Nips and Knives

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

Anth squirmed, her bladder pleading with her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ!D . . . Is that you?!”

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

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

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

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

He forced her up against the fireplace.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that symbol on it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

“Anth! Anth! Oh, my God!” 

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

“No, Jesus, no!”

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

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

His body writhed a few times before lying still.

Overheard, Overlooked

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shot me a strange and knowing look. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picklesmack

“ASS TO ASS, HARRIET!” Murray Silverman shouts to his wife over the crowd of screaming pickleballers packed into the Fontainebleau Las Vegas luxury suite.

Harriet Silverman is stark naked, kneeling with her palms placed down on a large folding metal table set up in the middle of the suite. Drugged up and stony-eyed, her pupils are dilated while her face is covered in a thin film of cold junk sweat. The inside of her right forearm is rife with track marks, and a large area of flesh around the inside of her elbow has turned a bluish-brownish-green color, swollen and infected with thick yellowish puss oozing out. Her amputated left arm ends in a sewn-off stump above the elbow. A trail of fresh semen runs down her chin from her bottom lip.

Beatrice Goldfarb kneels on all fours on the table beside Harriet, facing the opposite direction. She’s wearing no shirt, just a black lace bra with one shoulder strap ripped and hanging down over her bruised arm. Her pink Lululemon pickleball skirt is hiked up above her waist and she’s wearing no panties. Her ass cheeks are dotted with cigar burns while blood trickles down her right cheek from a set of human teeth marks that punctured her skin. A pickleball paddle lies next to her on the table, its broken-off handle smeared with blood, feces, vaseline and buffalo wing sauce. 

Sidney Goldfarb, Beatrice’s husband and pickleball mixed doubles partner, is standing behind the table between the two women, holding a thick black double-headed silicone dildo above his head and shaking it wildly for the crowd of pickleballers who are thrusting their fists into the air and chanting “ass to ass!” in perfect synchronized harmony.

Sidney looks down at Harriet and Beatrice, and says, “OK, ladies, time for the grand finale – now let’s bring it on home for these hungry ballers!”

“But Sidney, it’s huuurting me,” Beatrice slurs as a fresh stream of pinkish blood-infused piss runs down the inside of her thigh. She gulps, hiccups then vomits up a combination of vodka, semen, stale cheetos and moldy lasagna onto the table in front of her.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Beatrice!” Sidney bellows out and then looks back at Murray, waving his arm forward furiously.

Shaking his head and cursing loudly, Murray storms his way forward, pushing his way through the crowd of cheering pickleballers until he reaches the table where Harriet now lies on her stomach, face down in her own puke. He grabs the back of Harriet’s long filthy disheveled gray hair and wraps it tightly around his fist. With a quick strong snap of his wrist, he violently yanks and twists Harriet’s head up and around so that her sweat-drenched face is just inches from his own.  

“Listen to me, goddamnit!” Murray screams at Harriet. “The national senior pickleball tournament starts in two fucking days and we need – I repeat need – this money to pay the entry fees!” Murray clenches and twists his fist harder around Harriet’s hair while his face contorts into a psychotic scowl. “So you’re going ass to ass with Beatrice or you’re getting tossed off that fucking balcony onto the Las Vegas fucking Strip! Now pick it the fuck up and get back on your goddamn knees, Harriet!” 

With a quick hard downward shoulder pivot and forearm thrust, Murray slams Harriet’s face into the metal table, crushing her cheekbone and breaking three of her front teeth, then jerks her head back up just as quickly. With his free hand, he grabs an open plastic bottle of cold water from the table and raises it to Harriet’s dried cracked lips – allowing her to take a long pull – then splashes the rest of the water into her face. “Hopefully that’ll wake your ass up,” he mutters as he throws the bottle to the floor.

Refreshed by the cold water, Harriet rises back up to her knees and nods slowly at Murray while spitting a tooth out. “OK, peaches,” she mumbles through her broken teeth. “You know I want that pickleball title just as bad as you do, and I’ll do whatever it takes. But I need my fix first, Murray, I need it now! Please please please go get Roach!”

Murray nods his head to Harriet then looks over to a large muscle-bound black man standing at the end of the table five feet away and watching them closely. The man is wearing red leather pants, a pair of Air Jordan 4 “Cactus Jack” Retros, and an open red leather vest over a six-pack stomach and chiseled pecs, with bulging tattooed biceps crossed over his chest. He wears a wide-brim black fedora on his head with a black mink scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Yo, Roach!” Murray shouts to the man over the crowd noise and waves him over.

