The look on her face made it all worth it.

The throbbing piece of pain standing stiff between his legs.
Full of rusty iron, broken glass, shiny pins.
His cock, glittering in the hallway light before she shut the door.
A rolling tender pain distracting him from that look as the latch clicked home.

Trapping herself in the room.

The fucking bitch.
She'd never get it open again before he was on her.
And she knew it.
Big blue eyes rigid on his pulsing cock.
It's slick quivering skin. Fucking bitch.

"Is this what it looks like?"

The madman grunted.
A fluid gesture towards his member.
Blue eyes liquid venom begging for a quarter ounce,
a dime bag of the woman's sorrow.

"Is this what his pierced cock looks like? His sweet fucking cock?"

But Sheila just shook her head, bird eyes trained on the cobra. A curved aluminum foil shank Prince Albert jutting out from under the pale purple head. Broken vase chunk Yakuza beads pushed under the skin of his shaft. Sheila's shit brown purse slid from her arm to the hardwood floor with a dropped turd thump.

"Sweet pierced cock. Your words."

The madman grinned and looked down at the ruined stiff meat pulsing in time to a heartbeat he could no longer feel.

"B-b-ben I... it's not what you think... I only..."

A pitbull flinch, her voice more painful than anything else, more than the ink stained paper, her scent on the bed, the first piece of glass pushed through his scrotum. Nodding, the madman began a slow inch around the beige couch, his only obstacle to that pretty, pretty face.

"I read your letter."

That shut her up. Teeth clicking together. An audible trap door snapping shut. It brought a smile to his poisoned face. Everything poison, eating him up, burning through his life. A nail bomb ticking in his mind after he found the letter looking for his Von's Shopping Discount card, a crisp paper in the pocket of her purse. The high school style mash note that played back on his internal monitor every night when they would make popcorn together. Snaking through his ears whenever she talked, no words tumbling out of her lipstick soft lips, just letters cutting into his eyes.

"Cunt."

His face twisted the word into an ugly thing and she twitched. It made him feel good. It made him feel hard. It made him want to do it again. Again.

"Cunt."

Sheila flinched again. The whore. Moving slow around the edge of the couch, around the edge of the herd, the madman eased into the role. Beast thing looking for the slow, the weak, the old, the stupid. The whores.

It was the blood on the floor. It was the stink on his breath. It was Ben's shallow breathing. It was the bulging, bobbing pin cushion erection moving almost within reach that snapped Sheila from her small prey trance.

Sheila moved fast. Heading right for the kitchen door. Where the knives were. Where she might get away. Where she could make a stand. Instead Ben just laughed at her back. Sheila was trim from running sprints at the gym. Her grace was confident.

Sheila bounced off the slate grey swing door. A meat bag slam into immovable object, nail heads barely visible on the dark door frame. A wet spot on the paint where her forehead split open. Sheila hit the floor comically fast. The madman laughed harder.

"Ow, oh honey. Are you okay?"

Nights at the Y with all the other ball busting feminist dykes, kicking a dummy in the crotch, gouging out sawdust eye sockets, but it wasn't going to be that easy. It never was.

These dumb cunts never got it. They never expected the nice guy in the BMW would pin their arms and rip their panties. The stupid skanks. Laying their lies, baiting the trap with pussy, getting mad when they caught a bear. Moving to a nice neighborhood, leaving their windows open at night. None ever thought it would happen to them. No one ever expected to have their kitchen door nailed shut. Sheila didn't. Laying on her back, stunned like a wall eyed pike in the bottom of the boat.

Sheila rolled onto her stomach when the first kick came. Her rosemary colored hair felt good on the bottom of his foot. Ben put his weight down on her head. Her moan felt better on his ears.

"How long you been fucking him?"

Sheila moaned. Ben leaned harder.

"How long have you been fucking the tattooed pierced stud?"

His voice meaner than a fist, Ben stomped on her head. She yelped, hands coming up. Ben's foot came down faster. Her head bounced up off of the floor, eyes careening wildly across the closed curtains. Curtains her mother picked out last fall.

"How long?!"

The madman reared away from the bruised animal on the floor. A glint of light catching his attention. The razor and mirror full of coke drawing him to the antique iron and glass end table. The razor holding his attention. Holding it.

"D-d-don't... B-ben... stop..."

