Warning: This is an extreme story, please note the genre and themes. They are accurate. Don't say I didn't warn you. This is a fantasy and meant as nothing more than a titillating story. Heather was good looking; she always had been. She was twenty-two and life hadn't etched itself on her face yet.
Her hair was a grimy bird's nest, but a shower would prove her to have long, blonde hair and a pretty face. Her body was still taut and shapely, except for a small portion on her belly under a C-section scar. She had given up the baby, and her one relief in life was that it would have better circumstances than she. She made her way through streets lit like a noir film and stinking, garbage filled alleys. What passed for home was getting closer and she wanted to pass out and forget about everything for at least ten hours.
She kept aware of her surroundings. It was late, even for a streetwalker, and Heather was well aware of what men could do to a woman in dark places. As she walked down a generic alley like any of the thousands in this decaying metropolis she hated so much, a dumpster revealed a homeless man.
She made a scared animal sound as her heart went immediately from idle to max bpm. The homeless man's back was turned to her, but she could tell he was ancient. Or maybe he had just spent a long time in the city jungle and had become feral. He turned around and she saw his dick in his hand. Acrid smelling piss was streaming from it. His mouth revealed few teeth and as he stumbled toward Heather he mumbled a drunken, "Lady, spare some change?" Heather had backed into the alley wall, surprise still leaving her riled and confused.
The homeless man approached her with a zombie's shambling walk, his penis still in hand. Drops of piss gathered at its tip, formed a collective, and then fell to the ground. She muttered something that may have been, "Sorry, I don't have any change." Or, "Leave me alone." Or, "Please don't hurt me." When you're scared your brain devotes most of its effort to physical motion.
Language is a higher order function, which doesn't have much use in a fight or flight scenario. Nor does memory, for that matter. Heather turned towards the end of the alley and started quickly towards it. After a few steps she looked over her shoulder to see if the raggedy man was following her.
He wasn't. He was spinning his penis in his hand; his toothless mouth cackled. Everything was ok. He was just a harmless hobo.
As she exited the alley she made a left onto the street sidewalk and slowed her gait. Heather let her breathing normalize. The alley soon became part of her recent past, instead of her immediate present, and her embarrassment started to grow. She chastised herself for letting something so silly terrify her so much. Her mind had been focused on earlier events a fifty-dollar bill, the smell of cologne, "cunt".
Distracted with those thoughts, the homeless man had surprised her, and then had made a fool of her. The memory was almost funny now, the raggedy man, spinning his dick like a rope.
He must have been wasted. Heather's mind soon returned to her troubling memories from earlier. Memories about the last client of the night.
Heather hadn't been doing well lately, in the health arena. Exhaustion and a feeling of malaise was always with her now, weighing her down, like the ape succubus in the painting, 'The Nightmare'. All she wanted to do was sleep. But sleep required a roof, which meant rent, and a gamut of other bills.
And she hadn't been doing well lately, in the whoring arena either. So she kept walking the streets, hoping men would come and contribute to her rent fund. The night went on, interminable, broken by the occasional driver who would quickly pull up next to her, only to lose his nerve and drive off.
Broken even more seldom by the occasional car date. The night had been winding down, and she was about to head to the decrepit apartment she slept in, when a young man approached her on the street.
He had asked, "How much for a blowjob?" To which she had responded, "Fuck off officer." He had smiled, and unzipped his pants and pulled out his large, flaccid penis.
She had looked pensively at him and grabbed it. It was as convincing an LE check as you could have. He wasn't a police officer. He covered up his dick. She looked at his face and couldn't get a read on him. Heather was good at getting a sense of people after meeting them, or after hearing their voice over the phone. It was a required skill when your only trade was selling your body.
But she had been wrong a few times, and it had cost her. This guy though gave no impression, no sense of his intentions. "Fifty dollars for head, hundred for a qv, two hundred and I'll go someplace near for an hour." She had said that so many times it was almost a mantra.
Mr. Notacop had smiled again and they had gone into a nearby alley. She squatted in front of his crotch and started unzipping his pants. He smelled clean and there was a hint of cologne. Obsession by Calvin Kline. She started sucking his dick. After a minute it had become a thick, eight-inch pole in her hand. He had put his hands on her head, sighed and said, "That's it, suck my cock, cunt." She hated that word, so she had paused, let his dick fall out of her mouth and said, "I don't like that word, don't call me that." The atmosphere had changed.
