What Goes Around

by Rollins, Jack

  His grip on the knife tightened and he pressed a hand against the open door, using it to steady his nerves, prepared to shove off from it should he suddenly need to turn tail and retreat. Luke peered around the doorframe, hearing footsteps kicking up gravel nearby.

  He saw one of the thugs – the one referred to as Mark earlier – sprinting towards him, light from the house making the dark stain across his face glisten as he raced past the windows.

  Luke stepped outside and raised the knife. “Where’s my phone, you thieving bastard?”

  The man skidded to a halt on the gravel and changed direction, turning towards the parked van. “Fuck the phone, get out of here! She’s killed Terry!”

  Then he heard the hoof falls, a casual trot somewhere in the darkness. The steps were solid thuds; no splash of gravel accompanied them. Luke peered out beyond the edge of the stable, to the fields where the horses would have been more comfortable than on the loose stones of the driveway. He could see nothing.

  “The keys! The fucking keys!” Mark cried, dropping from the driver’s side of the van.

  Luke ran to the back of the van and grabbed the thief by his jacket. “What’s going on? You said she – she killed Terry. Who do you mean?”

  A wet snort sounded from the gate. Gravel crunched under heavy, steady steps.

  “The woman! The woman who lives here!” Mark shoved Luke aside and broke into a sprint as he reached out for the open door, desperate for the relative safety of the house.

  “She’s dead, you fucking idiot!” Luke cried.

  Hooves fell like thunder. Stones whipped up and struck the side panels of the van, clanging louder and louder, closer and closer. Mark froze in the space between the van and the house, turning his head to the source of the furious commotion. He screamed.

  Luke clasped a hand over his mouth as the silhouette of a horse and rider cut across the light projected from the front door. He heard soft, wet crunches as Mark’s ribcage and head collapsed, his organs and vital fluids bursting out of his smashed body in lumpy, glistening spurts.

  Luke took his chance and ran for the door, jumping over Mark’s tattered body as he went. He slammed the door shut behind him but didn’t bother to lock it, suspecting that whatever Mark or Terry had done to the lock to get in there in the first place had probably rendered it useless.

  He had no idea what to do next. There were three vehicles outside and he had the keys to none. There was photographic and sketched evidence of his involvement with Demi, and four corpses on the scene. The only thing he could do was make a run for it, but there was no way he’d outrun a marauding horse.

  The knife thudded on the carpet and Luke paced back and forth in the passageway with his fingers clasped behind his head. Finding no answers to his predicament in the confines of the short corridor, he burst through the lounge door like he was a narcotics officer on a drug raid. He scanned the room and saw, sat on the table where she had left it, the little easel, some charcoals and a sketchbook. He tore the book open and flicked through it, finding the nudes Demi had drawn when he’d posed for her. He ripped them out and stuffed them into his pocket.

  It was then that he noticed the next picture in the book. Demi had drawn herself in a blurred, dreamy image, standing with one hand on the glass of a window, beyond which was the handsome head and knotted mane of Conquistador. The composition made it clear that the two were locked in eye contact, but the strangest thing of all was that Demi’s other hand disappeared behind the thigh of her bent leg. It was unmistakeable: she was masturbating in this picture, and it looked like the focus of her desire was the horse.

  Luke flicked through more and more of the images, finding more sketches of this kind. He wondered if they were fantasies, but considered that Demi might have been drawing memories. Conquistador lying in a bed of straw, Demi naked, sprawled across his back. Pages of rough sketches of what he imagined to be a horse’s engorged phallus.

  “Fucking hell,” he muttered, wide-eyed. “She loves it. She loves the fucking horse.”

  Demi’s voice came from the passageway and Luke turned to face her.

  “And he loves me. He never left me. Everyone else did, but not my Conquistador.”

  Her naked body – supple, healthy, vital – sat tall and proud, riding bareback on the powerful stallion she had loved beyond its death. Her position was not one common to comfortable riding, as she seemed to sit forward slightly, closer to Conquistador’s neck. The animal stared deep into Luke’s eyes, transfixing him as it strode into the lounge, Demi ducking her head beneath the doorframe.

