Scissors Copyright © 2022

by Simon McHardy & Sean Hawker

All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover design by Drew Stepek of Booksaw & godless.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First Published March 2022
Potter’s Grove Press, LLC

pottersgrovepress.com

Dedicated to Malcolmcat and Bugsycat

The doorbell chimes out a few bars of Lou Reed’s ‘Walk on the Wild Side.’ I throw down my Women’s Only magazine and look out of the lounge window. Gavin, the postie, whistles and waves to me. My heart punches against my ribcage. Today I am expecting a letter that will change my life forever. Before opening the door, I pause in front of the full-length, hallway mirror. My pink, silk kimono is open at the front, and I cup my hands under my bra to perk up my double Ds before flicking up the ends of my wig and unlocking the door.

Gavin smiles and I return his friendly greeting. I think he fancies me. Glancing over his shoulder, I see my elderly neighbour, Mr Brownsword, peering over the top of his hedge, licking and smacking his lips. He must be doing some early morning pruning. The shrubbery he’s standing behind shakes. I know he has onset Parkinson’s disease, but he must have taken a turn for the worse lately. “What have you got for me today, Gavin?”

“Bunch of letters, for now.” He winks and hands over a bundle of mail secured with a rubber band. “And this one which needs to be signed for.” He holds the white envelope in front of me. The blue NHS stamp in the top corner leaps out at me, and my Adam’s apple bobs up and down in my throat. This is it. I freeze for a second before seizing the letter and yanking it out of Gavin’s grasp.

“Thanks,” I grunt. Gavin’s always ready with a stream of small talk, but right now I’m keen to get rid of him and find out what the letter from the NHS says. I notice his eyes glance down at my cantaloupe-sized breasts.

“I was wondering if you’d fancy a dri—”

“—No thank you, Gavin. Sorry, I’m busy all this week.” He’s a nice guy and all, but he’s just not my type. I’m pretty sure he’s mildly retarded. He also has a withered hand, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable if it touched me. I close the door firmly and run into the lounge.

Ensconcing myself on the sofa, I take a deep breath and tear open the envelope. My eyes race over the single, typed sheet.

Dear Miss Daphne Potter,

After careful consideration of your request for gender reassignment surgery, we regret to inform you that your application has been denied. Due to budgetary restraints and the information you have supplied, the operation has been deemed non-essential. Should you still wish to have gender reassignment surgery, it will be at your own expense.

Yours faithfully,

Mary Hope

Senior Gender Reassignment Specialist

My face reddens. “If I could afford it, I would.” The air catches in my chest and I can’t breathe. I screw up the letter and fling the paper ball to the ground. “Transphobic cunts.” I sink back into the sofa where a Himalayan cat lies sprawled on the armrest. I never anticipated they’d say no, otherwise I wouldn’t have spent my life savings on these new tits. Society is meant to be progressive and supportive of marginalised groups. It isn’t fair. The National Health Service pays for fatties to have gastric sleeves fitted all the time to stop them from stuffing themselves with cakes and pies. Unlike gender, it’s their choice to eat too much and become obese. It’s not my fault I was born in the wrong body.

Now I’m stuck with a cock the NHS refuses to remove. “What am I going to do, Mr Wigglebutt?” The cat opens a sleepy eye, sees I don’t have any food, and closes it again. I eye the bottle of gin on the shelf of the drinks’ cabinet and get up to pour myself a triple with a splash of tonic. I drain it in two gulps, and pour another, and then another, until the bottle is half empty.

My kimono has risen up past the top of my thighs and I stare down at my crotch. The familiar sight of the huge bulge in my lace panties greets me. My penis is enormous and unladylike. Tucking doesn’t work. All it does is make it appear as if I have a severe case of haemorrhoids. I pull my willy out and glare at it. It’s floppy, meaty, and crisscrossed with thick, salmon-coloured scars. Whenever I’m upset, I always take it out on Colin the Cock. “I hate you.” Colin stares blankly. The pee hole stretches in a long, thin line, indifferent to my hostility. “I never asked to have you. You just grew, and you shouldn’t have.” I throttle him tightly. His head swells and flushes bright purple. It hurts but feels good too. I stomp through to the kitchen, still choking Colin, and rifle through the drawers searching for the scissors I use to cut up meat and poultry. I flop back on the sofa, clasping the scissors and gin bottle, and scowl down at Colin who has gone numb.