He had looked down at her, roughly grabbed her head, and snarled, "I'll call you what I fucking want, you don't make the rules." Heather had begun to protest when he slapped her face.
Not hard, but she had been in this situation before. She didn't want him to get rougher, so she stopped talking and looked at the ground. "Good girl, keep sucking." See went back to sucking his cock. After a bit he grabbed the sides of her head and started pumping his dick into her mouth and jacking her head back and forth. She gagged and tried to pull her head away. His fists tightened and pulled her hair painfully and pulled her back in.
Heather couldn't breathe and his dick was causing her to gag violently now. Loud, wet noises starting emanating from her throat. Each noise was preceded by a quick spasm of her stomach, and the lack of oxygen was starting to panic her.
Notacop started jacking her head faster and finally she couldn't take it anymore. Hot vomit flooded her throat and mouth. In surprise the boy let go of her hair and she rocked backwards, chunks of half-digested food spilling out of her mouth onto the alley floor. Its smell was oddly spicy Caesar dressing, and its color green spring mix leaves. Her cheeks turned red with shame as she spit the more vomit on the ground. Mascara soaked tears made dark river outlines down her face from the gagging and humiliation.
The man had a huge grin on his face. With one hand he grabbed her hair again and pulled her towards him. His other hand gave her a light slap on the cheek, then moved down to grope her tit through her shirt, and he said, "Messy girl, its time to finish." She began to protest but he forced his cock back into her mouth and started to use her like a fucktoy again.
Heather wanted this to end, she just wanted to go to sleep, to forget this ever happened. The boy's noises grew more silent and his breathing became quick and jagged. As he grunted she could taste his cum mixing with the aftertaste of vomit in her mouth.
"Swallow it, cunt, swallow every drop." Heather knew she didn't really have a choice so she swallowed it and pulled away from his crotch. She stood and looked abashed at the puddle of her vomit on the ground. In ten minutes anyone walking by the alley would assume a drunk had made it.
It would just become another backdrop detail on the stage of this dirty city. Tears started to well in her eyes. She needed to cry, to sleep, to get drunk. Maybe get high. When his zipper was back up the boy looked like a respectable college kid. He looked at her with eyes made kind again and put out his hand to her.
"I thought you did a really good job." In his fingers was a folded fifty-dollar bill. From a sideways glance she looked at it and then at him. Her instincts told her to just leave, but she wanted something to show for her anguish.
So she grabbed the bill and turned away down the alley. The boy didn't follow, and if he said anything, she didn't hear it. Heather came out of her reverie as she approached a small lot crowded with junked cars, dumpsters and years worth of accumulated trash, debris and dirt.
The lot afforded her a small shortcut and, in the two years of using it occasionally, she had only had one bad experience. A young man, fueled up on angel dust or bath salts or whatever had chased her through the lot and an adjacent street late one night. He had been foaming at the mouth and babbling incoherently.
She had lost one of her shoes that night, but had gotten home without suffering abuse. Sometimes Heather thought about the nonsense words he had spouted. In those moments right before falling asleep she could almost grasp their meaning and see the dark message augured in them.
She took a moment to scan the lot. Seeing nothing, she decided to use it. This night could not end fast enough for her. Walking by a broken down car that had lost its tires long ago Heather felt her ears pop from a sudden change in air pressure. She felt the air rush past her and her gaze followed it. Heather thought her mind must have broken. On the wall of a building which defined one of the edges of the lot was a portal.
It stuck out of the wall, while at the same time was a cavity in it. Each corner's angle seemed huge and irregular, and yet the whole shape appeared rectangular. She couldn't have articulated it, but even intuitively, her mind told her no such shape could exist. It wasn't black, because for it to be black would be for it to have color.
It had no color. She was seeing something that fundamentally could not be. Her gaze couldn't have focused on the portal greater than a few seconds before her vision blurred and her head began to ache.
As her temples began to throb and untold aeons of carefully developed instincts dictated she run, she forced herself to keep looking. In her mind the paradox asserted itself infinitely, first in the negative, then in the positive, repeating over and over the portal could not be, and yet it was.
