creative writing 𝑆𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑦 𝑆𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑆𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ Tᴏ

𝑆𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑦 𝑆𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑆𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠

 

 

 A Note From The Author 

Greetings, 

Here you will find various samples, starters, short stories, smutty scenes, and perhaps even a sadistic sonnet or shitty song or two. I tend to write raunchy, random shit, so here will be the place I plan to show it off. 

These materials will contain content not suitable for all audiences that include but are not limited to detailed depictions of rape, lolicon, violence, drug use, torture, heavy bondage, and gore. I will do my best to use trigger warnings and tags either at the story's beginning or within the table of contents. Images in this section may not be safe for work, though I will try to hide them in a spoiler tag to minimize lag, mobile data, etc. 

Though I do love getting reactions, to help keep my thread nice and tidy, I request that all comments, suggestions, and questions – if any – please be redirected to my inbox and not here. 

Thank you for reading.

C.

 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

/ . . . . . . . . . . : [ 01. s.t.a.r.t.e.r

 

 Out among the crystal sea, a mighty murk fumed over the atoll surrounding the island kingdom. 

    "Hah-roh-hü!" The cadence of cruel chants clattered forth from the coal-crested clouds. And with it came the sounds of war, beating the drums of a battalion barging through the break of black mist. Among this harrowing sound, their horns blew loud, amplified by the rocky acoustics of the sea stone. It started faint, growing loud enough to rumble throughout the entire empire.

    The castle was deemed impenetrable by its geological location, with navy vessels unable to puncture through the rough rapids of the lagoon's archipelago without collision. Many of the surrounding empires had experienced problems with pillaging nords who had set sail from the north to plunder and pillage, but captains or chieftains wouldn't dare disturb their wrathful waters. That was until now, as thousands of eyes cast out from the cliff's coast to watch the warlord earn his name Bjarke the Bold.

    At the bridge of a Viking war vessel, Jarl Bjarke stood like the figurehead of a bear. He was broad, complimenting the black fur that covered him from the ice-cold waves splashing the sides of the wooden ship. His men all stayed squatted, rowing blindly and battling the blusterous tides. A fleet patrolled either side, sailing in a spear-shaped formation.

    "Line up! Move, move, move!" A general shouted, the royal guard mounting the stone wall along the jagged cliffside. His legion of men readied, gathering in position. All of them drew back their longbow, each archer with a scout ready to ignite the tips of their weapons. "Steady your bows!"

    "Prepare the shields!" The cruel chieftain commanded, roaring the words both left of the portboard and right starboard. The long wooden oars of the vessel came out of the crest in unison, folding into the ship as the raiders readied the shields hung along the sides. Out of the two fleets, each vessel had a war officer known as Sjõkapten, all repeating the command of their Jarl as they unfurled their sails.

    "Fire!" Called the Kingdom's commander.

    Arrows clotted the dawning bruised skies, darkening the daring beneath the soot of their shadows. Their wooden rain would be their only defense as the kingdom watched the intruders lift their shields to form a barrier as bolts crashed around them like lightning. The losses were minimal, keeping shelter from the strong storm. Out of the fleet, only one man stood defiantly against the onslaught of arrows, those piercing blue hues glowing closer.

    "Again!" The general guided. "Fire!"

    Through the lens of a scope, those who dared would see Bjarke hadn't even flinched from the whistle of one projectile traveling past his shoulder to stump into a mound of upright shields.

The man leading them was menacing, his body as broad as a bear yet more defined than a Greek statue. A long scar was carved on his left eye and trailed the corner of his weatherbeaten lips. Though he was brunette, it was fair colored hair the Vikings found favorable, using strong lye soap to bleach the black down to its roots and shaping it into a braid that ran the top and back of his crown. Large fingers combed the sea salt staining his bristled black mustache, shaping a sinister grin as his cruel countenance stared into the glint of a telescope.

    Their warships grew closer, encroaching the coast as another volley of arrows met them among the seaboard. Out of the twenty ships, only two managed to crash against the rocky archipelago. Another four would leave their fates to Odin as the inferno of the arrows started to sink their ships. Men were in flames, jumping over to distinguish the fire. The oil burned across the crest, causing the shoreline to glow a radiant red. One by one, the ships docked against the sandy coast.

    "Closer to the cliffs!" Jarl Bjarke boomed. He leaped from the front of the ship, tree stumps rooting hard into the wet sand. One hand came behind him, locking the figurehead to guide the vessel closer to the cliffs to prevent the arrows from marooning them among foreign lands.

    They had successfully breached the bay. All in the kingdom could do little more than accept that just below them, merciless men were preparing camp. It wasn't like the Vikings were known to do anything more than wage war and pillage. They would rape and tediously torture anything left standing in their wake. Women, children, none would be spared in their sadism. Men would be mangled, their livestock mutilated. What wouldn't burn to the ground would become reclaimed by mother nature, nothing more than the ruins of another Earth's eroded empire. 

Time, now, was all the citizens had to prepare themselves as Bjarke began to rally the rest of his men for mayhem. May Zeus have mercy on their pagan souls... 

ᛖᚾᛞ

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

002. Random Shit-Post

She looked pleasantly pathetic. 

It took two weeks of constant cruelty to make up this sordid Sunday. The trick was to get them young, and Arleen was far from legal. Her mind was a sponge, soaking up the sadism into total submission. Her friends and family were nothing but a blur in her memory. All she knew now was bitch.

Like with any bitch, grooming a girl took a harsh hand. It showed on the black bumps and blue bruises mottling her beautiful body from head to toe, some stained into a sunburst of yellow and red. Stipples of scarlet-stained scratches abraded both knees, now sporting silly cartoon bandaids that took the brutal bastard on a ride whenever those blue beams came into contact with his.

There was something about seeing cum covering Elsa's face that sent shivers down his spine, perhaps more so than seeing blood pouring out of an open knife wound. Her age mattered not, only the prowl of his psychotic pathos. It could have been anyone: her mother, her aunt, the cuter girl next door. Another caught in the webs of wrong place– wrong time.

It's incredible, really, how quickly a little one bounces back from brutality. There's a sickening sadism within itself that he found the most satisfying. They are like dogs that still come to you no matter how hard they get kicked. A few kind words, a show of affection, and one can almost piece back the portions of her personality. It wasn't as though this was her only life, yet, oddly, this was now all she knew. 

As her master arrived, she sprang to life on the staunch single mattress mottled in mold and bed bugs. He always preferred her more when she was pleasant, so she readied herself as he had tediously trained: on her knees, arms in a praying mantis position, mouth wide open, tongue out, ass shaking, breath panting. 

The man had mentioned one day she'd have bigger breasts to quote-unquote, ‘shake those tiny titties,’ and she couldn't wait for that day to come faster. Anything to please him and make their lives better. Life was hell without servitude.

 In her best effort, she writhed her top torso, hoping it might merit a reward. It felt silly, sure, but it helped give her bottom more momentum. Unbeknownst to the drool that started to drip off that small velvet muscle to glisten over her flat canvas. As her body shook, spit slobbered everywhere, tongue wildly wriggling, almost as if possessed by a demon and had been touched by an exorcist. 

‘‘There she is–’’ Her owner humbly greeted. His hand nuzzled the moment it made contact with her cheek. ‘‘Who's a good girl?’’

 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

003 Shit-Sample

He stood there, observing the tiny petrified preteen, his face obstructed behind a black mask, only revealing two cold, careless onyx orbs. At this moment, standing there in sexual solace, the man mulled the events over in his head. 

A week prior, the sadistic stranger would never have believed it to be this easy to kidnap someone with the intent to rape and discard them on the side of the street like roadkill or tossed them into the trash. In some ways, her abduction was anticlimactic. The movies typically portray hatching a perfect plan with exit strategies and high-speed car chases. However, this was a simple snatch and grab. There was an essence of evil and thrill that didn't seem to lurk– that consciousness contemplating the dangers of breaking the law. Except, that didn't happen either. The only rush had come now, watching her spirit wither in the wake of his presence when piercing his plump phallus into her cramped cunt once again. 

There was no disputing the satisfaction in him with the multitude of facial mannerisms painting her pale profile. He knew what she liked when confusion settled upon shocked eyes, but what little lady would refute the sexual spasms of a teasing tip and furious fingers flickering against their clit? Certainly no woman, not even this cowering cunt. What hurt her, however, was when he lost control, shoving his sex inside with enough strength to split her in two. It was hard to distinguish which he cared for more, those babydoll eyes searching aimlessly in confusion or clutching closed when cramming back inside, they had both made him cum. 

It was his fourth helping of her as minutes transited to hours. Unlike other times he had engaged sexually with a woman, the man never changed positions. He left the teen on her back, laid across an office table with cardboard to coaster the substances spilling from her freshly fucked holes. 

