Stumped

by Dick Gear

  Copyright © 2011 Dick T. Gear. All rights reserved.

  Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by Duplicitous Press. All rights reserved.

  WARNING

  STUMPED is a novella that is full of violence, dark comedy and cynicism beyond the norm. Do not continue reading if you are uptight about erections, tits, head punching, insults, mean-spiritedness, foul human behavior and hilariousness. Instead, you might want to check out Pride and Prejudice.

  In other words, continue reading at your own risk.

  The Sick Fuck Chronicles Book One: STUMPED

  I like fucking old broads. Grabbing them by their flapjack titties and just banging away until they goddamn scream. You know, old bitches haven’t usually been done by a younger guy like me and so they dig that shit. Really, this one today is the perfect example.

  Right now she’s slobbing on my cock like she’s trying to eat a goddamn bagel or something. Okay, so old bitches don’t give the best head. But it’s fun to watch them try.

  “Easy with the teeth,” I tell her.

  She tries to oblige, pushing her wrinkled old lips out and sucking in the choppers, but it’s still hurting my dick. Finally I just push her backwards. The pale flapjack titties flop against her belly as she sits down hard on her ass. “Ouch.”

  “Sorry,” I tell her. But I’m not. Not really. A black cat runs by me in a blur. I sneeze. “Fucking cats. I have allergies you know.”

  “I can put Twinkles downstairs in the game room.” Her mouth is still wet and slimy from gagging on my dick. I get hard again.

  “Doesn’t matter. The dander’s still there even after you physically remove the animal. It’s in the air, particles and shit.” I grab her by the hair and swing her around so her ass is to me.

  She’s still wearing her old lady panties. And her old lady bra that looks like it was built to contain a goddamn army. The thing is like an off-yellow white color and maybe three inches thick. I rip the clasp off and watch as her huge tits spill out. I reach around and grab one tit.

  She moans. I can see the back of her head, how her hair is thinning and gray.

  She’s got brown mottled spots on her back and neck. “Shit, you really are fucking old.”

  “Oh god.”

  I grab her panties and roughly pull them down around her ankles. She’s got cellulite up her thighs and her ass is pockmarked with it. I spread her ass cheeks. “Not too bad. You ever been ass-fucked before?”

  “No. Does it hurt?”

  “Probably doesn’t feel like a summer’s breeze,” I say, not sure what that even means. “But we’re gonna find out.”

  “Be easy.”

  “Okay grandma.” She’s not my grandma. It’s just funny to call them that.

  I can’t believe I met this old bitch in a fucking deli this morning. I really do have a talent for this shit. Helped her carry her stupid bags to her car, then somehow talked my way into going all the way back to this ramshackle house in the middle of the boonies, made some small-talk about her dead husband and shit…next thing you know, bam. I’m about to fuck her ass.

  “This is gonna be good,” I say. Maybe not for her, though. But for me.

  Definitely. I grab her hair and start really going to town. She’s hissing and shuddering, maybe I’m drilling a little too hard, getting excited. Getting rough.

  “Wait…” she says.

  “Fuck that. I’m just about done here.”

  I’m getting ready for the final thrusts. A bit of a smell is reaching me, like just a nastiness. Maybe some shit is leaking out—hell, I don’t really care what it is because I’m about to drop a load in her old butt.

  “I’m gonna cum grandma!”

  “You’re hurting me—“

  Just then I hear footsteps from the basement.

  I turn as the door opens and this huge guy walks out.

  I have to say, for the first time maybe in my whole life I’m shocked. This guy is about six foot five and wearing knee high boots, a white apron, sleeves rolled up, and his face…

  “Jesus man, don’t do anything crazy,” I tell him.

  He grins. The guy’s holding a fucking cleaver. Yeah. A cleaver.

  Grandma whatever her name is turns her head and looks at him. “You see what he did Timmy? He raped my ass! He fucked me even though I begged him not to.”

  Timmy, if that’s what this giant’s name even is, lets out a bellow and comes at me. I try to run but grandma grabs one of my arms. The bitch is stronger than I gave credit for, she’s got a vice-like grip.