As she stood there frozen, her mind slowing ripping itself apart as assumptions concerning the universe and humanity's place in it began to decay and collapse, a thing emerged from the portal. A huge hand/claw/appendage appeared in her line of sight. Despite its terrifying aspect its reality was comforting. Its shape, dimensions, and geometry conformed to her mind's expectations. So she naturally focused on that, if only to stop looking at the portal, whose viewing could only effect insanity.
Another claw (or was it a hand?) ripped itself from the interior of oblivion and seemed to grab on to edge of the portal. For a moment her eyes wandered to the edge where reality and the portal met and she quickly focused elsewhere, lest her eyes go blind attempting to process that bizarre border.
The red claws pulled, and in idle, frozen panic she noticed that claws had seven fingers; each apparently made of glass, or some strange shiny material. The rest of the figure came into view as the creature birthed itself from one universe into this one. With a sound of falling boulders the shape fell out of the portal, smashing a car that had been underneath.
Heather could feel liquid going down her leg as the thing stood. Its acrid smell indicated it was urine. The creature was enormous, towering at ten feet. Much bigger than the portal could possibly have let through, had it been bounded by rules regarding space and geometry.
Vaguely humanoid, it was excessively muscular, and composed of the same material as it claws. What passed for skin on its body was a flurry of red, blue and purple colors. Ornate, horn-like protrusions broke the perfect aesthetic of its body at its elbows, shoulders and other joints. Above its uncanny and almost human mouth was perfectly smooth, semi-circular head. Heather knew she should have been running a long time ago. But in a life full of meaningless abuse and pitiful mediocrity this event provided too much fascination.
Her mind starved for something interesting and the Universe had provided. The glamour held until she saw what the creature possessed between its legs. It had a cock easily two feet long. Huge and veiny it was a biologically obscene departure from the smooth, aesthetic perfection of the rest of the creature's body.
When she saw that Heather's fear changed. She had been afraid before because her mind didn't understand what her senses were perceiving. She had no frame of reference for the event, nor could she encapsulate the implications of what she was seeing. This had, rightfully, created a parallelizing, and fascinated, fear. Now her fear had returned to familiar places. And she had to run. The Demon, as she now thought of it, seemed to sense the air with some sensory apparatus unknown to Heather, as it had no nose.
In a jerky movement it head pivoted in her direction, and a horrible grin revealed flat, perfectly even teeth. Heather took a step back and began to turn to begin her escape. But the Demon launched itself towards her.
It covered the distance between them impossibly fast and crashed into her, propelling them onto the hood of one of the junked cars. She lay flat on the hood, the wind knocked out of her, the crazed panic welling in her chest causing her to be mad with fear. She looked up at it, trying to think of what to say, what to do, to stop what she knew must be about to happen. Nearly hyperventilating as she attempted to regain her breath she screamed out, "No please, stop, don't!" She tried wrestling away from the Demon's grip, to push it off.
In the past men had been rough with her, and she had been astounded at how much stronger than she they could be. This was worse. All her force produced no effect on the Demon. It was like trying to move a giant statue. Her strength did not even register. She looked down at its repulsive caricature of a cock, and then back at the Demon's face. Its head faced hers, though she could see no eyes, no sense organs, no expression.
Save its grin, that had become so huge it defied any proportion a human face could make. With one claw it ripped Heather's shirt off with no effort, though the act caused painful friction burns and would have flung her into the air had the Demon not been holding her down with the weight of its body.
Her bra remained and the Demon used the sharp end of one of its fingers to slice its bridge. Her bountiful breasts spilled out, revealing big pink nipples. The creature leaned its head down to her left tit. Its massive body allowed it to do this while holding her down with no apparent effort. Heather watched, incredulously, as the Creature opened its bizarre mouth and fit Heather's entire tit inside. She screamed at the sensation of intense pressure combined with the feeling on an enormous tongue wrapping itself around and squeezing her breast.
Eventually it tired of this game and stood up. Still pinned down by its massive arms Heather could only stare at its cock. The Demon pushed against her pussy, she could feel its cock bearing down on her labia. There was no way it would fit. Inserting the fat end of a baseball would have been easier.
This would be like trying to stuff a wine bottle up her pussy. A wine bottle that was two feet in length, and almost uniformly thick. In a motion that was almost too quick to process the Demon let go of her hand, reached down to grab her ankle and pulled her leg up.
A metallic thud sounded when its hand crashed back down on the hood of the car, her hand and foot now pinned down by the same claw. The motion had been so quick that she didn't so much see it, as interpret it from the end result.
