This issue of Verbal includes a new story by HST alumnus, Joseph Ridgwell.

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Fuckpig

Aside from a broken, bloody nose, Constance Gibbons was a knockout. A lithe figure, with pretty, vacant green eyes and toenails the color of eggplant.

Her husband, Rick, had given her the broken nose. His eggs were runny. After he’d corrected her for this grievous infraction — breakfast being the most important meal of the day and all — he’d bent her over the formica countertop in their kitchen, threw down the sweats she was wearing, tore aside her panties, and got himself ready to mount her. As a courtesy, he spat on two of his fingers and primed her pussy before he slipped inside her.

To start, there was always the brief exhilarated shudder Rick gave as he gripped her hips, and the walls of Constance’s pussy gripped him. At this point, Rick would slap her ass — often multiple times — with real fury and agitation, as though he were shocked and angry that Constance was capable of doing this to him, making him shudder and quake just by hugging him with her pussy. Rick would then embed his fingernails into Constance’s hips till he saw red blotches on her skin, and once he was over the initial shock of her engulfing him, he’d gyrate himself towards orgasm with no particular rhythm or skill.

“How’s it feel, fuckpig?” he would ask her between gasping breaths. “Feel good, fuckpig?”

“Yes,” she said, robotic.

“Ahhhhhh,” he said, getting closer. “Fuckpigs don’t talk. Fuckpigs oink. Oink for me.”

“Oink,” she said.

“Squeal for me, fuckpig,” Rick said. “Squeal loud.”

“Squeal,” she said.

“I said fucking squeal!”

Constance licked her lips, tasted the all too familiar coppery flavor of her own blood.

“Weeee,” she said.

Rick shut his eyes and cried out, “Fucking squuueeeal!”

“WeeeEEE.”

“Squuueee—”

“—eeeeEEEEEE!”

“SQUUUEEEAAaallll!”

“WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-EEEEEELLLLLL!!”

“Aw fuck yes!”

He was getting close.

“I want you to snort, piggy, big ol’ fucking snort,” Rick said. “And look at me while you do it.”

She turned to face him and, without a trace of self-consciousness, opened her mouth and snorted. The lower half of her face was coated in blood and snot.

Rick shut his eyes and concentrated on his thrusting. He was so close now.

“EEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!”

“Fuck yeah, piggy!”

The squealing continued. It grew whiney and hoarse. The grip on Rick’s dick grew steadily tighter, till it was holding him like a vice. The urge to come was momentarily stalled by panic. Constance had never felt this tight before. She was starting to hurt him.

He opened his eyes. Only Constance wasn’t there. He was fucking a boar. Unmistakably, a boar. Only a pair of pretty, vacant green eyes gave anything away.

Hell was an ammoniac slaughterhouse. Rick was up to his knees in pig-shit. Little white piglets nipped at his heels and curled themselves between his ankles, making it difficult to move without falling. Strangely, these piglets were without snouts. And Rick couldn’t see their eyes either.

He bent down to examine the little piggies more closely and saw they weren’t pigs at all but giant white maggots.

Suddenly, Rick couldn’t breathe. His throat was on fire. His nostrils flared and whatever was living in the air of this charnel house found its way onto his tongue. His senses of taste and smell were so befouled he yearned for a cup of burnt ash to imbibe. His skin was peeling. His eyes stung. His fingernails were shed as though being slowly torn out by invisible pliers.

He regained consciousness in the kitchen. It was dark now, but light enough for him to see the boar and what it had done to him. His knees began to buckle and he fell, hands clasped over the gaping wound where his cock and balls used to be. Blood poured through the slats between his fingers.

The boar turned to face Rick, its long, distended belly dragging across the kitchen floor.

“Rieeeeeeck.”

Lethal Beauty

The gun Mai Ling held in her hand, a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, had come packaged in a velvet-lined case, like a musical instrument.

She slid the gun barrel into her mouth. The taste of the metal was unpleasant. Would she die, she wondered, or only maim herself? Instead of casket, would she end in some institution, sitting in some horribly drab common room before a television that played 24/7?

She cocked the hammer. Squeezed the trigger. The hammer made a loud click, like a door being shut inside her head.

She set the gun aside, got up off her couch, and walked out of her apartment to her car in the lot. She drove to the Sporting Goods Store, bought a box of bullets from “Fred,” a short overweight salesman, so smitten by Mai Ling’s statuesque beauty and long silky raven-black hair that he had trouble speaking.

Back at her apartment, and on her couch, and holding the gun, Mai Ling’s China-doll face grew pensive. She wondered what would happen to the bullet. Would it go through the wall and kill Mrs. Dearborn in the next apartment? Would it go out a window and kill some passerby?

She got up off her couch and drove herself back to the Sporting Goods Store. She told Fred that she had decided to take-up ice hockey and was in need of a helmet. Fred showed her a line of helmets. She decided on a black and paisley blue number.

Back at her apartment, Mai Ling strapped the helmet on. It capped her head like a melon-half.

She put the gun barrel into her mouth. Curled her finger around the trigger…

She hoped everything would go smoothly; she hated watching television.