  Next thing I know, the crazy dude’s got hold of my other arm and the cleaver comes swinging down.

  In an instant, my right hand is GONE.

  Just gone. Fucking blood everywhere.

  And then I pass out.

  I wake up and my wrist is throbbing. That’s the first thing I notice because the pain is absolutely blinding. And I’m handcuffed on my good hand. Chained to one of those huge old antique beds. The room is pretty small and completely bare. Just me chained to the side of the bed. Oh yeah, and I’m naked.

  Nice.

  Looks like they’ve stuffed a bunch of gauze and shit into the wound, the giant gaping hole. I can barely look at it and the pain is so bad I dry heave for a moment.

  I scream for help. That lasts all of about ten minutes. I don’t really have the energy to do much more. I feel faint again.

  “Jesus. Please let me fucking go.”

  The door opens and granny walks in. She’s fully clothed now, wearing a long brown skirt and a white blouse. Even some makeup, like an old clown. Pretty creepy if you want to know the truth.

  “Hi, Allen. That is your name, right?” She asks in a sweet sing-songy voice. Not how she talked when I met her at the deli. It’s freaking me out too, because I realize that she lied about everything. Lied about nobody else being in the house, lied about probably even the fact that she’d never taken it in the ass. She took it in the ass like a fucking pro!

  “So you got my license.”

  She smiles wider. Comes closer. “How’s your poor hand?”

  “Ummm…it’s gone. My wrist fucking kills and it’s probably infected. Good chance I’ll be dead by tomorrow unless someone takes me to the damned hospital.”

  This makes her chuckle. “Oh dear.”

  “Is that all you’ve got to say about it? Oh fucking dear?” I’m starting to get emotional. This isn’t like me at all.

  “Sorry about your itty bitty hand, Allen, but we had to send you a message.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She sits down at the foot of the bed and grabs my bare leg. “You have to know that we’re in charge, honey. You do as I say.”

  “Fuck you. You’re an ugly old bitch. How long did it take you to get that cum out of your ass hon?”

  She looks a bit hurt. “Oh Allen. That’s not very nice. You raped me.”

  “I most certainly did not. And even if I did, who gives a shit? You cut my goddamn hand off!”

  “Now I don’t care for your language Allen. Not at all. And unfortunately it seems you still haven’t quite learned your lesson.” She turns her head to the open door. I can see a dark hallway and nothing else.

  “TIMMY!” She shouts.

  My fucking nuts shrink to the size of pinheads when she says that name.

  “Hey, hey, hey! Wait. Wait a second.” I’m babbling now. Please god, not Timmy. “Listen, I’m sorry. I really am. Okay?”

  She shrugs. “A little bit late for that, now, isn’t it?”

  The hallway darkens even more as a shadow approaches. And then he’s there, taking up the entire doorway with his hulking frame. He’s still got that apron on and his boots. His head is bald, did I mention that? And his eyes are wacky, like out of proporti
on or maybe slightly crossed. But he’s not dumb. I can tell he’s completely aware of what he’s going to do.

  The cleaver’s in his hand, of course.

  I’m bucking and screaming like I’ve never screamed in my life. The bed is actually moving across the floor I’m fighting so hard.

  Granny’s laughing hysterically at this. She finds it funny I guess.

  And Timmy’s coming toward me.

  I spit in his face. It doesn’t matter at all. Doesn’t make him mad or anything. He grabs my good hand and presses it against the wall, then lifts the cleaver high in the air.

  “Just the thumb if you can, dear,” she says, like a schoolteacher explaining physics to a particularly dumb student.

  “FUCK YOU!!” I yell, like it’s the last words I’ll ever utter. Who knows, maybe it will be.

  “Tut-tut, language. I warned you.” She sighs. “The thumb and the pinky,” she says.

  Timmy gives a nod and then I hear a loud thump. My eyes are closed. Strangely, all I feel is a sudden numb cold that shoots from my hand all the way up the length of my arm. Thank you Lord, for sparing me the pain. I know it will come eventually but not just yet.

