Sex and Murder Magazine

By Paul Heatley

Jack saw the girl with the green hair. Their group was stumbling along and laughing loudly and they were smiling and they were happy. The majority of them were dressed in black, but they were so colourful.

Jack wished so hard she could build up the courage to go and talk to the girl with the green hair, but didn’t have the nerve. Didn’t even know her name and wasn’t brave enough to go and ask it. Literally didn’t have the balls.

Jack didn’t know why she was so interested, why her eyes were drawn to the green haired girl every time she saw her go past. She watched her and admired her from afar. If she was with Sean she tried to disguise her sidelong glances. Sean would get angry. He’d squeeze her arm, hard, just above her elbow and leave crescent shaped bruises in her pale skin where his fingernails dug in; or, if there was no one around, he’d slap her on the back of the head. “What’re you looking at?” he’d demand to know, and Jack would look down and stammer and give every appearance of being guilty.

The girl with the green hair never saw Jack. She never looked. She was always talking and smiling, and she’d throw up her tattooed arms animatedly and Jack would pray for her to look her way, to see her, to catch her eye and flash her a smile. She had an amazing smile. Her teeth, even from far away she could see that they were white and capped and straight. She wondered where their little unisex group went and what they did, and when she was with Sean outside the flat—a rare occasion—and Sean was with his friends, they’d smack their lips and call the group a bunch of freaks and misfits, on their way to an orgy. “Fuckin’ deviants,” Sean would spit.

Sean hadn’t always been that way. He’d been nice at first. He’d been so sweet to her. She’d never had a boy take an interest in her the way that he did. He was five years older than her but that hadn’t mattered. She’d been sixteen when they’d met. Samantha, her best friend, was going out with Sean’s friend Tom. That was how they met; how they were introduced. He smiled at her like he wanted to kiss her, and within a week he had kissed her. He’d kissed her hard; he’d slipped his tongue into her mouth, like he hadn’t kissed anyone in a really long time and he desperately wanted to slip something else into her.

And he got his chance, before long. He was her first boyfriend and she told herself she liked him, that she was starting to love him, and it was okay to give in to his subtle demands for sex; he loved her too, and they were going to be together for a long time and, besides, she had to lose her virginity eventually. They had sex in his flat and afterwards he fell asleep and she rolled onto her side, her back to him, and she started to cry though she couldn’t understand why. A flashing premonition perhaps, imageless, just a mixed feeling of what was to come.

Her parents never liked Sean. Truth be told, her parents had never much liked her. They made her go to church with them early every Sunday morning and she’d sit there and look at the altar and she’d feel bored and she couldn’t help feeling bored, nor could she disguise it. Her father or her mother would nudge her with their elbow, and although she knew the expression upon their faces well, she always looked up to see them glaring threateningly.

No, they preferred her brother. Stephen could do no wrong. Their little blue boy. Nothing was too good for Stephen. He sat bolt upright in church, his hands clasped in his lap, and he’d do all his homework and he ate all his dinner and he never stayed out late and had them worried sick. And, his friends weren’t yobs like the group Jacqueline associated herself with, sniffing glue at the running track and getting drunk on the main street and hurling abuse at anyone who tried to move them on or quiet them down.

Jack’s friends weren’t like that, but her parents had painted an image. They had demonized Samantha and the others, Greg and Ben and Luke—nor were they particularly thrilled that their only daughter had so many boys for friends. They demonized Jack; she’d flash her flat chest for them and let them suck on her nipples, and she’d drop her pants for them and put her hand down theirs. It was she they prayed for on Sundays, they regularly informed her. She doubted they prayed very hard.

When she got her hair cut short and started insisting that everyone called her Jack—like Kerouac—they shook their heads and gave each other knowing looks.

“Too many boys for friends,” her mother said. “I knew this would happen. Look at yourself Jacqueline. What are you doing? You look like a boy.”

Jack said nothing. All she ever wanted from her parents was to be left alone. She spent her time in her room and kept out of their way but still they would find her and belittle her and Why can’t you be more like Stephen? She’d push her face in a book and pretend she was somewhere else, someone else, but reality remained at the back of her head, always gnawing away, reminding her of its presence, of the life she had.

Her father blew air through his lips at his wife’s comments. “A boy?” he repeated. “She looks like a lesbian.”

A lesbian?

