by Alina Sawyer
It's over for me.
Slumping to the floor, my body and mind shrieking, I'm scarcely able to curl into a foetal ball, past knowing who I am, no longer caring what happens to me. Right now I would gladly face death and embrace oblivion, anything to evade the profound devastation you induce in me.
You look down at me, really look at me, an expression crossing your face that my hazed, confused brain can't comprehend.
It could be remorse for breaking your plaything.
It could be triumph.
Then you're on the floor with me, rolling me on to my back, pushing my limp legs aside as you run your tongue through my sopping pussy. My bodyweight presses down on my wounds, and I howl from the shock of it, but the tiles are cool and soothing, numbing my burning, bloody skin. My body is so overwrought I can see the poetry of your head between my legs but I can't feel your mouth. I cant feel a thing until your lips and teeth latch on to my clitoris.
That's all I need.
All the pent up emotions and the knife edge of frustration you've balanced me on for days, implodes inside me. Powerless, I thrust my hips into your face and let go, endlessly pulsing around your fingers wedged in my pussy, your tongue working its way into my ass as my spend goes on forever.
My total surrender sends you over the edge, flying into the abyss.
I can't believe you're hard again, hauling me on top of you, drilling your way into me with my pussy fighting to expel you. Holding me tight, you fuck me right through my climax, lifting me and slamming me down on your cock like a rag doll, my body anesthetised but my pussy on fire, my cries incoherent, close to madness. You're frenetic now, wrenching apart my blouse, buttons flying everywhere as you maul my tits, your hips levering up into me.
I can't escape you and I can't remember the reasons I wanted to. All that matters is that you're inside me, filling me up, out of control, just as much a slave as I am. Your loss of self revives me. Biting hard on your throat, sucking your neck, I claw at your back, leaving my own savage marks as you drive into me one last time, your body jerking in tandem with mine when you flood my tight passage with semen.
Collapsing against you, I fold my body into yours, reluctant to let you go as silence descends over us. Schizophrenic I know. A moment ago I wanted to leave you, maim you, die, but now I'm struck with the irrational necessity of keeping you close, dreading the moment when you withdraw from me in body, mind, and spirit. It's almost as if you've given up a secret part of yourself and you resent me for taking it.
This is the telling moment for me, the switch from craving sex to feeling used, full of despair, needy for approval, searching for some kind of meaning in all this because without it I'm left with utter emptiness.
For some reason I can't fathom, now is one of those rare moments when your cock fades away, but you, you are still with me. Helping me to my feet, you support me to the bedroom. I'm not used to consideration. It plays havoc with my head, but it's an implicit part of your charm, like lightning spearing through storm clouds.
Cautiously I crawl on the bed, easing myself down on my stomach, exhausted, my body flaming in agony. I've no spirit left to cry; I've already given you an ocean.
Handing me painkillers to swallow, you wash my injuries and salve my skin, rubbing my back to gentle me whenever you touch a tender spot. It stuns me that your comforting hands were capable of such barbaric treatment.
I don't know what you think or feel when you clean the six cuts where your belt buckle drew blood. Nor when you lift my hips off the bed and plunge your face between my legs, slowly lapping every drop of your own salty cum from me.
This simple act (if I wasn't so tired and sore), makes me yearn to have you back inside me all over again.
When I least expect it you brush my hair off my face and gift me the longest, sweetest kiss, finally letting me taste you, all of you. Your kiss is a silent communion: It's you understanding the ordeal you've put me through and just how deeply you value my capitulation.
I know your dirty little secret.
You're not as heartless as you pretend to be, and that, dear one, is why I keep coming back.
The End.
Demon Hunters
The lost girl felt stirrings within the Dream. They were coming now. The Three.
Malcolm Gerstein turned the ghostmobile into the driveway of the abandoned cider mill, stealing one last glimpse of Persephone's ample cleavage in the rearview mirror, before setting the parking breaks on the van.
