Page 10 of Toxic B!tch
His cock, small and pitiful, dangles between his legs. I raise an eyebrow, looking up at him through my lashes. “I swore you said this was a big cock.”
“Fuck you,” he hisses.
I grip him, feeling the clammy weight of him in my hand, and position the skewer at the tip of his urethra. Without hesitation, I shove it down, the sharp metal slicing into him, and his scream fills the room. The sound vibrates in my chest, making me giggle. A sounding rod is supposed to be a delicate, stimulating act. This? This is pure punishment. I feel the resistance, knowing I’ve shredded something important inside him. Doesn’t matter. He won’t need it for long.
I stand to my full height and move to my kit once more, grabbing my needle and suture thread and sliding them into my pocket. Then I cross the room to Ramon. My eyes catch on a shard of broken glass, and I pick it up, feeling the jagged edges bite into my palm. Perfect.
“Please. Please, just let me go,” he begs.
“Sorry. No can do.” I grab his cock again, this time with the shard of glass in my hand. The first cut is clean, slicing through the skin at the base of his shaft. Blood spurts onto the tarp, the bright red liquid pooling like an abstract painting. His screams are louder now, but I don’t pause, not until I’ve hit the skewer.
“Oopsies.” I pull the skewer out with a wet, squelching sound and continue hacking through the remaining flesh. His body goes limp before I finish, his mind shutting down from the pain. But I don’t stop. Ineverstop.
With the last cut, I hold his severed cock between my fingers, examining it like a trophy. I place it between my thighs, smirking as I glance down at the flaccid, bloody mess. “So this is what it feels like to have a dick,” I muse, threading the needle with care.
I hold his cock to his forehead, carefully sewing it into place, the jagged stitches pulling the flesh tight. I’m no seamstress, but it’ll do. Stepping back, I admire my work. Blood pours from the wound where his cock used to be, pooling beneath him. He’s fading fast. Too fast.
I slap his face, hard, until his eyes flutter open, dazed and glassy. “Wake up.”
“Why?” he croaks, barely able to speak.
“If you were willing to so easily touch me without permission, act like I deserved it ‘cause of what I was wearing, and call me names, I’m guessing I wasn’t the only female you’ve done that to and I certainly wouldn’t be the last. Right?”
“You whores wear skimpy clothes and show off your bodies, then act like it’s our fault we want to sample the merchandise. It’s a double standard,” he gasps.
I choke on a laugh. “You’re delusional.” I tap his forehead, where his tiny, mutilated cock now dangles. “We wear what we want ‘cause we like it, not to show it off to you or anybody else. How do you like your new accessory? It’s a whole new take on ‘dickhead’, don’t you think?”
He crosses his eyes, finally seeing what I’ve done. His dry heave sends a fresh spurt of blood from his groin.
“What did you do?” he gasps.
I grin, tilting my head. “Oh, I just made a little... adjustment. You kind of look like Horton, the elephant from that children’s book. What was it called? Horton Hears a Who?”
My phone vibrates against my chest, and I know it’s Malik. He’s the only one who ever texts me. A flicker of something unfamiliar twists inside me. I want to answer, to see what he’s said. But I can’t. I’ve never been distracted from my work before. What the hell is this?
I sigh, pulling the knife from my kit. “It’s been fun, Ramon, but my new best friend is texting me and, well, I like him more than you. Tootles.”
With one swift motion, I slit his throat, watching the life drain from his eyes.
The house is still. The only sound is the quiet dripping of blood hitting the tarp beneath Ramon’s lifeless body.
I pull out my phone and snap a picture of Ramon, his cock stitched to his forehead like some grotesque crown, the blood splattered around him in patterns that could almost be called beautiful. This will go nicely in my scrapbook—a memory of another successful piece.
Time to clean up.
I wipe each tool clean with a rag, my mind already shifting gears, preparing for the next steps. With precise movements, I pack my tools back into the art kit. The shish kabob skewer slides into its place with a soft clink, followed by the needle, thread, and glass shard to dispose of later.
Pulling a pair of gloves from my kit, I stretch them over my hands before tying the tarp into a neat bundle, folding the edges inward to contain the mess. The blood is still wet, but it doesn’t bother me. The cleaner will handle that. I don’t do everything myself. I use them for a reason.
I dial the number, and it rings twice before the familiar voice answers. “Little Snake,” he greets me.
“I need another Mai Tai,” I say calmly, giving him the address. “245 5th Avenue.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “You’re speeding up on orders. Everything alright?” His tone carries a hint of concern, but I don’t bite.
“Yeah, I’m just thirsty,” I reply, my voice smooth. “I’m on a break now. This one was a last-minute order.”
"Okay, Little Snake, just remember the end of the month is my busy season," he says, his voice softening. “Don’t get upset. I worry.”
