WHORED (The Sick F*ck Chronicles) Read online

  Copyright © 2011 Dick T. Gear. All rights reserved.

  Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by Duplicitous Press. All rights reserved.

  WARNING

  WHORED is a novella that is full of sex, dark comedy and cynicism beyond the norm. Do not continue reading if you are uptight about erections, vaginas, insults, mean-spiritedness, foul human behavior and hilariousness. Instead, you might want to check out Pride and Prejudice.

  In other words, continue reading at your own risk.

  The Sick Fuck Chronicles Book Two: WHORED

  “That’s right, ride my cock hard,” I whisper.

  “You like the fuck?” she replies, in a nearly unintelligible Russian accent.

  “Yeah, I like the fuck.” My stumps maneuver up to her fake Russian tits and slide over her purple nips. “Oh shit,” I say, meaning it.

  I’m fucking her sans rubber and it feels good, like a hot, wet mess.

  “Yess…..Yess…” She’s grinding on my dick with her shaved pussy.

  I watch my dick as it gets all slathered with prostitute cunt goo. “Oh, damn, baby. What kind of STDs you giving me, huh? Fucking hell that feels good.”

  Her eyes are half‐open, and for a second it seems like maybe she’s actually getting into it. I had to pay her an extra hundo to let me bang her without a condom.

  It was worth it. It was worth the fear of AIDS and herpes too.

  In fact, when she moans, I notice a weird looking sore just inside her upper lip that wasn’t visible previously. But from my angle underneath her, I can see it now clear as a dog’s asshole.

  For some reason, the thought of disease is turning me on. “I’m about to cum in your herpes ridden pussy!”

  “Oh yeah, ba‐by,” she says, urging me on and sounding like fucking Vladimir Putin.

  “Probably give you a goddamn kid too, if you’re lucky. I got that good seed,” I tell her.

  “Uh‐huh.”

  The old motel bed is squeaking and creaking as we near the climax of our sexy time. She starts moving faster, going higher and bouncing up and down.

  “I come on you cock!!” she yells and then a high‐pitched whine escapes her cracked, dry lips.

  I use my stumps to push her back so that my cock slides out and a rope of cum spurts out and splashes her vag. Then I shove it back into her pussy. “Take my seed, take it, I wanna fucking impregnate your nasty stink‐hole.”

  She doesn’t know what the hell I’m talking about. I wonder if she’s even on the pill, but she must be. She’s a damn prostitute, she has to protect herself a little right?

  A few minutes later we’re both laying in the sweaty, rumpled bed sheets and she’s smoking a cigarette.

  “Hey, baby, can you put my hands back on me?” I ask her.

  She looks at me uncomprehendingly. “Excuse? English no good.”

  “Yeah, I know that. I’m not retarded.” Saying that word—retarded—makes me think of my old friend, Eddie (otherwise known as Unsteady Eddie). I wonder what he’s doing right now. Last I heard, he was on a ventilator in the ICU of Mass General Hospital with severe head trauma.

  I gesture to the plastic hands lying on the nightstand next to me. “Hands.” I start trying to put them on using my stumps, which is next to impossible. “Help.

  Help.”

  “Ahhhh….Yes. I do can for you.” She climbs over me, her naked body slick with fucksweat. There’s a rank smell in the air like fish gone over. Her back is riddled with acne, which isn’t exactly a turn‐on. But then again, the lighting in this room isn’t conducive to looking one’s best.

  She helps put my fake hands back on.

  “This isn’t how it was supposed to be, you know,” I tell her.

  She mutters something in Russian. She’s probably used to guys talking to her about shit she can’t understand.

  “My hands were supposed to be fixed by now. With state of the art technology,” I continue. “But it didn’t take. Incompetent assholes.”

  When the plastic hands are finally affixed to my stumps, she starts pulling on her hooker outfit. A white leather skirt that barely covers her ass, white knee‐high boots, a little vest. And her tiny purse where she stuffs the two hundred bucks I gave her.