For her part, Persephone Orisha continued to stare at the blond curls cascading down the nape of Dante Hades' neck, if that even was his real name. She was beginning to doubt it. He was so neat though. She would never regret taking an internship with the Exploration Channel's Demon Hunters show as part of her senior independent study at Vassar. If she hadn't, she would never have met Dante. The show wasn't even carried on basic cable - it was on like channel 413 or something like that, but that didn't matter. She was in love with Dante, even if she was too shy to make a move on him. She knew he at least noticed her (and what heterosexual man didn't?). She saw it in his stolen glances, his subtle return of her smiles.
Dante opened the passenger door of the van and stepped out onto the moss-devoured tarmac. He beheld the ancient vine-covered stone building before him. So this was the fabled Innsbruck Cider Mill, opened in 1873, abandoned forever in 1917. The edifice that probably caused the suicide of one prominent early psychical researcher (Edmund Gurney) in 1888, and drove another mad for a period of several months (that being one James Hyslop, the founder of the American Society for Psychical Research). Well, ghosts weren't so tough anymore. In fact, they never seemed to show up at all these days, something that wasn't helping the ratings of Demon Hunters or Dante's prospects for ever finding a real job.
He walked around to the back of the van to help Malcolm unload the equipment. He handed Malcolm the digital camera. He prayed that Malcolm would put his thumb over the lens again, the way he had back in Amityville. They needed a couple of unexplained luminous orbs on this shoot, needed them badly after the most recent fiasco in Alabama.
"What's this?" he asked Malcolm, after picking up an unfamiliar piece of equipment.
"You like that/" Malcolm replied. "That's an old E-Meter. I ordered it from the Scientology website because it has all these cool knobs and dials. It's supposed to tell you if you are an operating thetan, which is like a perfect spiritual being or something like that. Look, it comes with this totally rad three-pen chart recorder, which makes a lot of scratchy noises and beeps and stuff. I figure we can easily shoot ten minutes of this thing beeping and scratching. The fans are gonna love it."
"And its scientific validity?"
"Dude, you have to be kidding me!"
Dante rolled his eyes and asked, "OK, what else do we have."
"The usual, infrared goggles, spot cameras, recording equipment, one outmoded magnetometer, two thermistors, and one standard-issue Schmidt random event generator," said Malcolm, pushing his nerd glasses back up his nose. "Oh, and I brought this, in case the action gets slow." He showed Dante an unopened Hasbro glow-in-the-dark Ouija board, fresh from amazon.com.
"I sure as hell hope it doesn't get that slow," Dante muttered as he watched Malcolm attempt to haul the TV camera out of the bed of the van, his beer gut bouncing with each strain of his "muscles."
"Here, forget that – just set up the tripod," Dante said, as he took the camera from Malcolm's sweaty paws.
The dark spirit floating in the Dream-ether of the mill would also have rolled her eyes, if she had any. These guys were even bigger imbeciles than that crew back in 1976. Oh well, flesh was flesh, and she hadn't worn a human body in quite some time. She could almost taste the delights that were in store for her.
Dante gave Persephone a wink and signaled to Malcolm to begin rolling the camera. He raised his hand mike and began the introductory spiel.
"This is your intrepid ghostbuster Dante Hades. Welcome to Demon Hunters. I am st
anding before the infamous old Innsbruck Cider Mill in Avon, Connecticut. The windows you see before you have been boarded up and shuttered since 1917, when the mill was abruptly shut down and abandoned forever, allegedly due to paranormal activity."
Malcolm panned the camera across the stone edifice, zooming on rotting boards, then following the creek that ran behind mill, which was barely visible because it was overgrown with swamp grass and cattails. Then he slowly panned back to Dante, carefully framing the picture to ensure that his pecs and biceps, so prominent beneath his black Demon Hunters tee shirt, would be clearly visible to the female audience (and possibly the gay male audience as well, although the consultants they had hired on the cheap did not provide much in the way of a demographic breakdown when it came to sexual orientation). Just to make sure his bases were covered, he zoomed out a little bit to show the bulge of Dante's package and his large quadriceps muscles. To boost their ratings up above zero and avoid cancellation, they might have to resort to shooting a sweat lodge ceremony with both Dante's and Persephone's buck-naked moist bodies fully exposed, Malcolm thought. He would have to raise that idea at the next production meeting. Of course to avoid a ratings killer, Malcolm's body would remain where it belonged, behind the camera.
