Pale, blood spattered skin. High round breasts, shuddering. Muscles jumping, twitching. Spread legs, laced with gashes. Red stained lips, parted. Gasping. Panting. Screaming. Leather gloved hands gripping twisted hips, restraining. Holding down. Bruising.

Where was James? James, James, James. Why didn’t he save her? Maria’s naked body writhed on the dirty table, splayed out between archaic surgical instruments, beneath hanging corpses. James would never save her, could never save her. She had been created to die again and again, to live in torment and anguish.

And the monster held her down. Cut her, tore into her, sliced her perfect white skin. Stomach gashed, viscera glistening, blood trickling from her mouth. The monster took her, forcing itself into her body, stretching the slick pink skin of her cunt. Slick with sweat and blood her body bucked as the creature drove into her again and again, soundless, faceless mask looming above her like some blunt edged weapon of old.

The knife entered her body. Her skin split beneath it and Maria screamed, jumping as though shot, the Great Knife pinning her leg to the table. It cut through her thigh, red washes of liquid heat spilling over her. Splattering her thighs and between her legs, wet against her slit.

The monster withdrew. Maria fell to the table, shuddering, breasts shaking. The knife pulled out of her flesh, roughly. The pain so intense it was beautiful. Roughly, the monster flipped her over. Maria lay spread on the dirty table, and the knife through her back was no surprise. Like a butterfly in a collection she lay nailed to the table. Slick, ropelike flesh gripped her wrists, pulling her up. Confused, frightened, she looked over her shoulder, upper body half lifted from the table, breasts glistening with blood and sweat in the murky red light.

From beneath the thing’s helmet spilled forth a mass of writhing tentacles, brackish brown and thick. They wrapped around her. Her thighs - still bleeding - her arms, her breasts. They squeezed and threatened to crush her fragile bones. The thing’s monstrous cock nudged at her once more, between her legs, before spitting her once more. With every movement the knife cut into her more, the wound opening. Throat raw from screaming, Maria let her head fall forward. Tentacles around her neck, forcing it back up. Forcing her lips to part. Sliding into her mouth and making her gag.

She was lifted from the table, lifted with the Great Knife still through her, leaving a gaping hole between her breasts. A tentacle slithered inside, fucking the open wound as her breasts were squeezed and gripped, tips of slick inhuman flesh brushing over her nipples.

She was held aloft for her unholy rape, legs ripped open to the point where her hips creaked, the monster’s cock driving up into her body, tentacles in her mouth, through her chest, holding her arms out in parody of a martyr nailed to a cross, gripping her waist and slipping into the tear in her once smooth stomach, harder and faster until Maria was sure she would die.

The monster came, roaring and thrusting into her one final time. Her body dropped and she choked, gagging, leaking blood and semen onto the stained floor. A kick to her midsection and she fell, the light blinking out of her eyes at last.

Only to return a moment later, the wounds covering her body closing, to repeat the process over again.

Henry squirmed on the bed, feeling heavy and drugged. He tried not to open his eyes... seeing what Walter was doing to him made it even worse. But the touch of the knife nearly made his eyes fly open. Henry could feel it, the way the knife curved just above his knee.

And Walter's other hand was on his cock, making him hard despite the pain. Another stroke of the knife, quick but agonizing. “Twenty-one...” Walter murmured as he fondled Henry.

He was bleeding, and he knew it, and then Walter's mouth was on his thigh. In the end he opened his eyes to see Walter grinning at him, his face covered in Henry's blood. This time Henry watched as the knife made another stroke, wanting to pass out but unable to. His cock twitched in Walter's hand as the man licked blood from around his mouth.

Henry screwed his eyes shut and tried not think as the knife entered his thigh close to his sac and Walter gave his cock a harsh jerk. Everything was building up and yet darkening at once. Could a person come and die at the same time?