Looking at her now came this strained shiver, the sadistic state of her being, forcing the air from his lungs to batter against her body. Purple highlights on platinum curls now frayed into a mess from their short scuffle, accentuated those big, bright, babydoll blues beckoning him as they brimmed with wave after wave of her muffled woes. Lithe limbs got bound behind her head, and legs locked both above and below each knee by separate strips of sticky duct tape. Her petite mouth was bridled by the same material, strapping two sheets to cross at the center of her lips. Some of the sides had worn, leaving enough space that he could look down and see each hitch of dead air rippling the shiny gray gag.

Most men might have preferred something mature, with beautiful breasts and other feminine features, but not him. Her chest was flat; her shirt shredded in a way that those tiny little bug bites erected by the gentle breeze of his hot breath. Nothing could prepare him for the little girl's beautiful belly button, now filled with his thick cum, cutely complimenting her tight tummy. She was slender, without the noticeable curves of a fertile female. When she breathed, she revealed to him most of the bones of her upper torso that had otherwise hidden behind a thin wall of baby fat plumping into little love handles from the torn pink pantyhose she had worn to school today. 

She was even prettier through the lens of a digital camcorder compared to the few photographs he had taken in hopes of beating off and sufficing his appalling appetite. But a man can only fantasize for so long before his needs must be met with reality. 

It was a beautiful touch, though, to place those perverted pictures parallel to her petite profile. One was through the bedroom window, changing out of her clothes to tease her. Some photos of her happy home, her parents smiling faces as they walked to their car. Most important was the snapshot taken of her from behind while on her way to school. Her legs climbed for days up to that slightly skimpy school skirt, but nothing did it more for the man than her pink panda-printed backpack and the fragile fingers gripping tightly to its white straps. 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

For Megan, cancer was always the family boogeyman. Even before she understood what it was, the brunette feared it. Crawling out from beneath her bed to claim everyone she ever loved. The disease had claimed her grandmother when she was eight, her aunt at age ten, and her mother not long after. Now, it has come for her, at age twenty-two. 

Hospitals always gave the woman the creeps, despite it being a home away from home. The smell of antiseptic in the atmosphere, mixed with a touch of nitrogen made her queasy. Sounds from the machines checking her vitals were loud, repetitive, rising every time she focused too much on it. Her arm felt stiff, unmoved since they stuck the IV, and began to feel like lead. 

By her admission, the window curtains hid her from the outside world. It was a mistake, or so it had seemed. Megan didn't want to see the cityscape: the bustling, busy streets or the birds landing upon the windowpane to pay their respects. Seeing life and the world in all its beauty was hard when waiting to die. That's what she assumed, anyway– that death would come strolling through that door in a bright white coat and sophisticated smile at any minute.

Her hazel hues winced, hearing the loud click of the stainless steel door handle. She could hear them just outside the door; the doctor mingling with a few nurses about putting their money together to order food from an upscale dinner off Doordash. It wasn't fair to hate them. Everyone needed to eat, but the laughing and giggling made her sick. Didn't they know she was going to die soon? 

Dr. Rowe was everything and more in her eyes. The very definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He had this smile that was annoyingly bright and beautiful, complementing his defined Clark Kent countenance. Like many young doctors, his skin shimmered with a gorgeous glow, his body toned and trained to defy any attempts of early death.

 It wasn't just his looks alone, but the gold band around his index finger, and soft, silver sights teeming intelligence. All her boyfriend had done was abandon the woman after four years together. Not that she could blame him. Who wanted to be a widow before they turned thirty or spend their better years in sorrow? Still, she dreamed of a man like Dr. Rowe, standing strong until the very end. 

 Even his flaws were accentuated, from the salt that peppered his strong hairline and the row of tiny moles that ran down his neck like Orion's belt, and the North star dotting the corner of a cleft chin. Everything reminded her of outer space. Anything beautiful and peaceful, that is, and his presence was such even for a time as grim as this dreary day. 

"How are we feeling today, Miss Loveday?" Dr. Rowe softly spoke by the door, letting it close gently behind him for sauntering to the woman, clipboard in his hand.

"I'm, uhm…" Dainty digits nervously tugged the hem of her medical gown, eyeing the unshaved, invisible hairs on her legs. God, she'd do anything for a nice hot bubble bath back at home. "...hanging in there, I guess you could say." 

"You're doing more than hanging in there," Rowe replied, pulling up the clipboard. He licked his index, flipping to the next page. 

At a glance, the man had this perplexed look like something was off with the data on the page. She watched while he placed the clipboard into the bed-built cubby then hooked his stethoscope up to his ears to listen to her breathing. Like always, he warmed the steel end before lowering it down to her chest. He checked his watch, counting both her heartbeat between her breaths. This was the more flattering part of his work, noticing the nervousness within the woman from his touch. Nothing gets past a doctor. 

"I, ahh, don't understand." Megan shook the clouds in her head. "You mean it's treatable? I told you before, I don't want radiation. Not without 100% certainty, anyway." 

Everyone she knew and loved in her family died from this disease. What made her situation any different? Strangely, she somewhat accepted death– didn't want to die sporting chemo-chic like the rest of her family. Nothing was more traumatic than watching your mother's hair fall out and age forty years in forty months. Even though she had hardly any family left, friends and coworkers would come to see her final rest. 

Dr. Rowe put his stethoscope away, tilting back her head to stare up into his grayish globes. He smelled of sandalwood, spice, and something sweet, perhaps a Cuban cigar, even though she knew he didn't smoke. Doctors never jeopardize their health. His fingers felt cold upon her hot flesh, his healing touch checking her lymph nodes to monitor the swelling. A shiver shuddered her spine, her heart hitching a clutched breath at his tender touch.

"I mean we took four separate samples to monitor the rate of carcinogens found in your body to get a gauge of its acceleration," His countenance seemed confused and conspicuous, studying her eyes in search of answers. "but they've all seemed to have come back negative." 

"Well, that doesn't make any sense." Megan was just as perplexed as him. Sure, she wasn't a doctor but had plenty of experience on the subject. "What are you saying? That I never had cancer?" 

 It made no sense. Cancer doesn't disappear. Not overnight, anyway, but results showed nothing now. Despite the woman's current insecurities, looked better as well. Her pigment seemed to have returned, her blood pressure stabilized, heart rate perfect for her age and size. Nor had her face seemed sunken from malnutrition, but full and healthy. He knew she had cancer, she was diagnosed months ago. 

"It's hard to say for certain without more tests, but it is strange. In my twenty years in this field, I've never seen or heard of anything like this. How are you feeling?" 

"Shocked." She snickered nervously.

 Twenty years? He must have been around fifty or so, with the face of a twenty-year-old. Sure, his hair had a patch of white which she had mistaken as premature graying. She grew up with a friend in school who had the same situation, nearly in the same spot.

"Have you noticed anything different in your appetite?" Rowe continued, drawing up his pen to tap against his lips. The other hand took the clipboard, eager to take notes for any clues to finalize his examination. 

Megan pursed her lips, scrunching her nose at the thought of food. She hadn't eaten much in the last four days other than lime jello. Not that she didn't try to eat the horrid hospital food. Nothing smelt the same, tasted it either.

"The jello is starting to grow on me?" She softly chuckled, squirming in her chair. It felt like a large rock sunk into her stomach. "But the idea of food makes me feel sick. I know I should eat more but I am honestly not hungry. I feel full." 

"Could be your nerves." Dr. Rowe replied, noting the last time she had eaten. Cancer wasn't a cold, though, you can't starve it out of existence. "What about sleep? Are you sleeping longer or less than normal? Waking up, tossing and turning, night sweats, does anything like that stand out to you?" 

Megan eased back against the bed, looking up to the ceiling in search of an answer. For the most part, the woman got an average undisturbed six to eight hours of sleep. As strange as it was to say, she had slept more soundly in the following days. There were these dreams, though. These were very lucid dreams that she hadn't experienced since she was a small child. 

"No?" She replied, confused as he was when cleaning her head to look at him. "I mean, well, I've been having dreams. I have not had dreams since I was around twelve or so, especially as surreal as these."

"What sort of dreams?" Rowe shifted on his heel, raising a curious eyebrow. The pose made her stomach flutter, forcing her to softly smile. He probably had to pee, but didn't want to seem impatient. "Like nightmares?"

"Sort of. Well, I've looked into them, on my phone, and I guess there are these situations called death-dreaming." She blushed, turning her gaze away. "On account of my, ahh, situation, I guess it's normal to have weird dreams about dying or waking up during surgery."  

"Well, nobody's ever woken up during surgery. Not here or that I know of, anyway." Dr. Rowe grinned, chuckling softly. "Anesthesiologists are good at what they do to ensure those things don't happen. I have to admit, it is a nightmare I have before any surgery."

"I know it sounds silly."

"No, not silly. The mind works in fascinating ways, doesn't it?" Rowe assured her he wasn't here to judge. "What else can you tell me about them? The dreams? Do you still remember them?"

