Ted
Author: Matt Shaw
Date: 2015-04-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Some people are destined for greatness. They could create fantastic pieces of art to be discussed throughout the ages, they could invest something which furthers mankind, they could even help solve world hunger or make important steps towards World Peace for everyone. These people could be your friends, they could be your neighbours. They could even be the person you unwittingly bumped into at the petrol station this morning. They could really be anyone. Anyone, that is, except Ted. Ted is an asshole. A psychopathic, racist human of the worst kind. Whilst the aforementioned people push the hum
Publisher: Amazon Media

WARNING:

This is an EXTREME HORROR SHORT STORY.

It is intended for the readers who are subscribed to Kindle Unlimited.

It is designed to give you a short jolt of‘disturbing’before bedtime.

If you are looking for a longer piece, please do NOT purchase any of the‘F*cked-Up Shorts’range.

There are many longer stories available HERE

TED features heavily in the Matt Shaw book“Rotting Dead F*cks”.

You do not need to have read R.D.F.

This is a standalone SHORT offering more from the character.

The following book contains scenes and descriptions which some people may find upsetting. Please be aware this is an extreme story intended for a mature audience.

TED is an EXTREME CHARACTER. He is a racist, ignorant piece of shit. The views he expresses within this story DO NOT reflect the views of the author. And fear not, he gets what he deserves in Rotting Dead F*cks.

***

Copyright©2015 by Matt Shaw

Matt Shaw Publications

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The characters in this book are purely fictitious.

Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

F*cked-up Shorts

T E D

M A T T    S H A W

1.

“It is always the same. The man needs to approach the woman. The man needs to initiate conversation. The man needs to dip his hand in his pocket and pull out the notes with which to purchase the first round of drinks. The man then needs to do the talking to keep the woman engaged in conversation.

The woman just waits for the man to approach. Half the time, when the man does so, they do not even smile. They pretend as though it’s a big drama, an embarrassment, that someone has noticed them. They begrudgingly accept the drink. They answer the man’s questions with short answers, closing all further avenues of conversation on that particular topic. They drink their drink with a speed that shocks most men.

The men expected them to sip gingerly at the chosen brand of (usually) wine. The men expected a few more questions thrown back their way, in the art of mutual conversation but it never works that way.

Usually anyway.

I will accept that there are random times when a man and a woman, in that sort of environment, do make it to a second drink. Sometimes, maybe, even a third. But they are few and far between and never witnessed by myself. To me it is always the same; you buy the drink, you ask the questions, they down their drink, they fuck off. It is frustrating and - if you’re new to the game - a real kick to your confidence.

This is why I usually prefer hookers.

Today is no exception.

I go through a range of emotions when choosing a hooker to book. I start off excited. The thought of getting my hands on a beautiful woman to do with as I please. The thought of getting my end away. Why wouldn’t I be excited? Once you’ve chosen your woman, and made contact, you then start going through all the different things you’re going to do to them. This one, a pretty blonde with a size eight frame and tits that seem to be glued on, is going to get it. I’m going to break her. She’ll suck my cock. I’ll eat her out. I’ll fuck her. We will not make love. Love will not come into the equation. If it does, this is the wrong hobby for you to partake in. At this stage, I also think about how and when I will cum. When paying for sex you need to make sure you get your monies worth. Some girls are clever. They know a man will only shoot his load once and will then make a hasty retreat from the apartment, suddenly overcome with guilt. These men are the pathetic ones. The women spot them a mile off and play it to their advantage, using all sorts of tricks to get them to shoot their load quicker. For example - when in missionary, the lady might reach down and grab the base of the cock. The guy will be fucking her and she’ll be stroking his dick at the same time. She’ll usually increase the volume of her sighs, moans, grunts… Pretend she is really into it and that the man is some kind of stud.

I do not fall for such tricks.

Some whore does that to me? I pull her hand away and pin both above her head. I go at my speed. She starts faking an orgasm - another method to excite me - and I clamp my hand over her mouth and hold it there. I will ejaculate when I am ready. I will last the full amount of time I have paid for and I expect them to be thankful.

I hate shooting my load into a rubber. It feels constrictive. Like your cock is being swallowed by a fucking snake. I want it free. But a rubber is a necessary evil for this game. Only a fool would fuck a whore without bagging it up first. A fool or one of those weird fuckers I’ve heard about who actually wants to catch a case of the nob-rot. So - yes - to fuck them, you wrap it up before you slap it up. But it doesn’t mean you need to cum like that.

When I am close to like to pull out and yank the rubber off. I throw it across the room and position myself over their chest. That’s where I want to cum. That’s where I want to finish. Right over her tits or, if she allows it, on her face.

It’s a power feeling. Them lying there coated in your semen… It shows you fucking own them. They’re yours. You know what I mean? After that I don’t give a shit what they do. They usually jump up straight away and reach for a towel or they disappear into the bathroom and you hear them cleaning themselves. I just lie on the bed, knackered. Money well spent; both for real and metaphorically speaking.

I mentioned earlier a range of emotions when booking a prostitute but realise I’ve only really spoken of the positive. Well after I’ve cum - and sometimes for a split second after the appointment is confirmed - I can feel guilt. None of this bullshit that I’m about to use these women as nothing but a sex toy. Fuck that. They know what they’re doing. They chose this industry. They chose this career. My guilt stems from the money side of it. You know, could I really afford what I’ve just done, or am about to do? My jobs aren’t the highest of paying, you know? Never seem to hold them down long. Lost count the amount I’ve had now…”

“You say it’s the girls’ choice…” my psychiatrist interrupted me. Dr. Platt. Even with the filthy look I gave her she continued as though it were acceptable behaviour. And they say I am the one with… issues. “You are aware some of these girls are shipped over from other countries and forced into the industry against their will, aren’t you? How do you know you haven’t unwittingly ordered one of these ladies for your entertainment? They didn’t choose the career. They were made to do it to pay back the supposed debt of bringing them over.”