He felt the final dig into his thigh, then looked down to see his own blood again as Walter sucked it up, his cheek rubbing on Henry's balls. Finally he came, painfully and without release, more liquid spilling on Walter's hand as he murmured. “And twenty-one. Finished.”

Eileen sat on the bed, her long coltish legs bend feet hidden under her body. She wore nothing but her bra and panties - light pink with purple polka-dots, bra modest, panties wide and cut high on her legs, charming and almost girlish. And somehow more appealing than the sheerest negligee or most revealing combination. Because it was so very Eileen.

Henry stood behind the camera, fidgeting with buttons and knobs. Eileen was laughing, almost shy. She bent her head and reached to tuck her hair behind her ear and Henry found himself raising the camera and clicking the shutter. Eileen looked startled.

“Are we starting already?” she asked, blushing a little.

“No. I’m sorry, I just thought you looked….” He trailed off, feeling awkward. “You just looked perfect, like that.”

Eileen’s blush deepened. Henry cleared his throat and lifted the camera once more. Now he was ready. He nodded, and Eileen smiled, lifting her arms and clasping her hands behind her head and striking a pose like a pinup girl from the 50s. Henry swallowed hard, snapping away, entranced by the sight of her.

It was somehow easier to be safely behind the camera, watching her, than it was to touch her, to kiss her, to make love to her. Here, Henry had no fear of being awkward or clumsy or doing the wrong thing. This he knew.

Eileen turned, smiling, arching her back and thrusting out her breasts. Every so often she laughed, and her cheeks stained pink, and Henry wasn’t sure if she was uncomfortable or just thought this was silly. He suspected the latter. Because she moved without shame or embarrassment. She bent and arched and posed, pouting then breaking into a smile and covering her face with hands in a good natured fashion.

And Henry kept taking pictures.

She surprised him. She crossed her arms over her chest, gripping her shoulders, the image of coy and shy and flirtatious. And Henry took the photo and then Eileen was pulling down the straps of her bra, slowly, almost teasing. Her arms obscured her breasts as the straps dangled down her arm and Henry catalogued the movement in pictures, quick shot after quick shot as he felt his mouth beginning to dry.

There was a teasing look in Eileen’s eyes as she covered her breasts with one arm, pulling the other from her bra-strap like a dancing girl. She reached behind her and in the quiet of the apartment Henry could hear the clasp of her undergarment opening. He saw the material hang away, suddenly, held up only by Eileen’s own arm and one loose strap. Which she slid off, letting the bra fall away until her bare torso was obscured only by her arms.

Henry had to pause, frozen in time as he looked at her through the lens of the camera. She was perfect. He couldn’t think of any other word to describe her as she knelt there, bra in a heap on the comforter, glimpses of her smooth breasts visible through the narrow gaps between her arms.

“Is this…okay?” she asked, and Henry watched as her face fell suddenly.

“What? Oh! Yeah, of course. I just… got distracted.” And now he blushed and Eileen lowered her eyes and she was smiling. And she lowered one arm, only wrist and hand covering her nipples. Henry remembered he had a camera in his hands and he continued to photograph her, trying to detach himself, trying to ignore the surge of blood that rushed downwards. And when Eileen let her hand fall away completely Henry sucked in his breath. He’d seen her breasts before - held them, caressed them, kissed them - but there was something different about seeing her this way.

It was almost dirty. Her poses were innocent for a few frames, tame pinup homages that suited her perfectly. And then she ran her hands over her breasts, and her tame movements became sensual. Her arched back was no longer aesthetic, but inviting. And her eyes told Henry she knew it.

(cont)

PART 1/1

She appeared out of nowhere, much like she always did, slinking out of the night, at first just a shadow that crawled across the walls and the floor and the ceiling until she was right in front of him.

And she startled him, much like she always did, and he jumped and gasped, weapon instinctively raised, just like he always did. The routine was almost becoming monotonous now; he should have had it down to a science.

