The butterface's wrath

[Ashford slays]

Kerry Doyle had been watching the tall woman for three weeks.

It started at the 24-hour gym where Kerry worked the overnight shift. The woman came in at 11 p.m., just before Kerry's shift ended, and signed up for a trial membership. Kerry was behind the counter, wiping down a console, when she first saw her: nearly six feet, olive-brown skin, a cascade of chestnut hair loose over her shoulders. She wore a loose shalwar kameez--cream-colored, embroidered at the cuffs--and the fabric did nothing to hide the violent hourglass beneath. Heavy breasts, narrow waist, hips that flared like a slammed door.

Kerry's mouth went dry. Her knuckles ached from nothing.

"We're closing for new sign-ups," Kerry said, her voice flatter than she intended.

The woman turned. Her face was classical--high cheekbones, full lips, straight nose--and her dark eyes moved over Kerry's dense, 5'4" frame with a quick, dismissive sweep. "The internet says you're open until midnight."

"Internet's wrong."

A small smile. Not friendly. "Acha. Then I'll come back tomorrow."

She left. The click of her heels on the tile floor was slow, deliberate, unhurried. Kerry watched her ass--round, heavy, moving under the loose trousers--and felt her own cxnt twitch. She hated her for that. For the easy confidence, for the perfect face, for the way she looked at Kerry like she was a piece of gym equipment to be wiped down and ignored.

Her name, Kerry learned from the day shift, was Zara Hashim. Hair stylist. Kensington. Came in late because she worked late. She signed up for a month and came every night at eleven, did forty minutes on the elliptical, twenty minutes of free weights, then stretched on a mat in the corner. Kerry watched her from the security monitor in the back office. Watched her bend, watched her breasts swing under the loose kurtas, watched her run her hands down her own thighs after a set of squats.

Kerry started staying late. Just to watch. Just to feel the burn in her gut.

She hated Zara's body because it was everything Kerry's wasn't. Kerry was strong--dense muscle, round ass, arms that could bend a steel bar--but her face was a mess. Crooked nose from a break she never set. Thin lips. Acne scars pitting her cheeks. She looked like she'd been in a fight her whole life, and she had. Four brothers on a council estate. A dead baby at sixteen. Eighteen months in prison for putting a man through a plate-glass window. Her face was a map of every ugly thing that had ever happened to her, and Zara Hashim's face was a map of nothing at all.

One night, near the end of the third week, Kerry was mopping the locker room floor. Zara came in to change. She didn't know Kerry was there--the mop bucket was behind a row of lockers. Kerry froze. Watched through the gap.

Zara pulled her kameez over her head. No bra. Her breasts were huge--natural, round, the nipples dark and thick as thumbs. She bent to unlace her shoes and they swung forward, heavy, the skin stretching. Kerry's mouth filled with spit. Her own nipples hardened against her sports bra, painful, demanding. She pressed her thighs together and felt the wet heat.

Then Zara turned. Saw her.

For a second, neither moved. Then Zara smiled--that same not-friendly smile--and said, "Enjoying the show, butterface?"

Kerry's blood turned to acid.

"What did you call me?"

"You heard me." Zara pulled on a loose tank top and joggers, not bothering to cover herself quickly. "You've been staring at me for weeks. I know what you are. But you don't have the face for it, do you? Or the class."

Kerry dropped the mop. Her hands shook. "You don't know a thing about me."

"I know you live above a fried chicken shop. I know you have no friends. I know you were in prison. I know your own mother doesn't call you on your birthday."

Kerry's vision went red. She didn't ask how Zara knew--the woman was a stylist, she talked to people, she collected information like other women collected shoes. "You're a dead woman," Kerry whispered.

"I'm a woman who's leaving." Zara picked up her bag and walked past Kerry, close enough that her shoulder brushed Kerry's arm. "Go back to your whiskey, Doyle. You're out of your league."

She left. The locker room door swung shut.

Kerry stood in the silence for a long time. Then she went home, drank half a bottle of cheap whiskey, and sat in the dark above the fried chicken shop, imagining Zara's face under her fists.

She didn't plan the fight. It happened four nights later.

Kerry was walking home after her shift--3 a.m., the streets empty, the smell of diesel and old fish thick in the air. She took her usual shortcut through the alley behind the laundrette. And there was Zara.

The tall woman was bent over, fumbling with a heel that had come loose from her sandal. She wore a tight black dress, short, the kind of thing you wore to a club that didn't check IDs too closely. Her hair was down, tangled, and she smelled of perfume and vodka. She'd been out. She was drunk.

Kerry stopped. The alley was narrow, brick walls on both sides, a single buzzing light over the laundrette's back door. A dumpster overflowed with bags of wet laundry.

