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?

Sex Education

“We don’t need to ask what the poet means, just what he feels. Better yet, Adam, what do you feel when you read these lines?”

“What lines?”

The guys chuckled; two or three guffawed in that attention-gathering way of hulky jocks. Oh dear; perhaps her admiration for beefy athletes, as well as slender swimmer types, had become too obvious once again. The more serious, academic-minded boys disappeared from her range of vision, although she encouraged their poetic sensibilities because, after all, it was a poetry appreciation class. One or two of the students had literary aspirations, which she, of all people, would be the last to discourage. A poet herself, Mandy understood the creative impulse. She also painted swirling, delicate water colours inspired by dream imagery, took Indonesian dance classes at the Java Institute, and meditated in the lotus position under a print of vulvar flowers by Georgia O’Keefe.

The less physically prepossessing among her students benefited from the presence of athletes who helped to spread good cheer in her class room. Most of the two dozen students consisted of males who belonged to one college sports team or another. Five girls huddled together in a corner, smirking more than smiling, she noted, giving each other pregnant looks. Everyone passed. She awarded marks liberally, if they wrote the way she talked or tried to show their appreciation. She didn’t correct grammar or structure because Mandy believe they inhibited creativity. On their papers, she was certain the students benefitted more from comments like “I enjoyed the soul of your essay.” If one of the jocks had written in muddled prose, she wrote in an exquisite hand: “this is a wonderful and truthful piece of work, Jimmy. Do come see me after class to discuss it.” Jimmy came, and she saw to it that he would come again. No one had ever complained about a high mark.

“Were you paying attention, Adam?”

“Yes, miss. I was following your lines, miss.”

In the library last week before her evening class began at seven, they had found a secluded study carrel. She unwound her batik sarong, purchased in Jakarta where she had taught English as second language to lithesome boys for a few months before too many clucking tongues and that incident of betel juice spat in her face indicated that it was time to leave. During his penetrating embrace of her jasmine-scented body on the carrel desk near the deserted philosophy stacks, Adam had repeated, “Oh, miss, miss, oh God, you’re so hot, miss, I’m coming, fuck, fuck, I’m cummmmming.” They shuddered together beautifully and he loved it when she praised his silky-smooth body and wrapped her sarong around his hunky body.

Unlike many of her female colleagues, she hadn’t repressed sexual allure simply because of the pedagogical imperative. She didn’t believe in the traditional hierarchy of education and the arbitrary barriers it established between students and their teachers who were more or less the same age, give or take six or seven years. Well, that wasn’t as true as it used to be, since time inexorably pushed her further and further away in years, but surely not in desires. She understood the fantasies and natural compulsions of randy boys.

That commune in California had taught her the joys of openness and the role sensuality played in developing the mind. Logic and rationality had corroded the Western spirit. And how gorgeous the boys! The tasty bodies, the curvature, the firm thighs, the long strong legs, the lips and hips, the flat washboard or smoothly hard stomachs, the bright and sensitive eyes awash with healthy lust, and, oh, glory be, their proud and demanding cock, the pride of their beautiful masculinity. Students learned so much better if they were also loved. Occasionally, Mandy experienced a twinge of guilt when she thought about the girls. She always chatted casually with them and tried to persuade them to join in the camaraderie of the classroom and not assume that sulky look of comic book heroines who wondered if their boyfriends really loved them.

Ah, love, love: love was not simply a subject of sonnets or pop songs. It was thrilling physicality like Adam’s provocative chest, his nipples pushing against the tightness of his black T-shirt. Oh, lovely nipples, oh, lovely belly button, oh, lovely lips and tongue. She had licked his sweet-smelling flesh in a deserted section of the library stacks, delighting in its saltiness, her hands almost within reach of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl.

True, times were a-changing, a lesson emphatically made clear at the end of her first teaching year in that Connecticut private school where the headmaster suggested that her methods and their curriculum were irreconcilable. At least, the good man had written a glowing letter of reference to ease the transition and avoid unpleasantness. Here, in this junior college, Mandy believed she had found a permanent home when she was hired three years ago. The college had opened its doors in the heyday of countercultural movements years ago, and still prided itself on innovation in pedagogy and non-traditional teaching techniques. So, it claimed, but definitions of pedagogical technique seemed to be a matter of opinion at times.

In the early years of its existence, several teachers had been hired on the basis of real-life work experience, alternative knowledge gained in the third world, and not upon standard degrees, which they did not all possess. Despite greyness and sagginess, many still wore jeans, and a few of the older male teachers sported ponytails. Yes, she had been born after the fact, but her parents had smoked, toked, chanted, meditated, and protested all over the United States. Her sojourn in the forest commune was the result of an impulse to explore heightened consciousness and liberation shortly after graduating from the university.

In the commune, she absorbed eastern thought in a totally non-structured way, walking through among giant trees with one guru or another, men who had transvalued themselves and emerged, well, elevated above the muck and mire of mere materialism. They had also raised coitus to a platonic ideal without sacrificing the physical. Three gurus had taught her tantric sex, not always at the same time, which she tried to teach to her favourite students, but they got tangled in each other’s limbs. They tended towards impatience and quick thrusts, satisfying in their way, but not entirely spiritual. Oh, blessed boys, oh happy satyrs frolicking in the pools, who had such pleasure in them to give, to whom she could give so much more.

“Jean-Claude, what do you feel about Whitman’s lines? Please read them aloud first, so we can all enjoy them again.”

He did not look at her sitting on the desk in front of the blackboard, one leg crossed and sandaled feet visible beneath below the hemline of her sarong. The finely muscled structure of his shoulders apparent beneath his football jersey, Jean-Claude shifted his legs and leaned forward, hunched over his book, and read the lines:

Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?

