Punch drunk, love II

Punch drunk, love II

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


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.


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.


Submitted: July 09, 2012

A A A | A A A


Submitted: July 09, 2012



I arrive back at school. Kids hang around outside doing nothing.

The secretary looks at me. (She thinks I’ve been to the doctors).

“Your wife phoned.”

I nod.

“She says it’s urgent.”

“It’s always fucking urgent with her,” I say.

I call Claire from the staffroom.

“Claire, why are you calling me here? You know the rules: no calling the school.”

There is a long pause.

“I feel bad. I…I think there’s…there’s someone here. With me.”

I say nothing.

“Do you think I’m fat? He…he thinks I’m fat.”

“I don’t care about any of this, Claire. Don’t phone me here. I don’t want you engaging with those I work with.”

Another pause. She is rotting.

“The windows,” she says. “They’re nailed shut.”

“I know.”

“I…I can’t breathe. And…” (she inhales here) “the phone keeps ringing. Is it you?”


“Who is it?”

“Fucking answer it and find out.”

“I don’t…I don’t remember what to say.”

“You don’t remember what to say?”

I think she makes some kind of yapping noise down the line.


“Who’s this?”

“It’s the Grim Reaper. Who’s this?”

“They’re…. they’re ants under my skin. I…”

I can hear her scratching. She yelps.

“Claire? Do you know who you are talking to?”

“I…I had an accident.”


“I had an accident. Like before.”

“What accident?”

“Are you mad, Daddy?”


“No. No, I’m not mad.”

(I’m insane. Completely. I’ll slit your fucking throat.)



“I thought…I thought…”

I don’t know why, but my hand is so tight around the receiver, my knuckles are snow white. I shove my free hand into my mouth and bite down, stifling a scream, a war cry, a profane, murderous monologue.

“I….I love you,” she tries.

“And I hate you. I hate your family. I hate everyone. Everything. Heaven. Hell.”

I slam the receiver down.

I feel a hand on my shoulder.


I’m disappointed. It’s Louise Roddick.

“Everything ok?”

“Everything is fine and dandy, Lou-ISE.”

…when really everything is wrong. Like your face, bitch. Out of shape. A cock-up of biblical proportions. You sicken me. Your fucking hippy skirt; those sandals you wear even in cunting winter. (What are you trying to prove?). Your liberal ways and attitude. CND protests and Greenham Common lesbian fuck-fests.

“I feel aggression from you,” she says

“Oh? Do you?”

I am struggling not to vomit: the pain of my slavish smile is gut-wrenching.

“Yes. Lots and lots of aggression.”

What does she expect? I’ve just spoken to my beloved. I’ve just spent the last hour stripping a whore of her sanity. (It’s extraordinary how much damage you can do in so little time. Try it. Contrary to your expectations, you don’t need a knife, or a nail-gun, or a hacksaw, to dissect a person into little chunks of self-loathing. Call a loved-one. But please, I beg of you, be honest. No lies. Tell them what you really feel. Let it all out. Because at the end of the day: I know you hate as much as I do. You though, and I hope you’ll excuse me for saying this, through sickening, misplaced self-restraint, keep it all corked up tight inside of you. This, my dear friend, leads to cancer. Black death). And now? Now I’ve got the retards, the plague victims: class 3C.

Class 3C:

Angel, Garcia

Austin, Floyd

Byron, Margarita

Bale, Jack

Bale, Mary

(twins – in this together)

Brown, Daniel

Cortes, Louisa


Cortes, Louisa.

I wouldn’t have agreed to teach 3C if it wasn’t for ….

(Her name is top billing. Flashing lights. A curtain call.)

…Louisa Madeline Cortes.

I like her so much, I haven’t raped her. And I won’t (you are my witness).

She is fifteen. She is one metre sixty-two centimetres. Her tits are 34c. (I never get this wrong. Never). There are fine hairs under her bottom lip. She is coated in a thin layer of what I like to think is puppy fat. She has a big ol’ arse of jelly, which I have faithfully, for the last two months, imagined fucking with an array of household objects. She wears short skirts (against school policy), and earrings (also against school policy, the slut). She smokes (dirty girl) and drinks (I’ve come).

In most scenarios where I imagine fucking her (this takes up a large part of my working day), her fat clit is pierced and she can take four fingers (no lubrication). She likes to be called: cunt fuck, fucker, slut face and The Jizz Queen. I want to fuck her in this classroom, in the staffroom, in the sports hall (she is strapped up to the climbing bars baring her big ol’ arse my motherfucking way), in the girls’ toilets (she has one bare foot – nails painted bright red – up on the sanitary-towel bin so as she can gracefully ride my cock – I’m sat on the toilet). I imagine taking her home, introducing her to Claire. They fight over the right to be bathed in my sperm, Claire, almost always, losing out. Spread out on the kitchen table, I cover Louisa in whipped cream. I smear jam between her pussy lips. I work Nutella into her arse. She pisses on me.

Today, slut face has her hair up (implying she hasn’t washed, not properly, anyway). Her white blouse is unbuttoned down to her cleavage, and the sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. She is wearing two rings. Her nails are long, unpainted. (I forgot to say: she has slender fingers, feminine beyond her years). No socks today, but her usual slut-fuck high-heels are their.

I will not rape her.

I will not.


She and I, between our lustful glances, are listening to some nameless ginger cunt, (I can’t be bothered learning the names of most of my pupils), babble and sweat his way through a speech on Churchill (yup, that cunt). I know nothing about Churchill. I don’t care about Churchill. In fact, (and this won’t surprise you), I just don’t care, about any of it. I do know that Frodo here couldn’t have written this… paper. Google, his parents, or both did.

