If only I could think of more words beginning with ‘P’. Four is pretty good as far as alliterated story names go, right? This one takes place a month or two after last week’s story and chronicles yet another disgusting story involving our disgusting house mate Phil. Read last week’s story first for the full effect, or you can’t be bothered: Phil is a sadomasochist, into odd sex games, oozes ‘sex pest’ness and has a teenage Asian girlfriend that he probably bought in the Philippines. As always, if you want more stories of this kind, head over to Lilu’s blog.
Enjoy. No, really.
We were cleaning his room, my housemate and I. It was the end of the year and Phil had finally packed his bags and checked out of our shared student house. Being a sadomasochistic, selfish prick he had of course left a lot of mess in the room: an unmade bed, a floor covered in hair, some odd socks strewn about — the usual. It took a while but the room was finally detritus-free and dusted, ready for its new occupant — me! — all that remained was to do some vacuuming.
In hindsight, after the anal beads incident, I probably should’ve thought twice before shoving the end of the vacuum under the bed. The odd, musky, fishy smell that had wafted around the room should’ve set all kinds of alarms off.
That’s the sound of an unhappy sucking device (trust me, I know these things). Quickly turning it off, lest I blow up the mighty suction beast, I ask my house mate to kindly go and yank the obstruction out of the nozzle.
‘It’s awfully dark in here…’ She’s poking around, trying to get a grip.
I wait patiently, wishing the machine had a ‘blow’ setting so I could just… shoot it out! (Wouldn’t that be neat?)
‘I think I got it! It’s… squishy…’ There’s some kind of thwnkwn-splat sound as she finally pulls it out, the tip of it held between her fingers, the body of the rubbery receptacle slapping against her bare stomach.
Gulping, I look at her stomach. ‘Don’t look down!’ She looks at me, tears welling up in her eyes, fear, uncertainty and doubt all intermingling. Eventually she caves and looks down, and screams.
In between her fingertips is the tip of a condom and sloshed across her naked midriff is its rotten, yellowing contents. Phil’s final farewell gift delivered in a way more perfect than he could ever imagine.
She screamed again and ran to wash herself, notes of sickness tinting her warbling vocals.
I called out to her in the bathroom: ‘The worst bit is, I know where that condom is from, and you’re not going to like it…’
Let’s go back four weeks…
I can only assume that they hadn’t anticipated on anyone returning home before 2am, the usual club closing time.
I was stumbling home from university, alone and semi-inebriated. I remember being confused at finding both the ground floor bedroom and kitchen lights on as I approached the house — it was 1am, a whole hour after midnight snack time. I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Usually I would’ve sneaked upstairs cautious not to wake anyone that might be asleep. Instead, the fool that I am, I pushed the kitchen door open.
They didn’t hear me as I tip-toed across the plastic floor and took a seat at the table.
WHACK! Ow, baby, harder…
I reached for the bottle of cheap red sitting on the table and poured myself a glass, my drunk eyes trying in vain to digest what was going on just a few feet away. Really, a nurse outfit, Phil? Latex?
WHACK! I know how you like it, big boy!
Looking up from the wine I finally decided it was unfair to let them continue. I was drunk, but I knew this was the kind of thing that would haunt both Phil and his girlfriend for decades — and inevitably: their children. Putting away my camera phone — what an evil, malevolent grin I had on my face — I called out to them.
‘Evening, Phil. Nice ass.’
His girlfriend stumbled, her downswing with the spiked paddle missing completely and hitting the kitchen sink. Turning around to look at me I could finally see the full extent of his child girlfriend’s plastic nurse outfit. If she had breasts, they would’ve hung out of the cut-away, plunging top. The skirt, the belt, left nothing to the imagination. My eyes followed down her short, knobbly, puppy fat-laden legs until I found a pair of black, buckled stilettos with very imposing, spiked heels.
I shook my head, trying to focus on Phil’s back and bottom. It was your usual, run-of-the-mill crotchless leather gimp suit. His buttocks were red raw, little bloody welts forming where the spikes on the paddle had repetitively hit the same spot and eventually broken his hairless skin.
But worst of all, hanging between his legs was his semi-limp penis still sheathed in a condom. And it wasn’t empty.
Back to the present…
My housemate rushes back into the bedroom and glares at me, her stomach and tank-top soaked through, her navel red from being scratched and scrubbed and purged of the disgustingly glutinous fluid.
Sometimes, she says, it’s better to not tell the entire story.