The Shadow Factory

She never needed to reload.
 
It had only been a week, and you said the word “bed” with the wide innocent eyes of a child as in “Are we going to?” and she really didn’t know what to say to you. She could see your expectant smile shining in the darkness, could feel your heartbeat thrumming the dead air of silence around her, but there were no words. Not for you.
 
She knew what you wanted, could feel it under your skin when you fucked her on the lino in the kitchen and against the dumpster in the parking lot and on the roof of your wife’s car. Yes, she could feel it, and she wanted to cut it out, wanted to find you in the morning, a distant dream, a sigh that barely brushed up against the linen. Too soon, it was just too soon. She’d made the same mistakes before…
 
Mathew 7:16. He wouldn’t kiss her on the mouth after she’d sucked the fuck out of him. “Selfish,” she thought, every single time he came. His blood was slow and thick and tasted of tequila and mothballs.
 
Sometimes the dead speak to her. She would strip the sheets from the mattress and lie amongst them naked, listening to their complaints in the dark, the streetlights through the blinds marking the room off like the scene of a homicide. Sweat, and piss, and shit, and vomit. She could smell them all, taste them all, on the soft folds beneath her body.
 
Jake 5:22 would never look at her when he came. Called her by his mother’s first name when he fucked her, and then he’d call her a whore. “Too needy,” she thought every single time he refused to look at her cunt. His blood was slick and gritty and tasted of grease.
 
Simon 3:18 would only ever fuck her in the ass. Said it looked like a nice tight schoolboy’s ass. There was no blood in his veins.
 
You were different though, 1 week 3 days and you couldn’t help but say the words, even if you didn’t mean it. But you’d have to mean it before you could join her here, in this private space between hope and pain.
 
You’d have to make her believe it,

Before she could ever accept your stain.

By Cheryl Anne Gardner

Grave Liaisons

Alex used to play with the dead until one of the dead played with her. She slid her slender body down the dry earth of Andrew Reese pressing her pubic bone into the dirt talking out loud about how she wanted his brittle frame to engorge itself on top of her, filling her with all his unfulfilled lust and vile fantasies that rotted in his rattling skull. She pictured his decrepit fingers, alive and stroking her inner thigh tickling that special spot that got her soaking from the inside.

Andrew Reese Born Oct. 13, 1906 Died Oct. 28, 1929. The cemetery was ancient and well cared for, grass always spring colored, blossoming like her opening flower on dear Andrew’s eternal resting spot. No doubt even the dead could smell her moist cunt as she writhed on the headstone, gripping it with excitement as she merged her flesh with mottled moss that had formed in the cracks of aged stone. She sprung back and straddled his imaginary coffin, licking her fingers as she rubbed herself harder. “Oh Andrew! Right there!” she screamed, her flimsy white night gown now soaked with dew clung to each curve in its extremes, spotted with dirt and green from her deathly orgasm. Flailing on the grass she felt someone clasp her wrists.

Alex’s eyes burst open, nearly splitting their seam, as she felt something hard and real fill her chasm with every inch of pure pulsation, something living, something convulsing within her loins. But there was nothing. Just the weight on her chest and hands pinned back behind her. Alex often excited herself to frenzy on the floor of this very graveyard but as she began to moan with the sex act this felt not of imagination.

Suddenly flesh wounds opened under her gossamer gown and she felt sex scars tearing at  her body as she was flipped over and her hips yanked in the direction of the penetrating phantasm. She screamed, this time not in pleasure but unequivocal terror. Alex was being torn apart, with each thrust great chunks of bloody muscle were plucked from her back. Tossed to ground the spectre came at her again, forcing her arms to her side while organs began peeking out through slashed skin. Whipping and wailing she fought against the demon on her belly that seemed to be extracting her very womanhood as her paralysis held fast. She felt a hand move up her breast hovering over the pointed nipple gently aware of its precise feminine exquisiteness, she held her breath, then with searing pain a sick ripping sucking sound followed and nothing but pain roared from her former cleavage.

The morning mist rest damply on the still shiny wet grave of Andrew Reese, sopping with upper and lower intestines. Alex’s sweet flower had been separated from her pale thighs, now caked in dried blood. It had been clipped, twisted and made into a human origami project resting atop dear Andrew’s stained marker. Right below the grass line, burrowed where the stone met the earth was the fragile heart. Next to it in near weather worn faded letters was our boy’s darling epitaph: “Here lies Andrew, Maniac, Murderer and Son.”

By Emily Smith-Miller

The Others

“Where are you taking me?” she almost screamed at him as he forced her to walk in front of him, her eyes blindfolded, her wrists bound in tight wire behind her, so tight it cut into her flesh. He could smell her blood and it excited him. He always liked the smell of her blood — not just any blood, her blood. The trees in the woods, so tall all around them as they walked, seemed to listen to her pleadings for an answer; he gave her nothing but an occasional poke in the small of her back with a sturdy stick.

