David Griffin Brown vs. Martha Tuff
Brink By David Griffin Brown
“It’s your baby too,” Lily said. “It’s only fair you help me kill it.”
She handed me the fat blue pill and wiggled out of her jeans. She climbed on the bed, rolled to her back: knees at forty-five degrees, legs parted.
I saw for the first time what I assume a gynaecologist sees: the clinical stock of a woman. If Lily stripped naked at any other time I’d be aroused. My eyes would draw the arch of her thigh, her ivory skin, the black bonsai thatch. But I stared instead at female, human, mammal.
Read More | Final Votes: 56%
Deathmatch By Martha Tuff
He’s got an axe in one hand, dripping, red splashed handle and a club in the other.
“I’m going to fuck you up,” he snarls.
And he does and you know it, well you know as long as you’re still breathing, as long as you’re still alive, which isn’t much.
There’s nothing much left when he’s done, just a messy pulpy pile of what you used to be.
Read More | Final Votes: 44%