"Why yes, of course." Megan had said confidently. "It is always the same dream, every night. They are so lucid– like I am playing a video game." 

The woman nuzzled against the back of the bed, trying to reimagine the dream. It always started the same; waking up and staring into a bright, blonding overhanging light. There are four silhouettes surrounding her, but their shapes are distorted. What she can see, however, is the way her knees are aimed upright and parted, as if undergoing labor. Out of the four figures, one is positioned between the lacuna of her parted legs. 

Megan tried to concentrate on the figures, shifting around like they were operating on her stomach. She tried to focus on their faces, hoping her memory might put a face on them. Though, the harder she tried, the more nauseous the woman became. It was like an unknown force was preventing her to see them, moving in static the harder her mind focused. The woman found herself obsessed, despite the sickness she felt. 

"It's strange…" Megan's voice trailed. "I can't see their faces. There is this humming noise, I remember that. Sort of like when you hold a seashell to your ear and you can kind of hear the ocean? I can almost hear it now…"

As the woman continued to fixate on creating faces on the figures, the sounds grew louder. The shadows started to shapeshift, flickering in and out of view as in a strobe light but no lights were blinking. For a split second, she saw eyes, darker than ebony. They were huge, nearing the size of two pears, and shaped like an almond. Its head was massive, double that of a human. The being was noseless, with two small nostrils that made the menacing thing look almost frog-like.

Megan tried to open her eyes, feeling herself convulsing uncontrollably against the mattress. No matter how hard she tried to open them, they refused to open. Her hands clawed frantically at her cheeks, attempting to pry apart both eyelids to no prevail. She attempted to open her mouth, but her jaws had clenched completely shut. 

The humming noise grew louder, a sharp, shrieking frequency that left her ears nearly defended. As panic pursued, her heart-rate monitor began to warble louder, faster. Never had sound seemed so sharp as to stab through both eyes and needle its way into her bruising brain. Blood beaded out of her ears, the crimson cascading down the bones of her neck to pool at her clavicles. 

Dr. Rowe was scrambling, calling for the nurses and trying to calm the woman down. Two hands rooted against the writhing woman scared she'll snap her spine. This wasn't like any seizure he ever encountered. Out of desperation, he tossed cold water brought to her by a nurse moments before he arrived but it did little to wake her up. It did, however, reveal the blood from her ears while mixing with the water. 

Megan's mouth ripped open, screaming at the top of her lungs. Soon, more scarlet started to seep from her nostrils, and eyes, before flooding out of her mouth and down the front of her medical gown. Fingers curled the cold steel bed rails, feeling herself tumble about as if she was on a rollercoaster ride from hell, bracing for the moment it collides or derails off the tracks. 

She could see them now. All of them, as if living the very same dream in real-time. They were menacing, staring down at her, their eyes void of any life. Their fingers were long and lithe, reaching down to peel her gown up and over her breast. They didn't speak, not as humans do, with their small mouths. Instead, it was hypnotic, telekinetic, and untranslatable, with a clicking sound she couldn't ever redescribe.

Another one brought a strange object down, a long fiery blade of plasma erecting from the handle. It burned hotter than anything she could imagine, even now in this trapped trace. The blade made contact with her navel, peeling up her canvas like a knife cutting through butter, cauterizing the cleaned flesh as it slid up to her breastplate.

"Stop it!" Megan shrieked. "Make them stop!"

He examined her horrified hues, eyes clouded in crimson. Irises were twitching side to side in a rapid recession. Blood vessels engorged up the woman's throat, gasping for air that wasn't there. In all his years, he never encountered anything like this before. None of it made any sense. 

"There's nothing there, Miss Loveday!" Dr. Rowe shouted, taking the woman by the shoulders. 

But there was something there, surrounding her. She could see her legs kicking at times, others with her knees parted wide, flickering in and out of a twilight zone of paranormal, parallel plains. The woman saw the nurses gathered around, trying to sedate her and alleviate her ever-rising heart rate– and they, too, flickered, shapeshifting back to the silvery silhouettes of unworldly creatures and big bug eyes. 

An injection was made into her forearm, forcing her to curse the heavens. The pain punched through her divided abdomen, ripping through her veins like fireworks. Rather than sedate her, Megan's heartbeat continued to rise, entering the threshold of cardiac arrest. Knuckles went white, toes curling, as her hips started to elevate upright. Her dress slowly slid down her milky white thighs, shimmying from her knees knocking to comfort the pain. 

"Please!" Megan pitifully pleaded. She shook her head violently, whipping the others with her hair. "Kill me! It hurts too much!"

Between her legs, the thing dead ahead pulled out a strange metal medical device. It was something as equally terrorizing as the things torturing her, with silver spider-like legs curled over a copper shaft and capped with a collider that made it look almost phallic. Inside the coils was what appeared to be a pink crystal, likely quarts of some kind. Down the shaft were these notches, dials that started to crank in opposite rotations. The noise whistled, sounding like a power drill winding up on high. 

"No! What is that?!" Megan screamed, bucking her hips in the bed like a wild fucking banshee. She kicked her foot, watching the creature turn back into one of the nurses as she flew back and slammed her head against the edge of a table. "Get that fucking thing away from me!"

The device touched between her legs, its spider-like ends hooking into her thighs, asscheeks, and pelvis. She could feel the collider churning, the vibrations coursing through the constricted walls of her womanhood. It dissolved the pain of being torn open, but only a little, as it continued to drill its way into her body….

 

 

To be continued….

 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

Another short I started working on last week while things were slow....

 

The Nightstalker

 

Rylee awoke frantic, in freight. 

She could feel someone's hand enveloping her lips. By size and strength, the brunette knew it must be an adult male. He was powerful. The decisive digits hooking her jawline revealed his passion for pain and violence.

In almost paranormal fashion, the comforter was ripped off her body. The soft cottony fabric burned over her body, disappearing into the darkest corners of the small bedroom. It was almost akin to those magic tricks when ripping off the tablecloth, leaving the items on top untouched.

It was too dark to see her assailant. Even though she knew it was human, he could have been a phantom from another parallel universe. His stature was stout, shaped like a bodybuilder with bouldering shoulders, a broad chest, and big biceps. The clothes he wore were a shroud of darkness, casting his silhouette as if it were an enormous portal of black mass.

A deep breath came with the smoldering scent of leather. Her lips parted to scream, muffling against the protective palm of the Nightstalker. The gloves he wore tasted and smelled fresh from the bag. She hated the musky odor, let alone the taste. It always made her queasy, sickness soon swooning her scrunching stomach. 

Self-preservation took over. 

She stretched her mouth wide, biting into the web between his index and thumb. He didn't so much as groan from the discomfort, tightening his hand into a fist. His knuckle was used like a wedge to keep her plump, pretty lips parted. Still, she tried to chew through the leather and bone. 

A foot rammed into his hip, doing little to prevent him from climbing over the top of her. Rylee knew her chances of survival were zero if he pinned her against the bed with all his body weight. At one hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, she'd never get up to run away. Like a two-stroke engine accelerating into overdrive, both legs began a barrage against him.

Rylee understood what this was; what was happening. The local news and papers had warned of this situation in the past two weeks. She didn't want to fathom being victim number thirteen. If he planned to fuck her, like any other man in her life he would earn it. Fight hell for it. That's when it occurred to her that she was number thirteen. 

A small victory came as the ball of her heel crashed against his cock. Judging by the squishiness of his package the bastard was already aroused. She didn't want to think about his engorged endowment layeth along the sole of her foot as she tried to smother it into his sex, but it sent chills through her clammy canvas.

 How fucking big was that thing? There was no way that thing would fit in her. Not without tearing her into two. Most men she fucked were average, at around five to six inches but this felt double in length and circumference. His dirty, depraved dick felt like a Monster energy drink mangled beneath her heel. 

To think twelve other women found themselves speared by this weapon made her dry heave. There wasn't enough sympathy in the world to share with them. Unlike any other serial rapist, this one didn't have a motive other than women. Their ages mattered not, nor appearance or social status, all victims were both young, old, and anywhere in between. All that mattered was the act, the consuming of fear, and the feeling of endless power. 

"Pig!" Her muffled, pried mouth hollered. She spat, despite gravity taking his side as it landed on her face like early morning rain. Blue eyes clenched at the stinging sensation of spit slapping against her eyeballs.

It was the only time he made a noise, grunting at first and then growling like a goddamn grizzly bear. He had the strength and tenacity to match, barreling a clenched fist collided into the pit of her stomach. Her breath erupted out of her pried mouth. The pain pummeling her forced her legs to retreat backward.

As her legs bent back, it didn't occur to her how vulnerable it made her until it was too late. With one fist still chewed upon like an animal ready to sacrifice a limb to a hunter's snare, the other arm pinned the back of her knees, locking them at the sides of her head. She was rolled up into a ball, the long white T-shirt belonging to her boyfriend falling down her legs, revealing the only other article of attire she wore to bed.

