by Jack Bantry
A voice from over his shoulder whispered, “Action.”
He fought to undo the lock.
Wide Load
by
Kit Power
The symbols swam before his eyes, almost seeming to squirm on the paper. Richard squinted, cursing his bleary Diablo III induced hangover. No good. There was a circle, some kind of star inside, but the rest... swirling squiggles in red biro on yellow post-it that refused to settle into recognisable shapes. He looked around, sure someone would be sniggering, trying too hard not to look.
Nothing. Co-workers all heads down, already taking calls.
Bastards.
He peeled the note off his screen and screwed it up into a ball which he tossed onto his desk, booted up his machine, and popped the can on his Dr Pepper.
Time to go to work.
Time passed. Richard sat at his desk, right finger listlessly flicking the mouse-wheel. Click-click-click-click-click-click. Pictures of female celebrities paraded past his half lidded eyes, thumbnails in the sidebar, the actual ‘news’ stories in the centre of the screen shooting past unseen.
He sighed, shifting the weight of his chin in his left hand. His eyes flicked to the bottom right of the screen. Ten forty. Over an hour now. He clicked open his mailbox, scanned the content, sighed again. Plenty to do, but nothing urgent. He moved the mouse down to the task bar, hovered it back over The Mail Online.
Fuck it, he thought. I’ve been here an hour. There’s fuck all going on.
Time for a shit.
He wheeled his chair back slowly, easing himself up, conscious of the soda in his belly swilling about uncomfortably. He pictured it momentarily, mixing with the acidic sludge of last night’s beer, and he felt something rise in his throat, but it just came out as a bitter belch, and he relaxed.
Why not phone in sick, like normal? But he knew the answer to that. It was a cushy gig, this IT support business, money for old rope as his dad said, but that prick Derek had started giving him dirty looks during the ‘back-to-work’ interviews, rattling on about ‘responsibilities to the team’ and shit, like he wasn’t just there for the pay like everyone else. But he’d said something about the annual increment, and a dependency on performance, and Richard thought it was probably bullshit, but he’d been playing the new CoD for two days straight immediately prior and wasn’t in any condition to argue, and anyway it might be true, but either way he’d probably taken enough sick days for a while, and it’s not like there’s a lot to do once he does get there, so this morning he only hit the snooze half a dozen times before dragging himself out of bed and into his clothes and onto the bus and into the office, and now here he is, over-caffeinated and hangover but in the office, Derek, thanks so much you patronising cock, I’m right here, so give someone else a dirty look.
Richard’s belly rumbled again, then cramped. Oh, yeah, right. Shit time.
He brushed crumbs off his T-shirt and walked down the aisle, looking straight ahead, grateful again for his desks prime location, so close to the exit. Grateful too for the view, because the end desk belonged to Beccy.
Beccy was a goth chick – dyed black hair, a nose ring. Last summer she’d worn short sleeved T-shirts and Richard had gotten to see her arm tatoos – parts of them, anyway. They were black and white, swirls and skulls and shit. Pentagrams. So fucking sexy. Dirty. Seemed almost to move as you looked at them. Intricate.
Great tits too. And she liked her tight tops – oh my yes. Tight, and if he was lucky, low cut. He looked up as he walked past her desk, slowing as he always did, and sure enough, the dark purple top displayed epic cleavage. Like a couple of puppies in a pillow case. He walked past, barely noticing the thin bandage on her lower arm, the fresh dark ink beneath - eyes locked on her chest, oblivious to her disgusted glare, unaware that she’d noticed him at all, so it was a nasty shock to him as he turned the corner and the filing cabinets cut that great view off to hear her mutter something under her breath.
He managed not to stop walking, managed to hold in his reaction, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. He hadn’t heard what she’d said, exactly, but the tone was unmistakable, and he felt the beginnings of an erection wilt in his trousers. Felt his cheeks burning.
Bitch.
There was an answering sympathetic laugh from Lisa, the flat-chested horse face, and Richard felt his blush deepen.
