Snuff Love

A Sick Tale by John Rickett

Duct tape. Check.

Old VHS camcorder. Check.

Four rolls of sheet plastic. Check.

Revolver—I pop open the cylinder and count six rounds.

Check.

This is exactly what it looks like.
But it feels like someone poured powdered cement down my throat, and it’s solidified in my guts. Like someone’s rubbed my cock raw with sandpaper. Like a bowling pin lodged in my ass, sideways.

Still, as I wait for the young couple to exit the store, I keep rubbing the bulge of my cock through my sweatpants anyway, clenching my teeth against the burning. Hoping—no, praying, that I’ll shoot my load.

It’s been thirty-seven days.

This used to be so easy. I’d pop the old snuff film into my dusty VCR, lean back on the egg-crate in my basement and just beat it. Most times, I’d never get past the part where a man, sporting an enviable mustache, buries his gun in the boy’s blond hair and—PAP PAP—sprays the wall with the kid’s blood.

Meanwhile, the girl—I’ve named her Laura—screams through the duct tape stretched across her mouth, and you can see in her eyes that it’s the first time she knows it’s real. Really real. So real, that drool is rolling down her chin. So real, her mascara runs down her cheeks, turning Laura into this beautiful, terrified harlequin.

I would nut so fucking hard at that point.

My wife at the time, she’d try to get me off. But, nothing did it. Oral. Swinging. Anal. Nothing.
So, stiff-dicked, I’d stomp down to the basement, pop old-faithful into the VCR and shoot into a towel so stiff it could cut you.
When she found out about the film, she left.

My second wife didn’t even try to get me off. And I never asked.
So, I spanked to that film before my kid’s moved out.

And after.

At Gina’s (my oldest’s) graduation, one of the girls reminded me of Laura. So, I came home and spanked, imaging it was her muffled-screams, choking through a duct-tape muzzle.

But then, thirty-seven days ago, it happened. D-day.

I’d let go of my cock as the teen boy brains splattered across the cinderblock walls. It throbbed, aching, pulsing.

I slowed my breathing.

“Not yet,” I whispered, licking my lips, staring into Laura’s glossy, tormented eyes. Making a real connection through time and space with her through the screen.

Then, the mullet-man in the white button up appeared, ripped off the duct tape and slid a knife along her naked shoulder. Laura shuddered and I wanted to grab my cock so bad. Just squeeze and jerk, and jerk.

But I didn’t.

That night, I wanted to take my time. Really savor it. I wanted to get to Laura’s death. In twenty-five years, I’d never made it to the end. Always limp and sleepy by the time Laura’s dead body smacked against the tile floor.

So, cock twitching, I ran my index finger along the shaft—just let it throb and throb as I thumbed volume-up on the remote and whispered, “Please. No,” in time with Laura. Then, I spit in my palm and squeezed my cock.

The Mullet man buried his face in Laura’s sweaty hair and inhaled. Laura’s breath came in gasps, and I was about to pop like a zit.
The man pressed the knife to Laura’s slender neck.
A fat blob of blood appeared at its tip.
I jerked and jerked and jerked and jerked—

And the screen went black.

Pants around my ankles, I lunged at the VCR and clawed at the opening, trying to rip the tape from the maw of the machine. It answered with a clunk and pop. Smoke fizzled from  the opening, and I gripped tight as cum engorged my cock and sprayed the smoldering wreckage of VCR.

I didn’t even get to enjoy that last one.

Thirty seven grueling days. Trying to fix the tape or find another. Experimenting with porn—everything from Asian to Shemale; Brazilian to Bukkake. Exotic toys and a laundry list of lubes—from aloe to motor oil, and all I’m left with is a husk of meat, stinging from sweat, scabby and flayed like a small dog’s favorite rawhide.

Sometimes, I’ll wake in the middle of the night, naked and jacking a bloody sausage.

Today is the first time I’ve bothered wearing pants in weeks, and I’m reminded why as my raw cock sticks to the fabric.
But I keep rubbing, waiting for the couple to leave the store, going over inventory a final time: Gun, camcorder, plastic, duct tape.

The girl who looks like Laura with the boy who doesn’t quite look like the boy leave the store and step off the curb into the parking lot. Her eyes are hidden behind giant sunglasses, and her smile is warmer than Laura’s. It’s too wide. It’s too fucking smiley.

Imagining those lips and teeth bound in tape makes me rock hard. I bite the inside of my cheek, and throw the car into drive.
They’re too busy swinging held-hands and playfully shouldering one-another to notice my car as I roll alongside them.

“Hey there,” I say, through the window, the palm clutching the gun in my lap sweaty against the grip.

The boy looks at Laura, but Laura, she’s smiling at me, the breeze whipping hair across a cheek that doesn’t have enough mascara running down it.

“Hey,” she says, her voice a honey-dipped twang. “Do I know you?”

“No,” I say, swallowing a monster lump down my throat, and raising the gun. “But, you remind me of someone.”

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John Rickett dwells in the armpit of America, where he claws at the walls, escaping his suburban nightmare by performing woodworking ninjutsu, moonlighting as a word-sorcerer. Recently, his post-apocalyptic fairytale retelling, Three Brittle pigs was selected for The Molotov Cocktail’s 2015 prize-winners anthology.