Little Prick

Little Prick
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Product Details
File Size: 178 KB
Print Length: 15 pages
Fortmat: ePub
Features: Flowing text
Language: English

Price(USD): $0.55


Little prick…him and his dick.

He makes my lip curl into a sneer and angry blood course through my veins, beat out a steady rhythm on the back of my eyes.

He lay next to me in our marital bed after we ‘made love’ repeating “I love you” over and over. The way he says it makes me want to cut his tongue out and feed it to him. He always says it with an edge of mirth in his voice that makes me want to slit his throat wide open so I can hear his lungs purge themselves of his last gasp.

It took him a whole minute to shoot his load – in and out a couple of dozen times; my tired, bored pussy drier than the Sahara, the pussy he couldn’t get wet if he poured a bucket of water over it.

I fucking loathe him. His flesh connecting with mine in any manner makes my skin crawl, makes my gut tighten.

I hate the cruel straight line he calls a mouth. I have always found it at odds with his elegant speech, the words he uses, his impeccable pronunciation. It just does not seem right that such eloquence should come from that hateful gash in his face.

I hate the tiny little chip in the corner of his front tooth. Every time I see it, I get the urge to take a hammer and smash the rest of his teeth out. I sometimes fantasize about doing that. When I think about it, an excited spasm takes a hold of my cunt and won’t let go. My juices flow freely when I imagine kissing his burst lips, feeling the warmth of his fresh blood and fragments of his smashed teeth spilling into my mouth. I have been on the verge of orgasm when I think about restraining him, binding him hand and foot, and carving my name into his weak flesh with a scalpel blade. I visualize flaying him with a cut throat razor and throwing the bloody strips of skin from his body at the wall, watching it wet-slide down to the floor and leave beautiful scarlet streaks like a bloody Victorian parlor. Then I would think about making him eat some of it, forcing his rotten meat in to his own mouth, making him chew it with the remnants of his broken teeth.

He would probably taste like chicken.

Or weasel.

I don’t even remember how it felt to love him. I know that I did, but I have no recollection of it. To even consider having such a feeling for him is utterly foreign to me. I have no idea what I ever found to love about him. Perhaps it was something as superficial as the books he read, perhaps it was his mind that I loved. Maybe it was just the way he talks. It must have been something but what, I don’t know.

The thing that hurts me the most, the thing that just shreds my gut into bloody ribbons, isn’t all the whores he’s fucked, not even the barely-legal, new and improved versions of me he dallied with. No, the thing that makes me want to smash his face so hard it comes out the back of his head is the fact that, through it all, he always said “I love you,” every day, without fail. That’s the thing that rams the blade in up to the hilt. Why do men do that shit? What’s the point?

He’d say it until it didn’t mean anything anymore – not to him or to me. He used those words like a salve, as if they, accompanied by the chocolates and flowers and Champagne he’d come home with, would wash off all the dirt and the filth he’d brought in with him. To me, the wine and the roses and confectionery just seemed like a celebration of his sordid little trysts in dirty-sheeted motel rooms with fuck-anything whores.

He says it, every time, “I love you,” and hands me the tokens of his low esteem for me, gives me that you’re such a dumb bitch look that he believes me incapable of interpreting.

That’s what he thinks.

Sometimes, when he’s asleep, I stand over him with a keen blade glinting in my hand, itching to stick it in him, twitching and shaking with the desire to fuck his guts with it, fuck it as hard as he fucks his rancid salmon-cunted alley-dwellers. I’d love to watch his life dripping from my shining steel in a red river rush, love to see the little prick bleed for me.

I could do it. I wouldn’t think twice about it if I thought I could get away with it, but he’s not worth rotting in prison for, or being electrocuted for. He’s not worth crossing the street for, frankly.

Why don’t I leave?

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

And this one is extremely cold, believe me.

He thinks I will never leave him. He thinks I’m here for the duration to put up with his shit, endure him staying out all day and all night and wandering in when he pleases without me saying boo about it.

I do what I want. I’m left alone to get on with it by myself, while he goes off and does what he does with whomever he does it with. There is no one to bother me. I can do what I please.

And that includes sleeping with his twin sister.

Right from the first time I met her, I knew their relationship wasn’t a normal one.

I only had vague suspicions for the first year of our marriage, nothing firm; I thought perhaps I was just being bad minded, thought that my feeling about them was more of a reflection on me and my deviant mind than any wrong doing on their part. I used to feel so guilty when I had those thoughts about them, when I would sit and wonder if they really were sleeping together. But my gut feeling was strong. And, of course, my suspicions were entirely accurate.

I came home early one day, back from the doctor’s office, brimming over with excitement to tell him that I was pregnant. I walked in on them, just as he was entering her from behind and violently shoving her face into the pillow on our bed.

It was such a shock to my system, to have what I suspected confirmed in one retina-scorching vision, that I miscarried the baby.

Later, he told me that losing the baby was a blessing in disguise because he didn’t want kids anyway, and would have demanded I have an abortion if I had not lost it naturally.

Naturally.

Jesus.

He’s under the impression he is the only person his sister has ever slept with, thinks she’s pure except for his own incestuous touch. He may be the only man she’s ever had, but he’s not aware that she swings like a Wild West saloon door. I think it might kill him. I think he may drop fucking dead on the spot. I can live in hope.

I know how much he loves her, truly loves her. He loves her far, far beyond the point of obsession. I’ve never seen anybody look at someone the way he looks at her; it’s a look of awe, a look of fascination. And you know, she’s not even pretty, really. But there’s something there that just fills up his heart when he sees her. I know that the very thought of somebody else touching her, kissing her, caressing her, fingering her, fucking her, makes him so insane he could kill. He’s that much in love with her.

I can’t wait for the day he finds out. I can’t wait to see that arrogant bastard’s face drenched in horror when he walks in on us, when he sees us naked in bed together, sees me eating her pussy, sees her with her ankles round her ears screaming my name louder than she’s ever screamed his.

He’ll be especially perplexed since he’s under the impression that I am frigid. He also believes that I have a problem in the lubrication department. He thinks that I loathe sex, that I find it dirty and degrading. I do…but only when the sex is with him. It simply must be me there’s something wrong with. I mean, how could any normal woman not be able to get it wet for such a big man?

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Product Details
File Size: 178 KB
Print Length: 15 pages
Fortmat: ePub
Features: Flowing text
Language: English

Price(USD): $0.55