Cretin

The walls, pinkish membrane walls, breathed, contracting closer and tighter. Inside the walls were birthing sacs filled with tiny eggs. The eggs hatched with cackling sound. Little bug creatures swarmed out the tiny sac holes. The little bug creatures ate at the walls. The walls bled. The frothy purple blood had a septic stench. I squeaked, but should have remained silent. The floor was minced organ meat mud. Thick and hot. I stood naked, sunken in the slop. The meat liquids inflamed my skin. The ceiling was an eyeball. The eye watched me, me sucked into the floor glop, glop sucking, clutching my limbs. The bug babies found me, crawled over me, stuck me with tiny pins. A million, billion pain points. Tiny friggin’ bugs. The eye was happy. The eye happy it seen me sad. I gabbed, toothless, clacked my gums, drool dripping, tear flow, pain a million, billion everywhere. The bugs tore me to shreds. The bug babies tied my flesh in strips and attached them up along the bleeding shit walls. The walls shuddered. I giggle-shiggled. A hurt tickle. Here I was, waist high in glop poop, stink to heavy heaven pressing hard upon boy soul hole, and I jerked, spasm thrusting my chest and lolling my head around and around, tongue lapping the thick air, tasted of cheap wine sick and spiders. My dance made the bug babies happy.

Eye. The ceiling folded, twisted in a cellular split. Made two eyes. Her eyes. Her head shaven. Dots tattooed along her brow and down her nose. Comets streamed a white light streak from her nostrils. Lips colored of raw meat. Cheeks sunken with proud bones. She said something.

“Vermin.”

Her swollen globes spurted milky dribble drops upon her stomach. Her stomach a smooth caress to snake scaled tail curled among the flowers. Flowers large as beds. Light glowed from the petals. I laid with her upon a fleshy flower. We kissed. Her tongue went down my throat into my guts, slithered out my butthole to tickle my testicles. The tongue surface grew tendrils, searched inside me, curled around my spine. Hurt bad, but secreted juices, her special spit, made me feel alright. She smiled, tongue in me, teeth white perfect fuck-paste. She bit off her tongue. Blood ran off her chin and dripped along my chest. The tongue flailed and convulsed. I wiggled with, wiggled a worm writhe. She grabbed at my wiener. Her fingernail caught the testicle sack. Scraped the skin like fucking goddammit. Jerked off in her hand, bouncing my ass on the flower, blood dripping on me, severed tongue end lashing about my mouth. Came. Was ok. Weren’t much more than old cold pizza. She rubbed some semen into her scales. Scales flaked off, revealing pubic hair. Thin, bony pink fingers poked out, like the backs of two hands pressed together, shaking and wiggling, strung with slime. The fingers stiffened. Her eyelids fluttered and she peed on me. Was stinky pee, warm and thick golden just flowed from between her pussy fingers and over my limp, leaky dick and stung the cut in my balls sack. I died happy. Which was somewhat unexpected.

 

în céleste

Geoff holds a large pair of VR goggles gingerly up to his webcam for his sister to see.

“You’re going to br…” She coughs up some latte in quick moment of realization before regaining herself. “You’re going to break those, Geoffrey.”

Cass always chides him like this whenever they Skype, like a maternal judge raining criticism on his every decision.

“They’re solid, like way sturdier than they look,” he says, ignoring the passive aggressive jab and removing the goggles from his webcam’s view.

Geoff has no RL friends to share his purchase with, so he pathetically called his sister, although he can’t be 100% honest about the buy. The Heavenly Body™ VR headset cost over 2 months’ of his shitty temp salary, its package including a 3D panoramic visor plus a haptic feedback suit and a ton of other gear. It can be used to play games, meet people, or explore virtual landscapes.

Geoff plans to use it for one very important thing.

After their chat, Geoff looks at his open door and decides to quickly masturbate without closing it even though his roommate is probably home. He regrets showing off his rig—Cass only saw the goggles, so she doesn’t know about the rest of the gear. The collection of wires and tech are all splayed out over his bare mattress.

He’s going to use it to rid himself of his abhorrent virginity.

He realizes it’ll only be sensors reading pantomimed actions—electrical equipment and lubricated polycarbonate, not human flesh. But when girls cringe at the sight of you, like they have Geoff’s whole life, certain exceptions must be made. The guys on the image board will love hearing about how much he spent on what is essentially a souped-up, peer-to-peer fleshlight.

***

“He’s such a fucking idiot if he thinks I don’t know what that goes to,” Cass thinks aloud as she spins in her computer chair—he never calls unless he needs affirmation.

And since he doesn’t live with mommy anymore, he resorts to calling Cass, playing it off like he doesn’t need her approval. She knows what line of gear that VR headset is offered with. They don’t sell that series individually, it comes with a haptic response suit and a bunch of other expensive gear. Hers is a little older but works just the same. It can do stuff like transfer soft touching, hard pressure, and even wetness/airflow from one suit to another, once properly synced.

