"TWO GRAVES" -- Horror Story Featuring A

The yellow Mini Cooper-S convertible with white bonnet stripes pulled off the secondary road onto gravel, under thick canopies of Spanish moss. The only light was from the full moon, barely visible through the oak branches and the twin beams of the headlights. As the road went along, the vegetation encroached on it, branches brushing against the side of the car. A mile down the gravel road, the path ended at two iron gates, loosely chained together.
The girl opened the door and stepped out: She was about 5 feet tall, around 100 pounds. An Asian girl with dark black hair pulled back into two tight pigtails, emphasizing the roundness of her face. Slightly too much eyeshadow underscored the shape of her almond eyes. Her lips were painted bright red. The pigtails were tied with red ribbons. She wore a navy jacket over a thin white blouse. Below was a plaid skirt that ended mid-thigh. The tight skin of her legs was slightly tanned. She wore patent leather shoes and white socks that emphasized the tanned flesh of her leg, rising to just above the ankle. Days before her 19th birthday, her substantial chest revealed she was a young woman and no longer a c***d. She had nearly straight hips, but there was enough curve in back, highlighted by the schoolgirl skirt to suggest a small, tight round ass.

She stepped lightly, with a bounce. With the thin trace of fog rolling along the ground, hiding her feet, she seemed to flutter like a butterfly as she paced next to the side of the car, sorting through the small leather bag – the fashionable kind too small to be called a proper backpack, more like a purse worn like one. She came out with a smart phone, its bright display casting a beam of light, which she used to guide her way to the gates. Then she turned the display back around, and it cast a moonbeam across her face, tight and concentrating as her slender fingers moved quickly over the touchpad.

She texted: WERE R U?

In the blackness, far beyond the gates, came a bass laugh and an echo seemed to precede a deep voice: “Here, my c***d.” She turned sideways and leaned down, sliding between the gap in the chained gates. Holding the phone out like a torch, the girl stepped into the void. She shuddered in spite of the sub-tropical heat. Mist rolled over the uneven and soft ground, looking like thin fingers bending and grasping at her petite ankles and feet. Stone monuments surrounded her like an enemy army. She was in the middle of a grave yard. She stepped carefully between the stones, which were crowded closely together in some places. “The hour approaches” came the deep and slow voice, and she followed it, still stepping lightly, seeming care-free and fearless. “Do we at last meet?” the accented voice questioned. She pointed her phone torch at the voice and shielded her eyes to try and see into the darkness. The voice came from a large f****y site, where the plot was partitioned by a three-foot-high, wrought-iron fence. In the middle of the plot was a huge stone tomb, eight or ten feet square, rising perhaps 25 feet. She could see a faint glow from behind the monolith. She lifted one leg and eased the foot over the top of the fence, then tried, and nearly succeeded, to gracefully swing her body over the fence. Mid-stride, the height of the fence caught up to her, sliding the skirt up her thigh. She disentangled herself with as much dignity as possible, smoothing the pleats of her skirt and checking to make sure her hair was still neatly in place.

She walked to the rear of the monument and saw rows and circles of wax candles, perhaps 60 in all. There were several smaller graves and a chest-high flat stone slab. The name on each grave was: LOVELL.

“A good name, do you think?” the voice asked, seeming to thunder in her ears, making her jump. It was much closer now. “The name was chosen to distance from a f****y member. Have you ever heard of ‘Laveau’?”

“Um… no,” she said, looking all around. “How come I can’t see you?”
There was no answer right away. “In some parts Laveau is a famous name. Powerful name.”

“Where are you?” she asked again, beginning to lose patience. She was looking at the Lovell f****y graves, examining the carvings on the large slab, admiring the angels and gargoyles. Behind her there was a sliding sound and a rustling of dead leaves. From out of the ground a metal door, like the door of a coal cellar, was opening, and a man came up the stairs.

He stood at least 6’4”, his face somewhere between dark brown and ashen grey, with close-cropped curly hair. He wore flowing brown trousers and a loose-fitting tan shirt. These were partially covered by a kind of long black tunic with red trim. He was covered in tattoos of many things – devils and dead bodies and strange symbols. His bare arms, neck and face were covered in red grease-painted symbols that complemented the tattoos. On his head he wore a strange sort of crown made apparently of carefully folded palm leaves. In his hand he held a gnarled wooden rod. He rose up out of the ground as he ascended a flight of stairs, walked toward her and stopped three feet away, just inside the circle of candles around the cellar door. “You are even more lovely in the light of the real world than in the photos you sent,” he said, taking her in from head to toe.