*****

Jacqueline was seven years old and watching cartoons. She sat cross-legged in front of the television and her baby brother, still teaching himself to walk, was behind her, using the sofa to support his weak, stumpy legs. She could hear him falling occasionally, slamming down hard onto his backside, but the nappy he wore was filled with shit and was more than adequate for a soft landing. He never cried, he persevered, his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth, and he tried again.

She was watching Scooby-Doo. Daphne, the voluptuous redhead filled the screen, one of her lilac legs bent at the knee and pressing into the other, coquettishly. Her hands on her curvaceous hips. Jacqueline didn’t like Fred; Fred and his Aryan good looks and his always disappearing off to who knew where with Daphne.

Jacqueline would lie in bed and she’d imagine she was one of the gang, driving from place to place in the Mystery Machine, solving ghostly crimes. Only, in her fantasies, the ghosts were all real. She’d pass the time on the journeys by scratching Scooby behind the ear and he’d lick her face, and when they investigated she’d always go with Daphne and Fred would be left alone, or with Wilma, and Jacqueline and Daphne would go off together, into the dark, just the two of them…

“Jacqueline!” said her mother, scooping Stephen from the floor and cutting his attempts to stand and walk for the day short, cradling him in the crook of her arm. “Don’t sit so close. You’ll get square eyes.”

*****

Jack fell pregnant. She didn’t want to tell her parents but she knew she had to. Their reaction was pretty much what she’d expected; what she’d steeled herself for. They sent her loudly to her room. She lay on her bed and tried to read but couldn’t concentrate; her mind was spinning. She stared at the ceiling instead and pressed her hands upon her stomach and tried to feel the thing that was growing inside of her.

There was a knock at her door, too soft and timid to be her parents. She told him to come in.

Stephen didn’t enter all the way. He stood in the doorway. “I heard you’re pregnant,” he said, flicking his head to the left to get his fringe out of his eyes.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“What’re you gonna do? Keep it?”

“Yeah.”

“Sean know?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded thoughtfully. He scratched behind an ear. “I heard them talking,” he said, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder, indicating their parents downstairs. “They’re not gonna let you stay here, Jack.”

She’d sat up on the bed, her knees drawn to her chest. Her face didn’t fully register what he’d told her. In a way, she’d been expecting it. She was vaguely aware that she was nodding. “Okay,” she said, “thanks.”

“You got somewhere to go?”

She thought of Sam. No. She thought of Sean. She was pregnant by him; he’d have to take her in. “Yeah. I guess so.”

*****

She lost the baby. She went to the toilet one day and realized there was blood running down her leg. She’d had stomach pains the night before, but she’d told herself they were nothing; they were to be expected. They’d rushed her to hospital but she’d already miscarried.

Jack had been surprised at how much Sean was looking forward to becoming a father. They’d lain together on his bed and she’d asked him if, honestly, he really wanted to have a kid. He wasn’t just saying he did, letting her live with him, baby-proofing his flat, because he thought he had to?

He’d laughed and kissed her on the side of the head. “Are you kidding?” He laughed again. “Yes I want to have this kid. I love kids, I always have. I’m gonna be a great dad.”

He got drunk the night his unborn child died, and Jack saw the first flashes of the demon that lived inside of him, fed on whiskey and beer and all the feelings he didn’t speak of.

“Too fuckin’ skinny,” he’d spat in her direction when he’d finally returned to the flat. His expression had been baleful and his eyes so full of hate, unlike anything she’d ever seen before. He’d pointed an accusatory finger at her. “Too. Fucking. Skinny.”

Less than a year later he lost his job at the garage—lay-offs—and his drinking became almost daily. Things got worse, but what could Jack do? There was no one she could turn to, nowhere she could go. Her parents had disowned her; she could never go home. She could go to Sam, but what difference would it make? He knew where all her friends lived, and even together Greg, Ben and Luke could not stand up to him. Even if they did get lucky and fend him off, all he’d do was recruit his own friends from the pub and their council flats and it would be time for round two.

He wasn’t a nice guy anymore. He hadn’t been a nice guy for a very long time. Sam may have had her suspicions, but Jack was the only one who knew of his dark intents. He hurt her where no one was likely to see. No telltale split lips or bruised cheeks or blackened eyes. He knew she had nowhere else to go and he took full advantage of that fact. She was his. She was his slave.

