Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (15 page)

Anyway, about twenty people in this town reported food poisoning. Chances are more people got sick, but the cases were unreported because people thought they had the flu or something else. Diarrhea, stomach cramps, fever, puking. Nothing too terrible. Salmonella’s pretty mild. Listeriosis, on the other hand, can spread to the nervous system causing loss of balance, confusion, convulsions, even death. Much more exciting.

I need to look into that.

I need to look into a lot of things. My mind, for example.

I don’t feel guilty about Justus. Don’t feel guilty about Ranger, or the college kid. Don’t feel an ounce of guilt about that old lady I butchered with the chainsaw, or the tourist who drowned in the river, or the neighbor’s stupid dog. And I don’t feel guilty about Janet who got run over in the parking lot last night, when she was collecting carts.

Really, I don’t give a damn.

But sometimes I think I
should
.

Sometimes I think a
normal
person would feel guilty.

And that stresses me out.

Stress is a silent killer.

Physical activity helps. According to the experts, physical activity releases endorphins, creating a natural high. So, when I feel stressed, I go to the gym, try a new recipe, or hack someone to pieces.

But the Justus thing nags me. In my mind’s eye, I see him crashing on his bike, see blood gushing from his head, hear the screech of sirens as the ambulance rushes him to the hospital. But I can’t remember if I threw that stone with my right hand or my left. I’m not even sure I hit him.

I intend to sort it out when I see Doctor A tomorrow. I’ve decided to call him Doctor A to keep our relationship friendly yet professional. I know Marcus wants to hook up with me. I can always tell. And I want to hook up with him, but you’re not supposed to fuck your psychiatrist, are you? I guess some shrinks fuck their patients though. You read about those cases, see them on TV. Some psychiatrists specialize in sex therapy. I wonder if Marcus does, because I think sex is what I need.

I’m done with shredding cabbage and on the verge of slicing cucumbers.

Thinking about my appointment with Marcus, I grab a nice long cuke, pull down my pants, and shove it in.

Damn.

The thing is cold.

Liam slinks into Produce, and I quickly pull up my pants. He’s too preoccupied to notice the bulge under my apron.

Meanwhile, the cucumber is warming up.

Glancing over his shoulder, to see if he’s been followed, Liam says, “Lady wants a box of peaches.”

I squeeze my thighs together, sucking in the cucumber. A moan escapes my mouth, and Liam glances at me.

“You okay?”

I nod, gripping the cucumber tighter, enjoying the pressure against my G-spot, the rush of heat.

Liam heads for the cooler.

Reaching my hand inside my pants, I slide the cuke in and out, in and out, rubbing the tip against my clit, tension building in my pelvis. I shove the cuke in deeper, pump faster, and bring myself to climax. Hot spasms shake my body. I collapse into the counter, staring at the colander of cucumbers, slip my big boy out—its green skin bruised and glistening—and toss the half-cooked cuke into the colander.

Liam appears carrying a crate of Palisade peaches.

“Find what you need?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

Terri’s voice comes over the intercom. “Liam, please dial 3-1-2.”

Liam sets down the crate of peaches. Picks up the phone. Listens. Hangs up.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m getting written up.”

“Again?”

“Strike three.”

He grabs the peaches, kicks open the door.

In my book, Terri has too many strikes to count.

I give her the finger through the ceiling.

Returning to the cucumbers, I splash water over the colander. Thinking of Terri, I cut off the ends of each cucumber and run them through the processor, creating perfect slices. I wonder how efficiently the food processor would slice a finger. It might work well, if the finger were frozen—neat, little slivers. (I need to get a freezer,
bad
.) But slicing Terri’s digits would be too simple. She deserves something more intense, something more exciting.

Something to get her juices flowing.

The cage.

I place the sliced cucumbers into a container, label it with the date. Then I wash the colander, the food processor, the machete and the chef’s knife.

Time to chop more corn.

“Tell me about your childhood.”

