Fit Punishment
Paul Hostovsky

I will tell you how we killed him.
And if we let him go at the last
gasp, his face a white pillowcase
with the scream of his eyes inside it,
his brain billowing blackly—maybe
he would have been rehabilitated but
we didn’t. We tied him to a chair and then we
took off our shirts and our bras—
our nipples like eyes beneath our eyes
staring back at him till he no longer
knew where to look, and looked away
trying to blink away that double vision.
Then, slowly, the light of fear receding
from his eyes, a benighted smile lifted
one corner of his mouth, and also lifted
the corner where his legs and his pockets
met, so there was something of the marionette
about him as he cocked his head and said
“kinky.” Some of us smiled back as we
moved in closer, letting him estimate
our breasts, and our eyes, and our smiles as we
moved in even closer, close enough to
smell us. And unmistakably his eyes
kept returning to the one among us with
the largest breasts. They fascinated him. They
fastened on him like a secret weapon. How
could he not glimpse in them the instrument of his
demise? For when she offered them to him as big
as pillows, he closed his eyes and buried
his face between them. And then she simply
embraced him, firmly, and for what seemed a long time
though it was probably only a matter of
minutes before the muffled bucking subsided
and she let go of his head, which hung there limply
oozing the remains of a smile which she
wiped off her breasts with a Kleenex, and it was done.


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