Naga (Dark Comedy/Horror/Explicit)

I used to believe that life is a work-in-progress. Sure, consider me naïve. Consider me retarded, evolutionarily stifled and deserving of what I got. I was young, alright? That was rather a violent transitional period that we suffered, you know – my wife and I. Well, I suppose the transitioning itself came after the pain, after our split; after our ordeal with that infamous condiment – the Bee Sting. Don’t believe what they tell you; life is quite the opposite of a work in progress.
This all happened before society began cross-breeding chilli peppers into the Shelly-esq creatures whose skins and oils now trump the fire of unmolested Naga. These days we have Da Bomb, we have Black Mamba etc. Society does that, you know, with sauce. It gets curious, makes it hotter, and then hotter some more. When my wife and I – let’s name her Emily – went in search of the most arse-sweating acid legally available, we found Bee Sting. By the standards of today’s chilli-sauce echelon, it’s tame. So, to provide yourself with context, I suggest you enjoy a drop of whatever the worst now happens to be, so that you might properly understand my reaction to Bee Sting.
I’ll begin with the little kinks. The cause for my wife’s divorcing me, after all, according to her, was not so much the terror itself but my early part in its twisted orchestration. I suffered boredom of the shittest sort back then, mind you; the job, my insipid friendships. It was my suggestion that we experiment, that we spice things up. Our unamicable split did follow, sure, but perhaps ironically, it did begin with handcuffs. I wore them myself. Emily got a firmer kick out of them, whilst I preferred the position of bitch. She voiced no complaints in those days; when she held the whip, when I wore the gag, when she sat upon my back dripping candlewax onto my arse cheeks. Yeah, none of that merited the presence of a fucking lawyer.
‘The abused partners of drug dealers tend to enjoy the heroine,’ her lawyer said to mine. ‘My client became addicted to BDSM, because of him.’
Come on. This woman was made to shock someone’s balls. The look on her face every time – it was as though she’d seen God. Those mousy features of hers, that long black hair and its lack of volume. It was her fantasy, alright.
‘I’m sorry,’ I told all three. ‘I’m really, very sorry.’
I concede, in fairness, that my routine position as bitch did aid me through the coming terror. Emily, with all her control and brutality, suffered a more violent transitional period than I did. Was that my fault? She was bored, too! She was game – fucking gagging, I dare say – until she felt it. It was her decision, for God’s sake, for the first time in years to make hers the part of bitch. She thought nothing of it. She could just swan-dive into the BDSM-bitch Olympics, she thought, without undergoing first some rigorous training. Fuck, I’ve been hospitalised five times now; twice for dick fracture, once for spinal damage, once for an unnaturally occurring form of testicular torsion and then most recently for the terror itself.
I’m circumcised, you know, and I only because during the recovery period Emily and I wanted to play. Her decision, mind. Always – it was her decision.
My wife’s tongue, right, was new to the taste of hot sauce – any hot sauce. What was she thinking? She refused to build any tolerance, to heed my warnings. My suggesting anything just pissed her off. ‘Maybe try some sriracha,’ I’d asked.
FYI: If you explain to the medical staff that it broke during sex, they won’t question the shock burns.
Anyway, the idea came from a magazine. This was pre-internet, mind. These days, as the internet gets hotter and hotter, ideas such as this come thick and fast. Ours, however, came like a diamond out of dirt, from the My-Lover-is-Abusing-Me segment of pulp magazine Hi!
Most of our ideas, in fact, came from Hi! Here’s the article:
“I adore my husband, but bits of his behaviour are beginning to worry me. This will sound ridiculous, but truth be told, I’m scared. I don’t know where his disregard for my boundaries end. Every Friday night we rent a movie; this my favourite time in the week. We share a bottle of wine, take turns choosing the film. I keep to myself a big bowl of popcorn. We watch, we kiss, we cuddle; these are the moments I live for. I love my husband.
However, he will keep to himself a bowl of very, very spicy peanuts. Swallows them by handful he does, and by the time we go to bed his right hand is coated. Now, the muck from work I don’t mind – but the chilli… When it comes to making love, that chilli powder caking his fingers causes me more than discomfort. It causes me pain – outright pain. The nuts themselves aren’t that spicy, I’m told, but down there, it really is quite horrible. I got used to the crying.