I’m sitting in the corner of a cushy couch across from Doctor A. He’s ensconced behind his desk in a leather swivel chair, pen in hand, ready to take notes on a yellow pad of paper. (I didn’t know they still make those.) Framed degrees and certificates are plastered on the gray wall behind him. Another wall holds shelves of books, not paperbacks—hardcovers. The guy must be a brainiac. He looks like he stepped out of a PBS miniseries, wearing tailored trousers instead of jeans, leather shoes that hold a shine rather than sneakers, a tie. (I bet it’s silk.)
Quaint
. In this town, even businessmen wear spandex.

My legs are crossed and slanted to one side, displaying my calves to their best advantage, like I practiced in the mirror. I traded athletic shoes for fuck-me pumps, cherry red stilettos. A new skirt creeps up my thighs and I shift my position, encouraging its progress. I’m wearing no underpants.

Marcus—I mean, Doctor A—watches me intently, listening to every word I say. He seems to sincerely care. Poor man. He has no idea of who’s sitting across from him. No idea how vulnerable he is right now. It’s 5:30. I’m his last appointment of the day. The receptionist was gone when I arrived, so there are no witnesses. His office is in a small complex at the end of town and contains only a few occupants: an architect, a design consultant, a chiropractor who works three days a week (not today). At this hour, the other businesses have closed. The only car in the parking lot is his. I rode my bike and locked it up out back, so it can’t be seen from the street.

“You said you felt powerless growing up, is that right, Sadie?”

My shoe slips from my foot and dangles from my toes. I swing it back and forth, hypnotizing Marcus.

“I don’t want to talk about my childhood.”

“What
do
you want to talk about?”

“Sex.”

Marcus sets down his pen, leans back in his chair, loosens his tie, and then retightens it.

“You want to talk about the rape?”

I’m guessing he hasn’t got any lately, maybe not since his wife croaked.

“Fuck me, Marcus.”

“What did you say?” he leans toward me.

“I’m fucked up, Doctor A.”

“In what way?”

“I want to kill people.”

“We all feel that way sometimes.”

“Really?”

“You need to take your power back.”

I let my shoe drop from my foot and study Marcus through my lashes.

“Want some water?” He gets up, goes to a small refrigerator, pulls out two bottles. He opens one, takes a slug, and brings the other bottle around the desk to me. “What, exactly, do you remember about the rape?”

I take the bottle from him, allowing my hand to linger. He draws his hand away. Watching him, I twist off the cap, take a sip of water, and wipe my mouth. There’s a red smear on my hand and, for a moment, I think it’s blood. Then I remember that I’m wearing lipstick. Marcus is back behind his desk as if it offers some protection.

“I wasn’t raped.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I seduced that guy, drugged him, and fucked him with a cob of corn.”

Marcus lowers the bottle from his mouth and studies me, the furrows on his forehead deepening. He sets the water bottle on his desk, picks up a piece of paper.

“According to the police report, what you’ve described is exactly what the rapist did to you.”

“Blurred lines.”

“What?”

“I like that song. You know it?”

I uncross my legs allowing my knees to part, enough to make sure he gets a good shot.

His gaze flicks to my crotch, then back to my face.

“What are you doing, Sadie?”

I spread my legs wider, my skirt creeping toward my waist.

“Nothing.”

I slip my hand between my thighs.

Standing, he leans into his desk. To support himself or to get a better view? I suspect both.

“I think we’d better end this now, Sadie.”

I withdraw my hand, clap my legs shut, and pull my skirt toward my knees.

“I’ll be a good girl, promise.”

“I can refer you to someone else. Perhaps a woman—”

He glances at his phone, picks up the receiver.

“I want you.”

I’ve come around the desk and stand behind him. I place my hand on his to stop him from dialing. Our touch is electric. Sparks fly, igniting a fire in my gut, so intense it races through my core, spreads through my chest into my arms and hands. My fingers burst into flames. My skin melts, dripping from the bones like wax. I press my breasts against his back, and feel his body tense as I breathe into his ear. Reaching around his chest, I unloosen his tie. Meanwhile, my tongue flicks at his neck. It would be easy to slip his tie off, wrap the silk around his throat, and pull it tight. But the muscles in his back tell me he’s strong, and I don’t think I can overpower him long enough to strangle him.

Besides, for his daughter’s sake, I’ve promised not to kill him.

Even though it’s tempting.