He once loved her. No, he always loved her. Even from when they began with things. She the sexual creature he saw across the room at that fucking former friend’s house party, he the brooding male on the hunt for a girl who would suit his needs for…whatever he had been looking for at the time. He decided that he had been looking for a woman like her, this dark-haired queen who sparked his lust and fed him her own when they got alone in some dark room. They fucked like mad then fucked some more. Their fucking was out of control and when she fucked him she gave him bruises and scratches and scars. She used her sex as a weapon, her pussy her trusted partner in crime. He begged for more and soon he became her animal on a leash. He desired her more than anything and they fucked every night, no matter where they found each other. He was eager to be marked by her, wanted to be branded with her fucklust. She made him hers and told him so. But she liked it when he bit her when he fucked her, when he bit at her flesh and tasted her own blood. She demanded he feed it to her off his tongue and she sucked it like a cock, tasting her blood and wanting more. She bit his cock, made it bleed, drove herself insane. They were crazy for each other’s blood and they both knew it. But he knew something was boiling deep in her mind, he could see it sometimes when she was riding him. She sometimes stared down at him with evil in her eyes; he knew what it was inside her. It took her a few nights to speak her desire, to spew her lust at him.

“If I ever find out you’re fucking somebody else I swear I’ll cut your fucking cock off,” she had told him one night after she fucked him into silence, her hand grabbing his face, the other hand gripping his wilted cock. He knew she was serious, too. She had shown him her knife, the one she told him she would use if he got out of line.

But that was months ago. She was a fucking cunt. She was the one who fucked others behind his back. And he knew it for a fact, he knew people who knew others, the others she fucked and never told him about until he found out for himself. He never dreamed she would, he always thought his submission to her kept her coming back for more, he thought it made her lust stronger for him. “My pussy is yours, your cock is mine,” she had said, the evil in her grin making him believe it. Fuck he loved her. He wanted to consume her, wanted her to consume him. Wanted to be devoured by her evil mouth, her evil mind, her evil lust. But no. She fucked them all, the others. She fucked each one and then fucked them all at once. There were five, no six. The people he knew told him everything. How she seduced one after another then got them all together at some other party and got them to take her home, to fuck her in her bed. How she was ravenous to be fucked by them even though she knew her submissive animal was left alone without a leash, unknowing at the time of her sexual abandon.

Well, then. Fuck that, fuck her, fuck the bitch, fuck her to fucking death.

“I said where the FUCK are  you taking me? Fucking answer me!!!”

He poked her in the back, harder this time. He wanted to poke the stick in her cunt. Maybe he would, soon. Once he got her legs splayed open before him.

They arrived at the location of his choosing. The one he had selected earlier that day. He turned her toward him and took a moment to look at her. What a fucking cunt. He wanted to tell her, wanted to scream it at her, but no. He smacked her instead, smacked her hard in the face, then smacked her again. Blood oozed from her bottom lip. Yes, her blood still excited him, but this time he wanted to taste the blood of her death and not her sex. He licked it offf then spit it in her face. Fuck her sex, he thought, that bleeding lip begging for another vicious slap. So he did, because he could. Because her wrists were bound with wire behind her and she was still blindfolded, she couldn’t tell where his next blow would come from. SMACK. SMACK, SMACK SMACK. He wanted to smack her until she passed out but no. He stopped and stripped her, got her naked like she always wanted to be with him, then pushed her backwards, so that she fell upon his prepared pile of finger-sized twigs and limbs.

She was semi-conscious, he could tell; her moans weren’t sexual, he decided they were filled with pain, with fear, and that was perfect. Darkness was imminent, there was just enough light to see the four stakes he had set in the ground. He unbound her wrists then chained first one arm, then the other, first one leg, then then other. There. She was ready. The fucking cunt slut bitch was ready.

“What….are  you….doing,” she said, her words faint but loud enough for him to hear.

He removed her blindfold but said nothing. He watched as she was able to determine her surroundings, what she was lying on, and saw the sudden terror in her now exposed eyes.

He set her on fire. It was that simple. He lit the match and then the kindling under her arm that was chained to the stake, just like her other arm, and her legs, too. The flames ate her, consumed her, devoured her flesh and he sat on the nearest log and watched, hearing her screams, those other-than-human screams, echo through the woods. He was where no one was, where no one was near, so her animalistic wails meant nothing, not even to the trees. They watched right along with him as she burned alive, the scent of her flesh strangely sweet in his nostrils. Soon her screaming stopped and she knew she was dead. Fucking cunt bitch slut, she shoulda known better. And it was all her fucking fault, not his, he didn’t do a damn thing, it was all her, so yeah she deserved it, she deserved it all. He stood and waited for the flames to die down, for the smoke to dissipate, for the smell of her sweet flesh to turn rotten. He turned and walked away, leaving the trees to deal with her, now nothing more than a burnt corpse nobody could fuck.

By Jeff Callico