If he doesn’t start with his hands, he tells me I’m not “ready to go.” So, he tells me, “that’s how I need to start.” When I ask him to wash his hands, or at least his right, he tells me that he’s exhausted, that he doesn’t want to get back up. So I took to reminding him, right before we get into bed, but invariably, he “forgets.” He forgets things all the time, mind – my husband. It’s innocent, really...
I’ll cut the article there. You get the picture, I’m sure.
It was Emily who read it, who asked me, ‘How hot is the hottest sauce?’
‘Hot,’ I told her. ‘I use Habanero. It’s up there.’
The rest of that conversation unfolded neatly enough. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked her.
She warned, ‘Don’t be a pussy.’
‘You’re not the one who has to take it,’ I contested.
Bare in mind, at this point I was clueless as to how Emily had intended me to take it.
‘I’ll take it,’ she said. ‘We’ll both fucking take it. Aren’t you bored?’
And there it was. She had won me over. I was bored, yes. Life was balanced, fixed, cold; the sex was the tip of the iceberg.
In hot-sauce circles, which do exist, Bee Sting was all the rage. Plain old unmolested Naga was the hottest chilli available, and Bee Sting was the most popular Naga concoction to hit the market. Use a single drop, warned the orange bottle girdled by a yellow strip. Consume responsibly.
‘We’ll use your mug,’ Emily suggested.
I should explain. My mug is the mug from which neither of us would ever drink tea – and nor would you. It was for my dick, actually. No, no – nothing like that, nothing extreme. You see, believe it or not, following my circumcision I did take care of myself. Pain works, yeah. Pain is hot, dangerous; infections are just gross. So twice I day, I would fill that mug with warm water and Epsom salts. Yes – into the comfort I dropped my dick.
You need to heal your bits, you know. If only for long-term usage, you need to draw a line.
Anyway, when Emily came out with, ‘We’ll use your mug,’ I did express some confusion.
‘For the Bee Sting,’ she explained. ‘We’ll plop in your cock, and then we’ll go at it. Wheelbarrow.’
I know, right? Who the fuck uses wheelbarrow?
But hey, it wasn’t my place to ask. My dick, stripped of its natural protection, was to accompany half a bottle of Bee Sting in that mug. It was to go in hard, Emily had instructed – right up to the love spuds. It would go into the mug and next into her, she had explained. This is the woman, remember, who told her divorce lawyer that my suggesting handcuffs was both emotionally and physically abusive. She cried there in the office, for fuck’s sake.
I was eating hot sauce in those days, remember; I was experienced enough to express concern. Perhaps later on in our sex lives I’d have suggested a thing like this. Perhaps I’d have taken us there eventually, but as far as I was concerned, we were somewhere else. Part of me hoped, even, that the author of that article in Hi! was bullshitting. I hoped the whole hot sauce fiasco would be tame – a bust.
It was a Friday night, when it happened. We always got rough on Friday nights, giving me the weekend to recover before work. Being a teacher, finding cover when you’re sick is awkward. Three large bottles of Bee Sting, anyway, had arrived on the Thursday.
Use a single drop. Consume responsibly.
Responsibly? Consume? I was to use a single mug, for fuck’s sake. Emily was to consume about five-point-seven inches. Well, given my feelings at the time it was likely about five-point-six. But onwards and upwards we went.
By that point, the beginnings of our escapades were routine. Odd, I know, considering how most of our escapades ended. I guess we had figured ourselves out a bit. You know? I liked a bit of biting, yeah, to begin with. I liked the candlewax. She liked the whip, liked to pretend I wasn’t me. I went on top only when instructed and for only a while; she went underneath only to berate my performance in the driving seat. I wore the gag. She used the high-voltage low-current cattle prod. Yeah, the foreplay had turned stale.
But then came the turning point at which some might have broken out the bubbly, perhaps slathered some low-calorie chocolate sauce. I watched that mug, I tell you, as though it were a live hand grenade. It saw it like the spider sees a rolled-up magazine. The turning point came when she rolled me off the bed. This demanded of me some showmanship, given her lack of physical strength. I fell as directed, willing. I rolled off. She rolled over to lay on her back.