My eyes search his desk. A letter opener might work, but who uses them these days? The stapler could do some damage. My gaze lands on a framed photograph of Marcus and Carmela when she was about five.

I decide against the stapler.

“Must have been tough for Carmela to lose her mother so young,” I say. “How did she die?”

“Who?”

“Your wife.”

Marcus turns around to face me. Beads of sweat have formed along his hairline and he’s breathing heavily.

“She didn’t die. We’re divorced.”

“But the super said—” His face becomes a blur as I process the information. “You
divorced
Carmela’s mom?”

This changes everything.

I brush my lips against his, feel his response.

He pulls away, but his pupils are dilated and he exudes a musky scent. I know he wants me.

“Sadie, please sit down. We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Have you heard of the Hippocratic Oath?”

“Is that an oath for hypocrites?”

Before he can answer, I grab his hand and jam it in between my thighs, guiding his fingers between my swollen labia. Taking advantage of my newfound ambidexterity, I use my other hand to loosen his belt, undo the button of his pants, and pull down the zipper.

His cock is hard and smooth.

“What’s your diagnosis, doctor?”

His breathing is rapid and shallow.

“B.P.D.”

“What’s that stand for? Big Pulsing Dick?”

“Borderline Personality Disorder.”

His face is flushed, and sweat shimmers on his brow, but his forehead is smooth and unperturbed. I hear the whir of his brain, downloading and calculating—lots of power on his hard drive, definitely a gamer.

My fingers wrap around his joystick.

“Sadie, sit down.”

“
You
sit down.”

I press him into his leather swivel chair and climb on top of him.

This therapy is working.

His cock slips into me, a perfect fit. I ride him, my back arching as he slides in and out.

“You want it, bitch?”

Did I say that, or did he?

He turns up the voltage, rising from the chair, my cunt still hooked onto his cock. Heat courses through my body, my nerves on high-alert. Afraid to fall, I lock my legs around his back. He slams me against the wall, knocking down a framed diploma. His cock is a pneumatic hammer pounding my internal organs. Meanwhile, his forefinger and thumb vibrate my clit until I scream. He turns me around with mechanical precision, and I claw the wall as he comes in from behind. Jolts of electricity send shockwaves through my core, and I feel like I’m shattering into a thousand pieces.

I’m about to climax for the billionth time when something slips around my neck.

I can’t breathe.

His tie is wrapped around my throat. I claw at the silk.

“Relax, Sadie.”

I might relax if I could breathe.

He’s pumping me so hard that I’m experiencing a nuclear reaction—my body convulsing with enough energy to start another universe.

I’d like to kick him in the balls.

I’m clutching at my throat, trying to release the pressure. Blood boils in my brain, my eyeballs bulging from their sockets, as my body explodes.

I come so hard, I’m blacking out.

The tie releases, and air rushes to my lungs as I collapse onto the carpet.

But he’s not done.

He’s on top of me, ripping the buttons from my shirt. Undoing my bra. The gold medallion swings around his neck, hypnotizing me. His chin feels rough against my chest as his teeth latch onto my nipple.

I kick, and that makes him more excited.

He flips me over, smashing my face into the carpet. Grabbing my wrists, he ties my hands behind my back.

I scream, even though no one will hear me.

He slaps silver tape over my mouth.

Rolls me onto my back.

I try to squirm out of his grasp, but he sits on my legs, holding me in place. Using scissors, he cuts my skirt from the hemline to the waist. Then he peels away the fabric, revealing my hips, my thighs, and my patch of pubic hair. Afraid to move, afraid of the harm the scissors might inflict, I lie still. He’s using them like clippers, trimming my hair down to nothing. After he’s done shaping, he snips around my labia. Satisfied, he sits back on his heels and examines his work.

I’m wondering if my insurance will cover this.

And will they go for nine more sessions?

Shoving my knees apart, he plunges his head between my thighs. I writhe uncontrollably as his tongue flicks at my clit. Parting my lips with his mouth, his tongue dives deeper, lapping up my juices.

I don’t like feeling helpless, but with my hands tied and my mouth gagged, I don’t have much recourse. Then an idea comes to me. I stop writhing, stop reacting. I relax and let go. My bladder releases.