“They don’t have to do it,” I told her. I made no attempts at hiding the fact I was pissed at her for interrupting me. That’s the problem with these so-called professionals. They go to school for a few years, get a piece of paper with their name on it and some made-up qualification, which means shit to the rest of the world, and they instantly believe they have more rights than any other cunt. It does my head in and - on more than one occasion - I’ve contemplated bashing her fucking head in because of the attitude she carries.

“They’re forced to do it. What other choice do they have?”

“No one is forced to do anything. I am not forced to come here. I am not forced to live my life or do the jobs I choose to do, or end up in. You’re not forced to sit there and listen to cunts like me banging on about this and that… We control what we want to do. We are in charge of our own lives. If they don’t like it, they can fucking kill themselves, right? Just as - if I get fucked off being me - I can kill myself. Or maybe, one day, you’ll snap and decide you’ve had enough and write yourself a prescription only to neck the lot. Don’t go telling me they have no choice. That is bullshit…”

“So you’re saying they should just kill themselves if they don’t like it?”

“Yes.”

She did that irritating noise from the back of her throat. Hmmmm. It pisses me off. She only ever does it when I say something she doesn’t quite agree with. So, as you can probably guess, it’s something she tends to do a lot and then, as always, she leans forward in her chair and scribbles down some notes on the pad of paper on her desk. Of course I try and see what she has put but she’s a doctor and - like all doctors - her handwriting is fucking shit. These cunts, they’re meant to be clever but… Least I know how to write properly.

Dr. Platt put the pen down and looked at me with an eyebrow raised, as though she expected me to continue my story even though she’d ruined the flow of it and made me completely forget where I was at. So fucking rude.

“That’s it,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“Hmmm.” She hesitated a moment, “And how has your mood been recently? Have you got into any more fights?”

She asked the question as though it were a frequent occurrence. That pisses me off too. I got into one little fight and now I am considered violent. Sure, I have violent thoughts but who doesn’t? I don’t tend to act upon them. I don’t tend to go out of my way to cause trouble. It was just one of those things. I was sitting in a pub, at the bar, minding my own business when this asshole started causing trouble. He was mouthing off to his girlfriend. I’m not sure what it was about. I did know, at the time, but it was over a week ago now and it wasn’t important enough to remember. I told him to quieten down. Said that he should take his little domestic home and away from the bar where the adults were hanging around. He started getting in my face, threatening me so I did the sensible thing and glassed the cunt.

A waste of a beer.

The girlfriend wasn’t even grateful when I plastered him in the face either. There I was, standing her corner in my own kind of way and - as soon as the glass cracked in her partner’s skull - she was there shouting at me too. I would have thought I at least deserved a fresh beer for the one I wouldn’t get to drink but - no - apparently not.

I reminded my psychiatrist, “That wasn’t my fault.”

It’s hardly ever my fault.

It’s everyone else.

2.

The rest of the appointment with my psychiatrist, a weekly thing, went the same as it always did. I would say something I’ve done, she would look at me with that concerned look and scribble some notes down and then urge me to continue my story just for her to repeat the process until she’d chirpily tell me that time was up and was the same time next week okay? It irritated me no end.

I was there because my GP referred me after I showed aggressive tendencies and thoughts deemed dark by ‘normal’ society. I went along because I felt like it might do me some good. Some days I did wake up feeling like shit and hating myself, the reason I saw the GP in the first place, so I thought it might be good to talk things through with a so-called professional.

I don’t know, I just thought they would fix me. I thought they would listen to what I had to say and then tell me how not to be like that. I guess I was stupid to think like that but, I don’t know. I prefer to think I was being hopeful.

Whatever I thought, I was wrong.

Every week they make me talk. I talk about what I have been up to. I talk about my feelings (if there are any to talk about). I talk about everything. They don’t. They just sit there listening to me, nodding and making irritating noises from the backs of their throats as though clearing away some phlegm. They rarely give advice, they never tell me what to do… In fact, the way I see it, it is a complete waste of time. I feel the same way every week. After every session I promise it’s my last and yet - like a fool - I go back.

What am I doing?

Why am I even thinking about it?

Just forget about it.

Every week is the same.

The appointment is over and yet I find myself stressing about it for hours afterwards. Funnily enough, this was the main reason I ended up arranging another kind of appointment for after. Something to take my mind from the morning’s appointment.

I was in the bathroom now. I had just had a shower to ensure I was nice and clean for my lady. Sometimes I don’t bother depending on how they look on the site. If they look to be high class, I’ll shower. If they look to be… Less than high class… They can take me as I am and be thankful I’m not covered in warts.

I never, never see the same girl twice. I am not with them to form a relationship or get to know them. I simply want a fuck. No strings, no emotions, just sex. The moment you start forming a relationship with them, on a friend level, it ruins everything. Each session becomes the same as the last and that’s no good. I like mixing it up with the different girls. Different faces to look at when I fuck them, different sounds, different techniques they employ.

Tonight I’ve chosen a fit looking blonde from my preferred website which lists all the girls in the local area. She is part of an agency. I gave her name when I called through and they said she was available. They confirmed the price - one hundred and fifty pounds - and took my address, advising me she’d be there at the set time. The phone calls are short and to the point, which is something I like. Nothing worse than getting tied up discussing the little details. You can do that with the girl in question when she arrives.

Having dried myself off I put a clean, white dressing gown on. I figured there was little point in dressing again in shorts, socks, jeans and a tee shirt when the girl is only going to order me to strip as soon as I’ve handed over the cash.

They always take the cash first.