Dim sunlight tried to cut through the fog, failed, and left Maria's face illuminated by not much more than the flickering lamp outside the Happy Burger restaurant. James dropped his gun to his side quickly, embarrassed that he'd aimed it at her.

"I've been looking for you," she scolded gently, hands on her hips, lips smoothed into a grim smile. "I could have died out here, you know."

"I know," he said, and he scanned the dense fog around them for any signs of alien movement. He saw none and was reassured, so he focused once more on her. His free hand came up to tap two fingers lightly against her wrist. "Are you alright?"

Her eyes flicked down to his hand touching her wrist and then back up to his face, and she shook him off by waving that hand. "I'm fine. A girl like me can handle herself." After some consideration, she added: "Most of the time, anyway."

He inspected her at a distance just to be sure, and then nodded slowly. "Okay." The moment seemed unbearably awkward, then, and he brought the gun up to his chest to stroke the bottom of the magazine fondly.

Maria's grin took a darker turn. "You sure love that gun more than you love me," she commented.

James dropped the gun to his side once more shyly. "Maria, I don't--"

"--love me?" she finished for him, taking a step closer.

"--value a gun more than you," he corrected, shaking his head. She stepped closer, crept, almost, slunk until she could comfortably rest her cheek on his shoulder.

James brought his hands up to wrap tentatively around her shoulders, and his gun pressed only faintly against her back. It left a cold, hollow brand.

They stayed like that for longer than he had the patience to count, seconds ticking away until he found himself distracted by the push of her breasts against her chest, rising and falling with her breath, rising and falling with his breath, coinciding, contradicting, corrugating the iron of a relationship based firmly on a pact of guilt, sin, and suffering.

So maybe, just maybe, it wasn't such a surprise that James didn't protest too much when Maria slipped hands up into his hair, fingers threading and long, manicured fingernails tickling the skin at the nape of his neck. Naked, bare, vulnerable; each were yawning wells of emotion, tapped too deeply once upon a time and now liable to be tapped too deeply once more.

James slammed his back against the adjacent brick wall, and he dragged Maria with him by the collar of her sweater. Breasts firm against his chest; hips teasing against his thighs. Lips ghosting across his jaw, his ear, whispering words and things and declarations that he didn't understand anyway.

And the gun was there, still searing, still stigmatizing. Still defiling.

Bright, pink lips, pursed and quivering; thin, chapped lips, cool and waiting. Tongues on lips, her tongue on his, in his mouth, warm when nothing else quite was, tangible when nothing else had quite been. He could touch her and she wouldn't complain of a weakness or fall away into a dream. Maria was real, Mary had been once.

Claudia liked to fuck Walter, lying to herself that it was about keeping him in the cult's control and not the feel of his cock buried in her, the expression on his face as he pleaded wordlessly with her for his own release. And she would let him come, when he was good, and let Walter stroke her to own orgasm, or bury his badly shaven face between her thighs, still pretending she didn't care. That she didn't even know the word fuck, after all.

But there were other times she need more... more control, more anything. She would mount him, staring down into those wild eyes, waiting for the signs of his vulnerability. And her forearm would lock over his throat and he would cry out but still not say no. He never stopped her, because by then she would be riding his cock and telling him she knew he wanted it, and she would watch as he struggled to breathe and his face began to change color. “What do you see?” she would scream at him as she moved her hips and pressed her arm down harder. And he wouldn't answer, he would only choke and writhe and still stare up at her.

“What do you see?” but it was always too late and he was arching up and coming inside her, his movements weak from lack of breath but still not struggling away.

Later he would tell her, and he soon learned not to say “you” or “mother” “The god!” he would say out loud, and she would nod, and refrain from punishing him.

It was awkward, getting down on one knee in that
apron. But she was worth it. She nodded a blissful
yes with her top legs when Pyramid Head growled his
question.

