Edward Lee - Mangled Meat

“For the money you pay him to be our squeal, why would he?”

Inside the sandal there was some sort of a compartment, from which Leon withdrew a roll of cash. “Damn it, Osc. Bitch was hiding twelve hundred bucks in here. My money.”

Oscar humped the slick crevice between Therese’s bulging breasts, his hairy ass pistoning back and forth with the precision of a derrick. “And she was gonna leave here tomorrow and give it all to that white nigger Henry Phipps.”

Leon was not offended by the “n”-word. “This shit hurts, man. I treat these girls right. What is it about that goddamn Phipps that has my bitches handin’ him their money like he’s Snoop Dog and Tupac combined?”

Oscar’s answer was forestalled for his orgasm, which looped into Therese’s still face. When he began talking again, he was wringing the last of it out of his cock like water out of a dishrag. “It ain’t him, Leon. Wanna know what it is?”

“Tell me, my man.”

“It’s you. You’re too nice to these bitches. You let ‘em walk on you. If there’s a buck to be made, these girls’ll eat cum out of an ass-crack like a kid eating icing off a cupcake. Only thing white-trash like this respects is a Mack-Daddy who means business, a hard fuckin’ hand, man.”

“You know, Osc? You’re right. It don’t make sense, but you’re right. And this is one hand that’s gonna get real hard real fast. But it just hurts, ya know?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Oscar was pulling his pants back up. “It ain’t no big deal in the long run anyway. Any crew’s gotta couple bad girls. We’re weeding ours out.” Oscar paused, extended a hand to the still-unconscious Therese. “You wanna piece of this before I start working on her?”

“No. She disgusts me.”

And the entire scene disgusted Flood. He watched from his secret vantage point, hand still in the air to pick up the phone. His most sophisticated human senses felt severed, leaving only a blazing, mindless lust. His penis throbbed so hard it hurt, erect now beyond any maximum he’d ever experienced. Only the barest filament left of his spirit remained bellowing at him to call the police as, below, Oscar re-donned his sand-mitt and re-straddled Therese’s chest.

“Remember, don’t kill her,” Leon instructed. “But I want that pretty little face of hers fucked up royally. When Phipps takes his first look at her, I want him to puke.”

WHAP! came the first blow, which most certainly crushed her nose. Four more to either side just as certainly shattered her cheekbones and jaw. In only a matter of seconds, her face more resembled a stepped-on jelly donut than a human visage.

It was as though Flood’s skin had been nailed to the wall and he was pulling that skin through the nailheads when he finally managed to drag himself away from the window to the desk with the phone. Only three steps but in those three steps the hardest erection of his life went utterly limp.

Then that last filament of humanity made its exit.

If anything, his cock grew even harder when he stepped back to the window, a tethered animal with rabies, just about to break its chain. Flood knew then that he had no choice at this point…

He was masturbating at the window, sweat pouring. Oscar had already popped Therese hard over each eye, turning them to blue-black puffs of flesh. And now—

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

He was belly-punching her, his stout arm piledriving straight down with each blow. Bulbous breasts jounced with each slug.

Flood’s climax burst, releasing the mental stopper on the day’s agonizing back-up of semen. Like last night, it flew out the window in what seemed several yard-long strings. And like last night, there’d been not an inkling of any last-second sabotaging image of Felicity. His orgasm unwound as a celebration, bringing tears to his eyes. He staggered back when it was finally all gone, his loins buzzing. His cock felt content as a beast that had just fed gluttonously.

When he regained some order of sense, he found himself looking back down.

Please, God. Let them be done…

Oscar and Leon weren’t done.

The bald man hunkered low, in one hand an empty beer bottle, in the other a hammer.

“You said you wanted her fucked up. Well, this’ll fuck her up.”

Leon stood, a knuckle to his lips, contemplating. “No, no—”

“What? Going back to Mr. Nice Guy?”

“She could bleed to death, Osc. I don’t want that. I know— Do like you did that one chick we had a couple years ago. Remember? That Gothy looking bitch who was trying to hustle our girls for some service in Key West.”

“Oh, yeah! Balloon Pussy! Straight up.” Oscar put the bottle and hammer away, then put the mitt back on. He pushed Therese’s ankles back toward her head, where Leon then grabbed them and pulled them back further. Her ass spread; the flesh of her vagina bloomed forward.

Oscar slapped down hard against her bared loins with the mitt’s open palm. Time and time again, as hard as a strong man could. Flood reeled, nauseated, but locked in place by the taunt of an instantaneous erection as turgid and insistent as the one his hand had relieved a minute ago. He squeezed it; it felt hard as a steel-tube covered with skin, lust and blood purpling its dome, the slit inflamed and glazed already.

Oh my God…

Again, that blade severed his humanity. Now Oscar was punching down outright into Therese’s sex, which was blacking and bluing and swelling before his eyes.

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

And more.

“Lookit that,” Oscar remarked, subtly impressed by the image of his handiwork. The majoras of Therese’s vagina, indeed, had ballooned with swelling, and with that image the pressure of desire built up similarly in Flood’s penis, backed by further semen straining to be released. Flood thought of a water balloon being slowly squeezed. The idea of calling the police, now, did not exist anywhere in his head. Flood masturbated frenetically, eyes locked below.

Oscar and Leon were chuckling at the image of Therese’s ludicrously swollen sex.

“I can’t help it, man,” Oscar chuckled further, dropping his slacks again. “I’ve just gotta fuck this…”

Oscar banged away, for quite awhile, as Flood nearly jerked the skin off of his own cock. At the moment when he would normally lose everything—when the image of Therese would invert to Felicity—Flood bit down on his lip to stifle the shriek of his pleasure that surely would’ve echoed outside. The first spurt blew against the glass, several more landed in loops on the carpet. This second orgasm of the night felt heroin-like. He stood ridiculously, heart hammering, legs still spread and one arm bracing him against the window frame. Insensible, he looked down and saw an impossibly still-hard penis throbbing. The final string of semen dangled from the piss-slit. When he squeezed his balls, the erection involuntarily flexed, and hook-shotted the remaining sperm in an upward arch where it stuck to his chest like a piece of flung spaghetti.

“Not enough,” Leon said, out of frame. “It’s the tits that bother me now.”

“What about ‘em?” Oscar was pulling his pants up again, while Therese lay with her legs wishboned, her genitals a dark swell. “That’s the best pair of tits in your stable.”

Leon kept the contemplative finger to his lips. “Yeah, and that’s the problem. I paid for them. Let Henry Phipps pay for the next pair.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Oscar chuckled and produced an ice pick.

Flood couldn’t move, paralyzed by the combinant disgust of continuing to watch while his loins still buzzed in post-orgasm.

Oscar had obviously done work like this before. Under each of Therese’s breasts, he quickly shivved the ice pick up several times, puncturing the implants. Then he lifted his leg and stepped on each breast, deflating them. Multiple streams of red-tinted saline sprayed down Therese’s lower body. A minute later, her state-of-the-art breasts were popped bags of skin.