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Poll

What does your character do?

Get the FUCK out of there, call the cops, but never call this crazy fucked-up bitch again. Oh, god. You HAD her... all OVER...
1 (11.1%)
Get the FUCK out of there, never call the crazy bitch again, and change your name in case she comes after you. Let the next poor fucker take his own chances!
1 (11.1%)
Wait until she comes home and demand an explanation. Maybe it’s, like, a skin condition. No reason to creep out. But it’s still really fucking gross.
1 (11.1%)
As above, only keep a gun handy. You can’t be too careful. It is – quite literally – your hide on the line, here.
3 (33.3%)
Invite her to join your “organization”. That’s some quality butchery  right there, and you can recognize it, even if it’s no fun to smell first-hand.
3 (33.3%)

Total Members Voted: 9

Author Topic: Beauty is Only Skin Deep  (Read 1992 times)

Offline Rick Gentle

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Beauty is Only Skin Deep
« on: April 22, 2011, 07:18:47 AM »
Installment two of the World of Darkness serial. I know it's from the point of view of a guy, so ladies, just use your imagination and pretend the genders are reversed.

EDIT

Oh, yeah. Warning: mature content and lots of bad language, etc, etc.

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You’ve decided to do your girlfriend a favor.
It’s not really something you’d normally be inclined to do, but you figure it’s the least you can do in exchange for last night. Ohh, yes. This is the third time you’ve slept over, and each time has been better than the last. When she made the first proposition, all your fantasies came true. She was hot, she was nasty, and she let you do your favorite thing to her. Mmm. She let you shower with her the next morning, too. The water going down the drain sounded a little funny, like something was stuck.
A week after that, the second time, you barely got in the door before she was all over you. You had dessert first – a can of whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and then she got interesting with a bottle of wine. Eventually you two wound down and had the dinner she had so thoughtfully prepared for you. Cold lasagna never tasted so good to you. The next morning you took a shower together to clean off the last bit of stickiness, and splashed around a little in the inch-deep water backing up out of the drain.
She made you wait a month before Night Three, and you made her suffer for it in such naughty, naughty, lovely ways. She cooked you breakfast, too, before she went to work. Today was your day off though, thankfully. You couldn’t get out of bed until almost eleven anyway, but it was a very good kind of tired. Cold sausage, scrambled eggs, and a note about making sure to “drink plenty of fluids” and more Xs and Os than you’d seen at a tic-tac-toe competition. The girl’s got it bad for you, dawg. Yeah.
You rolled out of bed and snacked on the plate left out for you, then wandered into the shower. As soon as you turned on the water, the frickin’ drain began to back up again. You had this problem with your last girlfriend, too, when the cow came over to your place. Girl had an obsession with washing her hair. (But that wasn’t the part of her that smelled like skank.) You figure it’s the same problem here, though this one seems to enjoy feeling dirty – and you enjoy making her feel dirty.
You pelvic-thrust your way through the door, a bent-out wire coathanger in your hand, and you stop to look at yourself in the mirror. Yeeeaaah.
You pull the trashcan into the tub with you and kneel down in front of the drain. You pry it out with your fingers and holy shit, but doesn’t it stink to high heaven! How long as it been since she’s cleaned this out of hair and soap and shit? You may need the trashcan for another purpose as your mouth floods with saliva, your gorge making you choke.
One hand pinching your nose, and trying to breathe as shallowly as you can through your mouth, you stick the coathanger down the drain. She’s going to owe you for this.
The hanger catches on something – not the crossbar. Though it clinks and rattles against the metal block, it’s also dragging up something squishy. You tug sharply, leaning away and drawing it up with your full arm. Hair’s a lot tougher than you’d think, being underwater for who knows how long.
With a rip you can feel along your arm, the stuffing tears free of the black hole it was washed away down. Bloody fuck, it stinks. You lose your balance and fall backwards, throwing out your free hand so you don’t rap your head against the metal rail along the back of the tub. Something long, wet, slimy, and cold slaps against your bare leg. Awwww, shit. That’s fucking gross.
You shove yourself back up to a kneeling position, then yank your grasping arm away, peeling off a strip of something pale, wrinkly, and dripping off your leg.
What the hell is that? It’s not hair – not yours and not hers. It’s like some sort of flesh-toned flypaper someone stuffed down the drain.
Flesh-toned. Flesh-toned.
You drop the coathanger and jump to your feet. “Oh, SHIT!! Ohhhh, SHIT!!”
The trashcan isn’t close enough. You kicked it away when you tossed the coathanger as far away from you as you could – which was all of about two feet. You turn and vomit. The surging bile even gets up in your nose as you hunch over, barfing up chewed bits of sausage and now-runny eggs. Looking at the mess you just made, you throw up one more time.
You fumble around behind you for the faucet, turning it on with all the force your now-wobbly arm can muster. You pull out the shower toggle, and cold water hits you in the back of the head. It doesn’t feel bad. You stand up and get out of the way, keeping your back turned to that stuff on that coathanger somewhere on the far side of the trashcan.
As you sit there, kneeling in the cold water that washes down your back and carries your spew down into the clogged-up drain, you think about what to do, having discovered long peels of human skin down your girlfriend’s drain. It’s not yours, and it’s not hers. Who the fuck’s is it?
« Last Edit: April 23, 2011, 01:03:05 AM by Rick Gentle »
Remember: It's not the size of your fangs that matters; it's what you stick them in.