He Spoke of Death





He spoke of murder like poetry,

Of hands on hearts,

Deep inside of forbidden secrets.


He whispered words like “torture”,


And “eviscerate”

As if they were the sweetest things imaginable.


A thousand horrors roiling in my mind,

An insufferable urge to destroy,

To hurt

To inflict


Coupled with an incomparable joy

Found only

In one other.


His words were red and lush,

Covering things previously unknown

At once shadowed and enlightened;

Simultaneously brillant,

And terrible.

Absolutely beautiful.


He spoke of death like religion,

Like the last great adventure;

As some barely-concieved bit of brilliance.


He spoke of death as if he’d tasted it,

Somehow feeling my experiences through our bond,

Knowing more than me about things I’ve come so close to,

Dipped just deep enough into.


He spoke of beautiful,

Terrible things.


Of our mutual desires,

Shared nightmares

And combined promises.

 By Nick Ransom

Victim #16

The blood rushed thick,so thick. Making pools around my ankles. Pools, sticky like sweat. Pools like rain turning into a flood. It pounded in my organs, swelling the skin, irritating the surface. I was dizzy from the loss of blood.

It didn’t stop me from running.      

   My muscles ached. All the nerves down my spinal column were ripped, torn, and mutilated, making a mess of my receptors. There was an earthquake colliding in me. 

   Despite all that, I ran.         

   There were bubbles of breath and blood, bubbles made from holes made from stab wounds in my skin. I would have fainted from the pain were I not so focussed on the way my feet tumbled against the ground.

   When you’re running for your life, you learn to look beyond physical limitations.

   I could hear him. Right behind me. Was he close enough to reach me yet? Close enough to grab at my skirt? Close enough to tickle the nerves of my neck?

   I wouldn’t dare look back.

   I wondered how close he was.       

   Branches were slashed down in his wake, an indication of his rage. His panting was so heavy and excited, brimmed with lust and aggravated, primal pleasure.

   Was he close enough to grab me?   

   I kept running.        

   My instincts told me to scream, fight. I knew that neither action would help.

   Everywhere, unearthed roots and awkward dips in the underbrush threatened to trip me, send me tumbling and curling up into the dirt, my skin bruised, my lungs collapsed, my doom sealed. What would I look like then, tumbling over some stray bit of rock, arms flailing, blood and sweat spraying, mouth wide open in desolated shock. Would the dull burn of my overworked bones be enough to make me give up? Or would I scramble upwards, paranoia screeching in my lungs, and force myself to keep running?

   Such thoughts made me snatch desperate glances at the ground below, so as to ensure my fear would not come true. So fucking desperate.

   Oxygen was a long-forgotten luxury. My lungs were now living on panic. Panic. Pure and clean. Simple and true.

   Yet somehow my feet still managed to press and spring, my arms still managed to pump, and I still managed to run.

   Did he yell something to me? My heart was pounding too hard to hear. I could only think of his knife, no doubt still clutched in his fingers. I could only think of my blood still licking at its tip.

   I tried to remember the last time I laughed or looked to the sky, or tossed my hair with exhilaration. Such pleasures seemed so long passed.

   My lungs were burning, and I tasted blood in my mouth. Were all of my insides bleeding by now?

   I couldn’t feel my fingers. I swayed in my step, but kept running.

   Everywhere, my skin was feeling tight. Dizziness mutated into nausea, and I felt so surely that this was where I would die. I was to die at the hands of a maniac on the trail of some shabby forest. The trees would mark my grave site. My flesh would melt into the grass, fertilizing the soil, and I would continue to nurture baby trees long after my Missing Person signs had been taken down from cork boards.

   Despair overtook me.  Sweat dripped in my eyes, stinging them, causing my eyelids to jerk, sporadically blocking my sight. My lips cracked and bled. I felt like I was going to vomit. Would I die there, covered in my own bodily fluids, a victim to chance and fate?

   Then, I tripped, catapulted into a frenzy. Thunder tumbled through my veins as I fell onto the mossy ground, out of coordination and into utter vulnerability. I skidded, and my knees and hands were the first to brace themselves against the impact. My skull ached, confused by this swift turn of events.

   For a while, it seemed there was nothing left to the world but me and this pain. Until I heard his footsteps right near my head.

   If I’d had time to gather hope, I may have prayed. But it was too late for that. I was beyond praying. I was beyond running. All I did was roll onto my back, and silently admit surrender.

   Before I blacked out, I felt his hands underneath my armpits. As he tugged me to my feet, I thought I heard him whisper,

   “Time to take you home now, pet.”



   I’ll admit it: I love it when they run. A woman’s body wiggles so excitedly when it runs. Their legs kick up in the air like deer, trembling under the weight of stress and desperation. It’s such a pleasure for the eyes.

   You can’t judge me for that, sir. If you saw them run the way I do, you’d like it too.

   Their blood pumps so much harder when they run. Their blood is hot, all fluid, all angry, all too willing to leak. Blood always tastes better when it’s fresh and terrified.

   When she ran, I imagined just how fast her pulse was, just how much sweat was slipping down her tender, supple skin. I thought of how every gland, every pore, every molecule, every fibre in her body was secretly craving my knife, to feel it graze the skin and slice through.

   I do not hate women. I love them. I love the way their insides look.

   When she ran, my heart went straight to my groin. There is a painful flirtation in a woman when she runs.

   As she slipped out and bounded off, I could tell she was different. Indeed, she was the most kindred of spirits I’d ever entwined myself with. This girl wanted my knife. She needed it. She needed the violence even more than I did.

   She was lovely when she smiled, and gorgeous when she screamed. When that blithe curve of the lip mutated into a horrified shock and a sanctioned pain, I so wanted to kiss those lips and have that look remain there forever.

   Her knees were so pretty curled up in my car, but all the more attractive when spun into the air. And those ankles! So small I could have wrapped a hand around each and snapped them like fleshy twigs.

   She must have known that I love the chase. Why else would she have run so artistically? Yes, it was our little game to play with each other. Fear was her favourite aphrodisiac.

   There was no way I was going to lose her in the forest I knew so well. Besides, I needed the chase. It was what made my craving lash out with acute precision.

   She trembled, and I moaned in pleasant agony. I like my ladies shaken, and shaken well.

   Not only is fear an aphrodisiac, but a spice for the body. Blood seasoned with fear is always the sweetest.

   Without fear, a woman is tasteless and bland, thick and dry. Without that zip in the blood, a woman is of no interest to me. But add just one dash of pure terror, and that woman will become everything I need to survive.

   Never could I find satisfaction in a girl with a stiff upper lip and firm resolution. Those skanks have nothing in them but modern machinery, essences of the latest factory perfume and wires where their cunt should be.

   But a girl who is completely open, exposed and emotional… a woman who will scream for mercy or beg for release… now that’s a girl worth running after.

   Her legs were so flamboyant in the breeze, unsure of where to turn next. I could have kept in time with her easily, but I didn’t want to risk losing her. Her distress was far too enrapturing. I needed to learn what her flesh tasted like, and what naughty sorts of secrets she was hiding between her legs. I needed to feel her body squirm, her chest cave, her mouth squeal. I needed to see her tears smear her make-up into smudges, making her all the more beautiful and all the more vulnerable.

   The smell of her blood in the air spun me into mania. I called after her, liberated by my sins.

   My knife needed to kiss her skin again, to tease the tips of the nerves, then go deeper, deeper, deeper, until she was begging for more. My knife had to nest in the darkest caverns of her meat.

