Fiction Friday: A D Story

Maybe I should consider putting some sort of rating system in place. Until then, the following story contains graphic violence/torture, and references to sexual violence. Please take care of yourselves first, and skip this story if it may be upsetting to you.


A D Story

The Woman has her arms crossed and taps her fingers impatiently on his front doorstep. She notices neighbors that aren’t noticing her. Brilliant. Before she can ring the doorbell again, the door opens to reveal The Professor in all of his handsome middle-aged glory. The Professor smiles, and The Woman smiles back. He extends an arm to invite her in. Sneaking a glance at the bottle buried in the shrubs, The Woman steps in daintily, turning back to look at the Professor with nervous excitement. She eyes her surroundings as he offers her a drink.

“Holy shit, you have a 30-pin dock for your stereo!” She exclaims, pulling an iPod Classic from the pocket of her darkest-of-reds trench.

“You have a soundtrack for the evening?” The Professor asks, nuzzling the back of her neck as The Woman jams her iPod into place.

“I am a professional. I come prepared.” The woman counters, accepting the drink. She grabs his shoulders and directs him to sit on the sofa.

The Professor takes in The Woman as he takes in sips of his drink. Her pretty dark skin and enigmatic dark eyes. The way she stands with one knee bent. His eyes focus on one component of her all-black attire.

“Killer stockings.” He says, noting the pearls dotting the front in a vertical line.

The Woman giggles, tension pouring from her muscles into her laugh. “Killer? Really? Well, tell me what they smell like.” She says, quickly unclipping a stocking and tossing it to The Professor. He dutifully inhales, and loses consciousness. Her giggles continue for a moment, and then she gets down to work.


The Professor awakens in a such a strange position that it takes him several moments to realize where and how he is. The Woman sips from a bottle of vodka that was previously unopened, watching him awaken.

“Did you know that the Russians only made one batch of this? It retailed for over $15,000 US dollars for one liter. What are the odds that you, of all people, would have one? I had been dying to taste it.” The Woman says, licking the rim of the bottle as she watches The Professor wiggle. He is on his back on a workout bench, hands cuffed together underneath him. His chest and knees are tightly bound to the bench as well, while the floor component that runs parallel to the bench is weighted down with over 500 pounds of weights- the ones “mistakenly” delivered to his home the week prior. There is tape over his mouth, and the ball portion of a ball gag inside of it.

The Professor grunts and makes further efforts to move. The Woman drops the bottle of vodka onto the tile of his living room, and laughs at his expression.

“Sir, if you’re going to insist on trying to talk, you really should be less predictable. Because you see, right now, I can tell that you’re saying that this wasn’t part of the contract, right?”

The Professor freezes for a moment in stunned silence.

“Women are so intuitive,” The Woman explains, laughing, before she notices the song playing. “Oh my god, I played this song for wife on the night I proposed. Do you like The Jackson 5?” She babbles on. When The Professor raises an eyebrow, she gets annoyed. “‘I’ll be there’? Really? You never heard this song?” The Woman storms over to the stereo and cranks up the volume. She sways for a moment, then holds up a finger to The Professor as she lip syncs with the chorus.

I’ll be there!

I’ll be there!

Just call my name!

And I’ll be there!”

The Professor angrily grunts more, face turning red with exertion.

“Oh, shit. You’ve figured out that I am not the whore you hired. But you do know that I’m here for a reason, right? Let’s see if we can find out why.” The Woman sashays over to the workout bench, and gently straddles The Professor.

The Professor is silent.

“Ok, I’ll give you a hint. I’m here because of something to do with my wife. Any idea what?”

The Professor watches The Woman with curious eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ old man, how many times have you done this, for fucks sake!” The Woman slaps The Professor hard on his chest, then hops forward to look him in his eyes. He takes in the beautiful woman in her black lingerie, black dress having long been discarded. He takes in the danger in her facial expression, the mania and his restraints.

“I will give you a hint.” From behind her, The Woman grabs an iPhone from the couch and begins scrolling through the contacts. “ESSSSSSSSSS. AITCH. AYYYYYYYY.”

