“What? N-no. But I can’t—I can’t fuck her with half her face missing.”
“Sure you can.”
She stood up and I took an involuntary step back. She sensed my fear and placed the knife back on the floor as she walked over to me. I relaxed only slightly. She reached out and grabbed a hold of my cock, which hardened in her grasp. She stroked it through my jeans and it had been so long since a woman had touched me like that, I nearly ejaculated in my shorts. She unzipped my pants, reached inside, pulled my underwear down and my penis out and continued to stroke it, licking her palm and rubbing it over the head.
“Fuck her, Lionel.”
“I-I can’t.”
“Fuck her, Lionel.”
I shook my head.
She knelt down and licked the head of my cock then sucked the whole thing down her throat. I felt like I would explode. I’d never felt anything like what her tongue was doing, swirling around my tumescent flesh, even as her lips were buried in my pubic hair with my cock pressing against her tonsils. She pulled my cock out of her mouth slowly, teasing the underside of it with her tongue as it inched out of her throat.
“Do you want to fuck me, Lionel?”
I nodded enthusiastically, emphatically. Yes, I wanted to fuck her. More than I could ever remember wanting anything or anyone in my life, I wanted to mount this crazy, homicidal, obese woman with breasts larger than my head. I wanted to know all the dark and terrible erotic secrets she knew.
“Then fuck her first, Lionel. Pleeeease?”
I nodded my ascent and Katrina led me over to the bed by my cock, still stroking it to keep it erect. The woman was surprisingly moist. She was aroused despite her injuries.
“Fuck her hard, Lionel! Fuck her like you want to fuck me!”
I closed my eyes and imagined Katrina’s titanic thighs wrapped around my back instead of this bleeding septuagenarian with half a face. I pounded my throbbing erection deep into the old crone’s withered cooze, fucking her violently, the way Katrina had fucked the muscular guy at Halloween’s. I kept my eyes closed, even when the screaming and that wet, ripping, tearing sound started, as Katrina sawed the woman’s breasts off her ribcage.
“Wait. I need to flip her over.”
I pulled out and tried to keep my eyes shut tight as Katrina dumped the woman’s breasts into a bucket beside the bed.
“Did you cum?”
I shook my head.
“I still need to cut her ass off, but you can fuck me, while I do it if you want? I’d hate to leave you all blue-balled.”
I waved her off.
“That’s okay. I’ll wait. Is it okay if I use the shower?”
Katrina chuckled, probably realizing my eyes were still shut.
“Sure. The bathroom is behind you.”
I walked into the bathroom, still thinking about what Katrina’d done to the old woman, what I’d done. I’d been close to orgasm when Katrina told me to stop so she could turn the old woman over. If not for that, I’d have came in that half dead old bag while Katrina unmade her. My erection never diminished even as I scrubbed myself vigorously, trying to wash the smell of sex off along with the memory of it. But the memory was not unpleasant. No matter how much I scolded myself for it, no matter how loudly my Christian moral conscience protested, I had enjoyed it, immensely.
I stepped out of the shower and walked naked, back into the bedroom. Katrina was naked, waiting for me beside the ruined corpse of the old woman. Her enormous breasts flopped down over an equally enormous belly with pink nipples the size of 9mm bullets. Katrina’s thick muscular thighs were spread wide and she was fingering a clitoris, swollen to the size of a small grape with one hand and finger fucking the old woman with the other. The woman was face down and her ass was gone, her coccyx and pelvic bone showed through where her buttocks had been. Katrina had undone all the work the surgeons had done over the years. It was then that I realized the woman was still alive. Katrina smiled as she noted my erection.
“I always thought you were hot, Lionel. Even back in high school. Do you think I’m sexy, Lionel?”
I nodded slowly, eyes fixed on her rolls of naked flesh, taking it all in.
“You are so very sexy!” I said.
“You ready to fuck me now?”
I was practically drooling on myself. My cock was so hard it felt like the skin was about to rip. I wanted to lick, suck, fuck, and cum on every inch of her.