   Her legs buckled. Soon, she would be completely at my mercy, and I couldn’t wait until she was back in my arms again.

   Until she was ready to take my knife back into her.

   Violence is among the purest instincts of man.

   When she tripped, I was ready for her. I bolted, exuberant, panting, sparkles erupting in my eyes like fireworks on the fourth of July. The world was bursting with perfection, and it was all for me.

   I could have just done her right then and there, left her body as feed for the worms. But I couldn’t finish it like that. I had to do a girl like her right.

   I had to hear her screaming when I gave the final stab.


   My eyesight failed me, at first. There was a tug at my skirt, like a dog was nibbling on the edge of it. My thoughts strayed to places of unequivocal balance, where the wind was still and music kept a safe place for colours in the sky. In the darkness, I was safe. Behind my eyelids, I was safe.

   But the darkness could not protect me forever. Sure enough, my eyes creaked open, adjusting to newly found light and dingy surroundings. My optic nerve split with slashes of brown and cases of shadow, and it soon became apparent that a certain man was staring at me. A certain man I’d hoped had just been a nightmare.

   He grinned like a jackal, hungry for my blood.

   I found I was strung to a ceiling, wrists tied, ankles bound, like my life had mutated into some grade-b horror film. 

   The wound in my waist had begun to coagulate and collect germs, but I felt no pain.

   Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t scared? True, the fight or flight response was stirring in my blood, but mentally, I was resolute.

   I imagined slithering through my bonds and leaking onto the unfinished concrete, becoming a soapy substance he’d have to mop up.

   He wouldn’t be able to hurt me if I evaporated into the air.


   She pawed at the air like a cat sunning itself. She bat her confused little eyelashes. When those eyes finally sat on my face, I wanted them to pop straight into ecstatic terror. They didn’t.

   This disappointed me. There was no need for her to hide her excitement. We needed to be completely honest with each other. Deep down, every girl dreams of having a blade stuck deep into her.

   I grabbed her chin and brought her close so that she’d understand I’d won. I grazed my fingers against her trembling knee, muscles still weak from our game. Her cells screamed and salivated, begging to be touched, invaded, explored. Her nerves had no idea just how much they needed pain.            

   When I tried to kiss her, I finally got a noise. She cried out like a cat with its tail caught in the garage door. There were little spasms under her skin, spasms that assured me she wasn’t as scared as she was excited. She wanted to feel the pain just as much as I wanted to give it to her.

   Up and down her body I stared, creating mental marks where I’d like my blade to kiss her.

   I couldn’t wait to spread her wide open against the floor like a bearskin rug, stretch out her skin so thin and fresh I’d be able to wear it as an overcoat. I couldn’t wait to see her insides glow and palpitate, the reds and browns and purples smearing inside each other, until soon it would all fade into a dismal, deadly gloom.

   Soon, she’d just be a stain. A stain on my cock and my fingers.

   The most intimate relationship is the one between the killer and his victim. No one could ever understand what passion and closeness is found in the giving and receiving of torture, or how touching it is to not only look into a person’s eyes, but dig in so deep that you can see everything that’s lying underneath. 

   I had looked long enough. That blood smear on her shirt was gushing sensually, naked without a pair of lips squeezing out the last drop. So I knelt down, worshipping the sensitivity in her soul, and lifted up her shirt. At this, her mouth, which had pursed into a grimace beyond human limitation, now started blurting out fearsome little fears, pleas and promises, words that stirred me into rapture such as ‘no’, ‘please’, ‘beg’, ‘don’t’. I felt exclamation points dotting the end of every short urgency:

   “Please, don’t do that! I beg of you! Let me go! I won’t tell, I promise!”

   Of course I took in the sight of her hard, trembling nipples with a moan of lustful frenzy, but that wasn’t what I really wanted. What I wanted was her blood. And there I saw it, my own handiwork gawking at me with humility and awe, whispering, ‘Please, please, put your tongue on me. Lick me up, lick it alllll up…”

   So I did. I put my mouth on her wound with half a mind to suck it dry.

  My cock was nearly bursting through my jeans, driven mad by this weak little lady who was built to be dominated. Breathing heavy, hands still holding her shirt above her breasts, I allowed my lips to be overwhelmed by her red juices. Her taste was one of temptation and sweetness. Her sobs only made me suck harder, and I thought of her pretty face wetted with tears, contorted with hopelessness. She wriggled on the wall, and I imagined the strain it was putting on her wrists. With every struggle, she’d get weaker (though hopefully, not so weak that she’d stop screaming).

      I lapped around the edges of the bloody chasm with my tongue, going slow- I wanted to savour her taste.

   “You taste amazing. Perfect. Best one yet.” I stood to my feet and whispered this in her ear. She flung her head away from me, wincing. What an honest girl, I thought. So honest and open about fearing me. No attempt to be strong. Nothing but submission and begging noises.

   “I’ll bet other parts of you taste even better,” with this, my hand stroked the hem of her skirt again. She let out a plaintive cry, everything below the neck shuddering. I smiled, forcing her cheek to press against my own rough stubble. I wanted to scrape up her skin.

   “You’re scared, aren’t you.”

   Her eyes bored into me. We shared a very special moment then, a moment that bound us as one.

   “Deep down though, you like it. I can tell. Every single bitch secretly loves to be terrified.”

   Another shudder, another wince, but no answer. My fingers twirled around her skirt, inspecting the fabric, letting my eyes explore the skin just below. Then I placed my hand up higher, just inches away from her mound, the part that every woman tries to hide, the part that every woman only reveals to those that she desires more than air. I was welcoming myself to her private world of pleasures, no invitation necessary.

   She asked me to stop, but I was just getting started.


   Being violated does some strange things to the mind. I drifted off in a way to protect myself, thinking of jogs in my neighbourhood, dew droplets on grass. Anything from the beautiful to the basic to the absolutely distorted. Even leftover bones on plates and spills of pop on tables. Anything but that man’s daring face and endless eyes.

   His eyes. Like whirlpools of sharp decay. Ever spinning, growing deeper and deeper, disposing all hope left in life. His eyes were the last doorway to hell, the one doorway that could never be closed.  When he started touching me, my mouth took control, saying what a normal hostage would say, begging what any human would beg in my situation. I played the role quite well. I let my life become a horror movie. I let myself become everything he’d hoped I’d be.

   Why? I knew what he wanted from me. I figured that maybe if I played along with his sick fantasies, things would work out.

   My mind was somewhere that very few people have been. Little dollops of fresh air spiced up the horizon, with a sun that began to melt and freeze and melt again, until every ray was crooked, every shadow strangely mutated. Beads of liquid on my face pooled slowly, calmly marching down the rim of my cheek, so far away, yet carrying everything important that belonged to me. All that was left in tangibility was pain, and surrealism was my only escape.

   I sketched rain drops dancing in puddles, making instant footprints like tiny little feet. My blood became rain, a senseless, common thing, wetting my skin and pulling at my immune system. My tears became the sky, shadows, a breath of air, a shimmer from a mirror. My tears became my future falling away from me. Everything that I wanted to be and could have been was compressed into those specks of salt water trickling down my face. So slow, but so sure.

   I couldn’t stay there forever. Like my blackout in the ravine, my mental escape was trivial and temporary.       