The Demon did the same thing to her other leg. Spread eagled this way it gave the Demon easier access to her pussy. Still, there was no way this could work. Heather looked up for a second and then back down again, panting heavily from fear and adrenaline.
She couldn't look at its face anymore. The grin had grown only wider; had somehow become nearly a foot long of massive, evenly shaped teeth. No creature from reality could have such a mouth.
Looking at it too long could probably drive you insane. Once again the Demon pushed it cock against her opening. The pressure was strong and unrelenting, but yielded no result. She heard the Demon make a spitting noise and her entire crotch area and the first foot of its cock were covered in a slimy, foul smelling saliva. Heather's eyes widened this was lube; the creature was set on fucking her. With mounting horror, she witnessed the thumbs on the Demon's strange seven fingered claws bend backwards and extend themselves towards her pussy.
When they had become long enough the tips bent again and slipped into her pussy and began to roughly pull it open, like an infernal speculum. As the creature forced her pussy open in this fashion it began to re-apply pressure with its cock. Heather began screaming as her pussy was slowly forced open to a painful, gaping size. Flashes of memories from giving birth ran through her head.
Trying to think, to stay aware, she looked back down at her crotch and saw that the Demon's entire cockhead was in now. She couldn't take it, this needed to stop, she felt like her pussy was going to rip apart any second.
With its cockhead completely in the Demon was ready. Its thumbs pulled out of her and reset in size. It pushed its massive cock harder into Heather's widened pussy causing her to arch her back and a pained gasp to escape from her. She tried to think of what to do, this was the worst thing that had ever happened and it was likely going to get worse.
A plan she needed a plan! But she couldn't move, she couldn't fight. She could only scream. Men had always abused her. And whatever this creature may be, it was a man in a different form. She had found in prior incidents that if she didn't struggle it would be over faster. It was the only strategy she had; the only one she had had the capacity to develop. She had no choice but to use it on this new assailant and hope. The cock continued penetrating her, distending her hips and insides. Her voice had become hoarse and when she screamed nothing escaped except the sound of air rushing past sore and strained vocal chords.
She no longer had tears to shed either. Apart from her twisting and contorting body the only indication of her torment were her eyes, which evoked a despair only the most wretched ever felt. The Demon had pushed its cock in as far as it would go. Even so, at least two-thirds of the instrument of her torture remained outside. Heather looked down at her stomach and groaned at the vision. Her belly protruded grotesquely from the impalement.
Quickly, the Demon pulled its hips back, removing its cock so only the head remained inside. It then began fucking her, each pump causing new heights of agony she never would have believed existed. The Demon began speeding up, each thrust pushing deeper into her body. She could feel her insides tearing apart. Her vision began to black out from the pain, and she welcomed the release of oblivion when a jarring sensation brought her back to wakefulness.
As the Demon destroyed her womanhood a giant tongue had lolled out of its mouth. As it unfolded out it had began encircling her face, tasting every inch of her. The sensation was abominable and the rotting meat smell of its saliva overpowered her and became a new source of degradation.
There had only been one other time she had felt this violated. She remembered a client had come to see her at one of those random rundown hotels she used as a center to sell herself.
He had sounded nice over the phone, and had come in and as they hugged she touched his dick as an LE check. He had even put a white envelope on the nightstand and started looking around.
She had started counting the money while sitting on the bed and recited her rules. It had all been so normal. He then had slapped the money out of her hand and pushed her onto the bed.
After ripping her panties off he started removing his pants before she had time to process what was occurring. She began to protest and sit up when the man looked at her again and slapped her across the face.
The pain had been horrible.
She hadn't known what to do. Then, as she was cradling her cheek and frantically trying to think of something to do he had climbed on top of her. Men had been rough with her before.
And they would be again. He rammed his cock into her as hard as he could and she grimaced in pain. He had furiously started pumping his hips into her, his visage one of intense hatred. As he violated her he had said awful things.
And the intensity of his voice had propelled his breath, which had smelled like cigarettes and oily pizza, onto her face. Even now she could hear his words echoing inside her head. "You stupid fucking bimbo!
You fucking cumbucket." "This is all you're good for - pleasing men's cocks." "You're a collection of holes, a piece of fuckmeat." Then he had her recite for him. "Say sorry." "What?" had been her only reply. He had unpinned one of her hands and used that free hand to slap her again. He had been so strong, and the pain had been excruciating. That's when she started crying. Heart wracking sobs caused her chest to heave and a pathetic sound to join the orchestra of the bed creaking in time to the man's thrusts.
