The car hurtles on, to 70, to 75, and Merle is more scared than ever before, than ever before in her life, scared of the speed, of what might happen if she loses control, terrified of the cyclist, because it is not right not fair to ride a bicycle so fast, no-one can do that not over such a distance, and again she checks the rear-view and he is closer again, right behind her, so near that she sees his fluorescent upper-body, those impossibly-fast, pumping legs as vague as smoke, and this is not right either, he has no face beneath his silly little cyclist helmet, just a blur of dark, a smudge, no visible features even on this bright day.
Merle gazes a little too long, then snaps her eyes to the road, thank goodness it is so straight; the noise within the car and the shaking increase, the car racing at 80, the wheel shuddering in her hands, tears trickling unheeded, her whole world now the road, the speed, the noise, the mirror, and she looks again, he is almost upon her, and the shadow where the face is shifts, splits in two, opens like a flower, into massive jaws, scarlet and crimson, lined with fangs, as wide as a dustbin lid, wider, all the time keeping up with her, keeping pace, not missing a beat, not losing an inch, gaining on her and the jaws gape, stretching towards her.
All this in an instant, and Merle breaks, and brakes. The little red car slews wildly, tyres screaming, out of control, and Merle hears and feels the fleshy thump as the cyclist smashes into the rear of the car (she is glad, she hopes he dies, she hopes it is dead) and the car hurtles from the road, down the steep bank into the deep, cold water of the dyke.
Merle is uninjured, although her chest aches where she slammed into the seat belt, and the calmness of shock displaces her fear and panic. The water boils around the car as it begins to sink, surprisingly fast, the bonnet slipping in first, bubbling steam and air, but Merle knows what she needs to do, and unbuckles her seat-belt – it comes undone, no damage, she will not drown here like a rat – and kicks off her shoes. If she could she would take off her jacket, but there is no space and no time. Merle knows that if she tries to open the door the water pressure will prevent her, so she must open the window, and squeeze through that, and swim, if she is to live, and Merle intends to live.
Water pours through the imperfect door seals and dashboard vents, rising to the front passenger windows as she winds her window down, and the car lurches forward suddenly, cold water beginning to flood through the open window, making her gasp so she grasps the door, hauls herself through and out, just in time, struggling to hold herself against the force of water, and she is free. Merle does not look back, but swims away from the sinking car, towards the bank, smiling, eyes gleaming with adrenalin.
As Merle reaches the bank and screams in triumph, the water surges behind her, and something erupts from the grey depths, long, slender and black, flashed with neon-yellow, rearing high, and at the top a vast, red maw, bristling with snagged, sharp teeth surrounding a maroon throat, looming over her, dark against the bright sky, then striking at her, so fast, smashing her into the water, and then Merle sees
nothing, but
feels much.
Killer Heels
by Sasha Black
Their bodies lie intertwined in the cold moonlight.
Tatiana opens her eyelids and gently rises up on one elbow, gazing down at her naked young lover. In the hard light, the girl’s pale skin looks like a porcelain doll. Tatiana leans closer and breathes in her delicious scent.
Her chest heaves as her lips curl open into a snarl. She licks her lover hard, like a starved animal lusting for a long awaited meal.
The girl awakens. Momentarily confused, she pauses at the sight of Tatiana, now straddling her and towering above.
Tatiana does not pause. She lunges, pinning her partner to the bed.
They fuck. Hard. Fast. Violently.
*
Water trickles down Tatiana’s face. The unforgiving light of the bathroom reveals her full features, a woman of perhaps 40, arresting in her beauty, and strikingly angular. Almost masculine.
She smiles to herself, lost in distant memories, as she showers the lovemaking from her body. Her hands glide across her skin – even the act of showering is one of sensual touch to her.
Her young lover, now towelling off her hair, watches Tatiana. She cannot pull her gaze from the woman who just consumed her. While twenty years her senior, she still appears to be perfect. So slender. So pert. She wonders what memories lie behind that enigmatic smile on her older lover’s face. Wistfully, she imagines that maybe Tatiana is remembering their love making? But she senses that Tatiana is not even aware of her, let alone remembering their night together.
