98 Wounds Read Online Free Page B

looser, but he’s not sure. He’s sure he’s had much bigger things up there before but he also knows that one shouldn’t live in the past.
    The dealer pulls the butt-plug out. And again, he breathes at the right moment and the pain is assuaged in that breath. He can feel some liquid seeping out of his hole. He decides that he will describe it as glacially oozing if he ever tells anyone of this night. But it is the middle of the afternoon. Or early morning. Or daylight savings. Oh, what is the time, Mr. Wolf?
    The dealer doesn’t seem to mind the shit, nor does he seem to care; he will leave that room in that residential hotel that night and move to another room somewhere else. The dealer is wielding the evil dildo again, and trying to work it into the ass.
    He is torn between wanting to have that huge dildo, huger than any he has ever seen (though he is not in full possession of any senses of perception or perspective), inside of him, fulfill the bargain, get his stuff, and wanting to hold all that shit inside of him, not let it go. He thinks of the bathroom shared by the floor’s residents, outside and way across the building. He thinks newspaper might work, too, like how puppies are paper-trained.
    He is thankful that the dealer’s boyfriend is not present, lurking around in his y-fronts. He hopes the boyfriend doesn’t show up unexpectedly; he doesn’t need, can’t stand, the drama. Those two have a relationship that is best described as “brokeback,” in that one’s a needy bottom and the other’s a selfish top.
    The dealer pushes absent-mindedly and the head of the dildo enters him. He is trying not to flinch too much, trying not to stop the deal. The dealer is working more and more of the dildo into his hole. He can feel more shit glacially oozing out of his hole, or maybe it is not coming out of his hole but being stopped up by that rubber plug. His guts hurt. His heart is pounding like mad.
    The dealer is still working the dildo, corkscrewing it in.
    He takes a good swallow of air and his hole loosens so that the pain eases a little.
    The dealer is working the dildo in and out of the ass.
    He can feel even more shit coming out of the sides now. He know he is shitting. He can plainly smell it, see the earthy streaks.
    The dealer doesn’t seem to mind nor care, instead he is working the dildo with even brutal strokes, pushing deeper and harder, jabbing and digging as if it was a clam hunt at Pismo Beach. His face is one of concentration, single-mindedly focused on the task. The dealer lets him take another long hard hit on the pipe.
    He is thankful. It helps.
    Now he has stopped shitting; instead, he is bleeding. He can see the smear of blood on the thin white poly-cotton sheet. He knows it is blood because its viscosity against his bare skin is so different, unlike that of shit, or piss, or spit, or cum, or sweat, or bile, or mucus. He feels his blood flowing like his shit was flowing a moment ago.
    He is surprised by how unaffected he is by all the smells in the room and the viscosity pooled under him. This is what life smells like, he thinks. Even before birth, you spend all those months in the womb shoved up beside the bowels, and then you’re born mere inches away from the poophole. And when you die, your bowel is the last thing that releases its hold on your life. And in the middle, in the middle. He once, with a few friends watched a video on the internet that was reputed to be so hideously gross that it spawned millions of reaction videos of people watching the clip. “2 Girls, 1 Cup” showed two young attractive women indulging in some scat play while watched by some men. At one point in the clip, the two women crap into a plastic cup and then proceed to eat and feed the contents of the cup to each other. His friends were howling and shrieking in disbelief, one was even nauseated to the point of dry heaving. At that time, he was merely