Naughty in the Itchen

I wish I could move.

I want to. I want to get up from here and run as far and fast as I can from this horrible place. To scream for help... but no one would be there to help me.

No help for me. Or for my sister.

I can see my sister. Like me her eyes weep from where the knives plunged in. The skin bruised, torn and ragged around her mouth. Her insides vomited out upon the table, ignored for now by her killers.

Just like me. Yet not.

I too have been gutted and left here. Ignored. But I still live.

Shifting my eyes at a deep moan I can see why they are ignoring us. Having killed us both they are now fucking. Fucking on the kitchen floor, rutting like animals. I have to watch as he moves his hands over her pale white thighs. Pushing her legs open then he slides himself on top of her. She gives no protest as he sinks into her. Sinks into her the way the knife he used sank into me. Cutting and ripping and tearing at my inner flesh.

She moans in pleasure.

I cried far louder than she does. Impalement. How horrible it felt when that hard, hot, bar of steel sank into me for the first time. Breaking through thin skin, going deeper despite my protests. I had cried, so had my sister at her vile defilement by the woman. They bought us, purchased us like slaves at the auction block. That we were bought to be slaughtered is now so apparent. They planned this out for days in advance. Our murder and dismemberment thought out in such callous details.

I watch in sick horror, unable to turn away as they fuck. Animals caught in the rut. Lust driven stink filling the air in the kitchen, with its foul muskiness.

Oh great, now he has her on her knees. She begs for his cock, but then she begs for him to be gentle when he brushes her ass with the head. Does he listen? He didn't listen when I begged. When my sister begged her cries were ignored as well.

I look away as he penetrates the woman from behind. I wish I could move enough to cover my ears, to not hear her moan of pleasure/ pain. It is obscene to hear such noises while my sister and I lay here slaughtered. Ripped and gutted for their sick pleasure. Their lust building with their slaughter as their knives flashed, over and over again into our hot flesh. Even now I want to weep at the last sounds, the pitiful, begging, moan my sister made when they spilled her vitals upon the kitchen table.

I cry as I see her inner most parts so sickeningly gorged up on piece of newspaper. I cry for her. I cry for me. I cry even for these two sick people, rutting like dogs now. How twisted their minds and hearts must be to plan this act of murder and then to follow it with such carnal glee at our slaughter.

How sick.

The man screams out and pulls the woman close. She cries out in pain at the deeper intrusion then gives a disappointed sound that he has finished so soon. He laughs and, catching her leg, rolls her onto her back. I gag when he buries his face between her thighs. I look away from the wet mess he licks, but my eyes fall up the wetter mess next to me. How? How could they have done this to me? To my sister? She was so sweet. So innocent.

As innocent as I was. Before they took me. Cut me. Broke my wet flesh open and spilled seed upon the table in riotous abandonment.

The woman cries out in a lust driven madness. The same madness that they both must have been filled with when they planned this night. How to wrap the mind around such thoughts and not go mad? I am in some way thankful when they rise from the floor. When they settle their clothes back into place. Their carnal lust sated, their retched cries of pleasure ended, when I wish only to weep. Far more than I could take, their pleasure. I had begun to feel my mind slipping away into darker places where only revenge and vengeance live.

Should I not wish for that? Should I not crave that? Here we were slaughtered and to have to listen to them talking about it. About how we are to be displayed in some sick creative way for their equally twisted friends to observe and comment upon! Should I not wish for the same as was done to us to be done to them?

Would that not be justice?

I try to cry out as my sister is lifted and carried from the room. I'm too tired to make even that sound though. Then it's my turn to be taken in rough hands and dragged from the table. Carried out the room and through their house. How terrible everything appears draped as it is in black, purple, and orange. Who are these sick people that decorate their homes with spiders, ghosts, witches and most horribly they have sounds of moaning and screams of terror coming from some other room. Who are these fiends? Who makes those sounds? How many innocent lives have they done this monstrous act to?

I weep to see my sweet sister.

They have displayed her once perfect body in a place of sick honor. But I gag in true horror when I see the glow of fire from within her eyes! What have they done to you my sister? What new deprivation have they visited upon you? A mercy it is that she passed so quickly. They she did not live to see this. Would that I had died as easily. Would that I had left this horror behind.

Then I feel his hands within me!

Then heat, oh, gods the heat!

A fire is lit within my flesh, a hot searing pain to burn the very flesh, scorch it! The fiends! The devils! The sick twisted murderers, not content with merely killing us but they must do this. This final torture. I cry for mercy, but the only one I get is to be left to my suffering. Hours of it!

Darkness falls, the cool of the night no comfort from the searing agony. At the sound of laughter I looking up through my pain.

NO! NO! Run children!

Do not come to this house! These people are killers! Flee! Flee while you can, before they tempt you inside. I saw the bowls of candy they had by the door for just such an act!

Flee!

Before they put a candle in your head too!

*

(My wife says she worries about me sometimes. MST)

( I would like to thank patientlee for her time editing this story. Without her help there would be commas everywhere.)