Copyright © 2018 by Matt Shaw

Matt Shaw Publications

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F*cked To Death

MATT SHAW

A Warning (Kind of).

Some of you will be confused as to why there is a warning within this book. You’ll read it, with a “whatever” look upon your face, and you’ll think back to the warning as nothing but a marketing tool. I am not trying to trick you with such a ploy, I would rather sell books to people who wish to read them because they enjoy darker material (and, yes, there is darker out there). I like telling my stories and I like people to enjoy them because it’s their tastes. I have to put a warning upon my work though because - somehow - people who do not like this kind of content stumble across it and - even more baffling - then accidentally purchase it. Instead of returning the product they decide they may as well read it and, before you know it, they’re complaining that it is sick and I need to be taken out the back and shot, or something equivalent. It is for those people, the sensitive souls, that this warning is for. One final chance for them to see that they have made a mistake with their purchase and one final chance to set the book aside and choose something more to their liking. Now you might still think I am being a little melodramatic but let me take you back to when I released Rotting Dead F*cks (a romantic comedy, obviously). I put my warning on the cover and within the book, and even on Amazon’s page, and then I left it alone. When I came back to it I had a one star review. Fair enough, I thought. You can’t win them all as much as we would love to. When I read the review though, they were complaining about how sick the book was. Now with the title and the warning, I thought that people would automatically assume it was sick but - apparently not. Curious about the type of customer who’d buy the book and leave such a comment, I looked at their Amazon account to see their usual reading materials. The last book they reviewed? The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe…

So there you have it, one more warning for the sensitive souls: There are scenes of a graphic nature and strong sexual content within the following pages. If you’re easily shocked or offended, please do not proceed. If you’re into the dark horrors, I hope the book is to your taste and - as always - thank you for the support.

Until the next time, kiddies…

Matt Shaw

Introduction

A Fact And A Death

Penis sizes vary from individual to individual and - unsurprisingly - it can be a real concern for some men that they “measure up”, so to speak. From sharing open showers with other men at the local swimming baths, or watching one too many pornographic films - it is easy for a man to suddenly worry that his penis isn’t as big as it should be, or a size that would please a woman. During their lives, some men (or - more likely - younger boys) may even find themselves reaching for a ruler in order to get their measurements, despite having no idea about what is actually considered to be normal. They’ll measure away, see the results and - in some cases - immediately feel more shameful about their body. But if they stopped a moment, and actually did the research, they would know that - truthfully - the average penis size is not quite as big as many people think. In fact, according to one survey, a recent study found the average flaccid penis is approximately 3.7 inches - measured from base to tip. When erect, the average penis, from base to tip again, measures in at about 5.2 inches in length, with an average circumference of about 4.6 inches. The problem is - when younger - boys tend to lie about their size. They add a few inches on and pretend to be something they’re not. Then, of course and as mentioned before, there are adult films freely available on the Internet when the male star is bigger than the average person. Some of them even being employed because they’re bigger than the norm. In pornographic movies, no one wants to see a girl pounded by an average-sized prick. They want to see her stretched open with monster meat. Take the porn films and the little white lies of young men into consideration and it is easy to see why some young men can find themselves worrying about the size of their genitalia. They hear the lies, they see the stars and they look down to something far less impressive and - before they know it - they find themselves with a body issue which causes them undue embarrassment and, in extreme cases, the inability to reveal it to others. Of course not everyone is worrying needlessly. There are some men out there who don’t measure up. There are some who are far below the average size. There are some who definitely need to worry. People like Donald for example or, as he was known growing up, Donnie.

Donald never liked his name when he was younger because he was always likened to the duck, with whom he shared a first name. Classmates even went a step further than just calling him Donald Duck by making quack noises at him at every given opportunity too. Hence in college with a fresh start with new faces, when asked his name, Donald would shorten it to Donnie. But then the other nickname came… The name which stuck with him throughout the remainder of his school career - not that it was too long due to the fact he dropped out as soon as he possibly could. A choice made not because he didn’t enjoy the classes (not that he was great at them) but because he wanted to escape his name and his tormentors. He wanted Donnie to disappear and the Duck to come back. After all, Donald Duck was infinitely preferable to Donnie Diddy Dick. Within a year, college was abandoned and a full-time job was sought after with many resumes handed out. Each sparse sheet clearly showing his name: Donald Cameron. Despite using his given birth names again, the unpleasant memories of those who tormented him remained and continued to twist him inside. Donnie was dead but Donald was damaged.

This is Donald’s story.

This is Donald’s rage.

Chapter One

The End Of The Day

I.

I looked at the clock hanging on the wall. The seconds pass with the sweeping second-hand. The minute hand ticks with a tock. The time seems slower today - not helped by the ever-increasing workload piling up on my office desk which I’m struggling to ignore. Nor is time’s slowness helped by them. Their constant laughing and whispering behind my back for whatever reason floats their boat today. Yesterday it was the fact I had white socks on under my black trousers. Today it’s - God only knows what. I can hear them whispering but not clearly enough to make the words out. As Jenson passes my desk with a muttered word under his breath, I want to snap at him. Tell him to go and fuck himself - preferably with a chainsaw - its blade rotating fast, tearing up his arsehole whilst splattering blood, bone and shit around his room. The room itself, in my head, no doubt decorated in Hello Kitty merchandise. I say nothing. I know my words will only make things worse. I just push my hate for him - and them - back down into my gut where it belongs, for now at least. Tonight I’ll purge my hatred out of my soul during my appointment. The hour hand finally hits four. One more hour left until I get out of here, and away from them. Four more hours left until I vent my hatred. Time is always slower when I have something to look forward to.

II.

Some people want to work on this floor because of the view from the windows. On a clear day you can see the mountains perfectly on the other side of the lake. Some people say it is beautiful. Not me though. I see the view and just feel even more trapped in this dead end job. Like the view is there saying, Look at me… look what you can’t get to because you’re stuck in there. That’s not the worst thing about being on this floor though. There’s also the issue with the elevator.

I press the button and stand back as I wait.

And wait.

The whole building kicks out at the same time. There are ten floors. This is the tenth. That’s ten floors of people all leaving their workstations now. Ten floors of people all trying to use the same lift. The same single elevator. I’d like to meet the idiot who designed this building and shake their hand. And then I’d smash them on the head with a cash register stuffed with heavy coinage from a busy shift at next door’s Taco Bell.

‘Hey, Donald!’ A voice from behind snaps me from my day-dream. I don’t turn around. I know who it is and I have no desire to see them, let alone speak to them. ‘Any plans tonight?’ I frown, confused by the question. Normally they don’t try and be civil to me, they just… ‘Or you just going to sit in and talk to an imaginary girlfriend?’ He laughs. There’s more laughter too - all jumbled together so I can’t tell who is standing with him but, no doubt, it is the usual group. With quips like that, it’s hard to remember they’re in their thirties, like me.

The elevator door pings open and I step in. I don’t turn around to face them, or even flip them off like I would like to. Again there’s no point. It’ll only make things worse for myself. I face the wall as another person enters the lift with me.

‘Ignore them.’ The doors close and I turn around. Elizabeth is standing there with a sympathetic look on her face as though her life is so fucking perfect. ‘They’re just idiots.’

I smile.

‘Mind your own business, cunt.’

She takes a step back. Her expression one of shock.

I reiterate, ‘Fucking cunt.’

III.

I sit in my car, eyeing up the parking lot’s exit. Then my eyes scan the line of vehicles all waiting their turn to leave. This is the other bad part of working on the tenth floor: By the time you get to your car, you’re already at the back of the queue. Sometimes you can add an additional half hour onto your work day just to get out of the lot. Not what I need on a day when I have plans but then why am I even surprised? This is my life now. If something can go wrong, it will.

I resist the urge to slam my fist down on the horn.

I’d better not miss my appointment.

IV.

I’m going to miss my fucking appointment. I’ve been sitting in the same spot for the last thirty minutes with no signs of moving any time soon. I’m not sure whether there has been an accident up ahead, or something else, but this traffic is much worse than other days. Yet I can’t hear any sirens. What’s more annoying is the fact nothing has come up on the traffic channels either - those annoying radio stations that constantly interrupt your chosen entertainment in order to bring you important information relating to the road you’re potentially close to. It’s a service which has cut into my music on numerous occasions and has never been of use to me at the time. Now I could have done with it - there’s nothing but silence. What makes it that little more annoying is the fact I don’t have the relevant phone number with me to warn that I might be running late. Had I been able to call, reschedule for later - I might have been okay but, nope, I can’t even do that. They’re probably thinking I’m wasting their time. Worse yet, they’ll probably refuse to let me book in again. The day has been shit from the start yet there had always been a little ray of sunshine to look forward to. Now it looks as though it has started shit and will be ending the same way too. I’m not entirely sure what I have done for God to keep continually fucking me over like this but - I wish I could take it back. Just once, I wish I could have a chance of happiness.

‘Come on, come on…’ I mutter under my breath.

To my surprise, the cars in front start to move. Did God finally hear me? Don’t be stupid. Don’t even think it. Just go with the flow. Enjoy it whilst it lasts and don’t fucking jinx it.

The cars ahead come to a stop.

Fuck.

Chapter Two

The Nick Of Time

I.

