by West, Sam
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said, gingerly unwrapping the bandages and unsticking the plasters.
It took almost ten minutes of silent concentration and when he was done he got up and grabbed the free standing mirror on the chest of drawers. He held it over various parts of her body so she could properly see what he had done to her for the first time.
When she worked out what she was seeing, that the squiggles etched into her skin were words turned backwards by the mirror, it was just too horrible and fresh tears burst from her eyes.
Oh God, how could he do that to me…
The words ‘cunt’, ‘whore’, ‘slag’, ‘fucker’ where etched on her stomach and breasts, over and over. Some words were cut into her skin, some were burnt in. All were weeping blood and pus.
“I didn’t cut your nipples, I figured you might want to breast feed. Do you get it now? You will want a fresh start, Hazel. You will want a new identity and the police will provide that for you. I have made the old you famous and I know how you think. You would rather die than have people constantly whispering about you, constantly pitying you.”
“You’re fucking insane.”
“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I guess that’s kind of the point. I’ve emailed my film to all the major television networks and a few underground porn companies that specialise in snuff. I’ve emailed it to you too, I know you’ll keep it. Maybe someday you’ll even show it to our son.”
“You’re sick.”
He just smiled at her, and pulled out a knife that had been tucked into the waistband of his black jeans; the same potato knife that he had used to cut her body. With great concentration, he drew it long ways up the inside of each of his wrists in turn, before calmly lying down next to her on the bed.
“When I said I was going to be a big star, I meant posthumously. Neat, don’t you think?”
The blood pumped out of him, soaking the duvet and pooling around her. Despite her agony she couldn’t bare the feel of his blood soaking into her. She clumsily rolled off the bed, landing with a thump on the floor that made her howl as fresh jolts of agony reverberated through her battered body.
“The police will be here soon,” he said dreamily. “I called them just now. God, I’m fading so fast. It’s so beautiful…”
His blood pattered on the floorboards next to her and she closed her eyes in disbelief.
They snapped open again when she heard an almighty crash from downstairs.
“Police!” a strong male voice shouted, and then there were footsteps pounding up the stairs.
EPILOGUE
Three years later.
Claire Harvey smiled at the woman called Sarah Smith who had entered the playgroup in Greater Manchester at lunchtime to drop off her two-and-half-year-old.
“Hey Sarah, did you remember nappies this time?” she joked.
“Yeah, sorry about that, I’m just so busy with uni and stuff, I can’t remember where I am half the time.”
Claire smile sympathetically. “Yeah, it’s hard being a single mum, I really struggled in the early days with my Lucy, but it all comes good in the end, you’ll see.”
A great sadness seemed to pass over the young woman’s face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to speak out of line,” Claire said.
She was a good natured woman and would have hated to offend this young woman with the big, sad eyes. She always seemed so lost, so fragile, and she was only trying to cheer her up. Linda was loud and northern, it was just her way.
“Oh, you didn’t offend me, I’m just a bit frazzled, I’ve got a lot on this afternoon. But I manage. I always do.”
It was a hot day, but Linda couldn’t help but notice that Sarah Smith was wearing a roll neck jumper.
Who the hell wears a roll neck on a sweltering day like this?
Sarah gently pushed her sullen little boy towards her, pushing all thoughts of Sarah’s attire out of her head. Linda leaned down towards the dark-haired boy, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Hello Edward, are you ready to go and play with your little friends? We’re making paper butterflies today.”
The boy scowled up at her, and Linda’s big, sunny smile faltered. There was just something off about this little boy, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He just seemed so cold somehow, so assessing. He’d never hit another child or anything, but she could tell that the other kids were wary of him. In all her years running this daycare, she had never known a child like him.
Sarah Smith kneeled down next to her son and gave him a big squeeze. “You have to be a good boy today, Edward. Remember, Mummy loves you very, very much.”
The boy let his mother cuddle him, not seeming to care one way or the other. With a final goodbye, Sarah Smith straightened up.
Linda watched as the gaunt young woman with the short dark hair and the inappropriate roll neck stepped out into the brilliant sunshine and walked away.
I wonder what her story is? I wonder why she’s so sad?
Then all thoughts of the melancholy young woman were forgotten and she got back to work.
THE END
Thanks for reading, dear reader. I hope you enjoyed Home Intruder 2. If you would care to read an extract from my novel, Splatterpunks: An Extreme Horror Novel, I have enclosed the following sample:
Quick Introduction to Splatterpunks, from Sam West:
Over two-hundred years ago, one of the most notorious, brilliant, perverted authors that ever lived penned the masterpiece, ‘120 Days of Sodom’. That writer was, of course, The Marquis de Sade.
When I was a young, teenage-boy, I found a dog-eared copy of 120 Days in a charity shop which I bought for twenty-five pence out of my pocket money. Perhaps if the old woman behind the counter had realised the full extent of the gleeful depravity contained within its pages, she might not have sold it to the skinny, wide-eyed boy with the bad hair and glasses. I hold that one book responsible for setting me on my course of writing extreme horror. I will never forget the feelings of utter revulsion and terror 120 Days stirred up. If, during my writing career, I manage to terrorise you, dear reader, even half as much The Marquis de Sade terrorised me, then I will be a happy man. And seeing as this is his two-hundred year anniversary, I felt the overwhelming urge to write a homage to the true master of horror. The result is ‘Splatterpunks.’