   Then terror came crashing in. That sick demon, that twisted creature stroked me where no one had ever touched. NO. DON’T. PLEASE DON’T TOUCH ME THERE…

   He was the first person I ever shared a sexual moment with, and I hated him for that. He stuffed a thumb inside me and everything stretched, boiling red. Fingers became a disgusting thing. 

   My wrists and ankles were burning from every little movement I made, and my brain was already knee-deep in dizziness from the blood loss. I could smell my own blood on his mouth as he dragged my face in for a kiss.

   It was either be kissed or be killed. So, I bided my time and let his tongue shove in my mouth, curling around on my own. He bit away at me, ripping the suppleness of my lips, tearing until there was no area untouched.  Every little place he touched would smart, even as his hand rubbed me raw down below.

   It was not the movement that mattered. Regardless, my body refused to respond to his hand and its shameless manoeuvres. There was no way to clear anxiety from my head, and absolutely no way that nausea dancing in my gut could be replaced with any kind of passion. I was beyond the luxuries of energy. All I could do was hang from my crooked wrists, and let him claim as much of me as he wanted.

   ‘But he will never claim my heart,’ I thought sternly, sniffling through the blood and tears that were congregating on my chin. ‘My heart and brain belong to me.’

   Completely awake to his stale breath, his heaving chest, and most of all his wandering hands, I couldn’t stop my mouth from running away. My vocal chords were thick with phrases that made no sense to me, and that didn’t even strike a reaction on my abductor’s face. His rubbing of my clitoris turned into harsh, sudden pinching, and I once again begged for release ‘till my throat was hoarse. When I stopped babbling and started to gasp for new air, he murmured in my ear,

   “Aw, do keep screaming, do.” he slapped his mouth on mine for another kiss, then smacked me suddenly. “No? Fine. Save it then.” His one hand went to his belt, and I heard a scraping sound as steel on leather. Then, there was a cold knife laying flat on my stomach.

   Chills flooded all through my abdomen. It was like for a moment I’d forgotten his true purpose for tying me up. It was as if a part of me had hoped that he would invade me, beat me, and let me go. But we were not in some alley in the wee hours of a Friday night on the bad side of town. We were in what I could only assume was his house, a place where he could take his time, and no one would hear my screams.

   This would not be an issue of anxiety-ridden rape, with him knocking me unconscious then scattering into the dark like a rat in retreat. He could take as much time with me as he wanted.

   Between sections of my brain, anxiety curdled. I was victim to the devilish whims of this monster. This man with teeth like razor blades.

   “You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting this blade. It’s already gotten a taste of your gut.”     I tried to curb his hand from touching me, but he already had the nerve to push another finger in. It hurt terribly, and the burning sensation in my labia continued to gripe and groan.  How I longed to hurt him. Or would he just enjoy that? Would he feel we were connected, exchanging pain back and forth like sweet nothings?  

   I felt as though I would vomit. Nothing in the world was safe anymore. Not picnics on Sunday or parties on Saturday. Not libraries, not birthday parties. He was raping all of me, and destroying everything I loved.

   I tried going back to those jogs near the park, tried to imagine my feet thundering smoothly on the pavement. Tried to imagine skipping over fallen branches in the fall. None of it came to me.


   When my knife is against a girl’s writhing frame, I need to know that she is giving me her complete attention. I cannot have them flitting about in another world when I need them, right there, in the moment with me. Torture and abuse are a conglomeration of the senses, a meeting of worlds. I need to know they’re feeling it just as intensely as I am.

   I saw something in her eyes, something that told me she was drifting away. I had to snap her back into my arms. Whatever could I do to enhance the pain again? Then I realized that with this one, it wasn’t so much her body, but her brain that needed invading. So I kissed her again. I wanted to erase every other mouth that had found her lips before, have her forget any other man that looked at her nice or called her pretty. I wanted her to feel like we were the only people left in the world.       


   My thoughts drew circles around my soul, closing it down, sealing it shut.


    That bitch. She was avoiding my gift to her, the gift of pain. How dare she!

   “Look at me, slut!” I slapped her, felt the vibrating skin on my palm. “You can’t leave me alone here! I need this!”

   My voice broke, for an instant. I wondered if that was why she opened her eyes again. Maybe she did love me, after all.

   I calmed down. She did love me. I could see it in her eyes. She loved what was happening, what we were sharing. Eyes are indeed a gateway to the soul, and I saw everything in hers.

   To keep her awake to me, I pressed the blade down just enough to split skin.

   Tears sprinkled her innocent angel face, and I took up my knife to catch some of the drops and mix it with her blood. Tears and blood are the most beautiful things that could ever come out of a person. They hit your heart harder than poetry.

   I dug into her with shallow cuts, to encourage the blood flow without killing her. She swayed from the wall, neck weak, jaw sagging. I dug my hand up into her insides, fisting her all the way through, sure to stretch out those beautiful, virgin walls. She was so tight, contracting the more she whimpered. I moved half my arm in and out, forcing her to become wet.

   A woman’s body is built to betray her.

   I wanted to bite her lips so hard they would slide right off her face. To make her beauty last forever, I would have to break her down into digestible pieces and release her into the world. That is the true way of things. Art and sex and death and beauty are all the same essence, compartmentalized into sections.

   Humans are just groups of cells mashed together. The soul is just a clump of memories sewn tightly so they won’t fall apart. And a murder is just one rest stop on the road to magnificence. The people in the world who haven’t killed are doing nothing but repressing their finest instincts. Once you approach that purity, you can never turn your back from it.

   I needed to feel her, to know her fully, her blood had to speak to me, tell me secrets that nobody had ever heard. So I drew new incisions on her skin that would collapse and dry once her heart had stopped beating. I made delicate patterns on her already so delicate body, and my head thrummed at the beautification taking place. She would be the most unique corpse I’d ever created.

   The scars and grooves on her disjointed body would cause tremors in the newspapers and anxiety in the police stations. They would haunt the nightmares of detectives for years and years to come. Through her mangled, dead form, I would live on in legend.

   Surely she could realize how vital her role was in my world? How much her pain meant to me? How much we were sharing with each other?

   I couldn’t help but kiss her everywhere, with both my lips and my knife. I kissed her all the way from her strung up wrists, to the tips of her dirtied hair, to the tears that trailed as far down as her breasts. Hoping to maybe crack some ribs, I doubled back and punched her in the stomach. She lurched forward and spluttered sobs. It was a perfect moment, and I decided then and there that I had to have her. Immediately.

   It was as if there was too much happening in my mind for me to manage her torture gracefully. I had all the time in the world, yet urgency was springing around in my system like a rocket. My erection was so thick and red hot, and I had to show her exactly what she was doing to me.

  We were meant to share everything together.

   I didn’t have to worry about her running or fighting when I took her down from the wall. Because I knew deep down, she wanted this as much as I did.


   He woke me from my daze, my trembling constitution. Shock flowed through my wrists when they were released and I tumbled into his arms. What was he doing? Letting me go, or readying himself for the kill?

   I pretended I was basking in the sun, reading in my bed, safe. Everything could be warm, yes, warm and soft and OH GOD WHY DOES HE HAVE TO KEEP TOUCHING ME THERE…

   I didn’t bother thinking what was going to come next. When people are built for a killing, there is no reasoning with them. There’s no question of if they are ever going to kill- the only thing to ask is when.       

   I tried not to allow reality to come too quickly. Instead, I imagined pulling my fingers across that old, worn fabric of my bedspread, tracing the lines of embroidery. But then he bit my breasts and threw me to the ground. When my head hit the floor with a decisive clunk, blood invaded all those happy memories. Everything had been broken down into terror and imminent destruction.