  Another thump.

  “Timmy! You weren’t supposed to do that. Terrible, terrible, terrible. I only wanted two fingers taken off.”

  Timmy whines. “He was moving.” His voice sounds thick and low, yet somehow immature. I fucking hate these people. They’ve taken my hands. Christ.

  Shortly thereafter, I pass out again.

  When I wake up, the room is dark.

  I’m still tied up. The pain is incredible now and I can’t help but scream. I scream for hours until my vocal chords give out completely and all that I can do is whisper. But I keep whisper yelling anyway. There’s no choice.

  I fall into some kind of waking dream but am startled into consciousness when the door opens again and SHE comes in. She’s wearing a nightgown and nothing else. It’s see-through and I can tell her titties and bush are exposed. The light from the moon is enough to see what’s what.

  “I need water.”

  “Later,” she says, her voice husky.

  “I know what you want. You want me to fuck you.”

  She laughs. “No, that’s how it used to be, Allen. Now I’m going to fuck YOU.”

  I moan, but not in a good way.

  She kneels down and pulls something from beneath the bed. It makes a scraping sound on the floor. Some kind of chest or trunk, I think. “Please, what the hell are you doing this for? Whatever I did to you, honey, it wasn’t this bad.”

  She looks up from the trunk or box and stares at me with cold, dead eyes. “I do it for the same reason you fuck old ladies and treat them like dogshit, Allen. I do it because I like it. It makes me cum.”

  “Christ. You crazy…”

  She gives me a look. A look that says, you’ve still got two fingers left. Not to mention toes and teeth and a cock and balls. Just how much more do you want taken away?

  I get it. I shut my mouth.

  “Now you’re understanding,” she laughs. When she gets up slowly, I see she’s holding a large black dildo.

  “Oh no. Come on. No. Please don’t…grandma…wait, what’s your name?”

  “You forgot. I told you but I lied anyway. My name is Katrina.”

  “Katrina. I really wish we could do something else. Like, that’s not my thing, you know?”

  Her eyebrow shoots up. “If this is too big for you, we could use Timmy. He’s much smaller.”

  I groan and my stomach lurches. “No. No, not Timmy and not…that…dildo.”

  “I promise I’ll be gentler than you were with me, okay?”

  I take a deep breath. This is getting bad. I mean, in some ways I’m more okay with getting my hands taken off then being fucked in the ass with a dildo. See, I have this thing….a fear, a phobia about my ass. I don’t want it being screwed around with by anyone. Even when I take a shit, I’m very gentle with it. I use wipes. It’s pristine and even in the past I never let girls go there with fingers or licking. Nothing.

  But Katrina, if that’s even her name, doesn’t care. She’s a lunatic.

  She walks beside me and then grabs my shoulder and roughly turns me onto my side. I yelp as my hands, or what’s left of them—my stumps—hit the bed and the wall.

  And then the dildo is going in my ass.

  The pain and pressure is immense. And she’s enjoying my screams and cries of pain. I feel bile rising up my throat and then I vomit. It splatters the wall.

  “Ew.” She releases the dildo and I hear it fall to the floor and roll, possibly underneath the bed again.

  “I’m sick. I’m dying. And you’re fucking me in the ass with a goddamn black dildo. You sick bitch.”

  “Language—“

  “I don’t care. Who gives you the right to do this to people? Huh?”

  “Who gives you the right to fuck and rape women?”

  “I don’t rape anybody.”

  “Degrade them, then.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Lesson learned.” I hold up my stumps.

  “I’m not trying to teach you a lesson, Allen. I’ve done this to boys who genuinely helped me carry groceries home for no other reason than they were nice young citizens trying to do a good deed.”

  “And what’s the deal with Timmy?”

  “Timmy was my first.”

  “The first guy you did this shit to.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many have there been?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Thirty or forty. Not all of them got the full treatment. The full experience you’re getting.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “It’s almost over now, Allen. Don’t worry.”

  “You’re going to kill me?”

