Ryan Harding - Genital Grinder

He vomited convulsively into his lap, whether from the tidal wave of pain or the reek of his own smoldered crotch he could not say. Some of the bile caught in his stub, and mildly bubbled from the heat. He thought he might have passed out at some point, but wasn’t sure.

He crawled to the door and unlocked it. Someone was waiting outside.

An animated customer greeted him, eyes wide with admiration. “Dude! That must have been the best nut ever, you screamed like a yodeler caught in a thresh machine!”

Horace staggered past, trying to button his pants. He could still hear his genitals crackling. The new arrival gave an astonished gasp behind him at the sight of all the blood in the Vacuum.

Horace followed the trail of his blood to a back exit, just in time to see them leave in the Nova. Hunched over and groaning miserably, he ambled toward his car.

“What’s he gonna do, ask to talk to it?” Von asked, maybe trying to convince himself more than Greg. “Make sure it’s still alive? He’ll leap at any chance to get it. We’ll take his money and shoot him in the back. It won’t be the worst thing that ever happened to him, now, will it?”

“Good plan, king,” Greg complimented.

“I just hope Sammy doesn’t act crazy tonight. That boy ain’t all there.”

Greg nodded uneasily, even as he drove them to Sammy’s house. Neither of them ever knew what to expect from Sammy, and they’d already had one bad surprise this evening as it was. It seemed a bad omen of the shape of things to come . . . and the night hadn’t even really begun.

Part II: Slut Necro Lambda and The Divided Man

Sammy feverishly worked his inches, member in one hand and his mother’s soiled undergarments in the other. He ejaculated into a tube sock with faded yellow stripes and an increasingly cardboard-like texture. He supposed he could have used Mom’s underwear, but that was just sort of sick, the way he figured. It was a show of respect. He shuddered in the aftermath, smothering his nose and mouth with the panties, inhaling the musky dampness. It was almost enough to stiffen him again—three more today would make a baker’s dozen—but he would have company soon. There were other tasks to perform.

He gingerly removed the tube sock. As he feared, the friction had caused his sores to run. It was probably to be expected after so many transmissions today; you pay to play. Off-white streams of pus ran in rivulets down his shaft, erupting from the tiny mouth-like lesions. The accompanying agony (including a gasp-inducing, white fire painful sensation while urinating) and random discharges concerned him. At times, it was downright unbearable.

Probably something he ate, he figured. Lotta bacteria out there. It would pass. It sure was taking its sweet time, though. He didn’t want to contemplate the day when it would be more trouble than it was worth to jack down. A man should have a fake tooth hollowed out with a cyanide tablet in such an event—break in case of emergency.

Behind him, the Divided Man stood sentinel. From the attic, a thumping sound. And from below, feeble screams from the basement.

Sammy chuckled as he pulled up his pants, wincing a bit the complaint of his sores. He addressed the Divided Man. “If they thought before was bad, they’re gonna love what happens next.”

The paring knife appeared slight, but for all the caterwauling it provoked as it carved out Mary Jane Turner’s anus, it may as well have been a jackhammer. The girl was too weak to lift her head a scant five minutes ago, but now she was flailing from the meat hook like a speared fish. The other sluts were about as vocal as they witnessed the excision—till capable of being shocked after months of imprisonment and experiments that made Josef Mengele look like Dr. Spock.

Surgery to Sammy was art, and the more involuntary the better. He was damned good at it. On the rare occasions that perverted fantasies of his mother (often they were technically memories ) failed to shove a beat-off session past the finish line, he’d remember the screams of Linda Gordon (missing 01/27/2000) as she awoke to find a Labrador retriever’s head (missing 07/17/2000) sewn to her shoulder, its tongue dangling to her nipple. On the heels of that, she discovered the dog’s tail had been power-stapled between her buttocks. Sammy had been unable to do anything with poor Spot’s doghood, so he placed it on a saucer and told Linda, “Bon appétit!” She was understandably reluctant, but her hunger weakened her resolve three days later. By then, the bubblegum-pink “cocktail,” as he liked to think of it, was collecting a rather devoted congregation of flies. She scarfed it down like a real trouper . . . and was then served another, this from a poodle (missing 07/23/2000). She failed to learn her lesson and waited again, vowing she would not succumb this time, would not afford him any more of her dignity. Whitney Houston would have been proud. She lasted four days, and then pitifully brushed away the flies and dropped it in her mouth like a popcorn shrimp. Linda wasn’t so successful at chowing down for Old Glory this time, though, and her quease gland was wrung like a chicken neck. Shriveled giblets of flyblown dog dick and chyme were rerouted up her gullet in a powerful deluge that doubled her over with sobs, regurgitant flecks stuck in the fur of the Labrador’s head (Sammy didn’t care very much for poodles either, admittedly).

Yes, thinking about her ordeal could fill a tube sock faster than you could recite your social security number.

Linda was a remarkable accomplishment and would have been a primo addition to anyone’s resume, but the piece de resistance was undoubtedly Sheryl Gray, with contribution from her fellow sorority sisters. Slut Necro Lambda, he called it. The endeavor had been a real challenge. The removal of five vaginas took two days, a painstaking process of careful cutting and hacking. He’d botched a sixth attempt, which would have been a complete waste had Von and Greg not volunteered to take her off his hands. A prone Sheryl was then the recipient of the world’s first multi-vaginal transplant. Rather crude exploratory surgery techniques freed enough room for the canals, in effect becoming makeshift passages to her digestive system in most instances. Removal of bone segments allowed for more slightly varied installations of these surrogate fuckholes. Sheryl did not survive this radical procedure, regrettably . . . but that was merely the final ingredient to the thrill.

This unparalleled success earned him the esteemed title of Doctor Butcher from Von and Greg. Sammy let them have a turn with Slut Necro Lambda, under the stipulation that they both had to use the same orifice. Why not? He had plenty to spare. And he still had plenty afterward—the crazy bastards had used the backdoor. It defeated the whole purpose of the operation, but that was Von and Greg for you.

Back to the business at hand, Sammy couldn’t help but notice Mary Jane Turner’s anus looked like the underside of a mushroom. He was puzzling over whether or not this was erotic, and why the incising sounded like nothing more exotic than the dicing of a tomato. This was for culinary purposes, of course, but you’d expect a more significant soundtrack to accompany the theft of someone’s asshole. The flesh could be so banal, even with artistry like Sammy’s to spice it up.

The incision came full circle and the perimeter dropped out. Sammy peeled it off the floor, though not before fully appreciating the anatomical delights he’d uncovered. A more educated person could probably shoot out five syllable terminologies for everything, but to Sammy, it was just glistening and rather stringy rectal meat dripping like a melting icicle.

It reminded him of a pornographic movie called Gaping Anus, naturally enough. The exposed muscle tissue would be slick and very inviting, like a mitten stuffed with Vaseline. Maybe he could even perform without bursting any more sores. This was all extremely enticing, but it wasn’t like she was going anywhere anyway. Besides, he had the attic to think of now.