   “Open your eyes, my pet. Let me see that silky blue again. It matches so well with the red…”

   My vertebrae snapped to attention of his words, and despite the fact that my brain was curdled and blood had begun to lazily collect inside of me, I obeyed him. For him, no. The truth is, I wanted to look at him. I wanted my eyes to somehow manage to haunt him in his sleep. I wanted to ruin his whole life like he’d ruined mine.

   Once again I was met with those unchanging eyes, spooled with hate. Was it hate or was it lust? Which would have terrified me more? Which kind of desire was more poison, more potent?

    My lip didn’t even quiver when he lifted my skirt high over my stomach. PLEASE DON’T TOUCH ME THERE AGAIN, PLEASE DON’T…

   I was screaming on the inside, but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of hearing it.

   He rolled me over, face to the floor, blood dribbling in my mouth, head swaying in the fierce hold of impact. His hands covered me, suffocating every sense of self, and then I felt every nerve between my legs rip.         

   The nightmare of his knife, the trauma in his lips- none of it compared to that moment when he tore through the very core of my femininity, and pushed past barriers I’d built up since birth. There is always meant to be one thing for each person that is special and private to them, and with one fell swoop, one burning, wretched thrust, this man took that away from me. I was officially abandoned to pure, humiliated pain.

   Grunts, moans, and nasty cusses were flowing from his mouth like vomit, filling my ear up with their gross unholiness. I tried to scramble away, my feet kicking themselves up in panic. I went back to the moment when I tripped and fell in the woods. If it hadn’t been for that damnable dip in the ground, I could have escaped from this monster’s claws.


   This time, I let him hear me. I lunged, bit, swore, and kicked. I wouldn’t let him take me easily.


    “Now there’s the scream I was looking for!”

   She was just struggling so I could dominate her more. I punched her down and bit her hard. Her yells and cusses and cries made her muscles squeeze even tighter on me.  She had muscles in her cunt strong enough to chaff my cock. I loved it.

   The way one’s body pulls and lurches when trapped in fear, as if thrown into bowels of bliss; it’s enough to drive the man inside of you mad. The instant I pressed through her naturally wetted walls, I knew I was the first to feel her. And wasn’t she lucky, to have her first experience of carnal, physical love revealed to her in the most violent and honest of ways. She wasn’t embracing the pain enough to keep her fluids moving and dried up quickly, but that didn’t matter to me- all I needed was the raw connection of her skin collapsing on my own. Wrenching in and out, shoving, pushing, being consumed by her very essence.

   She was mine, all mine. There was nothing left in her that I couldn’t touch or control.


   Then, something strange happened. Again I watched as my average, happy life was swarmed by this man’s savagery and contempt. I saw every pleasant evening writhe in agony, and thought, ‘No. I won’t let him do this to me.’.


   I panted, basking in the rush as orgasmic fluids rose in me. I couldn’t wait to come inside of her, and then slice her all the way open with my blade. Watch my cum shoot inside of her, then out all the holes I’d made. Pull myself out and push the knife in, slicing all the way up her pretty stomach, letting her intestines loose. With my peak would come the even more pleasurable sensation of ripping this lovely thing to shreds.


   His mind was far away, unlike my own. Where he was lost in the satisfaction of my rape, I was completely lucid and livid. He didn’t even protest when I turned on my side; in fact, I think it enhanced his sensation. I let him have his way, calming my insides, shutting down the parts of me that longed for puddles of rain and orange sunsets. I let go all those parts of me, and replaced them with the steely resolution to survive, no matter the consequences. The hand that held his knife was right against my shoulder, trembling with each invasive push into me.

   His grip on it was weak.


   The way she turned on her side- yes, she wanted it. I knew then that she longed for my knife, just as she’d longed for me to be plunging inside of her.


   A scramble, a struggle, a kick. I took him completely by surprise.

   My leg pushed against his chest, flinging him backward and onto the floor. Oh, how stunned and feeble he looked as he crashed to the ground. It thrilled me in a way I’d never felt before. For the first time, pleasure pooled between my legs. Blood became a lubricant.

   The knife lay like an arrow between us, pointing directly at his quickly deflating erection. Before he had time to regain his composure or sense of superiority, I grabbed his own weapon and slashed down on his penis, still exposed in full view.

   His howl reached and burst through the ceiling with its high, unruly pitch. I sawed and hacked as he mewed, squealed and scrambled like a pathetic dying animal, kicking and clawing and biting and gnashing. I’d never felt a love so vicious before! We were one, he and I, connected by my blade. It was the best game I ever played.

   His blood exploded on my hand, arm, and face, mixing with my own, dribbling down my mouth. The taste was unexpectedly sweet, like liquid candy.

   There was no way he could fight then. His eyes rolled around in their sockets as if deranged, his tongue hanging loose, chest heaving with breath-like spasms. I crawled up from his mutilated hips to his startled, mortified face, and smiled cruelly.

   “You taste amazing, pet.”

   I watched as my hand dug the knife into his belly. It would have taken a considerable amount of force, but my arm didn’t feel a thing. I was drenched in hostility, beautiful and pure. There wasn’t a single ounce of pressure or pain on my demented form. I felt nothing but titillating inspiration, as if art were unfolding right in front of me. 

   But my taste for justice was not yet quenched. I was sure to masticate him, to make his corpse the worst sort of sight to see. This mutilated sack of viscera would haunt policemen for years to come. I ensured that no piece of skin remained whole, until his carpet and couch were oozing with his blood. As I let the knife fall, I finally understood.

   The most intimate relationship ever known is with a killer and her victim. Nobody else can ever understand the closeness and connectivity when you drive a blade into someone’s body, and feel their life disintegrate. It’s an intense romance you can’t even imagine until you breathe it in, and let it consume you.

By Caitlin Hoffman

Psychopathic Dreams


Drip, drip, drip.
The blood falls from my knife.
I am running through the woods.
I am chasing a semi nude blonde with big tits.
Screams fill the night like unfulfilled babies fill a condom.
Her neck is cut I laugh and sing.
You’re dead bitch you’re dead can’t you see
how much happier I am now that you are dead?
Corpses fill my kitchen, sink and bathtub.
In the bedroom I must confess I keep two or three dead girls.
They are the most fun you see.
In my head I dream these wonderful dreams.
These dreams of murder and violence
all are apart of my psychopathic dreams!

By Doug Robbins


For as long as he could remember, Mike had wanted to fuck a dead girl.

He fostered no hate towards women or even a real drive to kill; he’d just always had a thing for dead girls. He’d hidden it from everyone in his life for years, had staved it off with the fake necroporn you could find on the internet (even though the girls were always breathing, they were simply caked with tons of white makeup and told to lie still) but even in the most desperate times, Mike thought of those as little more than a grainy copy of a copy. He had thought once or twice, rather halfheartedly, of summing up the courage to go out and kill a girl, but he couldn’t imagine doing it.

Mike had never been a violent man, and thought he never would be. He just wanted to have sex with a corpse. A cold, compliant lover that would never insult him, never laugh in his face. Rigid, but in so many ways, pliant.

When he thought about it, he felt he could trace his strange desires back to a single moment in time, when he was maybe 13 or 14. He and his friend Tristan had a game they’d invented while IMing each other back and forth. The game was simple: find the most disturbing or gross picture on the internet, send it to the other person. If they gave up, cried or vomited, you won. In retrospect, Mike realized that Tristan was really a sadistic bitch for starting the game because at the time, Mike had been fairly naive, and was easily disturbed by just about anything.

