xuisse:

I felt the blade slice me open, the pain was unbearable, hot searing. I tugged harder at the restraints in response, feeling nothing but pain. The steel spit making movement even more impossible than the restraints would normally allow.

I started to cry, my sobs nothing but muted choking noises, my breathing made more difficult by the spit. I could feel my bowels starting to move under the pull of gravity, as a reflex, I tensed by muscles. The spasms of my ruined muscles did nothing but further help push out my bowels.

I hear them fall onto the metal chute with a wet, sickening slop, I felt light-headed, but the drugs they had given me would ensure that I wouldn’t go into shock or pass out.

I tried looking for the man who was my butcher, but my head was firmly locked forward and I just couldn’t move my eyes far enough to see.

I felt his cool hand stroking me, from my neck to my upper back.

"Shhhh, shh, my lovely meat, it’s far from over yet."

With that, I felt him tugging, removing what was left, gutting me like the meat that I was.

(Permission to post image kindly given by Perilous Thoughts from the story “It’s hot, so hot”)

Other Perilous Thoughts images I’ve posted:

Imagine the rush…
Squirming on the spit…

The Picture in the House

By H.P. Lovecraft

Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places. For them are the catacombs of Ptolemais, and the carven mausolea of the nightmare countries. They climb to the moonlit towers of ruined Rhine castles, and falter down black cobwebbed steps beneath the scattered stones of forgotten cities in Asia. The haunted wood and the desolate mountain are their shrines, and they linger around the sinister monoliths on uninhabited islands. But the true epicure in the terrible, to whom a new thrill of unutterable ghastliness is the chief end and justification of existence, esteems most of all the ancient, lonely farmhouses of backwoods New England; for there the dark elements of strength, solitude, grotesqueness, and ignorance combine to form the perfection of the hideous.
Most horrible of all sights are the little unpainted wooden houses remote from travelled ways, usually squatted upon some damp, grassy slope or leaning against some gigantic outcropping of rock. Two hundred years and more they have leaned or squatted there, while the vines have crawled and the trees have swelled and spread. They are almost hidden now in lawless luxuriances of green and guardian shrouds of shadow; but the small-paned windows still stare shockingly, as if blinking through a lethal stupor which wards off madness by dulling the memory of unutterable things.
In such houses have dwelt generations of strange people, whose like the world has never seen. Seized with a gloomy and fanatical belief which exiled them from their kind, their ancestors sought the wilderness for freedom. There the scions of a conquering race indeed flourished free from the restrictions of their fellows, but cowered in an appalling slavery to the dismal phantasms of their own minds. Divorced from the enlightenment of civilisation, the strength of these Puritans turned into singular channels; and in their isolation, morbid self-repression, and struggle for life with relentless Nature, there came to them dark furtive traits from the prehistoric depths of their cold Northern heritage. By necessity practical and by philosophy stern, these folk were not beautiful in their sins. Erring as all mortals must, they were forced by their rigid code to seek concealment above all else; so that they came to use less and less taste in what they concealed. Only the silent, sleepy, staring houses in the backwoods can tell all that has lain hidden since the early days; and they are not communicative, being loath to shake off the drowsiness which helps them forget. Sometimes one feels that it would be merciful to tear down these houses, for they must often dream.
It was to a time-battered edifice of this description that I was driven one afternoon in November, 1896, by a rain of such chilling copiousness that any shelter was preferable to exposure. I had been travelling for some time amongst the people of the Miskatonic Valley in quest of certain genealogical data; and from the remote, devious, and problematical nature of my course, had deemed it convenient to employ a bicycle despite the lateness of the season. Now I found myself upon an apparently abandoned road which I had chosen as the shortest cut to Arkham; overtaken by the storm at a point far from any town, and confronted with no refuge save the antique and repellent wooden building which blinked with bleared windows from between two huge leafless elms near the foot of a rocky hill. Distant though it was from the remnant of a road, the house none the less impressed me unfavourably the very moment I espied it. Honest, wholesome structures do not stare at travellers so slyly and hauntingly, and in my genealogical researches I had encountered legends of a century before which biassed me against places of this kind. Yet the force of the elements was such as to overcome my scruples, and I did not hesitate to wheel my machine up the weedy rise to the closed door which seemed at once so suggestive and secretive.
I had somehow taken it for granted that the house was abandoned, yet as I approached it I was not so sure; for though the walks were indeed overgrown with weeds, they seemed to retain their nature a little too well to argue complete desertion. Therefore instead of trying the door I knocked, feeling as I did so a trepidation I could scarcely explain. As I waited on the rough, mossy rock which served as a doorstep, I glanced at the neighbouring windows and the panes of the transom above me, and noticed that although old, rattling, and almost opaque with dirt, they were not broken. The building, then, must still be inhabited, despite its isolation and general neglect. However, my rapping evoked no response, so after repeating the summons I tried the rusty latch and found the door unfastened. Inside was a little vestibule with walls from which the plaster was falling, and through the doorway came a faint but peculiarly hateful odour. I entered, carrying my bicycle, and closed the door behind me. Ahead rose a narrow staircase, flanked by a small door probably leading to the cellar, while to the left and right were closed doors leading to rooms on the ground floor.
