Kill Marguerite and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF

shrugs, smiles lazily over at him, lost in her dreaming.
    His tongue in her mouth is slithery and warm, then a lifeless slab of muscle to her weak response. Fumbling and finally dead. Retracted. Suck.
    Patty clenches and unclenches her thighs, faster, faster, until she is done.
    When she is done, she thanks him, they should do it again sometime.
    Then she slams the car door and hurries through the rain to her apartment building, stepping on a slug that’s sprawled out to suck in the moisture. Ugh. That squishes. She scrapes the slug-guts off on the doorstep and lets herself inside.
    In the kitchen, Patty grabs a used glass and fills it with filtered water. Gulps it down. Stands there with her fingers on her lips, thinking he wasn’t so bad. She could have been nicer. She could have tried harder. Made something happen. But what had he looked like? She remembers the nervous gurgling in particular. The meek way he cleared his throat. The tapping on the steering wheel, anxious, impatient.
    She had made him impatient. That’s funny. She had had an effect. He probably would’ve been too safe in bed, anyway. He would’ve wanted her to act like a girl.
    Everyone is always too safe. Probably. What do normal people do?
    They take off their shoes and makeup, and go to bed.Patty takes off her shoes and makeup and goes to bed. Patty has not closed her window, despite the drizzle, which has now turned to rain. There is a lot of rain. It is raining hard. The rain is hard. Hard rain. Getting harder. The rain is getting harder and harder until it is too hard for anyone to handle.
    Patty close the window! Patty close the window!
    But Patty does not close the window.
    Once, a long while ago, Patty was in love, with a man she met online. He had responded to an ad, or she had responded to his, and they had had a feverish exchange in which each had confessed her or his own and encouraged one another’s perversities. He wrote every morning; she responded dutifully before retiring for the night. In their emails, they would each describe her or his every desire in obsessive detail, carefully crafting fetish after fetish with the intent to elicit the most violent desire and intrigue from her or his reader. For Patty, masturbation had never been so good.
    After a time, they began to write erotic stories for each other. Patty wrote rottingdonquix a story after Story of O, in which O grew a cock and turned the tables on her Master, reducing him to the most obsequious and pathetic of slaves. Rottingdonquix responded with a story inspired, she found out later, by Masoch, in which his Venus was not so much wearing furs as she was covered in fur, for she was a vampiric werewolf who feverishly desired to suck the blood from the narrator’s cock. Patty had written him another story, in which Bataille’s bull’s eye is passed back and forth from orifice to orifice until finally, in the midst of passionate intercourse, it bursts in the protagonist’s throbbing cunt. He wrote back with anoverwrought masturbation fantasy revolving around an onyx engagement ring. Upon reading it, she experienced the strong stench of rotten eggs, and could not bring herself to reply.
    Weeks passed.
    One day, missing the thrill of rottingdonquix’s emails, Patty wrote him with the suggestion that they meet in person. He agreed.
    He was fat, and ugly. She left with a sneer on her face.
    That was the end of love.
    Patty is in her bed masturbating. She has tied her date up with fishing line that cuts into his skin, leaves blood blisters pooling subcutaneous. She does the same with his cock, which is always fully erect, engorged even, then kneels in front of him, makes eye contact, and extracts her tongue slowly, torturously, until the tip just touches the head of it. He moans behind his gag. Saliva gets stuck in his throat and he tries to clear it, takes two tries, three, is perpetually clearing his throat. Patty’s tongue has not moved