by Sam West
“Because I’m long dead. I’m not fresh, like them. But I think we should go before I end up on the menu. Come on, I saw another staircase on the opposite walkway.”
Hope stumbled after her invisible boyfriend. A giggle rose up in her throat like gas, and that giggle turned into a full belly laugh.
Even when they lurched outside into the cool night air and the mansion which was easily the size of Buckingham Palace was safely behind them, she didn’t stop laughing.
THREE WEEKS LATER
Dr Robert Metcalfe examined the notes laid out on his desk before him, frowning in concentration. Of all the cases he had encountered in his forty-odd year career as a clinical psychologist, Hope Hill’s story was by far the most outrageous and tragic.
It was quite understandable she had lost her mind after everything she had been through – there was no doubting she had been to Hell and back.
He looked up from his notes and regarded the young woman herself who was lying back on his couch, the picture of innocence. She wore the mental hospital’s regulation nightgown, but it did little to diminish her beauty.
A gorgeous woman like that, it’s small wonder she fell prey to monsters…
Pushing aside the entirely inappropriate, unprofessional thought, he continued to speak:
“I want to help you get better, Hope. But in order to do that, you must first admit you have a problem. You have been through a lot, more than any human mind could possibly bare. It’s no wonder you continue to hallucinate, to see things that aren’t there. But it’s time now to start facing up to reality.”
“Everything I see is real, Doctor. You’ll understand that, one day.”
He shook his head sadly. “These things you think you see are symptomatic of your troubled psyche, not helped by the after effects of the mind altering drugs you were forced to take.”
She cocked her head to one side and looked at a spot to his left. Her face cracked open in a smile and Robert couldn’t help but flinch.
This imaginary friend of hers is getting beyond a joke.
He had never known an adult – or a child for that matter – have such an intense, real-time relationship with an imaginary friend, no matter how schizophrenic they may be. And he had certainly never known an adult have an actual relationship with an imaginary friend. As in making love on a regular basis. It really was quite extraordinary.
“Rohan thinks you fancy me, he says you need to watch yourself.”
“Rohan Sanders is dead, Hope. When Mick forced you to kill him, you invented his ghost to assuage your guilt, he is a product of your mind’s defence mechanism. But you have nothing to feel guilty about, we’ve been through this.”
“Rohan has forgiven me, Doctor. We are in love and I am certainly over the guilt. It is the shadows that are the problem.”
The Doctor felt weary. Even after all their sessions together, it felt like he was making no headway whatsoever. All this talk of shadowy demons and Satanism, if anything it was getting worse.
“These shadows that you see, these demons, they are not real. Sometimes LSD can take years to leave your system and bad trips can come back at any given time.”
“I’ve told you a hundred times, Doctor, this is not a returning LDS trip, the shadows are demons. I see them all the time, out the corner of my eye. They’re looking for a way into our world. When Mick performed the ritual, he weakened the barrier between Hell and Earth.”
Dr Metcalfe slid his glasses up his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. What on earth could he do to help the poor girl, he wondered. She was in such a mess, and was it any wonder? Being kept as a sex slave by the sickest piece of shit he had ever had the misfortune of hearing about… God only knew what that would do to a person. He shook his head sadly.
What a thing, this Flesh Factory. What has happened to the word?
“I’m truly sorry for everything you’ve been through, Hope, please believe me when I say that. But when I say that in order for you to get better you must first accept that you have a problem…”
He coughed, and rubbed his throat.
Must be coming down with a cold, he thought.
His throat felt suddenly constricted, like his collar was done up too tight, or something. He ran his fingers under his collar, but no, there was plenty of room.
“Oh, Rohan, you mustn’t strangle the Doctor, he means well… No, I don’t fancy him, he’s an old man, for God’s sake… No, don’t hurt him… I love you too, baby, you must not get so jealous.”
The tight feeling around his neck suddenly eased and he rubbed his throat. Above, the fluorescent light flickered and he was sure he saw a shadow dance on the wall out the corner of his eye.
Oh, for God’s sake, insanity isn’t catching…
“The shadows are following me, I am their doorway into this world.”
He smiled benignly at her, although his elderly heart thumped against his ribcage. He would help this girl get better if it was the last thing he ever did. She smiled back, but it was far from friendly.
“I’m here, Hope, please talk to me.”
She sat up and leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially:
“You’re going to die, Doctor, the demons are coming.” Suddenly, she jumped to her feet and began to shout. “The demons are coming! You’re going to die! You’re all going to die!”
In a matter of seconds the staff nurses burst into his office. It was with great sadness that he watched the young woman being injected.
“Fuck off!” she screamed at the staff, but as much as she bucked and writhed and kicked, she was easily restrained.
The light flickered and a cold chill ran down his back as he watched her being led out of the room.
The End.
Hey there, you reached the end. Thanks for sticking with me and I hope you enjoyed it. Don’t forget to check my Amazon author page for new stuff once in a while – I aim to release a new story every month for your sick, reading pleasure….