Zara looked up. Her eyes were glassy, but she recognized Kerry immediately. "Oh. You."

"Heel break?" Kerry said, her voice calm.

"None of your business."

Kerry stepped closer. "You're drunk."

"And you're ugly. We all have problems."

The word hit Kerry like a slap. She'd been called ugly a thousand times. By her brothers. By the man whose face she put through the window. By the guards in prison. But coming from Zara's perfect lips, it was a knife.

"Say that again," Kerry said.

Zara straightened, leaving the broken heel. She was four inches taller than Kerry even in bare feet. She looked down. "Ugly. Ugly face. Ugly body. Ugly life. You think staring at me in the gym makes you something? You're nothing. You're a butterface with a prison record and a dead-end job."

Kerry's right fist swung before her brain caught up.

Zara was faster than she looked. She swayed back, and Kerry's punch grazed her jaw instead of crushing it. But the impact still snapped Zara's head to the side. The tall woman stumbled, caught herself on the brick wall, and came up with her own fist swinging.

It caught Kerry on the cheek--the left, the one with the acne scars--and Kerry's eyes watered. She shook it off and lunged.

They crashed into the wall. Zara was strong--stronger than Kerry expected. Her arms wrapped around Kerry's back, and she tried to throw her into the dumpster. Kerry drove her knee up into Zara's thigh. Zara grunted and shoved. Kerry's head hit the brick. Pain exploded behind her eyes.

"You wanted this," Zara hissed, her breath hot and sour with vodka. "You've been begging for it since the first night."

Kerry headbutted her.

Their foreheads cracked together. Zara's nose didn't break, but she cried out and loosened her grip. Kerry twisted, grabbed a handful of Zara's long chestnut hair, and yanked. Zara screamed. Kerry pulled her down, off balance, and slammed her knee into Zara's solar plexus.

The tall woman folded, gasping. Her hands went to her belly. Kerry didn't wait. She kicked--her steel-toed work boots, not the heels she'd worn to the gym--and caught Zara on the hip. Zara sprawled onto the wet asphalt.

Kerry stood over her, breathing hard. Blood trickled from her own forehead where the brick had split the skin. "Get up."

Zara looked up. Her lip was bleeding. Her perfect face was already starting to swell. But her eyes were clear now--the drunkenness burned away by pain and fury. "You'll regret this."

"Get up," Kerry said again.

Zara got up.

She came up swinging. A wild right hook that caught Kerry on the ear, ringing her head like a bell. A left that slammed into Kerry's breast--the left one, the slightly bigger one--and Kerry felt the bruise bloom under her skin. She staggered back, and Zara followed, driving her into the alley's opposite wall.

They clinched. Bodies pressed together. Kerry could feel Zara's heart pounding through her own chest. Could feel the heat of Zara's cxnt through the thin fabric of her dress. Both of them were wet. Both of them were furious.

Zara bit Kerry's shoulder. Hard. Teeth through the thin fabric of Kerry's hoodie, breaking skin. Kerry screamed and drove her thumb into Zara's eye socket. Zara jerked back, blinded, and Kerry used the moment to grab the back of Zara's head and slam her face into the brick.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Blood sprayed. Zara's nose broke. She went limp for a second, and Kerry threw her down.

The fight had been going maybe ninety seconds. It was only the beginning.

Kerry stood in the middle of the alley, her chest heaving. Her left breast throbbed. Her forehead was sticky with blood. Her knuckles were already raw. But she felt something else--a dark, humming pleasure. The pleasure of breaking something beautiful.

Zara crawled backward, one hand over her broken nose, the other scraping at the asphalt. Her dress had ridden up, exposing her thick thighs and a scrap of black lace. Her stockings were torn. One heel was missing; the other dangled from her foot.

"Stay down," Kerry said.

Zara spat blood. "Fuck you."

She lunged for Kerry's ankles. Wrapped both arms around them and pulled. Kerry went down hard on her tailbone, the impact jarring her spine. Zara scrambled on top of her, straddling her waist, and started punching. Left, right, left--fists into Kerry's face, into her mouth, into her eyes.

Kerry took three, four, five hits before she got her arms up. Then she grabbed Zara's wrists and held them. They strained, muscle against muscle, sweat dripping from Zara's chin onto Kerry's face.

"You're strong," Zara said, surprised.

"I'm stronger," Kerry growled.

She bucked her hips, throwing Zara's weight to the side. They rolled. Kerry ended up on top, her knees pinning Zara's shoulders to the asphalt. She looked down at the ruined face beneath her--the blood, the swelling, the hate in those dark eyes--and felt her cxnt pulse.