Leaning my cycle against the wall I opened the door at the left, and crossed into a small low-ceiled chamber but dimly lighted by its two dusty windows and furnished in the barest and most primitive possible way. It appeared to be a kind of sitting-room, for it had a table and several chairs, and an immense fireplace above which ticked an antique clock on a mantel. Books and papers were very few, and in the prevailing gloom I could not readily discern the titles. What interested me was the uniform air of archaism as displayed in every visible detail. Most of the houses in this region I had found rich in relics of the past, but here the antiquity was curiously complete; for in all the room I could not discover a single article of definitely post-revolutionary date. Had the furnishings been less humble, the place would have been a collector’s paradise.
As I surveyed this quaint apartment, I felt an increase in that aversion first excited by the bleak exterior of the house. Just what it was that I feared or loathed, I could by no means define; but something in the whole atmosphere seemed redolent of unhallowed age, of unpleasant crudeness, and of secrets which should be forgotten. I felt disinclined to sit down, and wandered about examining the various articles which I had noticed. The first object of my curiosity was a book of medium size lying upon the table and presenting such an antediluvian aspect that I marvelled at beholding it outside a museum or library. It was bound in leather with metal fittings, and was in an excellent state of preservation; being altogether an unusual sort of volume to encounter in an abode so lowly. When I opened it to the title page my wonder grew even greater, for it proved to be nothing less rare than Pigafetta’s account of the Congo region, written in Latin from the notes of the sailor Lopez and printed at Frankfort in 1598. I had often heard of this work, with its curious illustrations by the brothers De Bry, hence for a moment forgot my uneasiness in my desire to turn the pages before me. The engravings were indeed interesting, drawn wholly from imagination and careless descriptions, and represented negroes with white skins and Caucasian features; nor would I soon have closed the book had not an exceedingly trivial circumstance upset my tired nerves and revived my sensation of disquiet. What annoyed me was merely the persistent way in which the volume tended to fall open of itself at Plate XII, which represented in gruesome detail a butcher’s shop of the cannibal Anziques. I experienced some shame at my susceptibility to so slight a thing, but the drawing nevertheless disturbed me, especially in connexion with some adjacent passages descriptive of Anzique gastronomy.
I had turned to a neighbouring shelf and was examining its meagre literary contents—an eighteenth-century Bible, a Pilgrim’s Progress of like period, illustrated with grotesque woodcuts and printed by the almanack-maker Isaiah Thomas, the rotting bulk of Cotton Mather’s Magnalia Christi Americana, and a few other books of evidently equal age—when my attention was aroused by the unmistakable sound of walking in the room overhead. At first astonished and startled, considering the lack of response to my recent knocking at the door, I immediately afterward concluded that the walker had just awakened from a sound sleep; and listened with less surprise as the footsteps sounded on the creaking stairs. The tread was heavy, yet seemed to contain a curious quality of cautiousness; a quality which I disliked the more because the tread was heavy. When I had entered the room I had shut the door behind me. Now, after a moment of silence during which the walker may have been inspecting my bicycle in the hall, I heard a fumbling at the latch and saw the panelled portal swing open again.
In the doorway stood a person of such singular appearance that I should have exclaimed aloud but for the restraints of good breeding. Old, white-bearded, and ragged, my host possessed a countenance and physique which inspired equal wonder and respect. His height could not have been less than six feet, and despite a general air of age and poverty he was stout and powerful in proportion. His face, almost hidden by a long beard which grew high on the cheeks, seemed abnormally ruddy and less wrinkled than one might expect; while over a high forehead fell a shock of white hair little thinned by the years. His blue eyes, though a trifle bloodshot, seemed inexplicably keen and burning. But for his horrible unkemptness the man would have been as distinguished-looking as he was impressive. This unkemptness, however, made him offensive despite his face and figure. Of what his clothing consisted I could hardly tell, for it seemed to me no more than a mass of tatters surmounting a pair of high, heavy boots; and his lack of cleanliness surpassed description.
The appearance of this man, and the instinctive fear he inspired, prepared me for something like enmity; so that I almost shuddered through surprise and a sense of uncanny incongruity when he motioned me to a chair and addressed me in a thin, weak voice full of fawning respect and ingratiating hospitality. His speech was very curious, an extreme form of Yankee dialect I had thought long extinct; and I studied it closely as he sat down opposite me for conversation.
“Ketched in the rain, be ye?” he greeted. “Glad ye was nigh the haouse en’ hed the sense ta come right in. I calc’late I was asleep, else I’d a heerd ye—I ain’t as young as I uster be, an’ I need a paowerful sight o’ naps naowadays. Trav’lin’ fur? I hain’t seed many folks ’long this rud sence they tuk off the Arkham stage.”
I replied that I was going to Arkham, and apologised for my rude entry into his domicile, whereupon he continued.
“Glad ta see ye, young Sir—new faces is scurce arount here, an’ I hain’t got much ta cheer me up these days. Guess yew hail from Bosting, don’t ye? I never ben thar, but I kin tell a taown man when I see ’im—we hed one fer deestrick schoolmaster in ’eighty-four, but he quit suddent an’ no one never heerd on ’im sence—” Here the old man lapsed into a kind of chuckle, and made no explanation when I questioned him. He seemed to be in an aboundingly good humour, yet to possess those eccentricities which one might guess from his grooming. For some time he rambled on with an almost feverish geniality, when it struck me to ask him how he came by so rare a book as Pigafetta’s Regnum Congo. The effect of this volume had not left me, and I felt a certain hesitancy in speaking of it; but curiosity overmastered all the vague fears which had steadily accumulated since my first glimpse of the house. To my relief, the question did not seem an awkward one; for the old man answered freely and volubly.