The ring was a bit of a problem as she had nothing
approaching fingers, nor a neck to wear it on a chain.
But she put it on one of her toes and gleefully
showed it to the other mannequins. The patient
monsters, who didn't have hands either, complimented
her on it, and even the nurses were a bit jealous –
the helmeted stud was quite a catch. But Mannequin
506 was a nice girl with great legs, and she clearly
deserved her man-monster.

Valtiel agreed to give the bride away, or at least
they were pretty sure that was what he was agreeing
to, and they went in search of a minister.

Father Vincent threw a book at the wall. “Oh
hell no. I have fucking limits you
know; there are other churches in this town...” But
in the end he muttered something which was actually a
biscuit recipe just to get them all out of his office.

The wedding night was lovely. The bride wore a sheer
negligee and two sets of crotchless panties. Pryamid
Head was so overjoyed he almost dropped the Great
Knife, and they made sweet love in the bridal suite of
the Lakewood Hotel all night long.

But they never sent thank you notes for the wedding
presents. Because Silent Hill just isn't a very nice
place sometimes.

I second this motion.

It was a small, musty, worn apartment. Nothing special, nothing interesting. Old furniture, faded curtains, dusty tributes scattered here and there in testament to some female touch that had long since been absent.

Cynthia slipped off her coat, folding it over one arm. She stood in the doorway, expectantly.

“Is everything all right?” Why wouldn’t it be? She knew she looked good. Tight red dress, fuck-me pumps, thigh high stockings. Sexy, but the classy end of sex appeal. Call girl rather than street walker. Sensual, not slut. It was a fine line.

“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Come in, Miss….?”

“You can call me Cynthia, handsome.” She moved into the apartment on long, lean legs. Her heels clicked on the hard wood floor.

“Cynthia. I want you to know I don’t normally do this. But I’ve been alone a long time, and a man…”

“Please.” She turned, red lips smiling. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Sometimes a gentleman needs a little company, that’s all. I’m happy to be your company for this evening, Frank. May I call you Frank?”

“I think that’d only be right. Can I get you something to drink? I think I’ve got some beer in the fridge…”

“Aren’t you sweet?” Old, awkward, but sweet she supposed. He wouldn’t look her in the eye, and he hadn’t even so much as made a move to take her coat. No, it was very clear he didn’t do this often. He certainly didn’t look as though he had the money to spend on expensive women.

Common class hookers, maybe. But not an agency girl. It was a decent gig, really. Discretion, good pay, a level of security. And it let her keep her own hours and live the lifestyle she enjoyed. So she sometimes had clients that were below her standards, so what? There was no harm in giving them a thrill.

Cynthia tossed her coat over a chair.

“Why don’t we skip the beer?” she purred, moving towards Frank. She supposed he wasn’t terribly bad looking. He wasn’t fat, he wasn’t bald, he didn’t reek of death and mildew.

“If you say so. Should we…where should we do this?” Stumbling over words, wringing his hands. Cynthia reached up, hands sliding along Frank’s shoulders. Worn soft cotton wrinkled under her red, manicured nails.

“Wherever you’d like.” He didn’t touch her, even then. Cynthia stepped closer, fingers twining behind his neck. It was oddly endearing when they were shy. She teased the small hairs at the back of his neck, parted her lips, every inch of her body screaming invitation.

And still Frank did nothing but awkwardly place his hands on her hips. Perhaps he was simply out of practice. That was all right. She could just give him a little reminder.

Cynthia tilted her head up, brushing her lips against Franks. His lips were chapped, dry. He returned the kiss almost hesitantly, moving his mouth against hers. She molded her body into his, deepening the kiss. Her tongue slid between his lips, teasing and encouraging, trying to draw him into her seduction.

Frank’s hands on her hips tightened. Through the thin silk of her dress she could feel they were calloused.

They stood in the living room of Frank’s dingy, worn apartment, kissing and holding onto one another until finally, after what seemed like an eternity of strangely restrained kissing, Frank’s roughened fingers pulled carefully at the zipped of Cynthia’s dress.

