by Sam West
I thought about hitting him in the face again, but I didn’t want to knock him out.
“Sit up, Mr Jones, I think it’s time you got properly acquainted with your son’s fiancée.”
“Please,” said the man, and right then he seemed far older than his sixty-odd years.
An intense pang of lust gripped me and I vowed to get my rocks off before much longer. Mr Jones, obviously not wanting to incur any more damage to his person, pulled himself into a sitting position once more.
“That’s better, Mr Jones. Now, I want you to pay close attention here, I don’t want you to drop your gaze from this lovely body for a second. And if I ask you a direct question, then you bloody well answer me, do I make myself clear?” The old man was silent. “I said, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” the man said in that surprisingly commanding voice of his.
“Good. Now tell me, Mr Jones, have you ever seen such a fucking gorgeous body on any woman?”
The look of hatred on Mr Jones’ face was indescribable; his eyes flitted from side to side and his cheeks were flushed. The side of his head seemed to swell and darken with every passing second. None of this was his fault, not really, but it didn’t make me hate him any less. I loved the feel of his eyes on my naked body; it made my skin crawl and tingle.
“No,” Mr Jones said through gritted teeth.
“No, what?”
“No, I have never seen such a fucking gorgeous body on any woman.”
“Not even your wife?”
“Leave my wife out of it,” he said in a low voice. “She’s dead, what more do you want?”
“Oh, I want a whole lot more, Mr Jones.” I got to my feet and slid my tights and plain black knickers down to my ankles, kicking them away. I stood there with my legs apart and slid my fingers between my thighs, holding my labia splayed open in an upside-down ‘V’. “Now, this, Mr Jones, is what fresh, young pussy looks like. So much sweeter than Mrs Jones withered old cunt.”
That’s when Mr Jones screamed. It was the oddest sound I had ever heard and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It started out low and deep, like a growling dog, getting higher and louder as the scream progressed. In the weirdest way, it reminded me of a surge of electricity, thrumming into life along a power-line…
“You’re giving me a headache, you silly old fool,” I said, extending my foot and kicking him in the head again.
That shut him up – he hunched over, struggling to breathe. Laughing at the pitiful figure he cut, I shoved the tip of my shoe against his chest and pushed. He fell backwards, hitting the back of his skull as he went down. That must really hurt his hands too, lying on them like that.
He’s going to die of a fucking brain-haemorrhage if I’m not careful…
I giggled and planted my knees either side of his head. It got me really fucking wet with him gazing up at my cunt.
“Tell me, Daddy, do you think I have a beautiful cunt?” I peered down at him over the mounds of my breasts, laughing at his red-rimmed eyes that glistened with tears of defeat. “Do you like bald pussy or hairy pussy? I like to keep myself waxed, but I never go the full hog. Was Mrs Jones au-natural or hairy? Shall we take a look?”
I went to stand up…
“Don’t you dare touch my wife.”
“Alright, alright, don’t get so uptight about it. She is dead, you know, it’s not like she knows what’s going on.”
Mr Jones glared up at me and for a fleeting moment I admired his strength of character. It was plain from the expression in his eyes that he wanted to kill me. “Do not touch my wife,” he repeated.
“Relax, Mr Jones, we’ll leave Mrs Jones out of it. For now. You have one more chance to answer my question. Do you prefer bald pussy or hairy pussy?”
“Hairy,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I see. Don’t you just wish you could bury your face in my succulent little cunt? Nibble on my nice, juicy lips?”
He squirmed in abject misery, my attentions obviously weighing heavy on his soul.
“Yes,” Mr Jones said.
Beads of sweat ran down his ever-swelling forehead, making him blink.
“Then don’t just look at, fucking eat it.”
He stared up at me in total disbelief, like he was hearing the words but not making sense of them. I couldn’t quite catch my breath because I was so turned on. Mr Jones licked his lips, as if preparing to receive me, so I obliged. Facing away from his body, I took a deep, shaky breath and straddled Mr Jones face. The feel of his facial features pressed between my legs was every bit as electric as I had expected it to be and I cringed in lust.