‘No,’ she said, utilising some showmanship of her own. ‘No – don’t hurt me.’ Her performance was amateur, honestly. She was inexperienced, almost caricature.
I rose to the candle-burnt leather of my feet, the straps of my harness limply hanging. I was scared. Alright? I have never so battled to rid myself of an erection. Seriously. It took every fibre of my being just to get one, back then, and yet there I was wishing it away. It was as though I were sacrificing the damned thing.
‘Please,’ she asserted this time. ‘Don’t. Hurt. Me.’
She was getting angry.
Perhaps she had presumed my reticence to have been another act of showmanship, some audacious test of her patience. I obeyed, though. Of course I did! I was there, we had started and I had never before backed down! I picked it up, that mug. I held it as though it were a mug of coffee, stared in as though it were the volcanic throat of hell itself.
Be quick, I told myself. In and out, think of her cousin and get it over with. Quickly.
‘Please!’ She was fucking incensed now. ‘Don’t! Hurt! Me!’
I mapped out quickly a route for the mug to take following the big dunk. This route I drew with the eye of my mind, as in went my dick. It sort of – you know – forced itself downward against the inner-bottom edge of the mug, down like jerky into the throat of the devil. Fuck – I almost dropped the mug. It was cold, so cold. Refreshingly so, after a moment; as though I had entered a mug of refrigerated milk. Yes, for whatever reason, we had chilled the Bee Sting bottles overnight, as though their turning rotten would have ruined our little escapade. I set down the mug.
I hurled myself onto the bed, dripping red over the sheets. I recall a spring breaking as I flipped Emily over, landing her on her stomach. I lifted her by the thighs, warming by the second, and just went at her. Just as she had instructed – wheelbarrow.
The metal of the bed screeched in rhythm.
I balanced firm on my feet; she balanced on her wrists and palms and fingertips.
In, out. In, out – cold.
In, out. In, out – this isn’t so bad.
In…
And then it happened.
Bee Sting had sunk into me like a needle through poorly anaesthetised flesh, and by Satan did it fucking burn. Your brows sweat, do they, when you eat hot sauce? Your lips sting, do they? Do they glow? Every pore in my thighs broke open, like the mouths of children in shock, each spewing enough sweat to douse a fire. And the sting? That infamous Naga bite? I was fucking a colony of fire-ants, I tell you. I was silent. I was stunned, cognitively petrified. Perhaps I let out a pant or two, maybe a little whimper. I carried on fucking, of course; by reflex if nothing else. I had reverted to my basic type, my natural position – the bitch. I fucked because she had instructed me to fuck, quite simply.
I was elsewhere. My nails were digging at Emily’s thighs, my fingers clamping as though forced by some electrical current. It got worse, and then worse some more. The sting became a bite, the bite then a chomp, and the chomp then a chewing form of agony.
No… I thought. No, no, no!
I looked at her, speechless. Emily! I wanted to say. Emily, it’s too much! It’s too fucking much! It’s too much! Cut it off, Emily! I need you to cut if off!
The hot sauce crowd will tell you – takes a sec to kick in.
Thus, after a passing of sudden stillness on her part, after a sec of uncharacteristic silence, Emily felt it. She went off, my claws at her thighs, and shook as though gripping herself at an electrified fence. She went fucking wild, nuts. I kept my balance, went on as I’d begun, as she had instructed. She fell to both elbows, began clubbing at the sheets. She squealed – she suppressed the squeal I think out of pride.
But then she yelled. ‘Babka Cake! Babka Cake! Babka! Babka! Babka!’
My friends, we had struck bedrock. We had discovered the subterranean crust of our kinks and broken through to find churning beneath us the infernal stomach of hell. Honestly, I forgot Emily was even fucking there. I heard her scream, but that was just part of the hell – part of the terror. There were moments, I swear, when my mind just refused to swallow this experience. I latched onto the shrieking instigator of all this. My hips moved, but the fucking had stopped. I was done, soft; I had left her.
‘Babka!’ she begged. ‘Babka Cake!’
What must our neighbours have thought?
