Time for another sneak peak into Masters of Horror: Damned If You Don't
Be WARNED: STRONG LANGUAGE in excerpts.
Sex, as we all know, is the mechanism that puts us all on the planet, it’s proof positive that God wants us to feel something pleasant while we’re here. Having said that…it CAN be a ‘slippery slope’ leading some individuals to a Pandora’s Box of perversions that can destroy any hope for a healthy relationship.
There were two shocking, cult-classic horror tales in a genre all their own: one is “Love Doll” by Joe R. Lansdale, another is “Somebody to Love” by Robert Bloch.
And now, courtesy of Mr. Joseph Pinto, there are three…
By Joseph Pinto
He’d only fuck his type.
In actuality, he became quite the fusspot. He desired athletic women. They didn’t have to be sculpted from stone, but they did have to have lean arms, and they did have to have long legs. Pretty feet, too. That was important. Very important. He didn’t think it would be at first, but his tastes had matured. He joked with friends at work (they must’ve believed him to be a real hoot for they laughed an awful lot when he was around; odd he should still be waiting on an invitation to lunch or even happy hour, for that matter) that he was like a fine wine, better with age, blah blah blah, but when asked what he meant, he offered something ambiguous.
He couldn’t tell them the truth. They’d never understand.
Pretty feet. An odd thing. A breathtaking body scored points for sure, but appalling or misshapen feet would kill the deal. Long toes. Crooked toes. Fat toes. Callused toes or even callused heels. Pretty feet. It was important. He was a harsh judge. Now toenail polish he wasn’t such a stickler about, as long as the polish wasn’t flaking off. That skeeved him. Yep, a real deal killer.
He enjoyed tits; all applicants were welcome. Perky tits. Saggy tits. Booty mama go go tits. Whatever. He didn’t do much to them anyway. Sometimes he sucked on them. Occasionally he’d stick his dick between them. Mostly he liked to look at them. Tits were never the deal-killer bad feet could be.
The ass he preferred a bit bubbly but tight. An ironic thing, because his own ass was a pockmarked, lumpy thing. Just a mess. He never worked out. He was the complete opposite of the very women he preferred. He ignored the man in the mirror; the only thing he focused on was the whole fine wine thing, blah blah blah. Back to the ass. Tight. Yes. He usually took his women from behind and needed something to hold onto - a small waist, a wide firm ass. Lovely.
Smooth skin soothed him. Smooth and cool. Cooler the better. He liked to rub the length of his own body against theirs before fucking.
But there was one thing his women couldn’t have.
Fairly simple. He didn’t need to look at them. He was fucking them, after all. No head. Clean, cut and dry.
He looked his girls over. Monica, Jasmine, Katelyn, Sarah and Bunny all in a row. He knew Bunny wasn’t her name. It was a stage name, but he never questioned her real identity, never pressed the issue. He chose five girls every night from the many that shared the house. How many were there now - fifty, sixty maybe? First floor, second floor. Attic. Basement. Every closet. The girls were there. He’d always find them. They couldn’t leave. Why would they? He took good care of them. Besides, he was a good fuck, if he said so himself.
He took his time. Choosing five girls from the lot was a difficult task. His tastes changed all the time, sometimes several swings over the course of a given day. Choosing one girl from the five was even thornier. Nerve-wracking. He certainly didn’t want to offend anyone. He didn’t want to offend any of the girls, ever. It wasn’t a matter of picking the best, he’d tell them. Just picking the best to accentuate my taste for the day, he’d explain. They knew he had specific tastes anyway. They understood he was like a fine wine.
One of the advantages of living in this period in history is if you don’t like some particular feature about your body, you’re not necessarily ‘stuck with it’. Is your nose too long? Chop it. Are your breasts too small? Shove some silicone in there. Don’t like your eye color? Stick in some colored contacts. Build that ‘Perfect Beast’, baby.
Just try not to get carried away. Because both beauty and ugliness—as Carson Buckingham explains—are only…
By Carson Buckingham
It all began innocently enough, with the removal of a single, unsightly wart.
Lucinda Parker had been begging her mother for years to take her to someone who could get rid of “the immense-by-any-standards” growth next to her nose.
“Mother, it looks like I have three nostrils,” she would wail, and her long suffering parent would then give her the same, half-listening broken record response, “When you’re older.”
To which Lucinda’s broken record rejoinder was. “I’ll never be ‘older’ because I’ll kill myself before then!” This was invariably followed by stomping down the hallway and slamming her bedroom door—often more than once.
“The difficult years have arrived,” Mrs. Parker could be heard to mutter as she dried another dish.
The difficult years. Lucinda was twelve. She had had exactly one menstrual cycle, thirty-two (she counted them) pubic hairs, and one training bra which she wore night and day. She was already shaving her underarms and legs, though not out of necessity, and was experimenting with make-up. Her best effort to date made her look, if you squinted, like Lady GaGa; her biggest failure, a cross between Alice Cooper and Tammy Faye Bakker.
The hairstyles are not to be mentioned, much less discussed.
In short, Lucinda felt that she was now a Grade-A, one hundred percent woman, and she wanted the perks that went with it; but before they could even begin to kick in, she had to do something about her face.