The Professor bucks against his restraints.

“Oh baby, you’re sorry? Not as sorry as you’re gonna be. No. Not even fucking close. “ The Woman swings a leg over to stand back up and walks towards the kitchen. “Why do you have a butcher knife, baby? It’s almost like you were waiting for me!”

The Professor sweats as he watches her come back into the room with her hands behind her back. The Woman re-assumes her position straddling him, this time closer to his knees. As she sits, she puts her hands back in front of her, revealing a bread knife and a butcher knife. The Professor bucks hard when he realizes that he is very exposed.

“Look, honey, I’m so nice. I’m giving you a choice. If you had to be violently dismembered, would you rather I take my time sawing it off, or would you like it to be quick? If I get it clean enough the first try, they might even be able to reattach it. I’m nice, I’ll even put it on ice for you.”

The Professor is red in the face, but with the ball in his mouth and the tape over it, he can’t make much noise.

“Look, you know you’ve earned this, ok?” The Woman says, perking up to listen to the song playing. “Why don’t we let the song decide what happens to your dick, huh? It’s a song by a man, so what are the odds that he’s going to tell me to disfigure you? I would say, slim.”

The Professor watches without understanding in his features.

Fuck that shit, you just caught this bitch cheatin’

While you’re at work she’s with some dude tryin’ to get off?”

“Fuck slittin’ her throat, cut this bitches head off!” The Woman chants with the music. “Oh, oh boy. Well, Slim has spoken.”

In one smooth movement, she tosses the bread knife, grabs The Professor’s other head, and makes a quick hack with the butcher knife. The Professor wails as The Woman stares in shock at how easy it was. Blood quickly pools on his body and drips onto the floor.

“Euch.” The Woman shudders, then flings the member across the room. “Yeah, I lied about the ice. But you understand, don’t you? You’ve lied before, right? It happens. It just happens. Sometimes we lie to get people to cooperate when we want to hurt them. You know how it is, don’t you, Professor?”

The Professor closes his eyes and continues to weep.

“For the record, had I done this to my ex, his would have made a much larger ‘splat’. Just thought you should know.” The Woman says, lazily dropping the butcher knife and standing back up. “How about we play a game? I know you like games. You did something to someone for three hours, so I’m going to do whatever I want to you for the same amount of time. If you live that long, I’ll call EMS and they can do their best. You can testify and send me to jail, I don’t care. But you have to live that long. Think you can last that long, baby?”

The Professor stops crying and stares at The Woman in rage.

“Good. Go ahead. Get determined.” The Woman gives him a hard slap on his chest. “I”m going to visit the ladies’ room.” As she turns to walk, she slips a bit in the blood pooling on the tile floor. She turns to look at The Professor, amused shock on her face. “Baby! You got so wet for me!” She winks as she heads to the bathroom, where she splashes cold water on her face after using it. She avoids her reflection in the mirror, and purposefully strides back into the living room.



“You say why? And I say I doooon’t knoooooooooow!” The Woman belts out, kicking her legs on the couch near The Professor, who has a bag of ice resting on his groin. When he shivers violently, The Woman tosses a throw blanket onto his chest. “I can’t sing for shit, but you don’t mind, do you?”

The Professor doesn’t move, nor make any sound.

“No no no, this won’t do. Guess we need to rile you up again.” The Woman walks to The Professor’s liquor cabinet, this time selecting a brown liquor in a glass bottle. She takes a few sips, then drops it on the floor as she did with the vodka. Careful to avoid the broken glass in her bare feet, she walks over to the alcove of the living room with his desk. “You’re really messy, you know that? How am I supposed to find anything in here?” The Woman rifles through his desk before she finds a few items that satisfy her, then walks back into the living room. She straddles The Professor again as she shows him the collection in her arms.

“A bible? I was not expecting that of you. Let’s see, a fountain pen, a nib pen- why do you have one of these?”

The Professor makes no movement.