I pull up outside the apartment block and my mind automatically plays back the first time I came by here. The buildings are run-down, street lamps flicker, rubbish piled up by bins left uncollected because the dustmen are too afraid to come down here. It’s a shit-hole and one I nearly drove away from. Had it not been for my desperation - the desperate need for all that had been offered to me - I probably would have. The way that night had gone, and the subsequent appointments I’ve had since, I’m glad I hadn’t driven away, glad I had stuck it out. Had I not, I’m not entirely sure where my life would be today.

I climbed out of my car and kicked the door shut. Parking here is probably the only time I’ve ever been grateful for owning such a piece of crap automobile. The only thing of value in it being the sub for the stereo that I had installed. I locked the door and walked towards Gerald’s apartment with my eyes drawn to yet another smashed window. Window by window, brick by brick, the local assholes are slowly demolishing this place. I couldn’t care less though, so long as Gerald keeps in contact with me.

At the door, I pressed number six on the panel by the door. I’ve lost count of the number of times I have pressed this buzzer now and yet - each time - I’ve always worried it will be my last. Not because Gerald might move away, not because I’ll stop needing to come here… I worry about getting such an electric shock from the system that it literally stops my heart. The built-in speaker buzzes. No electric shock today.

‘Come on in,’ Gerald’s voice comes from the same speaker. He never asks who it is, not even the first time I visited. He’s either trusting or doesn’t care about who he lets in. Given where he lives, and knowing that he is addicted to more than just “male” crack, I’m guessing the latter. I pull the door open as the electric lock slides across and step in. As I make my way to the far staircase - not foolish enough to chance the elevator in this dive - the door closes, and locks, behind me.

I’ve been looking forward to this evening since I woke up and the adrenaline is already causing my heart to race. Or is my heart racing and causing the adrenaline? Who knows. Who cares.

II.

Gerald is a few years older than me. I can’t remember his exact age but I recall being surprised when he told me because he looks such a lot older. I put it down to his addictions. I look at him, skinny with blonde hair and eyes cloudy-grey. He’s gaunt and ill-looking but there is a look about him which suggests - if it weren’t for his drugs and hard life - he might have been good looking. Despite the fact I see him monthly, I’m not homosexual and have never been attracted to men but I could see why some might like him. He’s also well-spoken but then that’s due to his background I’m sure. From our chats, I’ve learnt that he comes from a wealthy family. The only reason he is here is because they turned their backs on him when he came out. Then he fell into drugs. Then he landed here. It’s a story told so many times before. A story brought about because people aren’t tolerant of what they don’t understand. That’s the world we live in these days and it’s sad but - I’m not here to be his therapist. So long as the conversations don’t eat into the time I am paying for, I don’t mind hearing them but - ultimately - Gerald is my therapist.

III.

‘You’re an ugly piece of shit. You’re pathetic. You have no friends, no life, no hope… Why the fuck you haven’t just killed yourself I do not know! It would certainly save us all some oxygen if you did take your own life… No one would give a shit, no one would miss you. You’re pathetic… Look at you… Are you going to cry like a little bitch?’ I paused a moment as I turned back to Gerald. He was sitting on a chair a few feet away from me wearing nothing but his boxers. Silk, no less. He has tears in his eyes. He’s getting better at this; making it seem all the more real for me. He’s worth every penny.

The sessions are always the same. He would dress in his underwear and I would stand before him mocking him, just as they used to mock me. The cruel words from others at the boarding school. Words which stuck with me through the years… Words which feel good to speak as opposed to hear. Gerald plays the part of me, the victim. I play the tormentor and - after a life of hearing their words over and over in my head… It feels good. It’s a nice change and I know, in this situation, I can’t get hurt. Not like back then, when I tried talking back to them. The words replaced with fists and boots…

‘Don’t look at me, you fucking faggot…’ I swing a fist towards him and he flinches back but - obviously - it was never going to connect. I shout at him, I call him the names but I never hit him. That’s one of the main differences between how these sessions play out as to how it really was when I was growing up. I paused a moment to consider the other insults thrown my way when I was younger. My mind is momentarily distracted from the task at hand by the strange look on his face. ‘What?’ I ask. Maybe he has forgotten the safe word and has had enough of the psychological bullying? It wouldn’t be the first time he has had enough with my cruel words opening some of his own unresolved wounds, not that he makes a habit of it. When he had called time, I hadn’t minded as he had ended up giving me my money back. By the time I’d arrived home, there had been an email promising that it would be better next time. I ask him again, ‘What is it? Had enough?’ Only twenty minutes in, had I broken him faster this time? Surprising really, I’d have thought he’d be more used to it by now.

Without a word, Gerald stood up and pulled his shorts down. I took a step back, shocked. He was sporting a semi-erection. I sighed. Just as it wouldn’t have been the first time he had backed out of the appointment, this wasn’t the first time he had done this either. A question from him: Do I want to suck his cock now? Once I had said yes but - it’s not something I had got a taste for, so to speak. I’m grateful for that though, my distaste for it… These appointments aren’t about the sex. These sessions are for exorcising my demons. The next appointment is for the sexual side of my lifestyle. And even then it’s not what people would expect.

‘You can put that away,’ I said. ‘I think we’re done for today.’

‘Is my cock too pathetic for you to suck? Tell me I have a small dick…’

‘What?’

‘Tell me my cock is small…’

I don’t know what to say. There’s a moment’s pause before I say again, ‘I think we’re done for today.’

IV.

I barely said a word to Gerald as I gathered up my belongings. He’s hardly spoken to me either, not that I mind. He annoyed me with the way he spoke to me and he completely destroyed how the rest of the appointment had made me feel about myself. Gone is the power he’d given me, by letting me shout at him… And back are the memories I’d sooner forget, or turn around, so that I am the one in charge. With my coat and shoes on, I walked towards the front door. He was already there, aware that I was keen to get away whereas we would usually have a bit of a chat at the end of a session. He pulled the door open for me as I approached.

‘Same time next month?’ he asked, aware that I usually book in straight away to ensure I don’t miss my preferred time-slot.

There was a flicker in my mind as I contemplated not coming back. Only a flicker though because I know he’s one of the only male escorts in this area who would allow me to do this with him. The others found it weird or had just straight up declined the possibility of an appointment with no explanation as to why. Of course I’ll be back, having few or no other options. We just need to add a few more ground rules to ensure we don’t have this situation crop up again.

‘We don’t talk about that again,’ I told him.

‘Huh?’

‘You don’t mention small cocks…’

‘I just thought it was another way for you to in…’

I cut him off. ‘No.’

There was an awkward silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually.

‘Just - not again.’

‘No. Of course.’ There was another pause. ‘Did you want to come back?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘I mean it’s not a problem if you didn’t want to - I’d just…’

‘I want to come back.’

There was another pause.

‘Would you like a drink before you go?’

I smiled. ‘Sure.’ There’s always time for a drink before the next appointment. It’s important to stay hydrated to ensure my energy levels remain high.

Gerald closed the door and walked towards his kitchen. I took my coat off and set it to the side before following him.

Always time for a drink.

Chapter Three

The Second Appointment

I.

I could hear the voices in my head, male and female, all chanting the same: Donnie Diddy Dick, Donnie Diddy Dick, Donnie Diddy Dick… Over and over, again and again despite the fact that - in public - I never reacted, swallowing down all reactions until I was in the privacy of my own home…

The memories of that time were never buried deep enough to forget, but they were buried - usually only surfacing when I’d have the second of my monthly appointments. Tonight though, Gerald had stirred them from the depths where they lay dormant until I see the whore and - as a result - my anger and hatred is in full-flow long before I pulled up outside the woman’s house. I almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

II.

I pulled the rucksack from the trunk of my car and walked up towards the front door, keeping my head down as I did so just in case there are nosey neighbours peering out of their windows, bored with whatever rubbish was playing on their television sets. The first time I knocked on a hooker’s door, my hand had shaken nervously and my stomach had cramped with nerves. Now my hand is steady as a rock and my stomach content with the quick meal I’d snatched from the nearby fast food restaurant: Something to keep my strength up for the long night I had planned. Not that the girl knows it was going to be a long night. She thinks it is going to be an hour’s session meaning - when she opens the door - I will owe her a little over a hundred pounds. Once she takes the money though and the appointment begins properly, I’ll be taking charge of it and will only leave when I am completely drained and satisfied. Even then I’ll be taking the cash back too, putting it into the pot ready for next month. It’s been like this for over a year now.

I can hear footsteps from beyond the door as my date for the evening walks down the hallway to open up. I try my best to bury the disdain I already have for her and force a smile. A smile makes them feel more comfortable - just as her own fake smile, when she does open the door, is to ensure I feel more at ease too. We both play the same game there.

The door opened and the woman - Heather - was standing there, a smile on her face. She welcomes me into her home and I step in with my hand in my pocket, holding the notes she’ll be asking for the moment the door closes.

This is part two of my monthly therapy.

Part one = put myself in a position of power I’m unused to.

Part two = revenge.

III.

Although sex isn’t the main reason I am here, it’s hard not to have an erection - not that she can see it. Unlike her, I’m not completely naked. My shirt is off but I leave my trousers on. I tell them it makes me feel more comfortable to start with and they never argue with me. They just point out that - soon - the trousers will have to come off. I tell them it’s not a problem but - to start with - I just want to watch them.