Dressed, all that was left to do was quickly spray around the place with a can of deodorant to hide the stink of musk that tended to hang in the air from where I’d failed to clean properly. Spray enough and the house will appear fresh long enough to last until the end of the session by which time the place will, instead, smell of lubrications, sweat and latex.

There is nothing romantic about fucking a prostitute.

The doorbell rung, causing my heart to skip a beat. It is ten to seven. She is ten minutes early, unless of course it is some Jehovah Witnesses come to preach word of The Good Book to me? Ha. The Good Book? Clearly they’ve never read Lee Child.

I grabbed the can of deodorant and quickly sprayed both around the room and into my armpits before tossing it into the bathroom and heading down the stairs to greet my date.

All afternoon I had been getting on with bits that I needed to do yet I couldn’t help but go back to looking at her pictures on the website. Unlike most girls, she had pages of photos to scroll through. Most ladies had about ten pictures showing their features. Most of the time their faces were blurred and, if you read the comments, you’d see that’s because they apparently value their privacy…

That’s bullshit.

It’s because they’re dog rough.

Think about it, they have nothing to worry about with their friends or relatives seeing them on the site. The friend, or relative, wouldn’t say anything. After all, how can they? If they admit to seeing the girl’s photo on the escort site, they have to admit to looking in the first place. Anyway, that’s by the by…

My little tip to newbies looking to dally in the industry; no face shot, no booking.

This girl had lots of face shots, among others, and her cheeky grin was enough to get me semi-erect. The size of her tits, and the tiny waist, sealed the deal. A whole afternoon of trying to concentrate and do what I needed to do, yet going off for a sneaky look at the girl I’d be fucking within a few hours. The temptation to touch myself was great and now - as I headed for the front door - I wished I had. Going into the appointment with a loaded gun was a mistake. I was about to pay for an hour of this hotties’ time and yet I’d most likely last five minutes.

If that.

Well if that happens it will be a lesson for next time and I’d still make her work to give me a second orgasm so, no great problem.

I got to the front door and reached for the handle. A quick twist and I pulled the door open with a beaming, welcoming smile on my face… What the fuck?

My smile dropped.

“Hello,” she said.

I had to double check, “Are you my seven o’clock appointment?”

“Yes. My name is Chantal,” she said as she stepped into the house.

I closed the door and turned to her, confused.

The girl standing before me was a similar age to the one I’d ordered but that was where the similarities ended. It was only because she was dressed like a stereotypical tart that I even questioned whether she were my appointment as opposed to tell her I wasn’t buying today and to slam the door in her face. The girl I wanted was a size eight. The girl here was a size twelve. My girl had long blonde hair. This girl had short black hair. My girl had blue eyes. This woman had brown.

But above all else, my girl was white…

“I’m sorry but I think there has been some sort of mistake,” I told her, trying to remain calm. I don’t handle unexpected change to my plans very well. If I make a plan - or, in this case, a booking - then I expect it to stay as I’d originally intended. I didn’t expect it to be changed and especially without my permission.

“The agency didn’t call you?” Chantal asked.

“No.”

She sighed heavily, “I’m sorry. They’re always doing this…”

Always doing what exactly? Promising a client one thing and delivering something else entirely? It’s like ordering a shirt from Gucci and having Primark deliver.

“Not sure I understand,” I said. Again, I was trying to be on my best behaviour and remain as polite as possible. For me, that was quite a task.

“The lady you originally requested phoned in sick so they sent me as a replacement.”

Hardly a replacement.

“I’m sorry,” Chantal continued. “They were supposed to phone you and let you know what was happening so you had a choice. To be honest though, most of the time when they do this, the client is fine and…”

“And I might have been had they sent someone close to what I originally asked for.”

The hooker stopped talking and looked at me with one eyebrow raised as though she were surprised by my reaction. How could she be surprised? I ordered white bread, I got brown. The two are completely different although - in this instance - it could be argued they’re all pink on the inside but that is by the by. This woman is not what I wanted and - more to the point - she could tell as much by the look on my confused, and irritated, face.

“Look it was a long journey. Traffic is a nightmare out there. Would you mind if I stopped long enough for a quick drink? We can have a chat whilst I drink it and then, if you’re not happy, I can go and we shall say no more about it.”

That was all very well for her to say but I was expecting to get my dick wet today and now it was looking very likely that that wouldn’t be the case.

“What do you say?” she pushed me for an answer.

I nodded. She can have a drink. A glass of water from the tap for her and a beer for me. Whatever happens, I have a feeling I’ll be needing a drink, or two, tonight. I led her through to the living room.

3.

She was sitting there on my sofa, clutching her lukewarm mug of water. I was leaning back against the far wall doing the same to my chilled can of beer.

“Have you ever been with a black woman before?” she asked straight to the point.

I shook my head, “Can’t say I have.”

“Any reason?”

I wondered the best way of phrasing it to her without being as offensive as I could have been, and was known to be. “You know when you go to a carvery and you have a choice between gammon, beef or turkey?” She nodded. “Well some people have a mixture of all three meats. Some have a couple and then you get people, like me, who only like the turkey. I’m one of those who only eats the white bits of the turkey. You know what I mean?”

She smiled, “So you’re a racist?”

I smiled despite being irritated by her assumption. Just because people have a certain preference for one thing, over another, it didn’t automatically make them a racist and it bugged the shit out of me how easily this card was played by people of that community. Sure, on this occasion, she was right but it didn’t mean her assumption applied to all those who preferred their turkey white and - at the back of my mind - all I could think about was the conversation I’d be having with my psychiatrist the following week.