“Is this alright, then?” he asked, pulling away from her hungry lips. Such a gentleman. Cynthia resisted the urge to laugh. Instead she stroked his cheek, smiling.

“Of course.” Anything he wanted was ‘alright’. Within reason, of course. Cynthia had her limits - any woman did. The zipped was pulled down carefully, the calluses on Frank’s fingers sometimes catching the silk of her dress as he sought to relieve her of it.

Vincent had Things To Do, and he really didn't like doing things. So he was vaguely pissed off to find himself wandering through one of the mazes of passages under Silent Hill looking for that damned girl. If only she'd gotten herself killed by Leonard; this mess would all be over. Not that he really wanted her dead; this wasn't personal... he just didn't want the god coming back and she seemed to be carrying it around so something had to happen. In fact he didn't hate her at all; Vincent found her a little intriguing. And she was certainly hot. She gave him thoughts he shouldn't be having about the mother of the god, especially in that short skirt.

But that didn't matter; he had to find her and -- well, he wasn't going to kill her with his own hands. But if she had the Seal of Metatron, and she'd damn well better, maybe it was Claudia who would go down. He felt a pang at that too, but ... situational ethics and all, and anyway Claudia was a nutball.

And there Heather was, leaning against a wall, with her vest off as he searched the pockets for something. He couldn't resist looking at her in that small tight shirt she wore underneath it. But then that thing came in, the thing from the other side. Claudia called it Valtiel; Vincent called it disgusting but only where no one could hear. For just a moment he hoped it would attack her and solve the whole thing that way but it served the god and must know the girl had the god inside her. And she was staring at it, with what looked more like fascination than horror. That made sense though; the god was probably starting to take over in her. It was going to be too late soon, and Vincent made a frustrated sigh from his dark corner that neither of them seemed to hear.

Then Heather leaned forward and... kissed it. What the hell? Did it even have a mouth? Well, apparently it did, and it had a tongue too, because it licked the girl's neck. Vincent thought he was going to vomit for a minute. Why the hell wasn't she running? But she wasn't, in fact she was murmuring something under her breath that sounded like the chants from the church. Valtiel took its filthy hands and pushed Heather's shirt and bra up and then that horrific tongue was on her breasts. They were admittedly amazing breasts, the damn vest covered up a lot, but that sick angel slurping at them was a little more than Vincent could take. But he had to keep track of Heather, so he just kept watching.

That was when Valtiel started to pull the apron up. Vincent closed his eyes. There were some things he didn't want to know and he definitely didn't want to know what was under there. But apparently it was some form of the obvious equipment, because when he opened his eyes again it had Heather lifted against the wall with her legs up and her panties were lying on the ground and Valtiel was between her thighs fucking her. There was no doubt about that; and she was giving these little moans like it was just what she wanted. He had never planned on seeing Valtiel's ass, either, but he had a good view of it as the servant ground into Heather and she clutched at its back.

She hadn't left, he'd observed. She'd screamed and cried and thrown a fit, but no matter how hard she tried, the portion missing from the road leading out never returned. She'd tried to climb down the side of the broken road, asphalt and dirty crumbling under her searching hands and feet, but she'd returned less than five minutes later, shaky, weak, and cursing about the damn thing probably being bottomless anyway.

Not to him, though. Maria didn't talk to him, and really, he was fine with that. He was fine with just watching.

She'd tried to trek through the forests to escape from the town, but she just continued to return to where she began, or somehow magically on the other side. And after every such event, which she participated in bi-monthly, she'd pull out a metal flask strapped to the inside of her thigh and drown herself in a puddle of vodka and later, her own vomit. But then she'd just pick herself up and stumble off to bathe, and then repeat the process.

She lived through this for about a year or two before she finally realized that no, Silent Hill wasn't going to let her go anywhere, and yes, she should probably just make the best of the situation.