Heather is about five foot six with long blonde hair. The blonde hair a product of a shop-purchased dye as opposed to being natural, given the colour of the thin landing strip of pubes leading the way to her neat looking pussy. Her waist seems unnaturally tiny and her breasts obviously enhanced - not that the surgeon did a bad job of them; the scars are almost invisible. Her eyes are hazel in colour, not quite fully brown and she stares directly at me as she slides the overly complicated vibrator into her pussy; a pussy too wet to not have had some lubricant squirted inside it, prior to my arrival. The use of lube doesn’t bother me although I could see some men being insulted by it. It’s not normal to expect a girl to be entirely pleased by a client and I can only imagine the type of men she sees pass through her front door. It’s only fair for her to put some lubricant inside her to ease the act of penetration and give the false impression that she likes her partner of the hour. A hooker is a business woman and whilst she may enjoy sex, it doesn’t mean she enjoys it with everyone and there’d be nothing more off-putting than a gentleman caller finding out he isn’t “doing it” for her.

Heather is lying on her bed. Her legs are spread as she sits back against the headboard. Her right hand grips the duvet she sits upon and her left hand twists and turns the purple vibrator as she works it in and out of her tight little pussy. The toy buzzes with hundreds of - I imagine - pleasurable vibrations designed to enhance the sensation for her whilst little ears tickle at her clitoris causing her to moan. At this stage I am unsure as to whether her moans are genuine thanks to the sensation of the toy or rather for my benefit. It’s not something I have ever asked and I’ve never made a point of saying they don’t do anything for me. One day, maybe, they may have been nice to hear but - those days are long gone.

I want to hear her scream.

IV.

‘Do you want to make me cum?’ Heather asked. Her eyes still fixed on me and her voice breathy as she continued fucking herself with the toy. I smiled at her and moved closer to her, from where I had been sitting on the edge of the bed watching her.

With her spare hand she reached out for my own hand and took hold of it, guiding it towards the toy. As I gripped the handle, she moved her own hand out of the way and released her grip on me.

‘Fuck me,’ she ordered.

I started to work the toy backwards and forwards, watching both the way her pussy lips gripped it tightly and occasionally looking up to her face. Her hands were fondling her own breasts, her nipples hard. Her head was turned to the side and her eyes closed, mouth agape as she moaned louder and louder as I continued thrusting the toy deep inside.

Her left leg kicked out and she sat up, away from the headboard. Her moans now borderline screaming. As I pulled the toy out, ready to push back inside, I noticed it had been tainted with a white discharge from her pussy. I looked back to her face. Her eyes are open and back to staring directly at me, a look of sheer lust in them. Her face, flushed.

‘Don’t stop,’ she begged.

I smiled, not because of the state I had gotten her into but rather what she said. I know that - soon enough - she’ll be begging me to do quite the opposite. I pushed the toy back inside her and she collapsed back against the headboard for a second time. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as she closed her lids and turned her head to the side again. Her hands were now gripping the duvet either side of her body. A girl who - in the right place - can have multiple orgasms, it seems.

This is an orgasm I shall deny.

I stopped fucking her just before she came for a second time.

‘No, no, no, no….’ She opened her eyes and looked at me - desperate, clearly, for me to finish the job. ‘Why did you stop?’ she asked.

I smiled. And then I punched her square in the face with a force hard enough to rob her of her consciousness.

Chapter Four

Donnie Diddy Dick

I.

In college I did well to blend in with the crowds. It was refreshing, going from school where I was mocked and teased to going somewhere I wasn’t known. When people did talk to me, they were nice enough and there seemed to be no bitterness. That’s not to say it was the same for everyone. I saw plenty of people teasing others, or even bitching about them behind their back but - as it wasn’t aimed at me - I didn’t care. And, no, I didn’t get involved. Why highlight myself to these people? I just went out of my way to avoid them. It was safer and certainly easier.

I was invited to parties, I was called over - to sit with people- in the cafeteria, I was even invited out on group trips to the cinema, or bowling, or whatever other social activity was being organised away from the classes. For a while I felt as though I was a part of something and that everything was going to be okay. I mean - I was even excited about going into classes on some days just so I could hang out with people I believed to be my friend. But then I met her.

Her name was Vicki. She was one of the more popular girls at school and one of my friends had said that she fancied me. I didn’t believe him. In fact - if memory serves - I even found myself laughing his comment off. Until, that is, we were at a party and she told me herself. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes, the smile on her face and the way she seemed awkward and embarrassed - a girl usually so composed around people - as she told me. It was cute. It was flattering. A moment made better when she leaned in for a kiss. Now I knew she was drunk but I wasn’t about to waste the moment so I kissed her back and soon she was inviting me to go upstairs with her. Somewhere private, she’d suggested, where we could talk.

She didn’t need to ask me twice.

Upstairs we sat on our friend’s bed. I was sitting awkwardly with my body facing the wall and she was sitting at an angle, her body pointing more towards me with her hands on my lap. I remember the confidence and the way she seemed so cool about this. I also remember trying my hardest to conceal my legs visibly shaking. I hadn’t had the courage to say that I was a virgin up to this point on the off-chance it would put her off me. I wanted this moment. I wanted her.

I can’t recall the conversation. I just remember when she leaned closer to me and kissed me on the cheek. I turned to her and kissed her back and soon we were lying on the bed - me on top of her, kissing. My hands were exploring her body on top of her clothes despite myself being desperate to get her undressed and to touch upon her bare skin. Her hands were doing the same back to me. Even now - despite what happened - I can look back at this moment and find myself getting hard at the mere recollection of how this felt. It was truly amazing but then she ruined it all.

Her hand moved down my body and she tucked it into my jeans, her warm fingers reaching for my erection. I gasped when they touched. The first stranger to touch my erection… She suddenly paused and her body stopped writhing beneath me. I looked at her.

‘What’s up?’

I felt her fingers around my cock, moving down my shaft to the tip of my erection and back again and - then - she started to laugh.

I pulled away from her to the far end of the bed where I perched myself. It was hard not to look deflated and upset but I still tried.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to laugh but… Is that it?!’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, feeling more and more self-conscious with every passing second. I thought my kissing was okay, had it not been she would have pulled away or stopped. I wasn’t hurting her with my hands, being too rough or anything but - the moment she touched my cock, she started to laugh. Was that the problem? She started laughing harder. ‘What is it?’ I asked, getting more paranoid.

Between laughing she managed to say, ‘Donnie Diddy Dick…’

II.

The hooker was lying on the bed. Using restraints taken from my rucksack, I secured her to the bed and put a gag over her mouth. I don’t always use the gag. I actually prefer not to but - she has neighbours close by and I don’t want them hearing her screams and calling for help. Using a gag is better than going to prison. I’d just explained the story of my nickname and she was just looking at me with a confused look on her once-pretty face. I’m not sure if she doesn’t understand my story or whether I’d hit her too hard. Blood streaming from both her nostrils and a crack across the ridge.

‘You’re probably wondering why you’re here, or rather why I am.’ I looked at her. ‘She was a whore,’ I continued, ‘the girl who teased me and spread the name about me… She was a whore. You’re all the same and whilst I’m not able to track her down to pay her back for the torment she caused… Well, you’re the next best thing.’ I smiled. ‘What happens next is revenge for what I was forced to endure… You whores mock my cock and yet… Your vaginas… Hardly something to be proud of.’ I paused a moment. ‘Or rather, something that you won’t be proud of by the time we’re done.’

I reached for the rucksack and set it on the bed so she could see it. I reached in and pulled out the first of the dildos I had brought with me. When she saw it: Instant panic. And, rightly so. The dildo is one of the larger brands. It’s pink in colour and designed for the woman who really likes to be stretched. The more adventurous of females. Or rather, it was until I made some changes.

I lined the toy up between her legs - the tip aiming towards her pussy. She squirmed as though it would stop me from managing to get it in. They always squirm and it never stops me. I looked at her; sheer panic in her eyes. With a wink, I pushed the toy in. Her muted scream, through the gag, was instant.

Chapter Five

A New Month

I.

I know they’re talking about me. They do it every day and the longer into the month we get, the more it gets to me and distracts me from even my work. Today though I don’t care. My positive mood is always like this after I have had an evening like last night. It’s like I have managed to purge my soul of my hang-ups, if only for a while. I know, as the month goes on, they’ll gradually creep back in but - for now - I feel good and their words won’t bring me down. I hear their words and I imagine standing with them, them shouting at him. Me being part of the popular gang once more. And when the women join in - and I can’t help but recall Vicki back at college… I think back to the women I’ve seen over the months and their own genitals. Thinking back now, I couldn’t help but smile.

‘The fuck are you grinning at?’ Jenson asked. I looked at him and realised he was staring right at me. Hate in his eyes, for why I don’t know. ‘Fucking freak.’

The smile faded from my face as I turned in my chair. Just because I’m feeling more positive in my mind, it doesn’t mean I want any confrontation with him. He muttered something else and walked off, leaving me to the day’s workload and my twisted imagination in which he is the victim and I am the one screaming at him. A smile spread across my face.

I wonder what I’ll have for lunch?

II.

Before the appointments, it was always hard to imagine myself in their position; the guys who like to mouth off and strut around like they’re the alphas. I’d spent so long seeing myself as the victim that it was hard to imagine myself as anything but. That was before though. Now I know what it feels like to have that power, I wish I could keep it for good - if only to use it on those who talk shit to me. It would be nice to be able to throw their comments back in their faces as opposed to sitting there and taking it on the chin repeatedly. I can’t though. Not with the men anyway. I tried it once and talked crap to the wrong person. Their response was to smack me in the mouth. They only stopped because their friends pulled them away from me so I didn’t get too hurt. It was an unpleasant experience and one which cost me my job - not because I was fired but because I couldn’t face seeing the man again. Much easier to hand in my notice and find somewhere else for employment.

