1. A Scarred Wonderland


    Date: 8/22/2015, Categories: Hardcore, Author: MadMartigan, Rating: 18, Source: LushStories

    shake my head and whimper pathetically. Hands circle my throat and squeeze. “What’s our name?” she screams again. My eyes glaze over from the lack of oxygen I still seem to need. She doesn’t notice. I’m grinning wide, matching the ugliness insider her. I finally know a secret she doesn’t. And it burns her up. I know it from the way she thrusts with erratic jabs, skewering my dark cavern over and over again as musky juice flows from my flared cunt like the river Styx, shuttling the name she wants further and further into the abyss. The last note of a song hits and I realize I know it. She used to play it on a Steinway. “What’s our name?” she screams one final time before flooding my guts with volcanic fire. I see white and everything starts to fade. Steel bars are already dropping. She tries to stop them, to delay the switch. But it’s an eternity too late. VIII. It’s a jaw-clenching peal of thunder that finally jolts me awake. And the first thing I feel is a familiar twitch sparking in my feet, an instinctual need I haven’t felt in a very long time. To feel hard pavement burning away beneath them, mile by mile, until I’m doubled over, panting with the kind of pain that makes you feel alive. The second thing is the plush stool my ass is planted in, my knees drawn in tight to my breasts. The comforting sound of a strong, if erratic heartbeat thumps in my ears. I can’t stop shivering even though it feels like someone threw me in a sauna and nailed the door shut. A sickeningly ...
    familiar jazz number trickles through the dark room. It brings back awful memories. A throaty voice laughs bitterly inside my head. “Your turn,” she rumbles. I shrug her off though. I’m stronger than that ivory skinned bitch. Thunder roars again, like a wounded animal, and a jagged bolt of lighting opens up the sky like a sheared off scab, bathing the world above me with veins of electric blue blood. The angry blue pulls in the silver gleam of the moon and the mixture arcs through the skylight. A pale arm stretches out in front of me. Pale. Not tanned and freckled. I reel back in shock. Heat burns. I’m not on fire. I am fire. The demon came through the door with me. I laugh, a high-pitched wail that echoes. Of course, I think, of course. I’d hoped but… it doesn’t matter. Nothing ever really matters when you finally break free. Another vein of lightning fills her studio with harsh blue light . My laughs turn to mad choking giggles. Paint drips like black blood from the brush clenched tightly in my left hand. Giant murals fill every scrap of space in the studio. Wild colors. Neon colors. Garish colors. A Stetson wearing girl in cutoffs works her way through an amber bottle. A turquoise ocean dotted with sailboats. An old red pickup, shining like new in the sunlight. An ivory mask. Playing cards. Bat-orchids. And a mural of painted bullet holes spanning out a length of text: -Welcome Home- The paint is congealed and wet and the images seem to pull from the walls like slippery ...
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