“How do you know you don’t like something if you haven’t tried it?” she asked. There was a smell of desperation in her tone. At least I think it was in her tone. It could have just been the stink of poverty these people seem to live in, according to the adverts I see on the television begging me to part with my hard-earned cash to support them. Annoying adverts with soppy music telling the viewer how far this child needs to travel for clean water. Just move closer. Problem solved. Don’t come on my television with your sob story. I couldn’t care less. She knows I don’t like her, is she really that desperate for my money that she’d still fuck me? If she thinks so little of herself, how am I expected to think highly of her?

“Did you want to see my reviews?” she asked. The reviews she spoke of were feedback left from previous punters who’d visited the girl. I didn’t like to read them, not just her reviews but any. I mean some men love it when the woman has hundreds of reviews but, fuck that, it just means she’s had hundreds of cocks inside of her and lashings of sperm coated over her face, tongue and breasts. To me that’s a passion killer for sure.

Before I had a chance to answer she reached into her pocket and pulled out her mobile phone. She flicked the screen, lighting it up and pulling the phone from its sleep mode before loading the Internet site up, making full use of the 4G.

“Really, I’m fine. I’ll take your word for it. But thank you,” I said wondering if she could hear the sarcasm dripping from my voice. Do blacks do sarcasm?

I watched as she downed her water. My eyes were transfixed on the mug I’ve given her. It was one of my old chipped ones. Didn’t want to give her the good one as I knew I was to bin it as soon as she’d left. I saw on the News that these folk carry ebola and HIV. Admittedly the newsperson was stating it was in certain areas but clearly they carry the gene for it. Fuck putting that in my mouth. If I were to go through with the appointment I’d wrap my dick in several condoms before sticking it in. Hell, I’d even roll one down my tongue before sticking it into her cunt just to be sure I stay disease free.

She stood up, “Well thank you for the water and I’m sorry you were messed around by the agency. They don’t always do this but, when they do, their communication isn’t the best. I’m sorry.” She started to walk towards the living room door, back towards the way out. I have to say, for a moment, I was impressed with how polite she was. She almost came across as a real human.

“Wait…” I called out.

What the fuck am I doing? Is this my brain or my dick speaking out? The hooker turned back to look at me.

“What about a discount?” I asked. I don’t usually ask for discounts. Not because I don’t believe I deserve them or because I don’t believe some of the girls’ rates are too high but because they always say no and it adds a bad taste to the appointment. It’s like, as soon as you dared ask for money off, the girls lose interest and only suck you half as good as they could have done. But in this instance I believed I was due one. The agency had clearly pissed me around and this girl was obviously desperate for my money, hence the want to show me the field reports in an effort to make me suddenly lust after her. I do not lust after her. If I go through with this and my friends question me, I shall deny it. I am merely after an orgasm and - sometimes - a self-serviced one just isn’t good enough.

“A discount?” she asked. Not sure if she is stupid or misheard me.

“For the inconvenience.”

“Of having to fuck a black girl?” she retorted. There it was again; the race card.

“Of being messed around by the agency. Fair is fair, don’t you think?”

“One hundred and twenty pounds.”

“One hundred.”

The appointment was originally one hundred and fifty.

She shook her head, “Sorry, one hundred and twenty is as low as I will go,” she said.

I raised my eyebrows, surprised by her lack of movement. Still - any discount was better than no discount and at least it meant I got to ejaculate. Better yet, I had money left over so I could pop to the shop to buy bleach to bathe in afterwards too.

“Okay,” I said, “but we get to keep the light out.” I reached into my pocket and withdrew a bundle of notes. I took three ten pounds notes out and handed her the rest, sliding the last three back into my back pocket. She dropped the cash into her handbag which was slung over her left shoulder.

“So… How do you want to do this?” she asked.

“Bedroom is upstairs, first door on the left.” I told her. She nodded and turned away from me, heading up the stairs leading off from the hallway. I hesitated a moment wondering whether I was really going to go through with this before going after her. This wasn’t how appointments usually worked.

Normally a girl would come to my place, I prefer it to going to their home as I feel more comfortable here, and we would sit in the living room with a drink each. We would chat, sidled up next to each other, and then they would usually start stroking my leg. Not long after that they’d lean in for a kiss and things would begin getting hot and heavy. On more than one occasion I have been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of a blow-job whilst relaxing on my leather sofa. Only then would we start to take things upstairs. Once - and only once - a whole appointment was conducted within the living room.

By the time I got to the bedroom, Chantal was already stripping down to her underwear; white thong, white bra and white stockings. How ironic, I thought. Credit where credit is due, she does have a good body. There are curves in the right places and - unless it’s just harder to see due to the colour of her skin - very few blemishes. She kicked her clothes to one side and stood there. She cupped a breast with one of her hands and stroked down the pubic mound to her vagina with her other.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked.

“I can work with it,” I told her. Here was me thinking this was going to have to be a ‘spank bank’ fuck. One of those times where, although you’re balls deep in snatch, you still need to rely on the mental images of previous encounters from your library in order to get yourself even remotely close to the point of orgasm. There is potential here though, surprisingly. She turned around and ran a hand down her arse cheek.

“What about that? You like the view from behind?” What is it these people say? Junk in the trunk? Something to slap, that’s for sure. She moved forward and crawled onto the bed so that she was on all fours with her arse pointed towards me. An invitation if ever I saw one. “You just going to stand there or are you going to fuck me?” she asked. Here was a girl who clearly didn’t do foreplay. Not that I minded. Teeth like that, I’m not sure I want my cock in her mouth and I certainly don’t want to be tasting her.