It’s different with women though. Easier to intimidate them and silence them with a well-timed sentence about something I know they have a hang-up about. It could be their weight, their appearance… Anything like that. Not all of them mind you. Some of them are just as vicious as the men I tend to avoid. You definitely have to know the woman before you try and talk down to them.

I’m sitting in the cafeteria, my usual table in the corner and alone, with my lunch; a shop bought tuna fish sandwich. It’s supposed to be tuna and sweetcorn but I guess sweetcorn is so expensive now they ration it more strictly, meaning you hardly get any, or quality control missed this sandwich and let it out with hardly any of the vegetable mixed in. I don’t mind though. It’s still edible. As I bring the sandwich to my mouth, the aroma tickles my nostrils and I’m automatically reminded of the girl from last night. Both she and the sandwich smell the same although I get more pleasure from eating this. As I masticate upon my lunch I try and force the thoughts of the girl to the back of my mind. Now isn’t the time to be thinking of her. I’ll think about it properly later, when I’m home alone and the curtains are shut.

I glance to the side and see one of my female colleagues looking at me. She smiles at me and I turn away in disgust. No doubt she was about to start a conversation with me as part of a dare. Wind me up, maybe ask me out on a date and - then - fail to show up… Or, worse yet, she’ll show up with an army of followers - all of them recording my reaction when she laughs at me and tells me it was all a joke.

‘Either this sandwich is off or your pussy stinks,’ I said to her without so much of a sideways glance. She huffed in disgust, collected her tray and walked to the other side of the room. ‘Smells gone,’ I called out as I took another mouthful of my lunch.

‘Fuck you,’ she hissed.

I couldn’t help but to laugh.

III.

The brown dildo is my favourite and that’s the part I have fast forwarded to on the film I made last night. It’s the size of my fist although not shaped the same; it’s still moulded around a cock, well… based one at least. No one could actually have a dick like this in real life. If they did, they wouldn’t be able to walk! By this point of the film, Heather is out cold from the shock. It’s a shame she isn’t awake to fully appreciate it but - what can I do? Some have higher pain thresholds than the others.

This part of the film is still my favourite though for the damage done and the way I had zoomed the camera in to really capture it. Her lips being ripped by the razors I had imbedded into the dildo. A series of new razors sticking out at various intervals along the shaft of the rubber cock with one poking from the head - this one being the one that cuts into the cervix as I push in deep. The pain of her insides being torn apart, slicing her up with deep cuts here and there being enough to rob her of her consciousness before I even had a chance to push on up into her womb and lower intestines and God only knows what else lies down there. The human anatomy not being something I had any interest in studying.

On tape I pushed in deep and left the toy there as I reached for a second. The second toy I lined up with her asshole; the trick was to get both the toys to meet in the middle. A third dildo, five minutes or so from this point, would be pushed down her throat. Her tongue would be ripped, her gums would be opened and the back of her throat shredded.

With the film playing on my laptop and my cock in my oiled hand, I ejaculated just before the third plastic cock was introduced; a hot sticky mess which splattered onto my belly with a buck of my body. I sat back, my heart racing, and reached for the stop button for the film. The media player window closed and returned my computer back to the desktop picture; a picturesque mountain scene which was pre-loaded on the system when I originally purchased it.

Without bothering to “eject” the USB drive, I pulled it from the computer’s slot. Before I’d started the film I had already labelled it with a permanent marker spelling out Heather’s name. I opened the top drawer of my computer table and tossed the drive into it. It landed next to all the other drives. All of them labelled with the name of the girl who featured on it. I’m not sure why I put the name of the girl on the drive. Maybe it’s a sign of respect? When I watch the films back though, I never think of the girl I had been with, instead - I picture her. I picture Vicki. I might be Donnie Diddy Dick but at least my genitals aren’t fucking ruined. There’s so many drives within the drawer, you can no longer see the bottom of it. A good achievement.

I reach for a roll of tissues next to the laptop. A quick clean-up and I’ll watch a film before bed… After I’ve written in the journal.

Chapter Six

The Month

I.

Only the second of the month and I’d been called into the manager’s office. And why? The slut from yesterday made a complaint about me. Apparently it’s not okay to make comments about the possible stench of her pussy. John said it would be a warning written on file and that - if it happened again - he would have no choice but to let me go. Half-tempted to tell him to stick his job but I said nothing, and nor will I. Not to him anyway. Truth be told I found the whole meeting funny, not that I laughed whilst in there. I didn’t laugh outside of the office either. Kept that locked in there along with my opinion of the slut in question: It’s a well known fact she is a fucking whore. Not the best start to the month though. The conversation had gone something like this:

‘Yes it was me, I said it.’

My manager looked shocked at my admission of guilt. Was I supposed to say she was making it up? Would that have served any purpose? I doubt it. Why lie? I said it. I don’t regret it.

‘Oh.’

He hesitated so I filled in the gap.

‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t myself…’

‘Well when she made the complaint it didn’t sound as though it was something you’d say.’

‘I know. I’d had some bad news at home and - well… She caught me unawares and I was feeling spiteful. I didn’t mean it though. Would it help if I apologised to her?’

It was an empty offer on my part. Unless he pulled her into the same room - so he could listen to the apology - there was no way it was ever going to happen. She is beneath me. All the women are beneath me.

‘I think it would be best if you kept your distance for the time-being, to be honest. She was pretty upset with your comments.’ He continued, ‘But we will have a further conversation and I will let her know you’re sorry.’

‘If you could, I would be grateful.’

‘And of course it goes without saying that if we get further incidents such as this…’

‘It doesn’t need to be said.’

‘We’ll have to let you go.’

‘Of course. I understand. And - again - I’m sorry for the hassle this has caused you.’ Oh to be the kind of man who doesn’t need to work here, the kind of man who could just lean forward and tell him to fuck his job. Stick it right up his arse and swivel. Punch him in the face, spit in his mouth as I swing the side of my hand directly into his throat or push my palm up into his nose - pushing the bone back into his brain. I settled for a smile.

II.

More shit from Jenson today. The others don’t mind talking crap behind my back but he is definitely the catalyst to it all. I wonder, would the others fall in line if I called him out on it and kicked his fucking head in? I’m almost tempted to try. A part of me almost feels confident enough after the appointment with Gerald the other day. It’s only because last time I felt such misguided confidence it all went very terribly wrong that I don’t make such an attempt. But the thought is definitely there. As per usual I go quiet externally but - inside - there’s much noise. His screaming, chainsaws, guns, bones breaking, flesh ripping, eyeballs popping, tongues being cut out with scissors - the blades scraping together. Oh to hear the noises for real.

III.

There was an office party last night. Well, I say an office party but it was nothing to do with the actual office. It just happened that the majority of the staff who went out were from the office.  This morning had been the first I heard of it. It wasn’t through an overheard conversation but rather one of my colleagues sarcastically pointing out that it was a shame I hadn’t been there. I was - he explained - the much needed comedy value; someone to mock and laugh at whilst they got drunk. I imagined my comeback, I couldn’t have gone out as I was busy with his mum.

It wasn’t the first time they had all gone out with my invitation gone missing. At first it had bothered me but - not anymore. I know - had I gone out on any of the evenings - it wouldn’t have been a nice time or a chance to make friends so they stop teasing me. I was better off alone.

IV.

It hasn’t even been a full week since my appointments and yet it feels like forever. Worse yet, because I am aware it’s not even been a week yet, I know it’s even longer until the next appointment. I have the money, taken back from the woman, set to one side but I can’t afford the cash necessary to see Gerald again just yet. I’ve tried having just one of the appointments before - be it a visit with Gerald or a visit with the whore but… It didn’t make me feel as satisfied as when I see them both together on the same night. Nor has it worked to stagger the appointments out a little; see him one night and the whore on another. To get the most from it, I have to see them both at the same time - or rather, in the same evening. With the latest appointment feeling more like a distant memory and the next just a dot on the horizon, my mood has already started to deteriorate. It’s going to be a long month.

‘Any plans tonight?’ Jenson asked me. He didn’t care and neither did he really want the answer from me. He would make the answer up for himself. ‘Or you just going to sit around and masturbate in your own faeces?’ And there it was. The two men standing with him laughed. I just sat there and smirked at him.

They say a bully is nothing more than a coward hiding behind an abusive front. The problem is - I know Jenson can back his words up with heavy fists too and if I did happen to challenge him to a fight, I know he wouldn’t back down - like you’d expect a coward to do. Anyway, he’s almost right with his predictions for my evening. I will most likely sit around and touch myself. Hopefully it won’t be in a sticky tar of my own shit though. Although - just as I had done Gerald before… This was also something I’d experimented with when I was younger.

‘Fucking loser.’ Jenson walked away. I watched him, unsure as to what I’d done to make him hate me so. It’s a recurring question that I often have. I sighed. It’s definitely going to be a long month.

V.

The latter part of my evening was spent writing in my journal. When I was younger I saw a therapist who introduced me to the idea of writing my feelings down, knowing I didn’t like to discuss them. It’s something I have done ever since, not that I’d ever let anyone read them. Anyone but me, that is. As I flicked through the pages, to the next empty space, I couldn’t help but wonder whether it would make sense to someone if they did read it. Not the words, I mean, but the reasonings behind them. Would a normal person understand why I feel the need to experience what it is like to be the abuser as opposed to the being abused? Would they understand why I felt the need to destroy a woman’s vagina - give her something to be embarrassed about just as Vicki had given me something to be embarrassed for, back when I was growing up? Or would they do as the doctors had done and simply label me with psychopathic personality disorder before pushing me away and closing the door on me.