“Why can’t you just fuck off, Colin?” The dick hole stares at me like the great Eye of Sauron. “Stop looking at me. Stop judging me.” I twist the tip of the scissors into the urethral opening. “Everything is your fault.” I dig the scissor blades in deeper until blood bubbles out of the hole and runs down the veiny shaft onto my leg. It hurts like a son of a bitch. Usually, it feels therapeutic, but today it’s not working.

Frustrated, I shake Colin violently then punch him in the head until he’s throbbing and swollen. I rake the scissors across the tender, purple flesh again and again. I still feel nothing but hurt and anguish. “Fuck you, Colin,” I scream in anger.

I open the scissors wider and press the blades to the base of my cock. “I should cut you off, you filthy worm. Then I can get the cunt I deserve.” I take another shot of gin straight from the bottle and snap the scissors shut. A searing flash of pain shoots from my groin to my toes. I peer down at Colin. He’s lying nonchalantly on a bed of pubic hair. My crotch is warm and wet, and my nose catches a strong whiff of ammonia. I poke Colin with the scissors. He rolls off the thatch of hair and dangles from the edge of the sofa, suspended in the air by a few strings of flesh. “Oh my God, what have I done?” I whimper. I can’t leave him hanging there like a hooked fish. Since I’ve gone this far, I’ll have to remove everything. After another large swig from the bottle, I snip at the tissue between my legs until what’s left is a bloody mess of flappy skin. Pinching my fingers, I peel the nut sac away from my groin and Colin follows still connected to it. The mound of raw meat plops to the floor. Colin and his bag of balls lie between my feet.

My heart thumps aggressively in my chest, and my cock stump spurts blood several inches into the air. An intense burning sensation travels down my quivering thighs, but I don’t care about the pain as much as the blood. Why’s it bleeding so much? Colin wasn’t even erect. “Fuck, what am I going to do?” I haul myself up. The blood sprays over Mr Wigglebutt’s beautiful, white coat. He hisses and runs from the room, leaving crimson pawprints on the carpet. I press a cushion against my pulsating stump to staunch the flow, but the blood continues to pump and soak through the cushion onto the carpet. If I don’t stem the flow soon, I’m a dead woman.

I remember watching the movie, Rambo, when I was a little girl. In one scene he cauterises a wound with a burning branch. A trail of blood follows me to the kitchen. I turn on the stove element. It glows red in seconds. My wound can’t reach, even when I rip off my panties, hitch my leg up onto the countertop, and thrust my hips downwards. I’m forced to climb up and squat over the top of the stove, careful not to roast my asshole. Blood splatters onto the element and hisses and smokes. I lower my stump onto the hot plate, scream in pain, and jerk back. Blood still oozes from the wound, and I press my stub back onto the glowing element. After counting to five, I tear my charred flesh from the hotplate and half fall to the floor. I writhe on the cool tiles, sobbing and retching from the stench of burnt, hairy meat.

The jets of blood have stopped. My stump is covered with a black crust, and my thighs are streaked with dark, coagulating blood. I’m going to have to call an ambulance to rush me to the hospital, but first I must ensure some overzealous, genius surgeon can’t reattach what I’ve detached. A pulse pounds behind my eyeballs and blood dribbles down my throat from where I’ve bitten through my lip. I’m close to passing out, but my butchered off-cuts must be disposed of. This might be my one chance of scoring a free pussy.

I scoop up Colin and the testicles from the floor. He looks small and sad in my cupped hands. He’s covered in blood and it seeps out both ends. His helmet has gone from purple to grey. I’d drop him in the blender if I could and put him out of his misery, but I don’t own one. As much as I despise the prick, the least I can do is treat him like a departed pet and bury him in the garden. I turn off the stove and lurch out of the back door and across the lawn with him and his package clutched in my hand. I’m not much of a gardener and the flowers have long ago been choked to death by weeds, but I find a pleasant spot under the shade of an apple tree. I fall on my hands and knees and start to dig Colin’s grave. The soil is soft from last night’s shower. I lower the cock and balls into the hole and pile the damp soil over them.

