Authors: John Raptor
“Socializing is normal, Robert. It’s what normal people do.”
Cindy returned to the kitchen, and I continued to stare into the TV: all the bees are dying and it may be the end of humankind. Next: the weather. Looks like a sunny day all week.
***
The horizon of the suburbs was tinted a yellowish-orange as the sun set where it usually sets (the west) and we were out on the back patio, staring at our acres of green lawn and my wife’s yam garden, which garnered her the award for best yams in the neighborhood three years in a row.
Can you feel the excitement?
I sat in a lawn chair with my shades on, taking long swallows from a beer. Unfortunately, Ryan was seated next to me, in his own lawn chair, as my wife and Brandi were setting out silverware on the patio table and talking about sales at the mall and some girl named Ashley who is pregnant AGAIN, even though she can barely afford rent on her condo.
It was so stereotypical it felt almost…scripted.
Cindy announced that she was going to get the wine and Brandi offered to help her carry glasses.
Then Cindy did something that I hate. She turned to me and Ryan and said: “You boys doin’ alright?”
I’m not a fuckin’ boy, you cunt.
“Super!” Ryan said.
“Okay. We’ll be back in a sec. You two just keep talking about sports and cars and tools and other man stuff. Haha.”
If Cindy loved me at all, cared about me one iota, she’d know that I could count the number of shits I give about sports, cars, and tools and “other man stuff” on one hand…if I were missing fingers.
“Will do!” Ryan said.
Twat.
We sat in complete silence, until Ryan interrupted the calm with:
“So, did you catch the Raiders game last night?”
I took a swig of beer, emptied the bottle, and tossed it into the yard.
Ryan laughed. “Nice throw.”
“Quit the small talk crap,” I said. “I don’t care about you and you don’t care about me. So, just…stop…it.”
“Hey, man. Just tryin’ to be friendly.”
“Last year, I found a dead girl in a dumpster. She was eight. Her mom sold her into prostitution so she could pump more junk into her veins. A group of niggers bought this girl for the night. Eight years old. They violated her in every orifice…then they beat her skull in with a crowbar because she tried to fight back. When I found her…around 4am, I think it was…her hair was matted with blood and cum and shit. I don't know where the shit came from. I'm a grown ass man…and I cried. I fucking cried like a baby when I saw that baby doll…her innocence raped and violated…her whimsy crushed. Girls that age are supposed to like dolls and ponies and pink things. That girl…all she ever knew was dirt, puke, shit, grit, cum, blood, junk. She took it in the ass, the vag, the face, so her goddam mother could get her fix. Pathetic. Makes me sick.”
Ryan said, “Jesus.”
I reached into the cooler, cracked open another beer.
“It’s a fucked up, monotonous world out there. Full of filth and shit. Monsters wearing human masks. It never ends. It’s like the goddam Energizer Bunny.”
Cindy and Brandi brought out the wine, giggling about some vapid shit that didn’t matter, at the moment, or in the end.
My wife asked: “Who wants Red Ass Rhubarb?”
***
Angela’s body was hot and I was hard between her legs, caressing her erect pink nipples with the pads of my thumbs and grasping both breasts, as I eased myself deep inside her, thrusting, punching her cervix. She clawed at my back, breathing hard, coming to…
We both orgasmed at the same time, and I buried my face between her breasts (slick with sweat) licking them like a puppy dog and crying with pleasure. Angela’s warm heavy breaths ruffled my hair and I could smell her. God, she smelled good: the musky scent of sex and the salty smell of sweat. I licked the cum off her cream pie and gave her another orgasm—massaging her clit in a slow, circular motion with my tongue as I fingered her.
She started screaming a combination of God and I’s names, and then took the sweet Baby Jesus’ in vain.
I met Angela at my gym. She was a yoga instructor who gave me a private lesson: aka she forced my chin down on the mat between her legs while she did the splits, her hot open cunt right in my face, lips spread. I breathed on her pink insides and she threw her head back and moaned as I stared up at her large heaving breasts and she forced my lips and tongue onto her gaping wetness and I devoured her.
In her private shower room, she told me that she had been a dirty girl and ordered me to scrub her nubile body with soap and then to grope her breasts, ass, and pussy with my fingers under the hot running water. After I cleaned her up, she bent over, backed into my erect cock, and pushed me against the wall with her ass, which bounced against my groin as she forced me in and out, in and out…the hot water dancing on her back and the crack of her a—
But back to the scene:
I sat with my back against the headboard and lit a cigarette as Angela snuggled up against me.
“Did you hear about those cannibal kids in Minnesota? They killed and ate like thirty people,” she said.
I didn’t feel like talking about this crap. Not with her. She was my escape—not only from work, but my wife, my boring ass life. She was my fantasy girl, in the flesh—a gorgeous sex toy.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I heard about it. They were both fast food mascots. They killed people while wearing their ridiculous costumes.”
“I think it’s so sad—kids these days. I don’t know why they’re so mean. I blame the parents.”
“The boy cannibalized both his father and mother.”
“Probably served them right for raising such a fucked up kid.”
“Yeah. It’s a fucked up world,” I said, bored, taking a drag off the cig.
“People do stupid things.”
“Yeah. People are stupid,” I said.
This conversation was going nowhere and I had the sudden urge to just leave.
“Did you ever hear about that serial killer in Chicago who cut out prostitute’s eyes and replaced them with big black buttons?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Richard Harris. He was a pecan.”
“I think he hated women.”
“Yeah, probably. I mean, he killed them.”
“Why do so many men hate women?”
“I…don’t know. They feel…like they’re better than them, I guess. And somehow that excuses their violent and sexually deviant behavior toward them. For Richard, I think it was partly his religious upbringing. His parents were pecans too.”
