Eighty Proof Tick Blood
by Nolan Devine
I was pulling little brown ticks off my dog’s rib-thin belly when its woofity-woofs became garbled and soon registered in my ears as human speak. She lay her mid-sized body across my lap as I used one hand to pick, the other to wheel myself back and forth with a cluttered mind and nervous energy. The wall paint had worn away from where my toes endlessly bumped it, their nerves forever failing to register the sensation.
Sloopy rolled her upward eye to align with my face. A spotted tongue unfurled through her jaw’s vacant gap where teeth once grew like stalagmites. Many things can now slip in and out of there with ease.
“Azrael, what’s bad?” Her words rattled off in the voice of a shrunk down old woman, which I liked.
She rolled from her side onto her back. A little pink belly contrasted against matted, yellowing fur. I searched the pink’s eight nozzles for crawly food. I’d had this furry pet plaything since puberty yet she hadn’t used speech ’til now. She knew my commands and always responded by doing as I pleased, her only vocalizations being the occasional yip.
“Am I hearing you because I licked a dog mint?” I’d been drunk and couldn’t find Binaca.
She told me no and told me why. I’d been eating ticks off her nipples for days. Our bloods mixed, causing some interspecies, intergalactic shit. It made enough sense. I swallowed down perhaps a few too many of the wiggly little blood bugs. The tiny brown ones were my preference but I didn’t discriminate against newcomers of different breeds. I enjoyed the crunch of all. Those whose shells escaped my porcelain teeth floated about the ample negative space of a tummy, waiting to latch to lining for a walkabout.
I held dominion over even those not chewed. Little bugs lost in my squeezing tummy. There was no one else like me, except perhaps one, who gained from ticks instead of lost. Absorbing every drop the creature drank. Those who latched to my outer skin were simply recycled back into the master. I could forever feel bunches crawling through me. Engorged but not for long. I’d ring them dry then spit ’em free. Back to the world to collect for me.
Sloopy asked why I’d been so quiet the past few weeks. I banged my chair around lightly, letting her question dissipate into the landscape of the recent past. It was a world once full of hope that slowly became unlivable.
I picked a fat green tick off Sloopy’s pisser and squeezed until it bled. Slowly rubbed its stolen blood back into my dog’s belly with a fingertip. I only commanded a few greens but this felt important. Her stomach transformed into a screen which flickered images of my pudgy little uncle. His resolution was too great. I wiped the red away, leaving a distorted smear of the man. “What’s happening?”
“Tell me why you no feel good.” She snuggled against my tummy cushion, wagging her floppy tail. “Tell me why you won’t play our games since you been home from the fix ’em up place.” She nuzzled at my crotch.
She was right. Our games had been spoiled by those played with another. It seemed okay to confess to fur so mindless it couldn’t self-preserve against suckling predators. I began to let loose my story.
My uncle, Larry Lamb, liked that I was a wheelchair epileptic who always wore a protective helmet. My body often spasms on its own, but him and I had our own special dance. We shared a love of ticks and games. Many games. He sometimes plucked a nickel sized green tick off his genitals and placed it on my tongue, teasing me with a taste before taking the creature back and placing it in his dirty under hole. He said that my family did not pass our stories orally, but instead anally.
“But you’re telling me an oral story,” Sloopy quipped.
She was right. I held her upside down, hind legs on my shoulders, and placed my lips to her stretched, warm anus. I let a few little ticks crawl off my tongue so they could feed from the animal’s cave. My muffled voice carried on as her front legs dug into my two dead limbs.
Larry liked to tell stories and play games. I was sixteen when it began. The hour hand on the clock face tracking my years advanced four times before it ended. The sporting season lasted all through the hot summer months as I helped out at my uncle’s goat farm. I grew too thin there for my own tastes. But my parents thought I could use a touch of nature and fresh experience.
I was to strap on all terrain tires and herd the animals. So I lived with my uncle for months at a time. Sometimes he left me stuck in muddy pastures for days. I passed time by watching the goats mount one another. By thinking of more pleasurable moments ahead. Of when I could get back home to my doggy toy.
My uncle once offered to massage my head when I complained about my brain throbbing. It sometimes did if I forgot to eat my pills. Larry’s elderly wife had just passed after being trampled by goats when he called the females to come for milking. Her ultra thin body shit itself beneath the pressure of their hooves and my chair’s errant maneuvering My uncle collected this mess from her panties and used it to fertilize a small rose garden.
