BLONDE
At 3:30 am the doorbell rang. Tim opened the door. A guy of about nineteen with blonde hair and chiseled features stood in the doorway of Tim's house.
"Hey," Tim said, and motioned for the blonde to come in.
"Nice," the blonde said looking around.
"Thanks," Tim replied as he shut the door. "Did you have any problems finding the place?"
"Naw," the blonde answered as he unzipped his jacket. Tim took his coat and threw it on the floor next to the door.
"Good." Tim said, leading the blond to the plastic covered couch where they sat down together.
"So…"the blonde began.
"So…" Tim replied.
"What did you say your name was?" the blonde asked nervously.
"Gordon," Tim responded, "What was yours?" The blonde looked at Tim for a minute. It was hard to make out distinguishing features in the darkness of the room, but the blonde could see Tim's slightly receding hairline and brown goatee. Steve hated facial hair, but he was drunk.
"I'm Steve," the blonde replied.
"Nice to meet you, Steve," Tim said.
"Same here, Gordon," Steve replied.
Tim grabbed Steve's head with his left hand and pulled it towards his. Steve let his mouth fall open in anticipation of Gordon's tongue. Tim grabbed an ice-pick from between the plastic covered couch cushions and shoved it into Steve's mouth. It stabbed out through the back of his neck. Steve let out a high kind of sigh-squeal as he felt the heat penetrate. The pain was too sudden and unexpected. His eyes fell wide. Tim lead Steve's head into his lap, pulling the ice-pick firmly out. Blood began to run onto Tim's pants and pool on the clear plastic of the furniture. Tim stabbed the ice-pick into Steve again, this time through the ear and into the brain, so as to puncture the organ and allow for sufficient internal bleeding. Steve jerked with the force of the instrument, but made no attempt to fight. Shock had him captured.
Tim pulled the ice-pick out and brought it to his lips. He let the warm liquid ooze run across the folds of his mouth and onto his tongue. The acrid taste of warm blood was nice. He licked at the weapon like a child would a Popsicle as Steve bled to death in his lap.
"Well that was a turn of events," Tim announced as he stood up. Steve fell to the plastic runner beneath them. "You know," Tim said, holding up the ice-pick, "I always keep a spare one tucked in the cushions for safety. Never know when it might come in handy." He set the ice-pick on the mantel above the fireplace. Steve's eyes had dimmed. His slim body lay flaccid in a puddle of crimson. It reminded Tim of a wilted flower floating in a puddle. He knelt down in front of it. Tim began to undress the corpse. He flipped the body in front of him over while yanking down its jeans. The ass was smeared with fluid. Tim spread the ass cheeks and looked inside. He pulled the flesh away from itself to reveal a brown dot. He smiled and pushed his face close. It smelled delicious. Tim fumbled with his fly as he let his face fall into the body's ass. Naked and ready from the waist down, Tim began the ritual of breeding the dead carcass.
Tim gathered up the blood around him and smeared it into the anus. It had not yet released its bowels, as sometimes happens, so Tim was a little concerned about getting shit on his dick. He pushed his fingers up there to check. He didn't feel any shit. He removed his fingers, red and moist, licked them, and inserted his cock. It gave way easily. He fumbled for the poppers on the coffee table next to them, uncapped the amyl, and inhaled deeply. The rush of the drug and the smell of the sex took him there instantly. He pulled out and came onto his own had, which he immediately pushed into his open mouth. The taste of his own cum, hot from his body, mixed with the liquid ooze of the corpse beneath him was perfection.
Tim set the poppers down and let himself fall onto the body. He felt grateful for Steve—it was a generous gift, this. He cupped the boy in his arms tenderly. Overjoyed with death and sudden release, Tim sighed. He looked at the blonde on the floor. He stood up, stretched, stepped over the corpse, and went to the fridge. He grabbed a half-eaten bagel and tore into it. The comfort of the bread was nice. He chugged a gulp or two of milk from the carton in the door and returned to the living room. He scowled. He sat down on the couch and set his feet on top of the blonde's ass, which stuck up in the air like a ski-slope.
Tim scratched. He popped the last of the bagel in his mouth and chewed. He grabbed the remote off of the end table next to him and flipped the TV on. The VCR had an old movie Driller Killer in it. He looked at the blonde. After a moment of watching the movie, he had an idea. He went to the basement and returned with a saw. As the Driller Killer murdered in the streets of Manhattan, Tim sawed the head of the blonde off of the body.
Tim paused the movie and grabbed the poppers from the end-table. He inhaled deeply and capped the bottle. He placed the severed head in his lap. The coagulated life was cold, but the flesh was yielding. Tim opened the mouth and pushed it onto his cock. He fell back into the couch and moaned as he moved the mouth up and down on his sex. The poppers rushed into his head and he felt his body drop into the drug's warmth. On screen, the VCR was playing again, and the killer was drilling into the bodies of people fantastically. In Tim's living room, the fantastic pleasure of it all brought him to orgasm once more. It was not a very big load, but with the shudder of pleasure, Tim was able to dribble some sperm into the decapitated mouth of the blonde.
Tim opened his eyes. He was coming down from the wave of drugs and sex. He pulled the head off his cock and held it up before him. He looked at its open maw. Inside he saw the remnants of his orgasm spilling around. Tim brought the mouth to his and let his tongue remove the sperm. The taste was a bit strong, but Tim lapped it up obediently. In his mind, he was ordered to do so.
Bill Berry says, "I was born in Detroit, Michigan and live on Cape Cod. I am a college professor who teaches writing and language. Presently, I am busy with my dissertation on identity and writing. My creative work is inherently transgressive. I want people to feel challenged; my fiction reflects this."