“Take me home, please?” She says, he slams his hands on the steering wheel and stares forward, looking out over the lake and takes a deep breath.
“Was it something I said? I thought we were having a good time?”
“We were, are, it’s just getting late, and Dad was precise about the time, no later than midnight,” she says as she bites into her lower lip.
He looks at his watch, eleven fifty-two, and lets out a sigh of frustration before leaning back in his seat, and flashes her a wicked smile.
“What about a quick blow job?” he says as he places a hand on his groin.
“Bobby, I don’t think so, we better get back,” she says as she grabs her seat belt and locks it in.
“Come on Lori, just a quick one, I think I deserve it.”
“Sorry?”
“After tonight, putting up with that lame arse movie, I think I deserve something for that.”
“You said you liked it?” she says as she tries to smile as he places a hand on her neck and strokes the side of her face.
“Lori, honey, we’ve been dating for two weeks now and you haven’t even kissed me on the lips, don’t you think it’s about time we took it to the next level, don’t you think it’s about time you paid a bit of attention to me?”
“Bobby, please, I’m not ready, not yet, we talked about this, you know what happened to me when I was ten, it’s, it’s just, I can’t, please take me home Bobby, please.”
“Look Lori, I understand, I really do, I know what you went though and no kid should go through that, but I’ve got needs, and they need to be satisfied, just touch it,” he says as he grabs her hand and places it on his groin, she can feel the hardness of his penis and he lets out a deep, long breath.
“Bobby, please, no,” she says.
“It’s okay Lori, I love you, it’s all good,” he says as he undoes his fly and slides her hand inside, she can feel the warmth of his member, as a tear runs down her face, he wipes it away and smiles at her. “I love you baby,” he says as he forces her hand to grip it and then he beings to slowly move himself back and forth. “Squeeze it,” he says, tightening his grip on her wrist, she obeys his orders as and he quickly begins to pick up speed, then suddenly stops and pulls her hand free, along with his penis and grabs her by the back of the head and forces her down. “Suck it honey, just a little, I won’t take long, I promise” he moans, and lets out a gasp as he feels her warm mouth devour him, and then pain, unrelenting, agonising pain as she bites through his skin and into the soft flesh of his penis, he screams in terror and tries to pull her away but she doesn’t release her grip, he drives an elbow down on top of her head but it only causes her to bite down deeper and he screams out again, and then she rips back and sits up opposite him, blood running down her face and spits his now severed member out of her mouth and into his lap, he tries to say something, but no words escape his mouth and she smiles.
“Did that do it for you?” she asks as she wipes the blood from her jaw and sucks it from her fingers, as the clock ticks over to midnight.
END
The Twisted Roads To My Madness 
Reblogged this…https://dermotthayes.com/2016/07/29/nail-biting/
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Another nail (and other) biting finish, is there a method in your style? Are you seeking to find new ways to tell a story? Do all short stories need a twist? These things bother me and I struggle with them every day. Recently, I am consciously trying to tell a story in different ways. I don’t know if it’s working. Anyway, another cracking yarn.
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My method is a terrible one, don’t think ahead too far and the rest will work its way out, and the twist, well sometimes the idea of keeping the reader interested in what will happen is fun, although half the time I find myself more surprised sometimes about what happens to some of my seemingly placid stories than anyone else does. And the same story I’m sure could be told at lest a hundred times or more, different, yet the same, before the wheels would start to spin.
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So it’s the same for me. I started a story yesterday that turned out to have an entirely different ending to what I (vaguely) envisioned when I started
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They are the best stories to write, when you stop and look over what you have written and wonder, was that anything like I envisioned or did I just completely just have no idea what I was doing? That question plagues me a lot, but, like life, the journey is what it’s all about.
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Indeed, I’ll second that
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The biggest thing I find myself thinking sometimes is do I write more to entertain myself more than I write to entertain others, and if this is so, can I start forcing myself some sort of fee because this exclusive writing format will never turn into anything if I am my biggest reader. Or in writing for myself will I find my strongest voice and thus cross the bridge of self indulgence and into entertainment of the masses?
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In my recent rummages in the back pages of John Steinbeck, I recall him saying you should write for one person. I suppose yourself might suffice although it negates the critical role of the reader. How can you communicate an original thought to yourself? That’s the conundrum. Kurt Vonnegut said something similar regarding your potential audience. Keep it small or it’ll catch a cold. Practice does make perfect but exposure is a measure of its success and endurance. Another aspect of writing for yourself is the danger of repetition.
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It brings to mind the idea of a struggling writer, passionately pumping out over six thousand words a day and then placing the pages in an envelope and posting them off into the mail to some unknown address, as he leaves the post office he collects his mail and walks all the way back home and sits down, in his cold house, opens his mail and proceeds to read a short story that he had sent himself several days earlier. He goes to sleep, gets up the next day and begins again… Tragic..
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