Malcolm suddenly become aware that in his digression, he had subconsciously swept the camera to focus on Persephone's humongous breasts, which were even at that very moment valiantly struggling to set themselves free from her halter top. To appear purposeful, he lingered there for only a second, then panned up to focus on her deep dark eyes, her dimples and her lustrous long black hair. This intern thing was definitely working out he thought, licking his lips. The ratings would definitely turn northward if he kept taking shots like this. Reluctantly, he turned the camera once again in Dante's direction.
"As already mentioned, this old mill is famous in the annals of psychical research for causing the suicide of one prominent early investigator into the paranormal and causing another to lapse into madness for months after he spent just one night here," Dante continued. "In the 1930s, a group of college kids camping out in the mill mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again, and three decades later a man and a woman seemingly engaged in a romantic tryst were found floating in the creek in back of me. Many others have died here.
"Many of the visitors to the mill report catching a brief glimpse of a young woman in nineteenth century garb, who disappears when you look directly at her. Often these visitors report that they were in the process of falling asleep just prior to the vision.
"Legend has it that the ghost is the spirit of Mary Thompson, a young mill worker who one night 1876 offered her favors to the entire mill crew, taunting each man as he finished. Mary Thompson was beaten to death for her troubles, and her body was never found. As a result, her spirit lives on in this place, a hungry ghost seeking justice, or more likely vengeance."
Demon-Mary rose from the Dream, called forth by the sound of her name. She would extract her vengeance again tonight. She felt the darkness within her rising, her will gathering its strength for the coming ordeal.
After several hours of playing with the ouija board while wearing infrared goggles and using the E-meter to test each other's spiritual achievements, our scantily clad intrepid investigators turned in early, early being around 2 AM for them. To Malcolm and Persephone's consternation, each slept alone, in order to cover the entire building in case anything began to happen.
They all dreamed. This was moment the demon had been waiting for. Now she could wear their flesh, defile it and drive them mad. Not to mention eating the rest of Persephone's Big Mac. It had been fourteen years since she had last known the ecstasies of fast food.
She slipped into the dream of the fat one. He was busily fucking Persephone in the ass and did not notice her as she stood behind him. How easy it would be to take him now, but the idea of wearing his jiggling flesh truly repulsed her. She would rather ride the body of one of pigs that lived down the lane. No, she would wet-dream the girl instead.
She slithered out of Malcolm's disgusting dream and floated across the Dreamscape until she found the girl's dream. Predictably enough, she was still getting fucked in the ass. But this time it was Dante who was doing the honors. These mortals would never learn the truth. There is but one Dream and we each wear different masks within it.
Demon-Mary tapped Dante's shoulder, as if she were cutting in on him in a waltz. He disappeared into a mist of droplets, and she now had the girl all to herself. She softly slid up and down Persephone's naked back, her erect nipples tracing lightly over the girl's soft young skin. She kept up the fucking movement, even though she was missing a vital part. Persephone didn't seem to mind, as Mary began to lick the swan-like nape of her neck, moving her wet cunt up and down the small of Persephone's back. Her tongue meandered forward to Persephone's earlobe, which the ghost began to lick furiously, sucking it, letting her tongue role around inside the folds of her ear, then back to her earlobe as she continued to slide her wet crotch up and down Persephone's back. She reached out with her hand and interlaced her fingers with Persephone's fingers and moved her tongue softly to her beautiful dark eyes, tracing the contours of her eyelids before turning Persephone's head to the side to grant her tongue access to Persephone's mouth, then swirling her tongue around Persephone's sensually full lips. She gently urged Persephone's mouth to open and then Persephone's now eager tongue met her own, sliding over it to slither into the dark spirit's own mouth, running its way along her teeth, fiercely exploring the wet inner linings of her cheeks. The girl turned and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her tightly against her as her tongue continued to dart in and out of her mouth. She felt Persephone's hand reaching down to cover her mound, her fingers teasing her clitoris, dancing circles around it so that her astral body was writhing in denied ecstasy until Persephone plunged three fingers into her dripping cunt and began to fuck it in earnest, as she continued to probe the demon's mouth with her frantic tongue.