“No matter. And this crystal paperweight.” The Woman says, twirling it in her hands to watch the ball reflect the light. Holding the other items in her left hand, she reaches with speed to smack The Professor hard with the paperweight.

He looks The Woman with alarm, tears running down the sides of his head as he struggles again.

“Now we’re talkin’!” The Woman exclaims, raising her right hand again.

The Professor flinches.

“So you are here. Good to know.” The Woman drops the paperweight on the ground and begins leafing through the bible. “What’s your favorite bible story? I like the one about Jacob, Leah, and Rachel. Fascinating stuff. Of course, we’re not here to reminisce about our favorite bedtime stories.”

The Professor glares at The Woman, shaking violently beneath her.

“Oh, I saw all the little dates and signatures in the beginning. A family heirloom. I’ll be sure to destroy it when I’m finished here. Ah, finally. Genesis 34. The rape of Dinah. How appropriate.”



As The Woman finishes reading the tale, she begins to rip pages from the bible, making sure to scatter them into the puddle of standing blood and vodka.

“You know, I haven’t written in ages, but I am feeling very inspired right now.”

The Professor watches as she reaches for the nib pen and pulls the blanket from his chest. Anxiety rises in his eyes as rage does in hers, replacing the calm composure she had had as she read the story.

“Now where do I start? Ah, I’ve got it.” The Woman plunges the nib into The Professor’s chest, embedding the tip into his chest. As he attempts to scream in anguish, she roars with laughter and pulls the pen to open his skin.

“Thou-shalt-not-STEAL!” The Woman recites as she continues the process. “Oh please, this doesn’t even hurt. Can you please kill the theatrics? Don’t be such a brat. Don’t be such a drama queen. This isn’t even that bad. Why are you making such a big deal of this? You always do this, Professor. You always do this! I’m sorry you can’t be more mature about things. Sometimes people just don’t get along, nobody has to take the blame.” The Woman taunts The Professor with her dialogue, and she sees her meaning sink in as he sobs.

The Professor makes rhythmic grunts against the gag and tape.

“No, you’re not sorry yet, either. Now is the part of the story where I get to steal all of your shit. So you can think about what you’ve done.” The Woman gets up and wanders around the house, taking anything of value that isn’t unique to The Professor himself.



“It’s too bad it’s summer. I can’t start a fire without arousing suspicion. Not that your neighbors care about you anyway. You’re an embarrassment.” She calls out from the bedroom as she shoves cash into the gore of her bra.

“Now that that’s all done, I could use another drink.” The woman walks back to the bar, reading labels on the wine. “Baby, what here is the most expensive?”

The Professor, barely conscious, does not answer.

The Woman carefully opens a bottle of red wine and downs half of it before dropping the bottle near the brown liquor.

“Not bad. I know you would like a drink, too, wouldn’t you baby?”

The Woman takes a bottle of whiskey to The Professor and opens it slowly. His eyes are closed and his breathing is shallow.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.” She sings sweetly, pouring the whiskey over his open wounds.

The Professor’s eyes fly open and he writhes around in pain. The melting bag of ice falls off, and The Woman pours liquor over the amputation wound as well. As he screams against his gag, face red in pain and anger, she licks the opening of the bottle and watches him. She tiptoes to his head and carefully sets the bottle down next to her on the floor as she crouches down to whisper in his ear.

“Baby, I know you want this. It’s ok. You don’t have to put up such a fight. Don’t I always give you what you want? You can tell me it feels good.” She reaches forward with one hand to hold his head down as she gently nibbles his ear, starting at the lobe and working her way up to the cartilage. As she reaches the crest, her teeth sink in hard. She jerks her head, pulling a chunk of his ear with her. The Woman snatches the bottle of liquor and dumps the remainder into The Professor’s eyes as his restrained screaming intensifies. She backs away slowly and spits the chunk of his ear onto the floor.

“Disgusting.” She says softly, and retreats back into the bathroom.



“Are you there yet, baby? Now? Now? Are you close? Now? Oh come on, don’t hold back!” The Woman yells manically as she repeatedly stabs The Professor’s chest with a pen and uses her other hand to smear the pinpricks of blood all over his chest. She notices the song playing and begins to howl along with it. “To the windoooooooow! To the WAHWL!”