  “It’s almost over.”

  Soon after that, she leaves.

  Somehow I manage to fall back asleep again. When I wake up, light is streaming through the bedroom window. The sheets are a mess. Like, not just all untucked and everything but bloody and pussy and smelly. “Oh, you fucking b—“ I don’t say it. What if she’s in the hallway, listening? Ready to call that crazy attack dog Timmy on me? I try to sit up in bed but I’m far too weak.

  This might be my last day on this earth. Oh well, no big loss to the world, I guess. I spent most of my life fucking women, using them like cum towels and then laughing about it with my boys.

  I wonder what Tad would say about this shit.

  He might laugh at me, I think.

  The door to the room opens and Katrina’s standing there with Timmy. “God, just kill me already.”

  She smiles. “Sorry. It’s over.”

  Timmy’s not wearing his apron and boots anymore. No cleaver. Instead he’s in a fancy suit and tie. He’s carrying a rolled up piece of black cloth or something in one giant hand. As he approaches my bed he lets it unfurl. It’s a mask or hood of some sort.

  “What’s that for?” I say. My voice has come back a bit. It still sounds like I drank gravel last night.

  “Not to worry, Allen. Just relax.”

  A moment later the hood’s on my head and they undo the handcuff. And then Timmy picks me up and starts walking with me.

  I can feel him carrying me through the house. “Remember what I told you, darling,” Katrina calls after us, and I’m not really sure who she’s talking to—Timmy or me.

  Before long, we’re outside and then I’m hefted down into something enclosed. I can smell mustiness and dirt and leather. And then a slamming sound and it comes to me that I’m in some huge trunk of a car.

  The car starts and we’re driving.

  I think about how we got to her house in the first place. We drove about twenty minutes outside the city. I remember asking her why she went to a deli so far from her house and she said it was because she liked to come into the city once a week, just to see people and so forth.

  We took so many back roads that I’d probably never be able to find the
house again even if I wanted to. It was miles out in the middle of nowhere, and she probably took a lot of weird turns and side streets for that exact reason.

  I wonder where I’m being taken now.

  About an hour or two later—I lose track of time—the car stops. The engine’s still running.

  The trunk opens and then I’m being hefted out and thrown over Timmy’s shoulder. After a bit of walking, he lays me on the cold ground. Snow is on my face and stinging my poor stumps.

  “Bye Allen. Nice to meet you.”

  I almost tell him to fuck off but who knows what he’d do. “You too, Timmy,” I say instead. Funny, part of me almost means it. No. That can’t be true. What the hell am I thinking. Fucking Stockholm syndrome.

  The car drives away. I shake the hood off my head and look around, blinking.

  I’m in the woods but when I stand up, clearly can see a hospital the length of a football field away. Of course I’m naked and handless, so as I walk over, people start screaming and before long the cops are there.

  They ask me what happened and I suddenly realize I don’t want to tell the truth.

  For whatever reason. Well fuck, it’s humiliating. I got kidnapped after banging a seventy year old broad and then her and her crazy boyfriend cut my hands off…

  Instead, I just say that I got jumped in an alley, beaten up and taken to an unknown location and that I don’t remember anything else after that. It’s not a total lie.

  They run tests on me, figure I’ve got head trauma or something. Then they do emergency surgery on my hands.

  I’m in a nice drug haze for the next few days and my family and friends visit a few at a time. Their faces are ashy and shocked when they see me and what’s been done to my hands.

  But the docs explain that with new prosthetic hands and shit, like with bionic fingers and all kinds of stuff, I’ll still be able to drive a car and do most of the old stuff I did in the past.

  About a week after I’ve been admitted to the hospital, Tad shows up. He’s been by a bunch of times before but always with a lot of others too.

  This time it’s almost end of visitation hours and he’s alone.

  “Yo, Allen, what the hell is up,” he says, sitting down in the chair beside my bed.

  I shrug. My hands still look like mummified and shit with all the bandages and dressings. Tad is tall, lanky, dark haired. We were the milf hunters, me and him.