“Oh, thet Afriky book? Cap’n Ebenezer Holt traded me thet in ’sixty-eight—him as was kilt in the war.” Something about the name of Ebenezer Holt caused me to look up sharply. I had encountered it in my genealogical work, but not in any record since the Revolution. I wondered if my host could help me in the task at which I was labouring, and resolved to ask him about it later on. He continued.
“Ebenezer was on a Salem merchantman for years, an’ picked up a sight o’ queer stuff in every port. He got this in London, I guess—he uster like ter buy things at the shops. I was up ta his haouse onct, on the hill, tradin’ hosses, when I see this book. I relished the picters, so he give it in on a swap. ’Tis a queer book—here, leave me git on my spectacles—” The old man fumbled among his rags, producing a pair of dirty and amazingly antique glasses with small octagonal lenses and steel bows. Donning these, he reached for the volume on the table and turned the pages lovingly.
“Ebenezer cud read a leetle o’ this—’tis Latin—but I can’t. I hed two er three schoolmasters read me a bit, and Passon Clark, him they say got draownded in the pond—kin yew make anything outen it?” I told him that I could, and translated for his benefit a paragraph near the beginning. If I erred, he was not scholar enough to correct me; for he seemed childishly pleased at my English version. His proximity was becoming rather obnoxious, yet I saw no way to escape without offending him. I was amused at the childish fondness of this ignorant old man for the pictures in a book he could not read, and wondered how much better he could read the few books in English which adorned the room. This revelation of simplicity removed much of the ill-defined apprehension I had felt, and I smiled as my host rambled on:
“Queer haow picters kin set a body thinkin’. Take this un here near the front. Hev yew ever seed trees like thet, with big leaves a-floppin’ over an’ daown? And them men—them can’t be niggers—they dew beat all. Kinder like Injuns, I guess, even ef they be in Afriky. Some o’ these here critters looks like monkeys, or half monkeys an’ half men, but I never heerd o’ nothing like this un.” Here he pointed to a fabulous creature of the artist, which one might describe as a sort of dragon with the head of an alligator.
“But naow I’ll shew ye the best un—over here nigh the middle—” The old man’s speech grew a trifle thicker and his eyes assumed a brighter glow; but his fumbling hands, though seemingly clumsier than before, were entirely adequate to their mission. The book fell open, almost of its own accord and as if from frequent consultation at this place, to the repellent twelfth plate shewing a butcher’s shop amongst the Anzique cannibals. My sense of restlessness returned, though I did not exhibit it. The especially bizarre thing was that the artist had made his Africans look like white men—the limbs and quarters hanging about the walls of the shop were ghastly, while the butcher with his axe was hideously incongruous. But my host seemed to relish the view as much as I disliked it.
“What d’ye think o’ this—ain’t never see the like hereabouts, eh? When I see this I telled Eb Holt, ‘That’s suthin’ ta stir ye up an’ make yer blood tickle!’ When I read in Scripter about slayin’—like them Midianites was slew—I kinder think things, but I ain’t got no picter of it. Here a body kin see all they is to it—I s’pose ’tis sinful, but ain’t we all born an’ livin’ in sin?—Thet feller bein’ chopped up gives me a tickle every time I look at ’im—I hev ta keep lookin’ at ’im—see whar the butcher cut off his feet? Thar’s his head on thet bench, with one arm side of it, an’ t’other arm’s on the graound side o’ the meat block.”
As the man mumbled on in his shocking ecstasy the expression on his hairy, spectacled face became indescribable, but his voice sank rather than mounted. My own sensations can scarcely be recorded. All the terror I had dimly felt before rushed upon me actively and vividly, and I knew that I loathed the ancient and abhorrent creature so near me with an infinite intensity. His madness, or at least his partial perversion, seemed beyond dispute. He was almost whispering now, with a huskiness more terrible than a scream, and I trembled as I listened.
“As I says, ’tis queer haow picters sets ye thinkin’. D’ye know, young Sir, I’m right sot on this un here. Arter I got the book off Eb I uster look at it a lot, especial when I’d heerd Passon Clark rant o’ Sundays in his big wig. Onct I tried suthin’ funny—here, young Sir, don’t git skeert—all I done was ter look at the picter afore I kilt the sheep for market—killin’ sheep was kinder more fun arter lookin’ at it—” The tone of the old man now sank very low, sometimes becoming so faint that his words were hardly audible. I listened to the rain, and to the rattling of the bleared, small-paned windows, and marked a rumbling of approaching thunder quite unusual for the season. Once a terrific flash and peal shook the frail house to its foundations, but the whisperer seemed not to notice it.
“Killin’ sheep was kinder more fun—but d’ye know, ’twan’t quite satisfyin’. Queer haow a cravin’ gits a holt on ye— As ye love the Almighty, young man, don’t tell nobody, but I swar ter Gawd thet picter begun ta make me hungry fer victuals I couldn’t raise nor buy—here, set still, what’s ailin’ ye?—I didn’t do nothin’, only I wondered haow ’twud be ef I did— They say meat makes blood an’ flesh, an’ gives ye new life, so I wondered ef ’twudn’t make a man live longer an’ longer ef ’twas more the same—” But the whisperer never continued. The interruption was not produced by my fright, nor by the rapidly increasing storm amidst whose fury I was presently to open my eyes on a smoky solitude of blackened ruins. It was produced by a very simple though somewhat unusual happening.
The open book lay flat between us, with the picture staring repulsively upward. As the old man whispered the words “more the same” a tiny spattering impact was heard, and something shewed on the yellowed paper of the upturned volume. I thought of the rain and of a leaky roof, but rain is not red. On the butcher’s shop of the Anzique cannibals a small red spattering glistened picturesquely, lending vividness to the horror of the engraving. The old man saw it, and stopped whispering even before my expression of horror made it necessary; saw it and glanced quickly toward the floor of the room he had left an hour before. I followed his glance, and beheld just above us on the loose plaster of the ancient ceiling a large irregular spot of wet crimson which seemed to spread even as I viewed it. I did not shriek or move, but merely shut my eyes. A moment later came the titanic thunderbolt of thunderbolts; blasting that accursed house of unutterable secrets and bringing the oblivion which alone saved my mind.

