Caution: This Horror Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, NonConsensual, Rape, Heterosexual, Historical, Horror, Caution, .
Desc: Horror Sex Story: Chapter 1 - An erotic horror tale set in France at the time of the French Revolution, where in the catacombs beneath the streets of Paris the victims of the terror are laid to rest. Here, a beautiful young aristocrat on the run from a blood thirsty mob finds herself locked in a tomb facing unspeakable misery, but she isn't alone. There is a sex-hungry man there, and as a result her virginity is assuredly doomed. But when her identity is revealed, that becomes the least of her problems.
She was scared.
I could see it in her eyes. They were frozen and still and they stared at me like the shudder of silence.
But it wasn't just fear. There was something else. More. She was petrified.
"Stay ... stay away," she stammered, shrinking back into the darkness, her arms outstretched and her fingers exploring frantically for the crevices in the wall. "D ... don ... don't come any closer!"
The involuntary wobble of her jaw echoed through her shoulders towards her flattened breasts and belly, and then a gentle roll of her midriff and a shake of her hips whacked her fear down her legs to her feet.
Have you ever seen a bitch that's afraid? One that's shitting and crapping in her pants? If so, you'll know. This one was scared.
"Please!" she screeched. "Don't touch me!"
Her high-pitched squeals came as putty to my sad, decaying ears.
Who was she, I wondered, this troubled, colorful delusion? And why had she gate crashed so abruptly into my old forgotten life? Was she an angel of the Lord, come to escort me to paradise? Or the Mistress of the Devil, arrived to tempt me with her carnal allure?
I hoped for the latter. I hoped fervently, for I haven't been tempted by carnal desire for such a long time and now I'd awoken to find this magical creature cringing in my cave, and what was I to think?
I stared at her troubled physiognomy as I assembled my thoughts. She had a youthful expressive face, a gorgeous set of curves and a dark troubled pair of eyes. Her lineaments were even and her lips were like luscious cherries dripping with nectar. And she had a mischievous smell - quite pleasant, like summer flowers in a cottage garden, and maybe a whiff of sandalwood - and hair that cascaded down her shoulders like a long weeping willow. Best of all were her breasts. They were high and pronounced and were wrapped tightly in her dress, and they promised me rapture.
What was she? Seventeen? Eighteen? She couldn't be more. And she was slim!
"Who are you?" I wondered, stepping out from behind the shadows and rubbing the dirt from my hands. She was a lady, genteel, sophisticated. Her face was decorated with powders and there was a paste delineating her eyes.
Not only that, but she was strangely familiar in her features and I imagined that I'd known her.
"Christine," she trembled, retreating hesitantly from my advance. "My name is Christine!"
Frightened by that confession, she made a long despairing dash towards the door and pulled frantically upon the handle, hoping that it would turn; but it didn't, and I watched, bemused, slow witted and mystified as she smashed her fist at the unyielding obstruction.
So I sniffed the stale air, savoring her perfume and drawing it into my old decaying nostrils. She smelt so good - and I was horny and hungry.
When she'd finished with her beating and wailing, she shuddered in anguish and shrank, falling to her knees in a sequence of sobs.
"Oh my God!" she quivered, rolling around on her haunches like she was about to fit.
What was she doing? What was wrong? Was she praying?
"My name is Christine. Christine. Oh whatever have I done?"
I listened to her cries patiently in baffled astonishment with little idea of what she meant or why she was afraid.
"It doesn't open," I offered helpfully, pointing stoically towards the unyielding door and wanting to be gentlemanly and helpful, but lost as to how best to achieve it. "We're locked in. No way out. That's the exit."
This unwelcome news intensified and deepened her panic. "Oh my God..." she shrieked, climbing back onto her feet and side-stepping away - if that makes sense - but then somehow darting past me to the front.
"Keep away from me! Don't ... don't come any closer!"
I twisted round, adjusting to her movements, a tortoise in search of the hare, in pursuit of the dizzy and the impossible, but confused and bemused by her speed and insensitive to her fear.
Certainly, I was curious as to what she might look like under her clothes. And why not? Isn't it normal for a man to be interested in what a lady looks like when she's undressed: the shape and bounce of her breasts, the weight of her ass, the smile of her pussy? I admit that I was curious and that my curiosity was heightened by years of lustful imagining.
Unfortunately, my intentions weren't well disguised and she kept skipping around me; jigging her tits and wriggling her hips, fleeing each time I got close, desperate to stay clear of my clutches.
She used words like "ogre", "pervert" and "monster", words that she had no right to possess.