She bucked me off, eventually. My body fell limp, pulled me down by some unseen tether to strike me consciousness against the carpet. I returned screaming. Like a child, I thrashed so that my fists hit the wall, the floor and the side of the bed – drumming with my ankles.
‘Babka!’ Emily was sobbing now like an infant. ‘Babka! Babka Cake!’
I forget anything I might have said to her. I forget what I told the nine-nine-nine operator, but I do remember I begged first for the police. I said, ‘Help! Fucking help!’ And I definitely said, ‘I need you to cut it off!’
She figured it how, eventually. The operator asked me, ‘Can you drive to a hospital?’
I was writhing on the floor, my wife in a state no better. ‘No!’
‘You bastard!’ Emily protested. ‘You fucking bastard! I hate you! You bastard! Babka cake!’ She’d come unhinged. ‘I hate you! Babka! Babka cake!’
The woman on that line, however, was a consummate professional. Not only did she form sense from my insanity, she managed from me my full address. So yes, the blessed woman dispatched a fully-staffed, fully-equipped NHS-funded ambulance to my address. Let’s call it Number Nine, Dicktorch Street. I wore my harness still when they picked me up, clutching my package through my dressing gown as though it were trying to escape. The paramedics hated us; two of them had to prise ordinarily-feeble Emily away from the chilli-stained sheets.
This wasn’t even the worst of it, you know. This ordeal was the terror, yes, but this terror was not the worst of it, was not my wife’s cause for divorcing me. To explain that real reason, I should explain first how the heat of hot sauce really works. Well, I say that. Fuck if I know the precision detail of it, but suffice it to say that the reaction is neurological. Yes, the perceived heat was a neurological reaction occurring between the nerves of my bellend – or in Emily’s case, her clit – and whatever demon does live inside chilli peppers.
The thing is, we fucked something up. The burn was gone by the end of the night. At the hospital, all they did for us was provide a physical examination and some painkillers. That was it. Well, there was the waiting. For hours we waited. But when that terror ended, we fell sobbing in each other’s arms. I whimpered, told her I loved her. But indeed, we did fuck something up.
That neurological reaction had left its mark, you see. I was struggling already, in those days, just to get it up. Even Emily, with the whip and all that candle wax, had struggled in turning over the engine. It’s hardly as though I could get her going, remember. I did as I was told! Anything I did, it was always her very own attempt to rev herself up. But after the terror, after the night of the Bee Sting, none of it worked. Not properly, anyway. Months passed, my friends, our sick hearts wilting away and genitalia unable.
We started fighting, all the time and terribly. It was the sort that replaces sex, you know?
‘You’re a fucking cuck,’ she’d accuse. ‘A bigger man would get it done.’
‘You’re a cunt,’ I told her. ‘Some tits would get it hard.’
She punched me, I punched her. She punched, I punched her.
I threw the remote, she upturned the television. I spat in her cereal, she pissed in my work shoes.
It was at month six when Emily decided she was through. You should have seen the expressions on those divorce lawyers. I just apologised, honestly. Over and over, I apologised. I begged her to stay, but off she fucked. She left me damaged and done – finished.
If you’re smart, if you’re sensible, you’ll not have figured out our ending. It’s a happy one, you know. It’s such a happy ending, in fact, that you might say, ‘That can’t be real? That can’t have happened? She can’t have come back to you?’
She did, I tell you. Emily came back to me. We returned to each other, rediscovered each other, even. Where the fuck could we each go otherwise? Where do we belong, I ask you, if not exploring the dungeon which is our bedroom? The sweetest of soulmates, we are.
To think, I believed once that life is a work-in-progress. I feel better now about the end, mind, than I did back then as a horny teenager. I’m telling you, chilli sauce is the secret. Make it hotter, and then hotter some more. Life, I suggest, is a desensitisation to living until the living’s snuffed out, a numbing of nerves between slimy birth and crusty death. Make it hotter, guys. Sex becomes about the only thing you can spice, towards the end.
Right, right. I get it. You’re wondering, ‘But what next? What now? Are you and Emily fighting still? How do you manage? How do you keep things hot? How do you keep things spiced now that you’ve cauterised – or something to that effect – every nerve ending in your dick? How do you cut through the bolts of mundanity?’
Come on, guys. You need to understand, there’s always something.