I ground my clit all over his face – especially his nose which sent sparks of shooting pleasure through my pussy – before pushing down on his mouth, searching for some tongue action.
Oh yeah, I thought, when his tongue massaged my clit with surprising accuracy and strength. Not bad for an old guy.
Mr Jones moaned, probably from terror and disgust – who the fuck cares – and it reverberated up my body, making me shudder.
I sucked in a sharp intake of breath at the direct and shocking clitoral stimulation. It made my nerve endings sing out and I gritted my teeth and moaned in need at the wet firmness of his tongue.
“You like eating my pussy, don’t you old man? Ah, God, harder, yeah, just like that…”
His firm tongue laved me faster and I squeezed my nipples hard between thumb and forefinger. The wave of pleasure crashed over me and I ground out the last vestiges of my orgasm on his face.
“Fuck, you’re good,” I panted, swinging my leg over his head and flopping onto my side next to him.
His mouth and chin glistened with my pussy juices and I stared at his soggy face as I caught my breath. Shakily, I got to my feet.
“I have to get a few things out of the car now. Don’t you so much as move a muscle, or things will get very bad for you, do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” he said.
Deciding that it was fine to leave, seeing as one of them was dead, one was unconscious and the other was tied-up, I picked up my discarded dress and threw it on, not bothering with my underwear.
I eyed my knickers and on the spur of the moment I decided to stuff them into Mr Jones’ mouth; I really didn’t fancy listening to him moaning on when he saw what I was going to do.
When I had done that I made my way over to the door, stopping en route to retrieve the car-keys from my unconscious fiancé’s jeans’ pocket.
It was late evening by then, and cold outside. Shivering in just my flimsy dress, I clicked the button on the keyring for the boot. From the boot, I pulled out two full cans of petrol and carried them into the living-room.
With that done, I returned to the car and stared at the tramp in the boot whom I had ‘flat-packed’ and wrapped up in bin-bags. By flat-packed, I mean I had bent him at the waist until his spine had snapped and his nose touched his feet. I hauled the black plastic parcel out of the car and it thumped to the ground. Bracing myself, I leaned down and groped for a leg and an arm and dragged him into the house.
By the time I joined the others, I was puffed. Mr Jones stared at me with bulging, wild eyes above his knicker-stuffed mouth.
“Mmph, mmph,” he said.
I ignored him and picked up a petrol-can. I could hear the liquid sloshing around inside as I unscrewed the cap and approached Mr Jones.
I tipped the petrol over his head and he screamed into the gag. It was quite funny watching his eyes bulge and his nostrils flare. His chin jerked forward a couple of times, like he was retching – I could hardly blame him for that, the overpowering and heady stench of it was making me gag, too.
When I had deemed Mr Jones sufficiently petrol-soaked, I moved over to Scott and tipped the remainder of the can over him. It must have been the fumes that brought him round, like a dose of smelling-salts or something. He coughed and spluttered and twitched and moaned.
“Why?” he moaned, tryin
g but failing to twist his head round to look at me.
“Because you’re a two-timing cunt, Scott Jones. And because I enjoy it.”
I tossed away the empty petrol-can and it landed with an angry clatter on the floorboards. Next, I went to pick up the second full can and emptied that out over Mrs Jones, then I unwrapped the smelly old tramp-parcel and did the same to him.
Then I went back over to Mrs Jones. Picking up and arm and a leg, I flipped her over onto her front like she was a carcass at a butchers.
Now, where did I put my bag?
I spotted it near Mr Jones, and went to retrieve it. From it I pulled out a pair of kitchen scissors – I guess my bag is more like a tool-kit than a handbag – and proceeded to snip through her blouse and skirt. When her back and shrivelled buttocks were bared, I got out a penknife and began to methodically slice her skin…
Mr Jones mumbled something incomprehensible. I think he said ‘what are you doing’, but I wasn’t sure. I concentrated on the job at hand, trying to skin Mrs Jones’ back as neatly as possible.