‘Unfortunately we no longer have space for free counselling. If you wish to continue, we’ll need you to go private…’ Two hundred an hour. Two hundred. Like I had that to spare on a weekly basis.

Just in case my actions get me caught one day, I’ve made a point of blaming the therapists and the system for failing me. These girls were mutilated because of the therapists, not me. I’m to blame for nothing. It’s their fault.

I closed my journal and put it in the second drawer down of my computer table. A slight pause whilst I weighed up my options on how best to finish my evening and - I reached for the top drawer, dipping my hand in and fishing for a pen drive. A “Lucky Dip” game. Who’s the lucky girl tonight? There’s almost enough pen-drives in here now to enable me a different film for each day of the month. Almost.

VI.

Cara coughed up dark red claret which splattered back onto her face. A girl who looked nothing like her pictures, photos clearly touched up, the red actually made her look better by hiding some of her features. She had the purple dildo, one of the longest of the toys I possess, deep inside her stomach somewhere with it ripping the entire way. I had pushed it inside her as deep as I could, until I could no longer properly reach it, as she squirmed and screamed… Then, I’d used another of the toys… I had pushed the second dildo inside her until it touched upon the first… Then - I pushed in deeper. I had wanted her shredded pussy to eat the second toy whole too before a third could be used - connecting to the other two toys - pushing them all further into her until the first managed to touch the back of her throat. My goal was simple - to have her spit out the first toy whilst still alive; a whole train of dildos going from rancid pussy up through her body and out of her mouth. Alas, she died before my goal was complete and so I’d stopped. It’s only fun when they’re breathing and in pain.

I might be Donnie Diddy Dick but look at you…

I ejaculated hard.

VII.

Halfway through the month now. Depression has set in. The appointments, whilst not forgotten, are settled in the back of my mind. Me - a failure - being at the forefront. My colleagues have been quiet recently - a blessing - but their words from before play over and over. Not just their words but insults from all who have offended me over the years, or picked on me. A montage of insults and general shit being tossed my way - one which doesn’t appear to come with a mute button.

‘How are those reports coming along?’ my line manager asked. There was no malice in his voice and yet I immediately felt as though he was picking on me. I wanted to tell him to shove the reports up his ass. I wanted to hit him with my well-used keyboard.

Instead I said, ‘They’re coming.’

‘Good, good…’ He walked away as I turned to the reports he was speaking of. I haven’t touched them. They’re piled up high on my desk and have been so for the past week but - my mind just isn’t on them. It’s on the next appointment I need to get booked in. I know when I am seeing Gerald - that’s always the same day of the month and the same time. But I need to find a woman for the evening too and that is where my mind is. Every “alone” opportunity at work spent on my mobile phone, eating my cellular data whilst surfing the net away from the work PC on the off-chance bosses are monitoring the sites I visit. They probably wouldn't be happy with Adultwork, less so on their time.

At work, I find the girls I find attractive and I bookmark them using the app. At night, I go back through them on my laptop where the screen is bigger and easier to read.

I have four hours left until I am home and already I have bookmarked sixteen local girls. Tonight’s plan is a takeaway and a night narrowing my search down.

‘Oh one thing,’ my line-manager walked back to my desk. ‘We really need those reports today. Any chance you could stay late and finish them up if they’re not done in time?’

I looked at him and tried to hide the contempt in my eyes.

I forced a smile and said, ‘Sure.’

The hookers aren’t going anywhere.

Chapter Seven

The Girls

I.

My ideal girl has a figure which can only be described as hour-glass. I like large breasts, I like… I guess you could say I like the alternative look. I like piercings (but not too many), I like when they experiment with the colour of their hair - my favourite being bright pink. I like it when they have their own sense of style and don’t follow what people consider “the norm”. I like individuals. Some people like the mean and moody look but I prefer the girl to have a smile which brightens the room. I like it when their eyes shine like the most dazzling of diamonds. The girl I am describing being the girl I once had - a time after college when I, somehow, managed to find someone to love me. I ruined that relationship with my own insecurities eating away at me and me taking them out on her. For a while I fought to get her back but by being an idiot, not by trying to charm her - not that I would know how. I would upset her, I would run her down and make her feel like shit. I would try and make her think she could get no one else - forcing her to stay with me for fear of being forever alone. I’d managed to find a girl, despite my insecurities and lack of trust in women, and I’d managed to push her away. She met someone else and - for a while - I even tried to ruin that relationship but their love proved strong and I’d lost her for good. It was soon after that my insecurities screamed louder from within. All those comments to my girl that she’d get no one else were actually thoughts about myself. I would get no one else. I was the piece of shit. I was the one who’d be forever alone. With my insecurities getting louder and louder, I found myself on this website looking for a woman to fuck but - when the appointment came around - I didn’t see a potential playdate in front of me.

I saw Vicki.

I saw the girl who’d ruined everything for me.

I stormed out of the first appointment. The second time I booked, I went armed with my bag of toys and the rest, they say, is history. All of this is documented in my journals but - does it make sense? Why am I stressing? I’m not going to be caught and I’m not doing my depression any favours by dwelling on the past. The past is gone and cannot be changed. The future is nothing but an ever-changing pipe-dream. I need to live in the present.

I took a sip of my cider as the website loaded up.

II.

The girls I chose - and choose - do not look like the girl I would normally chase after. I do not want them looking like my ex as - despite the cruel words I’d said to her - I never wanted to actually hurt her. I regret that I had, not that I would ever say as much to her. The times we had met up since, I had always had good intentions to be nice but words of hate came out instead. I put it down to the fact that I’m still hurting, having lost her but I don’t like to dwell on it.

The girls I picked now were nothing like I would normally want to sleep with and neither did they look like Vicki, from college. I pick the girls that look the weakest. I don’t want them fighting back, I don’t want them to have a cruel tongue. I want them to be the victim from the moment I see them.

Size doesn’t matter although it’s better if they’re on the skinny side. This isn’t because it is a preference of mine but because I know it is easier to calm someone who weighs less than myself. I like them to not be the prettiest because pretty girls tend to know their worth. I like them to look average at best. That way, if they try and back chat me, I know I will be able to slap them down by picking on things I know there’ll be insecure about. A trick learned from the way the wannabe alpha-males who’ve picked on me and silenced me over the years. To think, they have had their use.

When I book the girls I don’t do it via the website. There is a messaging service on the site but I do not want to be associated with the girl, for when their bodies are found. Instead I book them via a Pay As You Go Phone. I book the girl, I have the appointment and I dispose of the phone. I buy another cheap handset and repeat the process the following month. I don’t leave a message if I can’t get hold of them. I don’t give my real name and I never take my wallet to the appointment for fear of accidentally leaving it there.

This evening I have got the list of potential women down to five with the final choice most likely being made with the drawing of straws. Five straws with one shorter than the others. I’ll write the girls’ names down and then, one by one, I’ll pull a straw. If I pull the short straw, that’s the girl who’ll be booked. If she ends up being busy, I’ll play the game again until I find a girl who is free on the desired date. If none of them are free, I’ll hunt the site again. I won’t change the date to accommodate them. I never have and I never will. They have to tie in with when I see Gerald.

Flitting between the pictures of the girls I’ve narrowed it down to, I don’t think I need the straws on this occasion actually. I like this one…

I reached for the pen-pot at the back of the table and grabbed one of the pens. I flicked the lid off and jotted her number down. I’ll give her a call tomorrow and make the appointment; an act in itself which helps to pull me from my depression.

III.

The morning had been spent anticipating the call to the working girl I’d picked the night before. I had wanted to call her the moment I woke up but I knew her phone would have been turned off. One thing I have learned about these ladies is, they don’t tend to wake up early and there was little point in leaving a message for them to call you back. Sure, some did return your call but - most didn’t. To save on missing out, it was better to wait until early afternoon to make a call and - if they didn’t answer - never to leave a message. Instead, try and call them again later. After all - sometimes they might have been caught up with a client and unable to answer and the last thing you wanted to do was to leave numerous messages, hassling them.

I’d gone outside, away from the office building and - more important - away from listening ears and prying eyes. They taunt me enough here, seemingly for little reason other than that they see me as a target. The last thing I need is for them to know what I am doing. Once outside, I took my mobile - the pay as you go handset - from my pocket. I had already programmed the whore’s number in to save time. I remember the first time I called for an appointment. More specifically I remember the stomach ache - the dull knot in the pit of my stomach; the same pain I get when my male colleagues talk crap to me. Now though - with the calls at least - I feel nothing but excitement about the appointment I hope to book.

The whore’s number was the only one set in my phone. I selected it and waited for the line to connect. Sometimes they just ring and ring until you hang up. Other times they ring until they’re prematurely cancelled - no doubt because the girl is busy. Then of course there are the ones which are cut short by the answering machine message welcoming you to leave a message and then…

The line connected.

‘Hello?’

Her voice was friendly, professional. I don’t know why this always surprises me. I would have thought the women would be nervous. They are, after all, answering the line to a stranger whose sole intention is to come and fuck them. If the shoe was on the other foot, I would feel nervous about that. The knowledge that you’re on the phone to - basically - a horny pervert looking to use you.

‘Hi,’ I said with a nervous tone which - unbeknownst to her - was faked and all part of the backstory used to help secure an advanced booking. There were, after all, some girls who prefer you phone on the day but, that doesn’t fit in with my plans.