“Is that a Halloween costume,” she asked, looking at his apparel in confusion and apprehension.

“It is necessary for the ritual,” he answered. “Do you still request it?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Can you do it?”

“Before one seeks revenge, it is best to dig two graves,” he said.

“Good phrase to remember,” she said, thinking of her second request.

“Tell me, c***d, why is it necessary?”

“Does it matter,” she replied, not wanting to tell the painful story to a complete stranger. “Just tell me what it costs?”

“Costs?” he asked, a look of amusement on his face.

“I have…” she said, swinging the bag from her shoulder, “$4,000 in cash, will that do it?”

The man crossed his arms and looked down at her, making himself seem very tall.

“I have a credit card with a $15,000 limit. I’ll tell my dad I lost it after you’ve had a couple days to get a cash advance. If that’s not enough, this bag, the phone, my car, they’re worth a lot.”

He looked at her, as if considering the offer, for perhaps a full minute, only the night birds and insects having their debate out loud. At the end of his deliberation, he laughed. The peal of his laughter broke through the pattern of the night like a roar, echoing out over the empty grave yard. “Someone has surely done you a serious kind of wrong! “

“Yeah, I don’t want to talk about it, I’ll just give you her name. Stephanie Dansel.” She thought about her former role in the senior high school play. She had been given the lead role and a fabulous gold and royal red dress of brocade and jewels. It had been donated to the school, had been worn in several Broadway plays, once by a leading lady who had died hours after giving her command performance. When she first saw the dress it took her breath away. It took everyone’s breath away. She had tried it on every night after rehearsal. The first dress rehearsal was one of the most amazing nights of her life. She felt magical to wear the dress surrounded by so many of her school friends. No one could take their eyes off of her, could not even remember their lines. But her performance seemed to excel, thanks, she was sure, to the amazing dress. Then, the next day, she had been called to the theater director’s office. Stephanie Dansel would be replacing her in the lead role. She had stared in disbelief, then began to cry. What was the reason? None was given. She stormed out of the office and soon found out. Stephanie’s father had pledged an enormous contribution to the school theater department and had secured a visit to the school from a Broadway cast during the next summer season. That had been enough to f***e the theater director to give the lead role to Stephanie.

“This stuff is worth a lot,” she repeated, thinking of her anger and humiliation, “but this is worth more,” she said, almost to herself in a half whisper.

“c***d,” he said between chuckles, “doesn’t the Book say, lay not up for yourself treasures in the earth where the moth and dust corrupt?!”

She looked at him, not knowing what to say. “I can get more,” she said at last in a pleading tone.

“More of the corruptible stuff?” he asked. “Well, they say a little corruption makes a whole lot of corruption.” More laughter.

“Then what?” she asked, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Not all that is corruptible is useless,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Meaning?” she asked, lifting up her phone to see if she had received any new texts.

“How long does that thing last these days?” he asked her, pointing at the phone.

“Maybe a year,” she replied, not looking up at him. “You can have it if you want. I need a new one.”

“And how long that bag last?”

“Couple of years, maybe three.”

“And . . . how long do you last?”


“This. . ." he said, gesturing at her with his hand stretched out wide and twisted sideways, in an off-handed gesture at her desirable profile, her shapely legs and bosom, the alluring image of an Asian schoolgirl in the prime of life. “All this, this beauty?”

She looked at him without emotion, then her nose wrinkled. “With you?” she asked.

His knees buckled and his torso seemed to plummet down a foot and a half until he bounced straight up like a spring, exploding with laughter. The laughter lasted a full two minutes as he stumbled to the edge of the stone monument, leaned on it, choking with mirth, then stumbling halfway down the stone stairs and crawling back up, rubbing tears from his eyes, carefully, so as not to disturb the markings on his face.

“No, c***d, not ‘with you’! Not with such a young thing so full of youth and beauty and life.”

“Oh,” she said. “What then?”

“I need your help, that is all.”

“What do I need to do?” she asked.