He’d throw her to the bed and tear her clothes from her and roughly have his way, his beer-stinking breath wafting nauseatingly up her nose, gagging her, as he breathed heavily into her ear and the rancid sweat dripped upon her pale chest from his distillery-scented skin. She’d beg off when she was on her period and his onslaught would momentarily pause, but there was no real respite: his teeth would disappear back behind his lips and his nostrils would cease to flare, and he’d straighten up and say, “Come here and give me a blowjob, then.”

There was no love in his actions, if there ever had been, in anything he said or did. He’d look at her, always with a bottle in his hand, and the fire in his eyes was blacker than anything she’d ever seen in the eyes of her parents. He’d finish the bottle and grab her by her short hair and take her to the bedroom and throw her upon her knees and unbuckle his jeans.

“Stay like that,” he’d hiss when she tried to turn. “You look like a boy with that hair, you know that?” And he’d pull down her jeans and place a hand under her stomach and enter her from behind, force his way in dry so she’d give out the pained cry that would spur him on. He’d hold her hair and he’d thrust his hips until she thought he was going to break her in half; he’d pull back on her head until she thought her spine would snap.

But it ended. It always ended, and Jack would be left to curl on her side, his semen dripping from her onto the bed sheets, wondering if she’d just been raped.

“Let your fucking hair grow out,” he’d tell her. “Before people start thinking I’m a fucking faggot or something.”

But she didn’t let her hair grow. She liked it short. She didn’t care if it made her look boyish. She didn’t care what anyone thought. She continued her bi-monthly visits to Sam’s flat to get her hair cut.

Samantha lived on her own. She occasionally brought men back to her flat but she had no steady relationship to speak of, and she said she preferred it that way.

“I’m not exactly looking for a husband,” she’d laugh.

The longest relationship she’d had had come after she’d amiably broken up with Sean’s friend Tom, when she’d gotten with Greg. They were together for two years before they broke up, and he still went to visit her sometimes, along with Jack and Luke and Ben, but he always stayed the longest, long after all the others had left.

When Sam was twelve and hitting puberty she invited Jacqueline into her bedroom and looked along the hallway to make sure her parents and older sister were nowhere in the vicinity, before she closed the door and clicked it into place with a great air of secrecy.

“I need you to look at something,” she said, her voice low, conspiratorial.

Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed curiously. “What is it?”

Sam began to undo the buttons at the top of her pants and Jacqueline’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth but didn’t say anything. She watched the top of Sam’s blonde head tilted forward as she pushed her jeans down around her ankles. She straightened up again and Jacqueline looked down at her long, milky white legs. Her attention snapped back to her face when she began to talk.

“Look at these,” she said, pointing to the tops of her thighs and the purple worms residing under her skin there.

Where she pointed was right next to her crotch. She wore white underwear that clung tightly to the shape of her genitalia. Jacqueline tried not to look there. She leaned close to the indicated area. So smooth. So soft. So white. She was aware that her mouth was dry and her face was getting ever closer. She stopped herself. She reached out a hand she was sure was shaking, but was in actuality surprisingly still. She pressed a tentative finger to the purple worms. She had to touch. So soft. She swallowed hard.

“I think they’re just stretch marks,” she said.

“Thank God!” Sam cried, quickly pulling her pants back up, sounding genuinely relieved.

And now Samantha was a fully grown woman and the purple worms at the tops of her legs had faded to an unnoticeable flesh colour. And now Samantha was a hairdresser. And now Samantha was introducing Jack to the girl with the green hair.

*****

There was a time she didn’t like to think about; the time he’d kicked her. That was the worst it had ever gotten; the worst thing he’d ever done to her, other than blaming her for the loss of their child. The mere thought of it still made her wince.

He’d been in his chair and she’d been between his legs, at his insistence, though it wasn’t the week of her period. His hands were in her hair and stroking her, surprisingly softly. She rolled her eyes up in her head to see his face and his eyes were closed and his tongue flickered out over his lips and she could hear a low groaning in the back of his throat. He never went down on her and she never asked him to.

The tip of his middle finger ran lightly over the top of her left ear. He curled her short hair around his fingers, seeing how far it would stretch. His body began to stiffen. He went tight. His hips began to thrust and she struggled not to catch him with her teeth, which she knew he hated. His lips parted and his breathing became heavier. His groan grew, and grew, and grew until it became a word working its way from his throat to the tip of his tongue and out past his lips.