Sometimes I wish I was a spider hybrid.

just like to say I loved the recent 7 chapter evil in me story. please post more. thanks.

I would recommend following The Evil In Me, he wrote the story. :)
the-evil-in-me:

-Part 7-
-Bonus-
Xuisse lay in the sun and soaked in the warmth and the rays of the sun as she relaxed.  Her legless body was easy to move around and she could get where she needed to go on her own, and now she was enjoying the sunshine on the side of their private pool and thinking of the baby she knew was inside the house asleep.  Her breasts were larger than ever before and heavy with milk, and she knew that he would come for her soon and drink from her, or perhaps he would take her inside to the pump and store the milk away for later, it was one of the things that he had always fantasized about and now it was a reality and he often drank from her breasts while his cock filled her and she moaned for him, clutching at him with her arms, the stumps where her hands had been barely registering to her anymore and her libido so high now that she always came almost instantly when he filled her.  And as a shadow fell across her for a moment, she took her arms away from her body and lifted them over her head to display herself to him with a smile.  She was fully recovered from the childbirth two months previously and she already knew that she wanted another baby in her, she felt complete when there was another life growing within her body, and as he reached for her, she imagined that she was spreading her legs, because she had never once denied him sex, but her legs were gone and the point was moot, but to her it was still important that she was welcoming for him and she smiled as he filled her and when she came, she came hard.

