The Sadist's Bible (2 page)

tugging her?)

Succumb.

Succubus.

Lori was the succubus she’d succumb to. They’d make love for the first and only

time and then – without so much as a shower or a prayer for forgiveness – they’d die. If all went as planned they’d remember to place the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and

the hotel staff wouldn’t discover them for a few days. There’d be bloating and rope and

decay and flies intermingled with the scent of sex.

The Hillbriar people would be shocked. She and Lori didn’t
enjoy
the idea of

shocking people, though. That wasn’t the point. The point was that they shared two

unspeakable urges that demanded to be satisfied.

Would it make the news?

She didn’t know. A double suicide at the Hillbriar would be out of the ordinary, of

course. But neither she nor Lori were from West Virginia. No one in the town would

know or care about them. That would discourage local news coverage. The sex aspect

would grant the story a certain edginess. But would the media report that part? Given that she was married to a man, wouldn’t they withhold that information? For his sake? The

hotel would see it as a scandal and would try to keep things hush hush. And the hotel

owners likely had enough money and local influence to ensure things were kept hush

hush.

Besides, it wasn’t as though she was a celebrity with actual character
worth

assassinating. She was just a saleswoman for a barge-building company on the Ohio

River. She looked and sounded no different than any other woman who’d spent her life in

southern Indiana. She’d lived without fanfare. Her house looked like every other house in her subdivision. Her hair looked like every other coiffed head in her subdivision. She

dressed without fanfare. She dreamed without fanfare. It seemed to be the only way to

live.

Would she die without fanfare?

She considered this for some time before actually agreeing to Lori’s plan and then

she decided that, yes, that’s the way it would turn out. No obituary in Clark County, at least, would disclose the cause of death. Word would get out, of course. It couldn’t be

kept totally quiet, but no one at the funeral would mention it. This, she imagined, would lead to a certain tension – the weight of the secret on all of them.
Serves ‘em right
, she thought.
If I have to die for my secret, the least they could do is acquire one of their own.

A mental image came to her: the pastor, his entourage of church ladies, and Jesse making small talk around her coffin. Everyone’s careful to avoid mentioning the s-word. They’re walking on eggshells, haunted by the unspeakable.
Live with it
, she thought.
Feel that
weight on your shoulders? The tightness in your head? That’s what having a secret feels
like. Live with it!

Then there’d be the flipping of calendars. Months. Years. Until one day her life

would be so little remembered that it would be as though she’d never been born. (How

long would it take for her to be practically forgotten? Ten years? Twenty? Surely not

much longer.)

But first she had to finish packing the pantsuits. Finish washing her panties.

* * *

In Portsmouth, Virginia, Lori wrapped a powder blue housecoat belt around her neck

and started to jill off. She exerted no pressure on the belt. This wasn’t the time for

strangulation. This was the time for fantasizing.
Rehearsal
. She wondered if she’d jill off when she hanged herself. Would she find suicide erotic? Would there be an instinct for

self-preservation that would lead her to flail her hands up to the rope, or would she defy the odds and have the presence of mind to go out while getting off? She liked the sheer

boldness of the idea. The perversity. In the whole history of womankind, had anyone

masturbated during a suicide attempt? Possibly. They’d
both
have to jill off to up the ante. Surely, in the entire history of the world, no
two
adulterous women hanged and pleasured themselves simultaneously.

There was much to do to get ready for it all. Packing. Mapping things out on GPS.

Getting cash out of the bank.

She chided herself.
No, don’t think about the preparations. Not now. Think of the

payoff. The high of dying. The orgasm of death throes. The escape. Think of that. Think of
that. That’s the pleasurable part. Don’t start worrying and fuck up this moment. Don’t
start thinking about–

–the baby.

She hadn’t told Ellie she was a mother. That would’ve only complicated matters.

Ellie would never have gone along with any of this if she’d known a child was involved.

But, of course, the baby would have to go with her. She would kill the baby. Then she

and Ellie would kill themselves. And that way the baby’s father could no longer torment

her. She would go to Hell for her multiple sins. She would be tortured, eternally. And yet torture was a given, wasn’t it? Life was torture. It had never been anything else. So what did she have to lose? And besides, she suspected that Hell’s torture would be less painful than that dished out by her baby’s father. At the very least, it would introduce some

novelty into the equation.
His
torture never changed. Every week He came to visit her and inflicted the same sadistic routine.

Melted her lips together so she couldn’t scream.

Lopped off her arms with the sheer power of His thoughts.

And His body was literally on fire (but wasn’t consumed). His
cock
was literally on fire (but not consumed). And He shoved it up her ass and then up her cunt. And the sour, smoky stench of her own burning holes made her want to faint, but she couldn’t. And

each hole would be blistered and scorched from the flames, but that didn’t stop Him. And His cum was like boiling oil that commingled with the weeping of her blisters. And His

kisses were like the stings of a jellyfish. And His touch turned her skin into black carbon and gray ash. And He’d slap her and punch her and fracture her ribs. And she should’ve

passed out, but she couldn’t. And she wanted to die, but she couldn’t.

And when it was all over He’d heal her injuries, and He’d whisper in her ear that

He’d be back next Sunday to do it all over again. And for the rest of the week Lori would relive it all in her nightmares.

Her baby’s father was God.
God
fucked her.
God
punished her. It was said that Hell was the only place that provided eternal separation from God, so Lori would arrange

things so she would go there. Even if the suicide wouldn’t land her there, the homicide

surely would. And the baby – His baby, who should have never come into existence

anyway – would be put out of his misery.

Yes, she would fuck God over. Kill His offspring. Cheat on Him, with a woman.