Dear heart, he read English with a heavy Québécois accent that made her bones tingle with pleasure, although today his voice had a hurried, hard quality. So demanding when he made love, a bit too rough, and insisting that she always be available to satisfy his aching needs and must never let another guy fuck her. She did not need anyone else, he proclaimed. After the fifth time last month, they had a little tête-à-tête about jealous possessiveness, and not expecting more than the ecstasy they shared in the moment. Embrace the joys of the here and now and don’t try to chain the future, she had tried to teach him. 

He mustn’t think of breaking up with Rachel of the auburn hair and distinctly pouty expression, one of the girls who sat in the back row. Surely, Jean-Claude didn’t believe that Mandy could ever replace his girlfriend, such an intelligent young lady? Despite all her exquisite ministrations and his ejaculations wherever he pleased, he had raged out of her apartment when she’d refused to swear everlasting fidelity to a sweet boy who had his entire future ahead of him. Oh, the sensuous texture of his skin, like shimmering satin. How she loved watching him dive like a demigod into the pool during swim team practise until her presence aroused too much attention. 

Conceivably out of pique, Rachel had spoken to the dean, who in turn requested a meeting. She had always praised the girl and awarded her high marks. The boys were all over 18, well, except for Jean-Claude, who would turn 18 next month, and one or two others, but no one knew about them, she didn’t think. The meeting with the academic dean, her department head, and a union representative was directly after class. Why had the union become involved? A student had complained about her marking methods; that was all she had been told by the chairperson; that, and “other issues” which required consideration. The matter could hardly be a question of labour relations. She taught her classes well, her success rate above average, students contented; indeed, happy. New students, mostly boys, flocked to register in her class at the beginning of each semester. Why would anyone complain about high marks to the dean? 

Perhaps it would be wise not to put Jean-Claude on the spot, so Mandy turned towards, well, a female seemed advisable, but not Rachel. Louise had golden frizzy curls just like hers, although the girl’s body tended towards the Rubenesque, which, great for a painter, didn’t appeal to most randy athletes.

“Thank you, Jean-Claude. Let’s get someone else involved. Louise, what do you feel about the lines Jean-Claude just read?”

Louise mumbled an answer to which Mandy paid scant attention because the class had come to an end. Jean-Claude rushed away. She wanted a word with him. Mandy couldn’t dally with the boys jostling around her like satyrs encircling a nymph in a forest glade. Adam slipped her a note that she read as she sauntered toward the dean’s office on the second floor. Mandy wondered if she should agree to spend the weekend with Adam and a couple of other boys, whom she had personally tutored to improve their performance. He had a heated pool and his parents would be in New York.

When she entered the dean’s office, his secretary was decidedly cool in her greeting. That didn’t surprise Mandy, for the secretary always wore a disapproving scowl on her face, but she was surprised to see Jean-Claude sitting, hunched over as usual, almost panting under an official school portrait. He didn’t reply to her question. Nor did he even bother to look at her, and he turned his body away when she approached, as if to avoid contagion.

The dean opened the door and wordlessly motioned for Jean-Claude and Mandy to enter his office.

The Schlong

~ Inspired by Nickolai Gogol’s “The Nose”

One day when Peter pulled himself to the apex of the rowing machine at the gym, he felt his penis pinched in the mechanism. As he slid backwards, his unattached cock scampered away, squealing, Free! Free!

What the fuck? Peter discretely looked down inside his gym shorts and saw—horrified—only a smooth patch of skin where his manhood used to be. He started chasing the darting dick, weaving in between weight machines and treadmills, only to see it skedaddle out the front door and vanish. 

He finally spotted a red two-seater Porsche that had just finished filling up at the gas station across the street from the gym. The driver was none other than his runaway body part, wearing a snazzy black track suit.

Peter knocked on the side window: Excuse me, but aren’t you my penis?

~Listen, asshole, I have a mind of my own. And I’m horny as hell. I need sex, and I need it now. So—fuck off.

You’ll regret this, Peter said.

~Oh, blow me. And the red Porsche zoomed away.

At wit’s end, Peter drove to Urgent Care. The amazed doctors kept poking the patch of smooth skin. Soon, the entire staff gathered to gawk at Peter’s groin as he lay on his back in bed, wearing only a hospital gown. 

He ran half-dressed to his car, where, looking at his phone, he discovered that his cocky cock, using the screenname “Playa,” had somehow amassed over 10,000 Instagram followers in less than a day and was now considered an “influencer.”

I’ll fix his little red wagon, Peter thought as he complained about his missing prick to the police. They responded, Pranking 9-1-1 is a felony, and hung up on him.

He went to bed early that night with a throbbing migraine. The next morning, half-awake, he stumbled to the toilet as usual and flipped up the seat with a bang.

His hand automatically reached down and grabbed his schlong. It had returned to its normal place and enthusiastically started to pee.

Come to Me

Luna, still fully clothed in the tight jeans and sweater she’d worn when she prowled the bars last tonight, lay upon her bed. Her head swam, then swayed pendulously to the side and she saw the LED numbers of the clock: 7am. With her tongue she licked dry lips. Cotton mouth, she thought. She closed her eyes and felt as though she were treading water over her head. Her eyes flicked open and the room appeared to be spinning. Again, she shut her eyes tight. Luna was still drunk.

***

“C’mon, babe,” said Rita, “let’s get high,” and she mimed bringing a cigarette to her lips. Luna nodded and across the dance floor they threaded their way. Then out the front door and to the back of the tavern, where they climbed a rickety flight of stairs to the venerable old building’s roof. There they joined a half dozen other bar patrons familiar to them. The acrid smell of burning marijuana was thick in the air and a soft wind blew the blue smoke into the distance.