"I'm going to fuck you up," Kerry said. "Not just your face. Your whole fucking body."

She reached down and tore Zara's dress open from the neckline to the hem. The fabric ripped with a sound like tearing flesh. Zara's breasts spilled out--huge, round, dark-nippled, perfect. Kerry grabbed the left one and squeezed. Hard. Her fingers dug into the soft tissue, searching for the firm gland beneath. Zara cried out and tried to push her hands away.

Kerry twisted. She twisted the breast like she was wringing a chicken's neck. Zara screamed--a real scream, high and desperate. Her body arched off the asphalt.

"You like that?" Kerry said. "You like having your tits twisted by a butterface?"

Zara spat in her face.

Kerry wiped the spit away with her free hand. Then she leaned down and bit Zara's right nipple.

She bit it through the thin fabric of the dress that still clung to the other breast. Her teeth sank into the dark, thick nub. Zara howled. Her hands came up, clawing at Kerry's head, pulling her hair. Kerry bit harder, tasting blood, and then she pulled back, stretching the nipple until it was an inch long, two inches, a rubbery column of pain.

It didn't tear. Kerry let go, and the nipple snapped back against Zara's breast, purple and swollen.

"I'm going to take that home with me," Kerry said. "Cut it off and put it in a jar."

Zara's eyes were wide with pain and something else--fear, maybe, or rage so hot it looked like fear. "You're insane."

"No. I'm just better than you."

Kerry shifted her weight, sliding down Zara's body. She ripped the black lace panties off--the fabric tore easily--and exposed Zara's cxnt. It was shaved, the labia thick and dark, already wet. Kerry could smell her--a sharp, musky scent that made her own mouth water.

She didn't kiss it. She didn't lick it. She slapped it.

Open palm, hard, right on the exposed slit. Zara shrieked and tried to close her legs, but Kerry's thighs were in the way. Kerry slapped her again. And again. The wet sounds echoed off the brick walls. Zara's cxnt turned red, then purple. Her clit--smaller than Kerry's, but erect, betraying her--poked out from its hood.

"You're wet," Kerry said. "You like this."

"No--fuck you--I don't--"

Kerry drove two fingers inside her. Rough, dry, no preparation. Zara's inner walls clamped down, trying to push her out. Kerry crooked her fingers and scraped. Zara bucked and moaned--a sound that was half pain, half something else.

"You do," Kerry said. "Your slutty cxnt is dripping. You wanted this from the first night. You wanted a real woman to put you in your place."

Zara's response was a sob.

Kerry pulled her fingers out and shoved them into Zara's mouth. "Taste yourself, you stinking wog."

Zara bit down. Hard. Her teeth sank into Kerry's knuckles, and Kerry howled and jerked her hand back. Blood welled from the crescent-shaped wounds.

While Kerry was distracted, Zara moved. She brought her knee up into Kerry's back, hard, and pushed. Kerry tumbled forward, and Zara scrambled out from under her. She got to her feet--wobbling, one shoe missing, dress hanging in strips--and limped toward the dumpster.

Kerry stood, shaking her bleeding hand. "Where do you think you're going?"

Zara didn't answer. She reached into the dumpster and pulled out a broken bottle. Green glass, jagged edge, wet with something foul.

"Come on," Zara said, her voice thick with blood and hate. "Come on, butterface. Let's see how tough you are."

Kerry's heart leaped. A weapon. Now it was a real fight.

She looked around. The alley offered plenty. A loose brick near the wall. A metal pipe beside the laundrette's back door. A length of chain hanging from a broken sign.

She grabbed the chain. It was heavy, greasy, maybe three feet long. She wrapped one end around her fist.

Zara circled her, the broken bottle held low. "First blood goes to me," she said. "First real cut."

"Shut up and fight."

Zara lunged. The bottle swept in a wide arc aimed at Kerry's face. Kerry ducked and swung the chain. The metal links caught Zara's forearm, wrapping around it. Kerry yanked. Zara stumbled forward, off balance, and Kerry slammed her forehead into Zara's already broken nose.

Cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed. Zara dropped the bottle and staggered back, screaming.

Kerry didn't let go of the chain. She pulled it tighter, dragging Zara toward her. Then she kicked--steel toe into Zara's knee. The joint bent sideways, not breaking but close. Zara collapsed, her leg giving out.

She fell against the dumpster. Kerry was on her in a second, pressing her against the rusted metal, the chain still around Zara's arm. Kerry pinned that arm to the dumpster with her knee.

"You're done," Kerry said.

Zara's free hand clawed at Kerry's face. Nails raked across Kerry's cheek, drawing blood. Kerry grabbed that wrist and twisted. Something popped. Zara's fingers went limp.

