ПОРНО-ФАНФИКИ по Сайлент Хиллу

[Mystic]

Айлин\Уолтера и один фик про Джеймса\Марию

ну это хотя бы нормально
про Айлин/Уолтера я тут где-то на форуме видела....не в этой темке...

[Nadine]

Mystic,

не, у меня такие же глаза..... о__О

а так же судя по парам там: Гарри/Далия, Хиз/Уолтер, Хиз/Клаудия
мамачге дорогая О_О ....

Ахтунг,да у меня еще больше глаза...О_О...Ноу комменстс....О_О...Мамачга родная...О_О

[Mystic]

Да у меня еще больше глаза..О_О...Ноу коммнетс...О_О...Мамачге!О_О

ну...что тут можно сказать....

Короче я отношусь терпимо, мне параллельно, ну есть они и есть...только ненавижу, когда начинаюца извращения, типа Гарри/Далия о_О о здоровости ума не говорит...

[Nadine]

Mystic,

ну...что тут можно сказать....

Короче я отношусь терпимо, мне параллельно, ну есть они и есть...только ненавижу, когда начинаюца извращения, типа Гарри/Далия о_О о здоровости ума не говорит...

У мну тоже самое...Но Гарри/Далия,Генри/Уолтер и т.д.,согласись,это уже чересчур..О_О

[BLACKENED]

Пары отлично подобраны...Особенно Гарри и Далия..

[Angel Thanatos]

О! Народ! Вспомнила один шикаааааарный (с) фанфик про Генри и Синтию радость для некрофила... правда, на инглише. Если хотите, запощу. Я была в восторге

[Mystic]

мну тоже самое...Но Гарри/Далия,Генри/Уолтер и т.д.,согласись,это уже чересчур..О_О

и Хизер/Клаудия тоже.....

а ПХ/монстры...это...ээ.....ваще слишком экзотично О_О

правда, на инглише. Если хотите, запощу. Я была в восторге

запости, в тему будет)

[Nadine]

Angel Thanatos,
Ну давай...))))
Mystic,

и Хизер/Клаудия тоже.....

а ПХ/монстры...это...ээ.....ваще слишком экзотично О_О

ЭЭэээ....Ну что тут сказать?О_О

[Mystic]

ЭЭэээ....Ну что тут сказать?О_О

жОсткая сх-эротиго

[Angel Thanatos]

а ПХ/монстры...это...ээ.....ваще слишком экзотично О_О

Гон, Пх\монстры это рульно №) правда я еще ни одного хорошего фанфика на данную тему не встречала... а жаль....
Кстати, я еще видела такой пейринг как Гарри\Алесса, Джеймс\Гарри и Генри\Ричард... 0_____0

[Nadine]

Mystic,

жОсткая сх-эротиго

Экхм,это уже не смешно...Иногда чересчур жОсткая...

Кстати, я еще видела такой пейринг как Гарри\Алесса, Джеймс\Гарри и Генри\Ричард... 0_____0

О_О...Мамачга!О_О...О_О

[Angel Thanatos]

ЛОЛ, нашла вот такое в дебрях ЖЖ-сообщества... это скорее смешно, чем эротично ! )

My List For Trying To Get Mary To Sleep With Me ...
Now don't shoot me ... or stab me with the Great Knife, I'm just a typical male after all. Any bet the rest of you have little lists like this! *coughs* You do ... don't you ... ?


Sweet But Subtle Approach: Ask my beautiful darling wife very nicely if I could request her undivided attention and participation in some (hopefully a lot) of sexual intercourse this week. Let her choose the appropriate time and place, and remember to buy that brand of condoms she prefers me to use ... none of those cheap and nasty glow-in-the-dark condoms. (Cheap + Nasty = NO SEX!)

Appealing Approach: Buy my extremely gorgeous wife some chocolates, flowers, Champagne, and a sexier-than-hell negligee. Pledge my undying love for her, inquire if I'm making her horny and then ask if there's any possibility of having sex. (Use puppy dog eyes. Mary likes puppy dog eyes. Puppy dog eyes = A big chance of getting laid!)

