Cockicidal

She was more than angry. Even more than furiously enraged. Her intentions now were the purest evil. All she could think about -- as those fucking voices barked at her on the other end of the phone all day -- was annihilation. She wanted to tear the damn phone out of the wall and ram it into the computer screen. She wanted to destroy her entire cubicle. She knew that when she spoke her voice quivered. It was something she couldn’t control but knew that somehow she had to. That pussy boss was just a few feet away and if she slipped and said something out of line he would likely hear and she might be fucked. Well, she wouldn’t let that happen. It was the fucking ex, it was all his fault she was in this predicament, the fucker fucking that 20-year-old cockslut and leaving his kids behind so he could get his middle-aged pleasure with a whore who theoretically could be his own daughter. NO, she would keep her fucking rage bottled up tight until she left the office, then inside her car would release her primal hatred against him and all he supposedly stood for. What a fucking cunt, she thought, not only thinking of his slut but of him as well. If she had a chance she would cut his dick off while he fucked her and leave the severed part stuck in the bitch’s pussy, all his blood spurting on her instead of his now useless cum. But no. She’d never have that chance, except in her dreams, her daily fantasies, even as the greedy barkers rambled on and on about their stupid fucking troubles, thinking she was really listening but all the while having visions of cock-severing delight.

--Charles F. McKenzie