The glass door swings open and Tatiana steps onto the cold tiles. She glides toward the girl, who instinctively breathes in deeply, wanting to feel her touch. Wanting again to be consumed utterly by this creature. The draw is magnetic. Tatiana kisses the girl tenderly but quickly. “Go,” she whispers.
Spinning on her heel, Tatiana dries her hands. She holds them out and looks closely. They look strong, like the hands of someone who has worked hard all their life. Her brow furrows. Has the change begun already? Surely not so soon? A sudden twinge of pain in her back confirms her fears.
The girl watches the imposing naked figure of Tatiana from behind. “Will I see you again?” she dares to ask.
Without speaking, Tatiana returns to drying her hands.
The girl watches Tatiana dry herself. She can clearly see the powerful muscles in Tatiana’s shoulders and back as they move under her skin. Something else is unusual. The faint outline of a mirror, now long gone, hangs above the sink.
Tatiana pauses, tilting her head to see if the girl is still present. In a deeper than expected and gruff voice, Tatiana growls at her, “Go…”
Sensing sudden and unexpected danger, the girl backs out, grabbing her clothes as she leaves. Tatiana closes her eyes and breathes deeply.
*
The last rays of sunset cut into the room.
Tatiana awakens, her lithe and naked body moving slowly, aroused by the imminent darkness. Eyes still closed, her strong fingers slowly reach down her tummy, her other hand gently massaging her stiffening nipples. Manoeuvring herself and opening her legs so that she can have better access and comfort for this waking ritual, she begins to breathe more deeply.
Her fingers slide inside her panties, down and. . .
Her eyes snap open. Her pleasure replaced by immediate anxiety.
Yes, the change has definitely begun.
*
Tatiana stands in her black underwear, her hands touching her body. She slips on black nylon stockings, a charcoal grey miniskirt and crimson red jacket.
The cupboard doors swing open to reveal shelf after shelf of shoes. Almost every pair are towering high heels. She knows exactly what she is after and reaches for her favourite black Christian Louboutin six inch stilettos. Oh my, how she feels ever inch a woman when wearing these shoes.
She slips her foot into the first, but it’s tight. It won’t even fit.
“Fuck,” she spits out under her breath.
She reaches back into the cupboard to the bottom right corner and pulls out a pair of black patent flats, looking at them in disdain.
*
Tatiana sits in a confessional. She examines the familiar old wooden panels as she draws hard and deep on her cigarette. The door opens and an old priest sits down inside.
Neither speak for a moment.
“No high heels this time, Tatiana? Left it a little late again?” He glances at his watch. “Has the change begun already for you?”
Tatiana breathes in her cigarette deeply before blowing the smoke defiantly from her scarlet lips at the priest. He does not cough or splutter. He just smiles. “Well, to business then, yes?”
The priest produces a contract and passes it to Tatiana. She notices his hands, filthy and ingrained with dirt. He points to the bottom of the papers, “Sign here and here.”
Tatiana pauses.
“Twelve souls for m
e for twelve months of being Tatiana for you.” The priest feigns concern, “Unless you are done with being Tatiana?”
A long pause. “No,” she whispers in deep masculine tones.
The priest leans in, and Tatiana can sense the warmth and stench of decay, “You can always default on your end of the deal. And come with me?”
Leaning back as far as she can, Tatiana signs quickly.
The priest cackles as he takes the contract back, “The lengths a girl will go to. Still, you do look divine.”
*
Music throbs.
A pulsating sea of bodies move in unison to the music. Women kiss in the shadows, their hands reaching down to tease sweaty ecstasy from their partners. Tatiana stands at the bar. In sharp contrast, she is totally still, her face in shadow as she surveys the throng of nearly all women dancers.
One dancer locks eye contact with Tatiana. Young and sparkly, she smiles knowingly as she is pulled back and forth by the beat of the crowd.
She dances over to Tatiana and pulls her out from the shadows. Tatiana’s black hair scraped back over her skull, her makeup heavier than ever, her cheek bones more pronounced. She looks like she is trying too hard tonight. The girl smiles. Tatiana knows the look. Drunk. High. Ready to fuck. Perfect.