Taking the invitation, I stripped my clothes off until I was naked. I stroked my cock from flaccid to semi-erect before finally getting it hard with my eyes transfixed to the white panties covering her arse. She pulled a condom from between black breast and bra and used those huge fucking teeth to tear into it. A fear ran through me that she’d nick the rubber too but it was a fear unfounded. The girl was clearly well practised. She changed position so that she was facing me and - with one hand - she grabbed my dick in order to keep it steady and with the other hand, she rolled the condom down its length before sinking her mouth around it. I couldn’t help but sigh, unsure as to whether it was a sigh of pleasure or relief that she didn’t catch the head with her overly large teeth. She started sliding her head up and down the length whilst working the shaft - at the same time - with one hand. Her other hand cupped my balls and added a little pressure. Jesus. The girl has skills. To think, I nearly passed on this. Of course she’d be good at fucking what with the practise these girls get over in their country when they’re continually gang-raped. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to get carried away in the moment whilst my mind pictured the pretty blonde girl who’d failed to turn up for the appointment.

She released my cock and manoeuvred her body again, pointing that ‘booty’ back at me. I didn’t need an invitation to put my hands on it. I gave her a playful slap before I pulled her white knickers to one side revealing her dark asshole. Jesus, and here was me thinking her skin was black. Now THAT is black, all puckered up and tight. I ran my thumb over it and felt her tense; a sign that anal is off the menu. A pity.

I looked down to her pussy lips. It wasn’t a neat pussy like I was used to. If anything I’d say it resembled a butchered axe-wound. The lips were also darker but, spreading them with my hands, I could see the inside was indeed pink as I had believed it to be.

“Fuck me!” she ordered me.

I was a little taken aback. I thought it was us, the whites, who were the ones who gave the orders. When did this change happen and how come no one thought to mention it to me? Something to bring up with the psychiatrist next week for sure.

I lined my throbbing cock up against her cunt and pushed in. To my surprise it slipped in with ease. At this point I was used to girls gasping but from her there was nothing. And I know why. She felt different… Loose. Not like the tight girls I was used to fucking. I shouldn’t have been surprised. She’s used to fucking black men and we all know the rumour. She’s more stretched than one of those Mr Stretch action figures you used to get as a child. Regardless I started moving back and fourth, going through the motions of fucking her despite feeling hardly anything. Was it down to the condom being to thick or her cunt being pulled apart my hundreds of other dicks? Hard to tell.

She was moaning and sighing and groaning and… basically being as vocal as she could to pretend she was enjoying it but I knew deep down she couldn’t feel it either. But then maybe that’s why she was liking it? Must make a welcome change to have a small white cock inside of her compared to the horses’ dicks I’ve heard black men possess.

“That’s nice, baby!” she sighed, pushing back hard against my dick - an action which did nothing but squash her arse against my body which, to be fair, was a nice sight to behold.

I glanced over to the clock on the bedside cabinet, next to my bed. Fucking her like this, and feeling what I was feeling, there was no way I was going to get to the point of climax without a little help. It just doesn’t feel sensitive enough.

Thankfully I have a trick up my sleeve. Something to help make it that little bit better.

4.

They call it a ‘donkey punch’. I’m not sure who invented it, or thought of it at least. All I can presume was that it was designed by a wife-beater and his gobby shit of a wife. Maybe they were fucking and she was giving him some grief over something. I don’t know, maybe he needed to pull his weight around the house a bit more? Something like that? So anyway, there she was giving him a mouthful whilst he was banging her from behind and it got to the point where he was like ‘fuck this shit’ and - to quieten her up - gave her a punch in the back of the head. The resulting hit made her vagina - or arse - tighten and, in the process, gave the man an intense orgasm. Impressed with this discovery, he then proceeded to share it among his friends and it soon became a thing of legend. Like I said, I don’t know who invented it or where it came from but if I had to hazard a guess, it would definitely be something along those lines. Think about it, it makes sense.

There are many different weird and wonderful sex acts that a lot of people have no idea about. The Donkey Punch is but one of them. Slipping and sliding in and out of this bucket-cunt now, in doggie, I am reminded of another practise called the ‘Houdini’. Whilst going for it - at an alarming rate - the man is supposed to suddenly pull out of the woman’s snatch and spit on her back. The woman is fooled into thinking he has shot his load. She turns around and - surprise - the man ejaculates in her face. If one were so inclined they could even follow this up by creating a ‘strawberry shortcake’ whereby - after shooting his load in the girl’s face - he promptly punches her on the nose, causing a nosebleed. The blood mixes with the sperm and - hey presto - the red and white looks just like the icing and filling of a strawberry shortcake. I am yet to do this one. And speaking of ones I am yet to try… ‘The Alabama Hot Pocket’. You separate the girl’s vagina lips and then shit inside. Job done.

“What’s wrong, baby?” she asked, turning her head back to me.

Nothing was wrong other than the fact I had momentarily been distracted thinking about weird sexual practises and - of course - I was here, trying to get to the point of climax with a woman the size of a tunnel. I started to increase the rhythm. Actions speak louder than words after all. She buried her head back down into the soft mattress and continued with the fake moans of ‘being paid’. I ignored them and mentally went through my library of hot girls I’d fucked, seen naked, fancied or - finally - wanted to see naked. Images of film stars, prostitutes, the girl next door, a girl working in my local supermarket, more film stars, porn stars and… mum? What the fuck? What the fuck are you doing in my head?

“I love it when you fuck me,” mum said.

Jesus Christ. This isn’t happening. Forget about her. Push her to the back and bring forward the now-retired Jenna Jameson. The hot blonde from many of my favourite porn scenes. That girl knew how to take a cock. The way she’d suck on it, using her hand up and down the shaft whilst giving a slight twist of her wrist, first one way and then the other. That broad has skill, far more so than the other girls of today.

My mind concentrated on one of my favourite scenes; Jenna was with another tasty blonde - a chick named Briana Banks. Jenna was wearing a big black (why black?) strap-on and was lying back on a settee. Briana was sucking on it as though it were a real cock. Skills which weren’t up to Jenna’s but were still decent. The scene would cut and come back to Jenna fucking her from behind. That scene had it all… Two girls… No - two HOT girls… Dildos with which to fuck each other in both vagina and arsehole, various other toys and even gushing. Oh shit… My leg trebled. As the movie plays back in my mind I realise I am pretty close. Had there been a little more grip around my cock, I probably would have shot already. I can fix that.