She stood in front of the wall without any idea as to whether she was coming or going - and I imagined squeezing her tits and testing their firmness, pinching her nipples. I imagined her fingers inside my trousers and fondling my dick, and it made me want to possess her: to rape her, humiliate her. And I reflected that maybe she was right about me being a monster.
"Does anyone know that you're here?" I asked doggedly, stepping towards her in pursuit of an idea.
"Mon dieu!" she squealed, retreating a half step towards the locked door. "Please! I beg you! Stay away from me!"
Behind that door was freedom. But freedom is an ephemeral fleeting possession, as transient as the crest of orgasm or the dandelion that floats on the breeze.
Freedom was separated from her by the thickness of a door, but she shouldn't yearn for it because it's toxic, sulphurous and rotten; and I should know. For all of its supposed attraction, freedom is foxgloves, nightshade and laburnum.
I know such freedom: cruel, misleading, misguided and fraudulent. Freedom is what gives a man the right to go hungry and be abused. Freedom is the world in which a man's wife is strapped to a table while mutinous soldiers in shabby uniforms take turns in unfastening her cottons and silks. That's freedom.
I know such freedom, and in the words of my tongue: j'accuse!
I know the freedom to watch a wife's humiliation, of enduring it, of watching dirty men's hands playing with her buttons, laces and zips, caressing her skin, their cocks exploding in her holes and pounding her pussy like canons. Clods of mortar fix my prison and layers of limestone protect it, unyielding and impermeable - and I'm glad. I cry out and shriek to the Gods - deny me my freedom!
What interest have I in watching strangers torturing my wife, striking her with whips and tearing at her skin, in hearing her cries and being unable to help her?
"Look at how he's enjoying it," they sneer, pressing their paws into the jaws of her sex. They tickle her slit. They kiss and lick and pinch her pearl with their nails. "Look at how his knob throbs for release! Look how purple and bulbous it stands! Let's thrust it into her mouth while we fuck her! Maybe she'll suck him and he'll cum!"
Oh God! Have mercy on this wretch and deny me my freedom!
What interest have I in glimpsing bold black eyes that cry to me with despair? They glare at me, and I feel the horror of my heart as the idiots push my dick between her lips, as I thrust it to the back of her throat.
I have the freedom to use her mouth or to refrain but miserable man that I am: I cannot resist. I cannot refuse her soft tongue, her lips, and so my penis pumps and thrusts. It convulses, sliding through her lips, in and out, in and out, and my dear woman gags and gasps. She swallows and coughs, and I feel her pain and her sense of betrayal as her saliva mixes with my fluids and she dribbles from the corners of her mouth.
She accuses. It's her eyes. They watch me. She knows what it means. She has ideals, a good upbringing and a bright shining hope.
The poor unfortunate bitch!
I cough and circle around the one in my cave, because I'm determined to have her. I'm going to strip her, stick my dick in her ass. I have the freedom to do as I please and that's why she's scared. "Does anyone know that you're here?" I ask and I answer my question, moving closer again.
What was her name? Christine? Christine did she say? I mumble the word: "Christine. Hello, Christine. You're beautiful. I like you, Christine. And pretty, and we're alone, so show me your tits."
She knows what that means in this god-forsaken place, and she chews at the mortar adjacent to the door, digging and scraping at the boulders with the ends of her fingers. She wants to be away from my old degenerating presence, but the door doesn't give. It doesn't open.
I could have told her that it wouldn't.
So I wait for her to tire. As I've tired. And waited.
But then - she decided to nip to the left, splashing across the puddles of stagnant water and into the darkness. She's a terrified rat and she's frightened and there's fight in her yet. She skips onto a ledge, her skirts flapping, revealing the cream of her petticoats and the silk of her black stocking.
I like that. It's a good view; an excellent view, and I'm partial to stocking.
Maybe, when her lips are finished with my cock, I'll persuade her to pose for me in those black stockings and I'll command her to remove them. I'll ask her to hand them to me, and I'll tie them around her pretty white neck and tighten the knot.
Her face will go purple and black. Her eyes will bulge and her lips will part, shivering in a faint, wordless appeal, and I'll hear the rasping of her breath and I'll savor the dull, red wine of her lips.
It's a kindness to do it, to free her from misery, from the certainty of a long meandering death. It's amazing what freedom can do.
And as for me, it'll be good to kiss her and tongue her, to watch the prospect of oblivion on her face.
But I don't do it. I don't get angry. I ignore the fact that she's running from my touch.
Instead, I wait as I've waited.