“Do you have anything left for her? She is paying for this. Don’t you think she deserves one last good fuck?”
I nodded again, then walked over and Katrina licked the head of my cock once more, lubricating it before guiding me onto the old woman. I fucked that ancient, half-dead crone in the ass. My hips struck naked, blood-spattered bone with each thrust as I pounded into the old woman’s rectum. I spent the night alternating between fucking the old woman and fucking Katrina. One moment I was fucking the old woman in the ass, the next sliding my cock between Katrina’s mammoth tits. I fucked the old woman’s toothless mouth as Katrina rimmed my asshole with her tongue. The old woman perished, drowning in my semen, but she remained part of our threesome. Katrina cut off the woman’s head and urged me to fuck it while she fisted me. Katrina licked the decapitated woman’s pussy while I fucked the leather and latex-clad murderess in her rotund posterior. I came again and again. Five orgasms in all before we left the dead woman’s apartment.
I felt like my life had ended. I had descended into Hell. I had entered the inferno and mated with demons. I felt as disconnected from the rest of humanity as man was to a spider monkey. How could I face anyone after seeing the things I’d seen, doing what I had done? Katrina drove me back to my car. I held her tight and wept onto her back. She was the only one who would ever understand me now.
“Will I ever see you again?” I asked, sounding like a lost puppy.
Katrina smiled and ran her fingers through my hair, placing a long bloody kiss on my lips.
“You will if you want to. Do you know how you want to die?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Something sexy.”
“I’ll think of something,” she said and winked.
THREADS
Calie Voorhis
Stephanie scratches at the boil on her arm, a tiny red volcano with a thread buried at its cone. Her ragged fingernails grip the tip and she pulls. The pain is eye-blurring. She wrinkles her forehead, wipes the blood away, and yanks again. Like popping a submerged pimple, there will be a strange satisfaction when she pulls the thread free.
The large room, with showerheads lining the walls in rows, is empty of the other girls although she can hear them changing in the locker room.
The red thread extends. Careful not to snap the fiber, she pries the thin filament loose, pulling it from deep inside. If she can get rid of the threads, she’ll be normal, not tormented with these feelings. Tiles press against her ass and she shivers, although not because it’s cold. The empty room steams. The other girls never use the showers, would not see her even if they did, she’s so far beneath them.
The thread pulls free. She shakes with release. She discards the bloody, almost invisible, fiber, watching it creep away on the tiles. Like ants, or worms in a single-file line, the thread joins its multi-colored fellows, wiggling out of the shower, through the locker room, heading off to class.
Who will they find, she wonders? Perhaps Kevin? “Do you even need a training bra?” he’d asked on the bus this morning, then settled back in his seat, high-fiving the others while Stephanie’s face burned red. Maybe Melanie, whom Stephanie had yet to face today. She knew Melanie would be waiting in the lunchroom, a tigress settled on a bench, crouched to pounce.
She sets to work on the next protrusion, scratching open the sore, letting the hot water wash the blood away to reveal a blue thread.
Her legs ache, the water stings the open wounds, but she’s almost done. For today. All the threads are pulled and she can’t wait to find out what happens with the pa
rts of her she’s set free.
In the locker room, Corina chatters on, the sound blending with the spray of water until she sounds like a babbling bird of paradise, untouchable, unreachable, and as unfathomable as the purity of a far off Eden. She leaves, and there’s silence.
Discarded relics litter the locker room floor: an empty tampon box, a barrette with a silver butterfly perched on top in sparkling rhinestones, a used roll of deodorant under the polished wood bench sitting between the rows of gray lockers.
Stephanie opens the cap and sniffs Corina’s deodorant. Powder, roses, all girl. She can still smell the musk of Corina’s sweat on the top layer. She rubs some on her finger, then transfers the scent to under her nose where the fragrance will comfort her, tantalize her the rest of the long day sitting in the back of algebra and English, Spanish and science, long sleeves pulled down to hide her scars, long skirt and tights.