  “No herpes, right?” I ask again, before she leaves.

  She just shrugs and then the door slams shut.

  I turn on the crappy TV and watch an old Bonanza episode.

  The next morning, I call my mom to come pick me up.

  When she gets to the motel she’s in a foul mood. “What are you doing here?”

  she says as I get in the passenger side of her old 2003 blue Ford Fiesta.

  “Got drunk with the boys and we crashed so as not to drive home drunk.”

  “What boys? You never talk to Tad or the others anymore.”

  I look at her. “New friends.”

  “Oh? Where’d you meet these new friends?”

  “Don’t worry about it. They’re good people.”

  “I’m missing two hundred dollars,” she says.

  There’s a long silence after that. I lick my lips. Feel the tears start behind my eyes. What kind of sick fuck steals from his own mother? In order to hire a prostitute and screw her without a condom. Jesus. I’ve sunk lower than I ever believed possible.

  “Maybe dad needed some money for the football games this weekend?”

  She glares at me as we stop at a red light. “Your father isn’t gambling anymore, Allen. How dare you blame him? I know you took my ATM card.”

  “No I didn’t. How would I even use the ATM?”

  The answer; with great difficulty. Mostly I had to use my teeth. I pressed the access code into the machine with my tongue. The people waiting in line were disturbed but I didn’t care. I was going to get laid. I can’t seem to hold a job anymore or have a life, but I can still fuck.

  They didn’t take that away from me.

  Mom isn’t buying it. “You need to get your act together. This isn’t okay anymore. The laying around the house, feeling sorry for yourself.”

  I don’t say anything but my rage is growing.

  “You need to get an attitude adjustment, that’s what you need. Because the whining and complaining, woe is me, woe is me…” she shakes her head.

  Finally I explode. “You fucking hypocrite!”

  She turns and looks at me with eyes like saucers. “What did you say to me?

  What did you just call me?”

  “You heard me. Fucking hypocrite!” I hold up my hands and use my teeth to pull the plastic pieces off of them, revealing the stumps in all their glory. Mom averts her eyes.

  “For god’s sake—“

  “Look at them, ma. Look. You think you’d have a good attitude if your hands were gone? You get upset when dad eats your Ben and Jerry’s. You complain when the weather drops below sixty‐five degrees. And you have the balls to lecture me—“

  “Allen. I will not be spoken to this way.”

  “Goddamn ridiculous. Do you know what they did to me?”

  Mom just shakes her head. She’s shutting down, trying to ignore me but I don’t care. I’ve never told her or dad—or anyone other than Unsteady Eddie and my ex‐girlfriend—what happened to me at that house of horrors the first time. And then I went back for more. The second time I was kept for like three months as the old woman’s sexual plaything. She used a black dildo on me so many times that I started not to even notice it anymore. I could probably do a crossword puzzle while someone rammed a ten‐inch dildo up my ass at this point.

  When they let me go that second time, I was a completely different person.

  Everyone thought I’d just ski
pped out on my job because I was forced to call and pretend that I did. So while I was away being tortured, they fired me and my girl broke up with me.

  “Why didn’t they just kill me?” I say.

  Mom keeps shaking her head. “You told us you didn’t remember what happened to you.”

  I laugh. “Everything I told you was bullshit. I remember every second. I was kidnapped by an old woman and her insane boyfriend. They cut my hands off and kept me chained to a bed.”

  Mom’s jaw trembles but she keeps driving. “You don’t know what you’re even saying.”

  “That was just the first time. I found where she lived and went back for revenge, but I got double‐crossed by a guy I thought was my friend. And they kept me again, for months this time.”

  “I thought you were in Florida on vacation!”

  “Lies. All lies. I was too humiliated to tell anybody the truth. I was in a torture dungeon the whole time.”

  She’s crying now. So am I. “Oh, Allen. Why? Why did you lie to me?”

  “Please just leave me alone,” I say, snot pouring down my face. “Let me be.

