by Jack Ketchum
"Darling, please," Roderic yammered on. "Come back inside. We'll sit by the fire, I'll open the Louis XIII, and we can talk. We'll talk this thing out."
"Roderic, read my lips! No new to—" Clare blinked. "Er, I mean, it's over!"
For God's sake, he was crying now! Men were such babies. "I would do anything for you," he sobbed. "I would build a temple. I would row a league. I would climb the highest mountain, cross the driest, hottest desert—"
Clare rolled her eyes. What a romantic putz!
"Anything, Clare," he wept on. "I would do anything." He paused to sniffle. "Tell me how I can prove my love."
Play in traffic, how about that? "Goodbye, Roderic!" she shouted. She slammed the car door and drove off. The estate shrunk behind her amid glowing topiary. In the rearview, as she descended, Roderic fell to his knees in grief as his mother and her leather-clad servant approached the porch to comfort him.
Poor Roderic, Clare mused. Have a nice life.
"There's my juicy little love-muffin," Fudd said when Clare came back to her apartment. His tongue roved her mouth in greeting; her 36C's tingled against his muscled chest. Already, the deft, strong hands unbuttoned her blouse. "You break the news to the wimp?"
"Yes," she said rather sadly. Aftermath. Guilt. But why should I feel guilty? She'd told Roderic the truth, and now it was done. "I'm surprised he didn't take back the car," she remarked.
Fudd's hands shucked her out of the blouse, baring her unfettered breasts. "That little creamcake fairy can't take back the car," he informed her. "He put the title in your name."
"And you can bet he won't be paying my rent anymore."
Fudd had his penis out already, which he often referred to as "John Henry" or "Mr. Meat Missile." He pressed it against her. "Fuck him and his mama's money. Coupla days and my next big score comes in. You and me, we'll be rollin' in green."
Clare sighed. Fudd rubbed her back on the couch, his firm touch banishing her stresses. "Now let's gander that ass," he said. He stripped off her jeans, propped her on hands and knees like convenient furniture. "Ooooo-eee, that's shore one humdinger of a butt, ain't it?" he complimented. "Gots to get me a taste of this little hole." Clare moaned at his next gesture: Fudd's tongue, by the way, was not particular about which orifice it tended, and as for her "little hole," it clenched in spasmodic pleasure, the likes of which she'd never experienced with any man, much less Roderic. In moments, Clare felt like a bitch in high heat. Then Fudd's own pants came down. "Here's somethin' to help you forget about that mama-rich wimp. Make way fer John Henry, yeah boy!"
Clare gulped as Fudd made good with his promise. His inordinately large cock slid right up into the slot of her sex, bulging her. Each stroke pushed away more of the memory of Roderic. "There ya go," Fudd said in somewhat less than the King's English. "Ain't got no reason no more to worry 'bout that creamcake, not with my cock up yer snatch. How's ya like that big rod plumbin' yer pipes, huh? Gots me a load of love juice I'se just been savin' fer this purdy thing. So how's about rubbin' them there balls whiles yer at it?"
"Oh, honey," she moaned. She reached under and fondled testicles which felt heavy as cue balls. She could feel blood vessels pumping in the large, intricate sac. "Stick it in harder."
Fudd obliged. Christ, his cock was so big she thought she could feel it in her stomach. "Yeah, just like that," came her hot whisper. "All the way in as hard as you can. I want you to fuck me till I can't see straight. I want you to fill my pussy up with your come..."
But the muse fell to bits when the phone shrilled. "You gots ta be fuckin' kiddin' me," Fudd complained mid-stroke. His penis withdrew, and slapped her on the bottom like a scolding hand. Oh, no no no, Clare fretted. The answering machine engaged: "Hi, this is Clare! I'm not home now so please leave a message—beeeeeep!"
No no no, please don't be…
"I'd do anything, darling," came Roderic's weepy, sniffly bumbling. "I would do anything for you."
Fudd hadn't much cared for the telephonic coitus interruptus, so he'd worked off his angst at the expense of Clare's physical real estate. Not that she'd objected: her orgasms ensued without abatement, and in a multiple fashion. What Fudd lacked in societal sophistication he more than made up for in cocksmanship, and with a prostate (judging by the volume of his discharges) that must've been bigger than a douche bag. He'd never elaborated upon his occupational pursuits, claiming simply to be a "salesman," though Clare sorely doubted the legality of whatever product it was that he "sold." He was muscular and brusk, and indelibly handsome. He was also very...enduring.
