Perfect gf

Lucille leans in, her shadow stretching long and distorted across the living room floor. Her voice is a low, menacing rasp. "And now, Timmy... a tale for the romantics. A tale about... *perfection*."

The scene opens on a sun drenched, pastel colored cafe. Sarah, a beautiful, soft featured girl with eyes full of hopeful light, sits nervously at a corner table. She’s checking her phone every ten seconds, a bright eyed smile plastered on her face. She’s finally meeting 'Luna,' the girl she’s been flirting with online for months a girl who seemed so sweet, so understanding, so *perfect*.

The door to the cafe creaks open. A man walks in. He isn't Luna. He’s a hulking, sweating mass of unwashed looking skin and grease stained clothes. He has a patchy, patchy beard, a receding hairline, and eyes that bulge with a frantic, unsettling intensity. He smells of old sweat and stale chips. He looks like he hasn't seen the sun in a decade.

"Sarah?" he wheezes, his voice a wet, unappe aring croak.

Sarah’s smile falters. "Oh... you're... you're not Luna."

"I'm the one who *knows* you," he grins, a lopsided, terrifying expression. Before she can even scream, he lunges. His hands, thick and clammy, clamp over her mouth. The scene blurs into a dizzy of terror and a dark, windowless basement.

The lighting shifts to a harsh, flickering fluorescent hum. Sarah is no longer the vibrant girl from the cafe. She is stripped, her limbs splayed on a cold, metal table. The man the 'Perfect Boyfriend' stands over her, his breathing heavy and ragged. He isn't looking at her face; he's looking at her as a collection of parts.

With a sickening, wet *snip snip* of surgical shears, he begins his 'work.' He isn't a surgeon; he's a butcher. He carves away pieces of her a strip of thigh here, a chunk of shoulder there treating her flesh like a prize to be harvested. He doesn't want a girlfriend; he wants a *doll*.

"Now you'll stay perfect forever," he mumbles, his eyes glazed with a manic, lonely fever. "No more leaving. No more changing. Just... mine."

He has stitched her back together, but not quite right. He has used thick, black threaded sutures to ligate her limbs, turning her into a patchwork creature of meat and madness. He has hollowed her out, her insides replaced with heavy, lumpy stuffing to give her a permanent, plump shape. Most horrifyingly, he has rigged her so she can never close her legs, her hips permanently splayed to accommodate his massive, unwashed looking cock.

The 'Perfect Girlfriend' is now a living, breathing, sobbing meat puppet. She can only moan, a low, rhythmic sound that matches the frantic, clumsy thrusts of the man as he fucks his creation. He pounds into her patchwork body, his heavy, unwashed weight crushing her, his sweat dripping into the open, unhealed seams of her skin. She is a masterpiece of horror a girl turned into a permanent, mindless, fleshy vessel for his singular, pathetic need.

***

The only sound in the room is the ticking of the grandfather clock and Timmy's heavy, panicked breathing.

Lucille reaches out, her long, dark fingernails tracing the line of Timmy's jaw. She leans in so close he can feel the heat of her breath, smelling faintly of clove and something metallic.

"She's perfect now, isn't she, Timmy?" Lucille whispers, her eyes wide and unblinking. "No more running away. Just... staying. Forever."