Forward Approach: Inform my wife that I never want to see sex on the Television unless it involves me and her, and say 'So how about it?' while patting the TV. (DO NOT sit on the TV ... it could break. Broken TV means angry Mary. Angry Mary = NO SEX!)

Shameless Begging Approach: Grovel on the floor while chanting, Oh honey, oh baby, oh my precious darling angel. I'll die right here, right now if I don't get to have copious amounts of gratuitious sex with you this very moment, so ... please, please, please, please, please!!! (Make sure to grovel properly. Grovelling the right way = A really big chance of getting laid.)

If All Else Fails: Annoyingly follow my wife around the house and every time she turns around and says something to me, remove an item of clothing. When naked, stand in front of her and simply say 'Fuck me.' (Simply but meaningfully ... meaningfully = possibility of getting sex ... providing she stops laughing at me.)

(с)

[Mystic]

Генри\Ричард... 0_____0

БОЖЕ!!!!!О_о
не, я видела ещё только как я уже говорила, Хиз/Уолтер, Алесса/Клаудия, Хиз/Лиза.... о_О
Angel Thanatos, ща прочтём...)

[BLACKENED]

Всё таки в этом разделе этой теме не место)) Переносим в Creative))

[Angel Thanatos]

Я нашла это! ))

-----------------------

Tira Me a Las Araсas


Henry had stepped through the door at the bottom of the staircase with his heart fairly
hammering in his chest. His mood as he turned the doorknob was almost...hopeful. After
all, he'd finally gotten to someone before the murderer had finished his grisly work.
While he hadn't actually interceded on Eileen's behalf - the title of 'hero' undoubtedly
belonged to the strange child he keeps finding in world after world - and therefore wasn't
responsible for saving her life, he'd gotten her out of St. Jerome's, and now they were
heading through this door, together, toward Joseph Schreiber's promised 'ultimate Truth',
toward - he hoped - the end of this nightmare.
What he finds when they arrive is the last place he'd ever expected the door would lead.
Why, hello again, Square One! It's been awhile.
Some Truth, Joe. Why not just tell me right now that I'm going in circles - or is watching
me take the bait time and again just too much fun to stop now?
As soon as he recognizes the place, his spirits sink, and he becomes afraid. After all, he
may have Eileen alive beside him now...but still blazoned in his mind is the memory of what
had happened to the last woman he'd escorted through this frigid underground; how very
quickly she'd been whisked right out from under his watchful eye. He can still smell her
exciting perfume in the stagnant air down here, tinged with the faintest whiff of the
coppery blood he'd left her lying in, and the feelings the conjoined smells stir in him
cause his stomach to roll sickly in ways it doesn't even during the worst of his hunger
pains. Poor girl. If only he had realized what was going on and gotten to her before...
He shudders and eyes the injured young woman next to him worriedly. He can't lose her the
way he lost Cynthia. If he has to tether himself to her somehow, he's going to keep her
alive. In the same way that she depends on him to get her out, he depends on her for hope's
continued survival - the hope that there actually *is* a way out of all this; that he won't
be running this maze like an obedient rat until starvation catches up to him and he's too
weak to move. He only prays he isn't leading the both of them to their deaths.



Every stray glance is caught.
Every idle flicker of his gaze in her general direction is noted.
It's difficult not to notice-- beyond the hellish scenery that surrounds her, beyond the aches
and pains of her various injuries, Eileen only has him to focus on. And, in accordance to
keeping herself -sane-, though she doubts either of them are, she's paying strict attention
to him. Or, better yet, the back of his head when he isn't staring at herl ike some kind
of forlorn puppy. Were this any other situation, any other place, any other time, she'd just
consider the poor man creepy, thereby degrading the wry charm of his looks into a tragedy.
It's always the nice ones, isn't it? Always the vaguely handsome stranger that ends up being
a complete nut. And here she is, following alongside what's now become her last bastion of
hope. The struggle she survived is still with her, though the memories fade in and out like
a rapidfire flicker of a broken TV screen. Moving along behind Henry, it's this that
possesses her thoughts, her eyes refusing to take in the surroundings any more than they need
to. She hates this place. She hates it's feel... and she hates even more the fact that she
feels in some way connected. Not to Henry, so much as the place itself. Why is that, anyway?
"I'll tell you when I'm about to fall over dead," she says, at the last skirting of his gaze,
her expression growing somewhat cross. Pausing, she sighs, exasperated, her eyes casting down
towards the floor as the both of them get closer to the Lynch Street Line. "...Sorry. Could
you... stop looking at me like that? I'm fine. I -will- tell you if anything goes wrong. The
way you're staring, I could swear I'm a lot more busted up than I actually am."