I clenched my fist into a tight ball and lashed forward. He head snapped forward and her cunt tightened, gripping my cock tighter than it had done so already. I groaned out loud as it took me over the edge and I fired my load into the end of the rubber suffocating my throbbing cock.

“Fuuuuuuuck!” I screamed as my dick continued to twitch until it was well and truly drained. “Jesus fucking Christ! Now THAT was intense!” I laughed.

She didn’t respond.

“Sorry about the whole hitting thing,” I said - despite not actually being very sorry at all. “It’s just this thing I do. I’ve found it makes the whole thing that little bit more… You know… Woah…”

Again, she didn’t utter a word. Was she really that upset? It wasn’t as though I hit her hard. Certainly not as hard as I could have done.

I withdrew my cock, holding the base of the condom in the process to stop it from sliding off, getting left behind in her cunt. Immediately I felt a wetness spraying my balls and inner thighs.

“What the Hell?”

I looked down and noticed she was pissing over me.

“What the fuck is this, you dirty cunt?”

I glanced to her head and realised she was still face down on the mattress and hadn’t moved from where she’d landed after the punch.

“Oi.”

She didn’t answer me.

“Hooker.”

Fuck, what was her name?

“You okay?”

I reached to her head and lifted it from the mattress by tugging sharply on her hair. Her eyes were shut. I couldn’t tell if she looked dead or simply fast asleep.

“Fuck!”

I dropped her and she face-planted back onto the mattress.

“Seriously. Funny. You got me. Man, I didn’t realise black skin meant a black sense of humour to boot.”

She didn’t respond.

“Hey, cunt! Quit fucking about.”

Still nothing.

“This isn’t funny,” I said. I pulled the condom off and tossed it to the floor. I half expected her to start laughing but there was nothing. She wasn’t moving in the slightest. Had I really broken her?

My mind started firing in a million different directions.

What have I done? What do I do? Do I call someone? They’ll send me to prison. Sure she’s black and no one really gives a fuck about black people but there’s still some weird cunts out there who’d call this murder instead of ‘doing society a favour’. I can’t go to prison. Not with a face like this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This can’t be happening.

Well it is. You’ve gone and done it this time.

I could tell them it was an accident.

You accidentally smashed her in the back of the head during sex?

They don’t need to know it was a donkey punch.

I might get a like-minded officer? They might see the funny side?

Doubtful.

What would your mother say?

“Put your cock in me and make mumma proud!” is what she’d say. Now isn’t the time to think about that. Get out of my head, mum.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Call your psychiatrist.

And say what?

“Hey, it’s me. Just thought you should know… Totally just killed a black person. Doesn’t count as a real murder, does it?” I could say that?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What’s the big deal? You always wanted to know what it would be like to kill someone.

And now you know.

I wanted to know what it was like to kill someone, yes. But I also wanted to be able to get away with it.

Who said you didn’t? She’s black. No one will come looking.

The agency knows she is here. They sent her. When she doesn’t get back in touch with them, or start answering the phone - this will be the first place they come to look. They’ll come with the police and pictures of the hooker. They’ll be asking if I saw her.

You could deny it.

Yes. I could. But she could have checked in with them before knocking on my door and then I’ll look even more guilty. They’ll be all up in my face asking why I lied.

Well then - you’re fucked but then, if you think about it, you’ll be fucked if you call them.

They’ll be more lenient on me if I admit it and say it was an accident.

You’re in the care of a psychiatrist and you’re known to have anger issues. You probably, at some point, discussed your feelings for people such as this tramp too… They won’t be lenient. Just admit you’re fucked and brace yourself. Better yet - learn to walk with eyes in the back of your head and an arse clenched so tight nothing can get through. Or simply deny she ever came here. Even if she did check in before knocking on your door - something could have happened to her between the call and the door. They aren’t to say it didn’t. Get rid of the body, make sure you get rid of all trace of her being here and hope for the best. It’s your only option and you know it.

I can’t just get rid of the body.

Sure you can.

How?

Take it out back and burn it? Fucking thing looks half burned anyway if you think about it. Charred skin and all that. Drag her out, put her in the garden, pour on petrol and ignite. Hell - reminds me of the joke - how do you make a cat go ‘woof’?

Petrol and match.

You know it makes sense. You call them, you’re fucked anyway. If they come here and end up linking you to the disappearance… You lose nothing. Nothing to lose, everything to gain.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Or you could just stand there, dripping the last of your cum onto your already dirty carpet with your dick going soft. Soft like you.

Okay. I’ll do it.

Do what?

I’ll get rid of the body. Fuck it. Why not? If I call them, they will never believe it was an accident. If I don’t call them and they come looking for her, if I do a good enough job of getting rid of her they might believe me and leave me be. If they don’t… Well I go to jail anyway. Nothing to lose and everything to gain. But I’m not sure about the petrol and match. Whether she looks chargrilled already is by the by. I start making stinking fires in my garden, I’m going to start raising eyebrows from the people living nearby. Especially if they happen to look out of the window and see me with the lighter in hand and the dead body in the grass. Definitely no to an impromptu fire but I do believe the best place for her, in the end, is the garden. I could dig a hole for her and drop her in it. Maybe make a nice flowerbed over the top of her? A sign of respect? Who gives a fuck about the small details? The important thing - for now - is to get her in the ground and get this place cleaned up before people come looking for her. Worry about the little details later. First things first… Clean up duty.

5.