The Professor closes his eyes tightly. He is beyond wincing in pain, but he can’t get used to her singing.

“’Til the sweat-drop-down-my-balls!” The Woman slaps The Professor’s chest rhythmically with both hands to the music, reveling in the stickiness of his blood and clutching the pen to her hand with her right thumb. She finishes the song and looks down at him in mock fondness, then shakes his jaw with her fingers.

“I’m exhausted. I’m going to make some coffee.” The Woman heads to the kitchen and searches the cupboards. She finds the bag of ground coffee and takes her time smelling it before making a fresh pot. She is annoyed to discover that The Professor only keeps plain white sugar in the house. She takes her time drinking the pot, black.



“Only nine minutes to go. Think you’ll make it?” The Woman asks The Professor.

The Professor rapidly blinks, still feeling the burn of the whiskey.

“I know! It’s almost over.” The Woman feels sober. She is, sober. She takes in the scene of broken bottles, and The Professor’s mutilated form. “Be right back!”



“I want to play one last game with you.” The Woman says as she slips the key into the lock of the handcuffs.

The Professor looks at her in shock, and quickly realizes that with the rest of his body tied down, all has free is his arms. She reaches for the butcher knife on the ground as the last song in the playlist starts.

If you can’t hear, what I’m tryna say

If you can’t read, from the same page”

The Professor reaches to grab her arms, but she shrugs him off and plunges the knife deep into his stomach, twisting it until he drops his arms from the pain.

“Maybe I’m out of my miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind. Ok, now he was close. Tried to domesticate ya.” The Woman sings along giddily, with none of the heaviness she had a moment before.

She throws her head back and laughs, the sound echoing off of the walls. She feels the hands of The Professor reaching for her, and she pulls the knife out and stabs him again, throwing her whole body into the motion. “JUST LET ME LIBERATE YA!”

The Professor makes attempts to grab her, the weakness in his body and the slickness created by his own blood making it impossible. As he watches The Woman, bouncing on his legs and singing with abandon, he understands why she uncuffed him for this part, but he can’t bring himself to stop trying.

“I know you want it. I know you want it. I know you want it.” The Woman sings, wiggling seductively and delivering a small stab with every repeat of the phrase. It’s enough pain to keep The Professor incapacitated, and she takes full advantage of watching the realization of imminent death cross his face. He makes one last attempt with both arms to grab her, which she shrugs off to stab him deeper, harder, in his chest.

“The way you grab me. Must wanna get nasty.” She cackles again as she sings the song, delivering slices to The Professor’s arms and chest.



As the alarm in her phone chimes, The Woman picks up the pace.

“Hey, hey, hey!”


“Hey, hey, hey!”

Stab, stab, stab.

“Hey, hey, hey!” The Woman leans back and takes a look at The Professor.


The Woman smiles a small smile and gets up to clean herself the kitchen. She leaves on her blood-soaked bra and panties, and hastily throws on her black dress, heels and trench. She reaches under the sink for a small box, and shoves something into it on her way out. On a table by the front door, she notices a picture. With a last look of rage towards The Corpse, she grabs that too and walks out the front door.

When she arrives home, the first thing she notices is every car gone. Good. She grabs the box and the picture from the passenger seat and makes a beeline for her bedroom.

“Here.” She says, tossing both items onto the dressing table.

“What’s this?” The Wife asks, curiously fingering the box until she notices the picture. “Where did you get this?” The Wife asks more firmly.

“Open it.” The Woman says, gesturing towards the box.

The Wife looks away from the woman and cautiously opens the box. When she sees the contents, she shrieks and drops it in horror. “Oh my god!” She says, looking up at The Woman, wide-eyed.

“One less knick-knack in the world.” The Woman shrugs, peace settling into her features.

“Clothes off. In bed. Now.” The Wife orders, standing to her feet and undressing.

The Woman sighs. It’s nice not to be in charge for once.


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