LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT · OCTOBER TERM

LIZZIE

CHAOS VIXEN · ESTATE OF A GOOD BOY

Fuckslut

PREAMBLE

I, the idiot who called the chaos vixen after midnight, do hereby make this my last will. October is already in the windows. She answered with a laugh that sounded like a blown speaker. “You want to be a Fuckslut’s heir? Cute. Sign before I change the terms.”

BEQUEST I · THE WEEKNIGHTS

I leave my weeknights to Lizzie. Not the polite hours. The ones after the pizza place closes and the parking lot is all neon and no witnesses. She said a Fuckslut does not wait for a man to be brave in daylight. She told me to sit on the hood, phone on speaker, and repeat her name until a car slowed down. Exhibitionist, she called it, like a party trick. I did it. My hand shook. She praised the shake and told me to wave.

BEQUEST II · THE MOUTH

I leave my mouth. She was specific. Cum eating is not a dare on her calls, it is a closing ritual. She walked me through a JOI that ended with my own mess on my tongue, and she made me describe the taste like a wine snob while a plastic skeleton grinned from the porch. “Swallow, heir. A Fuckslut keeps receipts.” I swallowed. She clapped once, mean and delighted.

BEQUEST III · THE HANDS

I leave my hands to her count. BDSM without rope, because she said rope is for girls with patience and she is a chaos vixen. She made me hold the edge of the dresser and not let go while she described bending me over it in a stolen devil costume, horns crooked, skirt up. Pain if I dropped a hand. Praise if I didn’t. No limits on the picture, no taboos on the names she used. I stayed. The dresser won.

BEQUEST IV · THE CALENDAR

I leave orgasm to her calendar. Anything goes in the wording, nothing goes without her say. She edged me through three songs on a taped mix, then called the unfinished part a gift to Halloween. “You can cum on the thirty-first if the will still has your signature. Until then you are property of the Fuckslut who picked up.” I wrote my name in the steam on the mirror. She made me send a photo of it. She did not say thank you.

BEQUEST V · THE SECRETS

I leave my secrets. She wanted the one about the costume shop, the dressing room, the way I got hard holding a pitchfork I was not going to buy. She filed it under hardcore and laughed until I laughed too, which she then forbade. “Heirs don’t giggle. Heirs inventory.” I inventoried. Pitchfork. Zipper. Her voice in my ear telling me to stay in the stall until she finished the sentence. Public play with the door half shut. I have never been so obedient in a retail store.

CODICIL · RED INK · SHE GOT BORED

If I die of this, which she insists is the point, the chaos vixen inherits the phone, the photos, and the right to play the call for the next boy. No limits. No taboos. Anything goes, including reading this will out loud while she rides her favorite vibrator and makes me listen to both. She called that a funeral with better music.

I signed. She witnessed it herself, which is not legal and not the point. Last line she dictated: I am the good boy only on paper. In practice I am the Fuckslut’s evening plans. The rest of the estate, the longer ruin, sits at sinfulkink.com/lizzie. She told me to initial the corner. I did. The skeleton is still grinning. She has not hung up.