I was standing in the garage in nothing but my slippers. I should feel cold considering the lack of clothes and the draught coming in through a crack in the rear window, facing the garden, but I don’t. Maybe it has something to do with the adrenaline surging through my body at the moment at what I had accidentally done to the whore?

I was looking at my work bench. Various tools are lined up neatly. Most of them have never been used before. I only purchased them because I felt it was the ‘right’ thing to do. Every man has tools in his home, right? The funny thing is, when I was purchasing them, I was imagining using them for different reasons to what they were initially designed for. An axe was purchased with the thought of burying it into someone’s skull. The razor-sharp hacksaw was purchased with the thought of cutting through flesh and bone, dismembering a victim. A hammer was purchased because I thought it served Peter Sutcliffe well back in his reign of terror. None of the things I had bought that manic day had been pictured being used in what one might call Do-It-Yourself. I even told my psychiatrist this. She didn’t say anything at the time but she did start frantically scribbling down in her notepad. By the end of that particular session, she spoke of increasing my medication dosage. I, of course, told her that was fine but I never bothered. The more I saw her, the more I spoke, the more I looked at people outside of my small social network of ‘just me’ - I came to realise that there is nothing to say these people are right and I am in the wrong. For all we know, I am the sane one and it’s everyone else who has a serious case of the ‘fuck-ups’. Until I can be proven wrong, I’m happy to play along with the meetings but the medication is surplus to requirements.

I had brought a gym bag down from upstairs with me. Again, a bag supposedly meant for use at the gym yet had never even been inside one. When I bought it, I imagined how many body parts I could fit into it and thought it was an essential purchase. I set it on the workbench and started loading various tools of the psycho’s trade into it; a hacksaw, some heavy-duty black sacks, my trusty hammer on the off-chance anything needed flattening down a little. The cleaning equipment, such as the bleach and mops, could wait until I had finished the first job. Get it down and then come back down to the kitchen to get those bits. Can’t exactly carry everything in one hit although there’s a small part of me which suggests it might be a good idea to make several trips just for the sake of having everything needed in the same room. Less chance of spreading unwanted DNA further around the house.

Damned DNA. It would probably make sense to do what needs to be done and then just burn the house down anyway. I’d like to see them pick out the DNA from the charred remains of a broken home. I could worry about somewhere to live afterwards.

No. That’s stupid. Just do a good enough job to ensure no trace is left behind. You don’t need to burn your house down.

With the bag loaded with the tools I thought I’d need, I lifted it from the workbench and returned upstairs to where the hooker lay dead. I stopped in the bedroom doorway and looked at her. Am I supposed to feel guilt? I kind of feel as though I have done the world a favour. Is that wrong? I guess my psychiatrist would have an answer for me. She’d no doubt try and make me think how the woman’s family might feel about her death but, I don’t know… Do monkeys have feelings? I’ve watched many nature documentaries and I don’t reckon they think exactly like humans, despite what some people say. I reckon her family will be fine with it. If they’re still alive. Like I said, they carry the Ebola and HIV gene. Chances are they died a long time ago. Yeah. That’s why I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel guilty because I know her family are already dead from whatever plague-like illness killed them, or maybe it was lack of clean water? I’ve done the girl a favour. She is with them now in whatever Heaven these things believe in. That makes sense.

I smiled to myself. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy my arse. Trying to change the way I feel, it’s bullshit. I solved this one all by myself and - straight away - I feel better for it.

I walked into the room and set the bag down to the side of the bed. I lifted the girl’s head from the mattress once more and looked at her. I’m not sure what I expected but I kind of thought she might have been a little less black - you know, because of the whole ‘dead thing’. When white folk die, from what I have seen in films and documentaries, they look pale but… Nope. She still looks black as night. Not quite cold yet either. Would that be because of the sun though? I remember something from school, not that I went often, where black absorbs heat better. Maybe she has retained some of what she absorbed from the sun? That would make sense. I’m sure - in time - if left alone she would get cooler. Still smells like shit though.

I reached into the bag and pulled out the black sacks. A large roll of over eighty apparently and I’m most likely to use them all now. I started unrolling the bags, without tearing them from each other. I placed them on the floor, in long lines. When one section of the carpet was covered from wall to wall, I tore the bags and started unrolling more for another line; the idea being to cover the entire floorspace, protecting it from splatters of blood and gore.

I know it would make more sense to drag the girl from the bedroom and through to the bathroom where the floor would be easier to clean but - goddamn if she doesn’t look heavy. Can’t move that! At least not by myself.

I continued lining the floor with black sacks until the entire space was covered. It wasn’t the best of jobs but it was better than nothing. I tossed the remaining bags to the corner of the room, not that there were many left, and turned my attention to the dead hooker.

Jesus, it’s not like it was even that hard of a hit. These people are used to fucking coconuts dropping from the trees onto their heads. I thought, over time, their colour evolved thicker skulls? Evolution to better their odds of survival? Unless they lost it again when they started shipping themselves all over the world in various banana crates. To think, some people are worried about finding poisonous spiders in their shop purchased banana bunches… I’d be worried about finding a black person. Harder to kill than unwanted spiders. Bigger pest. Actually - thinking about it - perhaps they’re not harder to kill than spiders? This one was pretty simple. Unless she was ill already? Quite possible.

I walked back over to my bag of tricks and peered in. There it was, the hacksaw. I’ve been waiting so long to do something like this. The first thought I’d had when buying it. How easy would it cut through flesh and bone? Only one way to find out, I guess.

With a shaking hand I reached into the bag and gripped the hacksaw’s metal handle. It feels cold. I pulled it from the bag and held it up. So damned sharp. I can’t see it having a problem cutting through flesh and bone. It’s not as though I bought the cheapest one I could find. I reckon it will last the distance.