Tristan, on the other hand, seemed to get off on the weird and miserable. So one night, when the “accept file transfer” came up, Mike accepted it, if somewhat reluctantly. He was always secretly worried that Tristan would send him something so awful that it would scar him permanently, that the anonymous horror would suddenly infest every aspect of his life, even the sacred realm of sleep. Mike almost toppled his computer chair when the file finally loaded and opened itself, full-size on his monitor. The filename read “Black Dahlia Murder”.

The photo was grainy, but Mike could see what mattered. A woman who might’ve been beautiful once, her mouth slashed open to her ears, her eyes still open. Before he had a chance to really react, a second one opened up. The same woman he suspected, cut in half, both parts of her torso lying in a grass field. Mike sat there for what seemed like hours, staring at the photos, wondering why he wasn’t gagging, crying, screaming at Tristan for battering his eyes with something so awful. And then he realized it. It wasn’t awful, at least not to him, at least not anymore.

Up until this point, Tristan had sent him messy, chaotic photos of car accidents and train wrecks, of infected body parts and pus, of dead dogs and animals. All of those had traumatized Mike and wreaked insane amounts of stress on his nausea. Never before had he seen an actual corpse of a woman, or at least not one that was recognizable. When he could finally think straight again, he responded to Tristan with two words, “Thank You”, saved the photos and signed off. He printed them and stashed them in his pocket so his parents wouldn’t see and took them into his room where he could see them better.

Pulling out a magnifying glass he’d gotten years ago as a Christmas present, Mike laid the full-page photos out on his desk and stared at them in a mix of awe, mystery, and growing desire. He couldn’t understand why he had a hard on, trying to tell himself over and over “Death is bad, death is evil”. He’s even cried when his grandmother had died a year ago, how could he think a dead girl was sexy?

Regardless of his logic though, he couldn’t stop staring at her, couldn’t stop wondering how her cold, malleable flesh would feel, wondering if he touched her insides if they would be wet or dried out. Mike felt a sudden urge to cry, confusion beyond that of an average puberty-stricken boy welling up in him, morality and urges fighting an awful battle behind his bright green eyes. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, the Black Dahlia’s wonderful, hideous face swimming in his mind. He could see her unnatural mouth peeling open, a massive, wet, cool gash he imagined. He wondered what it would be like to slip inside of that, to feel cold dead skin against his warm living self.

He opened his eyes again, not realizing that he was not in fact crying. He stared down at the photos of her face, of her horrible dead eyes, of that atrocious mouth and unzipped his pants. Silently he cursed himself for feeling this way, cursed Tristan for doing this to him, and cursed the laws that would keep him from ever having what he really wanted.

Now, at 25, Mike had come to terms with his feelings, had even managed to put a name to them. Years ago on a whim he’d looked up “fucking corpses” and had been shocked to find a slew of links marked “Necrophilia”. For years, he’d felt he was the only person with this strange preference. He’d found all sorts of art galleries and forums, though he never joined any of them. It wasn’t out of embarrassment or anything of that sort; Mike just didn’t know what he would even say to these people. They felt what he felt, had the same strange, hated desires as he did and still he felt alienated from them. He didn’t want to talk about fucking a corpse. He wanted to fuck a corpse, and that was the end of it.

After years of trying to suffice his needs with art and fake porn, he gave up and gave in. At first, he decided he would try and go into a mortuary school but discarded the idea almost instantly, as years and years surrounded by corpses would kill him. He couldn’t wait that long, and he knew he couldn’t do it in an environment surrounded by witnesses. Mike could only imagine what would happen if his autopsy class began by unveiling some pretty 20-something that’d met an untimely demise. He knew almost definitely that he’d lose the control he’d spent years building up, would throw the clueless professor out of the way and slide into that cold, soft body.  He started to formulate a plan in his mind, a plan that might very well land him in prison or worse, but nevertheless a plan.

Mike began saving up as much money as possible for months until he had a cache of 50,000$ and then he started making phone calls.

He never knew the man’s name, never even knew for sure he wouldn’t turn him in, but by this point Mike found he didn’t care. Of all the things he had ever wanted in life, this had them all beat by miles. The wad of cash felt strange in his pocket, far too huge and noticeable. He was terrified someone would know what he was doing, that he’d get caught just inches away from his prize. He’d been following newspapers nationwide for years, particularly in less-than-favorable neighborhoods, waiting for what he wanted.

He’d finally found it in Massachusetts, only a few hours drive away. Somehow he’d managed to contact the coroner’s office and talk to the man whose job he’d always envied. Mike never gave a name and had called from a phone booth miles away from his house. He’d put the question plainly: “How much would I have to pay you to let me be with a dead body?”

There had been a pause and for a moment, Mike was terrified he was calling the cops until the man responded “You’ve got to be fucking joking.” Mike’s palms were sweating, the phone felt slimy against his shoulder. He realized his legs were shaking. “I’ve got fifty thousand dollars here, sir. I can get more if I need to. Please, I need this.” Mike was shocked when he thought he actually heard the man laugh.

“You’re offering me fifty grand to fuck a dead chick?” Mike swallowed hard and tried to breathe, nodding, whispering “That’s right.” There was another long, agonizing pause and then the man responded. “Fine. But listen to me, boy. You best have that money or else I’ll have the cops nail your ass quicker’n shit, you hear me?” Mike could barely talk, his head swimming, he was terrified he’d misheard the man. “God, yes sir,” Mike sobbed. “I promise. I’ll have all of it. When should I be there by?” 

They set a date, Mike still barely believing what was going on, and ended the phone call. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy. He drove home, packed a few things and started the drive to Massachusetts.

Calvin could barely believe the phone call he’d just had, but assumed that if there were people sick enough to kill, there were people sick enough to fuck a stiff. After 30 years of cutting open bodies, he’d found himself jaded to almost everything and hating the job endlessly. He could see no point in telling this poor fuck off, especially getting fifty grand out of the deal. At worst, he’d lose the godforsaken job and possibly go to jail, at best nothing would happen at all. He’d be a whole lot richer, some sick fuck would be satiated, and the world would keep on turning like nothing had ever happened.

 There was a tiny knock at the back door around 1 AM and Calvin got up to answer it, ready to bust the loser if he didn’t have the money. He was shocked when he opened the door to a normal, decent looking young man who was smiling nervously. The man dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of crisp bills held together by a rubber band. Calvin grabbed him by the arm and pulled him in, locking the door behind him. He thumbed through the stack, making damn sure he wasn’t getting jipped by the kid and was a little amazed to find it all there. He looked up at the kid, studying his face. It was amazing and a little scary what kind of atrocities could hide under such a normal mask.

“You really want to do this, kid?” Mike stared at the ground and nodded, his face reddening significantly. “Sir, I’ve wanted to do this since I was 14 years old.” Calvin snorted and shook his head. “You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” Mike looked up, smiling the tiniest, saddest smile Calvin had ever seen and nodded, whispering “I know, sir.” Calvin led him into a room lit by fluorescent light and motioned to a shape on an operating table. He leaned in and mumbled with a tinge of disgust “I’ll leave you two kids alone. You just knock when you’re….done.” Calvin suppressed a shudder as he shut the door behind him, going further into the building to be away from the strange, sick little fuck he’d just let into his mortuary. He felt no guilt at the transaction, just a small, confused disgust.