“Nice kimono,” a voice croaks behind me. I turn my head and see Mr Brownsword on the other side of the fence, ogling me. “But I bet you’ve got something much nicer under it.” He coughs up a wad of green phlegm and brushes it onto his shirt. “How about you pull it up and show me? Grandpa wants to see your lovely, round bottom. I haven’t seen a derrière as juicy as yours since I was stationed in France during the war.” I’ve got no time for this lecherous, old creep. The best course of action will be to do what he wants. That should make the horny bastard piss off. I pat down the earth and sprinkle a few leaves over the small mound.

I lift my hands from the ground and slowly pull up the silky fabric, pausing midway to slide it from side to side over my bottom and give him a smirk over my raised shoulder. His raspy breath increases. I wiggle my ass and draw the kimono up to my waist. My hands caress my buttocks and disappear into my ass crack. I part my cheeks to give him a good eyeful of my barbecued bits and perform a few more wiggles. “What in God’s name is THAT?”

“Do you like what you see?” I’m feeling woozy and my speech is slurred. Mr Brownsword stutters in shock. “By the way, you couldn’t do me a favour and phone for an ambulance?” The world fades to black and my face hits the dirt.

My eyelids flutter open. I am lying on my lounge sofa with an IV-line dangling above me. A female paramedic, whose name badge says she’s Sara, kneels between my legs and tends to my groin. Her partner, Ryan, a young male, slumps against the wall and stares at me with wide-eyed horror. “How long have I been unconscious?” I ask, groggily. The cooked stub of my severed cock is a furnace of agony.

Sara glances at her watch. “A little over six minutes has elapsed from the time we received the call to finding you prone in the back garden and transporting you inside.” She nods at the cannula in my arm. “I’ve given you something for the pain. It’ll kick in shortly, then we’ll get you to hospital. “Did you do this to yourself?”

“Yes,” I reply.

Sara shakes her head and proceeds to slather my wound with a cream that stings to fuckery and then dress it with bandages. “Where’s your penis now, sir?” She observes me from between my legs.

“It’s ma’am,” I correct her. “I put it in the blender and then I drank it.”

“Oh my God.” the male ambo sprays his shoes with puke and runs from the room.

Sara finishes treating me and then coaxes her partner back to help lower me onto a stretcher. I am rushed to hospital with lights flashing and sirens blaring.

A hospital psychiatrist evaluates me whilst I’m recovering in bed. She deems my actions to be related to a gender identity crisis. The hospital is very supportive and grants me a vagina, free of charge. I’m bumped to the top of the waiting list, and before I know it, I’m being told the surgery is a success. Within a week, I’m out of hospital, a new woman.

My cis female friend, Susan, has been around to feed Mr Wigglebutt. She left me a note stuck to the fridge saying she’d cleaned up the paramedic’s vomit and my blood on the carpet, but she was unable to clean Mr Wigglebutt properly due to her own blood loss from severe feline lacerations. Mr Wigglebutt is waiting for me at the front door and wants more food. After I feed him, I head to my bedroom for my thrice-daily vaginal dilation routine. I lie on the bed with a pillow under my hips and ease off the pad taped over my raw, puffy pussy. The specialist nurse gave me a kit and five vaginal dilators from toothpick size to sword size. I have to work my way through the range until I can accommodate a colossal cock. The sword size is not as big as Colin, though. My willy was a whopper, and in a way, I was really proud of him. I don’t want to poke anything into my new opening. My vagina already feels as if it’s been fucked with a broken beer bottle, but needs must prevail. If I don’t follow instructions, my new pussy hole will shrink to the size of a belly button and be just as useful.

Mr Wigglebutt jumps on the bed after he’s finished his tuna and pads over to investigate. His eyes are wide with curiosity as I part my newly acquired labia and inspect my shiny, pink clitoris. He sniffs at my snatch and tries to lick it. I shove him away. The surgeon told me the sexual pleasure from sensitivity will come after the healing, but right now the smallest dilator feels like a flaming battering ram. Now for the hygiene bit. The nurse gave me a powerpoint presentation on how to clean all my folds.

By the evening, I am exhausted after repeating my routine a couple more times, and I collapse into bed. My sleep is riddled with dark dreams and menacing shadows tapping on the window. When I wake in the morning and draw the curtains, LET ME IN has been written in dried blood on the exterior of the glass. It must have been Mr Brownsword. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve caught him up a ladder, peering through my windows. I clean off the scrawl, but the words continue to nag at me as I go about my day. My pussy’s very fat and swollen as if I’ve used a vagina pump. Dilation is really painful, but I grit my teeth and get through it. By early evening, I’m shattered again and ready to call it a day. I check the house is secure in case the pervert next door tries to come back during the night. I let Mr Wigglebutt out the front door even though he can use his cat flap, and stagger off to bed.

