He came to after only a few minutes or so on the cool bathroom floor. For a short while, he just lay there, switching his position every so often to find cooler floor. He slowly rose to his feet and—putting the lid down on the toilet for maybe the first time in his life—sat down on the john. He put his face in his hands and got his shaking under control. He cautiously got up and looked in the mirror. The pimple was nearly non-existent. He must have half-drunkenly hallucinated the whole thing. Only that was bullshit. He was hung over to the sky, but not drunk anymore. No sign of anything foul in the sink or on the mirror. His phone had fallen off the sink edge and into the trash can momentarily and he forgot he even had the damn thing running. OK, he told himself, just gotta get my head right. He thought about what he could do to achieve that and then it came to him. Masturbate. Nothing troubling a teenage boy ever seemed like shit to worry about after you rubbed one out. OK, this was going to be difficult but—he looked down mid-thought and saw he was already poking at the urine-smelling underwear. Chomping at the bit to get out and get to it. He thought about his girlfriend for a few minutes, her cute little tits, her ass, her sloppily-shaved pussy, the way she was always too drunk or high to fuck and he’d have to limp-fish her…Fuck, this wasn’t working. He was losing his erection. He thought about her friend Krissy. Oh, there we go, that’s nice. Girlfriend’s not here, but Krissy is. She sits next to me with those nice big tits and that short little skirt riding up to where her panties ought to be—but aren’t—and showing the beginnings of her pubic hair. That fine blonde silk pubic hair. My hand on her leg rubbing higher and higher until my fingertips find that warm moist opening. Probing inside while she’s rubbing on my cock. Oh yeah, that’s…that’s…He opened his eyes and felt that old familiar heat rising to a fever pitch. He was sitting leaned back on the toilet with his dick pointed at the wall, stroking it like a man who has seconds to live, when he hit critical mass. The throbbing sensation turned into violent ejaculations that arced across the three feet to the wall and splattered thereupon. He squeezed hard on his balls and shaft as the last jolts hit him. Already, the fantasy of Krissy was breaking up into thoughts of what was in the fridge to eat. He leaned back, releasing his double-fisted grip, and breathed heavy, heavy, then easier, then normally. His head was lolling back and forth in ecstasy until it came ’round to eyes front and center. He focused a bit more at the wall he had just painted and then frantically began trying to get off of the toilet and out of the bathroom. The wall in front of him had semen streaked in all directions from the explosion. The semen was crawling with live bloody maggots.
Sean got on the phone and called Stubbs to come over. He was even more hung over than Sean himself was—even puking once mid-phone call—but agreed to come over. He just said to give him a bit to wake up more. It was three hours before Stubbs—who lived ten minutes away—showed up. Sean was shaking and pissed off at the same time. They went in the house and Sean told Stubbs what had happened—omitting nothing—and led him to the bathroom. The jizz was a dried scum at this point. He hadn’t bothered to clean it up, mainly for evidence, partly for laziness. There was, however, no sign of the bloody maggots. “OK,” Sean said. “I’m gonna have to do it again so you can see I’m not crazy. My cum was crawling with maggots.” Stubbs looked revolted, for once in his life. Had Sean finally out-grossed the grossest? “Do what you gotta do, man,” Stubbs said sitting down. Sean pulled off his now repugnant underwear and kicked them across the room. He stood with his 5 or 6 inches already chubbing up. This was nothing really new to either one of them. They had done this sort of thing a time or two before. He began to stroke it and tug at it. Stubbs said, “Man, this better not just be you fucking with me.” Sean said, “Shut up and watch.” He rubbed and stroked harder and faster. Stubbs leaned in closer to see if anything looked amiss. So far, it was all systems go. Sean was closing his eyes and leaning his head back, really getting into the act and losing the purpose of the demonstration somewhere along the way. Stubbs was now a foot or so away and waiting expectantly. Sean was sweating and pumping and groaning when he clenched his grip tighter and opened his mouth in ecstasy. That was when Stubbs got a full facial. This time, it was the full Monty. Cum, blood, maggots, pus, and some unknown black gel that smelled like rotting death. He opened his mouth to scream in horror and—yup, you guessed it—got a big, hot load of it right down his open throat! He retched. The gag reflex was strong, mixed with the taste of something that cannot fully be described, and he spewed vomit all over Sean’s spasming cock. Sean looked down yelling, “Oh fuck, man! What the hell?” When he tripped on a snag of carpet and sprawled forward…right into Stubbs’ open vomiting mouth. Stubbs got a mouthful of cock and vomit and cum and pus and blood and black death gel and live, wriggling maggots…just as Sean’s mom and dad walked into the room to see what all the yelling was about. The two boys…
“Wait, wait, wait! Hold up, fucker! How long is this fucking story? I don’t want to be out here all night!” Josh interjected, angrily. “We all want to take our turns.” The others all laughed along with him. Zach had really gotten himself on a roll with this story. Now, he brought himself out of the tale and back to reality. The music was turned up loud for a while and the smallish bonfire was roaring. He just felt that he had really gotten off to a strong beginning and he wanted to see the motherfucker that could top that little yarn.