"I said you're done."

Kerry released the chain, grabbed Zara by the hair--both hands full of that beautiful chestnut mane--and slammed the back of her head against the dumpster. Once. Twice. Three times. Zara's eyes rolled back. Her body went slack.

Kerry let her fall.

She stood over the crumpled, bloody woman. Her own body was screaming--her hand where Zara had bitten her, her forehead, her left breast, her ribs. But the pain was distant, like music from another room.

She reached down and picked up the broken bottle. The green glass was slick with Zara's blood and something from the dumpster. Kerry turned it over in her hands.

Then she knelt beside Zara's prone body.

The tall woman was still conscious--barely. Her eyes fluttered. Her lips moved, forming words that didn't come out.

"I told you," Kerry said. "I'm going to take something home."

She pulled Zara's torn dress aside, exposing the right breast--the one she'd bitten earlier. The nipple was swollen, purple, weeping a little blood. Kerry pressed the edge of the broken bottle against the base of the nipple.

Zara's eyes went wide. "No--please--no--"

"Beg."

"Please, don't, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I won't--"

"You're sorry you called me butterface?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry, please--"

Kerry smiled. It was the first genuine smile she'd worn in weeks. "Too late."

She sawed. The glass was sharp--sharp enough. The nipple came off in her hand, a small, dark, rubbery thing. Zara's scream was inhuman, a sound that bounced off the brick walls and echoed down the alley. Blood poured from the wound, soaking her dress, pooling on the asphalt.

Kerry held the severed nipple up to the buzzing light. "Trophy," she said.

Zara was weeping now, her body shaking, her hands pressed to her mutilated breast. "You're a monster."

"No. I'm a butterface with a dead-end job. But I'm the one standing."

Kerry stood. She looked at the nipple in her palm. Then she looked at Zara's open mouth.

She shoved the nipple inside.

"Swallow," she said.

Zara gagged. Tried to spit it out. Kerry clamped her hand over Zara's mouth and nose. Zara thrashed, her one good arm flailing, her legs kicking weakly. But she was too hurt, too exhausted. After a few seconds, she swallowed. Her throat bobbed. The nipple was gone.

Kerry released her.

Zara rolled onto her side and vomited. Blood and bile and stomach acid splashed across the asphalt.

Kerry watched for a moment. Then she took off her hoodie--the one with the bite mark on the shoulder--and used it to wipe the blood off her face and hands. She tossed the hoodie onto Zara's back.

"You'll want to get that breast looked at," Kerry said. "Before the infection sets in."

She walked away. Her steel-toed boots clicked on the asphalt. At the mouth of the alley, she stopped and looked back. Zara was still on the ground, curled around herself, making small animal sounds.

Kerry felt a twinge in her cxnt--a pulse of wet heat. She'd been wet the whole fight. Wet and furious and alive. She reached under her own torn jeans, into her underwear, and touched her clit. It was huge, swollen, aching.

She masturbated right there, standing at the alley's entrance, watching Zara's broken body. It took less than a minute. She came with a choked gasp, her thighs trembling, her fingers slick with her own arousal.

Then she zipped up her jeans and walked home.

The fried chicken shop was closed. The stairwell to her flat smelled of grease and stale beer. She climbed the stairs, unlocked her door, and stood in the dark living room.

Her hands were still bloody. Her forehead still throbbed. Her left breast was a deep purple bruise.

She went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her face was a mess--swollen cheek, split lip, bloody forehead, raw knuckles. But she was smiling.

"At least the janitor has a story to tell," she said to her reflection.

Then she turned on the shower, stepped out of her ruined clothes, and let the hot water wash away the evidence. But not the memory. Never the memory.

In the morning, she would call in sick. She would drink whiskey and watch strongman competitions. And she would think about Zara Hashim--the perfect face, the broken nose, the missing nipple, the sound she made when she swallowed her own flesh.

Kerry Doyle had never felt more alive.

[Ashford slays]

Hey everyone. Its the first piece of fiction that I have written so please give your feedback. I used AI to refine it a little.

[CuriousCombat]

I loved it except the ending part. It was too gruesome for my personal tastes. But,good luck. Keep going.

[Ashford slays]

I loved it except the ending part. It was too gruesome for my personal tastes. But,good luck. Keep going.

Thanks hun, How would you change the ending btw?

[Dana Mami]

Loved that story. It reminds me of Mr cage from back in the day

[Ashford slays]

Loved that story. It reminds me of Mr cage from back in the day

Oh Thanks a lot for the kind words hun. And cage is a legend

[Ashford slays]