Cass knows exactly what her brother is up to because she dons a digital visage almost every night herself, playing out other high-end perverted fantasies. She’s an e-hooker, so she doesn’t judge. She really can’t, because at this point nothing surprises her. Cass has come to realize that people’s sordid tastes haven’t evolved much over time—they have just been consumerized, made more accessible by technology. She has gotten used to dissociating herself from her job’s inherent repulsiveness. Customers visiting the Cumquad often have faith-questioning demands. Her last John had her crushing the life out of digital puppies and kittens in 6-inch stilettos while in full latex, all legal of course because it wasn’t real, even though it often felt real enough.

She jokes with herself about putting acting credentials on her CV if she ever applies for a real job.

***

Earlier in the day, Geoff loaded a pic of his rig onto the forum for the guys to see. Alongside the pictures, its features were listed:

– microcomputer control unit
– mesh sensor vest exo-skin and arm units/gloves
– 120 self-adhesive haptic/tactile pads
– male/female genital transduction actuator with bottle of water-based lubricant
– panoramic visor/facemask with polymer gel

He posts: “This is it, fags. The only way for me to lose my fucking V before I end it lul. Gonna slay some e-thots, my way—what better way to spend my Friday night?”

Geoff quickly breezes through instructions, attaching pieces of equipment where they look like they should go. In a rush of adrenaline, he clears an area of space for his soon-to-be-virtual movements, kicking aside empty energy drink cans, unrefilled epilepsy script bottles, clothes that would never be washed.

***

It is Friday night, so Cass pushes her chair across her studio apartment’s wood-finished floor and breaks out her own VR gear. The cramped room essentially orbits around this one 10 x 10 area in front of her computer—no roommates, barely any furniture, no obstacles, no problem.

The weekends are usually busy at Cass’s club, the Cumquad. It’s membership only, so she never really has to worry about the quality of customers, just the requests. Roleplay spans from harmless stuff like pay-pig fantasies to pretty traumatizing demands… like childplay, violence, and other unpleasantries.

***

Geoff’s “best friend,” who he met back when Silk Road was still up, sent him a celebratory gift after Geoff posted his VR pictures. “Have fun” is all it said. Geoff opens it up:

>Indiscernible programming language

>Html garble, java script, trash

>Scrolling down, some words and information—a bio

>A guy’s credit card information and personal address

>Next is active login information for various websites

>One stands out: Cumquad, some high-end cyber brothel, and username: Daddy1029

>Finally, a picture of the guy’s obituary and a “=]”

Geoff probably has one night to use this.

***

After making dinner, Cass signs on Cumquad early with the intent of landing a big fish. Most of the girls at Cumquad have regulars just like any brothel, but if someone snags your John because you geared up late, then it’s tough shit. She can look like anyone or anything, whatever the guest requests. Nevertheless, she dons her favorite avatar, a relatively similar version of herself—give or take a bra size and nose hump—and joins a Special Request Server.

She checks in with a server moderator for the OK to go Live. She then double-checks biometrics… integrated feedback looking good—depending on who she gets, she can do different things or limit herself to the customer’s suit restrictions. She could also turn off or lower her suit’s responses if the John creeps her out. She leaves them on for now; tonight feels like a lucky night. Her system is in the green and she can feel her pussy swell in anticipation for her vaginal actuator… if it comes to that.

She hopes it does.

***

>Daddy1029 joins the Green Room

>Cass’s Cumquad username, Celeste, floats over her avatar

>She gives the OK to her Mod

>The John is approved and enters

>A man in his mid-50’s, aged but fit, grey hair—not unrealistically representative but obviously altered

>Geoff begins to speak: “…”

>Cass shushes off by running a heurism diagnostic, a.k.a. the touch-and-feel test

>She grabs his crotch, checking for a response, he sucks in air fast and holds his breath

>“OK Daddy, it looks like you are all rigged up for me—you can have whatever you want tonight…”

***

Cass feels for her actuator toggle and flips it on. She braces herself for the test insertion—the modestly sized dildo has been the only action she’s gotten in a while. E-girls don’t get out much; she lost her virginity to her first boyfriend and discovered the Cumquad not long after they broke up.

The lubed-up silicone phallus is ironically named after him.

***

The reality of Geoff’s situation sinks in as his suit responds to every brush, squeeze, and breath. She hasn’t even started anything serious, and he already feels the levy gates in his nuts begin to weaken. He wants to make a sick joke about Hurricane Katrina but cannot blow his cover. Geoff cannot shake the overwhelming urge to expose her, reveal his true identity, and make this dumb bitch admit she would never sleep with any decent guy who wasn’t some gym fuck-boy Chad or a cuck pay-pig.

He bears the jaw-clenching temptation. He at least has to do the deed, so the fags on his board will stop calling him Virgin Immobile.

***

Cass purrs seductively: “I’m so wet for you right now…”

She stripteases him, undressing down to her virtual bra and thong. Her suit, gloves, and haptic pads respond to where his virtual body is. They even give an indication of the kind of clothing his avatar is wearing. Cass rubs her ass against his bulge, noting that he hasn’t supersized his dick, like some assholes do to overcompensate.

***

Goeff finally musters the balls to blurt out: “Get on all fours for me”

An odd starter request, but Cass knows not to raise a fuss over a high roller’s lack of decorum. Their kind tips in quantities of monthly rent. And she knows he is ready.