He didn’t throw the body away. The green ticks, latched to auntie for years at uncle’s behest, abandoned their food upon her drying out. Though I saw plenty, to them there was nothing left. They gathered on master Larry and he made promises to feed their hungry tummies. But his wife was only a bloodless husk. This husk often sat propped beside her roses as useless potato bugs crawled in and out the holes they chewed through her fallow skin.
“I remember eating flowers from that garden,” Sloopy said. Her anal opening quivered in vibration with the words. My sated ticks crawled back into my wet jaw.
I too recalled the flower eating. It was my first day back and Sloopy had come with me to sniff the blooming plants as they thrived in their second season. We placed a few in my aunt’s leathery, folded hands. A few more were flattened by my chair. My furry little woof woof machine swallowed them down with my permission. Later on my uncle kicked Sloopy in the ribs when she yakked up a goo blob of petals at his feet. He cried over what the dog had done. By afternoon my parents came to collect her. She wasn’t ever allowed back on the farm. It seemed a lonely place to be.
With my face buried deeper in Sloopy’s wet asshole I thought back to that time my brain burned. The first summer of play. Uncle Larry removed my helmet and started to massage my head with an ice cube. Its coolness was calming. He licked a trail of melted water off the ridge of my forehead crease. Before leaving the room he pulled a few green ticks off himself and said they could be mine. I don’t think he knew I could manipulate the suck bugs too. To him I was just a blood bag to appease his unruly pets.
We didn’t have physical contact again that season except when he helped me into bed or the bathroom. My uncle seemed to grow more gentle when he saw his fattened green ticks crawling on my face. Never noticed the dead goat in his pasture. But some of the bugs’ gorged state was from me. Neither I nor my browns quite knew how to master these greens beyond getting them to sometimes feed on animals. They left sickly bumps on my skin and too often skittered back to Larry, wet with my blood. And so uncle was happy with my presence. He even let me lasso a goat and drag it behind my chair as auntie rode on my lap. I liked the way her bum vibrated against my special limb.
The next summer more things happened. It was that day Sloopy puked flowers. After waving my parents goodbye, Larry came into my bedroom with his wife’s corpse in a tin wheelbarrow. He wore a pair of shit stained panties on his head, fixed so their crotch lining passed from forehead to chin, his eyes uncovered. His facial features molded to the stretchy material. I could see his tongue wag.
He positioned auntie’s naked body so that its mushy legs were splayed and hanging out the front of the cart, almost as if they were to take steps on their own. I had a direct shot at her dried up genitals, the first I’d seen beside my own. Her skin glimmered and she smelled of gasoline. Perhaps it was being used as a preservative or druggy perfume. Perhaps lubricant. The fumes made me dizzy. I asked why she wasn’t buried. He only told me that we’d get along. That she too liked to travel on wheels. That he wanted her to be filled with as much life as possible. He kept repeating variations on that last part. Each word he spoke caused the panties on his face to wrinkle.
Larry said his wife had the urge to milk more goats but they’d given their all for the night. I felt bad and asked if I could help. He told me her hands would milk just about anything. That seeing her in action would help him forget her passing, an event he’d agonized over for a year. He presented me with a rose from the garden she helped to grow. As I sniffed he manipulated her leathery gas hands to take down my pajama bottoms. My body tensed and I didn’t know if it was from fear or anticipation.
“It’s her hand, Azrael. Not mine. That means we aren’t faggots.” Pantie Face told me it was okay to fuck this woman. That she was only a relation by marriage. That she was practically a stranger since we barely knew each other when she was still a breather. I was scared but felt excited at the prospect of a female liking me and my crippled up body.
With her shriveled skin hand he began to work my genitals as I stared at the bumps on the ceiling. The gas was no longer dizzying but instead induced a weightless pleasure. I floated through the room in ecstasy. With my aunt’s touch I grew stiff. My vine sprouted from a patch of pink pubic hair. An elephant’s nose in search of peanuts. Her salty knuckles were my feed. He giggled when she got her milk.