And normally, he had good senses. Damn good senses. He could pin a flesh-eating bug to a wall behind him with the point of the Great Knife, and trust him, the Great Knife was no penknife. He could hear an approaching nurse from miles away and rip her in half before she got a chance to wave any sort of ridiculous weapon around.

So it came as a surprise to him--an immense surprise, in fact; an angry surprise--that he didn't hear Maria sneaking up on him and kicking him hard right behind his knee, causing his leg to buckle, his grip on the Great Knife to slip, his helmet tip forward, and one boot trip over the other. He landed face-first on the concrete, bending his helmet up, exposing his jaw to a rather sharp twig sticking up from between a crack in the cement.

Also, it felt like he'd broken his right wrist when he'd tried to cushion his fall. Broken wrist or not, before even getting up, Pyramid Head reached out for the grip of the Great Knife, rage and fury and everything else that personified utter general intense dissatisfaction pumping through his veins and releasing all that wonderful adrenaline and testosterone that he seemed to have so much of.

A booted foot, much smaller than his own and slightly raised up on a heel, kicked the gargantuan sword away. He stumbled awkwardly to his feet, his helmet dragging him this way and that--did he mention he was very top-heavy?--to watch as Maria picked up his knife, no small task in itself, and deposited it purposefully in a large dumpster. She wiped her hands on her skirt and turned to him, scowling.

He was so shocked that he didn't notice she was advancing on him until she punched him in the gut.

Not that it hurt, but he grunted out of surprise, and with the grunt leaked every bit of testosterone he'd managed to collect all these years in Silent Hill. Surely, this woman was the devil incarnate.

"Listen, you fat son-of-a-bitch," she spat, "you're going to show me a way out of here and you're going to show me fucking now."

He growled deeply and moved to turn around--he didn't have the patience for this--but a swift kick to his left shin forced him to whirl back on the woman. He wasn't much taller than her, in reality, probably just a couple of inches, though the pointed helmet made it seem as though he was absolutely towering.

"What?" Maria demanded, invited, settling such a dark scowl on him that Pyramid Head found himself utterly confused. He wanted to tear her limb from limb, and yet...no. No, he didn't, because this was interesting and painful, and it had been a while since he'd felt any extreme of both of those emotions.

Walter wouldn't follow them here, wouldn't wander amongst the smouldering ruins of Wish House. The place repelled him like an ancient ward and Henry and Eileen took the chance to fall into each other's arms and rest. Inevitably they'd have to move on and face the lethal shadows of ghosts and dogs with lance-like tongues and a man with blood on his mind, but for now they could stop and nurse their wounds.

"I'm scared," Eileen wheezed, her eyes shining like that of a terrified little girl. It unnerved Henry to see her so sick with fear. How long until it consumed her will to survive? He drew her to his side and rested his chin on the crown of her head.

"We can't stop now," he said, smoothing down her hair as she turned her face toward his neck. Her eyelashes fluttered against the skin below his ear as she blinked back tears and Henry squirmed.

Somewhere in the forest that wreathed the orphanage and its useless playground, a creature howled; it was a strangled, piercing cry that startled Eileen into throwing her good arm around Henry with such force that he stumbled backward onto the rung ladder of the monkey bars. The thin metal dug into his thighs as Eileen insinuated herself between his knees.

She gathered him into her arms then, and pillowed his face against the black and blue swell of her breasts while his fingers tentatively outlined the numbers carved into her back. Henry imagined that she'd be left with angry red scars and wondered how Eileen felt about that when she hooked a leg over the rung ladder, anchoring her pelvis close to his.

"You won't leave me, will you?" she asked, nuzzling the plains of his unshaven cheek and awkwardly straddling him. His hands instinctively strayed downward to her ass, but stopped to rest in the small of her back.

This wasn't like Eileen at all. Was she in the throes of another brief posession? Henry couldn't stand being around her when she was like that, beating herself with her own weapon and speaking feverishly in a strange language. He often had to restrain himself from literally shaking her out of it, but all speculation ceased when she rubbed against the fly of his jeans. Even through the thick denim, he could feel the heat radiating from her core and his hands finally clamped to her backside.

