Jack Ketchum - Sleep Disorder

She was going to scream. She knew it.

"Because, darling, I'd give anything for—"

Suddenly the phone was snatched away. Wardell stood there buck naked and dripping from the shower, his dick bouncing like a springboard.

"Look, you little creamcup fuckhead. Don't ya call here no more, understand? I'll kick your ass so hard your balls'll pop out your ears. I'll come over to that fancy mansion and burn it to the fuckin' ground and piss on the ashes and bury you up to your neck and shit on your goddamn head and when I'm done blowin' a nut up your mama's tired old ass I'll bury her right next to ya and shit on her head too. You take my message, dickbrain?"

God, Clare hoped so.

Wardell slammed down the phone.

The next day Wardell's "big score" came in. They flew to Cancun that evening. A month in paradise. Clare expected to work on her tan but it quickly became apparent she'd be working on her libido instead. She didn't mind. Wardell's cock was a boom that never lowered, his balls a veritable sperm factory that remained in production round the clock.

The nightmares stopped.

And so did all thoughts of Roderic. She realized that one night with Wardell's cock stuffed so far down her throat she was wearing his balls like sunglasses. Indeed sex had proved her release. And it was a release she couldn't help but pursue.

If variety was the spice of life, then each day and each night of their vacation offered Clare another bellyful of ripe red peppers. And, to stretch the metaphor to its absolute limit, Wardell was never reluctant to pour liberal volumes of cream into Clare's coffee. Where does it all come from? She wondered… And best of all, Roderic was gone. Out of her mind.

Forever!

Wardell had to leave a week early; a sudden "business deal" had arisen. A "customer" had an interest in his "product." Clare lounged on the beach all day. Each night, in bed, she masturbated well into the night. All she could think about was her lover's interminably stiff cock, the plumy hot balls, her thoughts forever and solely of Wardell and his earthy love for her. Getting fucked by Wardell was akin to dropping a box of Godiva into the lap of a chocolate addict.

Clare left Cancun four days early.

On the flight back she was so antsy to see him she could hardly keep her hand out from under her skirt. Once she got into the cab, she didn't try.

His car was there in its parking space. Bags in hand, she dashed into the apartment.

"Wardell? Honey?"

No reply. "Love-muffin's home." She dropped the bags and ran into the bedroom. Stared.

And shrieked.

Wardell lay sprawled on the bed, his face a dark shade of scarlet.

"Parachute cord's the best." Fudd emerged from the corner, leather-capped-and-gloved. "Piano wire's too messy. And nylon's unreliable. Last broad that dumped Roderic, I was doing a job on her with nylon, and the damned thing snapped on me. It got ugly."

Clare could see the deadly ligature sunk deep into her lover's throat. His face had swollen to a queer balloon, strangely distended.

"You should listen to your messages," Fudd said. "The old lady's not happy, let me tell you."

He stepped forward and she screamed. Last broad that dumped Roderic, I was doing a job on her…

But it wasn't a garrote that Fudd held out to her. It was a chloroform-soaked towel.

Clare awoke in Roderic's room. She knew it instantly. Even though her senses skittered like autumn leaves in the street.

"Oh, missy," his mother sat erect in a fine cane chair opposite. Fudd was standing behind her. "You were supposed to take care of my boy." Clare's tongue felt thick and sour. "We… we broke up."

"Broke up? You dumped him, you silly, selfish horse's ass! My boy is a gift to the likes of you! You know, you're not the first to treat him similarly, and Fudd always has been kind enough to give them what they deserve. But you? For some reason, I haven't the heart. Roderic loves you so." She sighed, pigeon breast heaving beneath the frumpy dress. "You should listen to your phone messages, missy."

Clare trembled. "I–I was on vacation."

"I know. Cavorting, no doubt, with that detestable narcotics dealer. Unfortunately Fudd and I were on vacation, too. But if you'd phoned in for your messages you might have prevented all of this."

"All of what?"

"Poor Roderic. He's a nice boy but admittedly an eccentric one — with some odd ideas about proving his love. Fudd found him…outside."

Clare's mind swam in muck. Her nightmares all came back to her. Roderick shot. Poisoned. Hanging.

"He's…dead?"

"No," she simpered. "No, thank God, he's not."

Fudd scowled and plugged a cassette into the tape player on the sideboard and walked off into another room. Hi, this is Clare! I'm not home now so please …

Then Roderic's voice. "Clare! My love! Why won't you believe me? I'll prove it? I'll prove my love for you, prove that I'd give anything for you! Listen!"

A pause. A snap. A brief scream.

"That," the old woman informed her, "was my son cutting off his pinkie with a pair of tin snips."

The tape continued. Roderick sobbing. "There! Here's my proof. For each day I'm without you I'll cut off another part of myself. Goodbye, Clare." Clare did her math, paling. She'd been away over three weeks. Fudd reappeared with a blanketed bundle in his arms. He set the bundle on the bed. Undraped it and stepped aside.

Clare gasped. Her eyes bugged. She bent over and vomited. "Clare! You're back! I knew you'd come back to me!"

Roderic's bright face beamed at her.

"Ten fingers, ten toes." Roderic grinned proudly. "And the rest, I pre-applied tourniquets and used a hacksaw. The legs and the left arm were easy. But the right arm…I bet you can't guess how I did it!"

She vomited again onto the plush Persian throw rug.

"I crawled out to the woodpile, tightened the tourniquet with my teeth — and stuck my arm under the automatic log splitter. It did a nice, clean job."

She knew that for the rest of her life she would never escape the sight. Roderick swaddled on the bed. No arms and no legs. Just a living, talking torso.

"Do you believe me now? Do you believe me when I say I'd give anything for you?"

She could only croak a single word. "Yes."

"You've got your entire lives to spend together," said the old woman.

She got up and shuffled toward the door. "In time I'm sure things will work out nicely. For now, of course, Fudd will remain. To see that you comply.”

“Cuh — comply?"

Fudd smiled. His gloved hand twirled the garrote idly.

"Assume your responsibilities," said Roderic's mother. "And without a fuss. It's only fair." Her stern eyes held her fast. "I expect you to take very good care of my boy."

Fudd locked the door behind her. It took Clare a moment to realize exactly what the old lady was saying.

"Get your clothes off and get to it," Fudd directed. "You don't want to keep him waiting."

"Oh, darling," Roderic said. "Till death do us part! We'll have such a splendid time together."

For there was one part of himself Roderick hadn't cut off, and that part now throbbed erect for her.

Sort of.

Dearest Clara,

This field excursion has really turned out to be wonderful. You'd be astonished — my god! how I wish you could be here with me! This place is so different, so unimaginable! The Rain Forest is a world of its own, teeming with life and filled with the strangest beauty. The Team and I have already made several noteworthy finds, and I've personally isolated a half dozen species of Thallophyta that have never been catalogued. I couldn't be more excited, but…