  Luke gasped, backing away around the sofa. “This is impossible. This can’t be real. You are not real. I saw you. You’re dead. You’re lying dead on your bed!” The sketchbook slipped from his hand.

  Demi’s weight shifted with each movement of Conquistador’s muscles, shifts which Luke could see caused one of the braided mane knots to rub against her clitoris.

  “I’m dreaming this! I’m dreaming all of this, surely to God!” Luke continued to back away and stumbled over a side table. He toppled, taking a reed diffuser with him. Passion fruit and coconut oil spilled across the carpet and soaked into his clothes, thick and cold, the scent – normally pleasant – now too strong, cloying. Before Luke could scramble back to his feet once more, Demi towered over him and Conquistador’s muzzle hovered inches away from his face, nostrils flaring.

  “Demi, I’m sorry! Please, Demi – I didn’t know he was going to rape you. I didn’t know he would kill you.”

  She said nothing, only smiled.

  A shuddering sigh escaped Luke’s lungs. He sobbed and wept as terror gave way to relief.

  Conquistador snorted as its lips peeled back, revealing two great barriers of gum and teeth. Luke screamed as the teeth clamped down over his wide open mouth and white-hot pain consumed him. Tooth and bone snapped and crunched as the mighty animal’s powerful bite crushed the escort’s jaw, tearing his tongue and lower lip off.

  Coughing on the blood racing to the back of his throat, Luke thrashed out, finding his left hand in Conquistador’s mouth. Over the crunching bones, he heard Demi moan with pleasure, the same groans he himself had provoked from her with his fingers and tongue earlier that afternoon.

  There was no fighting the warm, cotton wool cloud of unconsciousness as the horse clamped onto his left cheek and eye socket. The darkness pulled him down. As he departed, Demi screamed at the peak of her ecstasy and he realised that even in death, he’d fulfilled the purpose of his chosen trade.

  Tiddlers by Rhys Milsom

  Stinking. Absolutely stinking. Dunno what he does on the night shift but he don’t do much. Probably sits there and wanks into the stars and moon all night. That’s probably why he walks funny. All that hide-the-sausage can’t be good for you. His bell-end must be raw, chafing all the time.

  When I’m here, it’s pristine. Floors mopped, mirrors spotless, taps shining, skidmarks gone, enough toilet roll for a small nation. Like Haiti or somewhere.

  When I came in here this morning to take over for Pete from the night shift, the place looked like something from one of those TV shows where houses are in disrepair and the people who live in them don’t give two flying fucks about it. Cubicles were flooded (but I’ve told Pete that’s my job to sort out – if you stick a plunger down the toilets they erupt like projectile sick from a dying alcoholic), toilet roll was swamped to the tiled floor like cysts, and the sinks… well, they were full of spit, spunk and blood rags.

  Honestly, I used to think blokes were the dirty species, but it’s women who cause the most mess here. All you get in the gents is piss on the floor and urinals lashed with pubes (which are easy to remove with a bit of kitchen roll). But the ladies treat these toilets like a rubbish dump, which you’ll get when they’re free to the public, I suppose. Bet their houses are a fucking shit tip. Oh, well. The more mess, the better for me.

  It’s 7am now. Been here an hour and I’ve just given the ladies the once-over. S
orted the gents out, took about 10 minutes. Few cans and needles in there but that’s all right. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. No matter how much dried scum, blood or whatever else is congealing on it.

  Few people realise how satisfying and pleasing this job is. I took it up after being a dole bum for God knows how fucking long. Those years were the worst. No pleasure, nowhere to get it. No idea how to achieve that ultimate thrill. Week in, week out, tramping down to the jobbies and a suit talking at me: “Now, Mr. Lockley, it’s been a while since your last spell in employment and we can see you’ve applied for things but these jobs are, well, maybe too demanding for you after all your time away from employment. There is a different job opening which we think would be more suitable for you.” Over and over again until the suits were just gnashing teeth, twitching fingers and coffee breath.

  That is, of course, until this job came up. More suitable. Suitable? My arse! It’s perfect. Joy! Satisfaction! Lust! Thrill! Orgasmic! Zen!

  I have a little office, too, which I share with Pete. Well, not sharing really. He uses it as a wanking space and I float around in it, watching the screens and checking if the fridge is working because it’s always on the blink.

