrative. He enjoyed the shower, moved his powerful physique suggestively, and suspected the woman who operated the camera focussed on his stirring genitals, responsive to the female gaze, even though they wouldn’t appear in the final cut. She was a bright and cheery thing, her hair blonde and loose, maybe too skinny. As he soaped, he imagined her lips around his rising cock. He didn’t attempt to hide it since he was never embarrassed when nature took its course. Besides, a cock hardening at inopportune moments often led to exciting times afterwards, but not today. 

The camera woman, however friendly and seemingly unaffected by his naked body, was all business. When the shoot was over, Reinhardt noticed that she had quickly glanced and smiled at his dick before leaving. He’d miss his gym workout today because he had a busy schedule ahead of him. An artist living in a Berlin suburb, paralyzed from the waist down, had hired him to pose for a drawing session, and then lift him out of the wheel chair, place him on a bed, head hanging over the edge of the mattress, and deep throat him until he shot his load and the man gulped it down. He needed to feed on Reinhardt’s superman strength and vitality, he had said in a text. A three-hour session. 

After that, Reinhardt had an early supper meeting with a middle-aged married couple who wanted a young bull to dominate them, the husband to be humiliated and degraded. He had suggested going to the Alexanderplatz to discuss scenarios and terms of agreement, but they didn’t want to risk running into someone they knew. They agreed to meet at a Macdonald’s a few kilometres from their home. 

His cousin’s wedding in Leipzig was in two days to which he had been invited. Having neglected to buy a wedding gift, he had no time to search for one, but he guessed 200 hundred Euros in a card would suffice. His cousin Hans was a chemistry professor at the University of Leipzig. Reinhardt’s mother compared his achievements with her son’s, and heaved her bosom in disappointment. She had this unaccountable admiration for professors. Having fucked, flogged, and pissed on a few, Reinhardt didn’t share her feelings. 

Hans was marrying an English girl who was doing graduated work in German philosophy. When his mother showed him a picture of the woman, Reinhardt’s felt a tingle in his balls. A redhead, which he loved. He wouldn’t hesitate to fuck her in her wedding dress, if circumstances permitted. He became so entranced by the idea that his cock pushed hard against the constraints of his Calvin Klein underwear. 

In Leipzig, the nuptials were taking place in the famous Thomaskirche, where Bach had been kappellmeister and was now buried. After booking into his hotel, and changing clothes, he drove to the church. Once parked, Reinhardt loitered outside the church doors, waiting for the bride’s limousine to appear, which it soon did. He stepped aside so as not to be in the way, but got a good look at the woman swathed in reams of white silk and tulle, surrounded by four bridesmaids in yellow gowns. He rubbed his genitals discreetly as he caught a glimpse of her pretty face and glimmering red hair before her maid of honour lowered the veil. 

Yes, he’d love to fuck Jane in the gown before her husband did. Maybe he could get Hans to watch his bride ravished by his cousin. Hans was a recessive kind of beta male, subservient to his superiors, soft-spoken, limp brown hair, sloping shoulders, and more at home in a library than a party. He’d be easy to cuckold and probably, if he confessed to the truth of his desires, wanted to be. 

Well, Reinhardt could help him realize his deepest, most perverted dreams since Hans admired powerful men, like some academics who still paid Reinhardt to humiliate and fuck them. Maybe Hans was secretly into Nazi uniforms and craved licking his superior’s black leather boots. He had worn such a costume to please a girl he had liked, no money involved, and now had a few customers, male and female, who paid to be fucked by a Kommandant and grovel at and lick his boots. He decided to get to know his cousin better, become a caring friend, dominate the professor of chemistry and freely fuck his wife. Whenever he wanted. A not impossible dream. 

He remembered a porn flick in which he played the groom’s best man and fucked the bride in the limousine before she arrived at the church, having to readjust her hair and veil, his cum leaking out of her cunt. He had loved that scenario. The bitch in that porno also had red hair. Another episode he had watched with the crew: bride and groom kidnapped and gangbanged by four skinheads in tight, blue mottled jeans and high-laced boots, the groom tied up on a chair in an abandoned warehouse, his tie stuffed in his mouth, as he was forced to watch the skinheads rape his wife, still in her dress puffed up like a cloud around her waist. 