The joint reached the newcomers, who toked avidly, then passed  the reefer on to the next person. “You ought to get closer to Rick,” suggested Rita.

Luna rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, owing to her consumption of THC, and said, “Not a chance.” Rita’s brother was 20 years old, or five years younger than his sister and Luna.

“How come?” asked Rita. “He told me he’d like to get to know you better. He digs you.”

“He digs my chest,” corrected Luna. When Rita gazed at her quizzically, Luna continued, “When I ran into him downstairs, he said to me, ‘Nice rack.’ “

Rita winced. “I know he’s a little crude with women sometimes, but it’s only because he doesn’t understand them. He’s young. I think he really likes you. He was probably only kidding.”

“Sorry, Rita, but I told him to go screw, and that I didn’t want to be a notch on his bedpost,” said Luna.

“Rick’s not a player, Luna,” protested Rita. “He might kid a lot, but basically he’s pretty lonely. He’s got stuff going on and could use another friend.”

“I know he’s your brother, Rita, and you’d like something to happen, but there’s no chemistry. I can’t get excited about a guy — no matter how good-looking, which he is — who obsesses on a woman’s body parts. You know what I mean?” she asked.

Rita shrugged.

“Besides,” continued Luna, “Say we did hook up, dated for a while, and then broke up? He might hate me and then how would you feel about me? I mean, there are millions of guys; why should I date the brother of my very best friend and risk screwing that relationship up? You’re lots more important to me than any guy.”

“But, I’m not saying you need to date him. Rick’s not like that, believe me. He’s no player.”

Luna smiled, took the next joint that had made its way around again, and said, “I’ll toke to that. Best friends don’t grow on trees,” Luna went on. “Guys do, just like nuts and fruits and apes….”

Rita laughed. “So, babe, do you want to start dating me? We already know we’re compatible. And I promise not to fixate on any of your…parts.” She looked, sleepy-eyed and stoned, at Luna.

“Sure thing,” replied Luna. “Just clear it with your old man first, okay? i don’t want to cross any jealous husbands.” 

Rita hugged Luna, who hugged her back. “Deal,” she said.

Some of the other stoners, completely blitzed by now, began to sing, loudly and off key. Lyin Eyes, an ancient song by The Eagles, thought Luna, recognizing the tune.

“C’mon,” suggested Rita. “Let’s beat it before the cops investigate all the racket.” The women descended the flight of stairs and returned to the tavern. “There’s one thing I’d like to say to you, Luna,” said Rita somberly, as they passed through the door of the pub.

“What is it?” asked Luna.

“Woman to woman, babe, and as your best friend….” Luna looked at her. “You do have a nice rack!” 

Luna slugged Rita in the arm and they both laughed.

***

The evening proceeded apace and Luna, who loved to dance and drink beer, danced and drank beer with everyone, male and female. Near the end of the evening, she even danced with Rick, who was still smarting a little from her rejection of him earlier in the evening. He was contrite.

“I apologize for insulting you, Luna,” he said, taking her in his arms for a rare slow dance.

“Forget it, Rick,” she told him, putting her hands round his neck. Luna was drunk and Rick’s strong, sinewy physique felt good to her. Sensual.

“We’re okay then?” he asked, placing his hands round her waist.

“We’re good,” she agreed. Suddenly the DJ spun a record that always affected Luna: How Deep is Your Love, a hit by the Bee Gees nearly half a century ago. For whatever reason, it always made her amorous. As couples softly swayed to the music, Luna reached down and moved Rick’s hands from her waist to her hips. He gently squeezed her cheeks. Ah, she thought, much better. The dancers molded their bodies against the other and moved in time to the beat. Rick almost instantly became aroused.

“Nice junk,” whispered Luna, gently pushing her pelvis into Rick’s.

After the bar closed, Rick went home with Luna.

***

According to the clock/radio on Luna’s bedside table, it was nearly 4am. She and her new lover had been going at it for more than an hour. The boy has stamina, she thought drunkenly. Luna was on her elbows and knees, with Rick, behind her, with his hands clutching her  thighs, was thrusting his cock in and out of her with a beat reminiscent of How Deep is Your Love, the song they’d danced to hours ago. Suddenly he stopped.

“Wh….what is it?” Luna asked, looking back at him over her shoulder.

“I’m getting ready to come,” Rick confessed. He was breathing very hard. A thin bead of sweat ran down his naked chest.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked.

“I want you to come at the same time,” he said huskily, and withdrew and turned her over on her back.

Most men she knew, thought Luna, weren’t in the least concerned whether she climaxed or not. This was another mark in Rick’s favor, she decided.

With Luna now on her back, Rick gently spread her legs and entered her. Luna gave a little gasp. Rick was huge. He did have nice junk!

Softly caressing and then kissing her breasts, he moved his hips in rhythm to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing, which Luna had put on repeat on her stereo.

Luna’s breaths were coming faster now and she began to move her ass in little circles, affording Rick additional stimulation. Rick reached his hand down and squeezed Luna’s butt, inserting one of his long fingers into her anus. Now she was panting. Next, she was thrusting her pelvis into his and together they came with little groans of ecstacy. Luna grew still, but Rick kept pumping away and in moments he was hard again.

“God, oh God,” cried Luna and together they came a second time. Afterwards, they lay spent, on the bed, which was moist with their perspiration.

Snuggling face to face with her young lover, Luna whispered, “God, Rick, I’ve never come like that before. You know, if you keep practicing, you’re liable to get pretty good at this.” Together, they laughed and held each other tight.