*
Tatiana stands over the sink in her bathroom. A sudden yet familiar pain shoots down her spine, accompanied by the sound of cracking bone. She bites her hand hard to avoid screaming in pain.
In the bedroom, the girl has stripped to her underwear and sits on the bed. Opening the top drawer, she finds a strap-on dildo. She eyes it and grins.
The bathroom door opens and Tatiana steps out.
The girl stands and, carrying the dildo, walks to Tatiana, “Look what I found. Dirty slut.” She smiles, “Will you fuck me with it tonight?”
Tatiana snatches the girl and pulls her close, kissing her passionately. The moment escalates rapidly and the girl drops the dildo to the floor, overcome by Tatiana’s embrace.
Their crotches grind. The girl pauses and pulls back, her eyes wide, surprised at the sensation.
“Oh, someone is not who she is supposed to be, is she?” the girl whispers. Her fingers fumble up Tatiana’s tartan mini skirt. “Chick with a dick?” She smiles wickedly, “Me like.”
She drops to her knees and pulls Tatiana’s panties to one side to reveal her cock, immediately consuming it, sliding back and forth.
Tatiana feels another crunch down her spine. She looks at her hands, which also crack and snap as they get larger, her forearm muscles getting bigger. She grasps the doorway, a mixture of agony from her bodily transformation and ecstasy from her blow job. Another wave of agony.
The girl’s eyes widen as she takes a breath. “Baby, you just got bigger… you got huge…”
Tatiana pulls her up, and the girl clambers on top of her and couples up, feeling Tatiana deep inside. They fall onto the bed, and Tatiana begins to slide back and forth. The sensation is familiar yet strange at the same time.
The rhythm gets faster. More cracks as Tatiana grows stronger, her face subtly changing to more masculine features. The pace increases, the two writhing.
Faster. Faster. Faster still they fuck.
Feeling herself climaxing, Tatiana locks eyes with the girl, who is lost in the sexual fever. Tatiana whispers “I’m sorry” as she produces a six inch silver blade and in one single motion cuts the girl’s throat.
Tatiana climaxes and wails as she is drenched in a fountain of hot sticky blood.
The girl, her eyes imploring, can only look on as Tatiana falls back down and pins her to the bed. As the blood squirts, she continues to thrust every single orgasmic moment from herself and into the girl.
Tatiana is once more wracked by agony as her body begins to transform. Her angular features rounding, her broad shoulders shrinking, her hips widening.
Silence save for heavy breathing.
Tatiana pushes the body from the bed; it lands with a wet thump on the tiled floor. Looking at the ceiling, she stabilises her emotions.
She has the body and demeanour of a seventeen year old, her lips filled and reddened, her cheeks full and rosy. And her eyes. They pierce the soul with the promise of unspeakable pleasures.
She isn’t just beautiful. She is impossibly feminine. She breaks down and weeps uncontrollably. She looks down to her side to see just the ankle and foot of the lifeless body.
Her breathing slows as she gets a grip on her emotions.
Calmness.
Lying in her crimson bed of blood, Tatiana runs her fingers down her bloodied body. She moves over her engorged nipples and breasts, her taught tummy, down to her warm, wet and waiting lips. She enters herself with her fingers and begins to rub back and forth. She brings herself to climax.
Her breathing slows, and she smiles. “The lengths a girl will go to,” she muses.
What’s Yours Is Mine
by Nick Yates
He opened his eyes to nothing. The darkness was complete, no shadows or shades of grey, just black.
Where am I? Where’s Dad?
“Dad, Dad,” he shouted, an edge of panic and fear in his voice.
“It’s ok, Son, I’m here.”
Relief washed over him; his Dad was here too, somewhere in that darkness. He tried to stand, tried to go to him, but he couldn’t. Something around his chest restrained him, pinned his back to a cold, wet stone wall. He felt at a leather strap with his fingers, it was tight, immovable. He struggled, tried to wriggle under the strap, but there was one more at his waist.
