Sloppy Seconds

Hurting Him

I'd dreamt of hurting that fucker for over a decade. I knew now that he had a wife and child, a good job, house, car, and a dog. His happiness burned the lining of my stomach like lactic acid on a bleeding ulcer. It made me want to scream.

I wanted to cause him so much pain that he would curse the moment of his birth and the day the universe itself was authored. I wanted to see all the joys of life die in his eyes; the chords stand out in his neck as he expelled his agonized spirit into the void in a nerve-rending shriek. I wanted to drink deep of his suffering and grow fat off his misery.

Many nights I masturbated to the fantasy of his tortured flesh laid open beneath my blade, his bloated purple intestines boiling up out of the wound like a nest of eels, his blood splashing over my feet and squishing between my toes as it sprayed from a dozen lacerations. I'd shiver with orgasm as I imagined raping his pretty wife in front of him, and then I'd wipe my lonely seed from the hollow of my navel and imagine that it was the last drop of his life's blood.

I planned it all out in my head in lavish detail as I whipped my flesh into a frenzy. I imagined capturing him, chaining him up in my basement, and giving him a shot of morphine to slow his pulse so he wouldn't bleed out before I was done with him, to numb the pain just enough so he'd remain conscious while I introduced him to the death of a thousand cuts. Cauterizing each gouge, avulsion, or severed appendage with a Bunsen burner. I imagined keeping him alive for hours, hacking and sawing away at him. But then what?

Eventually, he'd be dead and my own pain would continue. What he'd done to me was impossible to avenge. He didn't just steal my girlfriend — my first love — use and discard her like a condom after he'd pumped it full of semen and wiped his ass with it. He stole my capacity to love and trust. He made me a monster. Love no longer meant joy to me. It meant inevitable loss and the unbearable pain that would follow. He stole the very beauty of life from me.

I needed to find a way to keep him alive and in misery for as long as I lived and suffered. I went online and scoured the dark sorcery and necro-sex sites.

There was no doubt that I'd find what I needed. There was a market for every perversion. Sure enough, on one site that featured graphic pictures of hairy, overweight men gang-raping corpses, I found the thing I needed to ensure that Paul would outlive my hatred.

It's amazing the things you can find on the Internet these days.

I took his wife first, in front of him. I let him watch her scream as I broke a 40 oz. bottle of Colt.45 off in her asshole. I shattered the end of it with a baseball bat after I'd shoved it in deep, lubricated with the blood from her savaged vagina. Jagged shards stuck out of her hemorrhoidal tissue, leaking blood down her thighs. Once she'd stopped screaming, I rammed the bat up there too, grinding the glass in deeper and bringing a fresh volley of screams. It was still nothing like what I'd done to her vagina. I'd gotten real creative there.

Paul had screamed, begged, cursed, and threatened as I lit the tiki torch and fucked his beautiful, redheaded, doe-eyed wife with it. I could barely hear his pathetic yammering over her wails.

"Aaaiiiieeee! God No! No! Noooooo! Don't! Heeeeeelp!!! Aaaaaargh!!!"

My, how she must have suffered. She bit right through her lip as her labia and pubic hair singed, shriveled, and fried like bacon. I had to burn them away first to get the thing in deeper. Then I took a steak knife and cored it out, cutting away all the burnt tissue, widening her cunt into a ragged, bloody hole that looked like the gutted remains of a half-eaten grapefruit, until the torch would fit.

Her stomach glowed red as I slid the torch inside her, and there was that peculiar boiling sound mixed with the smell of barbecued pork. Her screams gurgled out of her along with lungfuls of blood. They were so loud; I had to gag her with duct tape. They were drowning out Paul's screams. And those were the ones that I really wanted to hear.

Paul had met his wife in college. He'd strung Christine along the entire time he was courting the bride-to-be. He would shoot his vile semen down Christine's gullet only hours after sticking his oily little cock in his new girlfriend's ass. I knew. I was watching them. Sometimes, I thought he knew I was there, that he was performing for me… turning the knife. He knew I still loved Christine. He had to know that. And even as I glared through the window as she gagged on his shit-stained cock, I wanted her back.

He'd continued to see Christine for months, even after marrying his redheaded cunt of a wife, until Chrissy finally stood up for herself and left him for a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shotgun slug. They found her still sucking on the twin barrels with her brains dripping down the wall behind her. Bits of cranium and gray matter splattered the love letters she'd composed to Paul and never sent. He didn't even show up at her funeral. I know. I was there.

And now this cold-hearted fucker was crying for the woman he killed my beautiful Christine for.

"Fuck this bitch! She deserves to die!"

I shoved the torch deeper until I could smell her intestines cook. I use to love chitterlings when I was a kid. But I never could stand the smell.

The bitch's screams gargled out of her mouth in a scalding spray of boiling black blood. But it wasn't her screams I was listening to anymore. It was Paul's. They made my dick hard. And I would hear those screams forever. It was almost too good to be true. But I'd already tested it on his daughter, so I knew it would work.

His daughter still hung there, skinned and nearly filleted and decapitated, but alive. Bones stuck out through her glistening red meat and stringy sallow fat where I'd sawed away muscle tissue. Her flesh was flayed and sagging in a heap where I'd de-boned her. She whimpered, her eyes retaining a hint of awareness and intelligence as she writhed and convulsed in more pain than any human had ever lived through before.

The half-dead cheerleader was conscious of everything I was doing as I shoved my cock into her body — now little more than a squishy bag of blood-soaked pulp, ruptured and displaced organs, and loose skin. I wasn't even sure which orifice I was raping. Nothing was where it was supposed to be any longer. Her weepy eyes stared out at me from the hole I'd cut in her throat, and I'd pulled her tongue through her eye socket. The face is quite malleable once you remove the skull.