***

When Luna awoke, she glanced at the clock and gasped. 9am! She was late for work, she thought, instantly rattled. Then she remembered: last night was a Saturday and she went out to the bar, which meant that this was only Sunday. With that load off her mind, she sighed and turned over to go back to sleep, but suddenly she was fully awake. Where was Rick? she wondered. She looked around. None of his clothes were there, not the jeans she had peeled off him early this morning, after the tavern, so they could have mind-blowing sex. And the thick leather belt she had pulled out of the loops of his jeans so that he could softly beat her ass. She stared down at herself. When did she get redressed? Where did Rick go? she wondered again. He didn’t even say goodbye.

***

At work on Monday, Luna ran into Rita in the break room and they sat at a table to enjoy a Pepsi. “How’s Rick?” asked Luna, regarding her friend closely. Both women were editors at a prominant literary magazine.

“He’s fine,” replied Rita.

Huh! thought Luna. Maybe Rick hadn’t told his sister of his budding relationship with her best friend. Brother and sister was extraordinarily close, Luna knew.

“I think he might’ve found a new friend,” remarked Rita with a smile.

“Anyone I might know?” asked Luna with a straight face.

Rita shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me their name.” A pause. “I hope it’s not some low-life from the college, you know, 18 and loose.”

Luna frowned. “I’m sure he wouldn’t date someone like that, Rita. I think your brother has better taste than that.” She glanced at her  friend’s face again, but it was inscrutable.

Rita furrowed her brow. “I thought you thought that he had no taste.”

“I never said that,” her friend protested. “I just said that he maybe focused too much on women’s body parts.”

Rita shrugged, finished her soda and tossed the can in the trash. “Back to the salt mines,” she said, and the women returned to work.

***

The next Saturday, Luna decided to try the tavern again. It had worked out well the last time. She’d had a wonderful time with Rick, but he hadn’t called her. What was that all about? she wondered. Perhaps she’d run into him tonight.

At the tavern, Luna hung around the bar, nursing a beer and looking for Rick. He was nowhere about. At long last, he appeared. By coincidence, the DJ began playing that old Bee Gees tune — their song — at that very moment. Taking this as an auspicious sign, Luna approached Rick, placed her hand on his arm and said, “I think this is our dance.” Rick started, swiftly withdrew his arm.

“I beg your pardon?” he said. He looked confused, distressed — embarrassed.

“Let’s dance, handsome,” said Luna, replacing her hand on his arm and pulling him onto the dance floor.

“Excuse me,” Rick said stiffly. “You told me what you thought of me last week and….frankly, I’m no longer interested, Luna.” And disengaging her hand once more, he walked away.

What the hell? thought Luna. She stood there alone on the dance floor as other couples began the slow dance and she soon felt stupid. Had it been only a dream?  Had she and Rick made passionate love last week or had she only imagined it? A sexual fantasy? Luna was an editor and she would have rejected any fiction which boasted the old meme, “It was all a dream.” But, in real life, did it ever actually happen? What was in the pot she’d smoked last week? Had there been a hallucinogen imbedded in the reefer? Her feelings for Rick, recently stirred… ” She felt lost.

Rita walked up to her, handed her another beer. “Got news, girlfriend.” Luna looked at her quizzically and Rita said, “I found out who Rick’s new lover is.” She grinned a shit-eating grin.

“Who…who is it?” asked Luna, increasingly baffled.

“The name is Amari,” revealed her friend.

“Who is she?”

“Not a she,” said Rita. “It’s a he.”

Luna blinked in astonishment. “Amari is a man?” she asked incredulously.

“He’s a writer, an African American,” explained Rita. “We’ve actually used some of his work at the magazine. In fact, I introduced him to Rick some time ago.”

Luna’s mind was muddled. “Is…is Rick…a”

“The word is gay,” said Rita with an understanding smile.

“But, I thought you wanted me to date your brother. You wanted us to hook up. You said he dug me.”

“I didn’t expect you to bed him, you silly goose. I only wanted you to become friendlier. You know, a platonic friendship. Rick doesn’t have many real friends.”

“How long have you known that Rick is gay?” asked Luna, feeling like she was a character in a movie.

“He’s been queer his whole life, baby. When he was much younger, I tried to convert him, you know, get him to like girls. But that was just my own ignorance acting out. I should have just accepted him as he was. It would’ve said us both a lot of heartache.”

“So Rick is happy with his sexual identity?” Luna wanted to know.

“I think so,” said Rita.

“Has he….ever dated girls?” she asked at last.

“Oh, I guess he might have, you know; but he has zero interest in the female gender. “Why would you ask that, Luna?”

“You don’t suppose he’s maybe, bi-?” she asked.

“Like I said, he has zero interest in the women. He told me recently that he came to terms with his sexuality after some deliberation, and that he had just one more thing to do before he accepted Amari’s proposal, a sort of experiment, he said. But, I guess the experiment was a success, because now he feels he’ll be comfortable in a same sex marriage.”

Now it all began to come together for Luna. “When’s the big day?” she asked weakly.

“In three weeks. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

Luna replied, “I’ll try to come — for Rick.”

Legal Affairs

The attractive client showed up at the prostitute’s motel room at the appointed hour.  Cindy looked at Wally and wondered this guy needs to pay for sex?  Well you can’t tell by looks, maybe his wife denies him or he’s got some kind of kink.

Wally looked at Cindy and thought Unusual – no signs of drug use or abuse and she appears healthy and attractive.

Wally told her “Show me what you got.”

Cindy said “Put the $150 on the table where I can see it first.”

Wally complied, then replied “Your turn.  Undress and get into bed.”

As she got undressed Wally noticed that she was unshaved and that she had erect nipples in her large areolas.  Her appearance and signs of arousal caused his arousal in turn which his pants couldn’t hide. 

