Fetish

"Fetish"

After a couple times, the insurance company starts to get suspicious. After a few times, your family jokes, "I guess no should drive with Micheal."
After 10 times, the white coat who is fixing your thrice-broken arm catches on and hands you a regulation size, crisp business card, "Of a really good psychiatrist" that he assures you, he "knows personally."

Around this time, you might be wishing for something a little more convienant and harmless, like wanting to be pissed on, or handcuffed, or liking diapers, or wearing fuzzy suits. You might be wondering what occurred in your life to give you this sort of fetish. Out of the millions of picks, why this one?

Yet here I am, sitting in my newly purchased 96' Nissan 300zx, beads of anticipatory sweat already budding on my forehead. I light up the ceremonial black and mild, and slowly puff, savoring the smoke circling around my tongue and oozing out my lips. Next, I slip on my heat-encapsulating protective gear; gloves, jacket, helmet. Lastly, I fasten my seat belt.

Next to me, the clueless Diane is foaming at the mouth, bouncing up and down in the passenger seat, squealing like a pig.
"Ohhhh baby, I love you so much right now! Oh my gawd, I'm so excited. Everything in my life up until this point has been truly meaningless, I mean that, every last bit. This is significance!"

Diane is cute enough. She's young, only 25, which is a pleasant change. She arrived today in a pale blue sundress which dipped into fairly decent cleavage, and high heel sandals strapped around thick calves. She has no makeup on except cherry lipstick. An Ok face, I decide, almost pretty when smiling. Her body, admittedly, is not great. But f**k me, she's here and deranged and ready to go, and I'm not about to get picky.   

I met Diane on craigslist. I've used that as a venue a few times, with mixed results.The initial one brought forth a peculiar sex freak who squeezed tomatoes the entire time and showed up in dominatrix garb. Her face might have been so-so, but her body rocked, and when finding a partner for this, one is elated to settle for "pretty good." The second try landed me someone who "claimed" to weigh 135 and broke my pelvis riding me. The third, a married Sunday school teacher who cried out the name of her husband 4 times, apologizing for each. But I didn't mind. Somehow, it made me feel less guilty. 

Off in the distance of the open country field, the s****y old honda began reversing closer, and closer still, till it was only a couple feet away. 

 "Do you think he's backing out?" Diane asks, finally giving the car a break from her bouncing. "That chicken s**t m**********r better not back out." 

Howard, the skinny, pale loser, emerged from his car and walked over. "I don't think he's quitting." I say to Diane.
I rolled down the window slowly when he appeared next to it, his  black trench flapping in the wind like a wet fish. Even in his fifties, he clung to gothic garb. "What is it?"
Howard stuck his gummy head inside the frame. "I just want to say, thank you. Thank you so much for this opportunity. I've always wanted...I mean, this just mean an awful lot to me, sir, an awful lot."
"The more the merrier," I say cheerfully. 
"Well, I just really appreciate it."
I met Howard on craigslist as well. He claimed to be quite the car enthusiast/voyeur, so to speak. Like Diane, he never before the opportunity to play out his dark desires. I'll take care of that.
Today overflowed with special significance.

After Howard returned to his place in his rightful vehicle, I slid my hand around Diane's bountiful waist. "You ready for this?"
"Yes," she says eagerly, bouncing resumed. "I've never been more prepared." She slips her helmet, the type only an amateur would choose, over her dark mane of hair. "Lets do this!"

Let's.

The day is chilled yet humid, a cloying atmosphere in which sin could, and gladly would, cling to. Overhead, clouds quilt in pillow-like rows, stuffing exploding from the sides. Bits of light sneak through the smallest of openings, allowing for slow streams of vitamin d.   

I start up the engine.
In the distance, I see Howard has done the same. It's almost go -time.
As soon as I pull slightly forward, Diane is all over me. This is not what I had anticipated on. She slobbers on the side of my face and grinds my earlobe between her molars.
 
The only road leading to the field we're in the middle of is dead-ended off. Just desolate country, the ideal place to participate in any number of illegal activities. One occasionally catches the strangest, briefest scent of meth blowing in the plant-perfumed air.