  Let me fuck my whores and lay around the house. It’s what gets me by.”

  But no. She stops the car, pulls over and hugs me. “We’re going to send you to a good therapist. You need help.”

  A week later I’m on my way to the first session with someone a friend recommended to mom.

  The therapist’s office is an addition to his house in Hopkinton. A very cushy, high‐class neighborhood with big houses, well‐manicured lawns.

  Mom drops me off and goes to get coffee somewhere while I sit in the quiet waiting room. There’s a coffee table with magazines on it and a little Zen waterfall splashing in the corner of the room. Trying to be a calming place, I guess, and it kind of works.

  The therapist opens the door to his office at exactly the top of the hour. He’s short, stocky, but looks like he works out, with dark closely cropped hair. He’s wearing a black blazer and khakis. “You must be Allen?” he says. “I’m Doctor Morgan.”

  “Hi. I’d shake your hand, but—“ I hold up my stumps. I decided to stop putting on my fake hands this past week. They didn’t even look remotely real anyway.

  He smiles and nods. “No problem. Come in.”

  We sit across from one another and he smiles again, adjusts himself in his chair. He looks confident.

  “So, why are you here?” he asks.

  “My mother made this appointment. I’m not all that interested in therapy to be honest.”

  Doctor Morgan sits up straight. I can smell his aftershave‐‐it’s strong and manly. “Why does your mother think you need therapy?”

  “I’m a bad guy. Bad things happened to me. It’s called karma.”

  “What makes you such a bad guy?” He seems genuinely interested.

  “I’ve done a lot of bad stuff. And I enjoyed most of it. Shit, just a little while ago I convinced a prostitute to let me fuck her without a condom for a hundred extra dollars.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yup.”

  “How’d that feel?”

  “Pretty damn good actually. But my penis is burning lately.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “I stole money from my mother to pay that hooker.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Continue.”

  “Before that I was fucking old ladies, doing horrible things to them and then telling my friends about it. That’s what I did for fun.”

  “You had sex with older women. Is that a fetish?”

  I look at him. He’s pretty darn intrigued. He kind of has the same look on his face that my friend Tad used to get when I told him wild sex stories.

  “Maybe it’s a fetish, I don’t know. I just know I got a kick out of it. Now I seem to more enjoy screwing chicks that can give me a disease.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “I’m sure. It is for me, I can tell you that.”

  “Any thoughts as to why you want to get a disease?”

  “Maybe because I’m depressed.”

  “Because of your hands.” Doctor Morgan nods as if he understands everything.

  “No, because I’m a miserable human being and I’ve been tortured like a goddamn prisoner of war.”

  “Tell me about being tortured.”

  I look at him for a long time. Why not? I think. Why not tell him all of it?

  Ever since Unsteady Eddie betrayed me, I haven’t had anyone to talk to about what happened to me at the hell house with Katrina and Timmy. And I can’t really keep it all to myself anymore.

  “Fine. I’ll tell you everything—more than you probably want to hear.”

  Dr. Morgan nods. “I can take it. I promise, Allen. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  So I start to tell him about how I met Katrina at Josem’s Deli and then we went back to her house. I’m getting to the sex parts but he keeps interrupting me and asking stupid questions. He wants to know every little detail. “Explain more about what attracted you to her,” he says.

  “I already told you.”

  I get a vivid image in my head; me driving my elbow through this guy’s teeth, splitting his lips, blood spurting over his elegant coffee table and white rug.

  I blink a few times to clear it. If I had fists, they’d be clenched right now.

  He nods toward me. “So. Where were we?”

  “I was telling you how I got kidnapped by an old woman and you keep interrupting me with silly questions.”

  “Please continue.”

  I shrug. This is getting boring. “To make a long story short—“

  “No, please. Continue. Don’t skip ahead.” His hands are intertwined but I can tell he’s rubbing his fingers together nervously or excitedly.

  “Why can’t I just jump forward a little? You need every detail? That’s part of the therapy?”