While Wally inspected her, Cindy peeped at him and couldn’t help but smile at the effect she had on him. 

After Cindy got into bed, Wally said “You’re under arrest for prostitution” and showed her his badge.

Cindy reached for her blouse on the nightstand, brought out her badge and replied “You are under arrest for soliciting prostitution.”

They looked at each other.  After a long pause, Cindy said “Damn those screw-ups at headquarters.  I’m from the Northeast Precinct.  How about you?”

“Southeast.  Dumb question, but what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“My ex-husband hated having a cop for a wife.  After our divorce, I thought that this assignment was the best revenge.  I know, kind of petty.  You?”

“I’ve seen what happens to sex workers and the families that they damage.  I’m happy that we have a diversion program for the women and men we bust.”

“What does your wife think about the work you do?  Does she complain like my husband did?”

“Never married.  Been close.  Mostly went through a series of breakups over stupid things.  The one I thought was the real thing died in a car accident.”

They stared at each other through a long silence until Cindy noted “We have the room for another two hours.”

It only took Wally three minutes to get naked and into bed.  After some mutual manual stimulation, ever the gentleman, Wally asked “What’s your preference?”  Cindy demonstrated by pushing him on his back and straddling him.  That only took them a couple of minutes.  They spent the rest of their limited minutes playing requests.  Licking, rubbing, and probing ensued with a soundtrack of Cindy’s purrs and chirps and Wally’s groans. 

The Beginning Of Their Story

Letters From The Trail

I remember when no one showed up to these things. I kind of miss it, really. Now there are always so many people, so many heads across a sea of heads and bodies. Most times there are so many people I can’t even see the doors. It’s like I’m sealed in and stuck with these people forever. I’ll tell you this, thousand-dollar plates will make even the mealiest-mouthed donors eat you alive.

Keep it together. Smile, dumbass. No, not like that. Show more teeth. No, that’s too much teeth. Try and make that dimple pop out, the one you’ve been wincing in private for months to try and create out of thin air. Keep—it—together. 

Fluorescent lighting works wonders in terms of energy efficiency but does jack shit for my spray tan. The buzz of it makes it too much like a doctor’s office in here. It’s too sterile for my brand of bullshit. I wonder if the kid who served the veal spit in my side salad. I wonder if the girl at check-in would fuck me.

Time for QA. I wish these people would ask me better questions. It’s always, “Can you expand on your ten-point plan to address income inequality and provide support for the homeless?” It’s never, “How are you?” Just once I’d like to tell someone about my day. I’d tell them thirteen stops in one day is too many. I’d tell them this bus is too small. I’d tell them I can’t eat any more fucking ice cream.

Dumb kid in the back of the question line keeps eyeing me weird. Is he a homo? Does he think I’m a homo? No, I’ve got a sterling stance on that particular issue. Everybody knows I’m a traditionalist. Everyone sees me as manly. Is he going to try and corner me on that flub from the Iowa State Fair about the death tax? Note to self: look up what the death tax is. 

I hate these shoes. These shoes are bullshit. They don’t look good. I don’t know why I have to wear them. It’s really only Steven who says I have to wear them, and he’s only been with the campaign a few weeks. We could shit-can Steven.

They say it’s time for the last question. Have I been answering questions all this time? The smiling faces in the front row of tables say I have. They’ve not yet peeled the American Flag stickers from their chests in favor of any communist-looking ones. They’ve not come for me with the prop pitchforks they brought. Are there prop pitchforks? Probably.

They’re playing the song now so I know I can get up and smile one last time. Wave to the people. The cramp in my jaw from trying to get the dimple to pop is making my teeth chatter. If I hold a smile longer than thirty seconds I start to spasm. It doesn’t look pretty in photos. We’ve worked out a system for avoiding this. I start tapping the toe of my weird shoes and Steven comes and whisks me off the stage and out the back door, puts me in a limo. I never get a chance to try and fuck check-in girl. Steven is definitely shit-canned now if he wasn’t before.

The next seven stops are a death loop. I stand on the same marks, watch the same homo weird guys eye me from the back of the question lines, lust after the same plain check-in girls and sniff plate after plate of conflict-enriched dinners for signs of tampering. When we make it to Guernsey County, I make Steven take a Greyhound back home to wherever he’s from and promote Stephanie to Steven’s old job. Stephanie would probably fuck me.

***

I don’t know if I even want this job anymore. I liked the one I had before just fine. Nobody cared then. Everybody cares now.

I have a televised presser today. I’m supposed to sit for makeup soon. Not the faggy kind. Stephanie tells me after we fuck this morning that if I sit for makeup and get through the presser we can fuck again tonight. Girl’s got an eye for career advancement. I probably won’t be bored of Stephanie for at least a few weeks. I agree to get through the presser.

It’s five to airtime and Mr. Interviewer Woman is already getting on my nerves. She’s making small talk like she’s not out to destroy me. She’s asking how the wife is, how the kids are. I know she pals around with Oprah and Kelly Clarkson and that bitch from the View. I know she voted for George McGovern, and I know she voted for Carter—twice. If it were up to me, she wouldn’t have a job. When it’s up to me, she won’t.

The interview goes well. I remember all of my talking points without pausing to ‘go to the restroom’ or adjust my face. I smile with the correct amount of teeth. I kiss several hands and shake several babies out in the parking lot of Big News Media.

Back on the bus, I pull my dogs out from the horrendous leather enclosures Steven calls ‘shoes’ and listen to them bark. This is how I know the everyman. It’s why I’m the favorite of the little guy. I know what it’s like to put in seven, even eight hours straight in cheap Italian heels, and I know what it’s like to be hassled. At least they get paid overtime.