My upside down dog licked my upper thigh and told me it was alright. She nuzzled her face against my living limb but I was still too racked with confusion for it to respond. I flicked my tongue deep inside her moist, rank cavern as I found more words for my story.
I sometimes felt confused and shameful over gaining pleasure from the games my aunt and I played. Wondered if my broken body meant this would be my only opportunity in life for sexual contact with another human. A rotted out, dead incest pussy my only cum hole. But I started to permanently dislike it after a few years of progressing games. After my uncle became so bloated he nearly choked on the panties each time he drew labored breath to give his commands.
Larry, now crawling in plump ticks at all times, sewed a goat’s penis to her corpse. His stitchwork impressed me. He seemed to think his fat ass powerful yet almost all his goats were dead. His status as master was perhaps not as concrete as when the games first began. Uncle swatted away my brown ticks most times I sent them to crawl his body, but a few hid away in his hair beneath the pantie hat. My skin was no longer dotted with swollen, red bites. My browns often drained greens that’d strayed off from their pack or convinced them to come live with me. But I was still thinning, albeit at a slower rate than before.
One night he yanked me from my chair and carried me over his shoulder to the cold outside dirt. With my face squished into his wife’s flower garden he placed the big smelly sewed on animal thing at my rear opening. The rest of auntie’s slick body weighed my torso down. Plant thorns poked my neck. He crouched to enter her anally. His violent pumping caused her hips to thrust back and forth, her goat penis breaching my hole. It went in crooked because it was bent like a broken finger. But it still made perfect contact with my prostate. We played this game many times. I fed the garden my milk by the gallon.
In my fourth and final summer there, when her asshole fully collapsed from his years of plunder, Larry began using auntie’s pink nail polish to paint my dirty opening. For hours he stared at it crying, talking to my hole as if it were his wife. As if she were to be found at the deep end of this echo chamber. He never let me fuck her anymore. I wasn’t even allowed to knowingly get high off the fumes, which it turned out were used for all three reasons I outlined earlier. He tried to bring her back to life by placing big ticks on my belly for hours, then letting them crawl down her throat, ready to pop. It was all to no avail. He often propped her up beside us. Spoke into my hole and then looked to her mouth, waiting for response. The words of love he hoped for never came.
This was too much. There was no more pleasure for my little limb or those ambiguous but heartfelt desires that stirred in my lonely brain. I’d let myself slowly grow accustomed to our playtime over the years until even the freakish became normalized. His constant wearing of the messy panties on his face didn’t even make me wonder anymore. His attempted communion with tick blood almost surpassed even my own dalliance with its powers. But the paint crusted on my asshole jolted me back to an objective viewpoint.
I don’t know why that was what brought me to my senses. Perhaps because I now felt I was being used with no compensation for my giving. Perhaps it was because I barely got to touch auntie anymore. Either way, I grew to feel our games were no longer right for me. I couldn’t let him do this, no matter how much I craved human touch.
During our painting sessions I laid back and went eeennnhhhhh as I pretended to seizure. I hoped this would cause him take pause and stop. It never did. He beat my useless legs with an electric cattle prod until I ceased the shaking. He’d always hated my disease, and since his wife died, the entire idea of my autonomy. I was merely another piece on his game board.
I thought I could make him quit if I desecrated the corpse. When he set me atop her in the wheelbarrow to move us to the pasture I bit off a dead ear and spit the chewed pieces at his cock. Ripped open her stomach and asked why no baby after all this cum. The goo slopped out the barrow. He began to gasp through the panties in deep, pain filled breaths. Amidst a wet exhalation he struck my helmet with the prod. It sent me into seizure. His cock looked down at my bent, flopping body. He screamed for his wife as he fished her polish from a pocket. He painted as best he could across the seizing, foam spewing canvass.
He sobbed into the shaky hole. “Come back to me. Please. I feel cold without you.” He looked to his wife. His words brought about nothing.
When my parents saw me in the hospital bed I’d been reluctantly brought to they said sorry but I was too fragile for the farm now. They felt so bad that I wasn’t to herd another goat for Uncle Lamb. I would never play games with auntie again. From the bed I watched a commercial where an old woman died in the tub. The ad didn’t show enough skin. No matter. This hag would have to age gracefully in death if she expected me to fuck her.
