Grimoire Diabolique

Wendlyn shook her head. Kids, she dismissed. So unaware. Rena was only 23, and quite flighty sometimes. Wendlyn, six years older, viewed her in a sense as a sister, that is at least when they weren’t licking up each other’s vaginal grooves. Sisters didn’t generally partake in such practices. This was more an esoteric thing, a psychical/social bond, perhaps. They were sisters of the ether.

What had this one’s name been? Will? Wendlyn thought. She’d never been good with names. Walt. There. That was it. They’d picked Walt up, without much effort, at Kaggies, one of the ruckus dance clubs downtown. Walt was one of those guys too good-looking for his own good. Rena and Wendlyn weren’t too shabby themselves, mind you; they had the tackle to drag them in just as pretty as you please. Rena stood slim, trim, and alabaster-skinned, with short-cut shiny black hair. Wendlyn appeared more robust, a big, sturdy, curvaceous frame of plush flesh, with silken-straight white-blond hair, gem-blue eyes, and crisp tan lines. They rarely had trouble making a mark, and were always meticulously careful not to be seen leaving with a victim. Which might be worth pointing out now that not only were Wendlyn and Rena diverse, voracious, attractive, and highly sexualized women, they were also what psychiatrists would clinically label as systematized stage sociopaths with acute erotomanic impulses. Sex killers would be a less articulate label. Murderesses. Pure ass crazy psycho bitches…

Their philosophy was societal and rather militant in its feministic design. Never mind that they were fucked up in the head: abused, malnourished, and locked in closets as children, maladaptated via unbridled drug and alcohol use and hence damaged of certain critical brain receptors, and, in general, rife with a plethora of environmentally-causated personality disorders and biogenic amine imbalances. They saw themselves instead as philosophers of the new dark age of sexual terror, chameleon siren songs of the nihilistic ’90s. They did not perceive men, for instance, as individuals but as a cyclic and conspiratorial consortium bent on the total subjugation, exploitation, and sexual abuse of womanhood. They were pioneers of a sort, social guerrillas. Their manifesto was thus: since the beginning of civilization, man had freely and unconscionably exploited women. It was high time, therefore, that someone started exploiting them back.

Which led them, in their zeal, to some particularly brow-raising extremities. Walt, for example. Guilty by association. No doubt he’d exploited dozens, in not hundreds, of women with his looks and his phony charm. They’d taken him back to the house, for a “nightcap.” Rena had his penis out before they even made it to the bedroom, her deft little hand exploring away on the burgeoning meat. That’s all men were to them. Meat. They shared the remote little rancher Wendlyn’s father had left her after his unfortunate “suicide” back in 88. He’d passed out drunk at his desk one night, after which Wendlyn had helped him along into the netherworld via a vintage Webley .455 revolver. Talk about a mess! And loud? Dad’s brains looked like bloody chicken salad slopped across the fine lime and avocado print wallpaper. Anyway…

“Kinky babes, huh?” Walt had commented when Rena produced the four sets of handcuffs from the box under the bed. “You game? They’re just for atmosphere,” she’d assured him. “Trick cuffs, see?” She put one on and demonstrated that a simple tug would release the locking ratchet. These cuffs in truth, however, were not trick cuffs at all but Peerless Model 26 police-issue detention cuffs, the Real McCoy, and what she hadn’t shown the snide, cocky-smiling, and now fully erect Walt was the tiny shim she kept pressed against the ratchet during her demonstration. In other words, unbeknownst to Walt, once they got him stripped down and cuffed to the big brass bed, he was in there for the long haul.