“Yeah, Zach! It’s my turn next!” Megan had to yell it over the cacophony of the rock music.
“Alright,” Zach said, “I was about done anyway.”
It was sort of a tradition of the seven friends. Think up the grossest stories and jokes they could get their brains around and store them up until it was time for a party on the old scenic overlook. High above the interstate, about ten million stars in the perfectly cloudless night. Low sixties with barely a wind to mention. Perfection. They’d all pilfer booze from their parents—that portion of Zach’s little yarn was accurate—and they would meet up here in the country on the overlook. Tales spread all around the county and surrounding areas of the murders up here and the ghosts and the monsters and other bullshit lore to try scaring each other around the fire and late into the night. Usually by that point, everyone was too shitfaced to be scared, so it became a gross-fest. Who could tell the grossest tales around the fire on the overlook? That was the contest of friends. No money or points or anything to dampen the fun, just a never-ending game that was constantly in play. If it was a gross or dirty joke, that was just icing on the cake. The real mission was the short stories. Short little gross-out tales that had never been thought up before—and it was fact checked. Two members would check the net for any signs of the story being told to see if it was already out there. If it was, you lost your turn for that night and had to try again even harder next time. Booze, joints, pills, ’shrooms, smokes, sometimes sex, dares, party games, etc. They had seen all of all the others and had shown all of themselves to the others.
Josh was one of the big jock guys. Football, baseball in the spring, auto shop, wood shop…you know, manly stuff. He already had a full goatee. Short blonde hair and six pack abs and Mr. Popular with the girls in school and even some from the college. He went there trolling quite a bit and never seemed to strike out. For some unknown reason though, he favored this group above all others. He had a pretty sick imagination and could come up with some pretty gnarly shit when he put his mind to it. According to him, college girls were among his favorites to fuck because they didn’t balk when you asked them to pee on your face. He actually wove that into a story about space aliens and how they took over their victims’ minds by pissing down their throats as they slept at night. Classic sick-fuck-sci-fi! They all loved it!
Caleb was their token black guy. They all called him that because he himself called himself that. He stood some ridiculous height of around 6' 8" and had a voice that in no way matched his physique. It wasn’t quite a Michael Jackson/Mike Tyson voice, but it was close. He had a pretty great sense of humor abo
ut it so it became sort of a go-to thing to razz him about from time to time, never in a mean or spiteful way. No one would dare do that, even though Caleb was a gentle giant. They all suspected that underneath that gentle exterior was a Nubian god of war just itching to come out and lay waste to all around him. He was nice to the smaller kids at school and got pretty decent grades. He also had a sick fascination with adding skull-fucking to every story he ever told. Someone somewhere at some time was gonna catch a good ol’ fashioned passionate skull-fuckin’! His stories were that of high school legend.
Megan was a bit of an anomaly. She absolutely had a sick mind and loved to be grossed out to the most extreme amount possible, but she couldn’t tell a really vivid gore story to save her life. She did have really nice breasts—as observed by all in the group, including the other girls—and wasn’t afraid to show off the merchandise. She always got grossed out at exactly the right time in each story and had the absolute funniest reactions when properly grossed out. She was a definite permanent member of their group. She was very attractive with her long legs and curvy hips—full, pouty lips and breathy voice. She did well with the guys at school—and with the guys in the group here—but she didn’t have that uppity bitch attitude most pretty and popular girls got after finding out they were hot. Plus, she had this sexy habit of buying heavy metal tee shirts and ripping them at the collar so they opened like a V-neck. Tonight, she was sporting a Slayer tee shirt that read, “God Hates Us All.” Another classic! Her most notorious story to date had a rabid zombie dog—a bloody big one, she added—that raped red necks to death. Not terrible…
Zach—he of the maggot ejaculation—was your basic computer geeky nerd type. All the others in the group came to him for any computer-related mishaps. Grades need a bump? Paper on socialism vs. communism due by tomorrow and you hadn’t typed out the first word? Money cheat codes and all things pc, RPG or video game? Zero perspiration (as the old timers liked to say from the 80’s). Zach was your guy. Of course, he could also put a zinger of a technical edge on a gross-out tale that could just about bore you to sleep, too. He had been reigned in on this aspect of his story telling abilities, though. Now, he just went straight for the gut-wrenching, maggot-squirming, filth-loving gore. One of his tales from the past delved into the Soylent Green type topic of feeding the over-population of Earth in the future, only with food made of feces instead of other humans. It was a splatter-fest-royale! A+. Even the guys were thoroughly grossed out on that one.
