Kink: An Extreme Horror Story

by Brothers, The Barns

  “Work?”

  She frowned at me in mock disappointment, hands on bloody hips.

  “I have a job, you know. But not just that. Because of you,” she pointed accusingly, “I have to get rid of all Jake’s crap. His phone. His clothes. I have to leave a false trail. It’s a lot of work. I’m not going to get any sleep tonight, you know. And the mess upstairs… it’s atrocious.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, upset that I’d caused her stress.

  “It’s okay, at least I got to have some fun. I haven’t played like that in… well… a long time.”

  “You should… play… more often,” I said, excited at the memory of my friend hanging from the hook. “I wish I’d seen what you did to him upstairs as well.”

  “Oh, you would have been jealous.”

  “Yeah,” I said, recognizing the underlying anger that still bubbled away inside me, anger at my friend for going behind my back and coming here.

  “Now be a good boy and stay here while I get everything sorted out. I’ll come and see you before work tomorrow.”

  I nodded. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Yes?”

  “What… are you?”

  A laugh. She stepped toward me, hovering over me. Unable to help myself my head nodded forward and into her pussy. Salty and bloody and delicious she let out a moan.

  “I’m… whatever you think I am. But if you really want to know, then…” she arched her back and pushed herself harder against my tongue, enjoying what I was doing to her. “I’ll play an interview I did, where I explained… everything.”

  She slipped down onto my cock, grabbed me by the shoulders, and rode me hard. Agony lanced through me, but not as much as the pleasure, the love I had for her. My hands ran over her bloody skin, flakes of the congealed mess falling off as we made beautiful, sweet love.

  It was just a few seconds before I shot inside her.

  Involuntary tears leaked out of my eyes as I finished, the pain becoming overwhelming again as the orgasm faded. The pain didn’t matter. I was with her.

  She slapped me across the face. “You bad boy. I told you I had work to do. Now…”

  She rose and went over to the tape player she had played earlier. It was old, like from the 80s or 90s or something ancient like that. She ejected the tape, turned it over, and reinserted it.

  “You can listen to Ham’s interview with me.”

  “Ham?” I asked.

  She nodded her head toward the thing next to me. “Frank Burnley Hammington. He used to be a reporter. I call him Ham for short. Since he is now short.”

  We both looked at the thing, at Ham, and laughed. It was pretty funny. I imagined her calling him by his full name upon first meeting, and then paring the name down further and further as she pared him down further and further until… Ham.

  “You let him interview you?”

  She laughed.

  “Indeed. I thought it would be fun. I met him in a gallery, and when I found out his job, I thought it would be entertaining to have him interview me. As you know, I can be quite persuasive, so I easily convinced him that I was ‘immortal’,” she said using air quotes around the word, “and I got him to ask me about it.”

  “Why?”

  I couldn’t understand why she’d want to spend time with him. And to give an interview? That seemed ludicrously dangerous. If it was up to me I wouldn’t let her give an interview. When we were together properly I’d make sure she didn’t do anything silly like that, I decided.

  “Why? Why not? I’d never been interviewed before so I thought it might be fun. It was. Then it wasn’t and I got bored. Anyway, you’ll see.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be back later. Be good. If you get hungry…” she nodded her head toward Ham again.

  I was still giggling as she closed the door, prodding my finger into Ham, wondering how he would taste.

  Then I pressed play.

  Tap, tap.

  “I think it’s recording. Ok. Let’s begin…”

  …

  “You have chosen, for obvious reasons, to remain anonymous for the purposes of this interview. Nonetheless, could you give us a little information about your background — where and when you were born and something about your early homelife?”

  “Why of course. I was born in 1884 in London, England. I spent the early part of my life there before emigrating with my family to America when I was 15. I moved back to England after the war. In terms of siblings who survived infanthood, I had two older brothers at the time, though they have long since died of course. My mother did some work as a seamstress, though mostly she was what you might call a housewife these days.”

  “A homemaker.”

  “Oh, right. That. Homemaker. And my father was a wainwright.”

  “A wainwright? Could you explain what that is?”

  A soft chuckle. “He worked on carts, mainly for farmers. Making them, fixing them, things like that. He also labored on farms, especially in his later years.”

  “And when did you become... you? As you are now?”

  “It was when I was seventeen. I was lucky enough to meet an older gentlemen, a Mr. Carrington and he let me join him in a new life.”

  “To be clear, you mean he turned you into…”

  “...into?”

  “A, uh, vampire.”

  She let out a long, giggling laugh.

  “A vampire? Is that what you think I am? Garlic and crosses and no reflections and all that? There’s no such thing…”

  “But I mean, you don’t seem to have aged since that time, and you have some unnatural, uh, talents.”

  “That’s mostly correct”

  “So what should we call people like you?”

  “As a group, you can refer to us as ‘the ageless’. However, I must tell you, there’s nothing unnatural about any of my talents. I’m just different now. Better.”

  “Was there any special reason he chose you, do you know?

  “I believe he was more than unusually attracted to me…”

  “Well, I can certainly see why!”