***

Geoff knows not only what he wants to do, but what he has to do. He’s going to blow this stupid e-thot’s spot up and revel in her helplessness. He’s going to have his cake and eat it too. She had gotten him going for sure—but he could hold on a little longer—the sensation of his suit’s phallic actuator is as good as it will ever get for him. Celeste clearly knew how to tease him, but his mission was true and manifold. He wasn’t going to bust an early nut, like a chump, without giving this whore what she deserves.

***

Cass bends on all fours, removing her virtual thong—revealing to Geoff a juicy, engorged, and entirely convincing simulacrum; a reddened reminder of what he would never get to  experience IRL.

Geoff makes the motion to pull down his white boxer briefs—revealing a below-average penis, his “true” dick. He would never digitally alter his body for some e-thot; he’d make her deal with him as he truly was.

***

>Without a slap, tickle, or tease, he thrusts himself hard into her

>She had been ready for it, but “Damn, fuck baby, easy”

>“Yeah? You like that, you fuckin whore?”

>“Easy Daddy, let’s make this good for both of us”

>Geoff doesn’t let up, hammering himself into her ass as his suit simulates the savagery

>The pressure is overwhelming—Cass’s suit has safety measures, but she just can’t take the violence any longer

>She flips the suit off

>“What the fuck dude”

***

Just as Geoff’s about to come, he abruptly loses sensation. His cock withers within the suit’s genital actuator, sending him into paroxysms of impotent rage.

>Daddy1029 attempts to sign off

>Attempt failed

He was hasty in prepping his equipment and hadn’t looked up the instructions for this particular contingency.

He reaches for his visor to manually exit the simulated sex scene, but it is then that he notices something about Celeste he hadn’t seen before.

Her face is that of his sister’s.

***

“You fucking idiot!”

Disgust and rage fill Cass’s heart as she stares back at her brother’s state of disbelief. Yet, she feels no disbelief of her own. She’s known all about Geoff’s sad habits all along, but this pathetic attempt to humiliate a stranger—to exact some sort of anonymous power—made her sick.

She’d been through much worse than this at the hands of men she actually allowed herself to endure. Somehow the impotence of his anger and words made her feel something past resentment, past wanting to teach him a lesson. He had no clue how the benefits of this virtual environment could be turned against him.

Cass lived and breathed this world.

She could craft pain where there was meant to be pleasure.

And that’s just what she’d do.

***

“This can’t be real! How do you know her? How do you know me..?”

Before any more mental cogs can lick, the naked girl before Geoff begins to writhe, glow, then grow.

A tumescent mass of regolith-hued organs, tentacles, and muck envelopes him.

Overwhelmed by his senses, he fails to remove his gear in time. The overstimulation triggers an electrical storm in his cortex.

Geoff collapses into a wiry heap. His visor comes unplugged with his body’s violent convulsions. Staring into black, his half-conscious brain registers faraway emotions like disbelief, anger, and especially hate.

Pressure sensors still active, his body is enveloped by an overwhelming digital horror. Foam leaks from the corners of his mouth as his eyes roll back into his head, and then there is only numb.

Sometimes Broken Things

The deer were out there gathered in the field again. I told Emily about them but she didn’t seem interested. “Deer are always out there,” she said. “So what? Who fucking cares?”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” I turned away from the window and went into the kitchen. I pulled another beer from the fridge and took a long drink.

“Did you hear anything from Sandra?” I asked as I came back into the living room.

Emily didn’t look up from her phone. “No,” she said. “I think she’s avoiding me.”

I sat down on the couch and took another drink from my beer. The beer was good and cold going down my throat. I heard Emily laughing about something on her phone but she didn’t say anything. I pulled out my phone and checked my emails. I didn’t have anything important so I deleted the new messages before finishing the rest of my beer. I went and got me another one and Emily kept playing on her phone. I was going to ask her something else but decided against it. Instead, I looked up the name of an actress I used to watch on an old TV show because I wanted to know what had happened to her and if she was still around.

“Hey,” Emily said, startling me after sitting for so long in the silence. “What was the name of that place we went to last week?”

“Hmm. You mean the place where we ate?”

“No. Shit. That antique place.”

“Oh,” I said. “Um, emporium something. Uh, Captain Bill’s Emporium.”

“Yes,” said Emily. “I got that lamp that doesn’t work.”

“Yeah,” I said. I took one more drink and emptied the bottle. “We could probably take it somewhere and get it fixed.”

“Maybe,” she said.

I got up and headed to the kitchen for another beer. I stopped next to Emily’s chair and looked at her.

“What are you doing?” She said.

I leaned toward her trying to keep my balance, holding the empty bottle in my hand. I kissed Emily and she laughed.

“You goofball,” she said.

I went into the kitchen and tossed the empty in the trash. The bottle hit against the other ones that were already in there and the sound it made seemed louder than it should have been. I opened the fridge and found one last beer sitting there on the shelf. I looked over at Emily and saw she was on her phone again. I reached for the bottle and slowly pulled it from the fridge before shutting the door and watching the light go out.

After the Meteor Shower

We set the collapsible table up in the garage. Our house was 175 years old and the garage was a cave of pink insulation and fifty pound salt bags (for the water softener).  It was haphazardly connected to the slat board shack where we slept and fought.  The night before the picnic, dad moved the Buick, our two rabbits and the tractor so we could sweep the place out.  We were so busy we missed the meteor shower.