And waited. And waited.
I might not be fleet of foot or fast in my thoughts, but I have the patience to create an asset from a curse because I've so often ambled through gray cloudy puddles of future incarnate, present and past, and I'm caught in a whirl while still in another.
Do you understand?
No. Not yet, but you will. You see, I am and I have my own time. I've learned to use it and to understand its meaning. It's everywhere, and it surrounds and flows through me, because it's relative as everything is, and therefore I continue to be patient.
Even so, Christine makes another sharp move, bolting, but this time stepping across the hem of her dress.
Like in a premonition, I see the shredding of that cloth so clearly that I know it will happen before she knows it herself.
It's time that will do it. It flows through me and I sense that her dress will; or rather, her dress has; or rather, it had become snarled between her slippers and the ground, and so she stumbled and windmilled. She sailed through the air in cartwheels, and on landing, she struck her knee against a grey misshapen rock.
I saw it. I see it: her skirts billowing up with the flash of frilly red garter like in a picture - a kaleidoscope of pretty petticoats and dainty calves decorated and entombed in the sheerest black stocking, and at the top, the hint of white thigh and the promise of more.
I hear the thud of her fall and her groan, and the anguish of surprise - but still she isn't stopping - wasn't, won't - but falling through the algae and the dust - and slowing - clutching at her newly injured knee that is bandaged so wonderfully in endless black stocking.
"Does anyone know that you're here," I mumble again, hobbling to where she's clutching her leg, and I hover there for several seconds, noting the anguish that has deepened by my close proximity, and I wonder what to do with her now.
Should I hurt her? Should I play with her like a cat with a bird, teasing her garments from her body as if with a knife?
It's an idea and I could if I wanted. Have you ever been tempted to do something like that, I mean if you had the power and there were no one to stop you? Most men have. They dream of it. They imagine the power.
"I ... I don't know," she babbles, horror and foreboding churning in her stomach. "F ... father said this was a safe place, that I should come here if ... if ... I had to and there were no alternative ... but ... mon dieu. This isn't safe ... It's beneath human creation and I don't understand why I'm here. Oh Papa! Papa! What have you done?"
She lifted her dress and examined her knee, using her petticoats to shield her stocking as a Matador would use a cape with a bull. But I managed to side step her guard and I peered at her knee and the heaven above it, the red garter and the bare white thigh and the flash of pink silk. But because I did so she called me impudent and told me that I was a cad, and she tossed her dress hurriedly down her legs.
After that, I reflected more keenly how she would look without any clothes: her thighs; her ass; and especially her fine breasts and her pussy. I bent and prodded her chest to get some idea of her meat, my finger sinking into one side of her breast.
There was plenty of it there, I pondered - plenty - but because she was well padded I could tell nothing of the quality. So I prodded again, more centrally, searching for the nub, feeling my lust fighting with the manners of my birth, the twin halves of my being yearning for her in differing and incompatible ways.
"Oh mon Dieu!" she whimpered, pushing me aside because she could read my desires. "What are you doing? Please, monsieur! I beg you! You mustn't do that!"
But I'd met shock, not anger - and it gave me the courage to try there again, for there's something fantastically succulent and pretty about a girl's nub. It's a delicacy impossible to describe, especially if the woman is alive and frightened and watching you suck it.
And if not, if she's dead, then a man might dream of more. He might even eat it.
Yes. Those words are shocking. I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have said it, or admitted it, and my confession will condemn me to your abhorrence and disgust. But sadly, although I despise myself for my inhuman and wicked compulsions, I can't avoid them. I've tried. I've tried endlessly and repeatedly to reform and reach up and clutch something better but I can't.
I apologize. I do - sincerely - but it's what happens to a man who's condemned to live a hopeless and wretched life beneath the bowels of the earth, who's sentenced to scavenge on the food that he finds there, to become a beast roaming the foul, black, sticky catacombs of hell.
So let's be candid.
What food is there in a place of the dead? You know the answer. I don't need to say it, and so as I wander this lonely path that I've been given to sojourn I wonder whether I have spirit or soul, or whether I've lost it like the corpses laid out in their tombs. What am I? Am I man, beast or something lower than either?
I don't know, but in any case, what does it matter for I'm surely damned, an unredeemable sinner. I have crossed the line of human decency and have irretrievably trespassed and that's why I must live as I do in my cave. I am so evil and wicked that I can't ever speak of my acts, not to anyone but to you. To you, I will confess. I will speak openly. I will reveal my secrets because a woman's life and soul is at stake.
Christine. That is her name.