  “Are you attracted to me, Mr. Hammington?”

  ...

  By the time the tape reached its conclusion the reporter had long since realized that he was never going to file his story, but he also no longer cared.

  She had turned him from a somewhat professional interviewer (though it was clear he had more than a professional interest in his subject) into a slathering abused fool completely in love with the person he had been interviewing, clamoring to be turned ageless like her.

  What a chump Ham had been. As if she would have ever wanted to turn him. Just listening to his needling reporter’s voice annoyed me. There's no way she would ever have wanted him to join her. She had only let him interview her for her own amusement. It was obvious.

  She had clearly just been teasing the stupid man. She didn't actually like him. It was comforting to know that I was different, that she truly did like me.

  Unlike Ham.

  Unlike meddling Jake.

  She may have hurt me a little bit, but that was only because she liked me so much. In fact, it was clear she'd needed a reason to make me stay. She was afraid of losing me, that's why she hurt my ankles.

  Silly girl. All she had to do was ask! Luckily, it wasn't really that bad. She hadn't chopped them off or anything. They’d heal in just a few short months. Unlike the moron Ham. She’d taken him to pieces!

  I dozed in and out of sleep, fantasies of our new life together running through my mind. I was imagining future scenarios, of me and her hunting together, finding men — Or women? Was she into that? — And bringing them back together, feeding off them and playing with them in the most intimate of shared experiences — fucking and killing.

  It was going to be great.

  16 Cassie

  It took almost the entire night to get rid of all their crap in a satisfactory manner. This was one of the reasons I only allowed myself to ind
ulge so freely once a year. The problem with really letting yourself go, really enjoying yourself, is the risks that are attached. Every time you take another victim, you run the risk of getting caught.

  Not that any of our kind ever had been caught. There were rules against that. The chances were always very low, assuming we were careful. But if we ever were completely and utterly caught, at risk of being found out, then we would have to end ourselves. It was one of the rules.

  So after disposing of everything, I returned home to try and get my house back into some semblance of order before it was time to go to work.

  I mopped and wiped, scrubbed and cleaned, trying to remove all the traces of the night's fun. But it wasn’t a quick project. I managed to remove the worst of it, but I knew my next several evenings would be spent meticulously scrubbing and cleaning away, making sure that every last splatter and drip had been found and cleaned, and my floors had been returned to their perfectly polished beautiful state. I can't abide a messy house.

  Finally, around 8 AM I realised that what I'd accomplished was all I was going to have time for that morning. I briefly considered calling in sick to work, but I never did that.

  Never.

  I didn't have time to go downstairs to see my new cellar-meat. I would probably get distracted, and I didn't have time for that. I could have sworn I was still drunk from the indulgences of the night before. If they had a breathalyzer for blood and cum, I definitely would have failed.

  Instead I showered quickly, and then rushed to put on my makeup. Crap. Staring at myself in the mirror, I realised that I really had indulged a lot the night before. It was obvious on my face. I now had the face of a seventeen-year-old girl again. Usually, I try to maintain the look of someone around the age of 25; seventeen — the age at which I was turned — was just a bit too young.

  With a sigh, I began to work on my face, quickly but skilfully applying makeup to make myself look older. This was why I couldn't stay in a job for more than a few years. If I did, some people might eventually begin to get suspicious — though that kind of thing was surprisingly rare. People can’t process things that break the ‘rules’ of how the world works.

  Now, you might think that the fact that I was going in today, looking about a decade younger than the day before, that people would notice. However, they wouldn't. Or rather, if they did, they would just comment that I was looking well. People never suspect the impossible — or at least what they believe to be impossible. So, they just go with the best guess that they can, which is that I have naturally youthful skin or perhaps they’d never really noticed how young I look before.

  Nonetheless, I still had to make an effort with my make up. There is a very small percentage of the population, an absolute tiny minority, much lower than 1%, who see the world as it really is; whether things are possible or impossible be damned.

  Those who were the ones we had to look out for. Those were the ones that had discovered our existence, and hunted us down. Luckily, I'd never met one of these, apart from when I'd been sent to kill one. He hadn't had a chance.

  When I'd applied just enough make up to dull the freshness of my skin, and to hide the tight smoothness around my eyes, I went to work.

  When I returned home, I was thankful to be returning to my sweet, comfortable nest. I busied myself re-wiping, scrubbing, and polishing the floor in the bedroom. I'd already completely replaced the sheets on the bed. When I was satisfied that at least some of the filth of the room had been cleaned, I decided to go and check on my new toy.

  I never liked going down into the cellar, but I had to, to feed. I couldn't exactly keep that kind of stuff — meat — upstairs with me, could I? If I did I’d have to stop calling it cellar-meat.

  I know that some of my kind did like keeping their enthralled pets around them at all times indoors, having them follow them around the house and using them as dinner/slaves. But that wasn't my style. I find it sickening, taking no pleasure in the patheticness of the needy enthralled creatures. At least, not enough to want to be smothered by it twenty-four hours a day. When I wanted my fix, or needed to replenish my energy, I just popped down into the cellar.