"Eileen..."

"Will you?"

He pushed against her with a grunt, feeling a little ashamed at doing so, and tilted his head up to look her in the face. "Of course not."

Heather was a good person. She went to school and she paid her taxes where applicable and she most certainly had never done anything to deserve the hellish environment of Silent Hill.

She didn't deserve to be criticized or patronized, either; not by herself or anybody. Silent Hill had different effects on different people. Could she blamed if she had suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of sexual arousal?

Well...partly. Especially since she was in a church and the corpses of downed "monsters" littered various parts of the room. She really shouldn't be doing this, but she'd tried to ignore it, and with every step, the heat compounded until it became a significant distraction. How was she supposed to defend herself like this? She'd orgasm from the friction of her thighs rubbing together as she ran sooner than she'd escape from a monster or manage to shoot it in the head.

So here she stood, leaning heavily against a dilapidated wall, one hand down her skirt and the other holding a gun tightly. She tried to finish up quickly and cleanly, also as quietly as possibly, but none of that seemed to be working in her favor at the current time. She'd been at it for fifteen minutes already, and she could barely feel any effect of her ministrations at all. She was also soaking her fingers, panties, and thighs, though that was to be expected. But the fact that she had to keep stifling some very position-giving-away sounds was worrying her. She didn't want to be discovered, by man or monster it didn't matter, and especially not like this!

She needed imagery, something in her head, the help along this process. She thought of Vincent, but that didn't work because he was creepy and also an asshole. She thought of Douglas, but the age gap was far too great for her to consider him sexy, in her opinion. She thought of Stanley Coleman, that creepy stalker, because he might have been attractive, and all girls love rape fantasies. But that didn't work either, because as it turned out, Heather didn't enjoy rape fantasies when she was currently smack-dab in the middle of a place like Silent Hill.

There were boys back at home she could think of, and at last, when the pad of her finger pressed particularly hard against her clit, she felt a sharp pang of pleasure, but it was hard to think of them considering her current disposition.

She just bit her lip and pushed her middle finger inside of her, the knuckle of her thumb stimulating her clit as she did so, and started up a familiar pattern of in-out, in-out. She clenched around herself, thankful that she was almost, almost there.

Double-vaginal penetration, even. >>;

http://i25.tinypic.com/id6akx.jpg

"That worked out just great," Lisa muttered to herself, a pang of heavy disappointed escaping from her mouth. She watched Dr. Kaufmann entering his vehicle and driving off. Where to Lisa didn't know.

Kaufmann always liked to keep her in the dark. Lisa sighed, and started to grumble to herself, "Stupid Kaufmann, and stupid Travis. Kaufmann's not even that good in bed," Now there wasn't anything left to do except leave the hotel and go home. As she headed for her car she begin to fantasize about laying in her bed, and touching herself intimately. She could almost feel her own hands playing and squeezing her breasts, and traveling down to her most intimate place. Her fingers would rub that area until she wouldn't be able to take it anymore.

She almost started right then and there, but Lisa did have some self restraint.

It was when she almost reached her car, a beat up piece of crap, that she saw Him. He was standing there, not saying a word. His metallic mask hid half of his face. The other half was scarred horribly, almost as if he had had acid spilled on his face or something. His form was imposing, almost invasion without being invading. Huge muscles covered his massive frame.

He was staring straight at Lisa, his gaze frightening the teenager. She hurried to her car, eyes still transfixed on the Butcher. He made his way to her, his strides long and steady, until he had reached her. His left hand wrapped itself around her throat. Lisa started to panic.

No! I can't die like this! What the hell is this thing? God! Somebody! Help me please!!, Lisa prayed in earnest to a God that may or may not exist. The grip on around her throat was becoming tighter and tighter, constricting her airways. Her lungs felt like they were burning.