Fucking dumb sluts. Laughing at a man for doing what comes naturally. Flaunting it in his face like that. Fucking shameless. Disgraceful.
You know they want you to look, or they wouldn’t dress like that. Fucking right.
He strode into the bathroom, banging the door open in anger. The lights flickered on, automatic, so Richard knew he was alone.
Good.
Richard hated shitting when other people were in the room. It wasn’t that he couldn’t. It was just that the thought of other people hearing him go, listening to him fart and strain, the splash of the water as it dropped...
Fuck that.
So Richard stepped into his usual cubical (far corner, burned out element, nice and dingy), hung his jacket on the hook, locked the door behind him, undid his belt, dropped his trousers and boxers, and sat.
He could feel his belly rumbling again, cramping, but he did not push. Fuck it. He was in no hurry. His eyes stared at his jacket hanging on the back of the door.
He turned his mind back to Becky and her great cleavage. He wondered what those boobs felt like to squeeze. To bite. She’d like that. He could tell. The look and the tattoos and the tits-out tops – yeah. Becky would like it rough, he thought.
He imagined getting her into the store cupboard, following her... no, pushing her in as she went past. Throwing her through the open door, diving in and closing the door behind them, before anyone else saw.
Richard’s hard-on returned with a vengeance, poking him in the belly as his mind wandered.
Yeah, push her in. Maybe she even falls over, onto her knees. Looks up at him, eyes a little hurt, a little scared. Cleavage heaving. He’d just undo his belt and fly, no fucking about, just get it right out in her face.
Richard’s cock began to throb, hangover be damned.
Yeah, just get it out, tell her what he wanted her to do. Just tell her to do it, even. And if she said no? If she tried to resist? What was it that Borat dude said when he grabbed Pam Anderson in that funny-as-fuck movie?
“Consent not necessary”, Richard said, dopey grin on his face. He had no idea that he’d spoken out loud. He reached out for the toilet paper, peeled himself off a big wedge, left hand closing over his dick, while in his mind’s eye he saw Becky on her knees, his hand clamping the back of her neck, pushing her face into the floor hard, while the other reached up her dress to rip off her pants...
His belly cramped again, hard, painfully.
Fuck.
He looked down at his hard on, sitting snug and hungry inside his fist.
“To be continued.” He said before letting go, allowing the images to fade in his mind as he bore down.
He pushed gently at first, conscious that what came out was likely to be a bit loose, not wanting to blow off a damp ripping fart that would spray the bowl.
Nothing came. He felt something... substantial. Solid. Which was a relief, really, a welcome surprise. Except it didn’t feel like it had moved much at all.
He pushed harder, sitting forward a little. He felt something shift a little, settle back. No question now – this was a big one. OK, time to make a brown baby, he thought, and pushed really hard, arms pressed into his thighs. He felt it shift again, moving into place, and as it shifted, it felt like it was getting even larger. He knew it was just that the space it was moving into was narrower, but it was unsettling just the same, and when he finished the strain that he’d intended would push it out, he realised that he’d simply lodged it behind his asshole.
He felt a flutter of unease then, bringing with it a return of his earlier nausea. It felt very big, and very heavy. He reali
sed that this was likely to be uncomfortable. Perhaps even painful.
“Still, what am I going to do, not shit?” He laughed at his own joke, but his laugh was shaky, wobbly. The sound of the false bravado rang in his ears, mocking him.
He gritted his teeth. Took a couple of deep breaths. Fuck it. The only way out is through. True, and it steadied his nerve a little. Enough. He took a third deep breath, filled his lungs, then leaned forward, replanted his hands, and pushed as hard as he could, meaning to clear the blockage in one clean go. Get it done and over with.
He felt it moving, approaching his anus, and holy fuck it felt big, huge even, but shit is shit, he thought as he carried on straining, face flushing with the effort, jaw clamped shut. He felt the muscles down there pushed open, finally, and he felt them stretch and stretch, and still the thing was getting wider, and he strained and forced and sweated, his asshole sending up shooting pain, until it became a circle of agony, burning worse than any runny curry belly, and he clenched involuntarily, intending to cut loose what he’d gotten out and force the rest back, regroup, maybe even check for blood, because fucking hell...