Chapter Eight

The Booking

I.

The first few calls I made - when I first started my monthly therapy - had a fifty-fifty success rate with regards to the appointments getting confirmed. Most girls prefer you call on the day or, if booking in advance, like you to send them a booking request via the website, not trusting that you’re a genuine caller. It was hard to be annoyed, although it was frustrating, because - I guess - they must deal with a lot of men who simply call to jerk off down the line whilst pretending to make an appointment. Even so, I was never impolite on the off-chance I had reason to call the number back at a later date. The last thing I wanted was for them to block it before I’d even had a chance to see them! Also, when I sat down to consider why I kept being turned down, I thought back to what I was saying to them… I sounded like an idiot. My nerves of course made it worse too. I stuttered over my words like a retard and probably made little sense whilst - a bad combination - also sounding breathy as I panicked. They probably thought I was stroking myself whilst they explained their policies. Those who hung around to hear what I said anyway. Some just put the phone down.

Now though I had learned to sound as pathetic as possible whilst talking to the girls. Make yourself sound like an easy mark, someone who could get easily addicted into becoming a regular client. The more regulars they get, the less they need to advertise and stress about their income. Added bonus about seeing someone who sounds unsure of themselves? They tend to be an easier lay than someone of experience. The shy men tend to settle for what is on offer without seeking the weirder requests. At least that’s how I perceive it. Whether I’m right or wrong doesn’t really make a blind bit of difference anyway. This way works for me and that is what matters.

‘Speaking,’ the hooker confirmed her name.

‘I was wondering whether I could make an appointment to see you,’ I told her.

‘I’m sorry, baby, I’m fully booked for today…’

I cut in. ‘Not today,’ I told her. I gave her the date that I was hoping for an appointment and she confirmed that she was free but…

‘You need to go onto the site and book online and,’ she continued, ‘I don’t take advance bookings from people with no positive feedback.’

And this is where the sob story came in. The moment I explained to her that I have no positive experience with computers and so I don’t like to use them. I told her of my girlfriend and the troubles I was having. I told her that she was to be a little treat for myself because I was in town for the day. Unlike other women though, she seemed more interested in the fact that I had a girlfriend. I figured she was not used to people talking of their partners. Instead she was probably used to hearing the lonely little perverts who didn’t have anyone or anything other than their strange fetishes with which they wanted to experiment. I told her again that my imaginary girl and I were having issues and that I was hoping to cheer myself up with an appointment with her. Before she could interrupt again, I told her that I was willing to pay a deposit. Only once had a girl accepted half payment up front via the PayPal money service. When the last girl had said yes I took her details and said I would make the payment and call right back. Needless to say I never made the call and - instead - I booked someone else who was less fussy.

‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to pay a deposit. You say you’re coming to town for the day?’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Business.’

‘And what time were you hoping to see me?’ she asked.

‘Around nine if that is possible?’ Later was okay but earlier was off the cards due to being with Gerald, not that I told her that. She didn’t need to know I was seeing a male escort before her. Probably wouldn’t go down that well.

‘Well I don’t normally do this,’ she said, ‘but okay. Hopefully I’ll cheer you up before sending you home to your girlfriend,’ she teased.

‘I’m sure you will,’ I said, a smile on my face.

‘Because I’m doing you a favour - taking a booking without a deposit though, or online confirmation - can you promise me that you’ll call me back if you need to cancel?’

‘Of course!’

‘And you need to text me the day of the appointment, before ten in the morning, to confirm you’re still coming. When you do, I’ll reply with the address. Okay?’

‘Sounds perfect,’ I told her. ‘I won’t cancel.’

‘Well for your sake I hope you do because it means you’ve made up with your girlfriend,’ she said.

I laughed. ‘I’d still come and see you. A meeting is a meeting,’ I said.

There was a moment’s silence and - for a split second - I thought I had blown it by being too cocky.

‘Okay then,’ she said.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

She took my number. She took my name. The appointment was made and - just like that - I went back to work with a smile on my face and something to look forward to.

‘Someone had a good lunch,’ Jenson said as I walked back into the office. ‘Meet your boyfriend for a quickie?’

I don’t know why but I felt my face blush. Jenson laughed.

Chapter Nine

Optimism

I.

People can talk shit to you, push you, order you to do this and that whilst they themselves do fuck all and yet - despite all the mud throwing around - if you have something nice to look forward to, sometimes their asshole-ways just don’t feel as stressful. With the appointment booked, that was how I felt - nothing could touch me. It didn’t mean I was invincible to their words though, occasionally they could say something and it would stick or - if they were relentless and enough bullshit was flying through the air, then it would break down the barrier I’d managed to put up.

If I was talking to a therapist - never again, by the way - then people might wonder as to why I didn’t just book the next appointment immediately after the last. Well I tried that and whilst it afforded me a high of a week or so, it soon disappeared completely until a few days before the appointment. It’s like Christmas Day as a grown-up. As soon as December comes around you get excited for the day but, by the time the 25th lands, you’re no longer excited. It’s like you only have a certain amount of excitement to expel on such a day and if you use it up too early, you can’t get it back. Well it felt the same about these appointments. Anyway - I found that I was good after the initial appointment because I would be riding high from it. I wouldn’t need to book another session immediately. Why ruin the buzz of what you experienced by jumping the gun and organising another day? Instead it works better to ride that feeling for as long as it lasts and then set yourself up for something to look forward to once the memories start to fade. But then maybe that’s just me and maybe - if I was talking to someone - they would feel differently. Who cares? Even if they did - fuck ‘em. I know how I feel.

After booking another appointment - my days were spent looking forward to it. More specifically my mind was focused on what I was going to do; both to Gerald and then to the whore too. Could I make him cry with harsh words, something I have often wanted to do and yet never managed. And her - what will her screams sound like? How will her body react to my toys sliding into her, both stretching and ripping her well-worn pussy? There was much for my mind to be distracted with and - quite frankly - the next couple of weeks can’t disappear fast enough.

II.

I’m still a week away from the appointment and I’m getting frustrated. I want it here now. If it would do any good, I would stamp my feet and demand it be here now but the real world doesn’t work like that, not even for toddlers who are the ones who usually try and “work” that behaviour to get what they want. Patience was never the strongest of my virtues and I find myself getting snappy with my female colleagues. Only this morning when a woman stepped into the elevator, taking us up to our floor, did I turn to her and ask her what the fuck she was looking at. She answered with a puzzled look, a frown and then she looked away. I snarled and also looked away and the rest of the elevator ride was done in silence. Well I say silence… There was a slight whistling noise coming from - I presume - her nose, every time she breathed in.

III.

I’m not sure why - probably someone signed me up to them - but I get a lot of junk emails come through to both my work system and my personal account, the latter being something I check only when home. It bothers me because I seem to spend half of my life deleting them as I hate a crowded inbox. Occasionally though there are a few which catch my eye. One of them offers a bride, shipped in from another country and guaranteed to love you. The second type of email - and one which intrigues me the most - is the one offering penis enlargement. Some of these emails guarantee results through a simple operation whilst others make mention of a tablet you can get. There’s also one - albeit much dearer than the other messages - which involves an injection. There’s not much else mentioned within the email but I dread to think where the needles goes.

A little prick for your little prick.

There are “reviews” which have supposedly been left by previous buyers but - to be honest - I don’t trust them. Instead I think they’re an extended part of the marketing program designed to get the desperate to part with their cash. Something which I almost did the first time I came across one of the emails. I caught myself at the last minute, just before I hit “buy it now” and then found myself laughing.

‘Idiot.’

Then, of course, I find myself struggling with that little voice in the back of my head. The nagging doubt that - what if the adverts are genuine and the products really work? For just a handful of notes, I too could finally have a cock which didn’t induce laughter. I have to tell the little voice that - if it was real - the adverts would be everywhere and not just limited to junk mail and the back of pornographic magazines. To think though, if they were real and just didn’t take off because no one believed them to be… All my woes could have been dealt with back at college.

I spent the next couple of days arguing with myself about picking one of the most “real” looking adverts and just biting the bullet to give it a go. Some people might think that a waste of time, to argue with yourself, but - for me - it worked well as it distracted my excitement from the impending appointments.

Less than a week to go now.

Chapter Ten

Today’s The Day

I.

I start the day with a text message to both the whore and Gerald, confirming the appointments. Gerald never responds unless there is a problem but the whore was quick to reply; a text with her address attached. I then have a hearty breakfast; a fry-up. Usually I rarely have anything other than a cup of coffee to get me going in the morning. No milk, just two teaspoons of coffee for an extra kick. I do not eat, then, until midday when I feel as though my stomach has woken up. Today though - and days like this - it’s always a fry-up. The breakfast will consist of two eggs, two hash browns, two rashers of bacon, a tomato and some beans. Despite putting it on the plate, I never eat the tomato. Truth be told I don’t know why I don’t just skip it given it always ends up in the bin but then - maybe my brain doesn’t believe the meal to be breakfast without it present? Who knows. Maybe there’s a tiny part of me that - one day - believes I may actually give it a go and try it? Doubtful but you never know. As I’ve mentioned a fair amount - my brain often makes little sense.

I wash my breakfast down with a tall glass of orange juice. I choose the brand with the pulp even though I don’t actually like the pulp. I just feel as though it is better for you and I’m trying all I can to ensure my body is healthy. Almost all I can. I stop shy of exercise other than a walk to the shops now and then. The meal is rounded off nicely with my usual cup of coffee as I head out of the door full of energy and my mind fixed on what I’ll be doing later that evening.