That night, though, Clare slept fitfully. Her sex was sore and full of enough sperm to fertilize China several times over, while an equal ration slowly digested in her stomach. She couldn't help but think of Roderic. He wrote poetry all day and doted after his mother, whose wealth—Clare once read in Forbes—topped mid-eight figures. Most every night he'd pick her up in his conservative-gray BMW and take her to the best clubs, restaurants, and shows. Each week, too, brought an array of gifts—jewelry mostly, the best kind—plus he paid her rent, bought her a car, and left nifty little envelopes full of cash under her pillow. This was not a bad life for a gal nearing the bad side of the hill. But...
She guessed it was his mother—crimped-faced, rouged and stick-thin. Eternally sarcastic. Often Roderic brought Clare back to the mansion (for romantic chats by the fire, snifters of Cordon Bleu, and, to the disappointment of Clare's libidinal system, pre-ejaculatory sex) and his mother would always present herself when they arrived, nodding curtly from the sitting room and offering some cryptic remark which always seemed discreetly rude. Such as "Good boys like my Roderic are easily taken for granted, missy," or "I hope you're taking good care of my boy." Fuck you, Clare would respond in thought and then offer a big bright smile for Mama Roderic. And always hovering at the old woman's shoulder was the omnipresent Dallas—the manservant—who looked about as cheerful as a WANTED mugshot. He never said a word, offering only blank glances and subtle scowls, and he always dressed in thuggish black leather: driver's cap, mitts, a long-tailed jacket. Clare wondered how much the old hag paid him to keep her ancient pussy stocked with pork.
But the implication was clear: Mama Roderic would overlook Clare's gold-digging so long as Clare took "good care of her ‘boy.’"
In all, Roderic proved a loving, compassionate, and very romantic man. He was bursting with spirit, and true spirit was one half of any real relationship. Unfortunately, he fell a bit short with regards to the other half: the flesh. He was slack-armed and fat, pallid as a fishbelly, and... Well, if love could be measured in inches, Roderic sported about four and a half of them. Not that it generally mattered, though; more often than not, the rich boy's loins gave up their seed well before any serious amalgamation of pudenda could be made. Sometimes, while necking, Clare would make the grievous mistake of brushing his groin with her fingers. "Ooooops," he'd announce and then display the starchy wet spot on his custom Italian slacks. On nights when they actually made it to bed, "Oh, darling, I'm sorry," he'd apologize for the milkish puddle on her belly. "You excite me so much I just can't help it." The same too for Clare's mystic fondness for fellatio. In eloquence, it could be said that Clare found delight in the application of her oral cavity to male genitalia, and in less than eloquence it could be said that she liked to suck cock. But why bother when said cock spent its seminal freight before she could even get it in her mouth? Roderic's own gestures at oral service proved equally futile. Was he trying to imitate a kitten lapping milk? God! How could any woman get hot for such a piddling technique? Which left her instead to counterfeit her orgasms and entreat herself of her finger later, or go home and call on her personal doctor. That is, Doc Johnson, who always made house calls provided the batteries were good.
No, after nine months, fine restaurants and moolah just didn't cut it, and the interminable scowls of Roderic's mother and her poker-faced sidekick only helped speed Clare to her decision. Besides, by then she'd met Fudd, a
nd he knew how to fill the places that Roderic left empty. I have to move on, she determined. I owe it to myself as a modern, sophisticated woman to pursue my introspective well-being as well as my sociological and spiritual actualization, not to mention my sheer, unbridled delight for Fudd's beautiful, gigantic cock. Why couldn't Roderic understand? She truly hoped that he'd one day meet some nice frigid little blueblood and live happily ever after.
But some men, she knew—particularly hopeless romantics like Roderic—would pine away for years over a lost love. They became obsessive. They would go to...extremes.
Perhaps that's what scared her a little. There was something about poor little jilted Roderic, something deep in his eyes that made her feel haunted by his forlorn and desperate promise:
I would do anything for you.
"Hey, love-muffin?" Fudd had wakened, and was nudging her with something other than his hand. "Mr. Meat Missile's a-jumpin'."