Below, I have enclosed a sample of ‘Dead Dot com’ if anyone is interested.
Thanks again for reading, and happy nightmares.
Sam West.
Gynophagia: The fetish of a person becoming food for someone else as a fantasy.
One of the more widely known scenarios of Gynophagia is of a beautiful woman being spit roasted alive and enjoying every moment of it. Gynophagia can be consensual or brutally non-consensual. It is generally agreed that it is one of those few fetishes that cannot be practiced in real life.
Of course, there are always exceptions.
– Ref: The Urban Dictionary
ONE
Olivia Brown re-read the thread she had just started on the winsomewomen.com website in the Woman-Eater Forum:
Does anybody wish to eat a beautiful, petite, buxom red-head? Twenty-seven years old. Hardcore girl-meat devotee.
Almost instantly she had replies and moisture pooled between her legs.
It’s not like I’m actually going to go through with this fucked-up shit, she thought. It was all just fantasy, something to jack off to whilst her sweet but boring husband snored away in their barren, marital bed upstairs.
Hearseboy: fuck yeah, I will eat u up yum yum
Slaughterubitch: I will make ur dreams cum true, i will slit ur throat when we r fuckin and watch u bleed out on my bed and then I will cut u up good
Girlbutcher1000: Redheads are the tastiest and most sought-after in our little community. But I expect you know this or you would not describe yourself as such. Tell me, are you really a redhead?
Girlbutcher1000’s reply caught her eye, for no other reason than the proper sentence structure. If she was going to indulge in such a morbid fantasy, then she may as well do it with someone literate.
She smiled to herself and twirled a fire-engine red curl around her forefinger as she typed:
Necrobabe87: @Girlbutcher1000. I am indeed. All natural.
Girlbutcher1000: Let’s chat. In private.
&n
bsp; Hearseboy: Baby, I can show u things that will blow ur mind
But Olivia only had eyes for Girlbutcher1000 and she willingly followed him into a private chatroom kindly hosted by the site that allowed members to go one on one whilst still retaining their anonymity:
Girlbutcher1000: Let me guess. Your fantasies grow stronger every day. They are beginning to creep into your waking life, they threaten your very sanity with their intensity.
Necrobabe87: Very astute. But then, why else would I be on the darknet?
Girlbutcher1000: Indeed. You are ripe to be eaten, yet there is a delicious freshness about you. An innocence that is most appealing.
Necrobabe87: I’m not that innocent.
Girlbutcher1000: Perhaps not in the conventional sense. But in this world you are. Fresh for the plucking.
Necrobabe87: You claim to know a lot about me considering we have hardly exchanged two words together. What’s your story, Girlbutcher?
Girlbutcher1000: No, my sweet, it is you that should tell me yours.
Olivia took a deep breath. It was why she was on this site, after all. Glancing furtively at the door to the living-room lest her husband should sleepily burst through it and demand to know what she was doing, she continued to type:
Necrobabe86: I want to be kidnapped. I don’t mind how, but I love the idea of being thrown into the back of a van on my way home from work. I want to be taken to the man’s home, or better yet, his farm. When I arrive I want to be shaved and cleaned, and maybe kept in a cage or pen so I can be fattened up. I don’t really mind how I’m processed. I’m not adverse to spit roast, or maybe just hung up and butchered. I would like my breasts removed first or eaten off me…
She stopped typing because she couldn’t see through the sudden blur of tears and her hand that was shoved down the front of her pyjama bottoms was somewhat distracting.
What’s wrong with me?
Girlbutcher1000: Do not be ashamed of your desires.
She stared at the screen before continuing to type one-handed.
Necrobabe86: Tell me how you would prepare me.
Girlbutcher1000: I would not keep you in a cage. I appreciate that my approach is maybe a little unorthodox, but we would have a relationship of sorts.
Necrobabe86: You would have a relationship with your dinner?
Girlbutcher1000: Yes. In primitive times, the female would be dominated by the tribe's alpha male, but in the modern fantasy-life, she offers herself as the ultimate meal. She is a slave with no inhibitions. She will display no resistance to being owned, to be used without limit. To be traded, tortured, killed and eaten - to be devoured by her own passion for surrender.
Olivia let out a shaky breath and stared at the pc screen through heavy-lidded eyes. Her climax was close, and this guy knew exactly what to say to tip her over the edge. It was like he was inside her head, giving voice to her darkest desires.
Necrobabe86: Go on.
Girlbutcher1000: A cannibalised girl is everything and nothing. She gives all and makes a commitment few others dare think of, she receives all because her owner takes over her life and takes all responsibility for her existence until the day she dies. She has no will, no thought that isn't devoted to her owner's passion and happiness, she is the final form of slavery, the final form of a devoted employee…
And of course I would film it all.
“Oh God,” Olivia gasped, her thighs clenching together in the throes of her self-induced orgasm.
She wiped her fingers on her stripy pink bottoms and resumed typing with both hands. There were plenty more orgasms in her, she just needed a moment or two to recuperate.