He mounted her, and his denim-covered crotch made contact with her cunt, grinding against the thin cotton while continuing to struggle. At that very moment, she didn't care how satisfying it must have felt to be bucking against him, too frightened to feel her body brushing him had only whetted the weapon of her debauched demise. 

"Let me go!" She shrieked, only able to utilize her tongue to talk. Her jowls fucking hurt, cheeks chaffed and toiled with tears. A whimper fell from her fluttering lips.

Her hands went clutching the sheets, another swatting at the edge of the bedside table. Nails clawed at the wood, trudging toward anything she could get her grubby hands on to repel back the bastard. She kicked her feet like a small child throwing a tantrum, clipping his jaw hard enough to hear his teeth chatter behind the black cloth of the ski mask he wore. 

The mysterious madman's knuckle nearly tugged her two front teeth from the gums, yanked away to hover high above her head. It came crashing toward her head like a comet, connecting with her left eye. Rylee had been in fights before, but that was back in high school when defending herself against a bunch of bratty, bullying-ass bitches. Their little fists, sharp slaps, and high pulling all rolled into one couldn't even compare to this, feeling her cheekbone crumble beneath the force.

"Ahh, fuck!" Rylee yelped. In one fell swoop she felt weightless, sinking into her mattress. Her heart was telling her to keep kicking, crawling, scratching, anything– but her mind knew better, begging to keep from jeopardizing another brutal blow. "Please, don't do this…"

There was no sympathy in the devil. 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

‘‘I wouldn't mind a taste of your sweet cunt–’’ The malicious man menaced.

He stood in the darkest reaches of the cemetery, covered under the canopy of a large apple tree. Moonlight breached through the branches to cast light across his plump, near-perfect lips. They thinned into a cheeky, cheshire grin that grew ear-to-ear after slowly licking his lips. 

‘‘would you, Daiyu?’’

When he spoke again, his teeth were revealed, glimmering in the twilight with two distinct canines. More distinct was his accent. It sounded ancient, with a polished poshness in his vowels and tempo that died out shortly after the seventeenth century. The tone of which boomed at first then quietened toward the end. He was a man that demanded attention, could gather a room, and quieten a packed ballroom floor. 

 It was something she had said not even an hour ago back in the alleyway. As repugnant as other males tend to be after the stroke of midnight, they typically warm up the conversation first. This wasn't a night call, another mistaken teen prostitute. Not only did he know of her sadistic scheme, but the little girl's name. The way he chuckled shortly after teased that he might be joking, but those unseen eyes were paralyzing as they pervertedly palmed over her finer features. 

Daiyu was a dream come true. From the skirt to ethnic skin, she'd tempt any unworthy man into sin. Not everybody was willing to burn their souls in hell for an hour in heaven, but the damned was eager and ready to taste the forbidden fruit lingering between her long, lithe legs. However, this man didn't seem desperate, even with the few features that were revealed. He had a flawless jawline, a prominent chin one might picture proudly serving overseas on a poster; with lips formed by the finest Greek sculptor. 

 Marcellus could almost feel his stomach tighten at the parts of her body that were beautifully bare. Veins hidden beneath blankets of snow burned away in his vision, seeing her temperature start to rise. Her warm womb called to him, ovulating from her fear and youth of pubescent rays of red heat. Coalescing colors of cobalt bruised the silhouette from her heat signature, revealing each cruel whip of autumn wind. And just as she started to glow, so had his unseen eyes that radiated a rutilant red,  like two rubies held up to a flame.

Before she could utter a word, a silver bat whipped out from the cloak of his hip. The twilight captured the lunar light, flicking through the stagnant shadows until forming into a single sharp blade. It was no bat, but the spinning blade of a butterfly knife whirling around his wrist. The positioning from which it came gave way to another clue, having placed it in the same area where she stored her favorite murder weapon. However, this wasn't a threat. It was only prophetic proof of his words as another hand lifted to pluck an apple from the forbidden cemetery tree. 

‘‘I bet you couldn't handle it; the things I'd do to you.’’ The bastard in all black began to cut her off before she could reply. Already attempting to put her in her place and establish passive dominance over her. ‘‘Is that why you're out here–?”

He started to step out of the shadows and into the light of the full moon. His gait was sharp and powerful, a prowess of a true predator moving toward her carelessly and confidently. Chains clanked like spurs to his combat boots, the steel-toed tip glimmering off the end of his shitkickers. The chime came with the thud of his heel bruising the earth, yet dead branches dared not break in his wake nor did the dry leaves crunch beneath him– moving almost like a phantom to envelop her in his presence. 

Marcellus beneath the moon was marvelous. He was the unknown man on the cover of magazines that made pussies purr. His face was flawless, Nordic in definition, and glowed from the array of art that covered his entire neck and up to highlight his jawline. Silver sights shimmered beneath thick brunette eyebrows, hidden behind long beautiful lashes and a soul-stealing natural stare. The jetted black hair on his head was well preened, fading thin up the perfectly parted crown that wrestled with the whips of wind.

‘‘To feel like a woman?’’ He slid the blade down the side of the apple, revealing the sharpness of his weapon as it cut along the core's edges like butter. A slice came up to his lips, taking the apple off the edge of the blade. The way chewed and talked would come off cocky to anybody who was a natural-born killer. ‘‘To fuck and murder?’’

His shadow now devoured her, standing over six feet and a half, forcing the petite thing to crane her head up to see those Satan-like silver sights searching through her soul. The blade came down, trailing the inside of her arm to deter her from retrieving the combat knife she had hidden by her side. 

 ‘‘Or is it past your bedtime, my little lolita?’’ 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

 

Through pangs of petrified presentiment,

They discovered debauched dismemberment.

Displayed in pieces of painful presentment,

a room riddled with the rageful red remnant,

hidden within the terrorizing tiny tenement.

Traces teeming with tenacious temperament,

The weight of a madman's measurement.

Where empathy eroded, its evilness eminent,

Buried beneath bogging brackish sediment,

For which arrived the devil's development.

Scarlet-swabbed signs of sadistic sentiment,

Cruelly carved walls withhold a ritual reverent.

With fresh flaying fevering integument,

From a finely whetted instrument,

evil erotica was evident. 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

Memory Sequence #5

she comes to serve me with tuna and a twist of lime

a hand places on mine; her breast brush my shoulder

for a woman to be so cruel, she sounds everso divine

her breath blisters my ear; warning me if I was older

she then sits 'cross from me, n' knows I can't eat mine

her hand skirts tablecloth; silverware n' the tile chime

lips pursed, demanding for only a simple lonely chore

below the table, I crawl, n' see her skirt strolls li'l more

she dismisses me when my deed had become complete

though she doesn't allow me to return to my two feet

by my hair, she leashes, walking me as if a quadruped

to the fridge, she moves it and shows what I'd be fed

then she pressed her heel to pit into my curling spine

my tongue slithered, lapping black bubblegum grime

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

 

    There loomed a tremor in the force, the brontide of the dark side's boom. It expanded throughout the furthest reaches of the galaxy, rippling its rage and waging war with the winds of misery. Such a force hasn't been felt for centuries— the ravenous return of the Sith.

   From out of the darkness, she saw the manifestation that crept into her meditation. Rutalent rose-colored skin dappled in dark Dathomirian ink wove wickedly together beneath the hood of a black cloak. His eyes opened slowly, revealing a pulpy yellow yolk bathing in blood, with no white to behold. In them was the epitome of raw hatred, so strong it left her ironclad mind trapped in the cages of cruelty and under his control. Even a master such as her couldn't easily escape the evil embrace.

   “My life ends only when my rage has been vented….”

    Out of the darkest reaches within the Outer Rim, the meditation only grew more grim. She could not see how his hands came up to cusp the sides of her neck. The fierce force began to casually close her windpipe, drawing her heels from the floor to elevate at the level of those evil eyes eagerly enticed. He felt cold, like ice melting on a hot wound. And in his shadow, seeped the sorrow of a thousand souls, trapped within the lucid black landscape.  

   A sickness swept over the Jedi, a poisonous black paint drying in her veins. Her mind felt cold, eyes rolling back to embrace the darkness surrounding her. And still, she couldn't breathe, caught in the clutches of a frightening foreseen killing spree. With her suspended spine arched and twisted, she found herself in the shiver of a seismic seizure. 

“When my need for vengeance is satisfied.”

    There, she felt their thousand dreary deaths. His blade bled with the color of his rage. It howled a hollow hum. From both ends of his hilt, he unleashed a cunning collaboration of chaos. Two forms make up his ferocity, targeting their every weakness through terror and tenacity. Juyo, a once obsolete form, along with the forbidden form, Vapaad. As soon as his dual blades ignite, he is swallowed, consumed completely by the dark side. Trained to repel the blasters of a new century, none were prepared for such an atrocious adversary. He hunts, targeting them with a slow and agonizing end. Their suffering builds his unquenchable blood thirst, strengthening his stamina and fury.

