Froth

A Twisted Tale by T.L. Krawec

Vicky was alone. Vicky was cold and bored.
Vicky had been waiting a few weeks for this, which was unusual. Normally she’d get the first fuck over with as soon as possible because most of them were poseurs, just boys really; boys who acted like men but couldn’t do much other than sweat, groan, slap and make demeaning comments.
This process helped to sort them out into neat piles: ‘no’s and ‘hell no’s.
What was different about David? Well, he had that cute little stammer, and he couldn’t quite meet your eye. He was vulnerable and needy. There was something about him… like there was a hidden tiger behind his nylon ties and creased shirts. And he did strange things like give out business cards which were totally invented.

That’s how they’d met. “Hi,” he’d said, “I’m David. Here’s my business card,” and it said Christian Silver on it, and smelt of cologne, and was embossed and heavy and, well, it wasn’t what a guy called David who worked in his dad’s factory as an under-secretary to the junior accountant would give out. So Vicky had laughed, and he’d flashed his eyebrows and said “It’s roleplay.”
Well, she’d replied, roleplay can be fun.
After that he was too embarrassed and excited to meet her eyes, although when she put her hand on his and called him Christian he’d swelled up a little and given her a commanding look.
At the end of the night, drunk, she’d pulled him close in the rain and kissed him and made him promise to eat her out. It’s how I test a guy’s skills, she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll eat you out.” And then he got into his dad’s Volvo and she caught the bus home, wet, letting him get up the courage to call.

Somehow that led to her being securely tied to the corners of a four-poster bed, above the duvet, mostly naked except for lingerie. Cold, alone, and bored.
“David?” she called out.
Silence.
She started to call out again and the door opened.
In came David wearing a mask. It had a sharp nose and feathers coming out above the eyes. He hung at the door like an obsequious boss.
“It’s Christian,” he explained, then smiled broadly.
“Sure, Christian. I’m cold.”
“Are you scared of me?” he asked, putting on a silly deep voice like Batman out of those films, and Vicky didn’t know what to say. “I’m a psychopath. But women let me control them because I make them feel beautiful,” he continued, walking towards the bed.
“You’re taking the piss now. Can I go?”
Christian looked at her and through the filter of the mask his gaze was direct, unflinching. “You won’t want to go once you’ve let me own you.”
Vicky sighed and rolled her eyes. “If this ends up weird I’m going to, one, call the police and, two, in self-defence kick the shit out of you.”
“Oh, Vicky,” he breathed. Then he licked one of her exposed feet. The sharp nose of the mask pricked a little. “This is going to be good. You’ll be screaming for more.”
She tried to kick at him with one of her bound feet but the bonds were too tight.

Then he started kissing up her leg. She relaxed slightly. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be too embarrassing. Just some oral sex, then he could take off his fucking mask and untie her and she could jump on his dick, find out about his stamina. His head, impish and mischievous, and its cheap haircut, would look quite amusing between her thighs.
He reached her cunt — although he’d probably want to call it her ‘secret garden’ or something soporific like that. Pushing the mask to the top of his head he said: “Hey, Vicky, I said you’d be screaming.”
Then he bit off her clitoris, hood and all. It sounded like someone chewing a pimple, a bean-shaped pimple, meat and chew. He masticated and swallowed and she heard it, horribly and closely, because her senses were alive with shock.
Pain hit her like a kick to the balls might, a kick to the balls when the foot had teeth, and at the end of the kick the fucking foot chewed your fucking balls.
“Fuck!” she screamed, unintelligibly. Eyes shut tight in the scream, she didn’t see him shoving the cloth towards her, crusty with tears and snot and tasting of a history of torture. As she choked and sobbed he shoved the gag in and secured it around her head. She slobbered, moaned, coughed. The filthy cloth absorbed them all. With her tongue she wedged it forward, straining to breathe. She writhed. The bonds remained just as tight as before.