Necrobabe86: So how would you prepare my flesh? How long before you killed me?
Girlbutcher1000: Weeks. Maybe a month. Exercise must cease until the moment of death – muscle makes the meat so chewy. Some really go for muscled meat, like the French with their free-range chickens. But I prefer the meat to be soft, succulent and melt in the mouth.
Necrobabe86: Are you a good cook?”
Girlbutcher1000: I prefer chef. I believe I am, yes.
Necrobabe86: Would you fatten me up much?
Girlbutcher1000: Again, some folks really go for the fattening stage. I personally think that too much fat is as bad as too much muscle. The meat loses its fine texture and becomes spongy, for want of a better word.
Necrobabe86: How would you slaughter and cook me?
Girlbutcher1000: I have no set way and have tried many variations. I find the spit-roast visually arresting, but mainly so in my imagination. Unfortunately, the reality is always messy. I prefer to butcher and eat clean. I am not a barbarian. With a creature as delightful and as beautiful as you, I might be inclined to go for the gentle bleed-out. I would hang you on a butcher’s hook, slit your wrists and neck and bleed you into a bucket placed at your feet.
Once more, his words were having the desired effect and she was back to one-handed typing. He was making her think of the meat-hook scene in the seventies flick, A Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and her fingers skated over her wetness. That scene had always been her secret go-to whenever she wanted to come when she was screwing her husband.
Shakily, she typed her encouragement.
Necrobabe86: And the preparation and cooking?
Girlbutcher1000: Once your physical body has expired, I shall unhook you and lay you out on the workbench. There I shall first remove the breasts and perhaps, as a treat, eat one uncooked. I only ever eat raw meat a few seconds after a kill. I shall sit at the kitchen table and gaze over at your beautiful corpse as I open a bottle of the finest merlot and eat you breast off a plate using the sharpest steak-knife to cut it. Once I have feasted upon your breast, I would set about the task of dismembering and filleting your exquisite body with delight and care.
Necrobabe86: What would be your first cooked meal?
Girlbutcher1000: Rump steak and Caesar salad.
“Oh.”
The second orgasm hit like a freight train and she surrendered to the sensation, throwing back her head against the soft leather of the sofa.
A distant thump penetrated through her fog of lust just as the last hit of pulsing pleasure receded.
Shit!
That sounded very much like her husband crunching around up in the bedroom and she sat bolt upright from her slouching position on the sofa and snatched her hand away from her pussy.
Girlbutcher1000: You still there?
Necrobabe86: I have to go.
Girlbutcher1000: Oh dear, has your husband woken up?
A cold chill settled over her. She hadn’t told him a single thing about herself. She saw he was typing and with a growing sense of unease and her ears pricked for anymore movement upstairs, she waited for him to finish.
Girlbutcher1000: You dance with the devil, Olivia Brown, the Devil’s going to dance with you.
She slammed down the laptop-lid, her heart slamming painfully against her ribcage.
What the fuck?
She jumped to her feet and found that she was trembling so violently she was having difficulty catching her breath.
How did he know my name? It’s impossible…
Without warning, the door to the living-room burst open to reveal her husband stood there in boxer-shorts and a t-shirt.
“Michael. What are you doing down here this time of night?”
“What am I doing? Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? It’s one in the morning, I could’ve sworn we went to bed together at half ten.”
She avoided looking directly at the familiar, sweet face of her husband. His dark hair was dishevelled, like he had just crawled out of bed. She was painfully aware of his big, doleful brown eyes boring into her and she felt a stirring of guilt mixed in with the adrenalin coursing through her body.
If only he could be more adventurous in bed, came the ungrateful thought. Sex with Michael never extended beyond missionary position and the whispering of sweet nothings in her ear.
“I couldn’t
sleep, had a headache. I was just waiting for the paracetamol to work.”
“Is that right?”
Only then did she notice his mobile phone he held clasped in his hand.
“You planning on calling someone?”
Their eyes locked properly for the first time and he smiled, but it was a funny kind of smile. In fact, everything about her husband seemed funny, a little off, somehow. She had the distinct impression that she was being studied, like her dark, dirty little secrets had inexplicably been laid bare for him to examine.
Stop it. You’re being paranoid.
“No, I’m not planning on calling anyone. But I have been online for the past half hour. I’ve been having a very interesting conversation, as it happens.”
Her heart kicked up a notch. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really interesting.”
Olivia was beginning to sweat. She didn’t know how, or why, but he was playing her. It made no sense, it was like he actually knew what she had been doing and what she had been looking at online. Which of course he couldn’t possibly know.
“I recognised the darkness when we first met. When I asked you to marry me, what I really mean to say was die for me.”
“What?”
“I love you, Necrobabe86. All your dreams are about to come true.”
He lunged for her and in that moment it all made perfect sense. It was her own husband she had been talking to on winsomewomen.com.
Michael was Girlbutcher1000…
END OF SAMPLE.