“I can hear you thinking bad thoughts, Mr Jones, I wish you’d stop.”
I couldn’t hear his bad thoughts of course. I mean, I’m not fucking insane, but I could tell he wasn’t very happy from all that mumbling and sobbing and moaning. Scott appeared to have drifted off again. Shame, he was missing all the fun.
Mrs Jones’ back skin was coming away nicely. Frowning in concentration, I finished up, gently removing most of her back in one big sheet.
When I was done, I held it up and gazed lovingly at it before burying my face in the bloody side.
“Oh, God,” I said.
I was horny again, that measly little orgasm from before had barely made a dent in my desire. I rucked up my dress around my waist and with that delicious sheet of skin pressed to my face, I kneeled there with my thighs far apart and furiously masturbated. I closed my eyes in bliss, the aroma of Mrs Jones blood sending my senses into overdrive.
God, it was all just so fucking good and my climax neared. For a second I peered over the sheet of skin, my gaze flickering over Mrs Jones’ wet and gleaming back, which was a complex patchwork quilt of glistening muscle and bone. Burying my face in her skin once more, my orgasm exploded.
Weakened from the sheer force of it, I flopped on my back next to my almost-mother-in-law. My face felt sticky – I could only imagine what a grisly sight I must cut.
“Time to end this,” I said.
I retrieved my bra and put it back it back on by slipping the dress down to my waist. That done, I went to Mr Jones and plucked my knickers out of his mouth. As soon as I did so, he screamed so I kicked him in the head again. He flopped backwards and shut-up.
I went over to Scott and fumbled in his pocket for his lighter. Luckily, he was so out of it, I was able to place it in the palm of his hand and wrap his fingers around it.
“You shouldn’t smoke, it’ll kill you, you know.”
He just groaned in reply. I emptied out the contents of my handbag on the floor, keeping hold of my own lighter. I flung the bag across the room and went into the kitchen to switch on the gas rings. The gas hissed out in a steady stream and I quickly retreated.
“This is it,” I said, as I strode back into the living-room.
I stood in the doorway for a second, surveying the scene. Two dead, and two dying. I’ve heard that burning to death is the most painful way to go. I stood there and smiled, praying for that to be true.
I was so proud of myself. I had just gone and committed the perfect murder. The police would think that the tramp was the killer, and Scott clutching the lighter like that would make it look like he started the fire to ‘save’ me.
Perfect. I mean, let’s face it, I am a fucking genius.
No one fucks with Chloe Fox, dear Greg, as you are about to find out.
Because I’m looking at you, right now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Greg dropped the diary, his heart hammering.
What the fuck?
He forced himself to breathe and to remain calm. She was just trying to freak him out.
Yeah, well, she’s fucking succeeded.
It was all so sick. It was beyond sick, it was…
Monstrous. She is monstrous.
He went to the window and peered out through a crack in the curtain at the rainy street. Still no sign of the police.
Come on, where are you?
Letting the curtain fall back into place, he tried to gather his thoughts.
I’m still none the wiser. I still know nothing about her, not really. It had told him what happened that night to the Jones family, but that was about it. He was still in the dark as to why she was such a fucking nutter.
How did I not see what she was really like? How could I let the same thing happen to my parents? To Susan, the woman I should have been with?
Tears blurred his vision and he wiped them away on the back of his hand. Outside, the storm continued to rage.
A sudden bolt of lightning lit up the living-room through the flimsy curtains, the furniture casting long shadows. His heart thumped at the sight of familiar objects rendered unfamiliar by the flash of light. For the briefest of seconds, he was sure that the free-standing lampshade next to the sofa wasn’t a lamp-shade at all, but her.
As quickly as it had arrived, the vision was gone again and he chided himself for being so stupid.
But is it any wonder I’m so jumpy?
He lifted his glass to his lips, but it was empty. Sighing heavily, he got to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen. Just as his fingers curled round the neck of the bottle, he heard a clunking sound. He froze in position, straining his ears.