I lie on the oversized bunk in back of the bus and thumb through Thai lady-boy porn on my encrypted iPhone. It’s not homo. It’s a kink. If anyone breaks the story, I’ll sue them out of existence but it’s not homo. I’m not ashamed, but don’t tell anyone. I fall asleep with a hard-on and dream about Michael Dukakis in a purple polka-dot print dress and spiked collar, with Kitty holding the leash and smoking a cigar.

***

Today there’s a big meeting to go over opposition research. I don’t attend, but they fill me in after. They say my opponents are clean. Like, angel’s asshole, eat off the floor, Mr. Clean clean. Well, every one of them except for Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I’m a smarter, more capable man than him, and everyone knows it. I tell them to keep digging until they get dirt on every candidate who isn’t me and make sure that it sticks. I tell them plant a few baggies of cocaine or some dead hookers or forge some passenger flight logs if they have to, because we all know they’re guilty of it. I tell them, “Wait, no—that’s me.” I laugh. No one else laughs. I laugh again, louder. Everyone laughs.

Intern Brad says he’s got photos of Senator Whoever in full blackface. I tell him no good, we’ve all got photos in blackface. Intern Chad says the up-and-coming Representative from New York was busted two years ago with illegal firearms, two of which were linked to various crimes. I tell him try again; it won’t play well with the NRA crowd. Stephanie offers to visit a few known liberal queer bars in DC, as if there are any other kind of queer bar in DC, and I tell her break a leg. I’m getting tired of Stephanie anyway.

***

I’m scheduled to appear on a late-night talk show with Trevor Clarkson tonight. He’s a Poindexter dickhead and no one likes him, but the voters eat him up like day old pizza. I tell the network I’ll give them ten minutes. They haggle for fifteen. I respond with five. They say ten. I tell them seven minutes, and I don’t want any hardball bullshit. I tell them don’t focus on my shoes, keep the shot high. They agree.

Trevor is sitting at the desk when I walk out. He’s shuffling papers and straightening his stupid tie. He offers his hand and I offer mine but pull away when his slippery fingers wrap around my own. His hands are bigger than mine. I make a mental note to never shake his hand again. 

The segment goes fine until Trevor brings up Iowa. Reminds the viewers that a poor showing could lead to an early exit. Mentions Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I forget how much teeth to show and start nervously tapping my foot. Trevor smiles at me and folds his arms, his fingers like snakes protruding from his hands. Steven is gone and can’t rescue me now. I stutter through a half-hearted line about paths to victory and strong support in the Midwest and funnel cakes. I laugh for some reason.

Trevor brings up a map of the country, zooms in on Florida. Points to several counties I’ve never heard of. Starts in on some nerd bullshit about demographic changes and favorability ratings. He asks me if I think I’m the kind of candidate the people would like to have a beer with. Asks me what my beer of choice is. I start to say Coors, but Trevor stops me and says I don’t have to play favorites. My face is on fire. The arches of my feet scream in crampy agony. I show my teeth and close my mouth and show them again. Be normal. Act normal. Make the dimple pop. Where the fuck is Stephanie?

I tell Trevor it was a pleasure. I wave to the camera and say God bless our troops and flee from the set. Intern Gary is all smiles when he comes up to tell me how great I looked on camera. I stomp on Gary’s foot and we both cry out because the force of it probably hurt me more than it hurt Gary. I take off the shoes and hurl them at the crew and feel myself sink to the floor by several inches.

***

On the bus I flip through five-hundred channels of satellite TV and throw the remote at the screen when I see my face a tenth time. I try looking at porn on my encrypted iPhone, but a message keeps showing on the browser. Something about parental locks. I try and jerk off and go to sleep but I can’t keep it up long enough to even beginto feel tired. Stephanie slides into the bunk next to me and tells me nobody watches Trevor Clarkson anyway. I tell her there are literally millions of nobodies that watch Trevor Clarkson. She tells me if it doesn’t work out, she’ll come intern for me back home. Says she can sneak in and out of the mansion when the wife is asleep. Tells me it’ll be fun, like a game of Clue or something. I tell her she doesn’t know shit about Clue, that’s not how it works. She jerks me off and tells me she fucking hates Disney movies and that she doesn’t like tall guys anyway and that she thinks I always show the exact right amount of teeth. I fall asleep in her arms and don’t dream about anything.

Services Rendered

Healthy, muscular, versatile, free to travel, discretion assured: the words appeared in every one of Reinhardt’s online descriptions in selected websites. He’d do anything, he’d do anyone, wear what and play whatever game his clients desired anywhere within the European Union. This morning, he showered and trimmed his pubic hair, admiring his reflection in the full-length mirror. Thinking of getting his hair sheared like a skinhead’s, he slipped into his special outfit of tight leather pants, worn construction boots, Egyptian cotton shirt, and leather bomber jacket. Dressed to play, he got into his Porsche. When he pulled into the street, he remembered that he had promised to meet his parents in the Alexanderplatz for dinner that evening, but he’d be back in time, if there was no traffic jam on the Autobahn between Berlin and Dresden. 

It never ceased to amaze him how many soft-bellied, middle-aged, and older men wanted him to smack them. Take this minister he satisfied yesterday. A nice guy, over 50, balding, glasses, with two children in university, his wife deceased, he had greeted Reinhardt at the door. The first thing Reinhardt did, obeying the minister’s instructions, he slapped the man across the face, not too hard, called him bitch, and commanded him to worship his god. The minister slowly caressed Reinhardt’s muscles through the clothes. Breathing noisily, he removed first the leather jacket and inhaled its aroma, and then he unbuttoned the Egyptian cotton shirt, separating the panels to allow access to Reinhardt’s pectorals, nipples, and washboard abs. Reinhardt only had to stand and tell him what to do and call him names while the minister ran his tongue over the hard pecs and stomach. After he pulled the shirt off, he kissed Reinhardt’s flexed biceps and buried his nose in the armpits. He ran his tongue down the exquisite back and, lowering the tight leather pants, tongued the buttocks and powerful thighs, licking and kissing and mumbling my God, my God, I adore you.