  He shifts in his seat and scowls for a brief second. “This is an organic process.

  I try to get a sense of how your mind works, try to understand what you see, what you think, hear, smell, feel.”

  “So like, you want to hear how it feels when an old bitch sucks my cock with her gray, nasty tongue sliding all over my shaft and balls?”

  “Exactly. I need to know what it is you do and why.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Maybe you think so, but I’ve been practicing for well over ten years and this has helped many a patient.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” We keep going, in excruciatingly minute detail. By the time the session is about to end, he’s got me telling him every sensation I had as Katrina forced that dildo up my ass the first time. Reliving the experience isn’t exactly pleasant, but there is a kind of relief in telling someone about it after all this time.

  Something very odd happens right when we’re about to end for the day.

  He holds up his hand and tells me to wait a second. “My office phone,” he says.

  “I didn’t hear it ring.”

  He points to a lit message indicator, then gets up and briskly walks to the desk and checks the message. “It’s my wife. I apologize.” He calls her back and says,

  “Hi honey…yes. I’m with a patient but you can come in and I’ll give it to you now.

  Hurry though.”

  Dr. Morgan hangs up the phone, comes back to his chair opposite mine and sits. “I do apologize. My wife needs to come in for just a moment. Is that all right?”

  I shrug.

  We don’t say much for a few seconds, and then next thing you know, there’s a knock on a door that seems to lead into the rest of his house. Dr. Morgan gets up and answers it.

  His wife stands there in a fluffy, fancy white bathrobe and her hair up in a towel, like she’s just had a shower. She’s tall, about five foot ten, dark features. She glances at me for just a second and then at her husband.

  “How much?” he asks her.

  “Ummm…fifty?”

  “Fine.” Dr. Morgan smiles at me and r
olls his eyes. Why, I have no idea. Then he takes out his wallet and counts out the money, hands it to her.

  She’s clutching her bathrobe but when he hands her the bills, she lets go of it and the robe falls open enough to see her exposed black bush. It’s pretty thick, but somewhat trimmed. I’m used to that. A lot of older bitches don’t really shave down like the younger chicks do.

  She doesn’t really make much of an attempt to close the robe, either.

  “See you when you get back?” Dr. Morgan asks her, not seeming to care that she’s showing full frontal to a new patient.

  “Mmm…” she turns her cheek and he pecks it.

  They say goodbye and she walks off with the money in hand.

  When the door closes he looks at me. Smiles knowingly. “The wife.”

  “I figured.”

  “She’s getting ready for some kind of girl’s night out.” He makes a face like it’s the silliest thing he’s ever told anyone. Then he does a hip thrust. “You know, what that means, right? Girls night out?” Another hip thrust.

  “What, strip club? Sex?”

  He laughs. “No, I’m sure it’s just dinner and drinks.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s pretty hot, though. I saw you looking, Allen. You can’t fool me.”

  “She’s attractive.”

  “Maybe you’ll see her again next session, who knows.”

  I shrug, not sure what he’s getting at. “Okay then…”

  Dr. Morgan looks at his watch. “Well, I guess we’re out of time for this session.”

  I stand up and smooth my trousers with my stumps. “Thanks for the listen.

  It was helpful.” I’m not sure it was, but I suppose it didn’t hurt anything. And he’s clearly insane but so am I. It was an okay way to kill 50 minutes.

  My mom picks me up after the therapy session.

  “How was it?”

  I stare out the window of the car. Can’t believe I’m still living at home at my age. And now with my handicap I’ll likely be living with my parents for the rest of my life.

  “I asked you how it went with Dr. Morgan,” mom says. Her face is lined with concern.

  “Fine.” For a brief moment I wonder if she ever sucks dad’s dick, licks his balls. Maybe even his ass. Ugh. Disgusting.

  “Just fine?” She licks her lips. I picture that tongue poking my dad’s tender asshole as he belches and spreads his cheeks for her.