“It will be a long life...”

     In a bolt of lightning, the collapse of the council came crumbling upon a lush land rendered soon to sand. From out of the mouth of fiery ash, she saw the shadows of her padawan walking with the man who helped kill them all. Her hood was lowered, revealing the once pink pigment of the Twi’lek was now colored crimson – as red as the two lightsabers at her sides clawing at the land. Like her new dark master, the black scars of Sith ink intoxicate her once-pure profile. No longer the recognizable Talia, the galaxy will soon know her as Talon, the right hand of that foul, frightening demon.

 “And oh so cold.”

    He released the cruel grip of his clutches. The master Jedi thudded to the ground, glaring up to watch as he removed his hood. Around his head, the beast wore a crown of horns. 

“Who—” The Jedi Master managed to gasp. “Who are you?”

  His sadistic stare scrunched into a sneer, revealing rows of sharp teeth ready to tear into her as if she were a wounded animal caught in his hunt. It was then that the menace boomed:

“I

AM

M A U L.”

—Prophecies of the Phantom Menace

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

    BORN OF DEATH

 Nothing’s more menacing or more beautiful than Death. He branded battle scars along a sinewy stature, wearing only a swarthy silk shendyt. Eyeless, with a steel cage covering his head, it peaked in the shape of a pyramid-layered obsidian. 

  There’s terror in his towering size, standing over ten feet tall. Footsteps came from the bloody eight-foot cleaving blade casually carving behind a frighteningly noiseless footpath. His enormous, enveloping shadow burned like dry ice. All around him, a forlorn fog whirled in cloud-like wheels within other wheels. With each rapid rotation, a face formed, shouting soundless sorrows:

   “Ma bête—”

  A somber yet soothing sound summoned while nervously kneeling before the beast. Though Egyptian, he spoke in her trained tongue.  His sword readily rested by his right side.

  He reached forward. Out of every cracked crevice constructing five elongated claws came a smoky smolder. A gentle glide strode her smooth snout with one hand, the other softly skirting the underbelly of her checkered, carapace corset.

  With burnished, coffee-stained skin, his flayed flesh unfurled, discharging the arenaceous arthropods shifting beneath it. The critters clattered, crawling along the long, lithe limb that dared toward the carnivorous creature. They neared her maw, climbing over teeth to devote themselves to a worthy snack swallowed whole. 

  Then, the benevolent being firmly yet softly snatched around the roof of its scarlet-soaked snout. He went to widen the cruel crocodile-like chasm, contouring her nimble neck into a slow, subtle submission. Her genetic makeup was used against his soon-be pet. The evolution of the hybrid elasmobranch brought a sordid surrender when elevated in such a way, caught now in the comfort of an immobilizing, tonic trace.

   One thumb traced across one fang, checking it, before massaging along the swollen gums in soft circular motions. The next tooth wasn’t as taut, wriggling within its jagged jaws upon its initial touch. He worked it, feeling the swollen release of her gums before breaking it away. It won’t be long before it becomes replaced.

  His palm masked her vision. There was peace in the darkness, deprived of any visual villainy, when he started peeling down the front of his swarthy shendyt. A meaty, blood-filled fragrance fumed forward with a desiring warmth. He wondered if his body heat feigned a craving ache within her jaws as she had for his deprived digits. That plump, pale phallus, a softly swaying pendulum, torturously taunting like numbing novocaine. 

  Still, he softly swayed along her belly. His knuckles fluttered over her flesh, an itch soon scratched by those teasing talons. He traced around the soft spot on her stomach, searching for an opening to feel inside. The pale pads of his fingers grazed over her hearth, dancing over the heated flames. However, he dared not enter her until her lower jaws loosened, allowing that strong velvet muscle to slither outright in salivating surrender. 

 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

 

REMASTERED • COLLECTION

Story snippets of old raunchily retold. Special thanks to @𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡 for helping me find my flame. If not for her, I'd have gone insane. Thereby all that I've lost will be returned, remastered here in her name. I owe it to her that my work won't be so lost in vain.

 001: LORD OF THE FLIES

  They were torture twins— trussed to the two rods, tire tracks burnt into their tethered flesh. Between them, another pressure pole divided them. The stakes were shallowly dug, swiveling to their every sorrow. When one squirmed, the other's body bore the brunt, buckling the beams buried between bruised, lithe legs. Wombs whisked into early womanhood.  

  Neither shared the blood in their veins, only on the sand their scarlet shared the same stains. At the same age of eight, they were unbloomed buds of youth, still too early to even masturbate. If they survived this, they would become inseparable sisters. For the rest of their lives, memory will brutally blister this terrorizing twister. That is— if they made it off this infernal island. Until then, they had nothing but the sickness of seeing them all sadistically smiling. 

  All around them came the cruel clamors of their coequal mocking them and their moans. Eight in total had gathered around the perverted pyre. Many marveled at the blisters and burns of blackened little feet roasting above a ring of fire. Those who didn't soon hurled stones to brittle their branded bones. 

  Out of them, four relished in the constant crack of their wrathful whips. Front and back, the sharp stings snipped. Their prepubescent pussies peeled and puffed. Their bodies the diamond in the rough— soft slaves to be stuffed. An array of appalling abrasion art their ample asses. It was impossible not to buck against the baton buried within them, causing it to knock the other's cervix in a brutal game between lasses. 

  Their crimson cunts were on fire. Even when the cool wind blew, it blistered them in heated licks of desire. Bladders bloated from the hours straddling the Sybian shafts, it was inevitable that they both broke, sputtering out their shimmering sex like a smashed spigot. It coerced a cruel crescendo from her cuddly comrade, watching the way she wet the sand. Together a spasm spurred their spine, each cumming a second time.

— Excerpt #001, Lord of the Flies

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

 

THE DOLL MAKER

  “Oh, Li’l Dolly—” He maniacally mused his sadistic singsong. “Come out and play with me.”

  At age fifty, the Doll Maker was far from the age his premature voice portrayed. It was entombing innocence, low into tempo, tuned to terrorizing tenor. Every time he spoke, it reminded the child of the voice of her former, fake friend. If only she had listened— knew not to trust anyone.

    Yet, his appearance. That friendly, choir-boy complexion could capture anyone off guard. Beige Birkenstocks, a sweater one could guess was knitted by his grandmother, and a blue-collar shirt once occupied by a deceased father. Hair perfectly parted, perhaps by his very mother, and slicked with her saliva. The Doll Maker hid his gray with a routine regimen for it was the only clue to his cleanly shaved countenance— beautifully beaming in absolute absence.

  Bright blue hues harpooned, eyeing her through the maze of morbid, mangled mannequins. Out of them all, she was special— the only one to bear a soul. When she looked at him, it wasn't like the beady black beads of his other dolls. No, they dilated with fear. They swelled and brimmed betrayal behind long, black lashes. 

   “There you are—” He shared the sick, sadistic smile he'd saved.

 From under her anatomic arms, he plucked her from out in the crowd of his cruel creations. He hoisted the tot high, reminding her when Father heaved her body up to blotch the sun before starting to spin. If only she could claw out those evil, enchanting eyes, but he had immobilized her lithe limbs— replaced now with painful, plastic prosthetics. 

   “So great to see you.”

    A tear dropped into the corner of one cruel eye. It traced the scar that slithered along the bridge of his wide nose, veering right only to be captured by his coarse tongue as it curved into the corner of his longing lips. It stained his tongue with the taste of sweat. These life-like moments were magic, mystifying him as he marveled. No other creation could compare. 

    “It's okay—” He cruelly consoled; suffocatingly squeezing the toy. “We can play now all day.”

  God, he was so gentlemanly grotesque. It might have made her stomach swoon had she not seen his true self. Those butterflies in her belly were now chunky cocoons ready to hurl out all her hurt. Bile beckoned the back of her throat, though she dared not defile the devil. It was better to give him what he wanted so she could return to the shadows of that cold, blackened broom closet she shared with her soulless, silicone sisters.

  Whipped in the air weightless, they waltzed. Doll Maker took her to lie over the edge of his neatly dressed bed. Like a lifeless doll, she stared up at the ceiling void of feelings. He parted her draped legs dangling over the edge, skirting a single digit along the lacey hem of her nightly soft sequin negligee. It rolled neatly in folds that took forever, revealing the only thing she had left from home: those gauzy, girly garments, near-see-through in their design and littered with strawberry prints. 

  There was a time when she would stubbornly resist. Now it did nothing but bring her back to that day he severed her every stock. He pinned her, spread-eagle, using a saw to slowly shred through the soft skin. No scream could thwart the tune of metal chewing bone. Her legs were smooth silicon, shoved and welded into her hips. Had they not been severed, they'd still be stubbornly stomping into his chest and stomach as she had done the first time he stole her innocence.