Roach walks over to Murray with raised eyebrows while Sidney joins them with the black dildo still in his hand. “What the fuck’s goin’ on here, Silverman?” Roach asks. “I got me some high-payin’ clients gettin’ impatient here, dog! So you better jump start that skanky-ass ho and get her ass back to work, mothafucka!”

“Don’t sweat it, homeboy,” Murray says to Roach. “My girl’s all good, she just needs some more of the he-ro. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“What the fuck, Murray!” Roach exclaims, shaking his head and then nodding toward Harriett, who’s staring at them from the table through vacant zoned-out eyes and hooded eyelids. “That nasty-ass bitch already shot up so much of my junk she nearly put my black ass outta business! An’ you pickleballin’ niggas already owe me big, man! So how the fuck am I gonna get paid for givin’ her flaccid white ass mo’ my junk. Murray?”

“We got you, brotha’,” Murray says. “We ballin’ hard this week at the senior natties, bringin’ home some fat stacks, yo. We payin’ you back plus interest, a’ight?”

Roach turns his head and looks at his cousin, Poptart, who now stands next to Roach after walking over from the back of the suite. “What you think, Pops? Should I trust these pickleballin’ fools with mo’ my skag?”

Poptart studies Murray closely and then glances over at Harriet. He looks back to Roach, shrugs his shoulders and says, “These niggas can ball, cuz. My brotha’ Curtis saw ’em play up in Pepper Pike back when he was hustlin’ up around that way. Said they f’real. I say give that pickleballin’ ho some mo’ smack, then her’n the other bitch can go ass to ass, then they make us some green at the senior natties.”

Roach nods his head in agreement, then looks over to Murray and Sidney. “A’ight boys. We’ll tune yo’ bitches up with the H, but then we better be gettin’ some ass to ass. No mo’ ’scuses, dig?”

Murray nods to Roach and extends his closed fist. “We good, dog. Just hit ’em between the toes, those stems can’t take any more of the beast.”

Roach bumps Murray’s fist and then leans over and whispers something into Poptart’s ear. Poptart nods and walks over to the bedroom door, opens it and walks through, then closes it behind him. About a minute later, Poptart emerges from the bedroom, walks over and hands a plastic zip-lock bag to Roach.

Roach turns to Harriet, then leans down to the table and whispers gently into her ear. “Shhh, just lay down and relax, baby girl, papa bear got just what you need.” 

“Thank you, daddy,” Harriet whimpers in a soft voice as she turns over onto her stomach. She bends her right knee and raises her foot to where Roach can hold it with one hand. Using his free hand, Roach places a hypodermic needle between two of Harriet’s toes. After looking closely for a usable vein, Roach drives the sharp needle through the web of her toes and presses his thumb down on the plunger, slowly injecting a clear fluid into her foot. Almost immediately, Harriet turns over and rolls her head back while closing her eyes. She opens her mouth halfway and smiles up at the ceiling in pure dope euphoria.

Roach gently pets Harriet’s damp matted hair back while planting a soft kiss on her forehead. “Now that’s my baby girl,” he whispers as he checks her pulse and gazes into her cold empty eyes.

After injecting Beatrice the same way as Harriet, Roach looks over to Murray and Sidney with Poptart at his side. “OK, fellas, we got your pickle-bitches nice and warmed up, now let’s get ‘em back to–”

“Oh fuck!” Poptart shouts, cutting off Roach while looking back at the table.

Roach, Murray and Sidney all look over and follow Poptart’s startled gaze.

Harriet and Beatrice are both convulsing violently on the table while scratching furiously at their faces with their mouths foaming. Behind them, the “ass to ass” crowd chant stops and the room goes completely silent.

Sidney looks at the two women curiously and asks, “Why are they doing that?”

“Bitches be codin’!” screams Poptart.

“Coding?” asks Sidney.

“OD’ing!” shouts Roach. “They’re overdosing, man!” 

Roach scowls at Poptart and asks, “Which fuckin’ needle you give me, nigga?”

Poptart grabs the needle out of Roach’s hand and looks closely at a marking on the barrel. He opens his mouth and raises his eyebrows. “Oh snap!” he says. “We gave those bitches the fetty by accident!”

“Fetty?” Murray and Sidney ask in unison.

“Fentanyl,” Roach answers while shaking his head at Poptart. “Pure grade A fuckin’ fentanyl.” 

“Well don’t you have one of those adrenaline needles, like in Pulp Fiction?” asks Sidney.

Roach and Poptart look at each other and laugh. “No, dumbass!” Roach exclaims between laughs. “They only got that shit in the movies.” 

After reading from his smartphone, Murray looks up and says, “It says here that you can use something called Narcan. You guys got any of that?”

