1. A Scarred Wonderland


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

    float in a heavy cloud of sulfuric grey. My feet want to carry me through the maze-like halls to the back of the house. I’m not sure why. Morbid curiosity I guess? Which is silly, because it’s these moments in horror movies that I always want to slap the heroine for making all us girls look like brainless bimbos. Turn around I always say. It isn’t worth all the pain and misery. Thing is, you can’t feel curiosity through the TV screen. You can’t feel that addictive pull at your navel, temping you, goading you. As I wind my way back, chilly drops to freezing and the blanket of brightly colored flowers that followed me in from the driveway thins out. What begins to replace them is frighteningly beautiful. Bat-orchids. Sinister. Velvety. Alien. Black tendrils fan out from the petals like snakes. My heart clenches. The creature inside me stirs, seems to resonate with whatever it is I’m walking into. My feet hit something hard and circular and my ankle rolls. I have to throw an arm out wildly, juggling the box of strawberries in the other. My sandals are a broken ruin, straps torn. A curse splutters over my tongue when I see what I tripped on. Spent bullets. They’re everywhere, littering the bed of orchids like poisonous silver beetles. My eyes drift to the walls and find jagged holes spelling out crude lines of twisted poetry. There’s an elegant quality to the verse, no matter how suggestive the content is. But it isn’t the poetry that makes my heart thump out of sync. No, it’s ...
    the glossy photograph tacked to the ruined plaster. The figure in the photo projects outward, like she isn’t quite part of the portrait, but isn’t really part of the space outside the print either. Alabaster skin glows ghostly silver in the black and whites. She’s slender and delicate, like a willowy waif, but the sardonic smirk that curls her mouth betrays any sort of innocence. As I move through the hallway, I find more photos tacked up. Each one is progressively more erotic, more revealing: at first it’s just a face, the upturned swell of a breast, a finger pressed to pursed black lips. Gradually, she materializes like a shade in the night. Despite the cold, my skin flushes hot. Behind that twisted, lascivious smile is rage, coiled about a violent lust. There’s a story flashing in her eyes, slanting down her pale skin - a nightmarish one. The creature inside me hums in helter-skelter rhythm as I make the last turn. O/o\O The tale plunges from teasing eroticism into filthy, magnetic perversion. A twisted laugh echoes from deep inside me; my vision blurs. When my eyes snap open, color bleeds from the photos in garish hues. There’s a dull ache between my eyes. It’s the feeling I get when I zone out, let creativity sink it’s claws into me until hours disappear and canvas after canvas is filled with paint. I used to think I was in control of the brush, creative expression given real, tangible life. Now I know better. It’s been her all along, trying to fill in the holes of a life ...
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