When he’s done, I clap.

“Brilliant. Quite, quite brilliant,” I enthuse.

He grins.

I look at Louisa. Wink. She pouts. Blows me a kiss.

“Tell me, oh Great One, did you write that masterpiece?”

He nods.

“Not mum? Not dad?”

He shakes his head.

I stand right in front of Louisa’s desk. She’s chewing gum…ever…so…slowly. I thrust my groin in her direction.

“Yeah? You wrote it?”

The boy nods again.

I walk around, hands behind my back, marching out my step of classroom despotism.

“Because I hate liars,” I say. “Liars are the lowest scum. Cheap scum. Cheap, pubescent scum. But, hey, when we’re under pressure, we can all… tell a lie or two. Honesty… (I pause here for maximum dramatic effect)… is the best of all non-governmental policies.”

No one applauds. Damn.

“I shall ask you my question again: are you responsible for choosing the words on those there pieces of paper; words which you have, I must say, so elegantly and effortlessly strung together into tightly-knit sentences that, collectively, address the vulgarities of Churchill’s foreign policy, the vulgarities mind, whereby Churchill and Stalin played and fiddled with European borders to their own benefit and liking, securing themselves, herein, large slices of Hitler’s poorly-backed pie?”

He, the nameless one, looks petrified.

“Well, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Paraphrase your homework.”


“Retell me, in three or four sentences, the gist of your homework.”

(You know why I’m doing this, don’t you?)

“The gist?”

(Who I’m trying to impress?)

“That’s right: the gist.”

He looks at the papers he has in his hands. Then at me. Then at the papers again.



“What…What was the question again?”

“Who was Winston Churchill?”

“I…He…He beat Hitler.”

“He beat Hitler?”

“Er, yeah.”

“In a street brawl?”

“In a …?”

“In a fight? In the street?”


“So where did he beat Hitler?”

(Christ, I’m enjoying this).

“In the… war?”

“Which war?”

He looks at the papers again.

“Which war?” I attack.

“The…the war.”

“You’re using the definite article there. Right?”

He nods.

“So there was only one war? That’s what you are saying?”

He looks about for support. There isn’t any.

“I…yes. One war.”

“And this one war was between Hitler and Churchill? No one else was involved?”

Before I can land my final blow, a hand shoots up faster than a Nazi salute.  


Blake is a tall, lithe, black beast of a boy. When I say he is black, I mean he is real black: Nigger-of-the-Narcissus black. Pure African tribe. Raw. Plucked from the soil of the dark continent. A heart of darkness.

“How come we only ever do about white people? We never talk about blacks or anyone?”

It is a good question, if somewhat…primitively put. It is a pertinent question. It is though, first and foremost, a challenge to my authority. Plus, I haven’t finished with the ginger cunt. And, I am not yet through impressing my girl.

“I ask the questions round here, Blake.”

“Who was the brother who said about the dream. I have a dream…something?” he continues.

“Martin Luther King.”

“Yeah. Him. How come we don’t do about him? Can we do about him?”


“Why not?”

(Because I am a raving racist).

“Because we are talking about The Second World War. That’s The World War number zwei. That’s why.”

Ginger cunt goes to sit down.

“Stay on your feet, boy. I haven’t finished with you yet,” I bark

Louisa gives me a look that I can’t read. I’m panicking. I’m losing her.

(Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s got the biggest cock of all?)

I go again:

“Who was Winston Churchill?”

“Fuck Churchill!” Blake is up and on his feet. “Fuck Hitler!” he shouts.

“You, boy, sit the FUCK down!”

There’s a ripple of gasps.

“Fuck you!” comes Blake’s reply.

(Christ, he’s big. A magnificent specimen of brute force).

“Get out!” I point at the door.

“Make me,” he says.

I can’t help feeling that the world just stopped turning.

Louisa has crossed her arms and is smiling. She shakes her head.

I look at Blake. He is panting.

The ginger boy? He doesn’t know what to do.

“Boys. Boys. Sit down, please. I want to tell you, all of you, something. Something very important.”

I sniff my fingers. I can smell her. Calm washes over me.

From my pocket, I take out the crumpled photos of the whore.

“These are the photos from the life of a whore.” (I start to distribute them round the class.) “Her with her boyfriend. With her family. On holiday with friends. Memories of innocence…” (I press a photo into Louisa’s hand). “… of love. Life was good for her, back then, back before she was a whore. She, like all of us, probably had dreams. She might have wanted children. She might have wanted to live in America. She could have dreamt of becoming a famous singer or an actress. Her story is your story. My story. Pass them round. That’s it. That’s it.” (I go up to Blake. I stroke his hair, his rough, curly hair. I kiss him gently on his fat lips). “Today. Today I did the most heinous things to this whore. Unspeakable things. Depraved, some might say. Yet. Yet, she deserved what happened to her because she had made a choice. You, all of you sweet, gentle creatures, have made a choice. Since you were born, you’ve been making choices on a daily, hourly basis. Your… indifference to your education, to yourself. A failure to understand, to grasp, the essence of life: that every second, every breath is an opportunity. Your time on this beautiful planet is limited, is not infinite. Your choice to be blasé has led to you this, to this now, where we find ourselves. Together.”

I walk to the front of the classroom. I turn to them, my disciples. I wipe a tear from my eye.

“I hope you all understand: you have given me no choice but to rape you, Louisa. I ask, however, for your collective forgiveness. Please, forgive me, for I know not what I do.”  



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