“Oh, Daniel!” he gasped, breaking almost into a cry as, simultaneously, Jack felt his semen shoot hard to the back of her throat. She pulled away from him and coughed, catching her breath, and asking herself: who was Daniel? He didn’t have any friends called Daniel. She frowned, down on her knees, struggling to swallow the saltiness still playing upon her tongue. Sean was looking at her like he didn’t recognize her. Then his eyes grew hard and a familiar expression came over his face.

He leaned forward, snapping towards her like a snake. He grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her face closer to his, so their noses were touching. He grabbed a strand of her hair in his other hand, between thumb and index finger, but it was too short to hold before her eyes.

“I told you to let this grow,” he barked.

“Who’s Daniel?” she asked, though she knew she shouldn’t.

His mouth began to work but no words came out, he was so angry. He pushed her away and got to his feet, forcing his now flaccid, still dripping penis back into his pants. “No one!” he shouted, on his way into the kitchen. “There is no Daniel!”

She knew why he went to the kitchen. That was where the alcohol was kept. She watched him go and he slammed the door and she remained on the floor and continued to swallow, but the taste wouldn’t leave so she went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth and gargled with water. She returned to the sitting room and sat on the floor and turned on the television. Its glare was the only light, throwing her shadow back upon the walls, upon the closed kitchen door behind which Sean sat and drank, and, presumably, remembered Daniel. Jack rested her head against the sofa. She fell asleep.

She should have left the flat straight away, she told herself afterwards. She should have seen the signs of what was coming. His mood had changed instantly at her mention of Daniel. He’d gone into the kitchen and he wasn’t coming out. He was sitting at that kitchen table and he was getting drunk. Nothing good could come of it.

She woke with his first kick. Her mind was still too befuddled with sleep, and overwhelmed with the sight of his black shadow above her, screaming at her, to register the pain of what he had done.

“You fucking bitch! You skinny fucking cunt!”

Unconscious, she had rolled on her side, with the back of her head pressed into the sofa cushion and her arms hanging by her side and her legs parted. Sean had come back through, a half-empty bottle in his hands.

He kicked her again, perhaps harder, perhaps not, and she realized where he was aiming. This time the pain shot through her.

Her body crumpled like an accordion and she attempted to roll up and protect herself from his blows, from his professional-footballer-taking-a-corner kicks. She tried to crawl away, the shooting pain from her crotch travelling via lightning to the fire in her stomach, burning all the stronger.

He dropped the bottle and what was left spilled out and foamed upon the carpet. He forced her up again and held her by the shoulders. Tears were running down her face and she was shaking all over. He kicked her again, the hardest this time. She screamed in agony and he let her fall. He took a step back, sneering.

He almost fell as he bent to pick up his bottle. He retreated back to the kitchen, muttering angrily to himself. Jack lay on her side, unseeing, her hands clasped between her legs, her thighs squeezing her forearms. She was dimly aware of him slamming the kitchen door.

She’d swollen, she’d burst, and she’d bled under the force of his blows. She spent a week in bed, unable to stand, suffering through excruciating pain. She kept a bucket near the bed and sometimes, usually when she remembered what had happened, she threw up. It was three more weeks before she could walk properly again, without a limp.

And all the while she listened to Sean out in the flat, roaming through it and watching the television and sitting in the kitchen and talking to himself, and her breath would catch as she listened to him get drunker, and she’d almost choke if she heard his footsteps come closer to the bedroom door. But he never entered. He didn’t look upon what he had done and he didn’t attempt to apologize. She wasn’t going to leave him. She was stuck to him, through past mistakes and fear. She was scared of him, and scared of what else he could do.

He held all power over her and he knew it. And she knew it. He was a man and she was not, and she was weak. He could kick her, and he could beat her, and he could fuck her. There was nothing she could do. She was bent to his will. She was trapped. She was his.

*****

The girl with green hair had a name. It was Bea. Jack didn’t know how she’d met Sam and she’d never had a chance to ask. She was sitting in Sam’s flat with her black friend, Harry. Bea smiled at Jack as she came inside. Harry was inspecting his fingernails.

“This is who I was telling you about, Bea,” Sam said. “This is Jack. She’s here to get her hair cut. It won’t take long.”

Bea was still smiling. “That’s fine. We can wait.”

They were going out, to nowhere in particular. They invited Jack to join them and she thought of Sean, either in the flat getting drunk, or at the pub. She accepted and went with them, the back of her neck feeling itchy still even after Sam had brushed it down.

