Bestiality
The first time I saw myself on video I got a hard on. I don’t remember the girl’s name, but I remember what her blood smelled like as she died.
It started out innocently enough. I took her to a rundown motel and paid her fifty bucks to let my partner videotape her. I told her to strip and bent her over the dresser, entering her. She moaned softly and I couldn’t tell if she was enjoying it. I pushed my fingers into her hair, stroking the pale mane gently. “Do you like it when I fuck you?” I murmured against her ear. She only bit her lip and closed her eyes.
I lowered my head and kissed her shoulder, and the sensuous taste of her skin caused my animal instinct to take over. The girl’s eyes fluttered open and she let out a startled gasp as I curled my fingers tightly around her hair and pulled her head sharply back. “Oh god,” she whispered, her voice trembling once she realized I had her small frame pinned completely against the dresser. I smiled at the thought of what I was about to do to her, and a low laugh escaped my lips.
“God?” I replied, “No darling. God has forsaken you.” She struggled in vain, whimpering, and tears stained her cheeks. Her pitiful cries soon turned into screams as I sank my fingers into her back, clawing at the flesh savagely. The camera zoomed in on her mouth, opened wide in terror, and her head slammed into the streaked mirror over and over again as I hammered myself violently inside her. I growled in lust and hunger, and my mouthful of sharp teeth sliced into her delicate skin. I lapped up the blood that poured from her wounds and brought my hand up to her breast, my eyes glinting in the poor light as I smiled slyly into the camera.
When I came, the intensity of release brought forth a guttural raging howl and I closed my eyes until the feeling passed and I became myself again. I climbed off the corpse and staggered to the bathroom, turning the shower on. As I left, I made sure to reach into her purse and retrieve the fifty before closing the door, leaving the carnage behind.
There are others like me, men that possess an agonizing thirst for the blood of women. They look like everybody else, but their daydreams are haunted with pornographic images of women, naked and exposed, covered in blood. And when they make love to their wives, they often silently wish for piercing screams of anguish, only climaxing at the thought of that certain intoxicating look all women get when tortured. The look is more beautiful when you finally tear them to shreds.
To our kind, mutilation and sex are forever intertwined. It has been so since the dawn of creation. We don’t struggle with the question of it. We don’t fight to suppress it. And we no longer reel against the idea of it. We simply kill. You read about us in the paper sometimes, but often you’re not allowed the privilege of the details. How, after the victim was raped, the entrails were torn out and feasted upon. And always, a video camera and tripod remained, but never a tape.
Knowing that there was a relic for each of our vicious acts comforted us. We did this, so we could live on. Even the men with badges were fearful to let the brutality of the crimes be known. It’s likely that every night they tucked their children into bed and prayed desperately that tomorrow would be different. So far, their prayers have fallen on deaf ears.
They don’t always walk into my traps willingly. No, some of them have to be forced into it. The last girl was difficult. She put up a fight, by god, determined not to go down easily. I had deep fingernail scratches on my face and torn clothing by the time I got her chained to the bed.
Working alone this time, I set up the video camera myself before approaching her. I rubbed my hand down her smooth white belly, and her mouth quivered when I reached her underwear. I ripped them off, cruelly slapping her across the jaw as I revealed the fiery red pelt that matched her bright curls. When I entered her, she cried, making desperate, futile attempts at negotiation.
She pleaded incessantly with me, a river of tears streaming down her face. I didn’t know whether she cried from the pain of me hurting her, or the torment of humiliation as she was made to submit, and I never really cared. I violated her mercilessly and took pleasure in knowing what I was about to take from her.
“Look at the camera baby,” I purred, laying my hand across her face and pressing to the right, so that she had no choice but to do what I asked. The elusive primal urge that I had been waiting for finally took hold of me, and I yearned for blood.
“Take a good hard look,” I leaned down and whispered through her screams. “Because it’s the last thing you’re ever gonna see.”
I replay the tapes every now and again, watching myself with one unlucky wretch after another. Its always the same; only the girls change. The film is grainy and the colors are monochromatic. The sound, you can barely make out. They never say anything of interest, only begging when it is required of them. The scene always ends the same way. At a certain point you start to see the metamorphosis: the bristled hair lengthening, the nails sharpening. Then the camera will invariably go dark, and when it returns everything is red from the blood. And the last thing you see are the yellow eyes of a wolf.
Horror Sleaze Trash 