Tonight - for the first time ever - I am hoping to try anal with the whore. Gerald has often asked me to penetrate him as apparently he doesn’t feel as though he is being a good escort if he hasn’t at least offered me the chance to stick my cock inside him. When I decline he simply says that - one day - it will happen. We both laugh. We both move on, apart from the time - that is - when I put his dick in my mouth as he wanked it to climax. We won’t be repeating that this evening and nor will I be allowing him to penetrate me, something else he offers at every appointment despite me saying it isn’t for me.

‘How do you know if you don’t try it?’ he had asked me before. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I technically have tried it. Sure it wasn’t a real dick but my ex-girlfriend had a moulded penis hidden away under her bed. It was at a time when she lived with me despite the pair of us no longer being an item. Feeling both lonely and horny, I’m embarrassed to admit that I stole away both her dirty panties from the wash basket and the toy from under the bed. As I sniffed the juice from the gusset of her cotton panties, I also sniffed the shaft of the toy. After a sniff, a little lick and - from there - there was only one place left to go and, using my spit as a lube, I’m not ashamed to admit squatting down on her toy. The size was not something I was used to - either inside me or just in my hands - and the sting wasn’t something I found enjoyable. Just as well - really - given she found both her panties and the toy and took them back from me.

As I drove to work, keen for the day to start just so it could be over quicker, I heard Gerald’s voice again, ‘How do you know if you don’t try it?’

II.

The morning part of this day is the time I feel at my strongest. I have the appointment to look forward to and - being so close - I find myself reminiscing about appointments prior too. The thoughts of those, the thoughts of what I’m going to do that night and - just like that - nothing can touch me. This is the time I find myself sitting in my office booth contemplating the existence of people such as Jenson. Whilst I can’t deny the pleasure I get from shouting at Gerald during our appointments, I can’t say it would be something I wanted to do to strangers, or colleagues, on a day to day basis.

I watch Jenson strut around the office, imagining kicking his head in as he does so, he’s overly cocky and arrogant with most people he talks to. In fact the only time he really changes is tone is when he is talking to the women. I guess he and I have that in common. To him I am quiet, to them I am not afraid to speak my mind. Well mostly. I avoid Jan in accounts.

What does Jenson get out of speaking crap to other people though? Does he go home at the end of the day and feel good about himself or does he go home and regret the things that he has said? Looking back to how I was with my ex - I occasionally feel regret and embarrassment, not that I would ever tell her. In fact even if she was to ask I would most likely call her a pathetic whore and push her away again. Not because it’s the right thing to do - I know it’s not. It’s just the way my brain seems to be programmed. Maybe a defence mechanism because people have hurt me so - before anyone new gets the chance to hurt me again - I push them away with cruel words. Well, the women. I don’t say shit to the men in my life, not that there are many.

Watching Jenson now, I’m half-tempted to go and talk to him. I want to ask him what his problem is. I want to find out why he feels the need to be this way. I know I won’t though, even when I am closer to talking to him than ever before… So close that I get that feeling of adrenaline pump through my body. I won’t talk to him about that kind of thing. Not just that - I won’t start a conversation with him period. I like to pretend it’s because he isn’t worth my time but the truth of the matter is - as painful as it is to admit it - I’m too much of a pussy to. It doesn’t surprise me that my brain should say such a thing. I’ve heard it enough times that it has become true. I am a pussy. That’s why I am cruel to the women around the work place - not because I am sexist and necessarily enjoy being that way but because I need to try and retain some masculinity and that seems to be the only way for me to do so. Huh. As my story goes on - slowly things start to make more sense to me. I won’t pick on the men because I am fearful for how much more they can stamp on me. I will pick on women because I’m trying to prove myself as a man. My own brain is calling me out. My own mind is saying I’m pathetic.

Just as it usually works out, my mood for the afternoon changes and I find myself needing the appointment more than at any other time during the month. The rest of the day is spent watching the clock.

III.

And here I repeat myself:

I looked at the clock hanging on the wall. The seconds pass with the sweeping second-hand. The minute hand ticks with a tock. The time seems slower today - not helped by the ever-increasing workload piling up on my office desk which I’m struggling to ignore. Nor is time’s slowness helped by them. Their constant laughing and whispering behind my back for whatever reason floats their boat today. Yesterday it was the fact I had white socks on under my black trousers. Today it’s - God only knows what. I can hear them whispering but not clearly enough to make the words out. As Jenson passes my desk with a muttered word under his breath, I want to snap at him. Tell him to go and fuck himself - preferably with a chainsaw - its blade rotating fast, tearing up his arsehole whilst splattering blood, bone and shit around his room. The room itself, in my head, no doubt decorated in Hello Kitty merchandise. I say nothing. I know my words will only make things worse. I just push my hate for him - and them - back down into my gut where it belongs, for now at least. Tonight I’ll purge the hatred out of my soul during my appointment. The hour hand finally hits four. One more hour left until I get out of here, and away from them. Four more hours left until I vent my hatred. Time is always slower when I have something to look forward to.

II.

Some people want to work on this floor because of the view from the windows. On a clear day you can see the mountains perfectly on the other side of the lake. Some people say it is beautiful. Not me though. I see the view and just feel even more trapped in this dead end job. Like the view is there saying, Look at me… look what you can’t get to because you’re stuck in there. That’s not the worst thing about being on this floor though. There’s also the issue with the elevator.

I press the button and stand back as I wait.

And wait.

The whole building kicks out at the same time. There are ten floors. This is the tenth. That’s ten floors of people all leaving their workstations now. Ten floors of people all trying to use the same lift. The same single elevator. I’d like to meet the idiot who designed this building and shake their hand. And then I’d smash them on the head with a cash register stuffed with heavy coinage from a busy shift at next door’s Taco Bell.

‘Hey, Donald!’ A voice from behind snaps me from my day-dream. I don’t turn around. I know who it is and I have no desire to see them, let alone speak to them. ‘Any plans tonight?’ I frown, confused by the question. Normally they don’t try and be civil to me, they just… ‘Or just going to sit in and talk to an imaginary girlfriend?’ He laughs. There’s more laughter too - all jumbled together so I can’t tell who is standing with him but, no doubt, it is the usual group. With quips like that, it’s hard to remember they’re in their thirties, like me.

The elevator door pings open and I step in. I don’t turn around to face them, or even flip them off like I would like to. Again there’s no point. It’ll only make things worse for myself. I face the wall as another person enters the lift with me.

‘Ignore them.’ The doors close and I turn around. Elizabeth is standing there with a sympathetic look on her face as though her life is so fucking perfect. ‘They’re just idiots.’

I smile.

‘Mind your own business, cunt.’

She takes a step back. Her expression one of shock.

I reiterate, ‘Fucking cunt.’

III.

I sit in my car, eyeing the carpark exit. Then my eyes scan the line of vehicles all waiting their turn to leave. This is the other bad part of working on the tenth floor: By the time you get to your car, you’re already at the back of the queue. Sometimes you can add an additional half hour onto your work day just to get out of the carpark. Not what I need on a day when I have plans but then why am I even surprised? This is my life now. If something can go wrong, it will.

I resist the urge to slam my fist down on the horn.

I’d better not miss my appointment.

It’s here the evenings change ever so slightly - each one giving me another good memory to cherish until next month’s appointment. I know this can’t last forever - one day I will be caught and my journals read and dissected but, until then, I’ll just keep making the best memories that I can whilst enjoying my monthly therapy sessions. I’m not sure when it will all come crashing down around me or even how it will play out but… So long as I have the memories, that’s good enough for me. And Donnie Diddy Dick? Probably wouldn’t be very popular in prison so at least I’d be left alone… I smiled at the thought of the peace and tranquility. I smiled at the thought of prison. Prison being a good place to end this story…

Chapter Eleven

Therapy

I.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. I’d utilised the full hour shouting at him, hardly taking a breath. The words, they just seemed to flow from me this evening. Gerald still didn’t cry though. He was sitting in his usual chair, wearing nothing but his boxers. He did look shocked though. Truth be told, I kind of shocked myself.

‘I feel done,’ I said after a moment’s pause. My voice quieter now. My throat sore from all the shouting. ‘May I get a drink?’ I asked.

Gerald, ever the good host, got up and walked from the room. He called through the options and I requested just a glass of water. But let the cold tap run a moment first. When he returned, he had a glass of water in his hand. He passed it to me and I more or less downed it in one as he took his seat again.

‘All this time of you coming to see me, I’ve never asked…’

I looked at him, wondering where this was going.

‘What?’

‘You ask all the questions about me but - I try and respect your privacy.’

‘You don’t have to tell me stuff,’ I said, getting defensive.

‘That’s not what I meant.’ He continued, ‘I just don’t really know you. And I don’t need to, obviously, but I feel as though…’ He stopped himself. I frowned, still unsure of where this was going. He said, ‘But why this?’

‘This?’

‘Why do you book me to shout at me like you do?’

Silence.

I have a hard enough time explaining it in my journals. How do I actually tell someone to their face why I do it? And - even if I could find the right words to get out exactly what I mean - would they even understand?

‘You were saying something,’ I said, choosing to change the subject instead.

‘What?’

‘You feel as though… You stopped yourself short. What were you going to say?’ I looked at Gerald, even more curious, as his face reddened. Then, without meaning to, I laughed. ‘Come on,’ I pushed for an answer, ‘what were you going to say?’

