He should have let her choke to death when he had the chance, Roy thought. His guts wouldn't feel like they had just been stomped by a sumo wrestler wearing steel-toed boots if he had. Roy could remember the day like it was yesterday and remember he did as he popped the top on another beer.It had been raining lightly all day, making for a cool evening. The moon was playing hide and seek behind the clouds. The perfect night for an evening of romance. But Roy was about as romantic as a hooker with a heroin habit who hadn't had a fix in days.
They were alone together in Roy's car. He had been dating Linda for about two months. Roy was a senior, a pitcher on the baseball team and a starter on the basketball team. Standing six feet tall, Roy looked as impressive on the mound as he did in the bedroom. She was a freshman with breasts the size of softballs and almost as firm. Roy knew. He had felt them on their first date. It sure beat palming a basketball. He was somewhat surprised at first that she would permit him his trespasses but later learned she was more than willing to accommodate his hands. She was very accommodating. The bruises on her arms and back testified to that. Her parents, Roy learned, disapproved of their daughter's behavior, her cursing, her choice of friends. They showed their disapproval with clenched fists and belt buckles. So when Roy, the son of a respected town board member and owner of the town's only gas station, asked their daughter out, he did so with their seal of approval. Although he doubted they would approve of what their daughter was doing now.
He was pleased. Pleased and nervous. Roy was so nervous he was sweating in places he didn't even know he could sweat. This was so unexpected. He hadn't told her to do this. He wasn't use to this kind of initiative and wasn't sure he liked it. But it felt so damn good.
Roy had already been in her pants on past dates and was expecting more of the same. But Linda had other ideas. After about fifteen minutes of kissing and rubbing and groping, Linda took control. Roy wasn't a virgin but this
was a new experience. It was the first time a girl had ever put her mouth on it. God, it felt good. This was even better than sticking your dick into a cold watermelon which Roy had done when he was fourteen.She was nervous too. It was her first blow job or so she said between mouthfuls. Looking back on things now and considering what he had learned in the past few hours, Roy had his doubts. She certainly seemed to know what she was doing, molding his manhood like a sculptor would a piece of clay, until he exploded in her mouth and she started choking.
She made sounds like the neighbors' dog made when he gave it a couple sticks of gum. Roy thought it was funny until her face turned a shade darker than his penis. He was thinking about digging for his pocketknife (how hard could a tracheotomy be and this was an emergency), when the third strike to her back did the trick and his jism came up a second time. She hardly seemed grateful that Roy had just saved her life. When he told her to try it again, she gave him a look that made him want to bloody that precious mouth of hers. He was sure she was going to say something that would make that bloody mouth become a reality, but instead she just asked to be taken home. He didn't even get a good night kiss when he dropped Linda off. As if it was his fault. Bitch, bitch, bitch, his brain screamed at him as he squealed out of the driveway.
Bitch, bitch, bitch, his brain screamed at him now as he thought about what she had done. Never in a million years would he have thought she would have been capable of doing something like this. She had crucified his heart and nailed his balls too. Too many of those damned soap operas, putting ideas in her head. As he polished off another beer, Roy's thoughts returned to the past, anything to get his mind off the pain he was feeling now.
After seeing her reaction, Roy thought for sure she would never want to do that again. His own doubts plagued him, thinking what might have happened if her jaws had snapped shut on his prick was enough to make him wince even now. Then he remembered how good it felt, her lips wrapped around his meat. And what she had done with her tongue. Roy's trouser snake squirmed just thinking about it.
The following week, Roy was eyeing some of the other girls in school, especially their mouths. He was weighing his options, to drop Linda and try to find someone else or find someone else and then drop her, when Linda made the decision for him by suggesting they go up to Scenic Drive that Friday.
Scenic Drive was the local lover's lane. About five miles of deserted road. The perfect spot for a couple of young lovers. Many a young person had first learned the language of love there and later passed what they knew on to someone else. Sometimes a venereal disease was included in the transaction. Years later, some could joke about it, calling it an educational experience, but no one laughed when the first symptoms appeared.
