Fight Club - Narrator's Nut

Churning (NxT)(NxM)

TW: Not very consensual at first, NSFW (sex)

I sigh as I set the last one free, dropping the rope that had her bound to a recliner. My wrists were limp, I think I counted seven. Seven used hookers tied to several pieces of furniture around the house. She clambers up from the floor, giving me a distasteful look – as if her underwear wasn't tied in a knot around her ankles. Those lacey thongs I never understood; she pulled them up soon after I made eye contact with them, scurrying to the nearest exit. Clanking heels.

The front door opens as she leaves, but another enters. I could smell ash and smog – it was Marla. Those frenzied, sunken eyes, that dishevelled hair, worn-out thrifted dresses. I wonder if she's wearing some of those lacey thongs - I don't understand Marla. She had let herself in on so many occasions this visit didn't even surprise me; my eyes stayed glued to the floor, stuck to that rope. Maybe she's not wearing anything at all under that ugly, ugly blue dress.

I shake the thought before I spring an erection.

'What was that about?' Her voice. Soon my eyes weren't the only pair glued to that rope, 'What is wrong with you?' This question causes our stares to meet.
I think what she meant to ask is what is wrong with Tyler, but I didn't even bother anymore. I just shook my head.

I tell her she should go.
'Are you serious?' I stare at her blankly. No way she thought I was actually joking; well, her furrowed slug-brows and disturbed eyes made it clear she didn't. Craze, there was always a hint of craze in those dirt eyes, and I felt like a nasty little worm squirming in that dirt.
'Have you been drinking again?' I look at her in disbelief. I feel like an ugly little worm, she would just rip me apart wouldn't she. Now I am imagining Marla playing with those little parasites, smeared in dirt, grime all cosy and sleeping under her nail-blanket.
Truth is, I had been, but this has nothing to do with Tyler going on a sex-fiending bender. Besides, Marla definitely has a stomach full of xanax. Her lack of coordination gives this away.
'No, Marla. No.' I point my finger up, giving her a stern look, 'I just think. I think you should leave now. I need to sort something out.' I softened up, letting my forehead drop to my palm. Wilted, soft worm. Stomped, squished, squeezed worm. Marla squeezes those parasites as little school girls and boys in the park gape and gawk in fear, oozing from between her pale, scrawny fingers like melted cheese. Only, it was pink.

The woman bites her lower lip in frustration, 'You are un-fucking-believable, you know that?' Glaring at me one last time, she shakes her head and clunks away. Those unsteady little steps. I just look to the side, not wanting to face her right now. As the door slams, the house shudders.

Getting myself up, I call out, 'Tyler!' No response. I roll my eyes as I let my arms hang loosely by my side, pouting my lips, looking up at the ceiling. I don't want to deal with this again. 'Tyler!' I yell out this time. A maze of wall-paper flowers, greasy wall-paper flowers; hand-prints, tears, whatever else. Probably Tyler's unborn children; failed aim. One corridor led to another, and another, an empty room, used condoms in the toilet, mould. No sign of Tyler. Other than the condoms.

'Ty-' I'm stopped mid-sentence. There he was, a tangled mess by my feet on the kitchen floor. His breaths were planted on what looked like a fuzzy, half-eaten apple (it was hard to tell, it must have been there a while). It looked like my old teacher; red and hairy. A chastity cage on his dick and yet he still managed to staple his balls to the floor. I imagine them crying out to me in pain.

'Please let us go.'
Those rotten little sperms.
It's best he never breeds, I hope they die.

I swallow hard and grunt, 'Tyler we talked about this, now get up!'
A line of drool from the cliff-face of his lip is the only response I get. Seeping through the weeping wooden floor-boards. I kick him hard now, but with no result. Tyler just absorbs it. Tyler the big rock. The rock in my kitchen. I want it out.