"Say you're fucking sorry, whore." "I'm sorry, please, I'm so sorry." He had liked that, she could tell. His thrusts began to linger a moment at the end. She was hoping he would cum soon and leave her alone.
"Say you're sorry for being born with a cunt between your legs." She had diligently repeated his words. A little bit of her soul had died with each one. "Say you're sorry for being born a woman." When she had repeated those words, she had meant them. She hated being a woman. She hated being this thing that men used and exploited. She had hated it since her father had come into her room when she was eight and made her his toy.
The man's thrusts had reached a crescendo, and she had stared, dead-eyed, at the ceiling with eyes blurred by tears. He pulled out of her and had positioned his cock near her face. Quickly he had jacked his shaft and spurted thick streams of cum onto her face.
Some of it had gotten in her eyes and made them burn. Panting over her, he had leaned in and spit on her face as he slapped her pussy.
She had never been more disgusted with herself. "That's a good fucking cunt. Did you like getting raped?" She had assumed the question was rhetorical, but it hadn't been, and no answer was a wrong answer. He had grabbed her throat with one hand and roughly shoved a few fingers into her sore sex, "Answer me bitch.
Thank me for raping you." With a flat monotone she had complied, "Thank you for raping me." That seemed to please him and put him back into what passed for a good mood with him. He had cleared his throat and spit another thick ball of mucus onto her swelling face. While she laid on the bed like a fetus, her face covered in cum and mucus and starting to bruise, he had searched the room. He found her stash of cash and picked up what he had brought in the white envelope off the floor.
"I don't think that pussy was worth two-hundred dollars, but I'll leave you something." He had taken a dirty twenty-dollar bill with ancient creases and slapped it onto her forehead. The cum and spit had made it stick. Then, her degradation seemingly complete, he had found a way to top it. He had pulled out his cell phone and taken a couple of pictures of her. It was hard to process everything after he had left. She had almost expected things to return to normal.
But she was out at least twelve hundred dollars and the only way to earn some money would be to let more men into her room and fuck her. The weight of this truth was oppressive. She hadn't left the bed for the rest of the night. She had lain there, awake; hadn't even removed the twenty-dollar bill stuck to her face.
Sometimes she had cried. Sometimes she had wondered if it was time to wash the dried cum off her face. Instead, she had continued laying there, letting the minutes turn into hours. Wondering when she would have the strength to get up. The night provided no answer, and besides, the room was paid for another two days. With a roar, the Demon began its obscene orgasm. Heather hoped the sound of its roar would bring people, help, maybe even a cop.
Salvation might still occur. An obscene grunt erupted from the creature with each spurt of its cock that felt like a fire hose blasting tortured protestors.
Cum was coming out in oceanic amounts, and it burned her insides. The pain was a flaring fire inside her. Heather didn't know if it burned because the Demon's disregard while it raped her had caused internal injuries, or if it burned due to some property inherent in its ejaculate.
The Demon stood there, staring at the night sky with eyes that weren't there, as its body shook from pleasure. Heather tried to move and failed. She felt exhausted from the rape. She could feel cum oozing from her destroyed genitals, falling to the ground and making a puddle. As the Demon pulled its cock out a huge mass of cum and blood poured out of Heather's pussy and fell to the cement ground with the sickening wet sound of an unholy afterbirth. There was so much of it; she was incredulous in a detached way.
She figured she was bleeding internally, but hoped, like after so many prior abuses, that this is almost over.
It is. The Demon grabs Heather's shoulders with its impossibly strong claws. Its claws dig into her shoulders, pierce her skin, and painfully rip into her flesh.
Heather starts to scream from this new torture just as the sound of cracking bones can be heard. The Demon emits a rough facsimile of a chuckle, and pulls.
The sound of Heather ripping in two reverberates through the lot and fades. Maz'garod hurls each half of the useless carcass in different directions across the lot. Panting, its body slick with blood and shiny from the streetlight, it takes a moment to revel in its first act in this new world. Though fun, using that worthless fuckmeat did not provide the energy required for its sustenance and transformation.
It needed much more. Unnervingly quiet for a being of its size it slinks away into the darkness, its appetite already growing for its next victim.