Corina rises above the sea of teenage filth, she glows like an angel among the others. But she will never be Stephanie’s. Stephanie will remain this shaking, starving, picking creature in the gym showers. In the hierarchy of junior high, such things are not done, and the closest she will get is the smell of Corina’s sweat on her upper lip.
~
Lunch is pale, watery. Gray turkey perches on top of what is purported to be stuffing, also gray, contrasted by the bright, artificial red of the jellied cranberry lump. She wishes she had the money to buy lunch from the vending machines.
Melanie bumps her as she maneuvers the tray through the crowd. The mass hits the floor, splatters on her legs.
The gang laughs. “Oops,” Melanie says, her smile bright and wide, like a hyena. “My bad.”
Stephanie doesn’t say anything, she never, ever does. Saying aggravates the situation, she’s learned. Instead, she hates, sitting at her table, smelling like turkey gravy, surrounded by the rest of the brace-laden, glasses-wearing rejects. The nerds eat quickly, shoving forkfuls into their maws, eager to go to the library where they will spend the rest of the lunch period playing Dungeons and Dragons.
The geeks just sit. There’s no hope for them, they know it. They don’t speak about it, or to each other; they just wait. Tom eats his lunch, packed every day by his mother, a vegan sandwich and a salad. She knows she should tell him he’s got a piece of lettuce stuck in his teeth. She mimes checking his teeth. He doesn’t pay her any attention.
Corina walks by. Tiny hips sway in her white mini-skirt, her dark hair bounces on her shoulders, and she greets her friends in rapid-fire Spanish, white teeth glowing.
Stephanie sniffs. Wipes her finger under her nose again to refresh the smell. Her eyes follow Corina all the way across the lunch-room, now strangely silent, as though everyone has stopped to watch a goddess pass through their midst, a rare creature too delicate, too pure for this junior high lunchroom, this incarnation of Hell. Demons shrivel away, only the angel remains.
Until the scream. Until, she notes with pleasure, her hands tightening into fists, forcing the bumps on her forearm to press against her sweater, causing the newly-forming threads to itch with the urge to be born, Melanie, the whore, stands up, arms thrust away from her, screaming.
The noise is high-pitched to start with and then rises up octaves. The sound could shatter glass. Everyone backs away, all the popular girls, the cheerleader girls, the in-betweens.
“Worms,” she shrieks. “Everywhere!” She tears at her arm, leaving bright red trails of blood where her polished fingernails rip the skin. Over and over again, she rakes at her flesh. Blood spatters the yellow linoleum floor.
A jolt pierces Stephanie, almost like the rush she felt in her stomach, or perhaps lower, when Corina walked by.
Mr. Roberts rushes forward from the teacher’s table, hidden behind a screen at the back of the cafeteria, his comb-over falling loose. Mrs. Brockton joins him, thick thighs rubbing against her denim skirt. Together they carry Melanie past Stephanie, and out the door.
Tom gapes. “Wow.”
Stephanie doesn’t respond, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look at Melanie, afraid her naked triumph will show on her face, will give her away. This is the best revenge yet, better than the mole that had appeared on Jennifer’s nose, a thick black hair sticking out of it, in the middle of Biology. Two dermatologists have been unable to remove it, the mole keeps returning.
Better than Jerry’s mustache, better than. . .
Melanie’s sobs echo through the lunch-room. The bell rings. After a moment, the students file out, dumping cafeteria trays into the overflowing beige garbage can and whispering.
She whistles on the way down the hallway to English. Taking her seat at the back of the class, early, so she can watch for Corina.
Stephanie hates this class, almost as much as she hates Spanish. Sometimes, Corina will meet her eyes, and shake her head, confusion in the crinkles of her forehead.
Today is different. Mr. Roberts doesn’t come. The clock ticks on, five minutes, then seven minutes past one o’ clock, and still no figure with a comb-over and nubby brown suit appears. No substitute either.
The class grows more unruly. Corina jabbers in Spanish with her friends, the nerds read their science fiction, and Stephanie struggles not to scratch her arms or her thighs, wishing the threads away along with her lust. Spitballs splatter on her desk. One hits her on her left cheekbone and slides down her face. Outside, just audible through the closed windows, an ambulance screams.