They went down to a clearing of grass near the harbor. Bea and Harry’s large group was already there. Jack had never seen Samantha with them before and wondered if she was a new addition.

“Who do you think dyes her hair?” Sam said with a smile when Jack asked her.

“I love your hair, Jack.” Bea sat, cross-legged upon the grass, rolling a joint. “I love your name too. What’s it short for? Jackie?”

“Jacqueline,” Jack answered, her voice choked and forced the way it was when she was young and painfully shy and meeting someone for the very first time. “I-is Bea short for anything?”

“Oh yes,” Bea said, nodding her head emphatically. “Beatrice. Who the fuck name’s their kid Beatrice?” She began to laugh.

Jack smiled weakly.

Bea shrugged. “But whatever. I wanted everybody to call me Bea but you know how some kids are, they’re cruel and they like to be cruel, so they’d call me Beatrice and they’d always snigger when they did it, so what I did was I took to wearing these yellow and black horizontally striped tights, like a bee. So they’d start buzzing at me, but no one called me Beatrice anymore.” She lit up the joint and took a long draw on it before handing it to Harry. “What do you do, Jack?”

Harry handed the joint to Jack and she considered it for a moment, thinking of Sean again. She cast him from her mind and drew deep before handing it on to Sam. She told herself not to cough, even though her eyes were beginning to burn and water. It felt like there was a fire in her chest. She finally allowed herself to exhale. “Nothing,” she said. “I don’t do anything.”

Bottles appeared from somewhere and were handed out liberally. Another joint was rolled and passed around. Jack felt light-headed and ill, but in a good way. She had a dazed smile on her face and her confidence had grown, boosted by the alcohol and the drugs. She worked her way closer to Bea.

“You’re very cute,” Bea told her, leaning closer, their heads almost touching. “You look like a really good-looking boy.” She laughed.

She reached out and ran her fingers down Jack’s smooth cheek. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Jack nodded. She thought of Sean again. She could almost feel his eyes upon her and she looked around instinctively, but, naturally, he was nowhere to be seen.

“Me too,” Bea said. She pointed at Harry. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Jack stammered. “Like…like a friend? Like Sam?”

Bea laughed at her naivety. She leaned forward and pressed her hands upon her knees. “No, like a lover.”

Jack shook her head quickly.

Bea was on her knees and took a crawl closer to her. “Me neither,” she said.

Her lips pressed to Jack’s, brushing lightly. Jack sat very stiffly. She thought of her parents and of church and of Stephen and how Stephen would never kiss someone of the same sex, or allow them to kiss him, and she thought of Sean and she felt a twinge between her legs at the thought of his phantom kicks. And then she kissed Bea back.

Bea’s lips teased hers open and her tongue slipped inside her mouth. It was cool and expert and very wet. Bea’s hand was upon her cheek. Jack sucked on her tongue and ran her own over it, wrestling it to the roof of her mouth. She reached out for Bea with closed eyes. She tasted like weed and alcohol. She put her hand on the back of Bea’s neck and pulled her in closer, so their teeth almost clicked together. She didn’t want to let go. She didn’t want to ever let go.

Sean was asleep in his chair when she returned. She crept past him to the bedroom but he stirred at her passing.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked groggily when she was behind him.

“Sam’s,” she said, his question already anticipated and her answer—and any answers she might need to any of his questions—already prepared.

He grunted and went back to sleep.

*****

Bea instructed her. “A little lower…lower…ah! Right there. Oh yes…”

Bea settled back on the bed, her eyes closed and her tattooed arms thrown back over her head. Her arm pits were a week unshaven. The nipples of her tiny breasts had turned a brown shade of red and were standing to attention. Her hips thrust up to Jack’s face. She let out a long cry, her body thrown into a spasm and her back arching, and she closed her legs to Jack.

She lay with a hand upon her flushed chest and Jack lay beside her. Bea pulled her close and kissed her. “You’re good at that,” she said.

Jack smiled. She didn’t know what to say.

They lay like that until Bea caught her breath. Jack didn’t know where to look. They were naked together and Harry was nowhere to be found in the flat, but Jack had a feeling that he already knew what was going on, and that he didn’t care.

“You’re not relaxed,” Bea said.

“I’m fine,” Jack said.

Bea raised an eyebrow.

