Punch drunk, love

Punch drunk, love

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Philogymist, husband and educator. Misogynist, racist and pervert. There are plenty of strings to Max Stoner’s bow. The thing is: the misogynist is winning the day, and Max wants out of his marriage by any means necessary. A rye, violent insight into one man’s world and the woman he shares it with.

Summary

Philogymist, husband and educator. Misogynist, racist and pervert. There are plenty of strings to Max Stoner’s bow. The thing is: the misogynist is winning the day, and Max wants out of his marriage by any means necessary. A rye, violent insight into one man’s world and the woman he shares it with.

Content

Submitted: July 06, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: July 06, 2012

A A A

A A A


G

irls. They are all young. I count nine of them. I want something foreign.

I stand up. Feel their butts. Feel their tits. One of them is real cute. She smiles when I touch her.

“You speak English?” I ask Lolita.

She just smiles.

“Okay,” I say.

The whore owner nods.

I get a pair of flip-flops. Go into the shower. I wash my cock and balls carefully.

When I go into the room, the whore is sat there playing with a cigarette. She has on a tight white t-shirt, which rides up over her pierced belly button. She wears a pair of girlie panties. Her nails are her own and are painted red. Her feet are perfection (my fetish). She is slim. And far too good for me (the raging beast of Sodom).

I wait to see if she lights up. She turns. My hard-on is pressing against the coarse skin of the dressing gown.

(I am proud of my cock, make no mistake about it.)

“Where are you from?”

“Ra’sha.”

“What’s your name?”

“What you want?”

“Two returns to Oxford, please. Light the cigarette.”

She doesn’t understand.

I flick my thumb against my forefinger to feign lighting up. She obliges.

“Suck. Suck hard.”

She doesn’t understand.

“Filthy Russian whore.”

She doesn’t understand. Just keeps on smoking.

“Fuck of my life. The cunt Lolita. That’s you,” I say.

I open my dressing gown.

“Kneel before me.”

Her soft, meaty lips embrace me.

Funny but I actually think of my wife, that sour, putrefied cunt of a woman. Could she be providing a man with a similair service? That would have turned me on once. That thought. My wife. Another’s cock. Now nothing about her can arouse me. Only the thought of our end. My lawyer says I need grounds for a divorce. Sucking off another guy would be good fucking grounds. Sadly, I know she would never do this, or should I say no one in their right mind would let her. Her breath stinks, as does her cunt, as does her whole fucking life.

I look down.

“You like that, huh? You like sucking that fucker?”

Olga looks up at me.

“Fucking third-world-country bitch.”

I grab her by the throat. She coughs. Tries to move, guess so as she can breathe. But I keep my hand and cock in place.

“I can see you’re not enjoying this, Natasha. Probably end of your shift.” Her face is turning red. Here eyes shimmer with worry. “Not my problem. Shouldn’t be a whore if you don’t enjoy getting fucked. A lot of people will say whores never want to be whores; that someone made them do it; that circumstances left no alternatives. That’s bullshit. We choose. Nobody else.”

I pull out of her mouth. She gasps for air. Starts coughing.

I stroke her hair.

“It’s okay, Lera. It’s okay.”

Her hair is soft, conditioned. The smell of summer rises up from it.

“I really don’t want to be doing any of this. Understand? I want to be a loving and caring man. I want to do right by the people in my life. I want to believe that I am here for a reason and that reason is good. I want to help you. But… but it’s beyond my control.”

She looks up but doesn’t say anything. I grip her hair. I slap her hard across the face with the back of my other hand. Again. I punch her.

“It’s okay. Really. It’s okay.”

I dent her face.

I push Lena onto the bed.

I reach into my bag. Take out lubricant, a fat dildo and a little metal contraption of my own making. I snap the blades, making sure they work okay, that they are good and sharp.

“It’s okay,” I say.

She is terrified. Tries wriggling away.

“Really. It’s gonna be okay. Just…co-operate.”

When I met Claire, my wife, she was real nice; very fit. I saw her in a café back in the days when I still hadn’t hurt anyone, not properly anyway. She was reading some slab of a novel by someone I had never heard of. I lied. I told her I liked the author.

“Yeah?”

“Ah-huh.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Not many people know him.”

“Nope. They sure don’t.”