  I opened the door and went downstairs, flicking on the bright lights as I did so. All was as I had left it. Including the two pathetic creatures in the corner.

  "Welcome home!" said the new cellar-meat. His voice was raspy now, and I imagined he must be thirsty. I'd sort that out soon.

  "Have you been good?" I asked.

  He grinned at me, boyishly. He nodded his head to the side.

  I frowned. It seemed he had gotten hungry when I was away and decided to impress me. Poor old Ham had had his shoulder stripped bare. There wasn't actually that much left of him these days, so it must have been hard for my new pet to actually find a part of him to nibble on. I was proud of the fact that I had made him last almost a year.

  "Was that your first time?"

  He nodded his head up and down enthusiastically. "Oh yes. My first time. But it won't be my last," he said with a laugh. "Now we’re together, we’ll eat like this all the time, right?"

  Pathetic.

  "Yes, all the time," I told him reassuringly.

  "So, when are you going to… do it. Turn me."

  This was it. The funny part. Once they'd found out what I was, what I could do, they always wanted to become ageless like me. I mean, it’s not really their fault; one of my gifts is that I have this effect on people and they become enthralled. But it's always a cross between amusing and sad to see these formerly strong-willed, strong minded men become these weak little creatures.

  That's why I call them pets. They’re like dogs. But even dogs, if you treat them badly enough, will learn to no longer trust you. But not these pets. I was always hoping that one day I'd meet someone who could stand up to me, but I hadn't found one yet. I could treat my new cellar-meat as poorly as I liked now, and he'd never complain; at least nothing more than a token momentary whine of injustice, soon forgotten as my innate allure overwhelmed him again.

  "Soon, soon," I told him. "But first we have to get you fixed up, right?"

  He looked down at himself, at his swollen, shattered ankles, and the scrapes and scratches on his body.

  "I'm fine, really!” he said with a watery-eyed look and chipper grin. “We can do it now, if you like. I'm ready right now."

  "No, no. You be patient."

  He nodded agreeably.

  "I think it might be time I got rid of Ham. After all, I have you now, right?"

  He nodded enthusiastically. "Can I do it? Can I show you that I can do it?"

  I shook my head at him.

  "No, I've got something special planned."

  He looked at me with wide, excited eyes, curious about what I was going to do. I let out a laugh. What I was going to do wasn't, strictly, allowed. It was a bit naughty to be honest. But hey, you only live once, right?

  I was definitely still half-drunk from the night before. When I’d come down into the cellar I’d been planning to be good. I really had. I’d just been planning to toss Ham into the deep-freeze as-is. But now that I was down there... finishing off some cellar-meat really should be a special occasion, shouldn’t it? One last grand hurrah?

  “I really shouldn’t,” I said with a sigh, “I spoiled myself yesterday.”

  The new one shook his head from side to side so emphatically I half-worried it would snap off.

  “No! No! Do whatever you want. You should spoil yourself every day.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said with a laugh.

  This pet was good at flattering me.

  And he was right. I should spoil myself. After the indulgences of the day before I’d already wrecked my carefully controlled ‘age’; it wasn’t like I was going to get any younger now — I’d reached my limit; the age at which I’d been turned.

  So why not one last party with Ham?

  Then I’d be good for the rest of the year. I would. I would.

  Gra
nt me chastity and continence… but not yet.

  17 Rich

  I couldn't get the stupid grin off my face. My girl was about to do something crazy, something to really spoil herself. I couldn't wait to see what it was. I knew she was going to get rid of the stupid thing sitting next to me, encroaching on my corner of the cellar, but she wasn't just going chop its head off, or just toss it in the freezer. No, she said she's going to spoil herself. My body shook and quivered in eager anticipation.

  She walked over to the thing, to Ham, and stroked his cheek. I was disgusted to see his body react almost instantly, his impressively large cock hardening, and a few spasms from the remaining muscles on his stomach and neck and chest as his body reacted to her touch. My beautiful mistress raised her wrist to her mouth, and then to my horror she bit into it. I sucked in a harsh grasp of breath. What was she doing?

  When she took her wrist away from her mouth I could see her lips painted blood red, and she licked her lips as she passed her wrist down toward… no!… the face-hole that was the mouth of Ham.

  "What are you doing?"

  She was giving him her blood! She was turning him! Why would she do that, she was supposed to be getting rid of him. A cold dagger of betrayal in my gut. No, no, she can't really be betraying me, she can't. I just couldn't understand.

  She pressed her wrist against the hole where his mouth had once been, and a sick sucking slurping noise resulted. I didn't think he had a tongue, but perhaps the vestiges of whatever remained could still do something.

  I tried to suppress my jealousy, knowing that I shouldn't feel that way, knowing that I should trust her. It went on for, I don't know, thirty seconds, a minute, and then she stood up, a satisfied look on her face.

  "Wait here. I shall return in a moment."

  I stared after her and she walked away across the room, her tight ass swinging under the professional black business skirt that she was wearing.

  I would wait.

  I would be patient.