The next day it was ugly hot, air so damp like breathing water.  I was sweating in my party suit.  Why did I wear this?

When I went to stir the bean dip, there was this enormous cockroach looking bug that was the typical color… like super-tanned hide, with a waxy sheen. Then, another thing appeared: a combination slug/turtle with the same exoskeleton.  It surfaced, shell first, in the chilé con queso, tilted back revealing its soft underbelly, and, from its behind, sprayed a viscous yellow fluid across the gingham table cloth.

Neither mom nor dad were anywhere to be found.  All the people arriving, that I thought I knew, were strangers of the most simple and needy variety.

As I prepared to start gathering things up, dulled by the lame horror creeping in my synapses and the doddering party attendees, I saw the “insects” outside: through the window in the garage.  Fat, pulsing larvae with wet green eyes and veined wings.  They swarmed in clouds clicking against the siding like sleet, splattering kamikaze on the windows.  There were so many of them, they snuffed the sun.  Now they were flying in, pinging off the guests, falling in the baked beans, dying in the Jello Pudding.  I was distracted by something else at that point.  I kept thinking, I need to immediately throw away all this food because there was no salvaging it; the creatures were dying, squirting and multiplying among the pot luck offerings faster than I could stumble across the oil-stained garage floor.

What is everyone going to eat?  A picnic isn’t a picnic without food.

I slipped on the nasty things three times, almost hitting my head on the picnic table bench as I scurried, responding to the conditions and questions from people I no longer recognized yet who seemed to know everything.  That is, everything except for where my parents where.

Overwhelmed, I ran around trying to act normal as possible while trying desperately to distract everyone from the increasingly grotesque environment. I belted an acapella version of One Direction’s ‘Bring Me Down’ while I dumped uneaten food, crockery and all, into the trash can.  As the fourth Pyrex dish of vermin riddled picnic food disappeared with a thud and a sharp crack into the plastic container, I noticed several homunculoid creatures (also with waxen flesh. but more ostensibly human) shivering in out-of-the-way places… as if they were consciously hiding, waiting for their opportunity to do… whatever.  One in particular was a larger half-formed ‘male’ dragging his misshapen torso and impotent legs around using heavily veined and sinewed arms.  The abomination was maybe a foot and a half long, its face a shrunken-head-mask consumed by grin: the hands claws.  When it moved, it left jellied blood streaks on the pavement.  When it noticed me noticing it with its one pus filled eye, it shambled under our tool bench at the far end of the garage as quickly as it could.  Which wasn’t very quickly at all.

I thought, “I have to kill these things.  I can kill the ones that have heads, and even the ones that don’t, by hitting them with a shovel.”  The shovel is always the go-to answer, isn’t it?   The best way to kill any slow-moving or maimed thing in the garage or backyard.  Shovel or hoe.  To avoid the splatter and mess, my solution was to open the rear door.  It was insane, considering this allowed more of the things to enter that way.  Nothing was leaving; the space was filling.  But, in my disordered thinking, maybe the chaos of the garage would be too much and, at least, the larger things would seek escape outside.  Then, I could follow and relentlessly smash… as many of them as I could… to death.

A Little Bitch

As Rebecca left the apartment she had one last look around to make sure she had wiped down everything she had touched then closed the door behind her. Her heart racing, she felt an overwhelming sense of euphoria that most people never got to experience in this life.

She walked down the hallway of the little apartment block, keeping her head down in case there were any security cameras. The only noise was the click of her heels. She always made sure that she left her victims homes after most other people would be in bed. It minimized the risk of anyone remembering seeing her when they were later questioned. She wasn’t the type of girl that people forgot easily. Standing at five feet ten inches tall, with a slim but curvy figure most men couldn’t scrape their eyes off of her. Her long wavy red hair cascaded down her back and it was a rare occasion when she wasn’t dressed to attract attention.

Rebecca knew she could be a lot more discreet in her appearance but she was a predator and her looks were exactly what attracted the right kind of victim. Even in modern day, men were still incapable of clear thought after she flashed them a slither of her panties or let them have a sneaky peak at a nipple. She liked to watch the change in their persona as they went from hoping they would get laid to the cocky assumption that they were onto a sure thing. She didn’t consider herself a man hater but she did believe that men were the lesser species and had grown to believe she was doing society a favour by weeding out the weak. That wasn’t why she did it of course.

At an early age Rebecca’s sexual wanting grew quickly. She came from a deeply religious family and had been brought up to be a lady. It had never worked. Even as a young girl she was always getting into trouble for one thing or another but it all got out of hand when she turned eighteen. She was one of the few girls she knew that still held onto her virginity. She had lost count of the amount of guys that she had let eat her out and she had sucked a fair amount of dick even though it wasn’t as much fun as letting them eat her. The main reason she hadn’t let anyone fuck her was solely fear. She knew if it got back to her parents she would get kicked out of the house and as much as she would have preferred to live on her own, she had nowhere else to go. The last thing she wanted was to end up a single mum, living in a slum on welfare.

