(18+) We need to talk about Orgasms!...and the Rat-King.
Guerrilla Literature Body Horror Flash Fiction conceptualized, written and published 6/27/25.
Let’s talk about orgasms, and masturbation and the itching underneath your skin. You know it’s not insects, well not flies or beetles, but perhaps maggots? You don’t think it’s maggots though. You’re pretty sure, right?
I think it’s just the fact that we’re mostly made up of cheese and you can feel the rubbery dairy fats pushing up at the inside of your skin. Are you thinking about peeling the skin back again? Unwrapping yourself like a fleshy wheel of Edam. Revealing yourself to the world and to the Rat-King under the sink?
Don’t you remember that kid back at school who was always screaming and ranting about the rat-king? What a freak. What a weirdo. That kid talked about the rat-king as if he were a mythological being upon a throne, commanding a legion of rats to do his world dominating bidding.
You used to laugh at that kid, Bently, but no, no…the rat-king is real and a real rat-king is a legion of rats, bound together by their tails or hair or glue or gum. A monstrosity of writhing rat. Interconnected perversion. A mass of degeneration. Something that eyes should never gaze upon unless you wish to invite darkness inside your soul.
At first you hoped you were merely the bait for harmless mice. Perhaps they’d come and nibble at you softly as you pressed deep inside making holes like Swiss. You hummed, you moaned, sunk deep inside yourself. It felt good, didn’t it? Freeing? As if there was no punishment for devouring a platter of self-cheese. You enjoyed your own charcuterie board too much.
Made too much noise, too much mess. You bragged too much. Wrote article after article about the pleasures of girl cheddar.
That’s what alerted the Rat-King. His bound flesh and many mouths scurried into your home for a taste of what you were selling to the world online. It couldn’t have been anyone else, could it? The Rat-King knew it was personal. He read every line and got aroused by every cheeky reference to fondue or Babybel. He knew your work inside…and out. It was an invite, wasn’t it, what else could it be in a world full of rats? An invite to a rat-king.
And of course he accepted.
He didn’t knock. He doesn’t have to knock. The Rat-King oozes through the cracks, scurries through the pipes of your addled mind, through the little lonely gap between your thighs when you think no one’s looking. When you hope someone’s looking.
He came when you were at your lowest, filthiest, most desperate. When your screen was fogged and your legs were shaking and the smell of your own self had gone sweet-sour, like yogurt left out in the southern sun. You thought it was just a visit, a one-night infestation. A shameful cheese dream. But he never left. He never leaves.
You invited him. You made the offer in every triple entendre. In every metaphor. You left out the wine and crackers and posed naked on a bed of napkins. You gave yourself to him. That’s what this all gets you. This kind of attention.
And now?
Now he lives beneath your sink, in the wet, weeping wood. He stares at you from plugholes. You see his eyes in the cereal bowl. You hear his teeth in the ceiling fan. His tails curl around your toes at night, gently. Affectionately.
You are his dairy queen.
His muse.
And you still write, don’t you? You still blog. Post. Moan. Share. “For the girlies,” you say. But it’s not for them. Not anymore.
It’s for him.
You lift your shirt and see it: a little knot just above your hipbone. Red. Inflamed. Pulsing. Something’s inside. Pushing its way out. You try to pop it, but your fingers slip in deeper than they should, like pushing into an overly blue Stilton. The smell is sharp and fetid. You gag, but also, there’s that strange thrill. Like cumming. Oh Lord, again you’re cumming.
Becoming again.
You better write about this.
You’re going to write about this.
All hail the Rat-King.