Lethal Woman
Oct. 17th, 2003 11:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amfiguree[Gen] [Francis Yap, wife and co] [R for horrible mental images and violence]
Lethal Woman
Author's Note: What can I say? Do *not* piss me off. And yes, I do have crazily imaginative ways of torture up my sleeve. Very disturbing themes. Don't read if you've got a weak stomach.
She jabbed the fork into his shaft, and started giggling as he screamed in pain.
“This is not my idea of kinky,” he sobbed, as she twisted the fork deeper, expertly turning it into his flesh.
Then, ignoring his torrents of tears, she pulled out the fork and stuck it in again. He screamed again, and she laughed. This was really amusing her.
“Y’know,” she said, almost thoughtfully, “Someone I know got castrated once, and he almost bled to death. I wonder if you *can* bleed to death. Wait just one second!” She stopped her trail of thoughts to grab a pot off the kitchen counter. Almost lazily, as she got back to her knees by his side, where he lay, his already disfigured face contorted in pain, immobile, and started to stroke his bleeding member, till his groaned, coming into the pot.
She patted his leg, “Thank you.” Before proceeding to, very excruciatingly, saw off his prick with a penknife. In between the sawing, and his howling exclamations of pain, she grinned, “The fork was always my favourite weapon, y’know. So small,” she finished with the penknife and pulled the offending fork out of his manhood, er, ex-manhood, “but so lethal,” she finished, driving it into his stomach and creating four bloody holes.
He shouted, wriggling under the pain and tearing his skin further. Much later, after using a blunt knife to cut his chest open, and decorating his body with a million holes, she watched, in mild satisfaction, as he finally died. Then, she set the pot on the cooker, and began fixing dinner.
(An hour later…)
She looked down at her son, smiling.
“Where’s Dada?” Jimmy blinked.
“Francis is out. He won’t be coming home for a while.” She smiled, hiding the maliciousness behind it as she added to herself, ‘Or tomorrow, or ever.’
“Okay.”
“Here, Jimmy,” She ladled murky white porridge out of the pot as she spoke. “There’s chicken porridge for dinner.”
-fin-
Lethal Woman
Author's Note: What can I say? Do *not* piss me off. And yes, I do have crazily imaginative ways of torture up my sleeve. Very disturbing themes. Don't read if you've got a weak stomach.
She jabbed the fork into his shaft, and started giggling as he screamed in pain.
“This is not my idea of kinky,” he sobbed, as she twisted the fork deeper, expertly turning it into his flesh.
Then, ignoring his torrents of tears, she pulled out the fork and stuck it in again. He screamed again, and she laughed. This was really amusing her.
“Y’know,” she said, almost thoughtfully, “Someone I know got castrated once, and he almost bled to death. I wonder if you *can* bleed to death. Wait just one second!” She stopped her trail of thoughts to grab a pot off the kitchen counter. Almost lazily, as she got back to her knees by his side, where he lay, his already disfigured face contorted in pain, immobile, and started to stroke his bleeding member, till his groaned, coming into the pot.
She patted his leg, “Thank you.” Before proceeding to, very excruciatingly, saw off his prick with a penknife. In between the sawing, and his howling exclamations of pain, she grinned, “The fork was always my favourite weapon, y’know. So small,” she finished with the penknife and pulled the offending fork out of his manhood, er, ex-manhood, “but so lethal,” she finished, driving it into his stomach and creating four bloody holes.
He shouted, wriggling under the pain and tearing his skin further. Much later, after using a blunt knife to cut his chest open, and decorating his body with a million holes, she watched, in mild satisfaction, as he finally died. Then, she set the pot on the cooker, and began fixing dinner.
(An hour later…)
She looked down at her son, smiling.
“Where’s Dada?” Jimmy blinked.
“Francis is out. He won’t be coming home for a while.” She smiled, hiding the maliciousness behind it as she added to herself, ‘Or tomorrow, or ever.’
“Okay.”
“Here, Jimmy,” She ladled murky white porridge out of the pot as she spoke. “There’s chicken porridge for dinner.”
-fin-