I wanted to tell my parents all I’d seen and done but got dizzy when the words tried to come alive. It was as if my aunt’s gasoline fumes were back in my brain. This time I wasn’t floating high but instead locked down in another hospital bed. I felt trapped in my body once again. And no one could ever know. I was the only one besides Larry who knew about the body. I couldn’t risk further imprisonment if they found my cripple cum in her.
I hated that my uncle was getting away with this more so than I was relieved that the bad parts of it were over. For weeks after the seizure I still felt its shakes within me at all times. He’d latched onto my hopes and emotions, now sucking at them every day. The fat man forever feeding.
I disconnected my mouth from Sloopy’s history hole. With her back on my lap she had me crack another couple ticks over her belly and rub them in. I mixed together the bloods of a green and brown. Again, Larry appeared. This time the surface also acted as a mirror. I began to scream into the apparition waters. “You’re a pervert. A sick fucking rapist!” Using that word for the first time felt freeing, an acknowledgement that until then I hadn’t been able to make.
I dropped a couple brown ticks down onto Larry. My uncle’s shit stained face looked up through the fur. He was tending to flowers with the wheelbarrow at his side, occasionally using the hanging dead feet to pat soil. He swatted at the now shrunk-down ticks crawling on his skin, cursing the little bugs that weren’t his greens. They stayed latched on. He shouted to the heavens. “Who is there?”
He couldn’t see me. My voice boomed in the sky over him like God.
“You hurt your nephew.” I tried to think on my words but soon let impulse grab hold. “But you could be forgiven if you let him cum in auntie.” As I made my demands I noticed that he stood in the reflection of my open mouth.
He looked to the sky and laughed. “He won’t have her. But I regret not fucking Wheels with my own skin.” He went back to weeding flowers.
I felt my stomach twisting up. It was as if a thousand winged suck bugs were trying to flutter through and lift my crippled corporeality to the sky, preparing to drop their cargo at the apex of flight. Ready to skitter away to their new master in his garden. I was about to go splat when Sloopy spoke up in her haggish voice.
“The blood. Lick the blood.”
Acting fast I held her to my mouth and laid my tongue in the puddle. The scenery of the stomach projection became distorted and my uncle was lifted to red, viscous waters. I sucked and sucked as he tossed through bloody waves. I felt him pass from the screen into my mouth. A tiny version of my plump uncle now danced in fright atop my fat tongue. He looked up and saw it was me, too shocked to react with any sense of coherency. He searched his body for green ticks to throw but they all skittered from his plucking fingers. With blood dripping at my lips I swallowed. His desperate shouts echoed up my throat, emitting as if my own voice. “Fuck it.”
Sloopy licked at my hand. I tried to thank her the only way I knew how but she only yipped in painful reply. I felt my uncle crawling in my stomach. His few remaining bugs abandoned him quick. I sensed an aimless wander. He was unable to walk his way to my cum chambers or slide out my pee hole. I found a rose I’d taken from his farm and ate it whole. Larry Lamb was now forever reunited with the love of his life.
I felt my ticks, old and new, latch onto him for the final drink. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. My stomach rumbled as he screamed. The engorged ticks exploded from feeding on this fat man’s life’s supply of stolen blood. I began to absorb his fluids. His powers. They warmed my pudgy tummy.
I rubbed my doggy’s sickly thin belly. Threw a toy for her to fetch and laughed when she bounded after it as if a slave. At least one of us had legs. Seeing her move caused a tingle in my waist. I really had no thanks to give her except perhaps one idea from the old play bag.
Sloopy jumped on me. I hacked up an insect popped apart. I couldn’t tell its color. Using my tongue I spit it away like the shell of a popcorn kernel whose buttery white fluff was already swallowed down. No need to fetch that one, girl. I’m plenty drunk on tick blood. I felt ready to play our games again so reached for her genitals with one hand while stroking my living limb with the other. It grew fatter and fatter.
I can be reached via commenting below.
This story is the spiritual successor to another thing I wrote:
On the name Azrael that I thought was interesting:
“In one of his forms, he has four faces and four thousand wings, and his whole body consists of eyes and tongues, the number of which corresponds to the number of people inhabiting the Earth. He will be the last to die, recording and erasing constantly in a large book the names of men at birth and death, respectively.”
Also, I just became public enemy number one of the downtown Minneapolis library: