The Minotauress

Dean opened the horn-crankers, pulled them away. Thron's fat cock remained intact. Then Dean faced Daphne.

"Dean! Honey!" she stammered. "I love you! He's lying! He-he-he... raped me! I swear!"

Dean grinned at her. He began to step forward.

"No, honey! Please! Please don't kill me!" she begged.

Dean kept stepping forward. "Oh, darling, I'd never do anything like that. I'm not going to kill you, I'm just gonna... shove you around a little—" He grabbed her not by the hair but by the face, and slammed her hard against the wall. Flecks of sheetrock blew out. Then he punched her in the face, punched her in the stomach, one after another, alternately: the face, the stomach, the face, the stomach, for a good ten minutes. She shit on the floor and urine sprayed freely from her vaginal cleft. A final blow to her cheek shot several teeth out of her mouth. A final blow to her stomach made her vomit.

Daphne lolled in the corner, her face a cross-eyed bruise. Her pleas of mercy continued but all that surfaced were big bubbles of spit and blood.

"I'd fuck you one last time but... you're not worth the energy it take to pop a load," he said. "Shit, I'd rather fuck a box of frogs."

Her pleading blubbered more blood and drool. Several more teeth fell out onto the floor, like big white pills.

"Take care of yourself, honey," he said and began to walk out. But then he stopped short. "Oh, I forgot something."

Daphne, barely conscious, looked up as if to ask What?

"This," he said, and forcefully kicked her one last time in the gut. Bile and vomit sprayed the wall. Then he gave her an additional kick square in the vulva, for what he perceived of as good measure. "Happy trails," he bid.

Wreathed in relief, Dean walked out. "Later," he said to the bald man, who remained naked on the bed reading his comic. "She's all yours."

"Thanks," Thron replied. "Have a good one, buddy. And don't feel bad, she was getting crusty if you want to know the truth. Stretched out."

Dean loped happily out of the house, pinching a dip of Skoal and casting an errant spit into the bushes. He got into the car and drove back to the airport. Back to his life, and back to his true love.

Back to his true self.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Happily ever after. That's what awaited him when he returned to the Lohan Mansion. His father recovered from his wounds, and counseled Dean in the running of the ranch. Cash poured in, and in very short order, Dean Lohan was the richest redneck in the entirety of the state of South Dakota. He grew his beard back, let his hair fall to his shoulders, and was seldom seen dressed in anything other than faded blue jeans and black METALLICA T-shirts.

He dipped a full can of Skoal per day.

Ajax gratefully became the estate's new groundskeeper, while his new wife, Shirley, continued to run the house and willingly offered herself up as a living sperm depository for Ajax' throbbing need. Her big tits wobbled... everywhere.

But Dean had a new wife too: Arianne. It was a wonderful life by both of their standards. Dean got laid or got his dick sucked whenever he pleased, and Arianne had her man. The true heart was enough, in fact. Now that Dean was back with her, she kicked her drug habit without a hitch. But Arianne's drug habit wasn't the only thing that was kicked.

Arianne's ass was kicked just as thoroughly. Some women liked it rough, and this skinny little tramp was the epitome of the notion. It was a woman's secret, of course: a man's love was never proven until he demonstrated the promptitude with which he was willing to slap the snot out of the woman he adored.

"Where's my beer, bitch?" Dean demanded on a lazy summer day when the sun was high and the grasslands of his lucrative ranch swayed deep-green in the northern breeze. He was watching a Yankees game on the television.

"Your beer's in the fuckin' refrigerator, dick-shit," she replied. "What am I? Your fuckin' maid?"

Dean got up and punched her hard in the mouth. The sound of the wet smack echoed about the mansion.

Arianne blinked out the stars, got her husband's beer, and brought it to him. She even opened it for him, then cuddled up close to his strong warm body and smiled with blood smearing her lips.

"I love you, baby," she whispered and kissed him on the cheek. The kiss left a print of blood.

"Yeah, yeah," he replied and swigged his beer. "Let me watch my game. Clemens is pitching."

She hugged him tight, then dozed comfortably against his muscled shoulder.

No, life couldn't be more perfect.

And standing in the cluttered dark, in a disused coat closet in the foyer, was the rusting pair of horn-crankers.

They would never be picked up again.