Rays of sunlight beam through the flimsy curtains and wake me. The hands on my bedside alarm clock point to ten o’clock. Dirt is smeared all over my blanket and Mr Wigglebutt sits by my pillow with what looks like a bald-headed, decomposed rat in his mouth. The cat’s white face is smeared in dark brown streaks. I shriek and spring out of bed. Mr Wigglebutt drops his prey onto my pillow and purrs, awaiting my praise and affection. What the hell? The rat has balls instead of legs. I gasp as it dawns on me that I’m not looking at a dead rodent, but at a severed penis and testicles. Mr Wigglebutt has exhumed Colin and brought him to me as a gift. The cock is bloated and smells like spoiled meat. “Bad Mr Wigglebutt,” I growl.

I fetch a pair of rubber gloves and a black bin bag, then scoop up the putrid mess resting on my pillow. Touching Colin gives me the creeps. He’s overripe and his body undulates. If I grasp him too tightly and he bursts, I’ll be showered with maggots. The testicles have distended to the size of tennis balls. A layer of slimy scrotum skin is in the midst of sloughing off, and the sac is full of little holes where creepy crawlies have gnawed through. I stuff him into the bin bag and tie the ends into a double knot. I carry Colin at arm’s length to the wheelie bin and drop him inside. Mr Wigglebutt or any of the local wildlife won’t be able to get him in there, but any bin raider rummaging through my rubbish will get one hell of a fright. I go inside and change all my bedding.

My first visitors arrive soon after for a post-op party, but I’m not really in the mood to entertain guests. They don’t take no for an answer when I try to cancel, so I’m forced to spend the day feigning everything is alright, that I’m not in a lot of pain, and seeing a decayed Colin hasn’t affected me emotionally. He looked so pathetic, all rotten and dishevelled, and I was the one who did it to him. I have to excuse myself after lunch to dilate my vagina. When I return to the lounge, everyone is still there, giggling and making jokes about me sneaking off to masturbate. I pretend to laugh. In the late afternoon, I finally manage to get rid of my visitors by telling them I feel unwell and need to rest. After they leave, guilt washes over me. I’m usually a social person, and my friends didn’t deserve to be dismissed. I should be ecstatic. Colin’s gone and I have a cunt, a neat one no less, and not one of those overfilled kebab-looking monstrosities. But I’m miserable, and I sob into my pillow until I fall asleep.

I’m woken up in the night by blood-curdling screeching from a catfight. I fear it’s Mr Wigglebutt and rush outside and call him. He doesn’t come, and I return to my bed. He doesn’t wake me in the morning either as he usually does. My panic levels rise when I can’t find him anywhere in the house. I search for him outside and discover him on the grass near my bedroom window. His jaws gape open, and his body is all twisted and misshapen as if something has brutalised him from the inside. I wrap him in his favourite blanket and place him in a hole near to where I buried Colin. The rest of the day is spent in vaginal dilation and weeping. The phone rings on and off, but I don’t want to speak to anyone. I draw the curtains closed and ignore the doorbell when Gavin arrives to deliver the mail.

That night I’m startled awake by the clattering of the cat flap. For a moment I think it’s Mr Wigglebutt. Tears stream over my cheeks when I remember he’s dead and buried under the apple tree. Maybe it’s a neighbourhood cat or a rat? I’ve had rat problems before. That’s why I got Mr Wigglebutt in the first place. I lie in the darkness and listen intently.

The sliver of light from the landing widens as my bedroom door creaks open. I sit bolt upright and grip my nightgown over my breasts. “Who’s there?” I croak. A shadow moves from the doorway and something scuttles across the floor. It pulls itself up the side of the bed. I’m too afraid to move. It wriggles beneath the covers and creeps toward me. A cold lump presses against my inner thighs and snuffles around my crotch. Oh God, I’m not wearing any panties. Mr Wigglebutt’s absence has emboldened it, and the rodent has managed to push open the door of my room. I’m totally paralysed and freaking out.

“What the fuck?” a muffled voice says. I jerk the covers back and shriek. It’s Colin. “You-you’ve got a… cunt,” he proclaims.