When Rebecca decided it was time to go for it and deal with whatever consequences may arise, she chose Derek from the school football team. He had been trying to get into her pants for a while and she knew he had already slept with a few girls from the school so hoped he would know what he was doing. Like many youthful encounters it had ended in disaster. Derek had picked her up at 8pm as planned and taken her straight to a seedy motel. She had believed they would go for dinner or the movies first but it wasn’t to be. As they entered the room she was further surprised to see it was just a dirty old room. No roses, no chocolates, no small gift, nothing to make her feel special. Her heart had sunk as low as it could go but never the less, her mind was made up to go through with it. Her virginity was starting to feel like an anchor that was weighing her down.

Deciding to put aside her hurt feelings she wrapped her arms around Derek and kissed him on the lips. His hand rose to her chest and softly pushed her back.

“Calm down babe. There will be time for all that. Let’s get wasted first,” Derek, told her.

It was at this point that she realised Derek had been into the room already and left some things for them. Drink, a pack of smokes and a small amount of weed. She could feel the fury building inside her but pushed it down, knowing she had come here to do a job, even if it was with a guy that was turning out to be more of a dick than she had known.

Derek jumped onto the worn out bed and pulled the tab on a can of beer.

“Grab yourself one babe.”

He grabbed the remote from the bedside table and flicked on the TV.

“Score! Can’t beat an Arnie movie,” he said, without even looking at her.

Over the next few hours, Rebecca sat and watched as Derek drank ten cans to her two, while flipping from one shitty movie to another. She had a few draws from each joint he rolled but was still feeling reasonable clear headed as he started to fumble with her breasts. The fool couldn’t even get her bra off so she helped him. A few minutes later and he was pushing her back onto the bed and pulling her panties off her ankles roughly. After uselessly thrusting his semi against her vagina for a few minutes she offered to blow him. Ten minutes of sucking later and it was just about hard enough to slide it in. His penis was small and the feeling was minimal, even though it was her first time. She was no stranger to a dildo though and her own was twice the size of Derek’s minute prick. When he started grunting a minute into the shambolic fuck, she almost screamed at him in rage. His body lay on her, crushing the breath from her for a few minutes before he started to push himself up with a lopsided grin on his face.

“Sorry babe. Don’t know what happened there. I usually last ages,” was all she got from him. No kiss, no, thank you, that was amazing. Not even a fucking kiss on the lips.

“Is that fucking it?” came her angered response.

“What the fuck you wanting? You wanted fucked. I fucked you. If you are looking for romance you’re with the wrong guy honey.”

“Romance? I’m not looking for romance but I barely felt a thing. Do you think you even lasted a minute?” What the fuck?” Rebecca asked, as her temper began to go.

Until that point, Derek’s actions had been slow and subdued but in a flash he was up off the bed, completely naked and had his hand wrapped around her throat, pinning her to the wall.

“Listen you little bitch, if you tell anyone about this, you’ll regret it. I fucking mean it!” Derek said and then loosened his grip.

Rebecca couldn’t remember a time when she had felt such rage. Who did this cunt think he was, putting his fucking hands on her? She look to her right and then her left and lifted the old vase from the table and brought it crashing down over Derek’s scull as he walked back towards the bed. He went down like a sack of potatoes. The vase shattered to pieces but didn’t make too much noise then the room was quiet. The first thing Rebecca thought about was what if someone came to the room’s door but then she realised that in flee bag motels like this, no one bothered with anyone else’s business. Half of the rooms were taken by people who lived here year round and didn’t care about life anymore, never mind what others got up to. She was also confident that Derek wouldn’t have booked the room using his own name.

After a few minutes, with no one coming to the door she went to check Derek. She crouched down, still entirely naked and felt exhilarated as she felt for a pulse. It was weak but he was still alive. She smiled to herself. Here as this great hulk of a football player and she had taken him down with ease. She couldn’t lie to herself, she was feeling great. She had never felt such a sense of power. Her mind started to wander what would happen when he woke up. Would he hurt her? Would he tell his parents who were rich beyond words and who could cause her major problems? Would he tell everyone and completely destroy her reputation? She couldn’t think of a scenario where they both came out of it unscathed. No way was she letting her whole reputation be destroyed for 60 seconds of supposed pleasure. Fuck that!

Standing up from next to Derek she went to her overnight bag. She pulled out the one of the spare plastic bags she had in the side compartment and started to gather up the empty cans. She couldn’t remember which ones she had touched so she took them all. Next she picked the joint roaches out of the ashtray and put them in the bag too. She knew she hadn’t touched much but decided she would give the place a wipe down before she left, knowing they always did that in the movies. Once the room looked exactly as it did before they had entered it she put all the rubbish into her overnight bag to dispose of later.

Derek still lay passed out of the floor. He hadn’t moved a muscle. The blood from his head wound had started to dry into the carpet and the flow seemed to have stopped. She could see he was still breathing but doubted he was going to wake back up. Then, an idea came to her.

Kneeling down next to him, she took his smallish dick between her fingers and started to rub it. To her surprise, it started to harden.

“It’s true what they say. Men have no control over this shit.”