  The fold of her gown rested above her hips, neatly navigated over her navel. Doll Maker pressed the ridge of his palm into the soft pit of her pelvis. She felt the stinging sensation of her bloated bladder about to bust, trying to refrain from inking out a little yellow stain. It was the only time she was allowed to speak, shaky lips parting as he pressed her invisible button: “I love you!” 

 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

 

   It was the ultimate apex predator, standing at the summit of supreme evolution. Adaptive to any atmosphere, his congenital cosmetics invigorated death and destruction incarnate. In other words, he was magnificent mayhem. 

 With jet-black lacquer coating the creature head-to-toe, he hid well within the darkness, coming only a few feet above the passing cosmonauts. Three-inch, tridactyl talons tethered to the canopy tiles, aided by the agile arms bearing four dexterous digits and opposable thumbs— a rare adaptation for non-mammals. 

  They felt its presence, mistakenly miscalculating it for the suspense of a newly discovered, uncharted temple. Flashlights stayed forward, shining into the void and along the ancient walls. All too admired by the art of gold-etched, extraterrestrial hieroglyphs to notice the heeding warnings of instinct.

  Their casual clatter echoed the confined corridors extended over the continual clicking from its lucid localization located beneath the chitinous, cetacean-bulbed crest contouring its forehead. Through sound mapping signatures, it sensed their static structures, sending signals to imprint identities to a highly adapted brain. There were three of them in total, their heat captured in monochrome. 

  After they passed, the black being dropped from the ceiling. It silently spun elegantly through the air, displaying the unseen grace of its rotated righting reflex. Dual digitigrade hind legs always landed first. He was silent, silica-padded paws quietly tapped the obsidian tiles with a similar sound to a single drop of water from a leaky ceiling. Though immense, the protruding tibial spur evolved to handle eight times this height effectively, cushioned by twin tarsi to bear the brunt.

  “Wait—” Gibbs stopped, sharpening his ears: “What was that?”

     Gibbs whipped his flashlight toward the quick clatter of feet scrambling from them. The light coalesced on the tail of a strange creature; then another zipped past. It appeared to be a newly discovered arachnid, with a scorpion-like tail and void of any pincers or sharp stingers. Oddly, the legs looked more closely to fingers attached to a huge, severed human hand still somehow attached to an arm's length worth of bleached bone filed into a toothpick. 

   “That's a big ass spider—” Stokes stammered. The sight alone made the man shudder, shining the light on himself. “Ohh—fuck!” he vaulted, hearing another whip behind him, hearing its tail dragging behind the petrifying phalanges. 

    “The lights are scaring them—” Weaver watched another evade the glow of her flashlight. Kevlar scraped over her holster, unfastening the leather to reveal a simple nine-millimeter handgun. “They seem sensitive to it—”

   “What—the—fuck—” Gibbs interrupted, having made the mistake of turning around. He froze, hand hovered over his weapon, eyes locked on a large swarthy stomach. It alone had him paralyzed, watching the flashlight flicker up the creature as his writhing wrist went weak. 

  Weaver and Stokes spun, both flashlights beaming back at the entrance. The woman gasped, immediately startled at the sight of the strange specimen. Her flashlight jumped out of her hand, clattering to the tile before she nearly tripped over her wobbly legs. Stokes readily had his weapon drawn, aiming center mass at the menacing monster. 

   It hunched over, switching its stance from humanoid to prehistoric, bipedal predator. Double-jointed black hands came clawing the ringed glow coalesced over its sapping sheath and strong, sinewy stomach. As it lowered, its extraterrestrial, elongated cranium came into view, with unseen eyes and bulb-faced forejaw. Sharp teeth revealed behind plated lips, seeping thick tendrils of sticky saliva. They watched its grimacing grin grow, unhinged pharyngeal jaw jeering terrorizing jagged teeth. 

   Bang, bang! — Gunshots pierced the atmosphere, releasing a pleasant acrid aroma as smoke smoldered its sulphurry scent. The tunnel flickered light like lightning, capturing the cretaceous creatures waiting in the dark. Two bullets dented against the midnight-colored, silicone-based mesoskeleton. Before another snap of a trigger…. 

[ to be continued... ]

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

 

  “What are you doing?” Persephone halted in her holy garden, turning to glare at the snake slithering in awe behind her.

  “Freshening up—” Hades cheekily chirped, plucking an ivy leaf from one of her many precious plants. His handsome smile greeted her. “Why?”

  “But…” She shook her head. He made her eyes, tinted with concern, double-take the plant. It wasn't mint or some soft spice. If anything it was the furthest thing to use when refreshing up. “But that's poison ivy!”

  “Indeed.” Hades marveled, rubbing the ivy against the pit of his right arm. “It helps me remember what I've overcome.”

 “Scratching yourself to death?” Persephone pursed her lips. She then raised one perplexed brow, crossing both arms over her chest. He found this to be one of her many magnificent poses.

 “It's better to take the good times with the bad.” His lips thinned, taking his eyes away to study the irritated flesh. Soon it will bubble and blister and itch he will be forced to resist. For it will continue to spread if he were to persist.

 “Why are you so weird?” Her lips widened with intrigue.

   It was then that she understood. Heroin. Hades was not as reckless as she first presumed, but rather extremely disciplined. The scars wrapping his skin were that of gold, a vessel which if broken can only heal into something more beautiful. All his sorrow was strapped to his sleeve, his heart hidden in a hellfire beneath. Another side of Death— and for this, she was blessed.

  “Why are you so cute?” Hades marveled again. This pose was even more perfect than the last. She could deliver up souls to him with a wink of an eye. He dropped the leaf, letting it flutter to the ground to land like a butterfly.

 “Charming.” She bit her lip. “But I'll have you know: I won't be caught dead near your touch.”

  “I've always longed to kiss you to death.” He took one step closer. Her eyes tried to find something— anything else to gaze upon but everything felt dangerous or blasphemous. 

  “I said won't…” Emerald eyes accepted his beautiful black voids, her heel retreating backward but her body refused to betray him.

  “Oh, but I will.” Those toxic digits trudged over the long flowing, silk-white gown she wore. The way she stood, with one toe in the dirt was that of a ballerina. He cupped her cheek. Awestruck, he shadowed her as they froze. Lovers captured in ballroom pose.

Heavens… He was such a thrill. Even when buried beneath his will. If he only knew the heart he'd steal...

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

  

     Something was wrong. He could feel it coming, the lightness in the air before the thundering boom and the perfume of petrichor. His soulless sights set up to the clouds when he felt an unearthed root trip him, nearly causing him to fall to the autumn floor. 

   “Did you just fuckin' try to trip me?” Hades inquired, spine stiffening in a show of nothing-to-see-here. Hands dusted his chest.

   “No.” Persephone pursed her lips— guilty as goddamn ever. Her eyes looked away.

   “What did you do?” He raised a brow, taking a small step back. She already slapped him once. And kneed him in the nuts.

   “Who is she, Hades?” She probed, arms crossed. She hid her hurt well behind her long black lashes. It was far from intimidating.

   “Minthe?” He played dumb, shoveling one heel in the dirt. He scratched his neck, trying not to grin— guilty as goddamn ever. “She's—uhh—nobody.”

   “Doesn't sound like nobody.” She was irate, desperately trying not to seem jealous. 

    Hades wasn't sure how to take her yet, but all the clues were there. These situations always made him nervous. Girls hate to admit they get jealous. What was he supposed to do? Unsure, Hades did what he did best— he tried to get cute. 

   “What are you doing?”

  Leaning down, he plucked a single leaf from a plant never seen before. It came with this fresh scent that smoldered beneath him. Pressed to the pink rash of poison ivy's polyp, he began to treat the itch in his arm. Seemingly unaware of Persephone's deeds. 

   “I'm all itchy…” He whined, vigorously scrubbing the swollen skin.

   “You're no better than your hell hounds, Hades.” Persephone scoffed, rolling her eyes. She couldn't help but see him as a fucking fool. Her teeth began to grind, eyeing the way the mint rubbed against him, clawing at her every nerve.

   “—?” Hades blinked, turning to glare at Cerberus. Three sets of tentative ears sharpened, craning their heads in silent confusion before wagging their tail.

 Persephone stormed off, turning after a few steps to stomp one foot and shout back at him:  “Have fun rubbing her all over yourself!”

  “Where are you going?” Confused, Hades stared at the green leaf. Now it all made sense. Persephone had cursed Minthe into that very plant. Oh, dear…

  “On a date!” She shouted, feet stubbornly stomping louder. 

 Hades brought the mint to his heart, crushing it in awe at Persephone's angsty antics. She was jealous. As nervous as the devil could be, caught in the chasm of love's cruel twists, he couldn't be mad. Perhaps in some ways, he has brought this on himself. 

   “But we're married!” He bit back. 

