Sloppy Seconds

The old fucker was now sitting up in bed, hunched over Antoine, hissing and wheezing as if on the verge of cardiac arrest and drooling on the top of Antoine's head as he tried to work. The man's lips had rotted off long ago, so he couldn't help the drooling or that perpetual idiotic grin. The ragged void where his nose had been was leaking dollops of snot that plopped out of his nasal cavity and onto Antoine's head, dribbling down his face as he continued his vain attempt to bring the nerve-damaged cock to orgasm.

Leprosy had deformed it with large tumors, giving it the look of a megalomorphic summer squash and making it feel like some sort of medieval French tickler as it thrust in and out of Antoine's throat. Antoine was trying hard to keep his mind on business when Mikey's left eye popped out of his skull and slid down Antoine's forehead.

A violent orgasm ripped through the geriatric leper, shooting a tacky, viscous stream of semen - thick and curdled like warm yogurt and seething with a cocktail of STDs and microscopic parasites - down Antoine's throat along with the misshapen gland of his cock, which popped off like a mushroom cap and lodged in Antoine's throat, clogging his air passage.

Mikey was quick, jumping up as Antoine began to turn blue, and clasping his hands around his waist from the back. He dug both fists into Antoine's stomach in a desperate Heimlich maneuver. Antoine had almost lost consciousness when several quick thrusts dislodged the head of Mikey's cock from his throat and shot it across the room in a spray of blood, saliva, and dick snot.

Mikey picked the head up off the floor. The thing was infected so badly with herpes, syphilis and gangrene that it was black and purple and smelled like a used diaper. He tossed it onto the bed next to Antoine, who was still trying to catch his breath, along with a twenty dollar bill.

"Keep the tip," he said, trying to lighten the mood.

Antoine glared back and then stuck out his tongue which fell out of his mouth onto the bedspread.

Hurting Him

I'd dreamt of hurting that fucker for over a decade. I knew now that he had a wife and child, a good job, house, car, and a dog. His happiness burned the lining of my stomach like lactic acid on a bleeding ulcer. It made me want to scream.

I wanted to cause him so much pain that he would curse the moment of his birth and the day the universe itself was authored. I wanted to see all the joys of life die in his eyes; the chords stand out in his neck as he expelled his agonized spirit into the void in a nerve-rending shriek. I wanted to drink deep of his suffering and grow fat off his misery.

Many nights I masturbated to the fantasy of his tortured flesh laid open beneath my blade, his bloated purple intestines boiling up out of the wound like a nest of eels, his blood splashing over my feet and squishing between my toes as it sprayed from a dozen lacerations. I'd shiver with orgasm as I imagined raping his pretty wife in front of him, and then I'd wipe my lonely seed from the hollow of my navel and imagine that it was the last drop of his life's blood.

I planned it all out in my head in lavish detail as I whipped my flesh into a frenzy. I imagined capturing him, chaining him up in my basement, and giving him a shot of morphine to slow his pulse so he wouldn't bleed out before I was done with him, to numb the pain just enough so he'd remain conscious while I introduced him to the death of a thousand cuts. Cauterizing each gouge, avulsion, or severed appendage with a Bunsen burner. I imagined keeping him alive for hours, hacking and sawing away at him. But then what?

Eventually, he'd be dead and my own pain would continue. What he'd done to me was impossible to avenge. He didn't just steal my girlfriend - my first love - use and discard her like a condom after he'd pumped it full of semen and wiped his ass with it. He stole my capacity to love and trust. He made me a monster. Love no longer meant joy to me. It meant inevitable loss and the unbearable pain that would follow. He stole the very beauty of life from me.

I needed to find a way to keep him alive and in misery for as long as I lived and suffered. I went online and scoured the dark sorcery and necro-sex sites.

There was no doubt that I'd find what I needed. There was a market for every perversion. Sure enough, on one site that featured graphic pictures of hairy, overweight men gang-raping corpses, I found the thing I needed to ensure that Paul would outlive my hatred.

It's amazing the things you can find on the Internet these days.