She pulled his legs out straight, swung her long, shapely, left leg over his legs and sat straddling him just below his cock. She spat on her hand and rubbed the saliva into his cock. Not that she thought she would need it. She couldn’t remember the last time she had gotten so wet. Raising her hips she positioned herself over his disappointing member and slipped down into it. Even with its small size she felt it spread her slightly as she started to rock. This time the sensations started to tear through her body straight away. Derek managed to last longer than two pumps and a squirt this time as well but she realised that what was making it so hot was the fact that he was passed out cold and she had complete control. She began to ride him harder, pushing her hips down onto his. She bit her soft bottom lip as the orgasms started to rack her body. It wasn’t until the orgasm subsided that she realised that she had begun slapping his jaw as she came. As she stepped off of Derek she realised that he hadn’t come at all this time. She wondered if being passed out or potentially seriously injured allowed for the dick to get hard but there wasn’t enough there to make them ejaculate. Not that she gave a fuck. He hadn’t been trying to bring her any pleasure.

“You should always make sure you leave your lady satisfied,” she told him with a smirk as she used the panties she took off to wipe her pussy dry. She flung them in the bag alongside everything else. She quickly slipped her tartan pleated skirt back on then pulled her tight white t-shirt over her head. She decided against putting her bra back on so it went in the bag too. She carried the bag and her heels to the door and placed them next to it. Looking around everything seemed to be taken care of. She searched around the room wondering what she could use for a weapon before deciding the heavy porcelain lid from the cistern of the toilet would work just fine. She carried it back into the room and looked Derek over again. He hadn’t moved. She sat the toilet lid against the bed and took her panties from her bag. She used them to wipe his dick clean of her juices and threw them back into her bag. She then picked the cistern lid back up, lifted if overhead and brought it crashing down on Derek’s scull. Both lid and scull cracked. A low moan escaped Derek’s lips but she wondered if it was just the last of his air escaping. She then took a towel and wiped everywhere that she may have touched and shoved the towel into her bag. That was eleven years ago now and Rebecca had never looked back. She liked to be in charge. She also realised later that she can’t orgasm if the man is a awake. She had tried various fetishes over the years like chocking the guy out and then riding them but nothing worked. To achieve any sort of orgasmic bliss, her man had to be knocked clean out and ideally on the way to his grave.

Years of finding guys that wouldn’t be missed coupled with disposing of bodies and honing her skill set to evade capture had become a full time job but luckily she had never had to work thanks to the money and items she often robbed from her victims. Rebecca had kept almost no contact with her family since she left town. The police had questioned her after Derek’s body was found. He had told a few of his friends that he was going to fuck her that night and they had told the police. Rebecca has told them that she had chickened out of going to meet him because she knew he was only looking for one thing and that she was a good Catholic girl. Her family was well known in town and attended the same church as both the judge and the chief of police which seemed to be enough for her to be removed from any suspects list. There was very little crime in their town and the police department just weren’t equipped to do any real kind of investigation but also still operated under a ‘they could handle everything themselves’ way of working. Rebecca had hung around for six months after the murder before leaving. She didn’t tell her parents. They would have caused a fuss. She had taken the small amount in her savings account, hopped on a train and left, never to return. It was rare that Rebecca would settle anywhere for too long in fear of becoming a suspect in any of the crimes she committed.

As the years passed by, it began to dawn on her that she was a serial killer. She had never thought of herself as such. Often she would consider herself a sexual killer. She knew it was for the thrill that only came from fucking a dying victim. It wasn’t really the actual killing part that got her off. It was the power. This allowed her to kill different victims in different ways so that they weren’t linked together. She had never been charged with a crime in her life so there were no law enforcement departments with any knowledge of her. She started to read more about other serial killers. There were so many books on the subject. She learned that sex tied into various killers crimes in one way or another so in that she wasn’t alone. She didn’t however keep any mementos from any of her victims or eat parts of their bodies. She found that to be extremely sick. What she did realise though in the early years after she left town was that the gratification lessened with each kill. After a few disappointing fucks she had begun to up the ante and look for new ways to torment her victims. What had previously been a case of knocking them out, tying them up and riding them became finding somewhere secluded to take them, a little torture, a little sex and then repeat. She had kept a few of them alive for days. Riding them until her legs gave out and her thighs were covered in her pussy juice then having a rest before beginning a new method of torture. Again, she got no real pleasure from the torture part. It was just necessary. She loved when they begged. Even if they were gagged she could still tell when they tried to reason with her. The gags never came off. She had no interest in what they had to say. Seeing them in a state of helplessness and despair was enough to keep her soaking as she slipped herself back onto their cocks. That was the thing. No matter how many times she tortured them, she still managed to get their cock hard again with relative ease. With a few of them she had to go home and return in one of the various costumes she acquired. Some guys had tastes that meant they only got hard for a nurse or a school girl or some other type of kink. It made no difference to her. One way or another she would keep them hard and fuck them until they died.

Rebecca’s clean up technique improved with each kill and she knew that there was almost nothing to link her to the men she used and disposed of. There was always the possibility of someone having seen her with them but mostly, within a day or two she moved onto the next town. She bought old phones from second hand stores and used pay-as-you-go to top up so there were no links to her. She set up new emails in each town and joined whatever dating app the locals used. It never took her more than a few hours to line up a fuck.

