Page 119

“Ah, but not consenting, and when it comes to sex, you need both.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know?”

“Tsk. Bobby, Bobby, Bobby . . . If it’s not an enthusiastic yes, then it’s a no. Everybody knows that.” I double up on gloves before grabbing the scissors and snipping away his underwear.

“Who cares, she’s a fucking addict!”

I inhale slowly, pushing back the impulse to kill him instantly. No . . . he deserves to suffer.

I rip off the briefs and gasp. “Jesus Christ. Your balls look like the lead singer of the California Raisins.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!”

I tilt my head to the side, staring at his ball sack. “My neighbor used to have a hairless cat . . . And you know what? I swear, from this angle, his forehead looked just like your nuts—the cat, not my neighbor,” I clarify.

“What do you want?” he cries more desperately.

“Hand to God, man. I swear. Your left testicle looks just like Harry’s head, except yours has hair . . . That was the joke, a hairless cat named Harry. Anyway.”

Standing, I wrap my hand around the handle of the iron and spit on the hot metal plate. My saliva sizzles as it drips down, evaporating before it hits the bottom.

“What is that?” His voice warbles.

I hold it up. “Uh, an iron?”

“I mean, what is it for?” he says; his question is hurried.

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t explain.” I set the iron down and press my hands together like a prayer. “Since you’re not a fan of wrinkles—or consent—I thought we could straighten out a couple things . . . between your legs. Get it, straighten?” I chuckle and clap my hands. “I am just full of the funnies today!”

“You’re going to iron my scrotum?” He achieves a pitch that rivals the squeaky ironing board.

“You said no wrinkles!” I shout back. “Just think of it as textile maintenance.”

“They aren’t textiles!”

“Well, not yet.” I pick the iron up again. “If you would just give me a damn minute . . .”

His eyes grow wide, and the chains rattle against the porcelain toilet base and metal grab bars.

“For fuck’s sake, would you hold still? I’m trying to make you presentable.”

“Stop! Stop!”

I sigh. Evidently, he’s not going to be a cooperative participant. I set the iron on top of his nearby pile of clothes, snatching up the tattered underwear and the belt. I shove the underwear into his mouth, struggling slightly when he starts thrashing his head side to side like a dog with a chew toy. Then I loop the belt around his face, covering his mouth, and tighten the leather, effectively gagging him. I swear my ears were ringing for an entire day after the last guy. I’m not going through that again.

“Your dick’s in the way.” Hm, that might be a problem. I survey the random tools I’ve got set up on the ironing board.

My head oscillates back and forth between his penis and the stapler.

Penis. Stapler. Penis. Stapler.

Yeah, that could work.

I grab the stapler, opening it up and pushing his dick to the side, whacking it with the end, ejecting one staple after another through the flesh as he releases dull screams into the wad of underwear.

I sit back, but his dick just flops down again. Damn it, it’s not working.

Laughter bursts out of me when I notice the duct tape beside me.