That Friday, Linda, afraid of losing Roy (during study-hall, she had seen him passing notes to some cheerleader whose skimpy outfit showed nearly all of what little breasts she had) and afraid of what her parents would do if she lost Roy, was determined not to repeat what happened last time. She attacked his cock like a largemouth bass going after a crawdad. His cock disappeared down her throat. She did the bob, up and down, up and down. Then she played the tease, slowing things to an agonizing pace. A touch here. A lick there. Her grip, unrelenting, allowed him no release. Roy desperately wanted to empty himself. He was almost ready to beg when her hands moved to his balls, squeezing his essence out like one would a tube of toothpaste. Linda drained him dry. Roy thought she could suck the red out of a clown's nose. And do it with a smile. She was smiling now. She wasn't the only one. On the way home, Roy decided to see more of Linda. And he did.
Over the years, she had sucked and swallowed him numerous times. Only once did Roy try to return the favor. He was somewhat hesitant because his own father had told him over and over that bear shit had a better taste than a woman's cunt. Roy never questioned where his father received his information. Roy never questioned his father period. Some things a man just has to find out for himself. Roy learned soon enough. He had just returned from watching the skin flicks over in Cedar Grove. It was Lesbian Night, which meant hours and hours of gash. Those girls really writhed when they had a tongue up their snatch, almost like someone had reamed their ass with a popsicle. He wanted to see if Linda would perform like the actresses on the screen. He drank a couple of beers to put himself in the mood. He would've had more fun if he had just gotten drunk. It wasn't the taste or the smell that bothered him. No, it was some thing far worse. Roy felt powerless between those thighs, like a deer in a truck's headlights, like a child fresh from the womb. Helpless. He didn't like feeling helpless. It wasn't manly. He swore he would never put his face down there again. And he hadn't, no matter how sweet Linda asked, no matter how much she begged.
Linda wasn't the only woman to taste Roy's flesh. There were the girls who just didn't know any better in high school. And some who did, but were willing to sacrifice their bodies for the sake of popularity, only to regret it later. A tour of duty overseas taught him an important lesson; social diseases are only funny when someone else has them. Some gook gave him crabs; he gave her a broken arm. There was the one night stand that cost him his wallet. He didn't think it was a good idea to tell the sheriff that his daughter was a thief as well as a whore. Instead, he took a tire iron to her cat. He was surprised Fluffy could bleed so much. A hooker here, a hooker there, a few bruises, a couple scratches, the constant threats of retaliation, Roy could look back on his past fondly. Even to this day, at least up until a few hours ago, a well-formed mouth could hold his attention when breasts and bottoms failed. Nothing like a whimpering mouth to make a man feel like a man.
Not that Roy was feeling much like man now, more like a dog with its ribs kicked in. Still, of all the women he had been with, Linda was far and away the best, Roy thought, and that was why he was in such agony now. He loved her, loved her as much as he had ever loved anything. He loved her enough to make her his wife, didn't he? To have and to hold in sickness and in health. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like any of that bullshit mattered now. After what she did. But they had been happy together. Of course, like any couple, they had their share of disagreements. Roy believed the origin of their disagreements stemmed from his wife's lack of place. She didn't know hers. He understood what her parents went through bringing her up. No wonder they beat the shit out of her so often.
She started with the back talk, the know it all attitude, the women's libbing she learned from the talk shows, the cussing that would make a Tijuana whore blush, the questioning of his manhood, and he would end it with the back of his hand. Smack. To her head, to her face. He would assert his manhood. Luckily, his assertions had landed Linda in the hospital only a few times.
If the neighbors got nosy and called the law about the hell-raising going on next door, Roy would just put on his best you-know-how-it-is smile and say lovers' spat. The cops, many of whom having had their own share of lovers' spats, would just nod, smiling their own we-know-how-it-is smiles as they left.
Roy knew now that every punch had been justified. She had earned every bruise. It had been her own fault. She drove him to it. Like his dad always said, "A man's gotta do, what a man's gotta do." Roy did what he had to. Roy didn't like to hit women, took no pride in it, felt no pleasure like some of them sex freaks with their nipple clamps and studded dildos he sometimes read about in the skin magazines. Still, he had hit a good many of them. Roy believed the woman didn't exist who didn't need a smack from time to time. Roy had struck nearly every female he had ever been involved with. A notable exception being his mother. Roy's father took care of that.
Roy had learned a lot from his old man about what it meant to be a man and how womenfolk needed a reminder from time to time as to who's in charge and just who wears the pants. Roy's father took his role as official pants wearer seriously. He had put his wife in the hospital six times before little Roy turned twelve.
Roy Sr. was a hog of a man from his stump of a nose to his tiny eyes trapped in the confines of his fat face. He snorted like a pig at the dinner table, in the bedroom, twice as much on the john and sounded like a swine with a sinus problem when taking his hoof of a hand upside Roy Ir.'s head. Roy Sr. knew that kids needed a lesson from time to time too.
