Itchy Fingers
This is my first foray into a story of a somewhat 'darker' content. This has nothing to do with any of my other stories, it is more me just trying to write something with a specific style and to evoke a certain emotional state. I tried for a very deliberate pacing, so the writing is not all that dynamic. I suppose I was trying to be more hypnotic in my pacing then anything else.
This story does contain adult situations, and includes graphic sex, violence, and death. If any of this potentially disturbs you, or you are not legal age to read adult content, I would go back to Sofurry's main page right now.
Characters are not to meant to resemble anyone in particular, but the story is copyright me.
I welcome any and all comments, because one learns as much from the negative, as the positive.
His fingers itch.
He notices as he wakes up. They itch right from the tips to the first knuckle on each finger, on each hand. It feels like little things crawling along His skin through the fur, into the channels for His claws. The itching stops right before the first knuckle. He ignores it; He has suffered the itch before and it fades after a time; most of the time. When it doesn't fade, He knows how to fix it.
He gets out of bed and does His usual grooming routine; shower, body soap for His fur, brushing to smooth out the tangles, toothpaste and mouthwash for His breath and teeth. His sharpens his claws, He trims His whiskers, He plucks the few grey strands of fur around his muzzle.
His fingers itch.
He dresses for work. Slacks, button down shirt, vest, coat. He wears black to accentuate His orange fur and black stripes. He is the model of the well-cultured man, poised, graceful. He is the envy of other tigers for keeping His color and His appearance well into His fiftieth year. Women still come to Him when He wants them. When He goes out, He does not look long for companionship from those of any age. He polished His shoes last night so He would not waste time cleaning them this morning.
His breakfast is simple. A couple of eggs, ham, juice, the staples of a good diet that kept Him healthy, trim for His age. He does not hurry; He does not need to hurry, because He always leaves enough time to get to work.
His fingers itch.
Everyone likes Him at work. He greets everyone by name, because He knows everyone on His floor. He makes sure that He smiles at each one of them before He goes to His office. He has work to do, but He always makes time to say hello to everyone. It makes them feel good; it makes Him feel good. He shows that He may be the boss, but He is not above them all. He cares for His employees; He cares for their families and friends. It helps them work hard, and His department is one of the best performing in the company. When He gets a bonus, His employees get a bonus; it inspires loyalty and community.
He loves His work as well. He helps people get money for homes, cars, personal effects. He helps people buy stakes in larger companies. He helps larger companies buy smaller companies, and He helps family owned companies stave off buyouts from big chains. When it comes to money, He is an expert, and He uses His expertise in ways that help everyone that use His services. Before He leaves work He has managed to set up a corporate merger, provided an elderly dachshund all He needs so that He can retire, He has secured two new small business loans for a Fox couple opening a bakery, and a Skunk that has a physical therapy license and wants to open a private practice.
His fingers itch.
He goes home. He ignores His fingers. Tonight is a quiet night at home. He has no guests tonight, no one visits Him and He has no dates set up. He likes having a night like this sometimes, sometime when He can practice cooking, when He can enjoy His library with a glass of brandy, when He revels in the peace and quiet. He thinks about the coming day. He ignores His itchy fingers. He knows that it will go away eventually, but if it does not, He knows the cure.
He enjoys Himself with a particularly erotic novel. He sometimes does that, even though He knows He could place any number of calls and have someone there within an hour for something as simple as sex. He does it anyway; He jerks Himself off to a nice, languid climax. It relaxes Him and puts Him at ease before He goes to bed and finally drifts off to sleep.
His fingers itch.
He wakes up, and His fingers still itch. Now they itch all the way to His hands. He sighs, because He knows it will not go away. He has His cures; He will try one of them tonight. He lies in bed, and thinks about the ways He has cured the itch in the past. If tonight doesn't work, He will try another method, He knows many. Some work, some do not, but He knows one way that always works. He will use that method if He has to.
He gets up and goes through His routine. Today He wears the grey suit. Today He has raw steak for His breakfast. It settles in His stomach; civilized or not the blood satisfies some primal need for Him, sometimes it stops the itching. He goes off to work and prevents a hostile takeover, gets three home loans, and visits with His secretary's cute little daughter. She is going to be in a play that evening, and she clings to her mother's leg when He mock-growls at her and tickles her under the chin. She giggles and looks to Him with bright eyes. His secretary's golden gaze looks at Him with admiration. They have slept together, but He does not let it affect His work, nor does she expect any favors from Him for the pleasure they share. He leaves work and smiles to everyone on His way out.
His fingers itch.
He goes out. He goes to the darkest, most filthy part of town. He has a club He frequents called Slashed and Burned that looks like its namesake. The club has holes in the walls, rust on the metal, when it rains the club leaks from the roof. But the music is loud, there are strong drinks, and there are lonely souls that go every night looking to find some kind of companionship. They look for a way to avoid being lonely, or satisfy their lust, or indulge and lose control to alcohol and drugs.
