Jack Ketchum - Sleep Disorder

Oh, good , she rejoiced. Anything to get her mind off that look in Roderic's eyes, and that scary-sad tone in his voice. At once she pushed Fudd back and gave Mr. Meat Missile a welcome silo — in this case, her mouth. She hoped the distraction would serve her well: all that burgeoning cock in her chops, that glans — large as a baby apple — squeezing her tonsils, and the indescribable flavor of her own womanly fluids melded with sperm "Bet that creamcake pissant wussy never gave you a cock like this, huh?" Fudd groaned deep in his throat, holding her head. "Good gawd, love-muffin, I say ya damn well shore can suck a good peter."

Quaintly stated. Yet on Clare sucked, pausing only to glaze an alternate testicle with her tongue, or to tease the tender peehole. "Aw, get it, sugar!" resounded Fudd's next erudite ingratiation. "Suck all that hot peckersnot right outta that there cock!"

And so she did. Fudd's vesicles jettisoned yet another copious allotment of semen into Clare's talking hole, as she slipped a pinky into his anus to prod the overlarge prostate. She got a mouthful, to say the least. Like ordering egg drop soup from The China Chef and tipping the carton all at once. Yet with all this earthy distraction, Roderic's promise effused in her mind. I would do anything for you. Would he? Anything? What did that mean?

Would he…injure himself? Would he…

My God, would he commit suicide?

Again, the promise fluttered.

I would do anything…

And as Clare sucked out the final vestige of her lover's "peckersnot," she dared to consider the dreadful question: Just what would Roderic do to prove his promise?

He phoned every day. Gratefully, Fudd was out at such times, discharging his "salesman" duties. Clare soon learned to hate the sound of her phone.

"Clare, darling please! Please come back!"

"We were meant to be together!"

"I love you more than any man on earth!"

And, ever the promise: "I would do anything for you!"

She'd never answer, he'd always leave messages. And at night he haunted her dreams. She'd seen him in a scarlet bathtub with his wrists sliced open. She'd seen him blue-faced as his BMW idled in the closed garage. She'd seen him gun-shot, poisoned, hanged by the neck. Roderic's mother would make scowling cameos. "You take good care of my boy, missy," she'd insist, shadowed by her leather clad Dallas, whose gloved hands creaked as he opened and closed his fists."…good care of my boy, good care of my boy, good care of my boy," the dream-crone would go on. But the nightmare always ended the same. Roderic's corpse, however dispatched, would come back to life, speaking in a death-rattle voice to reaffirm:

"I would do anything for you."

She'd wake in convulsions, groping for release. Soon she resolved, I will fuck and suck Roderic right out of my mind , and Fudd always provided a willing scapegoat in his cock. Each night reverted to a sexual tableau, be it oral or coital. Fudd became the vehicle of her oblivion, and when sheer fatigue forestalled further orgasms via Clare's mouth or reproductive channel, she'd plumb a wet thumb in and out of his anus and vigorously jerk him off. Eventually the furious demand of her hand unseated one final dollop of sperm, whose warm strings she'd always greedily lap up. But these distractions only lasted as long as the acts themselves, and the nightmare images always returned, as did the nightmare promise:

I would do anything for you .

One morning Fudd was in the shower, crooning "Love Me Tender." Clare lolled in bed, exhausted, her sex nearly turned inside-out by the previous night's ministrations of Fudd's log of love. She winced when the phone rang.

"Clare, please," whined Roderic's voice. "Talk to me!"

She grabbed up the phone. "Roderic, stop calling me!"

"Listen. Don't hang up. I want you to come over—"

"No!"

"Mother and Dallas went to Paris for a month. Please, Clare! Come over. We'll have the whole place to ourselves."

"I don't want to come over, Roderic. I don't want to ever see you again!"

"Buh-buh-but I love you!"

"I don't love you!"

"You used to, though — I know you did. I'm still the same person now that I was then. Darling, I do anyth—"

"I know, Roderic. You'd do anything for me. But can't you get it through your granite head—"

"At least tell me why you don't want me anymore."

Clare ground her teeth. You asked for it, Roddie. "You're fat, Roderic. I can't be seen in public with a fat guy!"

"I'll lose weight," Roderic matter-of-factly replied.

"And you're pale as a ghost."

"I'll get a tanning booth."

"And you don't have any muscles, Roderic. All girls want their boyfriends to have muscles."

"I'll start working out. I'll join a gym."

This was impossible! The last resort, Clare concluded. What else could a woman do? She didn't want to be mean, but he left her no choice. Get ready, 'cos here it goes.

"You come too fast, and you've got a little dick!"

If there was any way to decimate a man's persistence, this proclamation was it. But instead of falling into glum silence, or hanging up, Roderic immediately responded, "I'll go to a sex therapist — oh, oh! — and I'll get one of those penile implants. No problem."

No problem. Clare felt herself deflating. He was a gadfly that could not be swatted.

"Because, darling," he went on, "I would do anything for—"

The phone was snatched out of Clare's hand. Fudd, naked and dripping, brought the handset to his ear. "Listen to me, ya little creamcake eight-ball. Don't'cha call here no more. Or I'll kick ya in the dick so hard yer balls'll pop out yer ears. I'll come over to that fancy mansion of yours and I'll burn it down and take a piss on the ashes. I'll bury ya up to your neck, son, and shit on yer head, and yer mama too, after I'm done blowin' a nut up her tired ass with my John Henry." Fudd hung up and addressed Clare: "You think that fairy creamcake got the message now?"

Clare fell back into bed. My God, I hope so , she thought.

The next day, Fudd's big "score" came in. They flew at once to Cancun, their first real vacation together. Clare expected to work on her suntan, but she quickly discerned that most of her time would be spent in bed, not on the beach. Fudd's penis was a boom that never lowered, and his scrotum a veritable sperm factory. Clare was either pulsing off in orgasm, or experiencing one generous allotment after the next of Fudd's testicular milkshake. To Clare's bliss, the nightmares stopped, and so did all thoughts of Roderic. It's over , she reflected one night with Fudd's pork sword so far down her throat his testes assumed the position of sunglasses. Roderic's out of my mind and out of my life — forever .

Clare spent the last day alone; Fudd left a day early to make "another score." She lounged on the beach all day, and masturbated all night, finding that even a 24-hour span without her macho human sod-pounder was intolerable. She flew back the next day so antsy she could scarcely keep her hand out from under her skirt, and she did, in fact, stroke her parts whilst driving back from the airport's long-term lot. Bags in hand, and her sex anguishing for Fudd's priapic attentions, she dashed into the apartment. "Fudd! Godzilla! I'm home!" she exclaimed. "Ready for an oil change?"

But no reply was forthcoming. He must be here , she reckoned. His car's outside . "Love-muffin's back!" She strode for the bedroom. Bet he's waiting in bed for me. Waiting with that big, hard cock …

But, now, big and hard it was not. Clare stared, then shrieked. Fudd lay sprawled naked on the bed — clearly as dead as dead could be — and his face dark-scarlet and strangely distended. Then a figure emerged from the corner, leather-capped and leather-gloved.