“Only everything that I say. Do not enter this circle, and help with a ritual. Can you do it?”

“I guess, yeah,” she said. “What kind of ritual?”

“It is necessary to ask first,” he replied, “are you a virgin?”

She thought of lying. Instead, she answered: “No.”

To her surprise, he said: “Good. We need corruptible stuff for what we do tonight.”

“Okay,” she said, “but what is it?”

“How many time?”


“How many men?”

“Uh… one,” she answered. And thus the path that lead her here tonight, and to request number two. Which she had not yet mentioned.

She thought of him, the impossibly gorgeous boy, the dream of the whole school. He had never taken an interest in her until she was given the lead role in the play, opposite him. After the third rehearsal, he asked her out. Their dates had progressed well, they had shared a few kisses and caresses. One night, they agreed to linger and meet in the dressing room after the other k**s had gone. He kissed her deeply, his hands squeezing her breasts. She pushed his hands away gently. A few moments later he tried again. She pushed his hands away, but this time down, away from the thin T-shirt, onto her hips. He grasped clumsily at her ass, squeezing her thighs through the silk jogging pants, his hands sliding quickly inside her pants, inside her panties, his fingers slipping around in the slight hair of her mound, probing for an entry point, but far from the mark. She gently moved his hand away. He pushed her up against the makeup table and pulled her jogging pants down several inches before she put her hands on his fore-arms, stopping him. She somehow eased him back and rotated their positions until he was leaning against the table. “Too soon for that,” she smiled up at him, already sliding down, kissing his stomach, “but I know something we can do.”

The following Friday was the first dress rehearsal. It was the first time he saw her in the dress. Like everyone else, he was completely captivated. He fell down twice during the performance. He looked like he was concealing a dirk in his pants for a good portion of the rehearsal. The half-hour after the rehearsal was like a dream, a whirlwind of compliments and praise from everyone. She sat there in the golden dress, her hair pulled back tightly with sparkling glitter combed into it, the magnificence of the dress accented by large costume jewelry, rings and earrings, a net-like necklace around the low-cut top.

At 10:30, the last student left. He walked in five minutes later. He stopped in his tracks and looked at her, stunned all over again. They fell into each others’ arms. This time was magical, different from before. They seemed to melt together as they kissed, their hips moving together like the waves on an ocean. He kissed her neck and collarbone, hands squeezing her breasts. He tried to push the blouse down; she pushed his hands down, and he raised the skirt, his hand exploring her legs in the garter hose, past the garter band and up further, past the costumed effects now, to her regular white cotton panties. She did not resist as he pulled them down, over the garters, pushing her back to sit up on the makeup counter, lifting the dress up onto her lap. She found she had unzipped him and removed his cock, was balancing her foot on a chair as she leaned down against him to rub his tip along the ridge of her pussy. Before she could think twice, he was inside her. There was no pain, no hesitation, no awkwardness. He was just fully inside her and she was very, very wet. She had a brief moment to think of the condom in her bag, but she knew there was something perfect about this night that could not be ruined by something so trivial. They both climaxed in unison, crying out at the top of their lungs, no more restraint than a****ls in the wild.

He waited outside while she changed into her street clothes. She took a long while. He walked her to her car. At the car, the realization hit her, and she broke down. He comforted her and said soothing things. She told him she loved him, had only done it because they would be together always. He said they would, that he loved her too, that he respected her, that she had nothing to be worried or ashamed about.

At the end of the final scene of the following Friday’s dress rehearsal, he held a trembling Stephanie Dansel in his arms and kissed her passionately.
She had found a card in the bottom of the accessory bag that went with the dress. The card simply said “DO YOU HAVE A NEED OF THE MAGIC THAT GRANTS YOUR SECRET WISH?” Only that, a name, and four numbers. She asked the librarian about it. The name was an exchange name that had been replaced by a three-digit telephone prefix about 45 years ago. She called the number, but it was just an answering machine with no message -- a ring, a beep and nothing else. She had almost forgotten until the evening she sat in the back of the darkened auditorium watching him grope Stephanie Dansel in her dress. Just then she got a text message on her phone from someone using the same exchange name and number for identification. The person was just curious about her, would not say if he or she knew her, or how.

