Flash Fiction Friday: Spider Couch #2
by Philip Tannehill
I hope you enjoy this next disgusting installment of Spider Couch. You can find the first chapter here. -KA
I awoke in the darkness with a burning sensation in my genitals. I panicked, only to recall that I had escorted home a couch, not a loose woman. This thought did not sooth the burning, so I unzipped my pants and began to feel out the situation. Immediately I observed that my penis felt much larger than ever. I groped along its shaft down past my knee, then felt a second penis extending out from behind the first, before suspecting that grave forces were at work.
After another minute of frantic fumbling, I pieced together what had occurred. The spider couch had slipped one of its thin black legs up my urethra and another up my anus. This was most unpleasant indeed.
I attempted to spring out of the couch to make for the basement stairs, but the spider legs restrained me like a prisoner’s chains. “Help!” I cried. “Help!”
Griselda was a light sleeper. I called for her repeatedly, desiring more than ever to see my sister’s face crack the darkness and appear in the doorway, bathed in light, at the top of the stairs. The spider’s legs pushed further inside me while its other six legs crushed my ribs in a smothering embrace.
Right as my vision started going fuzzy, Griselda appeared at the top of the stairs. She looked down on our obscene lovemaking (if the spider couch was in fact trying to seduce me) and screamed. The characteristic move for her to make next would’ve been to slam the door, bolt it, and flee to her room – or faint outright. But Griselda was a brave sister who apparently loved me more than I knew. Contrary to her nature, she stormed down the stairs two at a time and came to stand before me and the spider. Her hands were balled into fists.
“Take your hands off him, you bitch,” she said.
I’d never heard such strong language from my sister. When the spider couch tightened its grip, Griselda raged forth, swinging her fists like hammers. A blow glanced off my head, but in her frenzy she also landed several key strikes on the spider couch’s head. Overwhelmed by my sister, the spider couch loosened its clutches on my bowels and freed my penis of its wrath. Its grip on my torso was also released.
I leapt off that couch so fast I probably looked like a reindeer with hot coals on its ass. I practically flew up the staircase and when I got to the top I turned around, remembering Griselda. She was in the clutches of the spider couch now. The evil piece of furniture had torn away her nightgown and was spreading her labia to resemble a manta ray.
“Help! Help!” Griselda cried.
I was not falling for that trick. I knew that if you helped someone who was caught in the spider couch’s cushiony web, then the spider couch would target you. Not to mention, if the spider couch happened to catch me before I freed Griselda, both of us would be stuck, forced to engage in crude and bizarre sexual acts with the couch. Who would feed Griselda’s cat then?
“Look, Griselda. Here’s how it is. If I go down to save you and happen to get caught myself, who will look after Mister Mittens? It is my responsibility not to save you, dear sister. I’m sorry, but think of the dear little Mittens.”
“Mister Mittens has been dead since Thanksgiving, you ass,” she said. “You sold him to the butcher in exchange for a turkey sandwich.”
“Oh really?” Upon reflection, I did recall enjoying a superbly marvelous sandwich around Thanksgiving. There had also been a distinct absence of feline activities around our home. I’d assumed that Mister Mittens was starving (because how do you feed a cat when you can hardly afford to feed yourself?) and had grown too weak to leave Griselda’s room. Poor cat. Sold to the butcher for a sandwich. Ah, I remembered the exchange in clearer detail now. One mewling sack of claws and fur in exchange for thick cuts of white meat on a bed of mashed potatoes and gravy, resting between two slices of toasted wheat bread . . . and cranberry sauce. Loads of cranberry sauce. God, what a sandwich. To imagine I’d acquired it for the low price of my sister’s only companion. It was a crying shame she wasn’t a cat hoarder. Selfish of her, one might say. I was sorry for Mister Mitten’s death, though, because if he hadn’t already been sold for a sandwich, I could bag him up and take him down to the butcher’s straightaway in the morning. This time of year, the furry brute could fetch a fair lot of hot ham water.
I was depressed about the murderous state of my new couch, but also very hungry, so I slammed the door of the basement on my sister’s screams. Perhaps she had some other items I could pilfer for a bowl of hot ham water.
[To be continued.]