He finds a husky girl with a tight top, short skirt and no panties. She loves that He is older, loves that He shows up to an industrial club in a well-tailored suit, shined shoes and doesn't care how out of place He looks. She wants to please the big strong tiger Daddy, she wants His approval, and she wants to suck His cock.
They retreat to His car. She pulls down His pants and slides her muzzle over Him. He tells her that she's such a good girl. She eagerly bobs her head up and down, makes Him hard, while her fingers bury between her thighs. He leans back and closes His eyes while she sucks more eagerly. She wants Him to cum, but He doesn't want to, so He doesn't. He growls at her and pulls her up into His lap, pulls her down onto His cock. She moans, gasps, tells Him she loves Him, that she loves the feel of His cock inside her, that she loves being Daddy's dirty little girl. He grimaces as He cums inside her. He barely makes more than a growl of sound, but she moans loud enough that passersby look to the car, and then go on their way. The sounds are not unknown in this part of town.
He bends her over the hood of the car and fucks her from behind. Her skirt bunches around her waist, her shirt pushes up so her breasts rub against the hood with each thrust. He still barely makes a sound. She pants, gasps, and groans as she climaxes again and again. She begs to taste His cum, He obliges by spinning her around and shoving His cock down her throat. She fingers herself to another orgasm as He shoots into her muzzle, then onto her face. He doesn't invite her home.
He carefully puts away His suit, folds His shirt, polishes His shoes. He falls asleep.
His hands itch.
He stares at the ceiling. He looks at His hands, the front, and then the back. His hands look normal, but they itch. He has to rely on His sure-fire cure. When His hands itch, nothing else works. He sighs; it disrupts His schedule. He puts on a deep blue suit, and He skips breakfast.
He goes to work; He remembers everyone's name. Today He helps three small business owners work together to form a limited-liability co-op, so they can lower prices and bring in more customers. He helps a family deal with the inheritance from their wealthy grandparents. He sets up trusts so that they will never have to worry about their education, their finances, or their lives. It is one of His subordinate's birthdays. He has cake and offers champagne, one glass per person during work hours. He makes the toast, and everyone laughs at His joke. He sends everyone home early to celebrate, a full paid afternoon off before the weekend, then He leaves the office as well.
His hands itch.
He stops at the store, He knows what He needs, it is always the same. He goes to a different store then His usual store, no one knows Him there. He buys a small propane tank, steak, rice, eggs, cotton balls, cereal, milk, and a painter's tarp. He smiles to the lion girl at checkout; she is barely 16. She smiles back while she rings Him. She gives another smile when the cheetah bag-boy comes up to bag His groceries. He notices her gaze and gives another smile, pays with cash, then walks out of the store.
The lights from the parking light do not completely cover the store. The darkness in the shadow of the wall hides Him in His blue suit. The camera outside the door faces the other way. The back door to the store opens and the last few people that work file out the back of the store. There are two older wolves, a gecko, the lion girl, the bag-boy. They are the last out of the door. They pause together and kiss under the camera; she calls Him 'Tim' and then goes on her way. The bag-boy walks along the side of the grocery store. He steps out behind Tim, makes no sound as one of His arms goes around Tim's throat, and the other across Tim's mouth. The choke takes moments, eight seconds, maybe ten before Tim is limp. He carries Tim to His car, three blocks over. He places Tim in the trunk; he makes sure that a gag with a mild dose of ether is on Tim's muzzle, and then He drives off.
His hands itch.
He is in the private room, the room where He applies the sure-fire cure. The room is concrete all around, He has muffled the room with cork and insulation, and harsh fluorescent lights light the room. He removes Tim's clothing. He places Tim on a cross against one wall. He binds Tim's arms to the cross then he binds Tim's head in a strap so that it cannot move. Tim's ankles are fastened to the floor; Tim is forced to stand on top of the painter's tarp. He removes the gag from Tim's muzzle, and then He turns and walks to a comfortable couch opposite the cross. He sits down and goes through Tim's wallet; He places aside Tim's ID, Tim's picture with the cashier girl, Tim's credit cards and money. He picks up a glass of brandy He placed on a table next to the couch; He picks up a book. He reads and sips His brandy.
Tim wakes up. Tim sees the tiger in the blue suit sitting on a couch across a bright white room. Tim sees a cage next to Him on His right side, and a high table with metal legs covered by a cloth to His left. Tim cannot move His head, His arms, or His legs. Tim whimpers.
He looks up as Tim whimpers. He nods; He places His book to the side. He stands up and walks over to Tim bound to the cross. He stands before Tim and looks Tim over from top to bottom. Tim stops whimpering, Tim sniffs and tries to look brave before the much larger tiger.
"What are you going to do to me?" Tim asks.