For the next two weeks, she had chatted with whoever it was every night. The person was busy in the day, but at night, he or she always seemed to be available to text, filling her head with imagery of spells and magic and hints of the knowledge to harness their power. There were rituals that could buy her power and money (she needed none of either), love (she no longer wanted it) and, oh yes, revenge. She had asked eagerly for assistance. Again and again she asked him -- she didn’t know if it was a man or a woman, but she had the distinct impression it was a man – for his help. She offered any amount of money, offered to buy anything he wanted. Her text companion was constant and keenly interested in her, but non-committal. Finally, sensing it was a man after all, she sent photographs of herself, suggested what else she might be willing to do. Whoever it was, he didn’t take the bait. Opening night was in only three days. She pressed the issue a bit further, finally texting: “I M DESPERAT PLEEZ TELL ME WHAT TO DO TO GET U 2 HELP?” Then came the directions to the remote graveyard in coastal South Carolina, several hours’ drive from her home.

“This ritual,” he was saying, “it helps you too.”

“Oh really?” she asked.

“It brings him who can take revenge for you,” he said.

“Can… can it be revenge on two people please?” she asked, thinking she was about to meet a killer, perhaps, her mind raced, a demonic one, and that this wish might really come true. For a moment, she was not so sure she wanted it to.

“Two can be arranged, yes. You will take a different part both times.”

“Now,” he said, moving carefully and silently to the very edge of the circle, “are you ready to bring him?”

She suppressed the lump in her throat: “Yes.”

The man vanished into the cellar and brought out a basket, poured a vial of what looked like bl**d on the ground, took out a piece of cloth and burned it, chanted some words over it. She could hear something stirring from deep in the vault beneath the monument.

“Shhhh… he comes,” the man said.

Emerging from the vault was a thing in a black cowl, wrapped in dirty white gauze. The face was hidden. It walked slowly swaying side-to-side and came to stand silently before the man, roughly six feet tall, but shorter than the man who commanded it.

“Wh… what is it?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“He is a zombie initiate,” the man said. “He has been called back but not kept here yet. We can’t control him like we want without a grounding ritual.”

“How do we do it?” she asked, looking in amazement at the black hole under the cowl.

“We ground him here with something corruptible. It have to be some offering he will take and then we got him.”

“How do we do the ritual?” she asked.

“Leave the spell and chant to me,” he said. “You do the offering. Offer him something he takes. Wait for me to open a link.” He whispered something over a little pyre he lit in a clay jar, poured out a cone of powder. “There, the link is ready,” he said at last. He gestured with his twisted staff of gnarled wood and the thing moved forward, out of the circle, until he stood before her. She looked down and saw a long, grey hand underneath the cloth and gauze. Slowly, the figure pulled back the hood. In a glimpse she saw blazing green eyes, matted brown hair, an ashen face streaked with the mold of the grave. It was a young man, though he appeared to be dead, a zombie, as the ritual leader had said. There was no smell or sign of decay.

“You have much to offer,” Lovell said. “All night long for many nights you told me the things. Now you have to be right. Make him an offer to ground him here as my slave. If you don’t, after a short while, he goes back down there to sl**p and I lose my zombie, and you lose your revenge.”
Shuddering uncontrollably under the gaze of the dead thing, she removed the bag from her shoulder and began to sort through it. She took out a thick envelope filled with $100s, $50s and $20s. Looking at the bundle and then at the thing, she felt foolish. She dropped her first offering at his feet. He did not look at it. He only made a non-verbal sound. The meaning was clear. The offer had been rejected. Next she threw her phone to the ground. Could he have any use for it? No. It was rejected with the same sound. She dropped a watch, credit cards, a brand new Apple iPad, iPod, the rest of the contents of her bag, finally the bag itself at his feet. All rejected. Finally, she held up the keys to her car. Also rejected.

“The time is drawing to a close,” Lovell warned. “What else can you offer?”

“That’s all I brought,” she said.

“All?” he asked questioningly. “There was one other thing you said. Do you still want revenge so much?”

She tried to take half a minute to think, but she felt the window of the spell closing, the sands of time pouring out of the bottom of the hour glass. Opening night was tomorrow.

“I offer myself,” she said solemnly.

“For sex,” she clarified. “Not my soul or anything.”