I urge you to proceed with caution, the following story is not for everyone.
1.
It was all just so fucking boring. Sebastian Connell-Wright laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the high ceiling as the high-class whore performed deep throat fellatio on his semi-hard cock. This bitch was costing him five thousands pound an hour. Five thousand fucking pounds. Sure, that was small change to him but it was still a fair wad of dosh. He certainly expected more than this for what he’d forked out.
“What else do I get for my money?” he languidly enquired.
She eased her mouth off his wet shaft to reply. “Whatever you want, baby.”
“You tell me. You’re supposed to be the BDSM queen of London.”
“I have a high pain threshold. My pussy and arse can stretch to gigantic proportions. And no one inflicts pain better than me.”
“Is that right? The thing is baby, I kinda like to be the one to dish it out, you know what I mean? And I know plenty of women with cavernous cunts and arses so stretched that the shit just drops out of them. Do you do scat?”
The pretty young woman paled.
No, fuck pretty, he thought. She’s a fucking goddess.
The girl was naked, and not a day over twenty-two. Tits just a shade too large for her slim frame stuck out jauntily and he guessed he could probably circle his hands round her tiny waist. Not that she was bony or anything, her arse was one of sublime beauty, not too big, but certainly with plenty enough meat there for him to grab. Sebastian liked a nice, meaty arse.
“No. I don’t do scat.”
“Sha
me.”
He knew better than to fuck with her. This slag was untouchable, she didn’t even have a pimp, she had a goddamn agent. If she left him with even a hair out of place he’d probably live long enough to pay the price.
I should never have chosen this one, I don’t know why I bothered.
You chose her because she’s beautiful.
Sebastian sighed. He was a sucker for a pretty face, and a real sucker for a pretty body. Unfortunately, in the real world, girls that looked like this one here were hardly worth the effort. Yes, of course they were in his league, but you couldn’t have any real fun with them. They were whining, money grabbing whores, the lot of them. Not to mention they were as dull as shit in the sack.
“You don’t do scat? Not even if I double the price?”
“No, not for anything. Mainly because of diseases and stuff. My agent would kill me if she found out.”
He supposed he could up the offer to a million, but no. Why should he? He was already pissed off at the idea of lobbing the slag even more money. He’d save it up for someone else, maybe even someone that he didn’t have to pay for. Five thousand was more than enough to pay for sex.
And it was a pointless exercise if she wasn’t totally disgusted. Besides, he probably shouldn’t make too much of a mess of the hotel room. He liked this hotel and might want to come here again.
“You do fisting, though, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t mind a bit of dirty talk?”
“Not at all.”
“Then get on all fours, bitch.”
She did as instructed without batting an eyelid.
The thing was, Sebastian wasn’t into the BDSM sex scene. There were plenty of clubs out there that catered to rich men with more, how should one say, decadent tastes. Sebastian had even tried a few, but ultimately such places left him feeling a bit silly. All that leather, all those sex toys, all those willing participants. To be honest, he found them kind of weird.
Sebastian fisted the girl’s vagina, ramming his hand in and out at speed. This was a mighty fine pussy, he had to admit. Most pussies that were no strangers to fisting were distinctly baggy. Not this one though, it was as tight as a gnat’s arse when his cock had been in it less than ten minutes ago. Talk about muscle control, like it had been trained in martial arts, or something. The daft thought made him smile.
“You like that, slag?”
“Yeah,” she panted, her breath hitching in her throat with the violence of his thrusts.
Sebastian couldn’t give a flying fuck if she did like it or not. He didn’t even know why he bothered asking. Maybe because it was as good a lead up as any to what he really wanted to say.
“Have you ever been fucked with a chainsaw, cunt? Ever taken one of them up your love hole until it came out your throat?”
She didn’t reply. Understandable, really, the slut seemed to have developed a bad case of selectiveness deafness, with her face buried in the silk pillow case and her arse in the air. He knew what she was thinking, ever the consummate professional she surely was;
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me…
He smirked. Do you have any idea how much I want to break your bones, bitch?
“Or how about a knife up your arse? Ever tried that? Slice right through to your cunt wall then you’d take a whole lot more than just a fist up there. Like your severed leg maybe, thigh stump first.”
He was pretty sure she’d heard him. Fuck, it was no fun whatsoever without even a hint of a reaction. He had planned to fuck her up the arse for his grand finale and slap her around a bit, but he couldn’t be bothered anymore.
He withdrew his fist with a wet pop and the amazing vagina instantly sprung back to normal proportions.
“Playtime’s over, sugar. Get dressed and get the fuck outta here.”
“But you haven’t come,” she protested, wide eyed and now sitting upright.
“Do you care?” He opened a bedside drawer and proceeded to empty five grand out of his bulging wallet, then handed it to her. “Now will you please get the fuck out?”