As he stroked through her she moaned and whimpered and begged him for another baby, she begged him to plant his seed within her and make her complete, to make her his baby oven again and he just smiled and she was happy, she was happier than she had ever been in her life.

the-evil-in-me:

-Part 7-

-Bonus-

Xuisse lay in the sun and soaked in the warmth and the rays of the sun as she relaxed.  Her legless body was easy to move around and she could get where she needed to go on her own, and now she was enjoying the sunshine on the side of their private pool and thinking of the baby she knew was inside the house asleep.  Her breasts were larger than ever before and heavy with milk, and she knew that he would come for her soon and drink from her, or perhaps he would take her inside to the pump and store the milk away for later, it was one of the things that he had always fantasized about and now it was a reality and he often drank from her breasts while his cock filled her and she moaned for him, clutching at him with her arms, the stumps where her hands had been barely registering to her anymore and her libido so high now that she always came almost instantly when he filled her.  And as a shadow fell across her for a moment, she took her arms away from her body and lifted them over her head to display herself to him with a smile.  She was fully recovered from the childbirth two months previously and she already knew that she wanted another baby in her, she felt complete when there was another life growing within her body, and as he reached for her, she imagined that she was spreading her legs, because she had never once denied him sex, but her legs were gone and the point was moot, but to her it was still important that she was welcoming for him and she smiled as he filled her and when she came, she came hard.

As he stroked through her she moaned and whimpered and begged him for another baby, she begged him to plant his seed within her and make her complete, to make her his baby oven again and he just smiled and she was happy, she was happier than she had ever been in her life.

the-evil-in-me:

-Part 6-

-Two Years Later-

It had taken Xuisse most of a year to heal and recover from the surgeries, and most of another year to really accept that what he had done to her was real and permanent.  Her old life was over, and he had given some excuse when the ballet had come looking for her, but she didn’t know the details, and they hadn’t come back again.  He had turned her studio into her entire world for the longest time, but he had never neglected her and soon her resentment and fear from what he had done began to fade.  He was her sole human contact and the feelings she had for him, the physical attraction and affection between them remained and in time it had proven stronger than the other feelings.  And once she had healed enough for them to have sex again she had learned that all of her fantasies were true.

Hardly a night went by when she wasn’t in his bed or on the floor with his cum leaking from her somewhere and the labiaplasty had exposed a lot of very sensitive areas of her pussy, making every stroke a miniature orgasm.  Her breasts were larger than they had ever been in her life and so tender and sensitive from how quickly they had been coaxed to grow with the steroids that he had injected into her body that the lightest touch made her gasp and shiver with pleasure.  She was his ideal sex toy, and he made sure she understood that.  She still had her arms and he could bind her arms in many interesting ways to incapacitate and control her more whenever he wanted to.  And even without hands and legs she still moved around easily and managed to do most of the tasks she had once performed.  She learned to shift herself with her arms so she could still ride him when the fancy took him, and she learned to use her stumps when she has his cock in her throat to caress him nearly as well as her hands once did. 

She looked up at the picture of herself that he had taken when she first came here, her red hair down and her smile soft and charming.  She had come here as a mail order bride, with her only hope being a husband who could take care of her, under the guise of marriage she understood that she was really just a glorified prostitute.  And his tastes in sex has quickly swallowed her whole, and she had fallen into the role enforced upon her quickly, learning to enjoy the sex with him, learning to accept his tastes and preferences.  He demanded that she remain nude most of the time, even when they had had company over, but that was a small price to pay for the freedom and autonomy she enjoyed.  He treated her well and he had loved that she danced.  He paid for her to return to lessons and used his contacts to get her a position with the ballet where she could grow and flourish and stand on her own for her own talents. 

But now dancing had been taken from her forever, and she had fallen back on her desires even more, and sex became her entire reason for being.  She needed his cock almost constantly so he had taken to locking her in a cage, her arms restrained to keep her from playing with her pussy, caressing her sex with her stumps at all hours and making the tender skin raw with the moisture and rubbing.  And she had something to really think about as well, for he had told her that it was time he did more than just gain pleasure from her, that it was time he put a baby in her body, a child that she could grow for him and he could raise.  She found the idea a little terrifying, but a little fascinating as well and she took every opportunity to caress her still flat tummy with her stumps and think of what it would be like for his child to grow within her, to fill out her womb and body and she smiled at the idea.  It was something she hoped deeply that he would do, and sooner rather than later.  The thoughts made her body surge with lust again and she looked up as he came into the room, her body restrained in the cage, but her pussy wet with anticipation and he smiled down as he understood what she wanted.  When he took her from the cage and laid her on the floor, slipping his thick rod into her effortlessly she looked up once more at the picture on the wall, the picture of the stranger she used to be, and she understood that she wasn’t that person anymore, and she never would be again.

the-evil-in-me:

-Part 5-
She woke to a comfortable warm numbness and a head stuffed full of warm wool.  Her memories were foggy at the very best and some part of her recoiled from any interaction with them.  She shifted in the blankets and something about her movement was wrong somehow so she swam back up toward full consciousness though some part of her wanted to stay asleep, fought desperately to stay asleep and comfortable in her dream world, there was something about waking that terrified her, so she turned again, forcing herself over roughly and trying to pull the blankets up over her again, but her body wouldn’t respond the way she wanted, she tried to pull her knees up to her chest, but they wouldn’t move, and the blankets slipped through her fingers…
Her fingers…
“You will lose both of your hands now, Xuisse.  And I’ll plastinate them to keep them looking just as they do right now forever.  I know you’ll appreciate the effort I’m putting into this.”
The memory of the words came back to her like a kick to the stomach and she wrenched her eyes open and looked, seeing the leather caps over the stumps of her wrists.  There was still a dull ache in her arms but the leather caps were carefully affixed in place and she sobbed in denial as she pushed herself upright and threw the blankets off to look down at the brand on her mons and the tiny, half-healed stumps where her legs had once been.  She screamed in fear and rejection at the sight.  She had been a dancer… a DANCER and he had stripped hat away from her like tearing a sheet of paper, without effort or thought.  She sobbed as she looked around, trying to comprehend what had happened to her and why as the memories of the pain and trauma she had suffered came flooding back, the way he had been so careful with every cut and every suture, the way he had worked the saws across her bones, the way the rasping of the teeth on her bones had vibrated through her whole body and the sight of her hands as he put them into a box to preserve them, and the way her legs had hung above her and rained blood down on her body laying helpless below. 
As the memories came back to her, she realized where she was…  She lay in the dance studio he had put in for her when he had first brought her to live here.  It was mirrored and the posters of her shows and the articles about here were hung all around her.  She would never dance again, but he had stuck her back in the room where she had practiced every day and she was surrounded by the memorabilia of her lost life.  She could see her ballet slippers resting right where she left them, a towel she had brought in to wipe away sweat at the end of a session.  The chair he would sit in and watch her at practice.  She had had sex with him in this room more times than she could remember and now she was here with the constant reminders of the life that was lost to her forever.  She lay slumped and sobbing and didn’t hear the door open or see him arrive and it was a long moment before she realized he was there, sitting in his chair and looking at her, watching and waiting and she glared at him with a mixture of fear and hatred. 
“I can understand your feelings, Xuisse, but it’s too late to change anything now.”  He said as if it weren’t very obvious already.  “You were out for more than a week that last time and I kept you that way so you could heal.  You lost a lot of blood, though you don’t really need as much blood as before, and now you are much easier to move around, though you weren’t really all that difficult to move before.  But you lost about thirty pounds during the surgery, isn’t that a nice little benefit?”  He asked and she couldn’t speak, she just felt tears streaming from her eyes as he looked at her. 
“Of course there was more than just the amputations, Xuisse.  I took the opportunity to perform that labiaplasty I had always wanted to do and to cut away your clit hood to streamline everything down there, I must admit I did a good job, you’ll heal up without any scars and your pussy already looks as delectable as it is ever going to again.”  He turned and picked up something from beside the chair and set it down on a table next to him.  It was a glass box and inside were her preserved hands.  She felt sick at the sight of them, so small and delicate and they looked like they were still alive, still a part of her, and the leather cap on her stump touched the glass almost tenderly as she looked in at the hands.  He had put rings on two of her fingers and painted her nails her favourite shade of red and the sight brought more tears to her eyes and she stared at them for a long time before he spoke again.
“Now there’s just one thing left to do, one reminder left for you before we get you settled into your new life forever.” 

With that he reached for her, and she was too afraid of him, too helpless in her new body to resist as he carried her effortlessly from the room and toward the back of the house.  He settled her in a chair and she felt the ache in her stumps and the first phantom pains in her legs as she saw the six dogs that were waiting in the kennel below, all looked up at where she was seated and she wondered what he was going to do when he returned with the trolley.  On the  metal surface of the cart were her legs, they had been kept in a meat locker until now and she knew what he was going to do before he did it.  But she watched wordlessly as he tossed them to the animals, and the six dogs began fighting over her legs, tearing the meat from the bones and devouring it and she felt ill, terribly sick as they fought over the scraps and then gnawed at the bones and she swooned but he was there, hands on her shoulders and he kept her from falling or passing out as she watched the show that he had arranged for her.  Now she was truly his, just property, just a piece of furniture that he could fuck when the urge took him. All that she had been, her entire life, was gone just as quickly and easily as the dogs had devoured her legs.  She felt the tears roll down her face and as he picked her up she did the only thing she could do, she turned to the only person in the world who knew where she was for comfort. the-evil-in-me:

-Part 5-
She woke to a comfortable warm numbness and a head stuffed full of warm wool.  Her memories were foggy at the very best and some part of her recoiled from any interaction with them.  She shifted in the blankets and something about her movement was wrong somehow so she swam back up toward full consciousness though some part of her wanted to stay asleep, fought desperately to stay asleep and comfortable in her dream world, there was something about waking that terrified her, so she turned again, forcing herself over roughly and trying to pull the blankets up over her again, but her body wouldn’t respond the way she wanted, she tried to pull her knees up to her chest, but they wouldn’t move, and the blankets slipped through her fingers…
Her fingers…
“You will lose both of your hands now, Xuisse.  And I’ll plastinate them to keep them looking just as they do right now forever.  I know you’ll appreciate the effort I’m putting into this.”
The memory of the words came back to her like a kick to the stomach and she wrenched her eyes open and looked, seeing the leather caps over the stumps of her wrists.  There was still a dull ache in her arms but the leather caps were carefully affixed in place and she sobbed in denial as she pushed herself upright and threw the blankets off to look down at the brand on her mons and the tiny, half-healed stumps where her legs had once been.  She screamed in fear and rejection at the sight.  She had been a dancer… a DANCER and he had stripped hat away from her like tearing a sheet of paper, without effort or thought.  She sobbed as she looked around, trying to comprehend what had happened to her and why as the memories of the pain and trauma she had suffered came flooding back, the way he had been so careful with every cut and every suture, the way he had worked the saws across her bones, the way the rasping of the teeth on her bones had vibrated through her whole body and the sight of her hands as he put them into a box to preserve them, and the way her legs had hung above her and rained blood down on her body laying helpless below. 
As the memories came back to her, she realized where she was…  She lay in the dance studio he had put in for her when he had first brought her to live here.  It was mirrored and the posters of her shows and the articles about here were hung all around her.  She would never dance again, but he had stuck her back in the room where she had practiced every day and she was surrounded by the memorabilia of her lost life.  She could see her ballet slippers resting right where she left them, a towel she had brought in to wipe away sweat at the end of a session.  The chair he would sit in and watch her at practice.  She had had sex with him in this room more times than she could remember and now she was here with the constant reminders of the life that was lost to her forever.  She lay slumped and sobbing and didn’t hear the door open or see him arrive and it was a long moment before she realized he was there, sitting in his chair and looking at her, watching and waiting and she glared at him with a mixture of fear and hatred. 
“I can understand your feelings, Xuisse, but it’s too late to change anything now.”  He said as if it weren’t very obvious already.  “You were out for more than a week that last time and I kept you that way so you could heal.  You lost a lot of blood, though you don’t really need as much blood as before, and now you are much easier to move around, though you weren’t really all that difficult to move before.  But you lost about thirty pounds during the surgery, isn’t that a nice little benefit?”  He asked and she couldn’t speak, she just felt tears streaming from her eyes as he looked at her. 
“Of course there was more than just the amputations, Xuisse.  I took the opportunity to perform that labiaplasty I had always wanted to do and to cut away your clit hood to streamline everything down there, I must admit I did a good job, you’ll heal up without any scars and your pussy already looks as delectable as it is ever going to again.”  He turned and picked up something from beside the chair and set it down on a table next to him.  It was a glass box and inside were her preserved hands.  She felt sick at the sight of them, so small and delicate and they looked like they were still alive, still a part of her, and the leather cap on her stump touched the glass almost tenderly as she looked in at the hands.  He had put rings on two of her fingers and painted her nails her favourite shade of red and the sight brought more tears to her eyes and she stared at them for a long time before he spoke again.
“Now there’s just one thing left to do, one reminder left for you before we get you settled into your new life forever.” 

With that he reached for her, and she was too afraid of him, too helpless in her new body to resist as he carried her effortlessly from the room and toward the back of the house.  He settled her in a chair and she felt the ache in her stumps and the first phantom pains in her legs as she saw the six dogs that were waiting in the kennel below, all looked up at where she was seated and she wondered what he was going to do when he returned with the trolley.  On the  metal surface of the cart were her legs, they had been kept in a meat locker until now and she knew what he was going to do before he did it.  But she watched wordlessly as he tossed them to the animals, and the six dogs began fighting over her legs, tearing the meat from the bones and devouring it and she felt ill, terribly sick as they fought over the scraps and then gnawed at the bones and she swooned but he was there, hands on her shoulders and he kept her from falling or passing out as she watched the show that he had arranged for her.  Now she was truly his, just property, just a piece of furniture that he could fuck when the urge took him. All that she had been, her entire life, was gone just as quickly and easily as the dogs had devoured her legs.  She felt the tears roll down her face and as he picked her up she did the only thing she could do, she turned to the only person in the world who knew where she was for comfort.

the-evil-in-me:

-Part 5-

She woke to a comfortable warm numbness and a head stuffed full of warm wool.  Her memories were foggy at the very best and some part of her recoiled from any interaction with them.  She shifted in the blankets and something about her movement was wrong somehow so she swam back up toward full consciousness though some part of her wanted to stay asleep, fought desperately to stay asleep and comfortable in her dream world, there was something about waking that terrified her, so she turned again, forcing herself over roughly and trying to pull the blankets up over her again, but her body wouldn’t respond the way she wanted, she tried to pull her knees up to her chest, but they wouldn’t move, and the blankets slipped through her fingers…

Her fingers…

“You will lose both of your hands now, Xuisse.  And I’ll plastinate them to keep them looking just as they do right now forever.  I know you’ll appreciate the effort I’m putting into this.”

The memory of the words came back to her like a kick to the stomach and she wrenched her eyes open and looked, seeing the leather caps over the stumps of her wrists.  There was still a dull ache in her arms but the leather caps were carefully affixed in place and she sobbed in denial as she pushed herself upright and threw the blankets off to look down at the brand on her mons and the tiny, half-healed stumps where her legs had once been.  She screamed in fear and rejection at the sight.  She had been a dancer… a DANCER and he had stripped hat away from her like tearing a sheet of paper, without effort or thought.  She sobbed as she looked around, trying to comprehend what had happened to her and why as the memories of the pain and trauma she had suffered came flooding back, the way he had been so careful with every cut and every suture, the way he had worked the saws across her bones, the way the rasping of the teeth on her bones had vibrated through her whole body and the sight of her hands as he put them into a box to preserve them, and the way her legs had hung above her and rained blood down on her body laying helpless below. 

As the memories came back to her, she realized where she was…  She lay in the dance studio he had put in for her when he had first brought her to live here.  It was mirrored and the posters of her shows and the articles about here were hung all around her.  She would never dance again, but he had stuck her back in the room where she had practiced every day and she was surrounded by the memorabilia of her lost life.  She could see her ballet slippers resting right where she left them, a towel she had brought in to wipe away sweat at the end of a session.  The chair he would sit in and watch her at practice.  She had had sex with him in this room more times than she could remember and now she was here with the constant reminders of the life that was lost to her forever.  She lay slumped and sobbing and didn’t hear the door open or see him arrive and it was a long moment before she realized he was there, sitting in his chair and looking at her, watching and waiting and she glared at him with a mixture of fear and hatred. 

“I can understand your feelings, Xuisse, but it’s too late to change anything now.”  He said as if it weren’t very obvious already.  “You were out for more than a week that last time and I kept you that way so you could heal.  You lost a lot of blood, though you don’t really need as much blood as before, and now you are much easier to move around, though you weren’t really all that difficult to move before.  But you lost about thirty pounds during the surgery, isn’t that a nice little benefit?”  He asked and she couldn’t speak, she just felt tears streaming from her eyes as he looked at her. 

“Of course there was more than just the amputations, Xuisse.  I took the opportunity to perform that labiaplasty I had always wanted to do and to cut away your clit hood to streamline everything down there, I must admit I did a good job, you’ll heal up without any scars and your pussy already looks as delectable as it is ever going to again.”  He turned and picked up something from beside the chair and set it down on a table next to him.  It was a glass box and inside were her preserved hands.  She felt sick at the sight of them, so small and delicate and they looked like they were still alive, still a part of her, and the leather cap on her stump touched the glass almost tenderly as she looked in at the hands.  He had put rings on two of her fingers and painted her nails her favourite shade of red and the sight brought more tears to her eyes and she stared at them for a long time before he spoke again.

“Now there’s just one thing left to do, one reminder left for you before we get you settled into your new life forever.” 

With that he reached for her, and she was too afraid of him, too helpless in her new body to resist as he carried her effortlessly from the room and toward the back of the house.  He settled her in a chair and she felt the ache in her stumps and the first phantom pains in her legs as she saw the six dogs that were waiting in the kennel below, all looked up at where she was seated and she wondered what he was going to do when he returned with the trolley.  On the  metal surface of the cart were her legs, they had been kept in a meat locker until now and she knew what he was going to do before he did it.  But she watched wordlessly as he tossed them to the animals, and the six dogs began fighting over her legs, tearing the meat from the bones and devouring it and she felt ill, terribly sick as they fought over the scraps and then gnawed at the bones and she swooned but he was there, hands on her shoulders and he kept her from falling or passing out as she watched the show that he had arranged for her.  Now she was truly his, just property, just a piece of furniture that he could fuck when the urge took him. All that she had been, her entire life, was gone just as quickly and easily as the dogs had devoured her legs.  She felt the tears roll down her face and as he picked her up she did the only thing she could do, she turned to the only person in the world who knew where she was for comfort.