The zombie did not move. Lovell laughed. “The soul is corruptible, but does not corrupt – decay in this life -- like we need it. So don’t worry.”

“But he didn’t do anything. What now?” she pleaded.

“You got to show him the offer,” came Lovell’s reply.

She gestured impatiently at herself, down the length of her body, at the tight sweater around her chest.

“Show him the offer,” he said again.

Slowly she raised up her skirt with both of her now-empty hands, pulling it up her thighs in front to show him white panties underneath.

The zombie made a noise of assent.

“The offer is accepted,” Lovell said and laughed. “I knew you would do: his soul is in turmoil because his death came after he was away for a year, when he was on the way to see the woman he loved. Can you imagine?”

“A little bit I guess,” she said. This explanation calmed her for a moment, in spite of her terror because she had no idea what would happen next. With a stiff movement of its arm, the zombie tore a hole in the middle of the black robe, reached in through the gauze, brought out a huge erect cock, as grey as his face and hands, swollen and engorged from either years of anticipation, or some effect of the grave. She couldn’t guess which.

“You have to teach to him what you knew in life. When he teach you something back, he is trapped,” Lovell said.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Don’t you know?” he asked her. She nodded and bent her knees slightly. “Yesss, yesss,” Lovell hissed. Her knees bent down, down, until they sank down into the soft earth. “Yessss,” he said one more time.
The zombie approached her, now offering his phallus. She reached out for it carefully, like one touching the end of a pin. Her hand shot back: It was as cold as stone and unyielding to her touch. The long hand came out and grasped her right pigtail, pulling the left side of her head up against the black cloth, till her lips were alongside his proffered cock. She touched her lips to the cold stony flesh. It had no taste and the smooth texture of polished marble. She opened her lips and allowed the tip of her tongue to touch it. The zombie guided her head along the length of the shaft, still holding her by one pigtail. Her lips reached the tip, and her tongue flicked out to lick the end. The tip twitched and the zombie groaned. She slowly drew him into her mouth, perhaps three or four inches. The taste was like an icecicle. She began to lick along the side of it again. The zombie moaned and pulled her head tight against his hips. A grey burst of almost ash-like fluid shot from the tip across her cheek bone and onto the shoulder of her navy blazer.

From inside the circle, Lovell laughed, “yes, yes!”

“Is that it?” she asked hopefully?

“No, no, that does not ground him. Remember, you teach him everything you learned and then when he teach you something, the ritual is complete and we have him.”

“Oh,” she said, wiping at her cheek. “But now what?”

The zombie grunted and pointed. “He want you to climb up on that stone there,” Lovell said, pointing to the waist-high slab that dominated the back of the f****y plot. She climbed up, showing her panties in back as she negotiated the side of the steep tomb. Finally she reached the top and sat down facing them, gasping at the icy cold granite on the backs of her thighs.

“Now take down your underthings and lift up the dress for him, open your legs, show him the offering.”

