Short Story Saturday: Mandy

NOTE: THIS POST IS ONE OF THE REASONS YOU GET A DISCLAIMER WHEN CLICKING ON MY BLOG LINKS BEFORE BEING TAKEN TO THE POST. IF YOU ARE QUEASY OR EASILY OFFENDED BY MASTURBATION, MURDER, AND DISMEMBERMENT, DO NOT READ THIS STORY. IF YOU LIKE TWISTED AND DISTURBING, WELL, WELCOME! I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE STORY.

MANDY

I've been waiting for this moment all day. I close the door behind me and make my way to my bed, collecting everything I need along the way. Before climbing on and getting comfortable, I pull off my clothes, springing free as I slide my tighty-whities down my legs.

I squeeze a generous amount of lotion on my hand, paying close attention to coat every area of the palm and fingers. They've been so dry lately. I apply some extra lotion along my erected shaft for extra measure.

I slide the hand down slowly at first, getting the feel of it. Making sure I've provided enough lubrication. It's nice. Not as nice as it could be, but still, it feels good—maybe a bit different from last time, but that can always turn out for the best. I allow myself to quicken the pace a little faster.

A couple minutes later, I'm really going at it. I'm so close. A slurry of feelings: tightening, glory . . . so, so close. I can't contain myself. My breathing. My eyes shut. So close. I can feel as my goal's nearly achieved. The sound of the door swinging open startles me, and I expel my built-up tension all over the sheets.

“Sweet baby Lucifer! Tommy! You having fun?” Mason asks me with a laugh.

“God, damn it, Mason! You couldn't have given me two fucking minutes? Now I've gotta wash the sheets.” I sit up, using the already messed linens to wipe at the cum that managed to land above my belly button.

“Hey, who've you got there?”

I lift up the nearly mummified hand I'm holding in my own so he can get a better look. “It's Mandy. Who else would it be?”

I set Mandy down. Then I grab some wet wipes to finish cleaning myself before grabbing my jeans from the floor and putting them on. I use some tissues to wipe down Mandy.

“I still don't understand how you get 'em to last so long. My Mandy lost her ring finger last time I used her, and that was two weeks ago,” he says to me.

“I told you. Rock salt and baking soda. Baking soda to cut the smell. Rock salt to preserve the hand. Make sure you put it in a container that can drain out of the bottom so that moisture has a way to escape.”

“Yours is still starting to look a little ragged, though,” he says to me.

“Yeah, I should retire her with the others. Her skin's starting to crack. Think I might have a blood blister on my johnson from last time I used her.” I look toward my trophy case and admire the six mummified hands there. Tara, Josephine, Cristy, Beth, Yvette, Heather, and soon to be Mandy to make it seven.

Beth was my favorite. She stayed the softest the longest. I'm not sure why, though. Sure wish I knew. Maybe because she was the youngest. She was only seventeen, but we didn't know that until after we killed her. I miss Beth, and I briefly wonder if I gave her another go 'round, would she hold up? Probably not, best keep her where she is.

“Well, I've got good news then. Come on,” Mason says, and I follow him out of the room and down the hall.

I know the direction where we're headed, and I get excited just thinking about it. My newfound erection rubbing its sensitive head against the denim of my jeans. We walk out the back door and to the shed behind the house. Mason walks in first, but I'm on his heels. On the table lays a black-haired beauty. She's gorgeous; even with the old, dirty, greasy rag in her mouth, gagging her. She tries to scream, but it's muffled too well to really have any effect. I feel my dick harden further, and I'm left wanting to drop my pants to the floor and mount her. I rein in my thoughts. That type of thinking could get me killed, and I know it.

“This is Janette. Just look at those hands,” Mason tells me.

“Aww, man, I'm fucking jealous of Jack. She's beautiful. If I could figure out a way to preserve the head, I'd fight him over it. But they always go way too fast. It's not worth it.” I shake my head, thinking about how this perfect beauty would soon be decayed and rotting.

Mason grabs the Polaroid camera from the shelf and snaps a picture, handing it to me. “Here, don't tell anyone.”

“Couldn't we keep her alive a few days? Take turns with the real thing for once?” I ask as I tuck the developing picture in my back pocket, knowing I should've kept the words to myself.

“You know the rules. Jeb'll kick you out, or worse, if he heard that. That body's his, and you know damn well, we ain't allowed to touch it.”

“I know,” I say and then walk over to Janette.

She struggles, but she's not going anywhere. She's tied down too well. I inspect each hand, feeling them. I check their smoothness, their softness, and I make my decision.

“Is it all right if I take the left this time, Mason?” I ask.

“Sure, Tommy. You can have the left.” He smiles at me, then adds, “This time.”




*This short story can be found in my horror, flash-fiction collection, Images from a Wandering Mind: a Sick and Disturbing Collection. Thanks for stopping by.