Sweets for the Sweet by Sue Blair -------------------- A sick tale, dedicated to Scott Shepard (warning: this tale contains disturbing rape and torture scenarios) --- Melody wasn't the swiftest person, but she was my friend and in no way deserved what she got from that fucker at the Star Bar. To him, consent to sex meant consent to being bitten, punched, and kicked until you bled to death, or wanted to die. My cop shop connection let slip that her scalp was flapping in the breeze. Neanderthals are alive and dragging victims around the city. I knew the one, since I had spotted him myself. But I had seen the edge in his eyes and had backed off, warning Melody to do the same. She always did have a soft spot for tall, dark men with a pretended vulnerability, so I might as well have been pissing into the wind. A drunken man with a big ego and a small estimation of women isn't suspecting guile from a hot chick in sleazy gear and a crafty smile. He eats it up, so I play the submissive and walk over to him. I'm impressed by his charming patter and easy smile, but his eyes aren't smiling. 'Baby, you make me sweat', he says, his breath a vomitous mixture of stale beer and whiskey chasers. As he places his hand on my thigh, I grit my teeth and continue purring. His fingertips run over the strings and valleys of my fishnet as his greedy eyes stare in the direction of my crotch. In no time, I have him tied to his four-poster with the supply of handy leopard scarves from my purse, playful kitten that I am. I wanted to tie him up face down, strap on the Turbo 2000 and fuck him in the ass, then suddenly jerk his head up by the roots of his hair and slit his throat, slowly, in a big 'U' grin from ear to ear. If I had a real dick, I could feel his life ebbing through his spasming, yet ever-relaxing, sphincter muscles. Instead I opt for a symphony of flesh breaking under the metal-tips of the flayed whip, the quick sucking-in of breath perfect harmony for the groans of sweet pain. Luckily, chicks can carry an American-tourister-size bag of gear without anyone suspecting; I would hate to be deprived of my favorite toy on such an auspicious occasion. To his 'Hey, baby, lighten up', I grab the tie around his neck and jerk his face to within an inch of mine and laugh slowly and softly; a dry, mirthless and foul breath. I stand up and sit on the headboard, leaning over from the waist, smiling down at him. When he sees the leering face, looming upside-down from above, I think he finally realizes what I have in mind. Some freshly pressed apple cider sounds good to me. I twist the ball of my foot gently against his Adam's apple. Not much pressure is needed to get him choking and spluttering, his eyes bulging. Too much torque and he would be killed instantly, and what fun would that be? I laughed, low and soft, just enough for him to barely hear it, prickling his nerves. I kick his head a few times, but stop when I fear he will lose consciousness. I press his lips against his teeth with the ball of my boot, my heel poised directly above his right eye. 'Enjoying the view, Dickbag? Can you smell my tight little snatch basking in my tiny leather skirt? It sure does get powerful hot down there with all the excitement. I should defecate on your cranium, but you might like that too much. As a consolation, how would you like a four-inch spiked heel ground into your eyeball?'. I take his bloody-spit 'Fuck you, bissch' as an affirmative and commence. His screams rip through my nerves and inflame my rage. 'Hopefully, the brain, even a tiny one, lingers a few moments after death, otherwise, you won't be able to appreciate it when I skull-fuck you with the ol' Turbo 2000.' I try to grind his eyeball, but I find my heel keeps slipping around it. I accept this minor snafu and grind deeper wherever I can within the socket. His screams wrap me in a blanket of darkest, sweetest bliss and I want to bathe in them. I slowly stroke my arms with his thick, slippery, blood as it pulsates out of his head. Stroking upward from my breasts, under my neck, to the tip of my chin; it is like the energy of a waterfall. As the ebb of his blood ceases, I feel it being taken from me and do not want it to end. I scrape my forearms against my lower lip, so I can taste it in my mouth. I rip the eyeball from its dangling sinews and pop it in my mouth. It tastes like slippery metal and is oddly cold. I want to have it looking out of my mouth, but moving it with my tongue is difficult, so I must spit it out and then perch it in there. I regard myself in the dresser mirror, a red-mud-painted aborigine witch warrior. How odd for her to be wearing a tight leather miniskirt and fishnet hose. The music, an appropriate mix of drums and echo-moog techno, catches my fancy. I lose myself, swaying to the percussion. Should the drum-dance begin? I think so, since I promised him that. I break out the Turbo 2000, set it to vibramax, strap it on, and skull-fuck him to the pounding beat until I come, screaming, staring at his garish slack mouth and dead fish eye, daring him to rise again. I then take a whiz, trying to keep the spray directed into the socket, but it is spurting awry. 'Too bad you're not alive to enjoy this, my sick friend. Into every eye, a little rain must fall. Alas, I must bid fond 'Adieu' since the space between my legs abhors a vacuum, and you're all spent. Goodnight, 'sweat' prince. In my dreams, I relive my moments of righteous wrath and wake with my hair sticking to the cold sweat on the nape of my neck, recalling the cleansing heat of the ritual of blood. Shuddering, I taste his beautiful metallic fear and desperation like a fucking addict. But I can stop at any time. Really.