I had carefully made an incision from the jaw line to the top of her cranium, and I peeled the skin and muscle tissue from her skull before sticking my cock into what I assumed was her mouth. The blood made the boneless hole so wet that it felt just like pussy. I sped up my strokes, ramming my rigid flesh deeper as her lubricious, raw flesh and Paul's screams brought me closer to orgasm.

Even with her throat slit, the little cheerleader maintained a gag reflex, and she regurgitated when I slid my throbbing organ past her epiglottis into her lacerated esophagus. I felt vomit and bile rush by my penis even as I added my seed to it.

Her spineless body sagged into the widening puddle of blood, vomit, and semen, and I was amazed as I watched her heart continue to beat and her lungs inhale and exhale. She was still alive. And I'd keep her like that for a long time. She'd never die. The zombie potion worked.

Tetrodotoxin is a powerful drug harvested from a blowfish, mixed with opium leaves and a dozen other plants, most of which were native only to the forest mountains on the island of Haiti. It's been used for decades by island witchdoctors and voodoo priests to make zombies and is now available over the Internet, along with the precise formula for making the stuff.

If you were of that particular bent, you could find the formula on just about every necro site. Many of the freaks who got off on torture, dismemberment, and necrophilia paid good money for the promise of a woman who would continue to moan and squeal as they slammed their cock into her vivisected corpse; a woman who would still scream and beg for her life as you skull-fucked her again and again, night after night; who you could strangle and gut-fuck, cut off her titties, carve out her uterus, and ask her how it felt.

Paul's eyes looked wounded, injured to his soul as he stared at the ruin I'd made of his beloved wife and daughter and imagined what I had in store for him. I'm sure he believed that he no longer cared what happened to him now that his family had been destroyed. He was wrong, of course, and not just because he was an egocentric asshole. He could not even begin to fathom the pain I would put him through or how long it would last. The pain in his heart — watching his wife burn and bleed, his daughter being dismantled — was nothing like the physical pain I'd inflict upon him.

His expression of hopeless agony looked just like mine on the day Christine left me for that asshole. She was the first woman I'd ever loved. What I felt for her transcended life… and death. I had hated everything until the day I met her, and the world became anathema again the day she told me she was leaving me for my best friend. I held no anger towards her. She had been tricked and she knew that she'd made a mistake, now that she was dead. But Paul, I would hate forever.

It's been several dozen years since I made the first cut. Paul still screams every now and again. Not so much anymore, though. I think he's getting use to it. Every once in a while, I drag out his wife and daughter for a little fun, but even that doesn't seem to phase him. He still thinks he'll die, eventually. He thinks I will, too. He doesn't know yet that I also took the potion. He has no idea how long he's been chained up in my basement. I'm 186 years old now, and the hatred hasn't abated much. I still think of Christine. I picture her smile, hear her laughter, and feel her kisses on my lips. I can see her lying in her coffin with the back of her head filled with clay to patch the hole in her skull. The coroner did a great job. But I knew it was there.

I can still remember the day I walked into Paul's suburban house and pointed the shotgun in his face, the same one Chrissy killed herself with. He'd been so surprised, so frightened, and so filled with regret.

I remember how he'd begged for his life as I herded him and his family into my van and drove them to my little house in the Nevada desert, right at the foothills of Mount Charleston. The fear in his eyes as I forced them into the basement and made them chain each other up; I remember how he'd tried to bargain with me. How he'd made the mistake of telling me that Christine had never loved me, anyway, how she use to tell him about my pathetic attempts at lovemaking and laugh at my physical inadequacies. How he'd tried to take it all back when I ripped the clothes off his pretty young daughter and showed him just how potent I could be.

My fondest memories, of course, are of his pain. The lush tenor of his screams as I skinned his flaccid cock with an apple peeler and slid a condom on it filled with Ben Gay, and then forced his wife to fuck him with her vandalized cunt. They both wailed. But I refused to let them stop until they found a way to cum through the agony, threatening worse injury to them and their child if they disobeyed. Blood flowed from their entwined thighs in a steady stream as they chafed their wounds against one another.

I remember the succulent anguish oozing from his eyes the day I nailed his scrotum to the floor, and then opened it up to remove his testicles. I tied them to a string and dangled them around his neck where they hung for days until he'd gotten so hungry, he'd eaten them.

I remember watching the last vestiges of hope wink out of his eyes when I funneled battery acid into his asshole, followed by a tree branch spiked with penny nails. His ass actually clenched up as I ripped through it with the improvised dildo, lacerating internal organs. His skinless cock even got hard for a moment before I turned the Bunsen burner on and melted it down to a blackened stump.

I look at Paul now, a mass of rotting, charred, shredded, bruised, and battered meat, barely recognizable as having ever been human, and chuckle. He thought he'd never see me again after he laughed in my face when I'd caught him fucking Chrissy in the school bathroom. He thought I'd slink away and hide my head in the sand. But I'd finally found a way to hurt him as much as he'd hurt me that day.

I plan to live forever as his torturer. I scour Paul's body to find the last inch of unmarred flesh and twist it with pliers until he makes a slight moan of discomfort. He thinks there's nothing more I can do to him. He's wrong, of course. I go into the room and come back with a mirror. My withered old cock hardens as his screams fill my flesh.

No one is ever totally immune to suffering. And as long as it's possible to cause more pain, I will never stop hurting him.