So many brides fucked in porn on their wedding day: must be a universal fantasy: one of his favourite scenes depicted a black man, a wedding guest in a tuxedo, hoisting a white bride around his waist in a shower stall and fucking her until her bridal gown got thoroughly soaked, and he left her huddled in the corner like a lump of wet laundry. The astonished groom watching all the time and rubbing his crotch.

Why he was thinking about this, Reinhardt didn’t quite know. Well, he did know, as he thought about sex all the time. And his cock was his guide, the source of his decisions in many ways, unerring in its instinct to choose the right partner or partners, as if there was such a thing as phallocentric certainty like a physical law of the universe. His cock acted according to infallible principles like gravity. As the bride entered the church, it grew bigger and harder. So, the cock knew the truth of the matter. Despite his belief in its truth-telling powers, Reinhardt was intelligent enough to know that his desire was irrational, a mere fantasy and urging of superman virility at the sight of a pretty, red-haired, potentially submissive cunt, whom he could own, if he chose. 

He was master of his cock, master of any situation in which he found himself. Just as he chose to develop his body and keep it splendid and pure, so he could stride with confident authority in the universe of his own making. He could choose to ignore the demands and logic of his insatiable Schwanz, but it was stubbornly insistent at the moment. Even in a church famous for its kappellmeister, where people said all kinds of religious things in which he didn’t believe, the cock wanted action. 

The reception would be held in a hall at the university, and there Reinhardt would dance with his cousin’s bride. He would speak to her warmly, shower her with compliments, and hold her a bit closer than one ordinarily would, and suppress any urge of his cock to fuck on the dance floor. He’d welcome her as the newest member of his family, and he was so happy to know that Hans had married such a beautiful and intelligent woman. He would also reconnect with Hans and become very friendly with him. Hans would always defer to him. 

Even though they hadn’t seen each other for a few years, he remembered how they had played together as boys. Despite being two years older than Reinhardt, Hans always followed his orders and did whatever he wanted. At thirteen Reinhardt had shown Hans his vigorous cock, and Hans, flustered and hesitant, obediently revealed his, less impressive. They had jerked off together, looking at internet porn, and Hans had stroked Reinhardt’s cock and fondled his cousin’s balls. Reinhardt regretted that he hadn’t then persuaded Hans take it in his mouth. What he didn’t do as a boy, Hans would most definitely hunger for as a married man. 

They’d arrange to get together after the wedding. He, Reinhardt, would drive to Leipzig where Hans could show him the university. And soon he’d be inviting Reinhardt to his house for dinners. The images of fucking Jane in the marriage bed in her wedding gown shook him to the roots of his being. Despite the urging of his cock, he wasn’t in a porn flick now where impossible fucks occurred at a whim. Still, he’d shag Jane and give her the generous blessing of his vital seed deep, maybe impregnate her. Of course, properly trained and eager to felch, Hans the professor would beg for permission to suck his bull’s cum leaking out of his Jane’s lovely ass. Or join Reinhardt in the shower to gobble his superman Schwanz and swallow alpha juice like a thirsty pig. 

What would his mother think if she ever knew that the professor, whom she praised to the sky for his academic achievements, had become her son’s worshipping cocksucker and obedient slave? Although it would take time, he could hardly wait to give the couple the perfect gift of his domination, better than Euros. The first organ chords clanged out, not his favourite kind of sound or music. The bridal procession was about to begin. Reinhardt slipped into the church and sat alone at the back, his plans for the future heating up inside his Hugo Boss suit. 

American Pagans

Becky had been spending a lot of time in the company of a girl with the antique name, Edna. Edna Rosenberg. 

Edna “Ravenchild” Rosenberg.

“Ravenchild?”

“Yeah, we’re all picking pagan names. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Becky admitted. “I’m supposed to come up with something like that?”

“Yeah. We all are.”

“Ravenchild?”

“Ravenchild. Exactly. Doesn’t it sound cool?”

“Uh-huh…”

It was dusk. They were hanging out in the parking lot outside Bennigan’s, waiting for Donna Sokolski—Donna “Winterhawk” Sokolski—to get out of work.

“So, what name should I be?” Becky asked, lighting a cigarette.