  I’m standing in the doorway of the ladies now. The lights are a dull amber, like old traffic lights, and they zzzz like a dying fly or a drink fridge in the local offy. There isn’t really any smell in here, or perhaps someone with bright nostrils could pick smells out but I can’t. Never been one for smells, really.

  I step in and check all the cubicles. No one here apart from me. I knew that already. I’d checked the screens before coming in. Habit, I suppose. Habits are good. Habits are what keep me and everyone else ticking along at speed, however quick or slowly we like.

  I splash the water on the floor with my feet and it reminds me of that scene in Mary Poppins. I grab a toilet brush and hold it up like an umbrella, like it’s pissing down, and I start to sing the song from the film that everyone knows. I am Mary. It feels good to be Mary.

  Once I finish the song, I put the toilet brush back and start to mop the floor. The puddles soon get soaked up by the dreadlocks of the mop and once that’s done, I give the mirrors and taps and sinks the once-over. I then restock the toilet rolls, because even the worst human being deserves to feel less shitty after taking a dump. There’s nothing worse than busting your rim and finding there’s no toilet roll. Makes you feel really shit. Literally.

  After that, I check the cisterns of the toilet. I plunge my hand into the cold water which submerges all the mechanisms. Everything seems in place in each one, so I do my thing and fold thin pieces of wire over the pieces of plastic and metal which allow the toilet flush to work properly. I ram each piece of wire between the tiny spokes and try the flush. It doesn’t budge.

  My heart flutters and I gasp. My stomach turns and the backs of my knees start to sweat. Oh, dear Lord. Lord, the all-conquering and omnipotent being. Lord, allow me to open the chasms wider and taste the wealthy pools of desire. I get up from my knees and unlock my praying hands. My heart is beating so fast that if I was to claw it out, it would writhe on the floor like a battery-filled dildo: brrrrr brrrrr brrrrr.

  I dry my soaking hands under the dryer, wipe them on my trousers, and head to the office to fill my pockets.

  I unlock the cupboard labelled ‘LOCKLEY’ and grab four boxes of the little tiddlers I bought online the other day. Have to get little tiddlers because the big ones won’t fit. Of course they are far too big. (Don’t. Don’t argue with me, you prick. Bigger ones would be too obvious. They’d be seen easily. The tiddlers do the job fine. Just fine.)

  I go back to the ladies, shouting “Hello, cleaning”, so that if anyone’s in there, they will know there’s another presence about and we can sort ourselves out before it all gets too much. There’s no answer. I loiter for a bit in the doorway, but there are no sounds so I head in. I open each cubicle and grab the bottles of bleach from behind the toilets. I know it’s not protocol to have bleach on display, but no one knows about it and my higher powers never come to do the routine checks like they’re supposed to.

  I unscrew each bottle top and slide one tiddler inside. I’ve made tiny holes in the tops so that the camera, the tiddler, can see. I stick some insulation tape – a tiny smidgeon – to the tiddler so it feels safe and cosy, and then I switch each one on. When I’m done with the last one I let out a little “Eeeeee,” like my mother used to when her breathing apparatus wouldn’t work. I’d wait until she went all red like a raspberry and I’d switch the machine back on, laughing so much I’d piss myself and get the floor all wet.

  I check my watch. 8:45am. Primetime. I head back to the office and make myself comfy in the chair in front of the screens. The CCTV shows a woman – dressed real smart like a fucking lawyer or something – walking into the toilets. This one’s gonna be good. Never had a rich one before, one who probably doesn’t even know jobs like mine exist.

  My eyes switch from the CCTV to the tiddler vision in the bleach bottle. She chooses cubicle number two and I enlarge the video so that I get every detail. She puts her bag on the floor and her trousers come down. I’m left with an image of her high heels and her calves as she sits on the toilet, and a rewarding pssss comes from the screen.

  Ah, my fucking divinity. Burn the skies and let the sun full. Collapse the forests and let the animals take over us. Drain the seas and watch the creatures below squirm to their deaths. I’m hard. I tense my cock and feel its power. My sphincter grins and twists and I’m on the floor.

