The Ratfucker ~ a short story
By Valentine Bonnaire
Copyright June 2012
The Ratfucker’s cubicle at PresSinkCorps wasn’t much different than the others on the top floor. He’d carved himself a space by climbing year upon year to a higher and higher position inside the corporation. This required him to kiss the asses of men who were higher. Each year that kiss had made him meaner and more soulless until he resembled a pallid version of himself. He’d become a ghost of a man. One of the invisible ones.
The underlings laughed as he passed, remarking that he was a brown nose and noticing the stiff way he walked. Nobody liked him because his eyes were dead. Nobody knew about the secret in his locked desk drawer. Nobody would have ever suspected.
Guys like that hide their dirty little deeds.
The Ratfucker had been responsible for murder. Because he wasn’t human, he didn’t regard other humans with any feeling at all. Twice he’d penned the directions for the firings, and twice two men had died from the shock of having their lives upended and destroyed. Bottom line, you know? That’s what he was always working on hunched over like the worst Scrooge that ever was. Figures, figures, figures.
He was a three stroke and come sort of fuck. He’d managed to produce a couple of children, grown them up and gotten them into college. His wife thought sex was dirty in the first place. She laid back while he rolled on and off once a week for five minutes, in the first years. She didn’t know what was really going on inside his head. He never said. He didn’t tell her about the size three women’s panties he slipped on everyday either, under his tighty-whities. He regarded those as a sort of chastity belt that kept his balls in place.
“Look at the way he walks.”
“Something’s wrong with that guy.”
“I never liked him.”
The underlings whispered and shook their heads as he passed in the halls. The dead roses his assistant had hanging in her office were a tip off. She’d hang them bunch by bunch until they dried in fragile brown memories of life lived en rose.
“Look at the way he walks, like he has a ramrod up his ass.”
“He killed Gabe.”
Gabe had been his polar opposite. All warmth and kindness and raises and Italian smiles and the Ratfucker had fired him because of those very things. Gabe of the lionhearted Lion’s club. Gabe of the Lineotype era of decent men that once existed at PresSinkCorps before the mergers. Gabe of the journeymen and hand tools before cold type.
“He fired Dorothy.”
The Ratfucker had fired her because she married one of his competitors. One of those asses he was going to have to lick. On his way up the ladder. The lucre ladder.
He was filthy. Filthy with his deeds and his dollars and his trembling little bean counter fingers. He fantasized about money while his cock hardened in his chastity panties. They were green silk most of the time under his plain cotton. He liked that he had to walk around stiff like that, almost pained, doing dirty deeds. Pain was what he craved the most under that bland golf cap wearing exterior. Pain was what he craved sitting alone with the books behind the locked office door after everyone had gone home.
Punishment. Because he had sinned.
In secret he took down a bunch of the dead roses from the cubicle next to him and laid them on the glass-covered desk in a ritual. He’d sent them to her. Every one of those bunches his assistant had drying. After each firing she’d get one.
The Ratfucker imagined her in black leather with a whip standing behind him.
“You were bad, weren’t you?”
He imagined her giving orders as he pulled his pants down and they dropped around his ankles. He tugged his underpants off, exposing the too-tight silk, the too-compressed bulge of him begging to elongate. He kept it curled like a snail in those panties.
“You deserve what I’m going to do, don’t you?”
“Yes, mistress,” he choked out. The whip crackled as she snapped it in imaginary air.
“Stuff that dirty money in your mouth.”
The Ratfucker pulled his desk drawer open. Wads of dollar bills he claimed he’d saved the company over the years were inside. He grabbed a handful and began.
“Keep going, dirty boy.”
He could smell the scent of the bills as he began to stuff them where she directed.
“Nobody is going to be able to hear you scream, are they?”
He shook his head and tears began to fall from his dull reptilian eyes. He kept stuffing and stuffing the money into his mouth as he sniffed the dead roses on the desk.
“Where did you put the bankrolls?” he imagined her saying. “You little ratfucker.”
Rolls and rolls of money were stuffed in the drawer. His secret fetish was to wear one deep inside the green panties stuffed up his arse. Sometimes he did that during the day at work when he had to sit through meetings licking the asses of men higher than himself.
“You know what you want, don’t you?”
He whimpered as he felt it slide in. She’d chosen a fat one. The fattest roll yet.
He could smell the leather of the whip in his fantasy. He knew what she planned to do with it. His nostrils flared against the dead roses on his desk, just missing the thorns by inches. He’d have to be careful not to let any scratches from the thorns show. It’s not as if his wife would understand. Or his colleagues.
Nobody had ever understood his sickness when it came to money.
“This one is for Gabe,” she whispered. The whip snapped more harshly.
“And this one is for Dorothy.”
The Ratfucker began to writhe against his glass-covered desk, humping it, mouth stuffed with dirty money, ass stuffed with his dirty dollared rolled deeds. This was the only way he’d ever been able to get himself off. Lucre. Right where it belonged. Up the orifice. He spent himself finally, chucked the green panties into the wastebasket and replaced the dead roses on his assistant’s wall, smiling. He wanted to impress the night janitor, as if he’d really gotten laid inside PresSinkCorps’ top cubicles. Not that any woman would have looked at him twice.
“Asshole,” the underlings whispered amongst themselves at the company picnic the next day.
“Look at this cheap fucking party.”
“This is the best PresSinkCorps can do?”
“It’s his fault.”
Troughs of slops awaited them on the bedecked tables all set for the Fourth of July. The Ratfucker moved through the crowd in his usual tight-assed way, his oblivious wife on one arm and his assistant on the other. Nobody could see the tiny drop of dried blood from the thorns that had pricked his cheek the night before.
PresSinkCorps executives milled the crowd with plastered smiles. It was all a question of who was licking who at these parties anyway.
A lone reporter smiled taking notes. She was the last of a breed. Gabe’s breed and Dorothy’s breed. The lionhearted kind.
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Copyright June 2012 Valentine Bonnaire
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