“Dad, I’m stuck. Where are we?”
“It’s okay, Son, I’m here,” he sounded confused.
“Don’t worry, Dad. Try to stay calm.”
He forced himself to stop struggling and took deep breaths, trying to clear his mind, like his Dad had taught him. . . before he’d lost…
He had woken up to this darkness with no memory of how he’d got here, just a buzzy headache and a cotton wool mouth. When he thought back, it felt like days, but in truth it could have been hours. He just didn’t know.
He’d driven his old man back from the hospital and had sat with him in his front room. The doctor had confirmed it, what they had been fearing for some time now. Their conversation had been difficult, his Dad had been upset and angry, struggling to cope with the reality of what was happening. He could understand that, of course: who would enjoy being told they were slowly losing their mind; told that very soon those little episodes of forgetfulness would get worse? How was anyone supposed to cope with the prospect of forgetting their own children’s names, forgetting they even had any children? It must be terrifying, particularly for a man like him.
He instinctively reached out, but the straps held him fast. “Dad, hold on, okay. I’ll think of something.”
“Okay, Son.”
He thought carefully, then checked his pockets for his phone. It was still there, but the battery was dead.
How long have I been here?
Perhaps not long, the battery had been low already.
“Dad, do you have your phone?”
No answer.
“Can I have your phone? Could you slide it to me?”
He heard a shuffling in the darkness. He was glad his Dad wasn’t panicking. After everything that had happened recently, this must be hell.
He thought back again to the conversation they’d had, emotional and fraught, made worse by his Dad’s wife, Rita, hanging around in the background, listening in.
He’d never liked the woman, never trusted her; she was a real bitch, a gold digger, in his view. His sister, Sally, had pure hate for Rita though, couldn’t even look at her. She called her the painted whore and had said it to her face the first and only time they had met.
He pictured Rita’s Botox face in his mind, mascara-heavy eyes wide with shock at the news, rage appearing when she realised what it meant.
There was a scraping sound and something hit his foot; the ph
one. He reached down and pressed the screen. It lit up. No service, one bar of battery left. He swore under his breath and tried to stay calm.
The screen pushed back the darkness slightly, a nimbus of light spreading out. It wasn’t enough to see his Dad, but enough to see what was immediately around him.
A basement of some kind, judging from the pile of old boxes to his left. He looked at the screen – still one bar, still no service. He thought about turning it off, saving the battery, just in case. But he needed to know where they were. He reached across, straining against the straps, fingers brushing rotten cardboard that fell apart as he touched it. Something fell out, an exercise book of some sort, old and dusty with familiar handwriting. It was his handwriting, or had been twenty years ago.
We’re in Dad’s basement. The thought shook him.
He looked at the phone again, still one bar of battery, but now one bar of signal. A spike of adrenalin shot up his spine, scattering his thoughts. Who has done this? How? Why? Make a call before the phone dies, who should I call? 999?
The phone started to ring, vibrating in his hand. His sister’s name appeared on the screen.
Please, God, don’t let it die on me.
He pressed answer, and her voice came immediately, urgent. “Dad, where the hell are you? Why did you hang up when I called? What happened at the hospital?”
“Sally, listen. You have to come and help us, we’re trapped in Dad’s basement.”
“David?” The phone went dead. The nimbus of light disappearing, plunging him back into black.
“Dad, did you hear? That was Sally, don’t worry, she’s coming to help.”
“Okay, Son.”
Did she hear? Will she come?
He hoped so, but he hadn’t had time to explain properly.
Who could have done this, in Dad’s own basement?
He thought back to earlier, sitting in the front room. He thought about Rita’s face again, the reel of emotions he had seen playing out in her features, and… something else…
Her? How?
He ran over the events in his mind. She’d been the dutiful wife while they talked through the consequences of what the doctor had said, listening in silence then disappearing to the kitchen, coming back with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. Rita didn’t do biscuits; she was a health freak, a body obsessive. The word ‘sugar’ wasn’t in her vocabulary.
Twisted 50 Volume 1 Page 21