Oh, good, she rejoiced. Anything to get her mind off that look in Roderic's eyes, and that scary-sad tone in his voice. At once she pushed Fudd back and gave Mr. Meat Missile a welcome silo—in this case, her mouth. She hoped the distraction would serve her well: all that burgeoning cock in her chops, that glans—large as a baby apple—squeezing her tonsils, and the indescribable flavor of her own womanly fluids melded with sperm "Bet that creamcake pissant wussy never gave you a cock like this, huh?" Fudd groaned deep in his throat, holding her head. "Good gawd, love-muffin, I say ya damn well shore can suck a good peter."
Quaintly stated. Yet on Clare sucked, pausing only to glaze an alternate testicle with her tongue, or to tease the tender peehole. "Aw, get it, sugar!" resounded Fudd's next erudite ingratiation. "Suck all that hot peckersnot right outta that there cock!"
And so she did. Fudd's vesicles jettisoned yet another copious allotment of semen into Clare's talking hole, as she slipped a pinky into his anus to prod the overlarge prostate. She got a mouthful, to say the least. Like ordering egg drop soup from The China Chef and tipping the carton all at once. Yet with all this earthy distraction, Roderic's promise effused in her mind. I would do anything for you. Would he? Anything? What did that mean?
Would he...injure himself? Would he...
My God, would he commit suicide?
Again, the promise fluttered.
I would do anything...
And as Clare sucked out the final vestige of her lover's "peckersnot," she dared to consider the dreadful question: Just what would Roderic do to prove his promise?
~ * ~
He phoned every day. Gratefully, Fudd was out at such times, discharging his "salesman" duties. Clare soon learned to hate the sound of her phone.
"Clare, darling please! Please come back!"
"We were meant to be together!"
"I love you more than any man on earth!"
And, ever the promise: "I would do anything for you!"
She'd never answer, he'd always leave messages. And at night he haunted her dreams. She'd seen him in a scarlet bathtub with his wrists sliced open. She'd seen him blue-faced as his BMW idled in the closed garage. She'd seen him gun-shot, poisoned, hanged by the neck. Roderic's mother would make scowling cameos. "You take good care of my boy, missy," she'd insist, shadowed by her leather clad Dallas, whose gloved hands creaked as he opened and closed his fists. "...good care of my boy, good care of my boy, good care of my boy," the dream-crone would go on. But the nightmare always ended the same. Roderic's corpse, however dispatched, would come back to life, speaking in a death-rattle voice to reaffirm:
"I would do anything for you."
She'd wake in convulsions, groping for release. Soon she resolved, I will fuck and suck Roderic right out of my mind, and Fudd always provided a willing scapegoat in his cock. Each night reverted to a sexual tableau, be it oral or coital. Fudd became the vehicle of her oblivion, and when sheer fatigue forestalled further orgasms via Clare's mouth or reproductive channel, she'd plumb a wet thumb in and out of his anus and vigorously jerk him off. Eventually the furious demand of her hand unseated one final dollop of sperm, whose warm strings she'd always greedily lap up. But these distractions only lasted as long as the acts themselves, and the nightmare images always returned, as did the nightmare promise:
I would do anything for you.
One morning Fudd was in the shower, crooning "Love Me Tender." Clare lolled in bed, exhausted, her sex nearly turned inside-out by the previous night's ministrations of Fudd's log of love. She winced when the phone rang.
"Clare, please," whined Roderic's voice. "Talk to me!"
She grabbed up the phone. "Roderic, stop calling me!"
"Listen. Don't hang up. I want you to come over—"
"No!"
"Mother and Dallas went to Paris for a month. Please, Clare! Come over. We'll have the whole place to ourselves."
"I don't want to come over, Roderic. I don't want to ever see you again!"
"Buh-buh-but I love you!"
"I don't love you!"
"You used to, though—I know you did. I'm still the same person now that I was then. Darling, I do anyth—"
"I know, Roderic. You'd do anything for me. But can't you get it through your granite head—"
"At least tell me why you don't want me anymore."
Clare ground her teeth. You asked for it, Roddie. "You're fat, Roderic. I can't be seen in public with a fat guy!"
"I'll lose weight," Roderic matter-of-factly replied.
"And you're pale as a ghost."
"I'll get a tanning booth."