“I don’t know. You have to find your own name. You have to dream for it or chant for it. You gotta beseech the Goddess. She will then reveal your true pagan name.”

“Okay. Beseech the Goddess. Gotcha…”

“Yeah. I meditated for, like, over twenty minutes until the Goddess blessed me with my name. Ravenchild.”

“Okay. I’ll try that.”

“Cool. Can’t wait to hear what you come up with.”

“So, um, what exactly am I supposed to do at this thing again?”

“You don’t have to do shit. You and Donna are just there to observe. You can’t enter the Cone of Power until you’re initiated.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Here comes Donna. It’s about goddamn time.”

Donna Sokolski was a short, plump girl of nineteen. She wore small round glasses and always appeared to be squinting, as if her thick lenses obscured her vision rather than enhance it. “Hey, guys,” she said. She was still wearing her waitress uniform and smelled like food. She was holding a Styrofoam take-out container and she opened it toward them. “Broccoli Bite?”

“No thanks,” said Ravenchild.

Becky said, “I’ll take one. Thanks, Donna.”

“Sure, no prob.”

“We better get going,” said Ravenchild. “The sun’s almost down.”

The three women climbed into Ravenchild’s red Volkswagen Jetta and soon they were speeding down highway 12.

“Hey, you got a pagan name yet?” Donna – Winterhawk – asked Becky.

“No. Not yet. What about Bumblebee?”

“Bumblebee?” said Ravenchild.

“Yeah.” Becky said. “I always liked bees. They’re associated with flowers and honey. They’re pretty but they’ll also sting you if you give them any shit. I saw this documentary once that said bees have, like, their own language. They’re, like, the smartest, most organized insects around, bar none. It’s really kinda cool.”

“That’s retarded,” said Ravenchild. “You absolutely can NOT be “Bumblebee.”

Becky deflated. Fuck you, bitch! This whole thing was fucking lame anyway. Fuck you AND your goddess! was what she wanted to say. Instead, she said, “Oh. Okay. I’ll think of something else…”

“I told you. You have to pray to the Goddess to get your name.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry, Edna.”

“What?”

“Oops! I mean Ravenchild. Sorry…”

“You better snap out of that shit when we get there.”

A few minutes later, Ravenchild pulled off the highway and soon they were bouncing down a rutted dirt road. Low-hanging branches hissed against the sides of the car. They stopped at the edge of a small clearing surrounded by pine trees and blind night.

Three other cars were already parked in the clearing.

Ravenchild shut off the engine. “This is it. I gotta change first.”

Once Ravenchild was costumed in a toga she’d fashioned from a white bedsheet, she led Becky and Winterhawk into the woods.

A narrow path, thickly carpeted with damp red-pine needles, unspooled through the dark forest, making their footfalls eerily silent. After a few minutes, Becky could see a flickering light winking through the trees. She realized her heart started beating faster the closer they got to the fire.

They joined six more robed people standing around a small bonfire. Four women and two men. Becky had met them all before at Edna’s house but this was the first time she’d seen them in their pagan regalia. Things were getting creepy, Becky thought. Her heart rate continued to race.

“Welcome, sisters,” said a tall, red-haired woman that Becky had met as Winifred O’Brian a couple weeks ago.

“Hi, Winnie,” she said.

“Hi Becky. You can call me Silverfox now.”

“Okay. Silverfox. Pretty name.”

“I know, right?” She turned toward the others. “I guess we’re all here now. We might as well get started,” said Silverfox. She pulled a long curved dagger from the folds of her robe. She held it out toward the fire.

“Wait!” Winterhawk interrupted. “We’re not all here yet.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Ravenchild, an edge of suspicion in her voice. “I count nine.”

“I told my boyfriend he could come. He’ll be here any minute.”

“You did what?” Ravenchild lowered her hood to face Winterhawk. “You can’t do that!” she yelled. “You’re not even in the coven yet! You can’t just invite people to a ritual until you’re a member of the coven!”

Winterhawk looked down at her feet. “Oh. Um, sorry, Edna. I didn’t know.”

Becky was startled by a sudden crunching noise behind her. She turned. A small goat was tied to a tree. It bleated at her and then went back to eating twigs.

