Page 60 of Razors & Ruin

My cock disappears inside her wetness, swallowed by her body, and I marvel at her ability to be wholly absent for the event.

Normally, when we fuck, she’s taut, straining against my girth and her own desire. Now, she’s supple and accepting; a warm, safe space.

I move her along my shaft, using her pussy to masturbate. That’s what it is, in essence. A total surrender of her essential humanity, a rejection of her personhood, and I didn’t have to kill her to do it.

My balls grow heavy with the need to come, and I slow down, trying to delay the inevitable, but without her orgasm to consider, I can’t convince my body to slow down.

The veins throb, and I bury myself deep, grinding into her hard as my climax ravages me, my seed flowing rhythmically into Nellie’s oblivious cunt.

I pull out, watching as my come puddles beneath her hips, and feel like me again.

Just as sneaking into the ball gave me the joy that comes with non-consensual thrills, so did fucking my sleeping fiancée.

I love her, need her, but I hate that it’s so. Our kind of intimacy is too enmeshed, too choking, and yet I’d have it no other way; it’s how I know it’s real.

Nonetheless, this one-sided encounter had the ring of conquest to it, a clear sense of winning, and I enjoyed the breathing space.

I could tell her, of course—she’s the type to get off on it—but for now, I’ll hold onto the sense of power. Something about the act has recharged me, and I feel whole again.

The room is chilly, and I close the window before returning to Nellie’s side. I draw her into my arms, and she rubs her cheek on my chest before settling back into slow, quiet breathing.

“Sweet dreams, treacle,” I whisper.

31

The next morning…

Nellie

Sweeney is waiting for me, whistling a hymn off-key as he paces the shop floor. My man is as chipper as a Labrador this morning; full of piss and vinegar, as my cunt father used to say.

He’s decided we’re stepping out, taking a walk like a regular couple. It’s unlike him, but the thought of walking through the park, my arm in his like the romantic couples I remember seeing as a child—it’s too delicious to spoil.

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve developed airs, and to that end, I’ve spent money on fripperies: clothes, shoes, and hats. The other big expense has been bandages and sewing implements because now and again, one of us goes a bit too far.

More and more, I like to indulge in fantasies of improving our station in life. Not that I can see Sweeney chuckling cheek-by-jowl with the toffs, but the bourgeoisie is within reach if he doesn’t kill them all first.

It seems impossible that no one has asked us any questions, given the rate at which people are going missing, but the success of the pies brings a massive volume of potential stock through my doors, which means they tend to wander upstairs, too. Thus, Mr. T can afford to be picky, and so can I.

I sweep through to the shop and twirl, showing off my new red frock. Sweeney looks me up and down appreciatively.

“Lovely,” he says. “I’ll try not the shred it when I take it off you. Are you feeling better?”

How sweet of him to ask.

I woke up feeling like I’d been run over by a carriage, my body aching all over as though every muscle had contracted at once and held the tension overnight. I had to bathe to ease it, and I winced at how my fresh cuts stung in the hot water.

“I do,” I reply, popping open my parasol and resting it on my shoulder. “So, where are we going? I thought we could go past that lady who does the flowers. I need to talk to her about the wedding set, see if we can get a good price for?—”

“Church,” he says, cutting me off. “We’re going to church.”

No. Fuck off and fuck you.

“That is bloody ridiculous,” I say. “What haveyougot to say to God?”

“Nothing much. He and I are not exactly sympatico.”

“So, whychurch?” I ask. “Is there something wrong with you?”

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