  Persephone stopped and at the same time scoffed and snorted. She had this look of raw disgust swooning over her that he couldn't help but find arousing. He bit his lips as she scoffed: “No we're—” She almost cussed, then corrected: “No we're not!”

  “We will be!” His eyes lit up, see-sawing on his heels. Hades always had a sabotaging smile. It always worked for Minthe, anyway.

 “Enjoy the bridal bouquet, you bastard.” She seethed, marching off the trail. 

  “Cute.” He grinned, looking at the mint leaf as it grew out of his cold clutches like a weed growing through concrete and into a beautiful bouquet of dead dahlias contrasting with little white lilies. Persephone and her plants. They wilted in his hand, leaving only the head of the black mamba ready to strike. “Real cute.”

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

First Person Sample

 

    Blubbering. That was the word to best describe her at that moment…

   You see, she was the extravagance of a fierce female— so strong and independent. Most men laid eyes on her way to work and their cock shriveled to her superior strut. She told those closest to her that they didn't need a man. So to see her now, in this devastated state with her arms clinging over my leg like a small child scared to lose her daddy was the gift of my cruel craft. 

  A good hour's worth of makeup ruined— black mascara, crimson lipstick, and silver shadow streaked into a whirling collage best defined as abstract art. All created by me with a few swipes of one hand while wrangling her off me. Hanging off one eye dangled the lower half of her fake lashes. Her beautiful button nose was a bubbling cauldron. Spit, snot, and tears glistened as one, wearing it like a beauty mask that would harden on her face the moment I let go from my grasp— but right now I'm somewhat satisfied.

   She grabs my wrist with both hands. There is anger in those bloodshot baby blues while burning in my hellfire. No one has broken her heart like this before— a small cut compared to the repeated puncture of my emotional knife. It felt like death a thousand times. Complete hopelessness. But she understands her wrongdoings. And for that — she needs to suffer. 

  Tap. My knuckles knick the sides of her face and not by my choosing. I've got no time for her games. She is dead to me but won't let me go. I feel her manicured nails tear into my flesh with enough tenacity that'd I'd slit my wrist over. Again my hand hurled onto her face, this time harder than the last. She wants me to beat her fucking ass.

  From the floor, she lunged to wrap her legs around mine. She's bucking and fucking my pants leg with what would become a crusty white stain. Her cunt is begging for me. That's her true sorrow. Some find themselves hooked on heroin and others with what I call a case of cock-crazy— completely obsessed with the thing hidden behind my zipper as she paws at it with her nose, whining for her buried toy. 

  And to think not six months ago, I had heard her gabbing about how grotesque it is to give a man head. Odd how this has become her new mating ritual. I've never left a single rough hand on her before, nor harmed a single silky strand on her head. She must understand a man of my nature. Read it in books, watched it in movies, or heard about it from other girls whom she once considered weak.  Now it is her who's meek. 

  What God would I be if not a forgiving one? This time, I tightened my fist and willingly rammed my fist into her ear, flushing it in a vibrant red. My mid-knuckles swell from the blow, pulsing a bright red glow. Her hands helped with the force. It wasn't a great shot, but now she understood I would give her what she wanted.

   There is the creaking of wood coming from the ceiling. Her husband must have awoken from the commotion and gone to the bathroom. He had to head to work in four hours and would likely go back to bed or come down the stairs to see just how faithful his wife has become to my cock. Either way, she doesn't care, nor do I. It's because of this that we are here amidst our hardships.

   How amusing it is to act upset, but to her surprise, I already knew. I know just as much of him as I do her, but what she doesn't understand is that I won't ever be her man. It's his fucking money. That's the real plan. It arouses me to think about him raising my little bastard or slut birthed out of a wicked wedlock. Lord knows I would make a terrible father. This is how I pass my legacy.

  I watch as her hands leave my wrist and move to my waistband, eagerly trying to unfasten the button and rip the zipper down. Her messy, mangled locks are easy to tangle my fingers tightly to tear her face up, yanking back her head so far her lips part. My spit struck her face like a prized facial, one she couldn't help to try to lap off with her wiggling, velvet tongue. 

  Before I could wallop the woman a second time, her grubby little hasty hands had removed my cock and began pumping it. But it didn't stop me from slapping the spit out of her mouth. It sounded like sex from across the condo hall the way she managed to both moan and howl before grunting. 

  With the stinging kiss radiating off her face like a fresh burn, my cock sharpening in her grasp, and her cunt humping the tongue of my shiny shoe had lured her close to an orgasm. Her eyes went white with desire, rolling back into her brain to watch the pornographic head cinema— imagining it buried deep in her ovulating womanhood. 

   You see, out of the many times I've fucked her these past three months, not once did she feel me where she needed it most. I tempted her through the talents of my tongue. She felt the finesse of my fingers. Burned her with buzzing bullets and a black magic wand. Like a freshman eager to outdo her mother, I taught her to swallow and slurp a man's cock. But never the complete satisfaction of my cock buried in her smooth waxed cunt. Rather, she was taken only in her ass each time I was ready to finish. She was my trained little anal whore, at times scooting on her ass like a bitch with worms, trying to cool her cunt.

   Right now, she's my cock-hungry little zombie. Her eyes are still white and she gurgles this disembodied groan that never seems to end. Her jaw is unhinged, tongue tempting me with all its trained discipline. Showing me what she'd do if I pushed my hips closer. Amused in her alluring ahegao, my sternness lets go. Yet I'm not quite ready to end her show. Her tongue slathers and slaps the head of my cock. I fell victim to her little trap, wrapping her lips tightly at the end and suctioning as hard as she could.

    Only another slap can free me from her vices...

 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

 

   She was lying there like a lost little lamb, on her belly, on a blanket, buried inside a book. The short frilly white skirt she wore barely covered the blonde's bubbly behind, sporting a frayed French braid that ensembles her elegance. Loneliness and lack of thrill fumed from her voluptuous vessel like a whore seeking attention. 

  “What are you reading?” He spoke, shadow blotching the glimmer glinting off her from the sun. 

  “The Picture of—” She went to say, only before he interrupted:  “Dorian Gray. It's just easier to say.” 

   “Oscar Wilde.” The stranger continued. He grinned as she peered over her shoulder. Her smug face looked scrunched by his rudeness, but the clues were there: that sinister look of lust and teasing smirk. “Tell me, do you have a wild side?” 

   “No—” She blurted out, realizing the vulnerability of resting on her belly. Her eyes scanned his hands as they rested at the sides of his shiny belt buckle. Panic mode engaged with engorged eyes as he started to unfasten it. “What do you think you're doing?”

   “Whatever the fuck I want...” 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

   “Girls—” Gascoigne grimmed once again through gritted teeth. 

  To the left and towards the right, they both shared those eyes of a faint freight. Gascoigne's enchanting silver sights had a way of stranglehold. It was the gift of being over three and a half centuries old. Despite all those years, his patience needed discipline. 

   “Ghouls?” He locked onto Isabeth, only to whip back at Annabelle. “Ghost?”  Both arms crossed over his chest, his eyes continuing to put them to the test. “and why have they not informed me that I am their host?”

 He spotted the torn tapestry. It was a prized ancient Persian piece they had ruined in their cute chicanery. As irreplaceable as they had become, he couldn't help but feel the last synapse snap. Not even the look of their somniferous sights should steal his soul this time.

  “I believe I've had it up to here with the two of you and your antics.” Gascoigne demonstrated their pint-sized height in comparison to his colossal size, hovering somewhere above his pierced navel. “The only gift the two of you have given me is the same restless nights without sleep.” 

   Gascoigne ripped the rags from their grubby grasp with a phantom-like swiftness. His expression only changed when he held the tattered threads in his palms, reminiscing its reddened beauty. Eyes went large and then deflated with an exhausted breath. It was a piece of forgotten perfection, crafted from the softest materials and woven in a rose-shaped pattern. 

  To be fair, everything in the crumbling ruins of castle cobble was somehow sentimental. Objects he'd often be heard conversing with and carrying on a casual conversation. That's how he held it in his hands, mourning over the material as if it were the recent passing of his friend dying in his very arms. Eyes turned black, lifting to peer through the thick silver strands contouring a cruel complexion. 

   “To my quarters, the both of you.” His eyes sharpened on Isabeth directly: “Do not make me tear you both in two.” Then to Annabelle as not to single one out. He bared those vile vampyr teeth that typically tucked them to bed at night.  “Now shoo!”

@𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡 

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

Potential Prologue: 

Choose Your Own Adventure

    She couldn't see a fucking thing, relying solely on sound and smell. A knapsack wrapped her head, catching only glimpses of yellow-glowing sunbursts coalescing through coarse material. Galvanized wrists bound forward by thick braided hemp, eaten now bloody and gnawed nearly to the bone.