The whore whose name he didn’t know dressed quickly in her classy attire of black pencil-skirt and while ruffle blouse. This was definitely the last time he paid for a high-class escort.
Yeah, that’s what you said last time.
His mobile went off the same door as the door slammed. As much as a fire regulation, hotel door could slam anyway. The name, ‘Richard Granger’ flashed on the screen.
“Hello, Dick,” he said, picking up the mobile and pressing it to his ear.
“I’m at Henry’s. Want to meet?”
“Sure. Why the fuck not. I’ll be there in five.”
2.
Sebastian was true to his word. Hell, he didn’t even have to get dressed, he hadn’t so much as undone the top button of his shirt with the diversion of the whore at the five-star hotel.
Henry’s was quiet tonight, probably due to it being a weeknight. A lone girl wrapped her lithe body around a pole on the otherwise deserted, raised platform that ran down the middle of the cavernous strip-club. Sebastian took a moment to access her out of sheer habit. He was never one to ignore a naked woman. She wasn’t his type; not enough up top, and what was there looked plastic. He hated plastic tits with a passion.
He spotted Dick immediately; a short, fat, balding man sitting in one of the semi-circular booths that lined the perimeter of the club in London’s Soho.
“Hello Dick, what’s up?” Sebastian asked, sliding in next to the older man on the red leather seat.
Richard Granger would only allow two people in the world to call him ‘Dick,’ and luckily for Sebastian, he was one of them. If he wasn’t, he felt sure he wouldn’t still be in procession of his own penis right now. Or his life, for that matter.
Dick clicked his fingers to get the attention of a passing waitress, gesturing to his empty whisky glass and holding up two fingers. Sebastian gave the girl the once over. Now she was a looker. Briefly he wondered why she was waitressing and not stripping. What a waste. She was openly accessing him, curiosity stamped on her classically pretty face. He could almost hear what she was thinking…
What the hell is that gorgeous guy doing with a fat, ugly old dude like him?
Their eyes locked for a second and she lowered her gaze, caught out and blushing hard.
“So, how’s the missus?” Dick was asking him.
“Visiting a friend out of town or something. I don’t know, who the fuck cares.” he said, wrenching his attention away from the pretty waitress.
Dick leered. “While the cat’s away…”
“The rat will play,” Sebastian finished. “How’s your good wife?”
“As fat and as disgusting as ever, but she serves her purpose. The cloak of marriage wonderfully conceals a multitude of sins.”
Both men laughed heartily. A little flutter of nervous excitement clenched in his belly. When Dick summoned him like this, it invariably meant one of two things. Dick wished to confess something gloriously fiendish, or he wanted to plan another of their special little parties.
“So, son, what have you been up to?” the man asked in a deceptively casual manner.
“When you called, I had just got rid of a high-class escort.”
The man leaned in closer to him, his piggy little brown eyes gleaming merrily. “And?”
“And I chucked the bitch out on her arse. Didn’t even get to shoot my load.”
“Why not, son?”
Sebastian sighed heavily. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I’m just so fucking bored of it all. The girls, the drugs, the limitless wealth and endless holidays. Our parties are the only thing that keep me sane. Oh, I don’t know, I just want more. It’s like I’ve got this big empty place, right here, right in my fucking soul,” he said, tapping his chest for emphasis . “And no matter what I do, it just seems to get bigger and bigger.”
“Good job you met me
today then, isn’t it? Because I’ve got just the thing to put the spring back in your step.”
Sebastian’s heart quickened. Oh, how he loved this old fucker, much more so than he had ever loved his biological father. The old cunt had been as proud of punch of him when he’d told him what he’d done to his parents. How he’d poisoned them and fed their corpses to the Rottweilers on the Kent Estate. And this was the man that had been the best of friends with his father, the late Earl of Kent.
Sebastian came from old money. Dick was new money; fingers in every pie, a thousand brown noses up his substantial arse, High Court Magistrate, you name it, Dick was up there when it came to controlling the country and the people in in that he held nothing but disdain for.
“Tell me more, you disgusting old goat,” Sebastian said, all but giggling. “Are we to throw another party?”
“Now, now, is that any way to talk to your godfather? I love you like my own flesh and blood, and this is how you repay me, with such marked disrespect?”
Sebastian let out a hearty laugh. Richard Granger was an evil, perverted bastard in the truest sense of the word. He also happened to be especially fond of young men. The only reason he hadn’t ever touched dear little Sebastian when he was growing up was because he too was also an evil, perverted little shit. Perhaps even more so than he. The two males had sensed the evil in each other as surely as a pair of tomcats on heat.
“I am most glad that you didn’t love me like your own flesh and blood when I was growing up, for now I would surely have an arsehole the size of the Mersy Tunnel.”
Although this was not strictly true; the only thing of substantial size on Richard Granger was his ever expanding girth. He was cursed with a pencil penis, no thicker or longer than a chipolata sausage. When erect. Sebastian had seen his pathetic excuse for a cock many times, usually when it was excavating a young man’s bottom at one of their delightful soirees.