The muscle of his anus contracted, gripping the thing tight. A wave of pain, deep, vital, rolled up into his belly, and he gasped with shock at it, tears forced into his eyes. His hands flew out, banging hard into the walls on either side. The thing was solid, utterly unyielding, and his ass refused to believe it, gripping tighter in panic, and each clamp sent another wave of pain through him, bigger and scarier than the last. He felt his breath driven from him, the pain like a band across his stomach.
He was too winded to scream, and made instead a horse damp barking noise that he barely recognised as his own voice. His hands were pushing out full strength to each side, and he could feel strain in his shoulders and arms, but it was a gnat bite next to the ripping feeling in his guts. He felt the nausea in his belly combine with the fear and the pain, drew in a half breath, and vomited. The stench of coffee and stomach acid filled his face as the jet of fluid flew from his throat, coating his hanging jacket. He was flung forwards by the motion, hard enough to bash his head, smearing the vomit onto his forehead and hair as the rest of his stomach came up, coating his shoes and socks, pulling his jacket from the hook in the process.
The retch was a full belly cramp, instant ejector, and his whole body cramped with the effort. He felt the thing hanging out of him move a little further, forcing him wider, and he felt something ripping, like a cut. The blow on the head, the lack of oxygen, the extra wave of savage pain, sent spots in front of his eyes, and the dim and fractured view of the world through his tears began to turn grey, to fade around the edges.
I’m passing out, he thought, dull surprise giving way to panic, and the panic sent adrenaline surging into him, snapping him upright like a puppet being yanked. He swayed drunkenly in his seat, eyes trying to focus on the back of the bathroom door. He clearly saw a lump of partially digested doughnut, sodden and brown with Dr Pepper, sliding down the plastic finish. Beneath it, fresh graffiti drawn in black marker pen swirled before his watering eyes. The acidic smell/taste in his nose and throat assaulted him suddenly, and he felt his now-empty stomach roll again, but survival instinct kicked in, and he held it down, unaware that he’d begun to whimper, only vaguely aware that tears were streaming down his cheeks.
He panted, six quick breaths, and the nausea retreated. He slowly opened his eyes again, this time making sure they stayed unfocussed, while he tried to assess what was going on with his ass.
He realised that the near faint had caused his asshole to stop trying to contract, which he saw as A Good Thing. The whatever-the-fuck was still lodged very painfully in place, and he could feel the muscle surrounding it burning in stretched agony. He was sure he must be bleeding, but some instinct told him it would be a Very Bad Idea to try and look.
The urge to clench his anus again was almost overwhelming, instinctive. He gritted his teeth, really grinding his molars together in an effort not to. He thought if he started that again, he would probably not be able to stop, and he also thought that the pain would likely take him completely if it did happen again, but god fucking dammit the instinct was almost overwhelming anyway.
He panted, face dripping with sweat, mind racing. Could he reach it with his hands, pull it out? The thought made him shudder, which made his ass twitch, which sent a fresh spike of pain, big and deep and red, right into his stomach. He exhaled with a wounded animal groan/growl.
The only way out is through. The thought bubbled up before bursting like a firework across his mind. It was terrifying. He felt himself shrink back from it, mind scrabbling for an alternative, a way out, but the memory of that last stab of pain was vital and mutely compelling.
Do or die.
He pushed his arms back into the walls, and began to pant deliberately, attempting to flood his body with oxygen, building up to a deep breath that he planned to hold until the thing passed or he did. His eyes regained focus while he did so, returning to the pen marks on the door. Still the pattern swirled, eluding his focus. He realised with a start that it was the same as that crap from the post-it note. He felt nausea rise again. His mind flashed to Beccy, that low voice as he’d passed. The fresh pattern of dark ink under the bandage. His heart was really hammering now, pounding sweat out painfully, and what had she said to him? Old dick? Cold brick? The peel of female laughter in reply. The shame of being mocked. He panted, anus strained and bleeding, building to what he knew would be his last push, and he replayed the sounds over and over, trying to find the sense in them, the words inside the half heard sounds, and it came close then skipped away, and all of a sudden he was out of time, feeling himself getting lightheaded again. Now or never.
