drinkdrankdrunk: "The Fan" by Mark Justice

Sweat.  Herod sat on the weary recliner; its coarse texture moist with his sweat. His bare back and arms were glossy with it.  A trickle at Herod’s upper lip, and his tongue lashed out to snatch up the drop.  The room moved as though hellish heat waves passed.

With his back to the room’s open window, Herod watched the still shadows cast by the shutters.  The choked air that limboed through the room was circulated by a fan at Herod’s right, blowing at him, the air like some cadaver.  Herod watched as the sweat from his limp index finger splattered into the blue blades of the spinning fan.

A ringlet of drenched black hair fell into Herod’s eyes, the sweat stinging them. He wiped it away with a moist fist.  The whir of the fan smacked against the stillness of the room, shortening the breath that the room could hold.

Sweat collected and ran in stuttered streams down Herod’s belly; the air spat out of the fan used and useless.  The heat made his thoughts dizzy and sluggish, but he liked to sweat.  It made him feel like he did something.  He did.

He sweat.

In that dizzy hot wash, he sat nude, and while he drifted there, sweating, a wispy, nude woman got on her knees beside him and blew a long soft kiss that was cool against his skin.  She lowered her head to his limp hand, put her cool mouth to his index finger, and began to nibble at it.

Her teeth moved quickly and delicately as she bit.  Aroused, Herod felt the beautiful woman’s bites become rougher.  They were starting to hurt.  A slick, grating sound came with each nibble, louder with each painful bite.

Herod jerked forward from his sleep, from the teeth of the fan blades.  He recoiled his hand, fingertips throbbing shooting stars of pain.  The back of Herod’s neck shivered, and he chilled in the sweltering heat.  It was cooler; the pain was now subsiding, and he thought of his dream, the crawling skin, his goosebumped, cool skin:  from the pain.

His fingertips throbbed like sex, like his hot, lusting dream as he drew his hand nearer to the fan.  He tested the biting air, and his tingling, prickled skin was there in the whirling, blue, dusty metal.

He allowed his middle finger to graze the blades.  The “rat-at” sound reverberated in the room.  Again, he shivered, shuddered.  “Something good,” he thought as he tested the moving blades once more.

The quickly spinning blades caught his fingers and sent his hand flying downward with a chunk of meaty sound, hot and thick with humidity.  Herod shook out his hand, wincing at the pain but writhing at the crawling flesh on his back, the pinpricked chills that made him shudder.

Herod’s breath came quicker now, the room lessened its chokehold on him, and the cadaver air found a life of sorts.  Herod ran his hands down his chest and stomach, watching sweat, and with a flick, wrung it onto the blades, covering him in its salty kiss.

Herod’s hand still throbbed.  The hot pulsations pounded back and forth from his fingers and palm.  Shivers crawled along Herod’s neck that made him cringe and cool.  Herod thought the cool, sensuous delight was like having to suffer with an itch, realizing its tingle, and then that quiet orgasm of scratching, like watching a mosquito deliver its bite, aware of its nuisance yet feeling the barbed prick and watching blood flow into its belly, only to smack it as it attempts to fly away, the red and black stain wet and fresh on the arm, the welt just coming up.

The exchange of pain for pleasure, the sacrifice of self-will for an ecstasy on the fringe of having, is what Herod bartered for … and got.

With a voyeur’s smooth grace, he eased his throbbing hand toward the spinning fan blades, the orange sun reflecting off their metallic sheen.  He heard the “thap-thap-thap” as his fingers rubbed against the whirring steel.  Herod pressed harder, feeling the continual blows against his reddened hand, but he also felt the heat begin to dissipate in the cold shock of shivers’ crawling skin.

Herod had an erection as he held his now bloody stump of a hand into the blades, screaming in his pain/relief exchange.

The blades kept flicking up pieces of Herod’s hand onto the walls and ceiling as his face was reddening from the fan’s spray of his butchered limb’s flowing blood.  Herod writhed in his chair, his limb becoming more and more numb with each convulsive thrust.

Herod fell back into his chair, sopped with his blood and sweat.  He smelled the vibrant tang of blood and the scattered tatters of his pulped right hand.  As the chills subsided, the sweltering heat began to make its approach to his body, forming stinging globs of sweat on his stump.  THAT pain brought no pleasure; THAT pain brought no chills, no relief.  THAT pain was NO GOOD, Herod thought.

Herod thought.  Hard.  He thought what it would be like to plunge his face into the whirring, bloodied blades of the fan.  He thought he would jerk a few times as the blades caught their way into his face and skull, slicing chunk after chunk away.  He thought of what his eye would see as it was caught from its socket and whipped up at the ceiling.  He thought that the last thing it would see was his own back, bright blood covering a thousand chill bumps, freshly popped.

Herod sat in the hot chair, sticky with blood, thinking. His hot thoughts chilled him.

Mark Justice is the author of Gauge Black:  Hell's Revenge.  Check it out for more pulpy goodness!  That one's a Western.  Obviously, this Website does not recommend sticking limbs into fans, but it does recommend reading more Mark Justice.  I am pleased to run on his work on drinkdrankdrunk!