  She’s pissing the golden stream. It’s floating like an ephemera; it escapes like a rat. I can see her, see it; I can feel it, taste it, hold it, smell it, hear it. The crows are singing their occult into my ears, the fingers wiping everything dry, the paper mottled with stains of the bladder’s groans. It drips, drips, drips, swirling around the clear water like a hungry eel. This can be the end, the beginning, and everything else that matters and doesn’t. The desert starts. The Amazon trees. Vultures circling a rotting corpse and swallowing the maggots.

  FUCK MEEEEEEEE!

  I open my eyes and see on the screen that lawyer woman has gone, disappeared. I get up from the floor, dust myself off, go to the fridge and grab a Tupperware container that Pete must have washed last night, as it’s bone dry and no detritus is inside.

  I run to the ladies and lock the door behind me. It clicks into place. I head to cubicle number two and I can smell her perfume, her existence now only believable by the lingering scent. My stomach tightens up and that lovely feeling of orgasmic power washes over me. I kneel down and look at her piss for as long as I can before I have to blink. She must have tried to flush, as droplets of water are crying out from the cistern into the piss. Before it gets contaminated by the fresh water, I drown the Tupperware in the sickly golden liquid, pull it out and lift it to my lips. I brace myself before swilling some around my mouth and feeling the warm saltiness trickle down my throat.

  I have to have more.

  I swallow and swallow it all like a baby with milk and collapse against the toilet door, feeling my cock spurt cum everywhere inside my boxers. I dream of an Indiana Jones film I saw, the goblet of liquid turning the Tupperware to gold.

  A bang on the door wakes me.

  I stagger to my feet, my sweaty palms leaning on the frame of the cubicle. I grab the Tupperware and plough it into the toilet, dragging it out and keeping it all intact with the top clicking on. Droplets run down the side of the container and smack on to the floor, making sounds like a hundred parched lips trying to blow kisses.

  I unlock the toilet door, smile and barely whisper “Cleaning duties “ to the granny waiting outside. Head to the office, open the fridge and store the Tupperware inside.

  Pete will be pleased at that one. Plenty for him to wank about tonight.

  I sit in my chair and feel the wetness from my cock leaking through my pants and onto my trousers. I put my hand inside my pants and touch it all, then smell
it. It smells like how my duvet used to smell when I lived with my mother. She’d never change my sheets.

  I text Pete and tell him he’s got a little treat waiting for him when he gets here, just as I watch the CCTV and see the granny leave the toilets. I’m tempted to get up off my arse and taste her antique gold but I’m all spent. My phone beeps and I see a text message from Pete waiting to be read.

  “GR8 STUFF M8. GOT SUM GD STUFF 4 U 2. CHECK DIS OUT”

  As soon as I read the message, another one comes through but this time it’s a video. I open it up and the video shows a woman in her 50s tied to a sink in the ladies. Here, at the job. She’s crying and bleeding all over, with candles tracing her body like a runway. Next thing, Pete steps into tiddler-view and pisses all over the woman. She tries to flail and shakes like a scared dog. Pete then licks his piss from her body.

  The woman is hysterical by then and Pete is laughing so much he pukes all over her. I’m laughing, too. It’s great stuff. And it explains the extra mess in the ladies this morning.

  Pete gives the camera a wave and then grabs a screwdriver from the sink. The video then switches off.

  Probably thinks he’s got one up on me now, but I’ll show him tonight. It’s gonna come around for Pete.

  I find the wetness from my cock more or less flooding through my pants after this and I take them off and put them on my face, basking in my own glorious smell. I don’t know how long I’m gonna stay like this but I all I can think about is: zen.

  Route 66 by Dawn Cano

  Matt sang “Hotel California” at the top of his lungs as he flew down Route 66 in his 1973 black Chevy El Camino. He had the windows rolled down and his long brown hair whipped around his face, making it hard to see, but he didn’t care. Matt was a good-looking man and he knew it. He kept his beard short and neatly groomed despite living in his car, and his body always managed to turn a few heads whenever he stopped for gas or food. However, he did his best not to attract too much attention because he held a secret – a secret that would land him in prison for the rest of his life, if he didn’t end up dead first.