Then, there was Trinity. She was your quintessential goth girl. A bit on the thicker side, but not enough for anyone to think her fat. She heavily favored the black make up, black lace, leather bands on her arms with spikes, black leather dog collar, black hair, Cradle of Filth tee shirts exclusively, black lace up boots, black Vampire Freaks pants with chains and spikes and zippers galore. She actually looked like she belonged in a group like this. She had your usual bad-ass chick attitude with most people, but with this group she could really be herself. She was actually quite shy and soft voiced when not giving out her don’t-fuck-with-me persona. Even still, underneath the goth girl, underneath the real shy girl, she was a gore hound who was out for blood, pus and gastric juice! Her most famous story to date had to do with a woman who caught her man cheating on her, cut his cock off after killing him in a most insane fashion—carving out his heart, eating it, then four hours later shitting the heart back into the chest cavity—making a harmonica out of his member and contracting herpes from him and his whore—either from playing the harmonicock or from eating his heart—and she died. She was mega-talented, as was thought by all.
Cheyenne was the bookish type. Long, straight, brown hair. No make-up…ever! Wire-rimmed glasses and freckles. Crooked teeth. Not much in the way of a figure. Straight-hipped, small-chested, soft-spoken. Monomaniacal. She was non-religious, but if she had to pick a religion it would’ve been the First Church of St. Stephen King. In her bedroom, she has a wall shelf that stretches the entire length of the wall it hangs on. Every Stephen King novel to date and in chronologic order was on that shelf. Well-used books after the numerous times she had read each. She had an (at times) annoying habit of breaking into quotes from said books. Obscure quotes. The most obscure that only the most snobbish of book snobs could ever appreciate in full. No movies, though. Her philosophy is that if The King of kings had wanted to be a movie star, he’d have done that instead of writing. She thought the movies took too much vitality away from the bodies of work and wouldn’t go near them. She was insanely clever with her gross-out stories, always asking herself “W.W.S.K.D.?” “What Would Stephen King Do?” As a side note and a nod to her King, a dog was always sacrificed to the gods of horror in her stories.
Lastly was the wild card. Hunter. He possessed none of the traits of his companions. He was the furthest thing on the planet from a jock, he wasn’t a tall, muscular, popular black man, no computer skills to speak of, nothing he could identify with like the goth girl and her dreams of vampirism, hated reading books—give it to me in an hour and a half long movie and I’m a happy guy, he’d say—and not highly sought after by the opposite sex like Megan. The others in the group liked him well enough and trusted him and accepted him as one of their own, there was just something a bit more off about Hunter. If asked, the others in the group might say something like, “Hunter is the only one in the group you could almost imagine living out one of his stories.” He was a good enough friend to them. Not overly accessible in his feelings and hopes and aspirations, but he shared enough that the group called him lucky number seven. He’d been with the group the shortest amount of time and none of them had ever been able to come over to his house. His folks—according to Hunter—were the “God is coming, repent!” type. Plus, it was well-discussed by the others that his house was in a really run-down section of town that you didn’t feel safe going through and he—every night—had to go to. He lived it there, every day, every night. That was a big factor in their decision to cut him some slack and let him in. He was never shy when it came to the stripping during the truth or dare portion of these nights out. He drank and did all the right drugs with everyone else. They just couldn’t put their collective fingers on it. He just on occasion gave them all the creeps. His tales of deceit and murder and garrotings, plus excessive facial mutilations, always included fictitious versions of their entire group. At first, that was a bit unnerving. Scary actually. When they saw it was just a fear factor added for spice, they breathed easier and let him spin his tales of their sick gory misadventures. They were all pretty standard anyway. The guys dicks ended up cut off, shredded in a food processor and fed to the next person before receiving a similar fate. The women usually ended up with shovels in their cunts or being force-fed broken glass. He always went straight for the brutality, with not much in the way of finesse with character development and such trivialities. But they were here for the gore, so again—he was in. Still…
Individually Wrapped Horrors Page 10