Whipping around, ball bearings colder than the razor's coke lined edge, the madman's eyes came back to Sheila.

"Stop?"

The hand came around.

"Stop?"

The madman grabbed a fist full of hair, pulling her head back, back, back. A soft pop in her neck.

"But we haven't fucked yet."

The hand with the razor came down. It came down fast, again, and again, in vertical sweeps. Sheila screamed.

"We haven't fucked!"

The razor slit through the Bettsy Johnson dress, through the Virgina's Secret burgendy lace bra, the t-back panties, the buttercream skin.

"We haven't fucked!' Spit flew from his lips.

Sheila screamed. The razor bit and chewed. The dress soaked up fear sweat. Her panties filled with fowl brown stew. The razor dug and tore. The madman began to sweat. Thick beads of salty oily moisture ran down his hairy chest. Blood from his dick mingled with the fresh red river streaming from her back, from her arms, the gentle curve of her buttocks.

Sheila screamed.

The madman pulled her up by her hair, kneeing her in the tail bone. The razor was jammed into the side of her neck where it stayed. Each knee drove her forward and onto the tips of her toes until Ben slammed her down onto the top of the oak book shelf. Sheila cried and cried. Her sobs were unintelligible, weak, and oh so pleasing. It made Ben want to jam his thumb up her virgin asshole, but the pussy was so much more tender. Tender like all the lies she'd been telling him. Tender like his heart that he'd given her openly.

"Are you ready for my sweet pierced cock?"

Ben stroked his ball sack lovingly.

"It's ready for you. Ready for that sweet candy."

Sheila moaned no or something to that effect. Thick gouts of bloody snot running from her nose, staining a Kafka book under her face.

"Oh? No pierced cock? No sweet peirced cock? Mines' not sweet?"

Ben gritted his teeth and spread her legs.

"I think not."

The first thrust was awkward, a double shot of pain that rocked Sheila's teeth and sent Ben's vision spinning. His impossibly hard erection ripped and tore as the vagina clamped shut against the insane intruder.

But the razor was a twinkle of inspiration.

Sheila bucked and shrieked as the blade was yanked from her neck and then slashed across her thick vaginal lips.

"OHGODNOBENACKGOD"

But Ben had his full weight on her. Ben wasn't a big man, but he was bigger than her full of coke amped anger. The razor flipped from his hand in her spasms but the meat was already fileted. It hung in strips and hunks.

Ben grabbed the base of his cock and rammed it in. The pain jackknifed through all the coke, pills and vodka to hit him in the face. But his anger was greater.

"...oh you bitch..."

Their blood mingled as their flesh torn together, raw nerve endings jammed up against each other.

"...you whore..."

Ben's vision swam. His cock buried into her, locked in like a sunk hook, his blood filling up her uterus, the room began to fade around the edges. Sheila shuddered and shook, her dress a confetti pattern in all the dark blood and skin shards, sticky and radiating pain. Ben's hips rocked back and fourth, pulling on the fresh wounds but it was purely animal instinct, the light had gone out in the madman's eyes.

"...whore..."

A hate soaked epitaph sliding out of his mouth, then the meat bag clip, and Ben collapsed on top of her. Sheila cried out at the weight slamming into her wounds, then an entire new volume of agony opened her mind. Ben's body slid off of her, pulling her around by the still erect meathook implanted in her savaged vagina. Little hooks of iron, pepsi bottle glass, ceramic and aluminum can shreds bit into her insides and pulled, Sheila screamed as her body was flipped over by the dead weight and the insane grip from within. She screamed until the wind was knocked out of her, landing flat on her back, on top of Ben's corpse. Then a slight bounce up.

The pain was a nova star in the sky, blotting out everything else except the need to breath, the need to suck down oxygen. Something hissed into her ear, fluttering the small hairs on her neck not matted down with blood.

Sheila froze, body cramping for air, raging pain if she moved, and a slow wheeze coming from Ben's open mouth. His rancid last breath slid slowly across her ears like a sleepwalking snake. Her hands shook, trying to get a grip on the bookshelf. Sitting up, careful, careful, pain, shooting pain in her groin, strips of skin ripping off, stuck to Ben's chest. Straddling Ben's hips, a shudder ran up and down Sheila's body. One thought. One nail into her soul.

She was alive.

But there was a dead man's cock inside of her.

e-mail: bonedaddy@boneyardpress.net