She didn’t allow herself to back out. Opening night was less than 48 hours away. Just as before, the time that lead her here, she pulled her panties down to her ankles and lifted up the dress, showing the dark hair of her pussy, bending her knees up and apart, sliding her right foot up and back free of the panties, until she was spread widely, all plainly visible in the candle light; then she parted, wider and still wider at Lovell’s urging, until her feet were almost a yard apart, so wide she could not plant the feet on the freezing slab, totally exposed, her ass now numb from the frigid stone.
The zombie climbed slowly onto the slab, across her, up and up until he was leaning over her. When he took her, it was like she had been plunged into a tank of ice water. She felt the freezing cold missile enter her, harder than any living man’s could be, sliding in and out of her again and again until she went numb from the cold. She felt his hands all over her, like ice cubes, feeling her ass and thighs, moving up to her chest and squeezing her breasts. She tried to push his hands away, but she could not move him. The granite hands pulled her sweater open, and she heard the buttons of the blouse pop with tension as they snapped and flew away. Then she was revealed, her bra pushed open, and she heard Lovell laugh. She opened her eyes to see the zombie tossing handfuls of tissue out of her bra and over his head, Lovell laughing hysterically. At last, with surprising deftness, her bra was unclasped – or torn in two in back – and pulled away. She lay there with her flat chest, nipples harder than they had ever been before, standing at attention as the first man to ever see them – albeit a dead man – pinched and licked them with his popsicle tongue. Stone tongue and hard wet flesh collided, again and again. She moaned at the sensation in spite of herself. She could feel nothing beneath her waist, but a warm vortex was building inside from the contact; though numb, her g-spot was being stimulated repeatedly and she began to moan. The second of her two patent leather shoes fell to the ground, three feet below. The zombie gripped her ankles, bending them back, back, pressing them almost to her ears, stretching the slit of her cunny lips impossibly tight vertically as he pierced her again. She looked up, her legs over the top of his shoulders, and could see the graveyard dirt on her knees, evidence of her initial offering, when she knelt and began to fellate a monster. Now he was deep inside her, and she was unable to resist coming. She came again and again as the zombie used her, hard cock never softening, until at the stroke of 1 a.m. (she heard her phone chime the hour, 10 feet and a lifetime ago away), he seized up and went straight as a board. She felt what seemed like a rush of ice water pouring out inside her. She lay under him, still panting from her extensive orgasm. When he retreated half a foot, she pulled back, moving backwards cross-legged, till she was sitting in the middle of the stone slab. She could see rivulets of ash-grey cum running out of her pussy and down along her ass, leaving a trail along the stone.
She may have fallen asl**p briefly. She awoke to Lovell’s pleased whisper of “yes, yes!!!” She opened her eyes and saw him, still standing at the tip of the circle, arms oustretched. “Now, we will see if it works. But one thing remains. The reciprocal teaching will bind him forever.”

The zombie awoke from his reverie, standing at the foot of the slab and regarding her. He reached out a long arm and took hold of her ankle, pulling her gently but sternly toward him. She allowed herself to be d**g along until he had both hands on her hips, pulled her off the slab and laid her on the ground. The warm ground felt like heaven after the cold stone. She lay there gratefully, not caring for that moment what happened next. The zombie squatted on all fours between her legs, which he arranged outspread, for several minutes. She was too exhausted to move. Slowly, the zombie leaned forward, his hollow eye sockets and blazing green eyes regarding her as his pointed tongue protruded from between his lips. She jumped when the freezing thing, every bit as hard as his cock, slid along her inner thigh. Like his cock, it seemed engorged from death, larger than a normal man’s. And soon it was probing her, licking with its cold like death in every crease of her, then inside her, eating and fucking her. As the zombie’s mouth closed along her labia with the breath like the burst from a freezer, sucking on one tender lip, Lovell cried: “That’s it, c***d! You have done it! We have bound him here for our use and revenge!” A tear of relief and triumph rolled down one round cheek as she let out a cry of pleasure, and another involuntary utterance at the thrill coursing through her from the hard, long tongue now deep inside her. The zombie sucked and licked at her, coaxing orgasm after orgasm from her, withdrawing just often enough that she retained feeling in her body. She heard her phone chime 2 a.m. as the zombie pulled away, while she was still moaning, surprised to find she was still stroking her own hard nipples. The zombie pushed up her thigh and began kissing deep down the back of it, to the small of her ass, kissing and sucking every inch of her. She screamed out at one point as his teeth pierced the soft flesh of her ass. Then he was inside her again – not his tongue this time – and she eventually blacked out.

When she awoke, she had chills all over. She could see dawn rising just beyond the Lovell monument. The zombie stood before her at attention. She stood up to look around. Her possessions were s**ttered all about the plot as were her panties, blouse, bra, shoes, one sock and her jacket. She stood up, smoothing her skirt, wrapping her arms around her tiny bare breasts. One pigtail had been pulled free and hung down to the side. Grey residue followed a twisting and turning course down her thigh. One foot was bare, charcoal earth between her toes and under the red painted nails. Her ass, thighs and knees were covered with grave dirt. She stood there, next to the zombie, rubbing the bite wound on her ass.

“Did it work” she asked eagerly? The opening performance of the play was the following evening. There could be just enough time to get her role back.

“Oh yes!” he said. “It worked per-fect!”

Her enthusiasm took over at that point. She clapped her hands and jumped up and down, small breasts bouncing slightly. She took three steps toward Lovell, who she could see clearly for the first time. He wasn’t as old or as bad-looking as she had thought he would be last night. It must have been that voice. Was it clearer today, more “normal?” She was almost to the circle. Perhaps she meant to embrace him in spite of her half-nakedness, but he put out a hand and said “Stop!”