Everything would be perfect if I could only get rid of this tumor next to my nose. It dwarfs the Empire State Building , for cryin’ out loud!
Mr. and Mrs. Parker remained unconcerned for most of that year, chalking their daughter’s antics up to number one, a phase and number two, hormones.
However, as Lucinda’s thirteenth birthday neared, things shifted dramatically.
“Lucinda, it’s Saturday night. Why don’t you go out to the movies with your friends?” Mrs. Parker asked.
Her daughter looked up from her copy of “Marie Claire” and rolled her eyes. “I don’t have any friends.”
“Oh nonsense. Of course you do! Call one and go out—my treat.”
Lucinda sighed and picked up the phone.
Ten minutes later, there was a soft knock at the front door.
“Must be Lu’s friend,” Mr. Parker muttered behind his newspaper.
Mrs. Parker, ever cautious, glanced into the peephole. “There’s nobody there, George.”
“Damned kids. You’d better see if they left a bag full of dog crap on the stoop, hoping that you’ll step on it.”
“George Parker, really!”
“We did it when I was a kid. Doubt things have changed all that much.”
“Haven’t,” Lucinda said, walking in. “Except now they set fire to it to make sure you step on it.”
“How charming,” Mrs. Parker said. The word ‘disgust’ could have actually appeared across her forehead and no one would have been surprised.
“Aren’t you going to open the door?” Lucinda asked.
“There’s no one there.”
“Sure there is.” She swung open the door and there stood six-year-old Charlie Foley from next door. He was so small that he didn’t show up in the peephole.
“Oh, I’m sorry to keep you waiting out there, Charlie,” Mrs. Parker said. “Does your mother need something? Eggs? Sugar?”
“No, m’am. I’m here fer Lucinda. We’re goin’ on a …uh…what was it again?” he asked Lucinda.
“A ‘date,’ Charlie.”
“Thassit! A date. Whassa ‘date,’ Mrs. Parker?”
As it happens, there are addictions that are somewhat positive…at least when compared to most others. Even though obsession almost radiates from this particular protagonist, this one made me want to jump back into a gym…and get…
By Blaze McRob
It is time. The iron calls me.
The digital clock next to my bed spells out 1:59 in bright red letters. Perfect. Once again, I wake before the alarm goes off.
I can’t remember the last time it sounded. Probably, there would be no need to set it, but the fear of oversleeping, of missing my encounter with the destiny of the day, forces me to continue with the ritual.
Except for the alarm clock numbers, my bedroom is completely dark: just the way I like it. This is my house. I live alone and don’t have to cater to anyone else’s needs or wants. My sense of purpose, compulsion, and desires, preclude me from allowing anyone else to venture into my world. It is mine and mine alone.
I dress in the dark, pulling my clothing from its allotted space on top of the ottoman adjacent to the lone chair in the room, a weathered, brown Lazy Boy. There is no need for unnecessary furniture to clutter up my existence. Books and magazines go on bookshelves and my furniture sits in a neat, orderly fashion against the walls, allowing an open expansiveness to my environment.
As usual, I made coffee last night and I plop it into the microwave to heat it up as I finish my preparations. From the refrigerator, I withdraw two bottles of a thirty-two gram protein drink; thirty-two grams is the maximum amount of protein the body can absorb at a time. Fully dressed, my thick drink in hand, I walk out my front door into the quiet morning, enjoying the bite in the air. It helps to prepare me for what’s coming, and I smile in anticipation of what lies ahead.
It doesn’t take long to walk the four blocks to the gym. I stare at the unique design of the building: the right side roof, extending forty feet into the sky, has a steep pitch before blending into the flattened design of the remainder of the structure.
No one else is here: the parking lot is empty. The place is all mine.
I slide my access card into the slot and enter, allowing me time to soak up the ambiance and bask in the glow of my surroundings. This is my gym: I own it and I’m proud of it. My 24 hour-access piece of heaven.
The treadmills, steppers, and bikes, are all up front by the big windows. I walk past them. My warm-up is a little different: 400 bent knee sit ups at a moderate pace. Why 400? No reason. That’s the number I’ve been doing for years. This way, I get well developed abs without the bulk. I slide my toes under one of the benches and go to town.
My waist might be trim, but the rest...the rest is not. Thirty years of pushing the iron around has made me huge. If you slammed an oak plank across my back, said plank would break…and I’d just think it was raining.
Today is my big day: the day of my total body workout. Every muscle in my body, worked as hard as is possible to push a muscle to the very brink, to the precipice of maximum potential usage versus the possibility of exceeding what should be attainable. Go too far, and danger reaches out to grab you, snapping your tendons as if they are overstretched rubber bands, tearing away muscle fibers like stringy pieces of over cooked corned beef removing themselves from the main brisket, and destroying cartilage around the knees, perhaps for life. And every so often, there is the specter of bone pushing through the skin, the popping sound echoing throughout the gym, followed by cries of agony.
The gym talks to me, daring me to reach my ultimate maximum.
Are you man enough today? Do you dare touch the heavy iron?
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