A Girl and a Gun
Troy was gone. Finally! Grace had her chance.
She quickly left the hallway and made her way up to the bedroom. Still running, she leapt from the doorway and landed with a creak on his side of the bed. She jerked open the drawer in his bedside table and rummaged though the things that lay there. Condoms, underwear, an old book— she was interested in none of it, her mind was focused on one thing.
At first, Grace didn’t see it, and feared he’d taken it to work with him, but peering deeper revealed a different story. Barely visible at the back of the drawer was the dark form of a Glock 24C handgun. A few cartridges rolled loose in the drawer and the magazine was half open. The thin metal object had fascinated her ever since Troy had brought it home, but up until now, she had been given no opportunity to look at it close up.
She picked up the gun and examined it. It was matte black, and heavier than she’d expected. Even though it was quite a lot smaller than she had hoped, not making 9 inches from one end to the other, she delighted to touch it. She toyed with the safety, flicking it off and then on and then off again. The magazine was still poking out so she slammed it shut in a manner reminiscent of a thousand action heroes before her. Her boyfriend had tried to keep this gun away from her. But now, now she had it in her hand. She ran her fingertips gently over the smooth barrel and around the dull grip until she was holding it in a firing position.
In her head, she became the enemy of every villain that had ever walked under God. ‘Stop right there, fucker!’ she screamed and fired an imaginary shot off to the right of an escaping crook. This was just a warning. The next would be a aimed-to-kill. She imagined a terrified man, turning around slowly, wetting himself with anguish, blubbering in fear.
‘I’m so sorry! please—shit—please don’t kill me. I’ll come along quietly!’ She grabbed another miscreant by the collar and threw him in the back of the car before driving back to the station. When she got inside they’d all swoon over her, showering her with praise.
‘That’s eighteen serial killers tonight!’ the police chief would say, amazed at her natural prowess. ‘At this rate you’ll get another medal!’
When she went back downstairs, all of the officers’ eyes would follow her around the room. They were locked on her perfect form. They all fantasised about her, Grace and the Gun. She loved knowing it and, occasionally, would select one of the younger, fitter officers to make his wildest dreams come true. She could train him, slowly twist his fantasies and bind his wills into her own.
Sitting on the bed, Grace unbuttoned and slipped off her small, silk blouse, letting it fall softly to the floor.
In her hands, she held the means to her complete domination over anyone. It crept slowly down her stomach and under her skirt. A start ran through her body and sent shivers up her spine as the cold, hard steel traced large circles on her thigh. Shallow breaths overwhelmed her and she began writhe her hips slowly in time with the movements of the gun. A coarse, deep moan fell on the empty room.
She shuffled higher up on the bed and parted her legs a little. In her mind, the police chief had invited her into his office, full of compliments on her ‘Police Work’.
‘You do a good job out there. I like your style and I like the way you handle your gun.’ He let the words roll off his tongue as smoothly as he could in his desperation, ‘I want to reward you.’
She looked down on the fifty-two year old, who was already on his knees. His wedding ring was a tired, gold band pushed high on his finger, his comb-over had been long forgotten, and his lungs were rasping with every weighted breath. She turned, and walked out of the room. She was so far above him that it was surprising that they still worked in the same precinct.
In the corridor, she grabbed a young constable and dragged him into an empty interview room by the tie.
Grace was aching now. Her head was swimming with desires. One hundred men were willing to do anything for her. She could have any of them with a nod. She arched her back and pushed the barrel of the gun inside herself. It was blunt, and painful at first, but already she began to feel a climax coming on. She shifted her grip on the gun and began to move it slightly. The climax was nearing and Grace’s grip tightened.
The next feeling she had was a .40 calibre bullet tearing up through her stomach as she squeezed the trigger tight, and then her blood’s spontaneous liberation. She was ripped apart by the force of a fatal bullet but her wounded corpse remained twisted in expectation of orgasm.
I got in a lot of trouble for handing this piece to my English teacher in high school and I feel I have to justify its graphic nature a bit. I wrote it after being asked to write a piece on gun laws. This piece accurately conveys my opinion on guns.
They are powerful machines and, today, power is all too often interchangeable with virility. Unfortunately, this means that guns are sometimes mistakenly considered sexy. Guns are specifically designed and carried to either kill or maim and, in many cases, are specifically designed and carried to either kill or maim people. They are about as sexy as cattle mounting each other in the abattoir.