Rapist = 340 = Image of Satan
Rapist = 340 = Image of Satan
Internally I relived my previous slaughter—the catharsis of tearing through flesh and bone without restraint—a barbaric rush of joy surging back with every recursion. And so I returned to the blood-drenched streets in pursuit of that coveted high. Pain seized my ankle with each step as though I’d been dragging Dogskin across the ground with his jaws still clamped to my tibia.
A female beast bled into my peripheral view, darting through torrents of bloody tears on the street’s opposite margin—hardly an arm’s length away in a city this claustrophobic. With fabric bunched between its fingers the creature suspended its hemline over the ground as though its skirt wasn’t already soaked in blood.
An insatiable bout of lust burst at my cock like an egg sac, its offspring skittering up my flesh at the prospect of such barbaric rapture. And there was not a soul nor creature in sight to interrupt our perverse sacrament—a moment so perfect it seemed deliberately woven by the fingers of hell. The mare looked skyward as though fearing whatever execration had caused the heavens to menstruate, unaware of my footsteps silently gaining haste from behind.
My sadism urged me to swing at its neck and watch a fountain of blood burst from its throat, but I stifled my impulses knowing that rape would satisfy them better than necrophilia. I straightened my arms and shifted my torso away from the beast, shoulders flexing tightly as I held my sword high. With a forward lunge I dragged the blade in a downward arc, splitting fabric and driving the steel into its knee with a sonorous crack that radiated pleasure through my ears. Both legs buckled instantly, its torso hitting the ground like game struck by an arrow.
I let my sword slam against the ground and yanked the creature’s arm to lay it supine, its face contorted by pain and horror. My arousal bulged as I lifted its skirt, smearing my pre-ejaculate across its vulva, primal ecstasy chilling my spine.
I placed one hand in the cold blood beneath us as the other gripped its skull which seemingly bore enough weight to shatter beneath my fingers. Against the mare’s horrified clenching I rapidly thrust into its womb, moaning with a conduct I never would have held in coitus with a human.
Its feminine aura beckoned me closer—drew me in by my flickering eyes and my restless hands and my throbbing phallus to sodomize every measure of its flesh. Pleasure radiated from my cock and slithered beneath my skin. This cunt was all I knew and all I felt—a warm, wet place to die.
The vermin screamed and wept at my hostile invasion, offering no incentive to yield. Its cunt spilled like an open wound, dripping far too much to convey scorn for my penetration. I had found myself a whore—an exquisite host in which I’d sow my unholy issue.
As a simulacrum before my eyes, I descried through my cock as though its apex were my source of vision. I probed into my victim—deeper than I ever presumed to see within the flesh of a living being—effecting the telos of a blade more than a man. My thrusting would have conjured an echo if this sticky, feverish cavity did not contain an ocean of blood, and I instead heard cavernous squelching.
Through this scarlet abyss laid the creature’s essence—the life-bearing viscera that had since cursed it with agony. Yet its quantity was a thousand-fold beyond the needs of a single organism, bloated by some cancer into an arachnoid mass of hearts, lungs, kidneys, and cephalopodic intestines that wafted through the morbid sea. They emanated systolic pulses as my invasion aggravated their nest, slithering and writhing with unearthly speed and imperative imperceptible impulse.
Aloft to the visceral mass was a homunculus of the body which contained it—seemingly unconscious. Its feminine shape levitated in the scarlet matrix like a fetus in amniotic fluid, arms at rest while its legs were splayed lasciviously wide.
From beneath the creature emerged a monstrous curved thorn, radiating a flagrant lust from below. This spike gradually ascended as though carried by an upward current, revealing its attachment to a hulking segmented appendage like that of a scorpion. The thorn drifted closer, tasting the crimson soup with its fetid tongue as it began obscenely throbbing. The tension within my own phallus was primed to burst, anticipation crawling beneath my skin even as the grotesque barb maintained such distance.
With a final lunge like a spider traversing its web, the thorn drove itself between the mare’s legs, its dormant evil finally released into a frenzy of animalistic breeding. The scorpion twisted and scraped against the walls of its victim’s uterus as though its lust were more sadistic than reproductive, sending audible vibrations through the fluid. An embolus of gore dribbled from effigy’s cunt, minced into a liquefied stillborn.
My victim assumed the skin of a human, yet such an irresistible cunt suggested it was created exclusively for sexual bondage. This beast was subordinate to dirt and piss yet simultaneously flawless. The puppet’s strings were cut with a single impetus, likely unbeknownst to him—to fabricate objects of barbaric lust, pieces of flesh with breasts and holes to satiate man’s dark proclivity. This was no lover nor courtesan, but a host for infection—the hot-blooded essence of life twisted into a slab of fuckable meat.
Shivers of ecstasy radiated across my skin as the pressure within my cock surmounted its event horizon, preparing to blast extreme sickness. The manic screaming of the Antithesis dropped us into hell for a brief moment, with such abrasive heat and pressure that it seemed all of reality would cum as well.
With a series of gut-wrenching throbs I exuded a jet-black seed that hemorrhaged through the mare’s cervix, hungry to fertilize. The spore whiskered its surroundings, climbing through its uterus with inky tendrils. Like a mitotic cell its hemispheres repelled each other, a viscous web stretching thin before breaking, and each embolus slithered towards the creature’s ovaries. Dark zygotes burst within each gonad, their blackness creeping down its uterine walls, transforming the root of life into a festering hive for atrocity. The beast clutched its abdomen and rolled over in despair, gagging as nausea filled its throat.
This was a seed of the darkest kind—a spore of cold, iniquitous lust. No reflections of divinity would be spawned from this issue—only those of my own flesh and blood.