Disclaimer:
the following story is a work of
dark erotic fantasy fiction
. It deals with mature themes and contains scenes of violence, representations of sexual situations which may or may not be consensual, and is intended for informed adult readers only. All characters portrayed in this story are adults. This work is not for profit and is intended as entertainment only. The author does not support or encourage violence or humiliation towards anyone. Characters in this story are fictional and not based on any person living or dead, and are not meant to infringe on any existing characters in other literatures.
Some of you may quickly figure out the backstory behind this one. If so, good for you. I just hope you appreciate the effort that went into this... I'm gonna say 'parody'. It's the sincerest form of flattery, so it is said.
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Sometimes, I remember how it all started. It mostly happens when I'm dreaming. It's been many years now. I could never go back, but it's sometimes difficult to remember I wasn't always here, in this different place. I was somewhere else - I was someone else - and so different from who I am today.
Still innocent.
It's hard to keep track of time without a proper calendar. That said, I know it's been at least twenty years since I arrived here; I know it from the passage of time on my body as much as from the patterns of this new existence. I may be older than I feel or look, but that's another aspect of this place which still escapes me and challenges my time-keeping skills. I have to count time as I used to even if it probably does not unfold at the same pace beyond the storm. My body and mind have both adapted to this world. That may be where the confusion stems from.
Certainly, my body doesn't betray my age. When I stare at myself in the mirror, I still recognize that young face which first laid eyes upon this realm. Pale blue eyes, golden locks; they're trimmed short to the shoulders now but they used to reach to the middle of my back. My lips are fuller and my nose is now always a bit crooked due to past experiences and injuries. It never healed properly. It's still me though, that same face... Meredith Gale, my mother would tell me, go clean your face before dinner.
When I can, when I have access to water, I always clean my face before dinner now. I can't help it. It's the little rituals remembered from the past that have kept me sane over these years of exile.
Today, I remember how it began, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror, watching the few scars that linger on my naked body. I'm beautiful and I know it - everybody knows it. Maybe that's the problem. It's often been the solution too. Neither short nor tall, not too imposing, nothing to challenge anyone with. C-cup at best and still relatively firm, hips just wide enough, just like my ass - a perfect figure for most. I'm much toner than I was when I arrived, though I was still very athletic at... 19. In 1961. That was the year. I remember it today.
It started with a storm...
"For the love of god, Meredith, hurry up!"
Meredith Gale, daughter of Charles-Henri and Emily, raced from the house to the storm shelter, backpack in hand. All around them, the wind had picked up speed. The tornado was almost on top of their Kansas farm.
"Will you hurry up!" her father yelled.
"I'm here..."
She ran past the threshold of the cellar and her father pulled the door close. They lived in Kansas: tornadoes were a way of life, with a few scares every year. They had it down to a routine by now. Secure vital belongings, race to the shelter and wait it out. Outside, the winds were picking up. This tornado was fierce, and it would be very close.
"What if it's all destroyed?" Emily Gale lamented as she grabbed her daughter's arm.
"We'll rebuild," Charles-Henri calmly replied.
The couple, both in their forties, checked the inventory. They might be down there for a few hours. They allowed their 19-year old daughter to do her own thing; she sat down and opened a book.
"Aren't you a bit old for that one?" her mother asked.
"What?" the daughter replied. "Frank Baum is a great writer and I love this story."
For a moment, Meredith watched her mother wander about the storm cellar; she admired her graying hair from which the blonde was fading, as well as her buxom figure. Meredith was way too slim for her own tastes and she hoped to blossom like her mother had. The boys really enjoyed a bit more flesh, apparently.
Outside, the wind bellowed its fierce song as the tornado struck the vicinity.
"Goddamn!" Charles-Henry called out, looking up. "That's a shitstorm of proportions."
"Charles!" the mother replied. "Language!"
"Sorry... it's a... heckuva storm."
Meredith giggled; her father only swore when the ambiance got tense, or when leaving church. He gave his daughter a playful wink before sitting down and lighting a cigarette. His wife sat beside him, nervously staring at the ceiling door as the wind slapped it repeatedly.
"It's a sturdy door," he called out sensing her unease. "That tornado's not getting in!"
"Dad's good with his hands, mom! He built the house and it's still standing."
"It may not be standing after this," Emily blurted out, unable to contain her dread.
After a few minutes, there was a sudden lull in the sound coming from outside.
"Probably the eye," Charles-Henri stated.
No one had any notion of moving outside to check; habits formed from experience and caution told them how long they needed to wait before exiting the cellar. They would wait it out the appropriate amount of time.
"It's eerily quiet," Meredith surprised herself saying.
A loud crack suddenly resonated from the cellar door, as if something hard had struck it. All eyes turned to it. A moment later, a second crack shook the door apart. The family saw what appeared to be a metal length crash through the paneling. Everyone jumped from surprise. A loud angry voice echoed from outside.
"What the hell?" Charles-Henri cried out as he rose to his feet.
A third crack broke apart a segment of the cellar door, revealing the item that was striking it repeatedly: a large axe-head. The voice from outside repeated similar sounding words, though none of the family understood them. A boot kicked in the cellar door.
Emily and Meredith Gale screamed, even as the father stared at the broken entryway.
"What the hell?" he repeated.
The rest became a blur of movement as several creatures - monster-like people - rushed into the storm cellar. Meredith, in the far corner, watched in horror, petrified, as her father was run over by the descending beastmen. They were tall, covered in fur of varying colors from head to toe; they seemed to wear animal masks over their heads. One of them sported a large two-handed axe; the others bore no weapons other than their bulging muscles. Emily Gale screamed as one of the monstermen seized her and flung her effortlessly over his shoulder.