“Hey,” she said. “Where’d you get the goat?”

“I can’t fucking believe you invited your boyfriend,” said Ravenchild.

“Calm down, sister Ravenchild,” said Silverfox. “It’s not the end of the world. The ritual won’t take long. But let’s get started. Maybe we can finish before he gets here. It could be worse. Remember, you wanted for us to be skyclad. At least we ain’t naked right now.”

“I’m really sorry you guys,” said Winterhawk.

Ravenchild glared at her for a few extra seconds, then flipped her hood back up.

Becky turned from the goat to Silverfox. “Hey, what’s the knife for?”

“It’s called an Athame,” Ravenchild corrected her.

“Yeah? So, what’s it for?”

“For the sacrifice. What do you think?”

“You’re gonna kill the goat?” Becky said, horrified.

Silverfox nodded, smiling. “M-hm.”

“Oh my God.”

“Hey, Becky? Shut the fuck up,” Ravenchild said. “You’re here to observe. You’re supposed to do that with your mouth shut. Capice?”    

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you’d be killing a…” She stopped. Voices were traveling up the path toward them.

“Now what?” said Silverfox.

“Hey hey hey!” said a deep, man’s voice. “Let’s get this showboat on the rowboat!” He was carrying two 30-packs of Budweiser. Six other people followed him. They carried the smell of pot along with them.

“What the actual fuck,” said Silverfox.  

Winterhawk kissed the man holding the beer. “Hey, Tony,” she said.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” said Ravenchild, shaking her head.

The goat bleated.

The man plopped down the boxes of beer, ripped open a 30-pack and started passing out cold wet cans. “Okay! Who needs a brew?” he said. “What’d you guys bring?”

Winterhawk pulled him aside. “Hey, um, sweetie? You didn’t tell me you were bringing the whole gang.”

He shrugged. “The more the merrier, that’s my policy!”

“Yeah, well, I guess I didn’t make it clear that this isn’t actually a party.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he said, looking at the toga-clad gathering. 

“Yeah, well, anyway, we’re kinda in the middle of a ritual right now. You think you guys could hang back and mellow out for a while?”

He shrugged again. “Yeah, sure babes. What kinda ritual?”

“I don’t know. The regular kind…”

“Hey! Look at the goat!” said a girl’s voice. Becky watched as a pretty blond girl knelt beside the goat and stuck out her hand. “Does he bite?” she asked Becky.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

The blond girl stroked the goat’s neck. “This is so cool! I used to love petting zoos.”

“Can we get started?” said one of the robed men, a skinny, twenty-something named Edgar “Wolfman” Petrovski.

“Hey, do goats really eat tin cans?” the blond girl asked Becky.

“I have no idea.”

“Excuse me!” Ravenchild elbowed the blond aside and untied the goat. She led it over to Silverfox on the other side of the fire.

“Hey, what are they gonna do with the goat?” asked the blond girl.

“Kill it,” Becky said.

The blond’s eyes widened. “What? Are you shitting me?”

Becky shook her head. “No. It’s a pagan thing.”

“But they can’t do that!”

“Quiet!” Ravenchild hissed at them.  

The blond girl pulled Becky away from the fire and whispered, “Are they really gonna kill that poor little goat?”

“That’s the plan. Fucked up, huh?”

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know.”

She stuck out her hand. “My name’s Eve by the way.”

Becky shook her hand. “Hi Eve. I’m Becky.”

“Good to meet you, Becky.”

“You too.”

“So, are you like a witch or something?”

Becky laughed. “No. I’m just here to observe.”

“You’re here to watch a goat get stabbed?”

“I guess. Sad, huh?”

“Yeah. Very. And very fucked up…” And then she said, “Come on, let’s get a closer look.”

They returned to the fire. Silverfox was standing over the goat. The dagger— Athame—clutched in both hands.

Silence descended as she raised the knife. She held it over her head for a few long seconds. Then she lowered it again. “I don’t think I can do this.”

The goat was grazing at her knees, munching twigs and pine needles. She held the knife out to Wolfman. “Can you do it?”

He looked at the knife for a moment, and then stepped forward and grabbed it.

“Hey, hurry up!” yelled one of the guys who’d arrived with Tony. He was a large, bearded man wearing a backwards baseball cap. “I’m starving.”