He braced hard with his arms, drove his teeth together, tucked his tongue behind them, screwed his eyes shut, and took in a deep breath.
He pushed as hard as he could, every muscle baring down, straining. The pain bit deep and savage and didn’t let go. Tears squirted from his eyes once more, and he was dimly aware that he was growling with his exhaled breath. Sweat popped all over his body. His head trembled with the force, and he felt the thing moving, each millimetre taking its payment in agony. He felt the ripping happening again, his asshole but also inside, fragile tissue torn open by the passage, nerve endings screaming. The pain spread, becoming diffuse but still raw, and his growl became a scream, but he kept pushing, locked in. He could already tell it wouldn’t be enough, the thing was too big, moving too slowly, but he also knew the pain was too great, that this was it, so he pushed on, sheer fuck-you bloody mindedness obliterating all other consideration, somehow holding the agony at bay.
Just after the point of certain failure, he felt the thing accelerate, like it had passed its centre of gravity. It still felt huge, still tore, he was feeling shredded down there now, ripped open, but it moved quicker. He pushed even harder, black flowers blooming in his closed eyes, felt the world begin to pull away and go dim, but the searing pain kept him clawing onto consciousness.
It hit the water hard and heavy, and he felt the splash-back coat the underneath of his thighs. The moment it left him, he slumped, collapsing like a ragdoll, the strength drained from his arms. He slid sideways off the bowl, head cracking against the wall. His ass hit the ground hard, and the pain was terrible and complete. It rolled up his whole body, obliterating consciousness.
He lay, half curled around the toilet bowl, as blood pooled underneath his naked torso, dark and vital.
***
The body was discovered an hour later. Richard was declared dead at the scene, laying in a pool of what was by then over half of his blood supply.
An eagle-eyed paramedic spotted the contents of the toilet bowl, and the Police were called. It was taken into evidence, tagged and bagged, and was the principle piece of evidence at the inquest.
The final verdict was death by misadventure. The coroner never commented on it publically, but sometimes, amongst friends, when in his
cups and asked with that disturbing, hungry curiosity about the oddest case he’d ever seen... Yes, just sometimes, he’d find himself telling of the thirty year old man, IT consultant, who’d bled to death in a toilet cubicle at his place of work, from what he’d finally ruled to be ‘self-inflicted severe anal tearing’.
Inflicted by a fourteen inch long, three inch diameter, solid twenty-four-carat gold dildo, shaped crudely to resemble a giant turd.
It usually got a laugh.
And in Beccy’s spell book, a single word incantation was circled in black ink, with a small, neat tick set next to it.
Goldbricker.
Love At First Sting
by
WD Gagliani & David Benton
.1.
Now
"I thought you killed her!"
Mr Walker pulled the phone away from his ear. “What? Who is this?”
“You son of a bitch, I paid good money for a job you said you could do.” The voice paused to breathe, but it sounded like a train starting. “You were highly recommended by some fuckin’ big shots, asshole.”
He pictured the florid, jiggly man with the red face and veiny nose.
“You’d better recheck your number,” Mr Walker enunciated slowly. “You’d better think hard before you continue.”
It was Mr Fenning, all right. The bastard had lost it.
“I’m using a scrambler phone,” Mr Fenning said. “And you–”
“But I’m not,” Walker said with a growl.
“That’s too fuckin’ bad! You botched the job, you fucker! She’s alive. I just saw her.” He was shouting now. “She’s fuckin’ stalking me. I’m locked in my house, you sonofabitch!”
Mr Walker clicked the phone off, juggled it a couple times in his massive hand, wiped it on his shirt, then dropped it into a nearby sewer grate.