He got up and walked over to where I was standing until he was close enough to touch. A part of me felt curious. Another part of me felt excited. Without a word he leaned forward and kissed me - just a little peck - on the mouth. His eyes were locked to mine as he pulled away, trying to gauge my reaction. I was just standing there, unsure of what to say. He filled in the silence.

‘I feel as though we are more than just a business arrangement,’ he said. ‘Usually it’s the clients who are meant to fall in love with the escort but it appears to be the other way around here.’ He laughed. Embarrassment, I guess? ‘You’re what I think about each and every day. Other than that one time, we’ve never tried anything else and yet you’re well and truly in my head and I don’t know why. Not that I need to know. I like the feeling. I like feeling like this and…’ He hesitated.

‘And…?’

‘And there’s a part of me that knows it is foolish because I know very little about you but there’s another part of me which hopes you feel the same for me.’

I frowned. ‘I come here monthly - have done for a time now - and shout at you… I bully you with cruel words…’

‘Sticks and stones and all that,’ he said. ‘Anyway it’s role-playing. I can tell from our conversations, the way you listen as I tell you about my life… That’s not who you really are.’

‘It’s not?’

‘And who am I?’ I asked, curious about the answer. I know how I perceive myself but - how do others look upon me?

‘I don’t know who you are. That’s what I am saying.’

Disappointed.

‘I know what you are though.’

‘Oh?’ I asked, ‘And what am I?’

He stepped forward and put his hands on my waist. ‘You’re repressed,’ he said, leaning in for another kiss. I didn’t pull away. This time his kiss - still closed mouthed - lingered on my lips a while longer. He pulled away again - his eyes still fixed on mine and a smile on his face. I too was smiling yet I still didn’t tell him that I spent the vast majority of my month thinking about him too. There is a need to see him to vent and make myself feel as though I am “one of them” as opposed to just another one of life’s many victims. Maybe there is more to it than that though? My desire to see him, that is. Maybe I want to see him because - actually - he is the closest thing that I have to a friend? This man, this once upon a time stranger, potentially being more than just my own form of monthly therapy. He’s never once spoken badly to me, he’s never once been anything but kind… My thoughts are silenced as he kissed me again. This time his tongue pressed against my closed lips. I opened them, slightly, and let him enter me as my own tongue started to explore his. Down there, I could feel his erection pressing into me. A firm, hard, throbbing member. My mind immediately raced back to the evening I had let it enter my mouth and the taste of his salty pre-cum as I had worked his shaft with my hand, flicking my tongue across the head of it like I’d seen in the many Internet movies I’d streamed over the years. I felt a small stirring from below and my mind started questioning whether I had actually liked doing it the only time we’d tried and that the only reason I had turned away from it was because of what it had meant. Am I a homosexual? Is that the reason I had really pushed my ex away? The more my mind raced the more it had the potential to make sense.

My head was spinning as I tried to make sense of everything - an act made harder as Gerald pulled away from me for a third time and lowered his shorts, freeing his erection. Still smiling, he reached for my trousers and started to fiddle with the belt.

Panic.

Vicki’s cruel taunts came to mind. The name she had called me, Donnie Diddy Dick. The way she had spread the word - and name - around college and how quickly it had been picked up by everyone and used against me. I pulled away from Gerald.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I have to go.’

Before he could say anything, I hurried towards the front door. I gave a final look over my shoulder before I opened the door. He was standing there, a look of genuine disappointment on his face.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.

I stepped out and closed the door behind me. This was the first appointment I’d had where we hadn’t made plans for a follow-up and I felt sick. The reason for the sickness swirling in my stomach though - is that because I am worried about having to find another man for next month’s appointment, that I have ruined it with Gerald… Or am I feeling sick because I have come to realise my whole life has been a lie?

I need to get to my second appointment. I need things to play out the way they’d done every other month. As I hurried down the stairwell of the apartment block, I pulled my mind away from the kiss and the pleasure felt from it and focused more about sliding my altered sex toys into the well-used pussy of the whore I was about to hurt. I am not gay. That’s not me.

Thinking about a toy cutting the insides of the whore, ripping the flesh like a sharp nail.

… This is who I am.

A voice in my head: Donnie Diddy Dick.

‘Fuck you.’ I spat.

Epilogue

WHORE

I.

My client - a gentleman called Donald - should be here within the next five minutes and, as per usual, I am cutting it fine with the final preparations; last minute touch-up to my make-up to try and hide the fact that, only an hour ago, another client had been with me. A regular; a nice gentleman who doesn’t have time for a relationship and sees me on a weekly basis to save himself from getting too lonely, or detached from human contact. The opposite kind of person to what I am expecting from Donald; an asshole who is content with cheating on his partner because things at home aren’t going as swimmingly well as he’d hoped. Or - as I have heard before - the grass was greener on the other side.

I don’t plan on kissing him. French kissing is at my discretion after all and, I don’t kiss cheats. With that in mind I don’t stress too much about sucking on a mint. Besides I am sure the latex smell is off my breath now - the downside to only offering services with protection being the constant taste of rubber in your mouth from where you’ve taken them down your throat. Or rather, as much of them down your throat as possible.

Happy with the reflection staring back at me in the bathroom mirror, I set the make-up down and had a quick final check around the house to ensure everything was in place for Donald. There are a couple of drinks lined up on the side, candles lit to ensure a more romantic setting along with burning incense to hide the stink of sex which lingers in the air. Plastic sheeting on the bed. I do believe I am good to go.

There’s a knock on the door.

And just in the nick of time too.

II.

Donald isn’t what I expected although I wasn’t surprised by his beard. Most men seem to sport beards these days - an occupational hazard for me given the number of times I’ve gotten a rash down there from them. What surprised me was the way he walked in with a backpack over his shoulder and a baseball cap on his head. The bag - fair enough, maybe he had a change of clothes he wanted to put on? Some clients like to dress as women and he looks as though he could be the sort? Or some like to come wearing latex. They like to get all submissive and have me tie them down before teasing them through to an orgasm. But I think, in all my years doing this, he is the first person to arrive wearing a baseball cap. Part of me wonders, if the appointment was going to go the way he thought, would he keep it on during?

He has so far been fairly quiet with his conversation too. We sorted the money side of things and he had thanked me for trusting him with an appointment - which I thought was a nice touch - but everything else seems distant, as though something heavy weighs on his mind. But then I know what is on his mind and it should be weighing down on him. He should be thinking about his girlfriend.

I’ll give him one last chance, just as I always do.

III.

‘Things haven’t worked out with your girlfriend then?’ I asked him.

For a split second he looked confused and then suddenly snapped back to reality and the question I’d asked him.

‘No. We’re still going through a rough patch,’ he said.

‘Still together though?’ I pushed. If he wasn’t, and they had broken up, then technically he wasn’t cheating.

‘We’re still together but - yeah - the sex has dried up so…’ He smiled. ‘Well here I am.’

‘Here you are.’

He had his chance. He blew it.

‘Drink?’ I offered him.

‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘Listen - I was wondering if you would be willing to put a show on for me?’

‘A show?’

‘I just want to watch you play with yourself,’ he explained.

I nodded. It’s not an uncommon request.

‘If that’s what you want.’ I took a hold of one of the pre-filled champagne flutes and handed it to him. ‘But first - don’t make me drink alone,’ I told him. He didn’t argue and took the glass from me. With such little argument, I found myself wondering whether the drink was even necessary. Here is a guy who - when he has watched me cum - might have been more than happy for me to tie him up. Oh well. No sense wasting it now I’ve poured it. I took my own drink and sipped. He sipped his.

‘So what else did you want to do?’ I asked him.

Small chat until the drink is finished.

IV.

I despise cheats. They’re the lowest of the low. If you’re not happy with someone, let them go. Don’t try and fuck around behind their back because when they find out - and they will - it causes such hurt that sometimes people struggle to recover from it. It doesn’t matter whether it is a man cheating on a woman or a woman cheating on a man - I hate it all. And that’s why I drug the people who openly admit to cheating on their partners. Come and see me as a singleton and you’ll have the best appointment of your life. Come as part of a failed relationship and you won’t leave. You’ll be added to the collection of body parts already gathered. You’ll become just a statistic. Of course Donnie won’t understand any of this when he wakes up: drugged from the drink. He’ll just be angry and confused as to why he is tied to the bed. Not that I’ll hear his muffled voice as I pin my weight down on his face. Grind my pussy down upon him… Give the cheat one last feast before he runs out of oxygen and meets my ever-growing arsenal of saws.

He brought this upon himself. All he had to do was cancel the appointment or - if he kept it - admit to me that he was no longer with his girlfriend and was, in fact, single. People like Donald, they always bring it upon themselves.

I’m sitting by the bed where I have dragged his unconscious body before tying him down. I’ll wait for him to wake up and then I’ll tease him. I’ll sit on his face and I’ll stay there, getting myself off by pushing down on his tongue, until he stops writhing beneath me. I’ll wait a little longer to know he truly is gone and then - if I’m still in the mood - I’ll ride his cock until I have myself a happy climax before I set about working on cutting him up, ready for disposal.

I feel wet at the thought of having his cock inside me. I hope he’s well endowed… Hopefully a nice surprise waiting for me when I strip him off after he’s deceased.

‘Urgghhh…’

I look over to Donald. He’s starting to wake up. I smiled. Here we go again.

Want to know more about the hooker and her murderous rage? Click here: The story continues in “WHORE”.