“Shut up!” Ravenchild told him. “We’re not eating the goat!”

“You’re not?” said the man. “That’s a fucken waste of meat. You shouldn’t kill anything you don’t intend to eat.”

“Will you please be quiet please,” said Wolfman, lifting the knife.

“Sorry, dude,” said the man after a slurp of beer.

“In the name of Diana, Goddess of the hunt and the moon and the trees, I offer this sacrifice.”

Silence. Then the fizzing crack of another beer opening.

A belch. Laughter.

Someone tossed an empty can into the fire. The backwash quickly sizzled away.

Wolfman held the knife poised over his head. His hands began to shake. “I’m not sure I can do this either.”

“What a bunch of shit!” said the man with the beard. “I’ll take care of this.” He pushed Wolfman out of the way, and then yanked a pistol out of his jacket pocket.

“Sayonara, goat!” he said and then shot the animal through the top of the head.

Eve screamed and hugged Becky, hiding her face against her shoulder.

“Jesus Christ!” said Wolfman, staggering backwards. The goat had folded, dead.

Becky broke off the embrace and looked into Eve’s eyes, noticing again how beautiful she was. “It’s okay,” she told her. “It’s over now.”

The bearded man elbowed Wolfman. “Hey gimme that knife,” he said. “Let’s get this puppy dressed and roasting on the fire!”

“Roast goat! Hey, that rhymes!” said Winterhawk’s boyfriend, Tony.

“Well, I don’t need to see this,” Eve announced. “I’m calling it a night. Anyone need a ride?” she said. 

Becky said, “I do,” and left with Eve, eager to get away from the pagan ritual. She knew the smell of cooked goat would make her sick. 

Becky left with Eve and they headed back to Bennigan’s for white wine spritzers.    

Dazed

Death is all around me. Seems like every fucking day too. Ran into a drive-by on 10th and Cherry the other night. The corpse was horribly mutilated, pierced by numerous bullets. Broken body lying scattered against a graffiti-sprayed cinderblock wall. I didn’t stick around. Saw a six-car pileup on the 405 today. Two bodies covered with increasingly red sheets. Eerie feeling, just seeing the feet stick out. One was missing a shoe. One of the cars, an old beat-up looking Dodge, had a shattered red stained windshield.

This seems to be the month for death. My girlfriend’s grandpa passed away. Two of the girls in her office lost people. One of my friends lost her cousin in a wreck. A college buddy was gunned down in cold blood–for his bike! My mother called to tell me that one of my high school friends died in a car wreck in Virginia. This girl always wanted to get married; never did. Just got engaged and jilted.

—THE PUBLISHERINTERRUPTS THIS STORY TO STATE THAT VIOLENCE OF ANY SORT IS NOT TO BE CONDONED AND ANY MENTION OF VIOLENCE, VIOLENT ACTIVITIES OR VIOLENT DESIRES IS HEREBY THE SOLE RESPONSIBILITY OF THE AUTHOR’S PROTAGONIST, WHOMEVER HE OR SHE ULTIMATELY WILL BE—

…and you know what else he said? That cockfucker said he’d like to grudgefuck her off a mountain! Rape her, pull her guts out and eat ‘m for dinner. Now what do you think about that?

Oh, you’re back. Sorry for the interruption. You see, I don’t get to exercise full control. I don’t have sole authority and I have to deal with motherfuckers like the publisher and those other goddamn writerfuckers!

Anyway, like I was saying, last night we heard a blood curdling scream if there ever was one. Went on and on. We’re actually kind of used to them by now. It’s our neighborhood. After a few minutes, it suddenly stopped. Couple moments later and the thump thump thump of the chopper blades started FOR ONLY THE UMPEENTH FUCKING TIME THAT DAY and the spotlights shone in glaring all around and we peeked through the blinds to see the street being blocked off by the coppers and we knew it had happened again. When they finally found the body…

—WE’RE SORRY, BUT WE CANNOT ALLOW THE DESCRIPTION OF THE CORPSE TO APPEAR DUE TO ITS GRISLY NATURE. FAMILY PUBLICATIONS LIKE THIS MUST MAINTAIN THEIR VENEERS OF RESPECTABILITY… I MEAN MUST UPHOLD COMMUNITY AND FAMILY MORAL STANDARDS…—

…and it was disgusting to see but I’m sure it will dry. God knows the apartment down the hall stunk for days after that old witch offed herself, but it eventually went away and the present occupant states that only rarely does he ever smell anything closely resembling death and decay and usually he is all doped up anyway with a giant buttplug up ‘m too so it doesn’t matter.  Julius dug death anyway. He kept hoping to go in a fiery car wreck. That’s why he bought his little red Fiat. So when he did it on the 405 or the 710, it would be immediate and bloody.