Mike could barely believe that after so long, this was finally happening. Gingerly he lifted the cover from her face and stared down at the dead girl. On the phone, Calvin had said she’d been strangled to death by her boyfriend. Mike didn’t know if he should hate or love the man for doing so, as the girl was beautiful. Gently Mike reached out to brush his fingers through her curly auburn hair, his fingers grazing the edge of her cheek. As he’d imagined, she was cold and smooth, and he leaned over her to cup her face in his hands. Mike felt his heart swelling, realizing suddenly that after this, sex would be ruined forever for him.

Nothing would equal this ever again. He decided he would make this last as long as he could, and keep the memories even longer. He drifted his fingers over the large Y-shaped incision on her chest, wishing he could reopen the wound and stare into her organs. He sucked in a breath as he pulled the cover completely off her and stared at her body, pale and veined, all his. He buried his face between her breasts, laying his ear on her soundless chest, his fingers exploring every inch of her body. Calvin had assured him that she’d already been autopsied and would be washed again before anyone besides the embalmer saw her, which had been a relief.

Mike didn’t want to wear gloves or a condom for this, he’d deprived himself for years and felt that after all this time, if he was going to do it, it had to be all the way. He pulled her legs apart and stared at her cunt, a massive hard on growing in his pants. He took a deep breath, checked to make sure the door he’d come in was locked, and went back to her. He slid a finger inside of her cunt, not surprised that it was dry like the rest of her. He pulled her body to the edge of the table and kneeled down, pressing his lips against her pussy. He flicked his tongue out, pushing her lips apart, wetting her for himself. He sucked at cold skin, his hands running over her heavily veined thighs, up over the swell of her hips, squeezing her cold hard breasts.

When he finally couldn’t wait any longer, he unzipped his pants and spread her lips, sliding into her. He stared up at her face, impassive and beautiful, the deep bruise violet around her eyes as attractive to him as the deep ligature marks around her throat. Her eyes were closed and wanted them open, so he climbed on top of her and pulled back her eyelids. Her eyes, muddy with death, seemed to stare right into him and he shuddered, pushing back into her. Mike fucked her body for what felt like forever, never closing his eyes but rather staring right at her dead ones, wishing he could drag her home with him and keep her forever.

He grabbed her legs and after a bit of a struggled managed them up, forcing himself into her ass. She was tight and he’d barely been able to fit inside of her, but after a few awkward seconds he managed to, pulling her small body back and forth on his dick, chewing his lip so his moans wouldn’t be loud.

He lay back on the examining table and carefully pulled her onto him, amazed at her weight. She lay limp but surprisingly heavy against his chest, her cold lips brushing his neck while he bucked up and down, fucking her cunt again. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against him while he fucked her, knowing that he would cum soon. He wrenched her head back with one hand, staring at her empty dead eyes and let go, his semen pouring into her cold insides. He lay there for a while, relishing the feeling of her on top of him, the contrast of hot and cold, the strange taste inside of her dead mouth. He finally pushed her up, gently maneuvering off the table so she wouldn’t fall off it. Stared at her again, wishing it wasn’t over. He pulled out a camera from his coat pocket (something he hadn’t and wouldn’t tell Calvin about) and started snapping pictures of her face, her eyes, her spread open legs, her cunt with his come dripping out of it. 

He took hundreds it seemed, every angle and inch of her. When he was finished, he leaned down and kissed her lips, sliding her eyelids closed as he did. He covered her back up, pulled his clothes on again and left a scrap of paper reading “Thanks” on top of her.

He left before Calvin came out, not wanting to have to validate his love to a man who’d never understand. Mike drove back to Pennsylvania, knowing that he’d never be able to speak to anyone about this strange, wonderful night of his. He hoped it would stay a secret, at least until he joined the ones he so deeply desired. Keeping the camera close to him, he smiled a bit as he drove home.  He realized he was incredibly lucky, as most 14 year old boys never get to achieve their biggest fantasies, and even if this one took almost a decade to achieve, it had been well worth it.

Mike reminded himself that most 14 year old boys hadn’t had a thing for the Black Dahlia and her wide crimson grin. Mike felt his own grin widen, his fingers curling around the camera like a lover’s hand, a very cold lover’s hand.

By Nick Ransom

March Madness: Carnage Conservatory’s Serial Killer Contest

This March, instead of thinking about basketball fever, The Carnage Conservatory wants you to bring it back to your horror roots! Write your best slasher, serial killer short story, featuring an award-winning murderer. We want you to pull out all the psychotic stops and remind the readers what horror is all about!

*Stories should be between 1000-3000 words

*Submissions should be sent to Executive Editor Emily Smith-Miller at emilysm737@gmail.com no later than March 21st, subject heading ‘MARCH MADNESS CONTEST SUBMISSION’, word docs please.

*Winners will be announced March 31st

*The winner will receive a $30 Amazon gift card, and runners-up will have their stories featured on Carnage with personal promotion, second place might also get a little something . . .

*Carnage Guidelines Apply


Wanking off to a freeze-frame of Lance Henricksen’s half-molten, severed head in Aliens gave Simon his first earth-shattering, nerve-shivering orgasm as well as a devastating prang of guilt – a combination he found exceptionally sweet and pleasing. In fact, Simon was so pleased with the sensation that the second he had shot his load, his member started to twitch again. Squinting his eyes, he imagined picking  up the head by the charred strands of hair and shoving his cock down the throat, rubbing it along the cool, steel-hard palate and within seconds he came again, the tip of his prick sizzling as if the wires inside the skull had gone live again, giving out galvanizing kisses, milking him dry.

Watching Terminator and Robocop back-to-back a week later put him into a masturbatory frenzy. He came so often and so hard, he feared that the next thing dripping out of his cock might be his spine-fluid.

As internet research revealed to him, Simon was obviously a gay Technosexual with a thing for severely damaged robots.

“Well, talk about one fucking fringe fetish.” he thought.

Though generally speaking, gay wasn’t quite the exact term, for only his robots had to be male. There was no room for softness and curves; they had to be streamlined and hard; cold, steely missiles targeting his sex. The boy of his dreams was a distorted hunk of scrap metal. In real life, throughout the next few years Simon slept with some girls, fucked some guys in the ass, got fucked, ate pussy and sucked dicks and found it all quite unsatisfying. Sure, it relieved the tension and it felt nice being close to a human being every now and then, but the sex was stale, with orgasms passing casually as he watched himself, detached. Not that he was very active. Since his build and height were as average as his looks, so was the number of his sexual encounters. And afterwards he always went straight back to his video collection.

If a movie featured a humanoid robot, Simon had seen it, always waiting hopefully for it to get blown up, shot to pieces, molten or shredded. He had high hopes for Robocock and The XXX-Terminator, but the films didn’t deliver. Porn let him down, anyway: there was something for every perversion, from granny humping to preggo mounting; you were able to order “The Beginner’s Guide to Scatology” from Germany (“Scheisse am Schaft. Lecker.” read the ad ),  “Old Ma Donald Fucked The Farm” from Denmark, you’d find flicks for folks who had a hard-on for crack whores, fatties, dwarfs, amputees, drugged out fat dwarfs with one leg missing, but he had to wallow through Cyborg 1 to 5 for maybe two scant minutes of wriggling robotic remains.

