Ryan Harding - Genital Grinder

. . . Unless there was some way to throw the audience a curve on the formula.

Greg, after a few objections, finally consented to feeding the tube into Travis’s urethra. Travis tried to make it a challenge, so Von smashed a beer bottle over his head and sent him to Wonderland again. He collected the shards for other uses as Greg enacted phase two. He plucked a single maggot from the bucket, and examined it before guiding it into the other side of the tube. It squirmed blindly, but aside from the movement it looked like something he’d have dug out of his nose in kindergarten. When it had advanced substantially in the tube he put his lips on it and exhaled.

Von looked up from his activities with Sarah and chuckled. “I always figured you’d give a world class blow.”

Greg shot him the finger. “Hey, do you want to do this?”

“I wouldn’t dream of ruining your time to shine.”

Greg collected another maggot and repeated the process. It was amazing what you could do on a shoestring budget if you just used your imagination and left some meat out to spoil . . . say, when you couldn’t quite fit the entirety of your hit and run conquest into the crisper.

When Travis at last awoke with the dull throbbing in his head somehow magnified, he was relieved to discover the tube had been removed. Something didn’t feel right in his scrotal sac per se, but Lolita was waiting for him to deliver the goods, tied down supine to the bed and gagged, so it would just have to be a problem for another day. He had a suspicion that blowing up her box with enough spunk to fill a tube of toothpaste would probably do the trick anyway. He gingerly maneuvered his way to the bed, wondering why Lolita had to make this harder than it already was by fighting him. He wasn’t the enemy. Did she not realize how many burgers he’d flipped just to save up the jack to buy her videos? These might not be the conditions he would have imagined such an encounter as this taking place, but he’d begun to feel entitled to it. Other than a shaved sack and half again as many inches, the boys in those movies didn’t have anything he didn’t, and probably hadn’t paid forty dollars for a volume of Gaping Anus, to boot. There seemed to be a pool of blood spreading underneath her, but he paid it no mind. She looked a little pale compared to the movies, but maybe it was a trick of the lighting. He gave up looking at her face and closed his eyes, latching both of his hands onto her tits as though to keep from floating off into outer space. The euphoria was so intense that a UFO could have landed on top of the house and it wouldn’t have registered with him.

Greg found a good angle with the camera.

“Remember,” Von warned Travis. “Pull out when it’s time.”

And less than a minute later it was time, because all the girlfriends Travis boasted about on the Internet had something in common—none of them actually existed. Quoth he: “I can’t hold it any longer!”

He pulled out and aimed for Lolita’s chest like the dudes in pornos always did. The first couple cubic centimeters were normal, if somewhat hesitant; after that, they were anything but. It was like a squeeze bottle with only a smattering of butter remaining which expels, tapers, jets, halts, and finally sprays haphazardly everywhere but where you intended. It was remarkably similar in texture to potato salad. The maggots mostly dribbled off the end of his equipment, but the first couple actually shot an impressive distance as though propelled down a water slide and launched up the mounds of Lolita’s breasts, writhing. Travis looked down in mute horror. The load had concluded, but one last maggot depended from his urethra, still squirming in the swollen orifice.

Travis yelped, and made pincers of his finger and thumb. He slid it out, groaning sickly. He pinched it too hard, cutting it in half, and flicked the pieces away. He turned away from the abominable sight and retched.

“Tell me you got that!” Von pleaded.

Greg gave the thumbs-up. “We got the whole thing . . . the money shot and him puking at the end like a total pussy!”

Von clapped him on the back. “Travis, you’ve been a real sport, my man, so we’re going to let you do her again. And no maggots this time, either.”

“The only catch is that you have to use her ass,” Greg added.

“No way, man,” Travis began. “I’m not—”

Von cocked the .357, and Travis reached for Sarah’s hips to turn her over real quick-like.

“No,” Von said. “Don’t turn her over. Just hoist her up some.”

Travis did, and closed his eyes. He could see where the blood was issuing from the plundered orifice, but he’d just ejaculated a clump of corpse-eaters, so no reason to get squeamish now. It took him a moment to re-harden, but you might say he was an old hand at masturbation marathons, and he was erect enough to go again.

He felt the gun at the base of his skull. “Keep going,” Von said.

Travis didn’t understand at first why Von would even bother telling him that—may as well tell him, Keep breathing there, bucko —until he felt searing pain across an inch of his dick.

. . . then another . . . and another . . . Each thrust opened another wound, what seemed like a thousand cuts concentrated in a horribly limited space. He could feel rivulets of blood coursing down his shaft, then dripping off his scrotum and down his thighs, spattering in dime-sized droplets on his feet. It was doubtful he would have noticed a UFO landing on the house at this moment, either.

“Faster,” Von said simply. The gun cocked again and Travis complied, now screaming. They let him; no gags this time.

Greg made sure to get a close-up when Travis was at last allowed to withdraw. He crumpled on the bed, his mutilated sex organ gleaming like a skinned rabbit and bearing a passing resemblance to same. For a brief instant Greg discerned a tiny shard of glass jutting from one of the lacerations, one of the fragments from the bottle slammed over Travis’s head . . . then implanted within Sarah Pensie by Von. A nicked artery was blasting like an automated Super Soaker. Greg continued to film Sarah, because the intercourse had caused an exodus of some of the glass shards. Now runny tissue from within her digestive tract was slopping from her anus. He wasn’t sure when exactly it happened, but she was no longer screaming behind the gag.

Von held a pillow in front of the gun and placed it over Travis’s face. No point in prolonging his agony; that would just be excessive. He did wait a moment while Greg sauntered over into better position with the camera, then fired. A fan of red streaks and gray matter exploded above Travis’s head and across the carpet, as though he’d just had an idea too amazing to be contained within his skull.

Greg tracked over the debris until he captured Von in the viewfinder, still crouched on the floor beside Travis, smoke curling from the crevice blasted into the pillow. Bloody feathers floated to rest on the linen, the motionless body, the carpet, like snowflakes in a paperweight.

“I guess that’s a wrap,” Von said.

And with that, Genital Grinder had concluded.

V.

The clean-up afterward was rigorous, and they made themselves complete it before they watched the movie; otherwise it might never get done. They’d stored Geisha’s meaty legs in the crisper (and the rest of her in Von’s bed), and even though children were starving in Africa, they incinerated the last of Claire’s remains. Whoever’s turn it was in the bathtub, they kept the camera in there with them just so the other wouldn’t be tempted to try to preview their masterpiece in their absence.

While Greg waited for Von to get cleaned up in the bathroom, he watched the latest installment in his preferred series of backdoor-based pornography, Gaping Anus. Von, in turn, watched a menstruation epic called Ragtime Girls, with the irresistible tag line, “They come with no strings attached!”