I gun it forward. The agreed-upon rule was, of course, not too fast. Howard is going maybe 15 mph by now. By the time I glance and check, I'm at 50.
As Howard flies directly onward in the windshield, I brace myself, physically and emotionally. The buzzing of the engine climbs to higher and higher pitches; the vibrations echo in my body as a higher and higher frequency. Soon, we are nothing but a shaking, humming mass.
I can hear Diane saying my name, quietly, and then urgently, but I ignore this. Her last-minute reaction is to be expected and already fully planned for. 

Howard, in utter panic, has slowed to a crawl. Not the best move. 
Taking off...taking off...and then, oh, the sweet moment of impact.
The collision comes hard, and nobody but me is prepared for it. At the last possible moment, Howard tries veering off before impact, as I assumed he would. I catch his car on Diana's side. Even with protective enhancements on my side, who wants to take chances? The sound of metal rupturing and glass exploding dances in the air, joined by an even more glorious sound; the piercing screams of my passenger.

Under times of extreme personal distress, the body produces 10 times the amount of adrenaline which is normally found in your biology under ideal circumstances. It's sent from your brain to every part of your body, within seconds triggering an array of physiological effects. This amount can make you lift a car. It could also give you a deadly heart attack.  

"Are you OK?" she's asking, ironically so, over and over. "I think I'm ok. Are you ok?" A glance to my right reveals a thin line of blood spilling dead-center of her forehead. The pain doesn't hit me at first, but when it does it comes in pulsating waves. I let it wash over me, for a moment...shutting my eyes and breathing in the gaseous fumes emitting from one or both of the vehicles.
"I'm lovely my dear. Lets get in the back."
"You think Howard is ok?" she asks, motioning towards the car with a blood-encrusted hand.
"He's just experienced the most beautiful moment in his life." With that, she wastes no time, and climbs in to my lap. I move aside her panties and unceremoniously stick myself in.
When my hands grip the back of her head, I notice something wrong; I'm grabbing at wet stickiness. She asks if everything is ok; I tell her, "of course".
As for myself, nothing seems too bad. Yet.
Then the muffled yelling starts from out crashed car companion. 

Diane is too anxious to get out of the car and check on him. Naturally I want to finish first, so I put it off, making insane excuses that she's too loopy to defend. 

She's whispering that she hurts, that maybe we should stop, that this is hot, oh yes indeed, but maybe not what she expected...

I almost start laughing. 

"I want to check on him too, my dear. In just a moment I promise."

I'm not lying. I absolutely can't wait. 

By the time we circle his car and look inside, it's obvious he's been gone for a few minutes. His eyes are wide open, staring somewhere past us. His dick hangs out from his opened fly pathetically, ready to be jacked off but dying before completion.

Diane is screaming.
"What are we going to do? Oh my god, oh my god, is he dead? Oh my god he's dead! We killed someone! Holy s**t we killed someone!"

While she runs panicked shapes around the vehicle, her hand now suctioned to her mouth, her eyes bulging out of her skull, I stare at his soulless eyes, too awed to move, or to scream, or to run away. He looks so at peace; this awkward, trembling man. He found his sanctuary.

I jog excitedly to the trunk and pull out a wooden bat; not the most graceful of weapons. Still, it will get the job done.  Especially with a head injury rivaling this one. Running around as she is isn't doing her any favors either. 

As I walk up behind her she is keeled over, gripping her stomach with both hands. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god."

One hit, and she's on her knees. Two, and she's lying face down. Three, and I'm beating the brains of a corpse. 

Now. Two wrecked cars. Two dead, one more beyond what I'm used to dealing with on these excursions.
Sometimes, a more simple fetish would be nice.

Reviews

[Lyric Poet]

Nothing in this story is predictable. It titillated and surprised me at every turn. Dark and deviant, with a dose of off-beat humor. Tight and concise, with no wasted words. Poe himself would likely smile at this short story, a genre which was born of his own twisted mind and hand.

Now I have discovered another fetish of my own: Reading the works of Akroma.