But I don’t know about all that. All I know is, I occasionally get a strange sensation when I look at razorblades, especially when water is running. I’ve dreamed, you know. The walls are absolutely soaked with a mixture of cum ‘n blood. Gets kinda pasty. I wonder how you could market that? “Orgasmic Glue for a Bloodthirsty Generation?”

Ya ever seen someone get decapitated? I have. Another car wreck. Little blond girl. Friend with her. Little Volkswagen. They were probably doing about 60 on a commercial road with a top speed limit of 40. Mega-sized truck stopped in the left lane to turn. Of course, didn’t use his signal and the girls never saw it coming. When her head came off   

—ONCE AGAIN, WE APOLOGIZE TO READERS ON BEHALF OF THIS ESTEEMED PUBLICATION. THE AUTHOR’S PROTAGONIST SEEMS UNCOOPERATIVE REGARDING THE SENSITIVE NATURE OF THIS SUBJECT MATTER AND REPRIMANDS WILL SURELY FOLLOW. WE HOPE FOR NO FURTHER INTERRUPTIONS—

… and I saw that big, fat juicy cock peeking out at me there on the beach and I wanted to suck it, lick his balls, rim him out, feel cum gushing down…

Oh shit! You’re back.

So, going back to that wreck, the car came to a stop and the look on the passenger’s face was indescribable. I went to the funeral. Closed casket. The priest gave a nice speech about what a great life she had (yeah, all 19 fucking years of it!), how quickly she went, and how she was now up in motherfuckingheaven with god and angels and that BS. I wanted to stand up and scream “You shoulda seen the look of anguish and horror on her face as it was coming off of her body and the blood flew and it wasn’t fast it was torturous and deadly and the head hung on by a thread of gristle and her friend ate her face for lunch and now her life is motherfucking ruined,” but I somehow restrained myself and left.

So I picked up a magazine the other day in some indie bookstore and it was all about death and suicide and shit like that. Question Me was the name maybe? Don’t quite remember. It had hundreds of photos of people with their faces shot off, fingers still on the trigger, and of hangings, faces purple and bloated

—WE INTER…

No you don’t! Not this time buddy. Come in here once more and I’ll bite your fucking nuts off. This is my territory, and you can’t fuck with it! Besides I want some ass. And I’m not too particular. It’s all about sets of balls cumming…

Fuck. Again?

What? Who? The reader? What do you mean? What the hell does the reader have to do with anything? A story? With action? I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible here. This is interior monologue. There aren’t any other characters. We can’t have dialogue and there’s only one way of looking at things–my way! Got it? Besides, this IS a story of sorts.

God, the interruptions. 

My creators sent me to therapy when I was young. Eleven. Everyone claimed I was too violent, too angry, they wanted to “help” me. I even got into a fight with one of my shrinks. Supposed to be caring and nurturing. Yeah, right.

I like to ramble. I go on and on about things. Meaningless, really. Don’t know why. I think I just live for that next hot flash; the knowledge of life leaving someone else, being squeezed out. Or maybe just cum being squeezed out. What’s the difference? Fear of the unknown? The power of bestowing that fear upon others. I want to pound hard, I want to crash and burn. I want to know the real fear of fear and enjoy watching others’ realization while nutting out.

I read a bizarrely fascinating story last week about some freak who went to morgues at night and would pay the nightwatchmen to let him in with the corpses. Would tell ’em that he had this ‘thing’ about reading the Bible amongst corpses, would slip ’em $50s, and would be left alone. Then he’d fuck the corpses, over and over again. In their dead cunts, assholes, mouths, entrails if he could get to ‘m. When I read this story, I was disgusted, but the more I think about it, the more titillated I find myself. I mean, if you’ve got people trying to legalize pedophilia, why the hell not necrophilia? You could really let loose! Don’t hold back; anything goes! Fuck ’em in the ear; fuck ’em in the nose, hell anywhere.