She felt her feet come to a dead stop.

“Gather your clothes,” he said in a commanding voice. Her feet began to move against her will and she began to dress. “Now you will both go and carry out your revenge – him to her, you to him, is it not the right way?” he asked with a laugh. “Then you will come back to me.”

She felt her feet carrying her toward the iron gate. They lifted on their own skillfully over the fence, then toward the car. The zombie followed her. They climbed into the Mini and backed down the dirt road.


The show must go on. In a curtain call mixed with tears and roars of applause, she bowed as roses and cards were tossed to the stage. Afterward, she sat alone in her dressing room, standing and looking into the mirror at herself in the dress. Who was she? She stood there, still in full costume, after everyone had gone. She knew he would come, drawn there by the dress. He walked quietly to her side, and the two stood together in silence for a moment. “You were incredible!” he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around her waist, then sliding them up to her breasts. She gripped them and pulled them down along her stomach, between her legs. “Mmmmmm” he said, burying his face into the back of her hair as he started to lift up her long dress in back, “you feel so cold . . . .”


They returned an hour before dawn, descending into the lightless vault. She still wore the beautiful dress and jewelry. Lovell was there, stirring something in a pot. He ordered the zombie to his chamber, a separate room to the right. The ritual leader occupied the white marble ante-chamber, featuring an altar, two couches, a green marble table with an oil painting over it, two chairs and a heavy stone vase. Various chambers spurred off from the ante-chamber. One would be hers.

“Did you enjoy your revenge?” Lovell asked.

“Yes” she admitted, for she had no will to deny it.

He dipped a strainer into the pot he was stirring and pulled out a mixture of herbs.

“Take off that dress,” he ordered her. She did it automatically. She was naked under the dress. Internally she could feel self-consciousness of her nakedness, but she no longer had the physical willpower to cover herself. “Hang that thing over there,” he said, pointing to a peg. She did so, her slender body standing before him, exposed, arms at her sides.

“Tell me, c***d,” he asked her, “did you like when that zombie fucked you?”

“Yes.” To lie was impossible.

“You want sex a lot now, yea?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Good.” He laughed.

“Like to suck a cock a lot?” he asked.

“Yes.” She hadn’t even the willpower to feign shame.

“Like to taste that jizzum?”

“No.” she said flatly. He laughed and laughed. She sat there naked, waiting. She had all the time in the world.

He reached out and, with the lightest touch, ran the tip of a finger over the swell of her left breast. “You believed in showing him all you knew in life you grounded him eh? And in taking from him? Ha ha. Yesss. You know better now, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“You know now, it grounded you instead! And now, you like revenge so much, you can do that a lot too.” He smiled at her, almost kindly. “Pretty soon I can think up some more revenge you can have.” He pressed his finger lightly on the swell of her cold lip.

“Now squat down on that cinder block right there. We need it warm for later on maybe, yeah?” and he erupted in laughter, the same sound repeated again and again, as if for eternity.

She squatted down on the cinder block just as he instructed. She knelt. Part of her was aware that the block had been heated recently to a very high degree, and she was seated on it, by Lovell’s instructions, in such a way that her quim was positioned directly on top of it. “Fan it out so the inside get the full heat,” he instructed. She did so. She still felt sensations, but heat and cold and pain were not among them. She still felt emotion, and certainly pleasure and… hunger. Her mind went back to him, and how she had moaned as he had been inside her, how she had let him finish before she . . . . took her revenge on him. Just thinking of it stirred her hunger, physical in every sense of the word.

Lovell lifted the strainer over her head and ordered her to tilt her chin back. He sprinkled her face, hair, her entire body, especially the sexual organs, with the herbs strained from the concoction. “I’m gonna make sure you stay the way you looked at death forever and ever, good?” he asked with a grin.

“Yes” she said, “it is.”

“We gonna have a lot of fun,” he said, taking a smoking hot metal spoon from the pot. “Open your mouth, put some heat on it, c***d,” he said with a laugh.


64% (4/2)
Categories: FetishTaboo
Posted by lovesasian1981
3 years ago    Views: 396
Comments (1)
Reply for:
Reply text
Please login or register to post comments.
3 years ago
wow thats awesome