“Did you ever hear about that brain surgeon who got shot in the head, ended up in a coma, and woke up a serial killer?”
I got drowsy and started to doze off…said something like, “Um…ye-ah.”
“ROBERT!”
I jumped. “What?”
Angela crawled on top of me, her breasts pushed against my chest, and I stared down into her cleavage, my dick getting hard against her ass and cunt. She started rubbing her wetness against me, and then she asked again, licking my lips, talking into my mouth.
“Did you hear about that guy?” She sneaked her tongue between my lips, and I bit her softly.
“What guy?” I asked, drawing away.
“The guy who got shot in the head and turned into a serial killer?”
“No. I haven’t heard of him. Sounds like Phineas Gage.”
“Who’s Phineas Gage?”
“Guy in the 1800s. Had a railroad spike go through his head. Used to be a charming guy like me, but then he turned into a complete asshole.”
“Did Phineas kill anybody?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Talking about this turns me on,” she said, gripping my cock, and positioning it into her cunthole.
“Not again, baby doll. I’m exhausted.”
“Oh come on. I know you got more spunk in ya than that.”
“Fine,” I said.
I squeezed her firm ass as she humped my dick, over and over and over, until I felt sore down there, my head burning. I told her I needed a break and she pulled me out with a wet
pop
and turned around, presenting her wet, sopping lips to me from behind, and smashing her ass against my face, forcing me to rim her asshole and cunt. When she finally gave me some breathing room, I bit her on the ass, and she pulled her cheeks apart, inviting me inside. I pushed my throbbing dick inside her asshole and instantly shot a load. The orgasm burned my urethra this round, as if I was coming molten lead, and I winced, crawling out of the bed, my dick limp and throbbing, thinking that I needed to get out of here before this nympho made it fall off. I reached down and picked my boxers off the floor. “I better get going. Cindy will start worrying about me.”
Angela lay sexily on the bed, stroking her breasts, sucking on her fingers, wetting her nipples.
“Cindy, Cindy, Cindy. When are you going to leave that bitch?”
“Never. She’s my wife. Besides, if I left her, what would I do? Marry you?”
“Maybe.”
“No, sweetheart. What we got…the reason it's so good is because it's wrong. It's sinful. If we got married, we'd be bored of each other in a week.”
Sex with my wife Cindy was…banal (missionary, or a lackluster hand job beneath the sheets as I boredly fingered her). Sex with Angela was dangerous and erotic. It was wrong and it gave me a rush—like that rollercoaster, like shooting that fuckin’ nigger in the head.
My excuse to leave that godawful dinner with Ryan and Brandi was that I had lots of paperwork at the office. I needed Angela’s pussy more than anything that night. Her pussy was like heroin. Soothing. Made me forget what a shit life I had.
Angela pounced on me as I made my way toward the door, wrapping her strong legs around my waist, and poking her tongue in my mouth. I told her I had to go and put her back down on the ground.
She bent over and told me I wasn’t allowed to leave unless I spanked her.
“I’ve been a very naughty girl tonight.”
So I spanked her, and left.
In the hallway of Angela’s rundown apartment (which reeked of mildew, cigarettes, and booze), I clicked the button for the elevator. The doors dinged opened and a six-foot bunny rabbit stood before me, looking eerie in the sporadic glow of one of the elevator’s flickering lights. It was waving a padded hand, and holding a basket of brightly colored eggs in the other. Part of me wanted to scream, but I molded it into a shrieking laugh, got on the elevator, and pushed the L button.
“A little early for Easter, isn’t it, Bunny?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.
The Bunny, in a cutesy high-pitched voice, said: “I have a special Easter present for you, my friend.” Covered its buck teeth with a padded paw, giggling.
I shook my head.
The Bunny handed me an egg.
“That’s alright,” I said.
“Take it,” The Bunny insisted.
I sighed, taking the egg. It was the kind of shitty plastic pastel-colored shell you would put candy in and hide from the kids.
“Go ahead…open it. You’ll be wonderfully surprised.” Giggle, mouth cover.
I opened the egg…
…a sticky, used condom.
“You sick fuck!” I screamed, quickly tossing the plastic shells.
The Bunny giggled (a series of manic shrieks and hoots), dropping the basket of eggs as it covered its mouth with both padded paws. I kicked the eggs away and stood against the elevator door, trying to stay as far away from the sick fuck bunny as possible.
The Bunny wouldn’t (couldn’t) stop giggling. It was keeling over with high-pitched fits of laughter.
“What is wrong with you?” I screamed, my voice cracking: fear.
“Was her cunt tasty?” the Bunny squeed.
I puked on the Bunny’s big padded feet. Red and yellow chunky bile. Cindy’s lasagna.
The last thing I remember: the Bunny picked an egg off the floor (unlike the others, it was big and black, like the egg of an ostrich), popped it open, and inside was a syringe. The Bunny lunged at me and stuck me in the neck and I hissed as the fluid bit into my veins. The Bunny grabbed my face in one padded paw and stared at me with its large mesh eyes (and behind that mesh was a person, wasn’t there? A man, a woman? Someone who knew me and hated me and knew what I was up to…Cindy?), the bunny’s face, its mask, permanently frozen in that chipper buck-tooth smile.
“You’re sinner number one,” a deep gravelly voice emitted from the cute cheeks and whiskers. I felt the world sliding out from beneath my feet into an endless black void and I could hear all the blood rushing into my face.
The Bunny threw its head back and giggled like a mad school girl and then black.
…NOW
I grope around the chamber, looking for an escape. Jennifer tells me it’s hopeless, there’s no way out. I ignore her, tug on the steel door. It’s sealed tight, won’t budge. I search for another door, splashing through the muddy black water, and tripping, falling. Scraping my palm open on some gravel. Bleeding.