The Chosen

“Oh, yeah…yeah,” the guy began blabbering; Zyra promptly reached around and inserted him into herself. Not very big, she lamented. In her line of work, of course, she was used to much bigger, but he’d do. This was business, after all.

Her spread buttocks slid down, deepening the meager penetration. She thought of riding motorcycles as she leaned forward and ran her hands over his hairy, fat-layered chest.

“Good gawd, hon.” His eyes bulged in ludicrous ecstasy. A ball of lint filled his navel. “You shore’s shit feel good. Ain’t had me a scrap like this in a coon’s age.”

A coon’s age? She massaged his fatty pectorals as though they were breasts, while her own breasts swayed before his stupid, cross-eyed, redneck face. Poor little lover, she thought. He wouldn’t last long; they never did with Zyra. “That’s it, baby, that’s it,” she cooed.

His big rough fingers fiddled with her nipples. They plucked and pinched. His hips began to tremor; his face looked like a twisted balloon. Not yet, she commanded herself. He began to groan. Then—

Now.

Zyra’s climax released in a burst of vivid, hot spasms, when she felt the redneck’s own climax unleash. Ooooooo, she thought.

That’s when she jammed the ice pick into his throat.

He attempted to scream but succeeded only in gargling. Zyra smiled and held him down—she was a strong woman. He bucked beneath her like a just-gelded mule.

From the tiny puncture, the streams of blood emitted with a considerable velocity—it reminded her of a squirt gun. Squirt, squirt, squirt, on and on. This bizarre synchronicity fascinated her: his ejaculation exiting in time with his blood…

“Ready for my surprise?” she whispered. This was not a reference to the ice pick—as if that weren’t surprise enough!—but just another aspect of her demented lust. Weren’t writers always writing about sex and death? Zyra viewed this as a…literary pursuit…to further her orgasms as uniquely as possible—during the final convulsions of his life.

It seemed thrillingly perverse!

When she was done, she whispered, “Hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”

She leaned up. Blood dripped off her nipples. On a silly impulse she placed both hands in the center of the redneck’s chest and pushed down once very hard. A thread-thin stream of blood launched out of his throat and shot across the room. Wow! Zyra thought. The blood drew a high line along the wall and hit Elvis in the eye.

“I’d love to stay and chat, baby, but I’m afraid it’s bye-bye time for you.” She jammed the ice pick deep into the base of his skull and jiggled it around. The redneck stiffened once, gurgled a final objection, then died.

Muffled thumps beat from the bedroom. Zyra smiled when she heard the stifled shrieks. Lemi was in there taking care of the redneck’s little girlfriend. They’d come onto them at the bar, some frowzy hole called the Crossroads. Peanut shells carpeted the sticky floor; a country and western band ineptly twanged chords from the stage. “We all’s swingers,” the redneck had offered after the second pitcher of Carling. “How ‘bout yawl? Think ya might like ta come back ta our place fer a little partyin’?” “Sounds good to me,” Zyra had said. “Sure,” Lemi had said.

“And it was plumb one rat nass party,” Zyra now mocked. She was always talking to herself, or to dead people. “Thank ya much, yawl.” She sauntered nude into the bedroom. Lemi’s muscles tensed as he wrapped duct tape around the girl’s mouth. He’d