Via amazon he ordered a book called “Robot Building Bonanza”, solely for the pictures, since he lacked the skills to perform any electronic tasks more elaborate than changing a light-bulb. Simon just loved the irony. He was born to work in special effects or robotics, but passion was all he had to offer.

So he took a job as an accountant in the firm where his father worked, fucked a bit, wanked a lot and settled for an unsatisfied and lonely life.

Until Japan presented The Fuckbot.

Actually, it was called Foxxxy, the Robot Doll. Anatomically correct, with highly defined physical features, moving private areas, Foxxxy, as the constructers stated, was way more than just a high-end sex doll. It was able to carry a conversation, it had moods that shifted throughout the day, and it had not one, not two, but five personalities, depending on your own personal and sexual preferences. It could be your slave or your master, a cute, eyelashes-fluttering innocent plaything in a public school skirt, a nymphomaniac slut, whose three high quality inputs were in constant need of filling and – your mum. Simon guessed the Mommy mode was probably bugged – the minute you switched it on, your local copper would receive a call. You were even able to mix these preferences to your individual liking. Due to a motor pumping heat through a tube that winded all the way through Foxxxy’s body, she was warm to the touch, made breathing noises and sported a heartbeat. Foxxxy came at a wholesome 8.500 quid and could also be ordered as Maxxx, whose most prominent feature was modelled from a cast made of Ron Jeremy’s pecker.

Simon almost had a heart attack.

If he took out his savings, sold his movie collection, fiddled a bit with the accountancy at work in creative ways, the money should be his in about a month. He filled out the pre-order.

Finally he needed six weeks to gather the money, three minutes to transfer it abroad, spent two weeks waiting until Maxxx was shipped from Japan in a solid wooden box and four hours driving to the port of Liverpool and back home to at long last become the proud owner of an automatic wiener with artificial intelligence attached.

Fidgety from excitement, Simon pried the box open and there, embedded in a plethora of polystyrene balls, wood shavings and crumpled silk paper in all its glory stood his new companion. The body looked finely shaped, with abdominal muscles to play xylophone on, a powerful breast, strong legs and an impressive bulge under some cheap white cotton briefs (and, hell,the queer little robot even wore white tennis socks). His face was a different matter.

“Jesus,” Simon muttered. “You’re one butt-ugly motherfucker.”

The Maxxx looked liked someone had tried to clubber the Elephant Man’s head back in shape with a croquet mallet. Not that it really bothered Simon. When he was done with it, conventional beauty rules would be redundant. Important to him was the thing hidden behind the shorts: the Ron Jeremy certified knob. He ripped off the briefs and almost saluted. On TV Ron’s schlong sure looked smaller. This one was likely to shove his prostate up his oesophagus before it was halfway in his bunghole.

“Welcome to your new home, love.” Simon said. “We’ve got to do some serious damage.” He grabbed the robot by its feet and dragged him into the basement. Over the last weeks Simon had bought quite an assembly of power tools for the cosmetic restyle. He heaved Maxxx upon the work-bench.

“I think we’ll start with the face. Pull out the ugly stick.” He picked up the pliers and pinched the first tooth. “And improve the quality of the blow-jobs along the way.”

Next in line was the steel saw. Simon felt so high-spirited, he started to sing.

“The head-bone connected to the neck-bone…”

The steel saw screeched, cutting through Maxxx’ right arm just above the elbow. Flying sparks hit Simon’s face, but he was too excited to notice. Purple, gray and dirty white wires hung from the severed arm, wriggling like fat worms.

“The neck-bone connected to the backbone…”

Simon fired up the Bunsen burner and melted the silicone nipples. The breast began to drip, plastic bubbles bunched up. Soon it looked like flesh pizza.

“The backbone connected to the thighbone…”

With a grinder he abraded the synthetic skin from the left half of the face and three quarters of the jaw down to the silvery skull.

“The thighbone connected to the knee-bone…”

He put the tip of a crosshead screwdriver on the right eye and drove it down with a hammer, smeared some molten plastic over the eye-socket and blow-dried it. Maxxx face now looked less than Robert Z’Dar with elephantiasis than The Six Billion Dollar Zombie. Simon had a boner to boot.

“The knee-bone connected to the leg bone…”

Why the heck would an android need a ballsack, Simon ruminated. He cut it off with a hedge clipper. Without testicles the wiener looked even larger.

“The leg bone connected to the foot bone…”

Simon skinned the right leg, parts of the torso, sprayed rusty colour on parts of the skeleton, flayed both buttocks, severed four fingers, ripped off one ear, set fire to the genuine hair wig and drilled some random holes with diameters in the approximate range of his dick.

“Oh hear … the word … of the … Looooord!”

By now he had come twice in his pants.

“We’re done here, auntie.” Simon said. “Now – wanna see my stamp collection?”

Dragging Maxxx up into the bedroom, Simon noticed some worrying rattling noises, some jingling and clattering and a constant flapping sound. He was pretty sure he had avoided vandalising all places he considered harbouring vital electronic devices. Of course, if they had put the main controller inside the scrotum he was pretty much arsed. Getting a refund would be difficult now.

Simon placed the robot up against the wall, tore the adhesive plaster from the infrared receiver under the hairline, sat down on his bed and pushed the ON button of his remote control.

And Maxxx sprung to life.

Truth be told, he more or less juddered to life with sounds that reminded Simon eerily of a ship scraping against the harbour walls. The limbs Simon had left intact twitched and shuddered, the damaged ones fluttered like epileptic hummingbirds. His remaining eye spun in the socket, and then the whole head jerked around violently. The flayed legs did a Charleston and the toes wiggled. Finally Maxxx thrusted out his pelvis like a sleazy Elvis impersonator and went rigid. Simon held his breath.

Maxxx adjusted his eye.

“Aww damn, you dirty bugger. I just thought you was busted.”

“Pleashe shelect pershonality.” Maxxx uttered, sounding like a lisping Dalek. Maybe breaking out the teeth had not been one of Simon’s better ideas. Whatever. He glanced over the quick guide and pressed five: strong and domineering.

“Get naked, shucker.” Maxxx demanded.

Something had to be done about the speech impediment. That lisp took the edge out of commands and dirty talk. “First things first, though.” Simon thought and stripped. Maxxx stroke his cock and started to get hard. It was astonishingly life-like. He teetered over to Simon, pushed him onto the pillows and went down on him.

“Aaaawwwwhh, fuuuck…” – A tidal wave of incredible sensation swept through Simon. The robot slowly deep-throated him a few times, then sucked on the tip of his cock while the tongue licked on his sulcus. And then he deep-throated him again. And sucked, all the while massaging Simon’s balls firmly with his hand. Simon wished he hadn’t cut off the other arm. A good, firm thumb-job would have been the icing on the cake. His dick was harder than Lenny McLean, his balls were pebbles, his spine tingled, all of his nerves seemed to sparkle, the muscles of his butt flinched and just a second before he came, Maxxx pressed two fingers around his pre-cum wetted peter, stopping the blood circulation and robbing Simon of his relief. With the better half of his lips gone, the robot looked like he was grinning mischievously.

“Now shuck me off.” demanded Maxxx.

“Yeah, sure.” Simon tried to control his breathing. “Chocking on that fucking totem-pole is exactly my idea of fun, tat-head.” He rummaged through the drawer and produced a tube of Durex lube. “But I’d sure like to be your brownie queen.”

“I will ram it up your cornhole sho hard, you’ll schream and beg, faggot.”

