In the firelight, it looked as though some disgusting torture had been practised on the girl and was about to be resumed, for her body, skeletal and black, appeared to have been burned, branded and charred by the naked man who once again loomed over her…

Stephen Gregory
The Woodwich

A Gunman

Just before 11 his gloved fist hammered on the door of 1977 Arkansas Avenue, the last known address of Bud and Bubba, the self-styled ‘Backwoods Bastards’. He knew he was in luck when he heard Bubba’s muffled voice yelp ‘It’s the pizza boy!’ excitedly.

A woman’s screams could also be heard from behind the door. When Bubba’s broken-nosed, wall-eyed, bucktoothed face appeared in front of him, he yelled “You’re the pizza, boy!” and shot him in the face.

Damn! It seemed he was addicted to his one-liners but his timing was off – the gunshot stamped all over that last one. “I should have read more comic books when I was young,” he thought.

He stepped inside. The place was in darkness – the brothers had never acquired the knack of using electricity. Suddenly, off to one side, he caught a flash of Bud coming at him with a home-made machete. He spun quickly and blew Bud’s face off, thinking it a big improvement; he was even uglier than his brother.

In the bedroom a young woman was tied to the bed. She was bleeding from her nose and two fingers were missing from her left hand. He didn’t care to think what other horrors she had suffered at the hands of those two inbred hillbillies.

He wrapped her in a blanket and called the police before jumping back into his car and streaking off into the fog-wreathed night once more.

Mark Howard Jones
The Man who killed Halloween

Duncan raises the blade and watches the parcel squirm. He’s going to love the next few hours. The pain, the fear, the pleading. Not that the parcel can speak, of course – he always makes sure of that. But the eyes: he can tell from the state of the eyes. That’s why he leaves those till last. So they can watch him watching them. So they can watch his work.

Tess Makovesky
Raise the Blade

A Head

The wooden door burst open and a dark figure flew at them. The sword swung at Mike before he could turn, and it cut through the air toward his head.

Sarah screamed and froze to the spot. Everything funnelled in, like slow motion. The bearded man wearing a long black cloak turned to her. He leered, his manic eyes shining with glee. She looked at Mike and he staggered. His expression was fixed, wide-eyed. His head slowly slid from his neck and fell off onto the stone floor. It bounced, settled and he stared up at her, like a dead salmon. His jerking body crumpled beside her, blood spurting onto her legs from the gaping neck.

Catatonic, she couldn’t scream. Her legs wobbly, she turned to the stairs and clambered up. She instantly heard throaty laughter and felt sturdy hands gripping her ankles, as her bladder gave way. She was pulled back down, slowly, her chin buffeting the steps, one by one. At the bottom, he grabbed her by the hair and an excruciating pain ripped through her scalp as she was dragged past Mike’s head, those eyes still staring, helplessly…

Col Bury
The Writing on the Wall

violently sexual

September 30, 2017

Sunday entertainment 3

Sex isn’t a subtext in “The Bloody Chamber,” but the text itself. (Angela Carter would explain that she was only making explicit a “latent content” that is “violently sexual.”) The title story is a version of “Bluebeard” in which a fin de siècle ingénue, the churchmouse-poor daughter of a widowed music teacher, weds an older, thrice-married marquis who is “the richest man in France.” He sweeps her off to his ancestral manse, where she gets a suite in a tower and where her curious wanderings unearth his collection of kinky books. Then he departs on a suspiciously timed business trip, leaving her with a ring of keys and permission to visit every room, except one.

Eroticism hangs heavy in the air here, as it does in much of “The Bloody Chamber,” like an expensive, drugging perfume. There is something vampiric about the marquis’ perversity, and about his “white, heavy flesh,” which the narrator repeated compares to lilies. Yet she is aroused to see him watching her in a mirror “with the assessing eye of a connoisseur inspecting horseflesh.” She believes he can see into her soul, perceiving “a potentiality for corruption that took my breath away.” It’s not so much his power that entraps her, as her own longing for surrender.

Laura Miller
Fairy tales, fantasy and dangerous female desire

torn asunder by torture

July 23, 2017

In another little town not far from here, when a poor woman who had been imprisoned on suspicion of maleficium could not be induced by any torture to confess to some crime, a priest approached her with coaxing words, urging that she not allow herself any longer to be thus torn asunder by torture. She should just confess quietly to some failing, and he promised that would purify her from maleficium with holy water, and that he would restore her to God as good as new. Thus prompted by the priest and deceived by his blandishments, she admitted that she had perchance perpetrated some evils of this nature. She hoped that in this way she would escape as the priest had persuaded her. But on the grounds of such a confession, falsely and cunningly obtained by coaxing, she was sentenced to be sacrificed to Vulcan’s fires. Hearing the unexpected sentence, the poor woman admonished the unhearing judges: “See how you are killing me.”

Johann Weyer
De praestigiis daemonum

She could use her cigarette as a weapon. She would touch the glowing tip to the most sensitive, intimate parts of a naked body – male or female made no matter to her. Smiling as she tapped ash into an ashtray. She took such delight in her victims tears, their writhing as she touched the cigarette to smooth skin, and to the wildness she witnessed in their eyes. It was as if she inhabited a cave of forgotten wonder. Here, she saw restrained bodies in turmoil and pain, and could indulge herself for as long as she wished. Beyond the casement window a pale topaz sky above wind-swept moorland. The tip of her cigarette hovering, she could feel her own crises growing within – like a wave, a Tsunami of pleasure that would leave her ruined, broken. She crushed the cigarette against tender flesh, surrendering herself to the great tidal wave and the shrill scream of her victim –

bdsm1

“How bad will it hurt?” I ask suddenly as Cain pulls the car onto the road to head back to my house.

“How bad will what hurt?”

“The spankings, the torture, all the ways you want to punish me.”

“I’m not a sadist, Evan. I don’t get off on hurting women.”

“So it won’t hurt?”

“Oh, it will, but you’ll love the way it hurts,” he says, and as his words fall upon my ears in a harmony of exhilaration and foreboding, I think I’m beginning to understand.

Lilly Black
A Jade’s Trick

Oh Barbie, not again…

February 5, 2017

one-of-those-days

torture

Pain enters the body. It is sharp at first. Then awful. Then contradictory. Like nothing else. Nothing: and it’s when the pain becomes unbearable that it begins to go away, changes, becomes something good to moan at, scream at, takes over all of your body, your head, all of the strength in your body, your head, and in your totally defeated ability to think. This can’t be called pain anymore, it might be called death.

Marguerite Duras
The North China Lover: A Novel