 Wet feet continually clapped the cold concrete, with the occasional drip-drop of leaky pipes. There were women whimpering, children crying, belligerent babies bellowing from the front and the back. There were so many of them, and not one knew where they were or where they were going, only the occasional Spanish soldiers shouting, the bone-bending boom of a rifle to keep the little lambs in line, marching to their slaughter. 

   It was cold. All she wore were the twine and sack, stuck in a shivering state. Teeth in constant clatter. They had removed their clothes and items before ever beginning this trail of tears.  This went on for miles. Blood and bruises are what they all wore now to distinguish one from the other. Jagged pieces of steel scraped and sliced through calves, rocks shredding the soles of bare feet. Some fell to skid their scarlet knees, others tripping into the rough, rocky walls of a tight tunnel.

  Words were useless. Anyone who spoke got targeted, thrown to the ground, and gutted with steel-toed boots or busted in the back of the head by the butts of their weapons. She didn't know Spanish, either, and that's what terrified her the most, this sense of disturbing dépaysement. One can't even fathom the loneliness of the unknown, the fear of utter helplessness as they forced her hands to the cold ladder bars. 

  They finally reached the end. For eight hours they traveled on foot. Now a line had formed, some of the girls taking their restroom break. There was no stopping. The musky scent was thick in the atmosphere, timeless to the girls who came through here for god knows how long. Though she had to go, was ashamed to admit she mastered the art of pissing while walking. 

  When it was her turn, the female fell frantic. Gloved hands took the woman's wrist, causing an instant state of panic when attempting to pull away. Another set stole her hips, wrestling her still. Two men were shouting. One trying to bring her arms behind the ladder bars.

  There were two options. Climb or have a bullet kiss the captive good night. The stock smashed into her stomach before the barrel pressed into the side of her skull and shoved. At the crossroads of no return, her choice now would end her misery or forever haunt her— for there were far worse fates than death. Like the rest who made it this far, her wrist wrapped over the railing, brought one leg high for support, and heaved up the ladder as if doing pull-ups. 

  By the time she reached the top, another set of hands saved her. Fire licked her thighs, tendons tightly twisted within weak wrists. Had it been one or two more heaves, she would have forfeited from fatigue. Knees knocked, straining to stay straight. Arms withdrew, covering her chest. She could see a little clearer now, adjusting eyes to see the shapes of living room furniture, beautiful robin-egg blue walls, and silhouettes of curious cowboys — of all fucking things — clamoring quietly, hands hovering over one hip, casually ready to draw.

  Before she could piss herself, a hand violently snapped her head back, forced to stare at the integration light beaming blinding white rays through the loose weaves of aged burlap. The point of a knife carelessly nipped the nape of her neck, scratching beneath the knapsack to cleanly cut away the duct tape in one tug. It ripped from her face and tossed to a pile of others. She didn't get to take in much of the scene, not when an assault rifle shoved her forward, nearly causing her to trip. 

  They laughed, just like they had with the last. These weren't the same soldiers stealing her from bed at night, these were gangsters, dressed in bright embroidered button shirts, snakeskin boots, and various hats made with multiple materials but all with that same cowboy shape. Their grotesque grin grew grimly, gold glimmering beneath black bristles. A better glance at the room they were inside, with catholic art, the chipping robin-egg blue, and she knew— this was fucking Mexico.  

  No. No, no, no—

  Another panic attack pursued. She turned, an escort eager to strike her the second she spun around. It was like he had almost anticipated it, hammering in a downright angle. Ears popped, the hymn of cymbals ringing while the sharp sound shot through the long hall they wanted to take her next. Tears couldn't tame the sting, feeling the side of her face swell in vibrant red as cold knuckles came to comfort. Jaws jutted, jiggly now like jello when attempting to wipe off the shock at how hard this man had hit her. Blood lingered in her mouth, tongue nipped from clattered teeth. 

 “Muévete, pinche puta!” The bodyguard boomed, nodding down the hall. 

  Jesus. Another female came climbing out of the hatch, looking a little more than thirteen years of age. Her breasts barely bloomed, peeking out from meatless biceps. It was hard to imagine anyone much younger than the nineteen-year-old brunette trafficked beneath the border. Bloodstained her thigh, caked in blackened tendrils trailing to the freshly deflowered cunt they left in dreadful display. Fist-sized bruises littered her stomach, hit so hard the purple notches from her assailant's knuckles distinguished themselves from the blue.

  It only got worse. Deeper and darker than anyone could ever imagine. Every step dawned a new nightmare, heading into the ninth circle of hell. Down the hall, on both ends, were these large bulletproof viewing rooms, their doors locked from the outside in large steel bars. 

  To the right, there was a man and a woman, the latter strapped in leather and bound to a dental chair stationed at the center of the room. He appeared to be viciously pulling out the third tooth, wriggling the canine out while the woman howled, mouth forced open by metal gauze. There were no nitro tanks. No apparent signs of any pain relief as toes curled, hands gripping the metal bed rails. 

 At the left, a blonde teenager got tethered to a gurney, a masked man in a bloody white coat. He had a scalpel, slicing along the teen's stomach. She, too, was screaming out at the top of her lungs, kicking her feet in jittery motions while flesh flayed open in bloody peeled petals. Even more frightening was the black brick-shaped bomb blinking a rutilant red light. 

  It dawned on her what was happening, making her wince at the thought of knowing a woman could be blasted into tiny black bits at the press of a button. By now, she was hyperventilating, clumsily trying to thread faster through the hall without falling face-first into the floor. She knew only more harm, more pain would pierce through her. That's when she considered the idea these torture rooms were designed to punish those who didn't exceed their expectations. 

  Whatever they wanted, they got. The teen on the table looked like trouble, a little runner. The bitch-faced brunette was a biter, her remorse more evident as it haunted the woman's mind. She didn't want a bomb in her belly, nor did she want to enroll in their dental insurance. And it only got worse as she went. Cunts cauterized, fingers fetched off with cigar clippers. Every step cruelly conditioning the fresh meat on what would become of them. 

 For a faint second, it got better. One studio, larger than the previous rooms, looked like the set of a provocative game show. There were live-streaming monitors over the heads of women from various ages and walks of life, almost positioned from lightest to darkest, each straddling a black-saddled Sybian. They were fucking like their lives depended on it, making faces and moaning out for the cock of their master host. An ever-growing tally lit above, raking in the thousands. 

  But then it quickly went back to worse. Snuff set the next scene. Out of every other room, it came with a distinct odor of death. The other room was heaven in comparison. It was nearly the same, with women lined up, each with a special guest on the show seeing how far they'd go before breaking. One particular patron had lost, her head severed, sawed stock spraying out from the body still attached to the pillory. Limp legs loosely swept the floor, hips hoisted by the guy gyrating full force into the crinkled, crimson corpse. 

  One room was a young, tantalizing teen with a bright pink, hairless cunt cutely humping her pillow and serving a more handsome man with a moist, dripping maw. Satisfying a shaft too large for her head, with tiny wet fists stroking end-over-end. Like the other rooms, there was a price. The little pigtailed preteen was a pageant queen of perverted porn, grossing over six figures.

 While to the left bore the not-so-fortunate. Around the same age, this gore-glossed girl was gauged, gorged, and galvanized by a group of grimacing gents. They wore masks over their heads, branded bare, masculine bodies blackened in ink and glimmering in gold. As they say in the workforce, she was in the weeds: each hand working hard, head bobbing back and forth to please as many as possible, all while popping that pummeled pussy on the ends of their engorged endowments.

  There was a meat market, men looking to buy themselves a worthy bride or sex slave. Being bought meant retirement. It was the only future left. Many could only wish to take a hand in marriage. Connected to a man that matches their deepest, darkest desires cultivated by the cartel that owned them all. They looked trained to seduce, while on the other side were women on clearance, hanging by their necks, sporting damaged goods in gruesome displays. 

  An orphanage, designed close to a daycare, was there on the right. They varied in age, though mostly prepubescent, training hard for their future. Toys designed only for sex, along with cock-shaped treats, scattered like drugs with double doses of drug-laced dopamine. As fucked as grooming girls go, it was far from the twisted show across the hall. A kennel that came close to the wretched odor passed prior, with naked littles barking and crawling around in a pound inhabited by beasts.

  Mindfuck, after midfuck, she traveled through the rabbit hole of madness. Like the two red neon lights shining at the end of the tunnel, there was heaven and there was hell. Celebrity slave or a walking corpse— a chance at life or a slow and dreary death. The choice was hers and hers alone. And in between those signs was the devil who owned the deed to her soul, standing in a silk sable suit, shaved head, a neck tattoo highlighting an exquisite jawline, and eyes that shimmered obsidian.

  “This way, mama.” He wore a smug, sexy smirk like a villain wielding a knife, rubbing tattooed hands together, bling beautifully gleaming. One chaperoned her towards the left, ready to be tracked, branded, inspected, and then dressed to start the day in the game she’s now forced to play.