By Steve Isaak
Our clock starts ticking the second she arrives “but not this time,” Megan says, her collie features radiant.
Megan strips off her slinky dress, her Lassie-light head a color-perfect blend with her lush human body.
Megan laughs. “My husband, Mr. Eddie Pitbull, was always sniffing, drooling over chocolate that can kill us, and I. . . indulged his curiosity. That son of a bitch is as cold as that bucketed champagne. The money – everything – is ours!”
I go cold, thinking back to a fellow waiter’s warning when he first saw me ogling Megan, three months ago. “Watch out. She’s more than she seems.”
Megan laughs again. “Relax, you know I always get what I want. Now mount me.”
I can’t run – not without telling her that I'm leaving her.
# # #
I wake, sweaty and sex-sticky, to a strange, disturbing noise – something like a thump, mixed with a bone crack.
A short, bulky shadow stands over Megan’s side of the bed, something long and blunt in his hand. Warm liquid, from the area of Megan’s moonlit, bashed-in head, rills onto my side of the bed.
My beat-acelerated heart leaps into my atrabilious throat, and I start to rise; that’s when I sense another, shit-reeking shadow on my side of the bed, and something hard smashes onto the side of my face, knocking me into dark, throbbing sleep.
# # #
“Love can be a bone-splintering thing, my dachshund friend,” the shit-breathed pug thug says, as he snaps my other arm. My nerve-endings are white-hot electric, my yelps bouncing off warehouse walls.
“Mr. Pitbull told me to tell you ‘good try,’ that this is his ‘final tip’ to you,” the pug chuckles. His breath makes my gorge rise.
Nearby, another pug thug chops up Megan’s bloody body, readied for the incinerator, our final laying place.
Copyright ©2009, 2011 Steve Isaak. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website in 2009.