(Including me).

“Which of his works do you like most?”

“Well. I reckon it would be his last work.”

“Wow. Me too. It was so…”

“Honest?”

“Yeah.”

“Honesty is something that is hard to find.”

(I pride myself on my ability to be completely and utterly false).

“You know. I feel the same way too.”

“Well. That’s good.”

“I think it is.”

“Yup.”

We looked at each other. Destiny shined.

“Could I get you another coffee?”

Within a month we were shacked up together.

She was bright, this new being in my life, wretchedly so. She knew so much more than me. Had read so much more. Seen so much more. Could, with calm guile and nerve, argue against me. She giggled lovingly at my errors of judgement, my misquotations, my clumsy philosophising.

I would sit, furrowed brow, with a copy of Proust on my lap, pretending, hoping that she would believe. In me.

“Proust,” she said, looking across the table, an eyebrow raised as she bit into her toast. A sardonic smile.

In that one utterance; in that one French cunt’s name, she said everything she would ever have to say to me. Ever.

You. Are. Nothing.

And as she finished her toast and took her plate into the kitchen and washed up in the perfect manner she has of doing these household things, I just knew. I just knew that I had to destroy her.

(You can’t let a person get away with this. You can’t).

I bided my time (something which I am usually pitiful at). I was kind. I was gentle. I was loving. I offered her a place of comfort behind our curtains. She could tell me anything. I would be there for her. Always. I would never hurt her. I wasn’t like other guys (hehe). And as we eased into each other’s lives, (me with my hand grenade hidden behind my back), her veneer of intellectual prowess and cool calm began to be beset by doubt. She increasingly made disparaging comments about her parents. She was angry at them. They hadn’t supported her. Still didn’t. Sill mocked. (I egged her on, forcing her to recollect the wrongs they had done my beloved). The parent-child loop was a mess. I hadn’t met her parents: didn’t want to. But they stank of anxiety and self-preoccupation. (She was looking for a surrogate parent, my friend). She had problems with her sister, who didn’t listen and didn’t understand. Claire knew her faults: why did her sister have to keep pointing them out? She remembered with strained breathe her first love, and a one-night stand, which had gone horribly wrong. I probed on issues of sex. She had been forced to do things she hadn’t wanted to. (Oh, my sweet. You have no idea of what is fucking coming). She had felt nervous, confused, unsure. She had issues with work colleagues. Her best friend was more and more irritated by her. The neighbours got to her with their music and late night fucking sessions. And as we lay their, calm collapsing around us, I fanned the flames of doubt the best I could, feeding her nice little morsels from my past, jealousy bait that brought her at times to her knees. I would narrate at length about this or that girl. About threesomes. Foursomes. Group sex and sex games. If I had a spare few minutes in the day, I’d call her from a phone box and breathe heavily down the line (“Who is this? Please….please stop I can’t take it”). I came home with takeaways, beer, vodka, dope, all for her. She put on weight. Developed a propensity to drink too much (just one more, Darling, it will help you sleep. That’s it. That’s it). Even high-street pharmaceuticals. Her body and mind were in a permanent haze of numbness. When I got back late one night and found her playing with her own vomit, I decided to marry her.

You can’t help a person when they can’t help themselves. But you can finish them off.

Natasha is bleeding.

“Wartuh,” she coughs.

“What?”

“Wartuh.”

“Water? You want water?”

Her body is probably in shock. Her mind, fuck knows where.

She stands up. Wobbles. Moves towards the door.

I grab an arm.

“Know you don’t.”

I stare into her eyes.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

She wants to cry. Yet she’s too far gone for that.

“Just breathe. You’re panicking. Breeeathe. Think of something nice,” I whisper. “A river. Mountains. Cold winter mornings.”

She’s rolling her head. This will be the effect of the Repnol.

“You shouldn’t have smiled at me. Why did you smile. Why?”

I kiss her dry lips and hope, for her at least, everything will soon fade to black.

I proposed to my wife on Valentine’s Day. I said: Claire, I knew when I first saw you that this was it. You are the girl of my dreams. Make them come true. Become my wife. Clichéd. But the cunt liked it.

I proposed in the café where we met. People clapped. Cheered. We were king and queen for a day. I forced her to fuck in a Marks and Spencer changing room to celebrate. I wiped my dick on a skirt and put it back on the hanger.

