Wrath White - Sloppy Seconds

His expression of hopeless agony looked just like mine on the day Christine left me for that asshole. She was the first woman I'd ever loved. What I felt for her transcended life… and death. I had hated everything until the day I met her, and the world became anathema again the day she told me she was leaving me for my best friend. I held no anger towards her. She had been tricked and she knew that she'd made a mistake, now that she was dead. But Paul, I would hate forever.

It's been several dozen years since I made the first cut. Paul still screams every now and again. Not so much anymore, though. I think he's getting use to it. Every once in a while, I drag out his wife and daughter for a little fun, but even that doesn't seem to phase him. He still thinks he'll die, eventually. He thinks I will, too. He doesn't know yet that I also took the potion. He has no idea how long he's been chained up in my basement. I'm 186 years old now, and the hatred hasn't abated much. I still think of Christine. I picture her smile, hear her laughter, and feel her kisses on my lips. I can see her lying in her coffin with the back of her head filled with clay to patch the hole in her skull. The coroner did a great job. But I knew it was there.

I can still remember the day I walked into Paul's suburban house and pointed the shotgun in his face, the same one Chrissy killed herself with. He'd been so surprised, so frightened, and so filled with regret.

I remember how he'd begged for his life as I herded him and his family into my van and drove them to my little house in the Nevada desert, right at the foothills of Mount Charleston. The fear in his eyes as I forced them into the basement and made them chain each other up; I remember how he'd tried to bargain with me. How he'd made the mistake of telling me that Christine had never loved me, anyway, how she use to tell him about my pathetic attempts at lovemaking and laugh at my physical inadequacies. How he'd tried to take it all back when I ripped the clothes off his pretty young daughter and showed him just how potent I could be.

My fondest memories, of course, are of his pain. The lush tenor of his screams as I skinned his flaccid cock with an apple peeler and slid a condom on it filled with Ben Gay, and then forced his wife to fuck him with her vandalized cunt. They both wailed. But I refused to let them stop until they found a way to cum through the agony, threatening worse injury to them and their child if they disobeyed. Blood flowed from their entwined thighs in a steady stream as they chafed their wounds against one another.

I remember the succulent anguish oozing from his eyes the day I nailed his scrotum to the floor, and then opened it up to remove his testicles. I tied them to a string and dangled them around his neck where they hung for days until he'd gotten so hungry, he'd eaten them.

I remember watching the last vestiges of hope wink out of his eyes when I funneled battery acid into his asshole, followed by a tree branch spiked with penny nails. His ass actually clenched up as I ripped through it with the improvised dildo, lacerating internal organs. His skinless cock even got hard for a moment before I turned the Bunsen burner on and melted it down to a blackened stump.

I look at Paul now, a mass of rotting, charred, shredded, bruised, and battered meat, barely recognizable as having ever been human, and chuckle. He thought he'd never see me again after he laughed in my face when I'd caught him fucking Chrissy in the school bathroom. He thought I'd slink away and hide my head in the sand. But I'd finally found a way to hurt him as much as he'd hurt me that day.

I plan to live forever as his torturer. I scour Paul's body to find the last inch of unmarred flesh and twist it with pliers until he makes a slight moan of discomfort. He thinks there's nothing more I can do to him. He's wrong, of course. I go into the room and come back with a mirror. My withered old cock hardens as his screams fill my flesh.

No one is ever totally immune to suffering. And as long as it's possible to cause more pain, I will never stop hurting him.

Be sure to pick up the print edition of Sloppy Seconds for the insane introduction, "The Revenge of Wrathzilla" by Mark McLaughlin!