Simon eyed the robot quizzically. Even without the lisp, the speech program left a lot to be desired. But the glistering cock looked just too tasty to let himself be distracted by minor quibbles.

“I’ll shure dog you out and make you holler.”

“Just shut the fuck up and shove it in!” Simon screamed, pressed his hands against the wall and pushed his ass towards the robot’s gargantuan member. Maxxx smeared some lube on Simon’s anus, fingered him a bit and rammed his dick in at one go. White lightning hit Simon right between the eyes. The pain was so all consuming and yet so exquisite, every cell of his body turned into an erogenous zone.

“I’ll phottom you, phutt-phoy.  I’ll phang you shenshlesh. I’ll…”

“I’m not listening.” Simon muttered. “Not listening.”

“Yeah, I’m shure giwwin’ you one hard nigger-fuck.”

“Oi. Give it a break, will you?” With an audible ‘plop’ Simon freed himself, turned around and grabbed the robot by the throat. “Take a look at me cock, mate – you’ve talked it fucking limp.”

“I will make you my cum-dumpshter, pooph.”

Simon ripped down the robot’s jaw, grabbed the tongue and tore at it until he managed to jerk it off at its root. Looking at the fat, greyish, jelly-like thing he remembered the orgiastic pleasures it had provided and cursed himself. Maybe he should have looked for a mute button on the remote first? Shit, but he could try and super-glue it back on later. For now the strong, silent type was very much preferable. And it was an aesthetic improvement, he thought, as he watched a tiny stump wiggle in the back of the throat. Behind the stump flared some sparks. Then something exploded with a tinny sound, like a fire-cracker going off in a metal bucket. Maxxx’ head juddered as if it was going to skyrocket and a jet flame shot through the patch of silicone that Simon had smeared over the right eye. The acrid stench of burned plastic stung his nose. The next moment Maxxx grabbed Simon by the throat, threw him against the wall, back-slapped him into position and held him with two fingers around the neck. Blood ran over Simon’s cheek. He tried to struggle himself free, but to no avail – the robot had pinned him down like a numbed butterfly.

“Come on, guy.” Simon croaked. “Not that rough, eh? Skip that Bobby Blake shite.”

Maxxx pumped his silicone muscle up Simon’s ass and started to fuck him relentlessly. A long metal splinter from the robot’s hip punctuated Simon’s left buttock with every stroke, piercing him straight to the bone. Soon the lube had worn off, and Simon felt soft tissue tearing apart.  Searing, indescribable anguish flooded his body, inflamed every sinew. Blood ran down his thighs. His crotch exploded. Simon looked down and watched in agonizing horror a slim, sharp, silver tentacle sliding up his urethra, wriggling and winding, widening it for another, thicker tentacle.

“Please, please, no…” Simon muttered through snot and tears, while Maxxx frenetically fucked his ass and his cock simultaneously. Almost blinded from hurt, Simon felt more tentacles wriggling around his neck, pushing his face so hard against the concrete, his nose crushed. Slime and blood filled his respiratory tract, clogged the airwaves and he almost suffocated. Maxxx hand grabbed Simon’s testicles, rubbed them, hit them and pinched them until they squished with a sickening slurping sound. Simon puked spasmodically, all the time hoping he would just faint and die.  Razor-sharp cable ends wormed over his chest, slicing him. Finally one stiffened and shot straight down, cutting off his right nipple. He was thrown round like a sack of dry bones. The robot gazed at him. Simon half expected to see a vengeful glint or hatred in the ravaged face, but there was nothing, a dark blank stare that frightened him even more. Dozens of wires slithered out of the severed arm, some hissed of electrical arcing like attacking snakes. The fattest one, hot and red, slid around Simon’s hip and impaled him straight through the pelvic wall, while the robot started to jerk him off hard. The foreskin tore and the iron claw soon masturbated raw muscle. There was almost no pain anymore. Just numbness. Soon darkness. And before that came a moment of clarity, a moment when time seemed to slow down, and Simon saw with a perspicuity he had never known before, like everything was etched out before him. He saw the small table to his right and he saw the scissor on the table and he saw his hand picking it up and bringing it down with a violent blow and he saw the blades entering the robot’s eye socket, twisting and turning and he saw smoke coming out of Maxxx’ mouth and he saw him go rigid and collapse and then he collapsed himself.

“Fuck you, asshole”, he sputtered.

The tiredness was overwhelming. He just wanted to sleep.

“Don’t.” he told himself. “Try to get to the phone.”

Maybe he could make it. Survival instinct was one mighty mother, after all.

Or he could just lay here; bleed out into the carpet, this soft, cosy carpet…

“Move.” Simon started to crawl, bit by bit, clew his fingers into the fabric, slowly dragging himself forward, trying to push himself with his legs. When he hunched a bit too much, he spat out a foamy clod of blood. Every inch was agony and his phone was down in the living-room. A sharp ache ripped through his left calf. Simon turned his head and saw a ripped shred of metal protruding from his lateral sura. Damnit, there were pieces of the fucking robot just about everywhere. And he saw something else, too: himself, in the mirror. He gaped in disbelief. He looked like he had been chewed, spat out and trod upon by Godzilla. Pieces of bone were sticking through his arm, whip-marks covered his torso as if Jackson Pollock had body-painted him, his face was swollen beyond recognition, red and blue with lips like bicycle wheels. His right hand was missing the index finger.

“When the heck did that happen?” he wondered. He was mangled meat. He was…quite sexy, actually. Simon felt a very familiar tingle in his groin.

“No. Nonononononono.” he sputtered, but the androgens had already kicked in. The erection throbbed. His penis resembled something out of anatomy class, with the tendrils and muscles clearly visible. Simon spat blood into the palm of his hand and went to work.

He wondered how long he would be able to keep up his new fetish.

By TM Simmler


What Sweet Music They Make

That day I enthusiastically wasted on paper lanterns and the sharp wooden stares of sugar and flesh. She was pale with deceit, a product of meddling and worm-eaten explanations and grandstanding. “It meant nothing to me,” she said, and I sneezed the exhaust that was her from my lungs. She had perfumed hair. They all did, those who honored and obeyed, and those who couldn’t be bothered. The phone rang. She reached for it — clumsy — and it landed at my feet. “Telemarketer,” she claimed, and I felt my hand grow tighter around the handle. I was always wildly excited by the little things: the weight of tools in my hand, the gentle run of the wind against frozen eyelids in the moonlight, the crimson against dry lips and gritted teeth, and then the stiff drink after, tainted by lipstick at the rim. She was all sorry and so forth, keeping a casual distance, and then she bared her breasts at me, giggled, told me to take one for the wedding album before she threw her engagement ring into the heap of soiled clothes I’d left to soak in the sink with last night’s dirty dishes.


Valentine’s day. A Spring Slaughter.


I thrust some Kleenex into my pocket, grabbed a Coca Cola, and headed for the door. I’d called her my little spring lamb, and she called me “corny” just as my hand was reaching for the doorknob. I unlatched the deadbolt and pulled. The cold gusted in, and I cold hear it: a whispering, a crawling skittle of cockroach legs and eyes wide open, crying in the dark. They were always whispering, sometimes in cadence with the dripping rain, plink, plink, plinking off the tin roof some ways away in the distance, sometimes like a white kiss carried upon a thistle flower, swaying with ice and snow, but they were always whispering — demanding — almost in silence, to hear the voice of God over the melancholy braying of the other lambs.

By Cheryl Anne Gardner