He does not answer. He inspects Tim, notes a mole on Tim's left thigh, notes a tattoo poorly done under the fur of Tim's right arm, notes evidence of a failed piercing through Tim's scrotum. He picks up a small blowtorch; He fastens it to the propane tank. He lights the blowtorch and then pulls aside the cloth on the table. Stainless steel instruments gleam under the fluorescent lights. He places the torch on the table. He picks up a circular bladed instrument used to de-claw animals. He looks up to Tim, He reaches out and grabs Tim's hand, He pushes a nerve and forces the hand open, Tim cries.
Tim screams when the blade cuts off the first knuckle of the index finger. Tim's fingertip falls to the floor with a wet 'plop'. Tim's screams fill the concrete room, but do not go past the door. Tim screams when He applies the torch to the stump of Tim's finger so that Tim does not bleed too much. Tim begs when the blade goes around the middle finger.
Time screams very loudly many more times. When He is finished, and the blade has been applied nineteen more times, the blowtorch is used as many times. He places His hand on Tim's throat; He undoes the fastenings on Tim's head, Tim's wrists, Tim's ankles. Tim moans as He lowers Him from the cross, and then places Him in the cage. He closes the cage, and locks it. He leaves the room; He goes to bed.
His hands don't itch.
He wakes up in the morning. He gets out of bed; He grooms Himself; He puts on His grey suit. He has eggs, ham and juice for breakfast. He then walks down to His private room. Tim is in the cage, Tim's hands, with the stumps of the remaining fingers, are wrapped around Tim's knees. Tim looks up as He approaches. Tim cries as He unlocks the cage. He pulls Tim up by the scruff of His neck. He places cuffs around Tim's wrists. Tim struggles, but He is much stronger. He fastens a chain to the cuffs; He pulls Tim up so that Tim hangs an inch off the ground. He gathers the scattered fingertips from the night before, He places the fingertips in a bag, then in a cooler.
Tim finally finds words, Tim asks, "Why are you doing this?"
He looks at Tim. He tilts His head to the side, "My hands itch." He explains. It is the only explanation that matters.
Tim has few words the rest of the day. Tim loses strips of flesh to a skinning knife; the burning torch cauterizes the bloody strips. The room fills with the smell of burning meat and the acrid smoke from burned fur. The room fills with screams, and moans, and whimpers. Tim loses the right ear to a hooked knife. Tim loses a bad tattoo to the extended application of the blowtorch. Tim becomes a eunuch to a castration band, a set of forceps, and a serrated bone knife. He places each of Tim's parts in bags in the cooler of ice. He makes sure they stay iced and fresh, as He stores every piece that Tim loses.
Tim eventually stops pleading. When the begging stops, He places a specially constructed gag in Tim's mouth. The gag forces open Tim's jaw and forces Tim's tongue to the front of the mouth. He carefully reaches in and grabs Tim's tongue with a pair of pliers. He pulls Tim's tongue out as far as it will go. He cuts off Tim's tongue at the base, right in front of the special gag. The special gag blocks the blood, it prevents Tim from choking on the blood as it pools in His muzzle. He places cotton in Tim's mouth and catches the blood, then uses medical tape to insure the cotton stays in place.
He leaves Tim hanging from the chains, but He lowers Tim enough that Tim will not suffocate from positional asphyxia during the night. He leaves the private room; He takes off His grey suit; He goes to bed.
His hands don't itch.
He calls in and takes a day of vacation, then another day of vacation. Tim is burned, cut, sliced open, gouged. Tim tries to scream day after day until He surgically removes Tim's voice box. His cooler becomes full as Tim becomes empty. Tim becomes weaker. His hands do not itch any longer. The sure-fire cure works, as the sure-fire cure works every time. Tim eventually cannot cry, cannot moan, cannot scream, and cannot make any sound of any kind. Tim's eyes become blank. Tim stops being able to react to the blades or the fire, or the surgical implements. He uses the hook bladed knife and slits Tim's throat, then lowers Tim to the painter's tarp. Tim gurgles; then Tim stops breathing, and Tim's heart stops beating.
He looks around. The blood is acceptable. His suit is clean; the concrete in the room has a few spatters. He wraps Tim in plastic. He cleans the little traces of blood that decorate His private room. He carries Tim to His car and places Tim in His trunk. He then gets the cooler and places the cooler next to Tim.
He drives across the city. He drives to the address on Tim's license. He arrives at night. There are police, there are reporters, there are two cheetah parents that look worried and plead to the camera. He waits. The police leave, the reporters leave, the cheetah parents return to the house. The sun goes down, street lamps come on, and He notices no one in the street. He opens His trunk and removes Tim. He places Tim on the walkway to the house. He places the cooler next to the plastic wrapped Tim. He knows that a good mortician can make Tim look almost normal for the funeral.
He drives away. He goes home; He goes to sleep.
His fingers do not itch.