He also knew a man's home was his castle even if said castle looked like a sty. He was Lord Boar of this particular sty. And his wife, from whom Roy Jr. had thankfully inherited his looks—shiny black hair, a Roman nose, and freckles, was as much a part of that kingdom as his bowling shoes or the weed cutter in the garage whether she liked it or not. After 15 years of not-so-wedded-bliss and a collection of bruises and broken bones to make any pro-wrestler envious, Mrs. Roy Sr. realized that she didn't like it and ran off with the mailman, leaving little Roy alone with big Roy and lessons to be learned.
Life for the two Roys was far from idyllic. Roy worked at the gas station for awhile at his father's request. Roy thought it would be a good way to meet girls so he didn't mind at first. Then he realized most girls didn't want to have anything to do with some gas pumper. Quitting only served to strain the already strained relationship between father and son since Mrs. Roy had fled. Roy Sr. hit the bars and his son. Roy turned to Linda for comfort. And began to contribute new bruises of his own making to the collection her parents had already started. Things continued on that way until Roy Sr. dropped dead of a heart attack while cussing out the hometown baseball team, specifically his son, for blowing their fifth consecutive game.
Roy was sent to live with an aunt who had more than her share of problems and just saw Roy as another. As a result, Roy was left to his own devices. He spent most of his time with Linda, convincing her that they belonged together and talking of their future, while conveniently forgetting the punches, bites, and kicks that were part of their past and present relationship, until the fight.
Roy had caught some guy with his arm around Linda. He nailed the guy repeatedly in the head with a trashcan lid and then turned his attention to Linda. He broke her arm in three places and was just getting warmed up when the cops arrived. The judge thought the military might straighten Roy out and Roy thought it was a better option than jail.
He spent two years in the army. Before he went in and during, he made it clear what would happen if he ever caught Linda with another guy. He said he was sorry about her arm too.
Once his tour was over, Roy moved back home, bought a trailer with the money he inherited from his father, got a job in the local factory churning out caskets and resumed things with Linda, eventually proposing. He was sweating in places he didn't know he could sweat on that occasion too.
He had expected things to continue just as they had. Maybe throw a Roy III in the mix at some point but no hurry. Life was good. Until the phone rang.
The factory closed early due to poor business so Roy grabbed his lunch pail and headed for home. Arriving home and not seeing Linda anywhere, Roy grabbed a sacrament of beer and sat down in front of the television altar to begin worshiping. Hopefully, those girls from Soul Train would be on, shaking their asses for the world to see. Or a Clint Eastwood movie. Roy liked seeing the bad guys get beat up. He could drink to that. Then the phone rang. Roy answered. Then the shit hit the fan.
The male voice at the other end said, "Hello Sexy." Before Roy could begin cursing, the voice cut him off.
"You want me to come over and rip the clothes off you?
You want it from behind? On the table? On the floor? Anywhere, Baby. Anywhere. I'll eat your pussy like it was a watermelon on a hot day. I'll do everything that husband of yours can't. Remember last time, Linda, when I. . ." Click.
Roy recognized the voice.
It belonged to the mailman, Buddy. The same mailman who was on Roy's own bowling team. The same mailman Roy went golfing with. The same mailman who delivered the mail to Roy's home six days a week. Rain, sleet, or shine. The same mailman who probably hand-delivered his mail to his wife in his home. Roy didn't want to think about the things some letter- carrying Casanova did to his wife in his home on his bed and God knows where else. But that's all Roy could think about.
Roy continued to think about it, drinking more beers, getting drunker and angrier as the beers disappeared. His thoughts turned back to the past; his mother running off and leaving him and his old man, his old man swearing he'd kill the man who stole his wife if he ever found him and do far worse to his errand spouse, Linda looking at men, sometimes smiling at them like they were the latest household gadget guaranteed to make your life better. He knew what he had to do. He went into the kitchen and grabbed the longest knife he could find. It belonged to a set he had gotten Linda last Christmas. It was her last Christmas, Roy promised himself. He'd give her something to choke on. The fucking mailman too. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. And with that thought in mind, he left in search of his wife and the mailman, his special delivery tight in his grip.