Her legs were still open, she could not close them, and he lapped at her with a tongue as rough as a cat’s. It rasped and rubbed against the wound. I really do have a gash she thought, madly, bleeding beef curtains. Dear God, she thought, if she wasn’t tied up she’d wrap her legs around his neck and bring him close to bite his fucking nose off, dig her thumbs into his eyeballs. The violence helped the pain feel less overwhelming.
Time became inconstant, who knows for how long he drank.
At last it ended. “Do you want a kiss, Vicky?” he giggled, his chin stained with blood.
To start she wanted to turn her head away in rejection but… nodded instead. A kiss equals can breath.

He undid her gag and gently pulled the cloth from her mouth, one now stained with her own slobber and snot and tears. His fingers left red prints on it.
Rather than go into kiss her he sat opposite, at the end of the bed. His erection was as big as it could get, for him. It pulsed and bobbed obscenely. It was, much like he seemed to be before putting the mask on, average. “I’m sure you’re sorry for making me do that,” he growled. “You’ve been so naughty and I just had to hurt you. But I did it for you, do you understand?”
Vicky waited, watched. The cool air stung her wound.
“OK, I’ll make you understand. I’m in control, and you give everything up to me.” He pulled the mask back down, put on his stupid fucking voice. “Now you’re going to suck my dick and, because you realise I’m doing this for you, you won’t bite. I get to play by different rules because I’m in control.”
He shuffled towards her, penis first. It was red and angry.
Her voice betrayed the pain she felt, but she used it anyway. “You’ve done this before?”
“Yes,” he said, happily. Well, the rag told her as much.
And she became angry, unbelievably angry, skin flushed and hot to the touch angry. There were women out there who had submitted to his game even after he damaged them because they were scared to go to the police, or the police would not believe them. Or maybe this sick fucker was killing them after.

When he took the knife out of the bedside drawer she became more sure about the likely outcome.
“Open wide,” he said, and coaxed his hips towards her lips, pointing the knife towards her face.
“Wait a second,” she said, trying to purr seductively but not quite pulling it off. “I just want you to know,” and she looked at him submissively, demurely, “master,” and she really pronounced that word, like you would say ‘dear GOD’ after hitting your thumb with a hammer, “that I’m great at deep-throating a dick. Even one as big and manly as this one. But I will need my hands.”
She sort-of smiled, sort-of snarled, but he was too enveloped in madness to notice anyway.
“I knew you’d understand,” he said, this time in his normal voice, his face plump and smiling and his eyes starshells of fantasy. He cut her hands free and, when he turned back to her, his fingers holding the knife slackened, dropping, wrist loosening, fingers untightening. His mind was full of the anticipation of the moment and he pushed himself back toward her mouth.

She inhaled his penis, sucked him in all the way. When she was sure that she was as close to the base as possible, was practically choking, she bit down. She heard the knife fall off the bed just as he screamed, loudly. It made her bite harder.
“Shithead!” she hissed, the air pulsing through her flesh-clogged teeth. “Fucker!” she frothed, the blood a Halloween cappuccino foam.
Her incisors managed to press in pretty deeply. As he fell sideways the weight of his body moved the penis and she really got at it with her molars.
He scrabbled away, a mad backwards beetle with too few legs. An arm went over the edge of the bed, his weight unbalanced, as she opened her mouth to bite down hard again he slipped out.

Now it was her turn to smile, blood dripping down her chin. With only her legs tied she could move sideways, on the edge of a circle. She looked down at him from the bed. His neck was at an unpleasant angle.
“I can’t move my arms and legs,” he said. “Please, please, tell me my penis is OK.”
She looked at it, laughed. “Think of a log of chewing gum which has been through a shredder.”
The knife was beside him on the ground. She reached down, picked it up, winked at him. Then she cut her leg restraints.
“I’m going to do you a favour,” getting onto the floor alongside his unmoving body. “It’s still attached, but we don’t want it going gangrenous, do we?”


T.L. Krawec does not give out business cards.

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One Response to Froth

  1. You werent wrong!
    Gory yet offset by the momets of humour. Good tale.

    Like

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