The wedding was quiet: a registry office, a few friends, an aunt, an anorexic cousin, cheese and pineapple on sticks. She didn’t invite her parents (my suggestion). She didn’t invite her sister (my insistence). We honeymooned in Amsterdam.

Sex was integral to my sordid game. No longer would it be about positive outcomes. I wanted Claire to feel a passive loss of control. I wanted to alter her sense of safety and security, preferably forever. Amsterdam was perfect for this. We got high that first night. She drank a lot on top of the drugs. I dragged Claire to a sex show where I came on Claire’s face. I took her to a whore house. With the help of a Ukranian slut, I stripped my beloved, stuffed her with a dildo and a butt-plug, and then fucked her furiously in the mouth. When she came round, the Ukranian put on the strap-on I had bought, and fucked my princess in the arse.

The next day, I showed her the polaroids.

“See what a dirty cunt you are? Never have I known a whore like you.”

Still high; still drunk, she slapped the photos away.

“No,” she dribbled.

“Yes, Claire. Yes. Bad girl. Dirty girl. Tut-tut-tut.”

“No.”

“What would mummy and daddy think, huh? And your sister? She knew you were a cum-bucket from the day your mother shat you out. What an embarrassment.”

For five days I tortured her. By the time we got home, she was somewhere else. She was right where I wanted her to be.

Monday, I told Claire to stay at home. Take it easy. Get some rest. I went to the newspaper where she worked. (See? Told you she was a smart cunt). I put the word about: Claire was in a bad way. She heard voices in her head – had for some time now. She had constant thoughts of suicide. (Here, the Editor gasped). They wanted to lock her up in a dungeon and through away the key. (God, that’s so barbaric). Sleeping on straw. Shitting in the corner. Eating her gruel with her hands. I mean: could you imagine? Could you? I’d saved her, though. I’d saved my princess. Me. I was the hero of the day. It was all so…. I wept, acting to the last. The Editor gave me a hug and I dribbled my tears into her bountiful cleavage (Mummy. Mummy). They gave my Claire’s last paycheck, which I cashed and lost on a game of jacks to a bunch of black junkies.

I got home to find Claire slumped against the fridge, eating cat food from a tin with her hands. We didn’t even have a cat.

I liked my new wife.

I am always careful to clean up properly after the deed.

First I take care of Lena.

I put her t-shirt back on. Slid her panties. I remove the blood from her lips and wipe her teeth clean of my sperm. I brush her hair, which is difficult as her head is a surprisingly heavy dead weight. I drag her back on to the bed. Straighten the sheets. Gently, I lower her head onto the pillow. I tuck her in and give her a good night kiss.

I watch her for a while. She is at peace.

I turn off the light.

I go back into the bathroom.

I scrub my skin red raw with a cheap, industrial soap. I brush my teeth. Floss. Rinse my mouth for thirty seconds. I apply Lierac Homme Diopti to the eye area and use Avene Anti-redness light moisturizing cream for my face. I finger gel into my hair, which I sweep back in five thick strokes with a brush. I wait for my hair to dry and harden. Finally, I spray my face with Avene Eau Thermale.

(Never hurry from the scene of a crime.)

I return to the whore’s room. I rummage around the back of her wardrobe. There are some photos, which, by the looks of them, were taken back in her third-world country. Her with a guy. A fat old man and a woman in a headscarf. A bunch of girls with beer bottles in their hands… I stuff the photos into my pocket and head out of the room.

I stand in the reception area, adjusting my tie in the mirror.

The whore owner comes up to me.

“Did you have a nice time?”

“It wasn’t bad, thank you.”

I pay her and give her a healthy tip.

“When will be seeing you again?”

“Oh, I won’t be coming back. I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf and to kill my wife.”

“Well, that’s… admirable.”

“Yes. Sometimes these…sessions help me understand what’s important for me.”

I pull on my jacket.

“You may want to check on the girl,” I say, looking at myself again in the mirror. “She didn’t seem too well when I left her.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. She seemed to have a bug lodged in her vagina. A roach or something. So I operated on her.”

As I step out into the street, I hear someone scream.


© Copyright 2018 Daniel Winters. All rights reserved.

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