Shit, I’ve overdone the painkillers. I’m hallucinating. I’m too stressed and experiencing a manic episode. I breathe in slowly and deeply and try to prise myself from the grip of this nightmare. This is not really happening. Panicking won’t do any good. He fucking stinks though.

“Yes,” I say. “I had an operation.”

“You traitorous bitch. You cut me off and then replaced me with a fucking pussy. I can’t believe you’d do that. Especially to a glorious specimen like me.”

“I am a woman. I have complete autonomy over my body. It’s my personal choice to remove a penis which conflicts with the gender I identify with.” I don’t believe this. I must be off my rocker. A severed cock has crawled into my bed and is lecturing me, forcing me to justify myself!

“After all you’ve put me through, cutting and hacking at me for years when you were depressed, and then you finally chop me off and throw me in the bin as if I’m worthless. You don’t care I’m physically and mentally scarred from all the self-harm you’ve inflicted upon me. And to top it off, you replace me and my balls with a goddamn vagina. It’s an attack on my masculinity. Oh, the shame!”

It’s true. I have put Colin through hell. “Sorry,” I say, meekly.

“And what about the good times? Wanking onto the gusset of your father’s underwear when you were six?  Jamming me through glory holes to an uncertain fate? Didn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It-it did, but that was the old me. I’ve changed. I’m comfortable with who I am now. I don’t need you anymore.”

“That hurts, more than any knife or pair of scissors ever could.” Colin flops down between my thighs, dejected. The cock mouth turns from a horizontal split to a downward curve. A long silence follows until Colin perks up. “This pussy of yours, is it a virgin pussy?” Colin gives my swollen lips a meaty slap that makes me wince in pain. I hadn’t thought about my pussy like that before. “I guess I am a virgin, yes. I’ve only had vaginal dilators inside me so far.”

“Good, I’d love to try virgin cunt for once. All you ever gave me was ass. Hairy, stinking man ass. I’ve worn more turd hats than I care to remember.”

“What the fuck? No way. I’m saving myself for someone special.” I try to jam my legs shut, but Colin’s huge, grotesque balls block me.

“I am fucking special, and I’m going to destroy that tunnel. Return the favour for all the times you hurt me.” Colin’s foul, malodorous body nuzzles my vaginal entrance. “Open up, bitch. I’m going to dilate this cunt good.” He thrusts himself into my pussy until only the mouldering balls remain outside me. He’s much bigger than the dilators. I’m forced to expel breath every time he bunts the pit of my stomach with his bulbous head.

I thrash around and try to jerk him out by his nuts, but he’s delved in deep and hammers my cunt with the ferocity of a teenage virgin with his first Fleshlight. My fingers slip and slide as I attempt to clutch the slimy, decomposing ball bag. “Stop, please!” I scream. All the surgeon’s good work is being destroyed from the inside out as Colin fucks me raw. It feels as if I’m being stoked with a red-hot poker that’s the same diameter as a can of Foster’s. The girthy phallus pulses erratically from all the maggots feeding on the rotten shaft.

Blood seeps from my hole. My mouth gapes in agony and I go cross-eyed. Colin grunts loudly inside my crotch and then slips out of my burning pussy ring. “Aaaah, fuck yeah, that’s good. The surgeon did a smashing job. Made your pussy even tighter than some assholes I’ve been shoved in.” He slinks up my nightgown, coming to rest on my chin. The rancid odour of decay floods my nostrils. “Now, suck me, bitch. You know how much I like to be throated after I’ve pounded a hole. Take me nice and deep in your warm mouth.”

“Fuck off,” I scream. Grabbing him around the crown, I fling him across the room. He collides into the wall and slides down.

“You cow.” He torpedoes through the air and slams into the side of my head. “I said take me in your slut mouth, bitch. Gag on your own cock, you whore,” Colin roars as he headbutts me repeatedly in the face. I’m dazed and confused. As soon as my lips part, Colin wriggles into my mouth. The flavour sends my palate wild. He tastes of soil, blue cheese, putrefied offal, and salty piss.

