Free Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror by Zané Sachs

He’s under-age in Colorado, so the poor kid has to hang out at coffee shops instead of bars.
    “Sure …” He flashes me that goofy grin.
    While he’s in the bathroom, I throw on a tee-shirt, skip the underpants. Then I slide open the bedroom closet where I keep my husband’s plumbing tools, bypass the cordless drill and chainsaw, choose the borescope—an endoscopic camera that connects to a handheld monitor. The camera’s flexible cable is designed to snake through pipes and dark, difficult to reach places. Ideal for my latest project. I power up the monitor, making sure the battery is charged. Satisfied, I head to the kitchen, grab a bottle of Fat Tire from the fridge, and lace it with Unisom.
    Wiz Kalifa’s rap is pulsing through the Bluetooth speakers, and when I hear the toilet flush I blast the music.
    The kid appears, a pink towel wrapped around his waist, and before he sees the borescope, I shove it into a cabinet between oatmeal and olive oil.
    “Sit down. Relax.”
    My place is small, and the kitchen opens to the living room. I hand him the Fat Tire and point at the couch by the fireplace.
    He flops onto the cushioned seat, guzzles the beer, and sets the empty bottle on the plastic tarp.
    “Still thirsty?” I hand him another beer.
    “Aren’t you kind of old for rap music, Krista? I thought you’d be listening to New Age, or something, like my mom.”
    “I’m not that old, asshole.”
    I’m preparing the next beer, my back to him. I think three will do the trick.
    “This town is friendly,” he says, his grin getting goofier. Attempting to stand, he wobbles and falls back onto the couch. He pats the seat. “Aren’t you going to sit down, Krista?” It sounds like, r n u goina siddown, Krissa ?
    For some reason, I answer using baby talk. “Woll onto your tum-tum, and me give you a weally good back wub.”
    “I may fall asleep.” He yawns.
    “No pwobwem. Stay owa tonight.”
    I grab the borescope and the extra virgin olive oil, head to the living room and slip the borescope behind the couch so he can’t see it. I pour olive oil into my hands, rub my palms together to warm it, then knead his shoulders.
    He moans with pleasure.
    “Actually,” I say, “this will work better if you lie on the floor.”
    He’s already half-unconscious. I help him from the couch, ease him onto the plastic tarp.
    “Cushion?” I slip one under his head.
    I enjoy running my oiled hands over his skin, think about sprinkling him with salt and pepper, a few cloves of minced garlic, a smidge of oregano, squeeze of lemon. Greek style. His body is perfect, young and tight. My finger traces the tattoo on his shoulder, an intricate design. I’ll have to get rid of that. I press my palms into the center of his back, hear the pop of his spine as tension releases.
    “Feel good?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    He’s almost gone.
    I move my hands lower, my fists kneading the taut muscles in his butt. I lube up with more oil, and my hands glide between his legs, parting his thighs so I have access to his balls. I nuzzle them from behind, delicately nibbling and licking. A pubic hair gets stuck between my teeth. I dislodge it with my fingernail, flick it onto the tarp. Note to self: shave nuts . The kid is utterly relaxed now. My forefinger slides between his cheeks, and when I enter him he barely winces. His sphincter tightens, loosens as I wiggle my well-oil finger, massaging him until he opens like a ripe peach. I climb on top of him, rub my clit against his back as I ride him. My pussy gushes and my clit distends, thighs clenching and unclenching as my body arches backward.
    Ride ’em, cowgirl.
    Who needs a cock? My clit is doing all the work, and I’m about to burst. Did you know women ejaculate? Fluid squirts out of these ducts around the urethra. That’s ducts, not ducks. Mine are squirting big time now. I come, and come, and come.
    Almost forgot!
    Movie time.
    Between pussy juice and olive oil, his anus is slick and receptive;