Officer Jerome Anderson had seen a lot during his five years on the force, the rescuing of cats, the runways reunited with the parents they ran away from in the first place, delinquents tearing up the local cemeteries, the domestic disputes. Even members of the town council in compromising positions with their pants around their ankles or locked in a coital embrace with someone other than their spouse. He had seen a lot. But nothing had prepared him for what he saw a few hours earlier.
He was called to Buddy Evans' home. He knew Buddy. He had been his mailman for the past three years. Never had any kind of problem with him or his wife before. Sure, Buddy slapped the wife around a little bit and had a problem with staying in his own bed with his own wife, but other than that, he was okay. The mailman always got Jerome's issue of Ass Bonanza in his mailbox on time and intact so how could he complain?
Arriving on the scene, Officer Jerome thought that maybe the wife had found out about her husband's infidelities and hadn't taken too kindly to it. No news is good news, he murmured to himself. If he had a nine-inch cock, like Buddy was rumored to have, he'd probably go fishing in other ponds too.
The door was open at the Evans' residence. Two other cops were inside with Ellen, Buddy's wife. Buddy was on the floor. On the walls. On the ceiling. Someone had carved him up like a rotten pumpkin. The place reminded Officer Jerome of those expensive paintings which made no sense to him, just swirls of color all over. This painting was still wet. Buddy dripped everywhere. They found his cock, hands, and tongue in the toilet. Funny, Officer Jerome thought, nine inches doesn't seem that long covered in blood. Then he puked without any regard to damaging the already damaged evidence.
After regaining his composure and cleaning off his shoes, he learned that Ellen, upon arriving home from bingo, had found her husband in his present stinking state. She had an alibi. Now if it just checked out. Officer Jerome prayed that it didn't. Homicide investigations were always a headache. Easier if they could blame it on the wife and let the lawyers fight it out. More entertaining too.
He was still praying hours later, praying that he got home in time to catch the fights on the tube. Officer Jerome, after seeing what he saw earlier, decided to finish the last hour of his shift patrolling the country roads. No telling what kind of trouble he could avoid out there.
The car on the side of the road was nothing out of the ordinary for a weekend in this small town. The kids had to do something for fun and if they wanted to play "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" that was better than having them spray paint graffiti all over the Big Eats Diner or getting trashed to the point of wrapping their sixteenth birthday present around some tree. Car accidents were always a headache. Besides, he had no aversion to seeing some young skin tonight. He'd take sex over splatter any day, that's for sure. He always liked catching them in the act so he could give them a hard time while still getting an eyeful. Speaking of hard time, he felt the little officer begin to stir and approached the car as silently as his enthusiasm would allow.
There weren't teenagers in the car. It was Linda. He recognized her immediately. They had gone to high school together. She had always been a looker. Officer Jerome remembered that she missed a lot of school, sometimes weeks at a time. Rumor was that her parents were big time Bible-bangers, the "spare the rod, spoil the child" kind. Officer Jerome remembered seeing bruises on her himself. If that wasn't trouble enough, she got hooked up with Roy Dixon, a no-account if there ever was one. Officer Jerome had been called to the Dixon household on more than one occasion. He understood that situation. It was this situation that had him puzzled. It looked like she had been in an accident but there wasn't a mark on the car. Her face was streaked in blood and she was moaning. Just what had happened?
She could've told how that rage, so long bottled up, allowed her to wrestle the knife from her husband and deliver to him the death he had meant for her. Linda could've answered all of Officer Jerome's questions had she known he was there. She was oblivious to everything save an inner voice, a voice she had never heard before, a voice that whispered of far greater pleasure than she had ever known, as her first orgasm continued to build, and she rocked harder and harder between her naked thighs, Roy's severed head.
Linda could have answered that question. She could've told the officer how she had been confronted by a staggering-drunk, blood-stained husband shouting accusations and holding the same knife he had gutted her lover with, how he tore at her with the blade and how her rage, born from years of assault and abuse first from her parents and then from the man who became her husband, had finally consumed her, transformed her into a woman who was pissed off and had finally had enough. Head originally appeared in the Feb 99 issue of Shadow Feast e-zine.
About the Author:brian rosenberger has video reviews appearing in Bloody Muse. little else is know about brian. And that's how he likes it.
About the Artist:
Sean Simmans is the Cover Illustrator of DEAD END STREET PUBLICATIONS LLC and the Creator of THE BELIEVABLE TRUTH @ Scowlzine and VIBE Nation (UK). In addition he illustrates for UMM Magazine (Canada) and is staff illustrator for Blood Moon zine.