When he could no longer resist Reinhardt’s immortal cock, he practically gobbled it down his throat. The man of God liked to feel it deep in his gullet for 15 minutes without moving, not even sucking. Once he did begin to suck, Reinhardt smacked him across the side of the head, warning him about teeth. When he was ready to shoot, he withdrew from the minister’s mouth and sprayed his blessed juice, to use the minister’s words, all over the man’s face. Afterwards, Reinhardt took a shower while the minister sat on the toilet and prayed, asked the Christian God for forgiveness. In the hallway, Reinhardt found an envelope containing the fee for his services.

After his morning session with the minister, he had an appointment in the afternoon with an old woman, just under 70, who liked Reinhardt to carry, finger her dry cunt and say she was still desirable. €‎300 for a monthly meeting, and that was his fifth time. She wore a Victoria’s Secret negligee and open-crotch, black lace panties, curled herself in his arms against his chest and whimpered: please don’t hurt me, please love me. He was gentle, carrying her about the bedroom, and whispering that he was going to make such beautiful love to her that she’d sleep like a baby afterwards and dream of him forever and ever.

He laid her on her bed covered with a silky, shimmering red duvet, gently fondled her sagging, skimpy breasts, and fingered her dry cunt for a while, applying ointment, making certain she was well lubricated before he softly separated her legs and placed the glans of his cock against her hairless, wrinkled vagina. Gently he pushed in between the labial lips, judging by her moans and body movements how much and how hard he could go. He was careful not to press his full weight against her frail body, fearful that he might break a bone or cause her extreme discomfort, her moans of pleasure turning to cries of pain. At least four, maybe five inches of his nine and one quarter-inched cock never made it all the way in. His spunk spilled out of her ancient cunt, as if there was a blockage preventing it from exploding into her useless womb. He couldn’t tell if she ever climaxed, but she seemed to enjoy whatever sensations thrilled her tired, old body. And she liked to feel his cum with her fingers and lick them.

He chose clients online carefully, people afraid of exposure to their friends and family and who wanted to act out their sexual fantasies in complete secrecy and were willing to pay for the privilege. If they refused an advanced direct deposit in his special account, he dropped negotiations instantly. Only a few had declined. Reinhardt considered his clients unlikely to be infected with STDs. He preferred not to wear condoms, unless clients insisted. After a stint in the porn industry, where his huge German cock was a highly-prized commodity, especially when he dressed in an SS uniform, he had decided to go it alone and keep all his earnings for himself. 

Health was always a consideration, so he never fucked anyone he met in bars or mosh pits, or who were too public about their preferences, too indiscriminate or too stoned to be trusted. He checked his own health monthly with an understanding doctor in Berlin who worked with prostitutes. Reinhardt sometimes skull-fucked him for free because he liked the doctor. He gave such expert and long blowjobs while still wearing his black-rimmed glasses and stethoscope around his neck. Knowing that Reinhardt was healthy, he swallowed the dollops of thick jism without wasting a drop.

Vaccinated against hepatitis, COVID, monkeypox, and whatever else they had a vaccine for, thus far he had escaped STDs of any kind. He did get a bad cold that kept him out of commission for a week. He had contracted it from a university professor in Hamburg, a skinny man with a nasally voice who droned on about Schopenhauer, sniffled and coughed as he sucked Reinhardt’s tongue and lips (Reinhardt charged extra for kissing), balls and cock, before rolling on the floor as Reinhardt whacked him with his leather belt before pissing all over his face and suit. That gave Reinhardt special pleasure as he discovered great joy in satisfying the humiliation fantasies of his clients.

He did not suck cock himself, although he would expertly eat out a woman until she swooned from sheer ecstasy. Nor did he allow anyone to fuck him. He was an alpha stud paid to dominate and humiliate, or simply to fuck a customer like the old lady who couldn’t get it from anyone else. Because he wasn’t judgmental about appearances or age and open to most activities, his client list was lengthy. His calendar of appointments was full, and he had to be careful with his time, on some days agreeing to service three clients, usually one to three hours each, the fee depending upon desires and time allotted. He also didn’t do scat: coprophilia was not to his taste, so to speak, but thus far no one had asked him to do that. Because some clients liked to eat his ass, which was fine by him, he douched it every day.

Occasionally after a beating, a client might bleed from the nose or have a cut lip. There could be some blood after a particularly hard fucking, at the customer’s request, seeping out of the client’s asshole. So far, the clients hadn’t protested. One man, though, a retired judge, wanted Reinhardt to shackle him to a St. Andrew’s cross in his basement and lash him viciously with a cat o’ nine tails until he cried and red welts rose on his skin. No fucking, just a whipping. Reinhardt, who didn’t consider himself a sadist, got no pleasure out of extreme abuse, although he did see the judge again, after increasing his fee, and whipped as hard as the old bitch wanted.