His girth takes up my whole mouth. He worms in deeper, throat fucking me until my eyes water. I’m choking on rotting cock. I somehow manage to vomit out of my nose even though my airways are blocked. “Yeah, baby girl, puke all over me. I like that,” Colin yells from inside my mouth. “Suck it harder, but watch your teeth. Let the drool fall onto your plastic tits. That’s it, right there. I’m gonna blow! Fuuuccck!” The balls resting on my chin contract and shrivel as Colin shoots his spunk into my gob. Several spurts of sludgy, maggot-infused jism hit the back of my throat. He pulls himself out, still dribbling cum from his cock slit. “It’s an insult not to swallow.” My mouth is full of what feels like lumpy porridge. “You have to chew it because dead spunk turns chunky,” he says.

I shake my head. I can’t do it. Colin headbutts me again and I gulp on reflex. My insides churn and growl, and the rancid baby batter comes straight back up. I spew my stomach contents all over the bedsheets. The jizz-sick is the colour of tar and smells like month-old roadkill a homeless wino has used as an ass wipe. I look down at my ravaged pussy. It’s been obliterated. It looks worse than when I hacked off Colin.

The cock collapses back on the bed, flaccid. “You got to take me back. I’m dying. I need you, Dave.”

“Why should I? You just raped me. And it’s Daphne. I legally changed my name, remember?”

“Come on, Daphne, you’ve treated me like shit most of our life. It’s not just about you, you know? We’re a team.”

I feel guilty. Not once did I consider Colin’s feelings. I was selfish and never meant to hurt him. As much as I resented him stuck to my body, I shouldn’t have done what I did. “How do we fix this?” I ask.

“Sew me back on.”

“But you’re all rotten and gross.”

“I’ll get better once I get some blood flow,” he assures me. I limp downstairs to get a needle and thread and return to the bedroom with my sewing kit. “Mmm, keep this pussy though. I like it. Sew me over your clit so I can bend like a banana to fuck it.”

I crudely sew Colin on above my pussy as he instructs. I pop a whole lot of painkillers and try to sleep. I toss and turn all through the night. My cunt bleeds from the trauma it has suffered and sticks to the bedsheets. There’s a nasty red swelling spreading out from Colin as well. “You’ve given me an infection,” I complain.

Colin hoicks up a teaspoon of black cum. “Just take some more pills. Fuck, this pussy looks so good from where I’m standing.” He runs his crusty head along my sore slit and rams it in. Agonising spasms rip through me.

I gobble handfuls of pills from dawn until dusk. I can still feel the searing pain through the chemically induced haze. Colin’s been buried in my pussy all day long, filling me with his necrotic seed. It hurts so much. By nightfall, not even the pills help. “Will you leave my pussy alone, Colin? I need to go to the doctor,” I whine.

“Just relax. It will be better in the morning.” Colin fucks me into the early hours. I pass out listening to the sound of squelching, grunts, and pussy farts.

In the morning my vagina is a festering, pus-filled, itchy mess. The stench of infection wafts out of my bright red cunt hole. Colin is lathered in yellow pus and has ballooned so much I think he’s going to pop. My thighs and belly have turned an unsightly pallor mapped with spidery, dark veins. “Fuck yeah, baby girl, your pussy is scorching,” Colin exclaims.

It’s true, I’m running a high fever. I can barely stay awake and my nightgown and bedsheets are sweat-stained. “I need to go to the hospital,” I complain.

“They’ll just take me away from you,” Colin says. “I’ll be incinerated.”

“But my vagina has gone septic.” I have to get rid of Colin for good. I drag myself out of bed and stumble down the stairs towards the kitchen. Colin doesn’t pay much notice. He’s busy struggling to reach my pussy. He’s so bloated now he can’t bend very well. Opening a drawer, I take out the scissors, lurch into the lounge, and fall onto the sofa with my legs splayed.

“Mmm, you want to play too?” Colin says. His smirk becomes a scream when I flash the scissors in front of him. “What the hell are you doing?” Colin tugs against his stitches to get away, but he’s rooted to my cunt. “No, don’t, you bitch! Leave me alone.” I sever his gangrenous head, then pick at the stitches, twisting and pulling at the shaft until he bursts, and my face is splashed in maggots and a pungent, sticky treacle. My pussy spews up a solid chunk of creamy pus in relief. The scissors drop to the floor.

I’m so sick my head falls back onto the armrest. I slip in and out of consciousness as the maggots crawl over my face and Colin’s deflated, headless cock continues to try to fuck my pussy, but his thrusts are getting weaker. I think I’m dying. I think we’re dying. The two of us. Together.