Dream-Persephone rolled their bodies over so that her naked body covered the demon's own, warming the lost girl's cold body with her own living heat. She moved her tongue from the demon's mouth and slid it over her chin and down the demon's exposed and vulnerable neck. She licked her way down the demon's body, stopping to suck and tease each of the demon's hard nipples, bringing them to pleasure and releasing them over and over again. She spread her hand to knead both of the demon's sizable breasts, squeezing them tightly and hard, as she continued her oral odyssey down the lost girl's body. Persephone's soft hair spilled upon the demon's naked torso as she licked her way down to her mons veneris.The demon arched her body, grinding it against Persephone's mouth. "Eat me," she whispered. "Eat me."
Persephone was only too happy to oblige, her mouth engulfing the demon's clit, her tongue lapping it with renewed violence. She nipped it with her lips, pulling it up and then releasing it over and over again, until the demon's moans of denied pleasure filled the Dreamscape. When the demon's frenzy was at its peak, Persephone denied her no longer and opened her with her tongue, her lips pressed against the moist lips of the Mary's vagina, her tongue probing deeply, moving faster and faster in a fucking motion as her fingers continued to rub and tease her clit. She reached out with her other hand, tracing the crack of the demon's ass as her tongue swirled around her nether lips. She plunged her tongue deeply into the demon's cunt, and Demon-Mary arched her back, her hands coming down to force Persephone's face tightly against her cunt as she cried out in her final throes and turned herself into the Devil's rain, a cloud of acid vapor that poured itself into Persephone's mouth, burning its way down her esophagus and into the very core of her being.
Demon-Mary reveled in the sensation of true flesh surrounding her as she rose from the mattress. She could feel the girl waking, futilely struggling to regain control of her physical body. It belonged to Mary now. She began to strip the clothes from the wench's luscious body. The next two tasks required that she be sky-clad.
>
Persephone hoped that she was not awake. She watched her arms as they stripped her body. She tried to regain control, but to no avail. The demon was in her every thought, her body obeying only the demon's bidding as the foul spirit rode her like a horse. She could feel the taste of death inside her.
Demon-Mary ran her hands up and down Persephone's naked flesh, which she now owned. The pleasure was so much more intense than dream pleasure. She circled her fingers around Persephone's areolas, the crowns of her magnificent breasts. The pleasure was indescribable. She ran her right hand down Persephone's taut tummy and plunged her fingers into Persephone's still-dripping cunt. The pleasure of actual flesh was so intense that she cried out softly as she plunged her whole hand into Persephone's cunt, moving it in and out violently. She longed for more. Over a century as pure spirit was far too long a time.
Oh well, she had a job to do. Two actually. The first less pleasant than the second, but necessary nonetheless. She had no desire to ride Malcolm's flesh. She would take him in the waking state. She saw the items she needed in the supply room and went to get them. No more psychokinesis for her. She could simply pick them up this time.
Malcolm Gerstein awoke with a start as he felt his balls being seized. He looked down to see, incredibly enough, a naked Persephone Orisha cupping his balls through his denim pants. She squeezed them and rubbed them with her right hand as her left traveled up to his already swollen cock, which she began stroke up and down, all the time maintaining her grip on his balls, which she continued to squeeze and press as though they were a tube of toothpaste and she was trying to force the drop of jism out of them. To increase the analogy, she began to run those luscious full lips along the length of his throbbing shaft as she began to unzip him, taking him eagerly in her mouth when his cock sprang free.
He must be dreaming Malcolm thought, but he knew all too well that he was awake.