Finally, the sirens wail into silence. Mr. Roberts bustles into the room, two ruddy spots high on his cheekbones.
There’re dark dots all over his white shirt, and flakes of red on his hands. He looks down and struggles to close his jacket. He wipes his hands on his pants, but they’re still there. Flecks of crimson blood.
Something in the expression on his face, the way his mouth twists, or the beads of moisture in his eyes, or perhaps the sheen of his forehead, lets her know, for once, she has triumphed.
Melanie will not be back. Melanie will not bray at her in the cafeteria anymore, not spring on her in gym class. There will be no more torture from Melanie.
Melanie is dead.
Class resumes, she pulls out her Norton Anthology with the rest of them, opens it up to page 245. They’re supposed to be reading.
No one talks, the class is silent. A bubble rises in Stephanie, a lightness, an exhilaration. She raises her head.
Corina is looking at her.
Their eyes meet, hold.
~
The blue thread pulls free with a snap, but there’s still an orange one, and a red. She’s already yanked out the yellow. This is the worst the sores have ever been, angry eruptions all over her legs, her thighs, her arms. They pulse on her back, where she can’t reach them, no matter how she contorts her arms, her shoulders.
The water steams, once again washing away the blood.
She forces her thoughts back to yesterday, to Melanie, and revisiting the bright blood spattering on the linoleum floor, the shiver rises again. She matches the rush, combines the pleasure with the snap of the thread.
Footsteps, a figure appears in the fog.
The threads, wiggling out the door, stop, curve inward on themselves to form an arc, and reverse direction.
She stands up, backs into the corner. No one ever showers, besides her. This is one of the safe places, her place.
She scratches at the back of her neck, wanting the girl to go away. The boil there bursts. The threads wiggle around her neck, joining the water running in rivulets between her small breasts, climbing over the hairs of her groin, down her unshaved legs, to the tiles.
Corina steps into the room, towel wrapped around her breasts, shakes her hair back. She drops the towel, without looking at Stephanie, and advances into the water. “Why do you turn them all on?” She doesn’t wait for a reply. “I guess it makes the room warmer. Brrr. It’s so cold out there today, no?”
She does not answer, she cannot answer, words have lost their meaning, come a
drift in her brain. Arms hang by her side. She’s a swaying ape creature.
She creeps out of the water and grabs her towel, wrapping it around her. The white terrycloth pinkens.
“Ah mi dios,” Corina says. “You’re bleeding, querida!”
The goddess cares. There’s a future, there’s hope for the first time. They’ll shower together, they’ll leave the locker room together, sit at lunch together. They’ll talk and Corina will teach her Spanish and Stephanie will help her with her English. They’ll be inseparable, they’ll ride the bus together, thighs brushing, heads close as they exchange secrets. They’ll be true friends and their love will last forever and ever.
Corina moves forward, closer, her hand, nails painted shell pink, stretched out. She might touch her, she’s that close, the brown hairs on her arm stand out in the florescent light. There’s pity in her brown eyes, sympathy.
Stephanie looks down. The threads are massed by her feet, a multi-colored tangle, a squirming glob.
Corina takes another step. Her toe touches one.
No.
The thread twists, slips under Corina’s left big toenail. Others follow, sliding underneath the perfect toenails, swarming.
Corina doesn’t make a sound. Her cheeks are stretched in a silent scream, like she can’t get the terror past her throat.
Her towel drops. Stephanie manages to catch Corina before she falls. The weight of her, drags them both to the tiles.
Tiny worms race under Corina’s perfect skin, up her calves, bunched tight, up her thighs. More of the threads creep onto her skin, heading for the nest of pubic hair, where they vanish into depths.
No.
She wipes them away, cups her hands full of water to rinse them off. She’s slapping at Corina, who writhes on the shower, trying to keep them off, keep them away. She never meant for them to hurt Corina, not the perfect girl, the only one who’s ever made a moment of this junior high hell worthwhile.
Doa Ii Page 17