Jack lay on her side and had unconsciously covered her nipples with an arm. Her legs were crossed and all that showed from the bottom of her long white stomach were a few strands of unkempt pubic hair. The hair at the front of her head was sticking up from the rubbing of Bea’s thighs and she tried self-consciously to brush it back down. She could taste Bea upon her tongue still and her juices were smeared across Jack’s mouth.

“You’re like a stick in the mud,” Bea said, placing a hand upon her shoulder and easing her down onto her back. “So stiff. Relax.”

She kissed her on the neck. She kissed the top of her chest. She kissed each nipple. She kissed her way down her stomach and her tongue trailed a circle around her belly button. Jack gasped. Her legs remained clamped tightly together. Would she open them? Would Bea have to pry them with both arms and all her strength? Bea’s lips brushed her pubic hair. She could feel her nipples rubbing against her knees. The tips of her fingers slipped between her legs.

She stopped.

Jack waited but nothing happened. She raised her head and looked down. Bea was studying her legs. Her green hair, strands of it stuck together with her sweat, covered her face. “What’re all these bruises off?” she said.

“I’m clumsy,” Jack said.

Bea looked up, shaking the hair out of her eyes in a way that reminded Jack of her brother. She grabbed her arm and held it out and inspected the inside of her bicep, the fading bruises there, too.

“These look like fingerprints,” Bea said softly.

Jack was silent.

Bea rose to her knees and crawled off Jack. She sat and crossed her legs.

“Look at these,” she said. She held out her left forearm. Jack sat up, wrapped her arms around her knees, and looked. There were tattoos there, but as she looked closer, beneath the ink, covered over, there were scars. Deep scars that would have been hard to miss were it not for the distraction of the tattoos. “What do they look like?”

“They look like a suicide attempt,” Jack said.

Bea nodded.

“Now look at this.” Her right forearm had six nautical stars tattooed upon it. Jack looked closer and saw that at the centre of each star was a circular scar. Bea turned and showed her left hip. Unadorned by ink were more of the circular scars. “I had a boyfriend once who used to like putting his cigarettes out on me. That was what he did physically.” She tapped at the side of her head, then showed off her left forearm again.

“What did you do?”

“I met Harry,” she said. “And Harry put a cigarette out on him.”

*****

Jack told Sean she was on her period. He frowned and she could see him thinking, trying to work out dates. “So soon?” he said finally, at a guess.

“It’s come early,” she said.

He shrugged.

“Fine,” he said, beginning to undo his belt. “I suppose it just means you haven’t got another baby to lose.”

She didn’t pretend not to hear him. She let his words, his sly insults, sink in. She let everything he had ever done or said bubble back to the surface. She replayed the kicking over and over in her mind. The bleeding that had soaked through so many pairs of underwear that she’d feared it would never stop. There was a stain still in the middle of the bed where she had lain all that week. It was very faint and pink, but it was there. It wouldn’t wash out. It served as a reminder of an event that she couldn’t forget.

“Let’s go,” he prompted.

She fell to her knees before him and took him in her hand. His penis stared her right in the face. She put it in her mouth and her head began to move backward and forward. He groaned above her.

She thought of Bea, the top of her green head between her legs. Jack closed her eyes. Her head moved faster and her lips clamped down tighter. She thought of the first orgasm she’d ever had, just yesterday, teased out by Bea’s flickering tongue and her masterful fingers. She thought of the kicks. She winced. She could feel his shin, his foot, waking her up. Bludgeoning her. Breaking her.

He’d made her less than a human. He’d degraded her; he’d forced himself upon her. He made her feel like a prisoner even when she left the flat. He kept her firmly on her knees, at all times.

She felt his hand gripping her shoulder tightly. His other hand ran through her hair. Was he thinking of Daniel?

It was time.

She bit down and pulled back. He seized and looked down. His hands let go of her and turned to claws at his side. His eyes bulged from his head, unable to believe what he was seeing. The blood was still running to an erection that was no longer there, ejaculating all over Jack’s white neck and chest, painting her red. Her mouth was full, but it was closed.

He fell back, screaming, his hands pressing at the wound and trying to stop the bleeding. Jack got to her feet and looked at him. Emasculated and pathetic. All his power was gone, leaking out of him still, through his fingers and into the carpet.

She sneered.

She spat the lump of severed penis upon him. Blood ran from the corners of her mouth.

“I think I might be gay,” she said.


















































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