Death. It’s all around. I know a lot of people who believe that karma shit, reincarnation, you know? They say that people come back, that the bug flying around your burger could be your Aunt Hilda. Well, bully for them! They know what’s what. I say, smack the shit outta ’em! Knock those little bastards around. They want to move on to a better afterlife anyway. You’re just doing them a favor. In fact, I’m a major proponent of offing all religious types. They’re always whining about going on to the hereafter; well, help ’em along! I’m only too damn glad to rid the world of those pretentious smug fascist bastards. If they’re dying to meet their gods, who am I to stay in their way? Accommodate their wishes, say I.

And, you know what else???

OUR MOST SINCERE APOLOGIES. WE AT THIS PUBLICATION APOLOGIZE FOR LETTING THE AUTHOR’S PROTAGONIST GET INAPPROPIRATELY CARRIED AWAY. SOME WRITERS SEEM TO DO THIS OFTEN. WE HAVE PEOPLE IN THE PRODUCTION DEPARTMENT WORKING ON THIS PROBLEM EVEN AS WE SPEAK. FICTION CAN BE SO MESSY ANYWAY. MUCH BETTER TO STAY WITH NONFICTION. REAL LIFE. PERHAPS A LITTLE SELF-HELP. VERY POPULAR THESE DAYS. IN FACT, OUR COMPANY WILL BE EXPANDING INTO SOME OTHER FIELDS IN THE NEAR FUTURE WHILE DOWNSIZING OUR FICTION RELEASES. AGAIN WE APOLOGIZE; WE HAVE BROUGHT ANOTHER AUTHOR OUT OF HIDING TO TIDY THINGS UP.

Hello. I am an author. I have been procured by the above-mentioned company for the purpose of cleaning things up a bit, so to speak. We want to be reader-friendly here. So sorry about those previous intrusions. I mean narratives. I mean, oh what’s the use? Can’t pull one over on your lot. We’re all in it together. I mean, the company, the protagonist, yes, even me. We’re very…oh…well, you see, we want your business. Thus, we decided to create some sort of…well, tension. Marketing came up with it. It’s all a scam, I must say. But, we’re all adults here. I mean, can’t we all get along? Work it out? That sort of thing? Basically we all love to jerk off and that’s the experience we’re providing, if in an unusual package.

I spoke with the CEO about it recently. It’s just that the publishing industry is dying, as you know — thanks tech! Actual books are dying, magazines are dying, newspapers are long gone–all because of bits? Hexes? Social media? People don’t want to read anymore. Watching jism shoot out of a pulsating cock is where people are now.

We’ve decided to try a new business model. Rock hard XXX lit cum dumps wrapped around ultraviolence that Anthony Burgess never could compete with. After all, many think they go hand in hand and maybe all it takes will be underlying suggestions, found here, to really get people’s rocks off. Who knows? Call it a modern de Sade. And if this new model jerks er, takes off, we plan to incorporate digital, interactive – but we’re still trying to ensure this is a quality interactive experience without JG Ballarding it – but that’ll be up to readers, if so inspired.

What? Sick? Twisted? Crime? I think those’re a bit strong. Not real stories? Of course they are! Well, they’re meant to be. Plot? Of course they have one. They’ve got a characters, beginnings, and…ok, we’re working on endings.  But we all need closure in our lives. Everything has an ending. And remember that singer? That Australian group? INX-something? Think that, but like quantumed. Our goal is to make you cum so fucking hard that you’ll never want to go back to just boring kinky sex. And some might not be able to – the new path to the ultimate orgasm.

Oh yeah. Naturally this is just fantasy and we don’t and won’t actually be advocating any of this. Don’t want to read about too many disastrous incidents accompanying some personal pleasure, right? It’s fiction. But we think anyone likely found … impacted … will have the biggest damn satisfied smile on their face – if their face is still there. And that truly original high stakes Vio-Sex-game sounds like damn perfection. Doesn’t it?