What the fuck was that?
There it was again and he held his breath, his heart pounding against his sternum.
It’s coming from the laundry room.
On shaking legs he entered the utility room. It was empty, save for the clothes rack, washing machine and top-loading tumble dryer.
He screamed when the lid to the tumble dryer flew open, and out jumped Chloe. She was naked except for a pair of trainers, and brandishing a small, sharp knife that he recognised from his own kitchen drawer.
But that’s impossible…
Except it wasn’t, and he knew it. In a fleeting second, he thought of her hiding under the moulding machine at work. He stumbled backwards, his reflexes blurred by whiskey. This was his worst nightmare come true, the one where Chloe was chasing him in a fucked-up shape that defied the laws of human nature, and the one he’d had every single night since she had butchered his parents and Susan.
“Gnash, gnash, here I come.”
She barked at him like a dog, and clamped the handle of the knife between her teeth. In one graceful movement, she bent all the way back until she was in the shape of ‘the crab’. But being Chloe, she was able to scuttle like one too, and she ran towards him on her hands and feet, her face upside-down with the knife between her teeth. For a fleeting second he thought of the film, ‘The Exorcist’ where the little girl ran down the stairs in much the same, fucked-up shape.
Sweet Jesus.
Greg’s paralysis broke and he lurched out of the room and into the hallway with Chloe hot on his tail. He threw himself at the front door and a heavy weight thumped against his back, slamming him into the wood panelling.
Chloe had launched herself at him, and stars danced behind his eyes as his forehead connected with the door.
The sharpest pain in the world followed, right between his shoulder-blades. For a second he thought that she had punched him, then realisation dawned.
She’s fucking stabbed me, came the incredulous thought. This can’t be happening.
“You should’ve been more careful when you took your shopping in.”
No shit, Sherlock.
Greg wobbled on his feet, the little hallway spinning all around him. As he slithered down the door, the doorbell rang. He opened his mouth to scream for help, but nothing came
out apart from a strangled cry.
He felt as weak as a kitten, the pain in his upper back so sharp and high-pitched that it was causing his vision to dim. His arms and legs felt numb.
Dimly, he was aware of Chloe tugging at him, and then he was staring up at the ceiling. Something hot pattered against his cheek, and when he twisted his head slightly, he saw that her wrists were dripping blood above his face.
She stroked his hair with her blood soaked hands. “I love you, Greg. I thought you were different. Why did you have to be such a cunt?”
Her body shifted against his head – one second she was cradling his head in her lap with the side of his face pressed against her flat stomach, the next she flopped sideways so that his head rolled off her lap and smacked against the floor.
The doorbell sounded again, but this time it was so much fainter.
“We’ll always be together, Gregory Larson.”
He barely heard her, he was shutting down fast. Instinctively, with the last vestiges of his strength, he reached out his arm and curled it around her hips. She was ice-cold to the touch, and slick with cooling blood.
By the time the police kicked in the door, he was gone.
The End
Hello, you have reached the end of the story, thanks for reading. I have enclosed a sample of ‘Flesh Factory’ at the end of this book, if anyone is interested.
Please feel free to contact me with any thoughts you may have, I love to hear from readers.
Sweet nightmares to you all,
Sam West.
SAMPLE OF FLESH FACTORY:
AN EXTREME HORROR NOVEL
BY SAM WEST
CHAPTER ONE
Rohan Sanders slowed the car to a crawl when the headlamps illuminated the lone girl walking towards him on the quiet country road. It was as if she had been delivered to him by God himself.
Or the Devil.
Thin, petite and probably malnourished, she looked like a druggie. She wore cutoffs and a tight white t-shirt. Even from this distance, Rohan could see she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her tits were tiny, her nipples large and straining against the flimsy fabric in the cool summer evening. She had a tatty looking rucksack slung over one shoulder and her bony arm stuck out at a right angle from her body, her thumb sticking up hopefully.