He charged extra for his specialty: breath control. A lawyer paid Reinhardt to choke him with an Italian silk tie, as he got on all fours and Reinhardt hunched over his body and ploughed his ass while pulling the tie around his neck like a dog’s leash, pulling hard until he heard the lawyer cough and gasp. Turning him over, he continued to fuck him while the client struggled to loosen the tie. Then Reinhardt would let go of the tie and place his large hands around the lawyer’s throat and begin to press, feeling the throat muscles and listening for the man’s breath and seeing how the body reacted. He knew how much pressure to apply and for how long. He had practised on himself in the mirror, keeping an eye on a nearby timer. Red in the face did not necessarily mean interior damage, and when the lawyer’s cock exploded with watery cum, Reinhardt knew that he had succeeded. After lying on the floor gasping, wrapping himself around Reinhardt’s legs, the lawyer was happy to pay the extra fee. And, of course, he wanted Reinhardt to piss on him, right there, on the floor, all over his head and face and body. Which Reinhardt gladly agreed to do.

The client he was meeting today wanted to be fucked to death, literally, by a working man with muscles, and had offered Reinhardt €10,000 to do it. The money would be in a satchel on the table by the bed where the customer wanted it to happen. Stricken with a terminal illness, although he seemed healthy enough for a 46-year-old man, he’d soon deteriorate and suffer dreadfully, he had said, and wanted to die from cock rather than cancer. This posed a problem for Reinhardt because he wondered how to perform the action, not just fucking, but fucking a man to death. Sure, he had said it a few times in the throes of passion, I’m going to fuck you to death, cunt, but it was all part of a game.

This particular guy wanted the real thing. It sounded like murder, although the man preferred the term assisted suicide. In any case, Reinhardt’s DNA would be all over the place, on the man’s skin, in his mouth, in his ass, whether Reinhardt used a condom or not. Even though they would meet in an isolated cottage on the outskirts of Dresden, which the man owned and which had escaped the firebombing in WWII, Reinhardt had his doubts.

How long would he have to fuck the guy before the poor man succumbed to the power of a demanding, drilling cock and died? He couldn’t find any information about it on the Internet. He could fuck for an hour, maybe more, before shooting his load, then rise to the occasion a few minutes later. At most, he could fuck four times, maybe five, within three hours, after which his dick needed a rest, and his balls time to collect more semen. That wouldn’t, however, kill the man. Maybe he should have suggested bringing one or two other men to join in the fucking, but his client wanted only one, and he had chosen Reinhardt. Choking him to death while getting fucked would be the most efficient way of doing it. Or have his head covered with a plastic bag. Timing was everything: ideally, the customer wanted hot flesh embracing him at the moment of his simultaneous ejaculation and demise. The very minute. How could Reinhardt time that? Of course, he could just fuck and strangle until the man died, whether the pathetic bitch came or not. But Reinhardt liked to think of himself as an honorable man who respected the terms of a contract.

Great questions arose. What happened to the body afterwards? Had the client made suitable arrangements for disposal? And would he, Reinhardt, get away with it? Given that they had met online and arranged matters accordingly, wouldn’t there be a digital trail connecting the dead man to Reinhardt? He was beginning to have his doubts. Maybe the risk wasn’t worth the money. At last, now stuck in traffic on the Autobahn, unable to drive as fast as he ordinarily did, Reinhardt have enough time?

If the customer took too long to die, Reinhardt could be late for dinner with his parents, who had recently expressed disapproval of his career choices and wanted to have a serious conversation with him.

They knew about his roles in the porn industry, and now believed that he earned a living modelling, which in fact, he did do on a strictly part-time basis. They could see his torso covered with form-fitting cycle outfits on billboards. He had been paid well for that, but he preferred fucking for money. His dad said modelling was a dead-end career; pretty muscle boys were a dime a dozen; his mother was disappointed that he hadn’t pursued his interest in science and become a nuclear physicist. Now 25, Reinhardt figured he had maybe 30 or 35 years of sweet and profitable fucking ahead of him, at which point he could retire to a Greek island and live off his investments. Maybe do some online work, become an Influencer, or keep a restricted clientele for his special breathing exercises, when his age wouldn’t really be a factor. These possibilities excited him more than posing in spandex or splitting atoms.

He didn’t want to be late for dinner at the Thai restaurant. His mother loved Thai food and the waiters were so beautiful, male and female. Reinhardt had been there before and got a boner while being served by an elegant, black-haired girl in her silky chut thai outfit and who had touched the back of his hand, as if unintentionally. She spoke German with a heavily-accented, musical voice. He would have loved to strip that silk off her small body, delicate as a doll, and drive his huge cock deep into her tight Fohtze.

But traffic had stalled; his unhappy Porsche chugged rather than raced; time didn’t stop because he had to slow down to a fucking snail’s pace. From the car, he phoned his client and explained that he was caught in a traffic jam on the Autobahn. The man sounded strange, then went silent, giving Reinhardt time to consider that the police would surely check the man’s phone, if any suspicions rose about the manner of his death, unless he was using a disposable burner. If he didn’t get out of this traffic jam, Reinhardt’s schedule would collapse, all his timing for the day thrown out. The man’s voice erupted:

“Forget it. It was a mistake. I don’t want to die today. Don’t go. I’m not there. And don’t call this number again.”

Reinhardt never argued with a client, unless it was over money owing. Having received a hundred euros in advance, deposited directly in his special account, he had lost nothing except time. Feeling relieved in any case, he crawled his car to the nearest exit and managed to get off the lane to Dresden, and drove on the road back to Berlin. He regretted not being able to fuck the client to death: €10,000, after all. It would have been a new experience. His cock hardened at the very idea of it. Still, it was better that he hadn’t. Looking at his watch, he could go home, change his clothes, and still make it to the restaurant in time. When the pretty and petite server appeared in her red and gold chut tai to take their order, he’d flirt with her. She’d like that. He planned to speak to her privately once his parents left. They would meet under the Urania World Clock in the plaza after her shift. Soon, his superior cock would take its own sweet time fucking that sweet girl to death in his bed. For free.