Halloween was always a favourite time of year for Rebecca. She had always enjoyed dressing up and it meant she could make her victim turn up in in silly costumes which tickled her for some reason. She often reasoned it was just another element of control that she had. Over the last few years she had even started to decorate the room she planned to take them like a murder scene from a horror movie. Not one of the idiots had questioned it. Each had happily strolled into their death room, assuming that she was a Halloween nut and impressed by the effort she had gone to. Almost none of them even questioned when she told them to lay down and began tying them to the bed. Each had believed they were in for the best sexual experience of their life. She always played it up online, telling them all the things she would do to them that their wives and girlfriends just wouldn’t do. She had learned early that to turn a man into putty in your hands, all you really had to do was tell him he could put it in your ass. After that compliance was a given. The other various acts that she would describe to them online were just for her. She imagined them sitting there, cocks rock solid, more than likely having a wank. The fact that they didn’t realise that they were effectively wanking over their death kept her pussy dripping until the actual event.

It had been years since Rebecca had masturbated. In the early days a few toys had managed to get her off but as she got deeper into the serial killer life, she became numb to all forms of sexual stimulation that came from anything other than a dying man. She had told herself that if she hit a stage where she had killed fifty men that she had probably come as far as she could and would stop it all before she got caught but she had passed an eighty man death toll now and was still going strong. If anything she found that she was losing any sense of reality she once carried and wanted to spend all day every day fucking to exquisite orgasms. She read more and more books about serial killers, learning how they were caught and what mistakes they made to make sure she didn’t fall into the same trap but the more she killed the more her thirst grew. Some days she felt like her pussy was trying to bite her leg off. While the kills became more frequent, as did the town moves, the need grew quicker. She began to realise that most of the killers who had been caught must have gone through something similar and that they probably hadn’t been caught through stupidity but instead through an inability to control an insatiable hunger.

As the years passed by Rebecca asserted as much control as she could over her circumstances but as the body count rose and her knowledge of other serial killers grew, she realised that she would never get caught. It wasn’t because she was the best or that luck was on her side. It wasn’t that she had come up with an infallible plan. The more she thought about it, the more she was sure. They would never catch her. Why? Because men are fucking stupid and their brains are in their dicks.

She was right. Rebecca died at the age of seventy four, never having been caught. She died between the bodies of two dying men, thirty years her junior. Each was tied over a table with their asses sticking out towards her. One was directly in front of her pussy and the other was behind her in ass to ass fashion. She wore two strap-ons. The front one that fed through the front of her panties slotted nicely into her pussy. The other was on back to front and stuck out from her ass. As she rocked back and forward, a strap-on slipped from one as the other buried into the other ass and then she’d rock back. It was a move she had found online called a Bosnian Seesaw. While she got no real pleasure from the actual act, she found it to be extremely degrading which help set the moment. She had planned to turn one of the men over and ride him until she could no longer walk but as her hips thrust back and forth; her heart gave out on her. She died lying on the back of one guy with her strap-on buried deep inside him while the tip of the other rested just inside the other guy’s ass. If she could have seen herself she would have been more than happy with how she went.

Fecalphilia

Every morning Lawrence would take a picture of his shit while still fresh in the bowl. Every afternoon he would post the photo on Facebook and Instagram along with a description of what he had eaten the day before. He would post links to his videos on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. In this way his name and reputation gradually grew until he had enough followers to justify advertising revenue, product placement, endorsements.

When his followers on various social media surpassed a million, he was ready to make the leap to reality television. His was a classy show compared to some of the others out there. He would talk about his meals and show pictures of his bowel movements, then interview celebrities asking about their meals and show pictures of their bowel movements. The show became a hit, and received many awards.

After the sixth season, Lawrence was given a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. This made him restless. He knew that in the natural progression of things, the next step would be for him to enter politics. As a celebrity he was already expected to state his opinions on all manner of subjects to the media. His views on every new scientific development, fashion trend, satellite launch, movie, ecological issue, and political issue were required daily. His opinions on animal rights, seawater, aphids, wars, religion, nutrition, the constitution, and the world at large could be found all over the internet. But actually running for office? That was a big step.

Lawrence fell on his knees and prayed during a live feed while he debated whether or not to run for office. Fan response persuaded him to throw his hat in the ring. Politicos already in the game did not welcome the new comer. He was attacked by more experienced, more entrenched power brokers. The shit came at him from all directions, metaphorically for the most part, but occasionally hands on and dirty. Lawrence was used to shit. It had gotten him to where he was. He countered the shit storm with his own shit storm. The public loved it.

There’s no need to tell you what happened. You all know. You voted for him. It’s what you wanted right? Loved the slogan didn’t you, “Give’m Shit Larry.” Hope you can live with it. Well, maybe it won’t be so bad. It’s just four, maybe eight years. The nation will survive. We’ve been through worse, haven’t we? We can survive this shit.

Who are you fooling? You got what you deserved. We all did. We made this mess, this pile of shit, now we’ve got to live in it. Or at least you do. I’m washing my hands of whole thing. I’ve got my visa. The world is my toilet.