"And you don't have any muscles, Roderic. All girls want their boyfriends to have muscles."
"I'll start working out. I'll join a gym."
This was impossible! The last resort, Clare concluded. What else could a woman do? She didn't want to be mean, but he left her no choice. Get ready, 'cos here it goes.
"You come too fast, and you've got a little dick!"
If there was any way to decimate a man's persistence, this proclamation was it. But instead of falling into glum silence, or hanging up, Roderic immediately responded, "I'll go to a sex therapist—oh, oh!—and I'll get one of those penile implants. No problem."
No problem. Clare felt herself deflating. He was a gadfly that could not be swatted.
"Because, darling," he went on, "I would do anything for—"
The phone was snatched out of Clare's hand. Fudd, naked and dripping, brought the handset to his ear. "Listen to me, ya little creamcake eight-ball. Don't'cha call here no more. Or I'll kick ya in the dick so hard yer balls'll pop out yer ears. I'll come over to that fancy mansion of yours and I'll burn it down and take a piss on the ashes. I'll bury ya up to your neck, son, and shit on yer head, and yer mama too, after I'm done blowin' a nut up her tired ass with my John Henry." Fudd hung up and addressed Clare: "You think that fairy creamcake got the message now?"
Clare fell back into bed. My God, I hope so, she thought.
The next day, Fudd's big "score" came in. They flew at once to Cancun, their first real vacation together. Clare expected to work on her suntan, but she quickly discerned that most of her time would be spent in bed, not on the beach. Fudd's penis was a boom that never lowered, and his scrotum a veritable sperm factory. Clare was either pulsing off in orgasm, or experiencing one generous allotment after the next of Fudd's testicular milkshake. To Clare's bliss, the nightmares stopped, and so did all thoughts of Roderic. It's over, she reflected one night with Fudd's pork sword so far down her throat his testes assumed the position of sunglasses. Roderic's out of my mind and out of my life—forever.
Clare spent the last day alone; Fudd left a day early to make "another score." She lounged on the beach all day, and masturbated all night, finding that even a 24-hour span without her macho human sod-pounder was intolerable. She flew back the next day so antsy she could scarcely keep her hand out from under her skirt, and she did, in fact, stroke her parts whilst driving back from the airport's long-term lot. Bags in hand, and her sex anguishing for Fud
d's priapic attentions, she dashed into the apartment. "Fudd! Godzilla! I'm home!" she exclaimed. "Ready for an oil change?"
But no reply was forthcoming. He must be here, she reckoned. His car's outside. "Love-muffin's back!" She strode for the bedroom. Bet he's waiting in bed for me. Waiting with that big, hard cock...
But, now, big and hard it was not. Clare stared, then shrieked. Fudd lay sprawled naked on the bed—clearly as dead as dead could be—and his face dark-scarlet and strangely distended. Then a figure emerged from the corner, leather-capped and leather-gloved.
Dallas. The manservant.
"Parachute cord's the best," he elucidated. "Piano wire's too proverbial, not to mention too messy. And nylon's unreliable. Last chick that dumped Roderic, I was doing the job on her with nylon and the damn thing snapped on me. It got ugly."
Clare, locked in stasis, noted exactly what Dallas had done: he'd garroted Fudd, leaving the deadly ligature about her lover's throat such that the face had swollen to a queer balloon. Then one of the manservant's hands displayed the cassette from her answering machine. "You should listen to your messages," he advised. "The old lady's not happy, let me tell you."
Last chick that dumped Roderic, was all Clare could think now. I was doing the job on her... She screamed as Dallas stepped forward. But it was not a garrote that the manservant so expertly wielded, but a chloroform-soaked towel...
Clare awoke in... Roderic's room, she realized. Her senses skittered like autumn leaves in the street. Her head thumped.
"Oh, missy," wisped the familiar voice. Roderic's mother, simpering and rouged, sat erect in a fine cane chair opposite her. "You were supposed to take care of my boy."
Clare's tongue lolled. "But we...broke up!"
"Broke up? Hmmph! You dumped him, you silly, selfish horse's ass. My boy is a gift to the likes of you. Other women have treated him similarly, so Dallas here has always been kind enough to give them what they deserve. But you? God knows why, but I simply didn't have the heart. Roderic loves you so much..."