Poptart nods his head and replies, “Yeah but we only got like two spray bottles left, an’ that shit expensive as fuck now with inflation an’ all.”

Murray nods back to Poptart and says, “No worries, we understand. Goddamn inflation is killing us all. Fuckin’ Bidenomics!”

Roach nods and says, “Tell me about it, yo. Fuckin’ loaf of bread at WinCo cost me like $5.99 now. I used to pay $2 tops for that shit!”

Poptart chimes in, “Costed me $65 to fill up my gas tank yes’day! I mean what the fuck!”

Sidney nods and says, “I hear you, man. What the hell did they think was gonna happen with the feds printing money as fast as they could cut down trees the past four years!”

Roach and Poptart both nod their heads. “Amen to that, brotha’,” Roach mutters.

Back on the table, Harriet has gone completely still while Beatrice is choking on her tongue with her eyes bulging out and hands desperately throttling her throat as her mouth continues to foam.

“Y’all think Trump’ll be any better, though?” Poptart asks.

“He ain’t Biden!” Roach pipes up with a quick chuckle.

“True ’dat,” Sidney says, fist-bumping Roach while Murray nods in agreement.

“I’m worried about those 25% tariffs on Canada and Mexico he be talkin’ ’bout though,” Poptart says, shaking his head.

“He just tryna’ protect American industry, yo,” Murray replies.

“Yeah, I hear ya’,” Roach says thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “But the macro effects could be catastrophic in the long term, know what I’m sayin’?”

“I guess we’ll just have to see,” Sidney replies, shrugging his shoulders.

“Still can’t believe a convicted felon got elected president, yo,” Poptart quips.

“Wasn’t for nothin’ bad – just payin’ off a ho,” Roach replies.

They all look at each other, nodding in agreement.

Roach and Poptart glance back at the table, where Beatrice has just gasped her last breath after choking on her vomit. She and Harriet both lie on their backs, gape-mouthed with their dead eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Roach shakes his head and then looks out to the crowd of pickleballers, shouting, “Sorry folks, bitches croaked, party’s over. Y’all gotta bounce so we can clean up the mess over here.” He adds, “An’ y’all ain’t gettin’ yo’ money back, neitha’, so don’t even ask. Not our fault these pickleballin’ hos flaked on us.”

“What about ass to ass?” a voice shouts out from the crowd.

“Sorry, not tonight, boys,” Roach replies. 

“At least not with these stiff-ass bitches!” Poptart adds with a laugh.

Roach and Poptart both laugh while Murray and Sidney shake their heads with a chuckle. 

“You guys are baaad!” Murray says with a sly grin.

“All kidding aside, guys,” Sidney says, nodding his head back to the table. “This Harriet and Beatrice situation poses a real logistical problem for us.”

“How so?” Poptart asks with a puzzled expression.

“Yeah, Sid, do tell,” Murray chimes in.

Sidney looks at them sternly and says, “We have a mixed doubles pickleball tournament in two days, but now we have no mixed doubles. Harriet and Beatrice may’ve turned themselves into hopeless junkies over the past few months to raise money to feed their pickleball habits, but they were damn good doubles partners. Even playing with only one arm after Roach was forced to amputate the other one, Harriet could pickleball circles around every other woman on the court.” He shakes his head and sighs. “And now we have no one.”

“Sorry for your loss, man,” Poptart says, putting his hand on Sidney’s shoulder and giving it a sympathetic squeeze.

“Damnit!” screams Murray, turning to Poptart. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Poptart! How the hell could you confuse the two needles? They could not have been more clearly marked! I mean did they seriously not teach your dope smokin’ grape koolaid sippin’ ass how to read in whatever inner city metal detectin’ free lunch voucherin’ teen pregnancyin’ gangsta rappin’ straightouttacomptonin’ motherfuckin’ public school—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down, Murray!” Roach interjects. “Don’t blame Poptart for what happened. And besides, I got an idea.”

Everyone looks at Roach and, after a pause, Sidney speaks up. “Well? Enlighten us, Einstein.”

Roach smiles, then walks back to the bedroom and returns about thirty seconds later holding a small bag in his hand. He pulls out two blond wigs and throws one to Poptart. Roach puts his wig on and motions for Poptart to do the same.

Roach looks over at Sidney and Murray with a wide grin. “Looks like you two mothafuckas just found your new mixed doubles partners!”

Sidney, Murray, Roach and Poptart all clench their fists, raise their arms and extend their hands in unison for a group fist-bump. Sidney looks to each of them with a smile while nodding his head and says, “Let’s go ballin’, boys.”