Gonna Do You

Yeah, you big gimp machine, I have you now! My senses are in overdrive as you become my possession tied up in my Mother’s gimp outfit. Since she moved to Australia I have used it, violently. Met you in the chip shop, typical northern girl, full of piss, chips and hot air. Ducked you good and proper, tied you up as you asked, whipped you till red welts appeared on your palid skin. Changed my whip – steel tipped. Make the welts bleed, for me! You love it but with a snooker ball in your mouth you don’t sound so clear. My mind spins like a penny, what next? Tighten the handcuffs, put a red rose up your cant, scent mixed with scent. Place my head close and sniff. Dig thorns into your white thighs, blood. I lick it. Take the rose out, you hard, cut my hand and spread my blood on your breasts. Slap you, use my Iron Age dagger. Cut your throat as you scream, muffled by your gag. Gurgle of blood in your throat. My drugs take over, I collapse into unconsciousness. Wake up three days later. You are a stiff bloody rigamortis corpse, my own deadly handiwork. Your brother can’t save you now, he is next to be tied up just like you are. I’ll call at dinnertime and say you need to see him but that you’re a bit tied up…