Escape. Maybe even manage to humiliate Him in the process. All of this would turn out

to be a magnificent “fuck you” to the Almighty.

The only question was, could she pull this off? There were risks of getting caught.

Yes, He could read her thoughts. He knew her every desire. But she wasn’t His only

concubine. He’d told her she was only one of many. He couldn’t keep tabs on all of them

at once, could He? If she was lucky, He’d be paying attention to the others during her

escape.

But first, Lori would have to go to Mom and Dad’s house to take the baby away.

That would be a treacherous step in the journey. Mom and Dad would fight her. But she

knew she was up to it.

But no, don’t think about such chores. Chill the fuck out, girl. Chill. The. Fuck. Out.

She had a couple of Xanax pills in her nightstand. She reached in and found them.

Took them. And her head started to grow softer and lighter. And the world started to

grow softer and lighter. And she let out a sigh, as the chemicals seemed to erase the entire concept of God from her head and render the world a more palatable place. And she

started pinching and twisting her nipples to get back into the mood. It took about a half hour to reach full arousal again, but it worked. She had a renewed ability to look upon

every square inch of her flesh as a potential epicenter for orgasm. A renewed ability to look upon herself as something more than a victim.

Mmmmm...
She ran her fingers down along her labia and felt her hips buck up

involuntarily to meet the strokes. Yes, she would think about all the worrisome aspects of this later. Now was the time to focus on getting off.

There were several scenarios she played through in her head as she slipped fingers

inside herself.

In the first scenario, they’d hang themselves in separate rooms. The second was

hotter, though: they’d hang themselves right next to each other. Maybe even jill
each
other
off. Maybe their orgasms and death throes would be intermixed. The blood in their bodies wouldn’t know what to do. Maybe it’d rush up to the site of the strangulation and turn their necks purple. Maybe it would rush down to their pussies, instead.

Maybe, Lori thought, the only way to ensure they both got off would be to bring a

third person into the picture. They could hire a whore to get them off while they died. She let the tip of her finger graze her clitoris.
Damn, that would be hot.
They’d make sure she was young – nineteen, twenty. The younger, the better the chances she’d agree to

something so extreme. The younger, the better the chances she’d be scarred by it.

Traumatized.

Fuck, yeah.

Her hips bucked up. Legs splayed out.

Yep, the younger the whore, the less-prepared she’d be to handle all of this. The

younger the whore, the better the chances that Lori and Ellie would live on as a series of recurring nightmares inside that whore’s head.

She licked her lip. Her soul simmered.

Fuck, yeah.

They could live on as traumatic nightmares that would haunt the whore at three a.m.

Just like
Lori’s
nightmares haunted
her
each night. The whore’s nightmares would awaken the john dozing next to her, Lori imagined. He’d look at the clock while she was

moaning and tossing in bed and decide it would be best that he left. He’d find the money he’d paid her and take it. Maybe take the girl’s whole stash, if he could find it. Yes, that would be what would happen. She and Ellie would go to Hell, but they’d live on (in a

way) here on Earth, in a whore’s nightmares. They would, in a way, be cheating God and

the Devil at the same time!

Her brain surged to a rolling boil. She felt thrown in and out of her

body...experienced a sense of flipping in and out of time.

She let out furtive groans and squeals. She did not want to be heard by the man in the

apartment downstairs. Death shuddered inside of her. Noose. Hanging. Whore. Licking.

Escaping. Escaping! So tight.
Fuck, yeah. Fuck, yeah. Fuck...

...yeah.

* * *

The adulterers were both fools, of course.

For all their talk about the pleasures of the flesh, they actually lived in their heads:
in a world of conjecture, rationalization, might-haves and should-haves and maybes.

When they chatted or swapped naughty photographs online, it was as though they’d

entered a wee pocket of time and space hidden away from sunrise and sunset and toil and
obligation. Their ideas about death (like their ideas about life, like their expectations of
sex) were influenced by fantasy rather than fact. Dewy-eyed delusions.

Lori, in particular, was almost-comically ill-informed about so many things. She

thought she might somehow escape my notice, but I am infinite! Her little brain couldn’t
fathom the idea of omniscience. I only allowed her to proceed down this path as a way to
further maximize her torture (and because I found myself a bit intrigued by the woman
she planned to die with).

Likewise, she was clueless about the habits of prostitutes. They do not, typically, fall
asleep in the arms of their johns. If they’re with a john, they’re working. Like vampires,
they sleep by day.

And both women were clueless in regard to suicide.

Had they performed even a cursory search on the Internet, they would have found

articles attesting to the foolishness of hanging. They would have read testimonials from
E.M.T.s discussing how accidental decapitation was, perhaps, the most merciful outcome.

They would have read the reports of bodies found with fresh, frantic scratch marks on
their necks and chins – signs of a struggle to get out of the noose, signs of too-late second
thoughts. They would have found out that death usually came from some combination of
suffocation and interrupted circulation of blood to the brain. They would have realized
that the hanged have no energy for orgasm. They’re too busy dying.

The Escape from God

Ellie yearned for the open road. Jesse reminded her far too often that he’d miss her.

She let him hold her. Let him kiss her and grope her. She feigned groping back, while a

hunger for Lori gnawed at her. She imagined what Lori’s tongue would feel like as it

worked its way from her thigh to her pussy. But now Jesse was saying something she

didn’t catch.

“What’s that, honey?”

“I
said
, do you need any money for tolls?” Jesse, the responsible one, always carried cash. She hadn’t bothered finding out if there were any tolls between southern Indiana

and West Virginia. She decided to err on the side of caution. “I’ll take twenty, if you have it, sweetheart. That should be more than enough.”