I looked towards the body, trying to decide on where best to start. Maybe the arm joints as they’re thinner and - therefore - not as hard to cut through? But then maybe I should slice the bigger bits? The thighs? The necks? After all - it won’t be good if I start with the smaller bits and find the blade dulls meaning I can’t cut the bigger bits. Okay then, start at the thighs. Thighs and then the head and then the arms. If the blade is still okay after that - I can cut the pieces smaller still. I nodded to myself. Sounds like a plan, Stan.

With the hacksaw in one hand, I reached out with my other hand and took the girl by the ankle. I pulled her leg away from the other in order to give myself a little room to move the saw back and fourth. The impatient man within me wondered where I could move the two legs together and saw through both as though they were one but it didn’t take long for the sensible side of me to realise it was a stupid idea. What was that saying people used to say to me? Slow and steady wins the race? Something like that. Something mentally retarded. The one who wins the race is the one with the biggest engine. We all know that. We’ve all seen the film ‘The Fast and the Furious’. If slow and steady won the race, they’d have given Vin a Skoda or Smart Car instead of the American Muscle Cars he was constantly driving.

Quit delaying and get on with it.

I placed the cold teeth of the saw against the hooker’s leg and applied a little light pressure, preparing myself to start hacking away. I knew the blood was going to go over the duvet but - seeing as she’d already pissed on it - I didn’t think it would hurt. Damned thing is going to have to be binned regardless.

My heart was racing as sweat started to come through on my forehead. I feel nervous for what I am about to do. Why I do not know. I’ve been looking forward to trying this for so long that I would have thought I’d have felt excited. Being stupid. I am sure, once the first cut is done, the excitement will start to flow through me. I just need to make the first incision.

I lifted the hacksaw off a moment and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. Jesus. What is wrong with me? It’s not as though she’s a real person. Just a hooker. Another dead hooker. She isn’t the first and she won’t be the last. They knew the dangers when they took on this role. The more clients they see, the more they potentially meet a murderer. Okay then… No more pissing about. Let’s get this done so I can finish up and watch some television; put this whole shitty day behind me.

I set the blade back against her right hand thigh and…

She coughed.

I jumped.

What the fuck?

She lifted her head from the mattress.

What the fuck?

“What happened?”

Thinking quickly I tossed the hacksaw under the bed, and kicked the bag under too. Slowly the hooker lifted herself from the bed and rolled onto her back. She lifted a hand to the back of her head and started rubbing it.

“What happened?” she asked again.

You didn’t check for a pulse? Surely before you do anything that should have been the first thing you look for! A fucking pulse!

I didn’t think. I panicked.

No shit.

“You passed out,” I told her. “One minute we were there going at it, I was about to ejaculate, and then suddenly you said you didn’t feel good and - bam - out for the count. You had me worried,” I lied hoping she’d buy into it.

“I don’t feel very good.”

A hit on the head would do that.

“You don’t look too good either. Can I get you a drink of water?” I hadn’t binned the mug she used earlier so it wouldn’t have been a problem to fetch her a drink if required. Considering the near death encounter she had, seemed only fair.

“What’s with all the black bags?” she asked looking to the floor.

“We’d agreed on water-sports,” I told her. Water-sports, also known as golden showers, are when either partner pisses on the other for sexual gratification.

“We did?”

I nodded. She looked dazed and confused. I actually think I have a good chance at getting away with all of this. Although, rather annoyingly, now there is a small part of me that regrets not being able to cut her into tiny pieces and bury her in the garden during the dead of night.

“We did,” I reassure her, “but then you passed out and did it over the bedding anyway.”

“I did? Oh my God I’m so sorry,” she said.

She climbed up from the bed and looked back at the mess she’d earlier created as though she didn’t believe my word as it was. She raised her hand to her mouth, in shock, and started to cry from embarrassment.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, these things happen!” I reassured her. I put an arm around her and held her tight. That was about as much comfort as I could provide. I’m not sure whether it made her feel any better. All I knew was that I’d be washing with bleach as soon as she left anyway. “Did you want a shower?” I offered her.

“What time is it?” she asked, suddenly panicked. “My driver will be wondering where I am if we have gone over the hour.”

Her driver? Then it was a good thing I hadn’t killed her! I’d be busy cutting her up only for some butch man to come a knocking on my door? Jesus. That would have been disastrous! Harder to deny something when you’re caught in the act.

“Where are my clothes?”

I had accidentally buried her clothes in bin-liners. I’d been in a hurry to get things started and couldn’t be bothered to move them immediately. I figured they weren’t going anywhere and that I could move them afterwards…

I moved the bin-liners from the mound of clothes and she bent down and scooped them up. Ignoring my offer of a shower, she started to dress herself.

“I really am sorry about this,” she said, “that’s never happened before.”

“Hey,” I shrugged, “these things happen.”

I watched as she continued to dress herself. When she was done, she grabbed her handbag and fished around for something. She pulled her hand out and I could see she had a wad of notes. She handed them to me, “Here! Take this back,” she said.

“Really?”

She nodded, “I really am sorry about all of this.”

“Well if you’re sure,” I smiled as I took the money from her and tossed it to the bedside cabinet whilst trying not to laugh. I’d experienced my first black woman, I’d ejaculated, I got away with punching her and now I was getting my money back too. Damn. To think I initially thought this was going to be a bad day. Turning into a pretty good one!

“Can we just pretend it never happened?” she asked.

“If that’s what you want,” I told her, “but I think you’d be wise to get yourself looked over by a doctor, or something. Could be something wrong. Definitely worth checking out.”

“I will. Thank you. And thank you for being understand about everything,” she said. “I’m really sorry. I have to go…” she turned and staggered towards the door. I didn’t move. I just stood there with a grin on my face.

Today was a good day.

Something to talk to the psychiatrist about next week…

T H E    E N D

Table of Contents

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- 5.