Immediately chastened both by her look and her sharp words, Henry's gaze drops to the stained
concrete floor and stays there, following the movement of his feet. He frowns, feels a little
stab of ire at the way she spoke to him - he was only concerned for her welfare, excuse him
all to hell! But this, he tells himself, is what happens when you put yourself out there for
people...they get killed and it's your fault, or you're way too doting and they resent you
for that as well. There's just no making anybody happy.
Perhaps that's why he'd spent so much of his life by himself.
Still, despite the sting, an automatic apology comes out, sounding pathetic to his flushed,
burning ears: "Sorry, I didn't mean..."
...to stare? Oh, but you've done it so *often*, Henry. Not that *she* knows that. For all that
she's willing to take his hand from time to time, to - to actually *embrace* him, as she did
just a few minutes ago, she seems uncomfortable enough around him already, to say nothing of
what she'd think if she knew the various pasttimes relating to her he's involved himself in
over the past...however long it's been since he carve-
No.
Since he *found* that hole in his wall.
Semantics.
Should he tell her he's been here before? Tell her what happened here? Maybe then, she'd be a
little more appreciative of what he was trying to do for her...but no, chances were greater
that it would just needlessly frighten her, and he doesn't need that. He feels confident that
he can get the both of them out of here somehow, and from there...
To *where*?
He doesn't know. Not, he sincerely hopes, to another murder site he's already traversed. But -
he has to focus, to pay attention to what's in front of him. That's the only...
Wait.
...what's in front of him...
Henry blinks. He stops in his tracks and stares.
Is that *hair* on the floor?



Thankfully, no, she doesn't know. Were she informed in this matter, it might be a different
story entirely. On the other hand... who else does she have to rely on? Without him, she's
alone, and she's injured. All in all, Eileen recognized that she doesn't have so much as
a -prayer- on her own. He, on the other hand? The mere fact that he seems to know where he's
going gives her... -some- hope. Alternatively, it's... not easing her any, either.
Oh, hell...
Semantics is right.
"No, I'm..." Beat. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm just nervous. Can you blame me?" Can
anyone, really? They've both been thrust into this situation-- and while she appreciates having
his company-- having ANY company-- there's only so much of the puppylike glances that she can take
before she goes absolutely crazy. "I--" Her own voice is rather swiftly cut off as she starts
to observe the trajectory of his gaze, spying the long tendrils of black that splay across the
floor. At first, she can't tell if it's oil, or... or -what- it is. Taking another couple steps
on a foot that's aching like crazy, she comes abreast to the man that's become her unwitting
companion, frowning. The meager light that touches to the area...
That -sheen-... Hair?
Indeed, it is. The trail leads off towards the Lynch Street turnstile, the vaguest fluttering
off in the distance indicating to more... perhaps? What on earth would shed -this much- hair?
Much less... anything that's this ungodly long? Squinting out of her good eye, the young woman
is the one to cast a glance at Henry this time, mouth faintly parted as if to query-- but all
there is is deathly silence. Not even so much as a rattle in the back of her throat to indicate
to the unspoken question. Nonetheless, it comes through loud and clear.
As does the idle waft of a titter splaying through the empty corridors...



Immediately upon hearing that sound, the fine hairs on the back of Henry's neck are roused to
full, nervous attention. That haunting, almost flirtatious giggle echoing around him, combined
with the fact that the smell of spicy perfume is growing stronger in this direction, makes the
young man's heart flip-flop nauseatingly.
"Stay here," he says softly, less of a command than a gentle plea, gesturing for Eileen to
remain behind while he continues to follow the ominous trail of sable threads which leads to
the phones and around the corner. He walks slowly, suddenly sweaty palm gripping the handle of
the axe he carries as he brandishes it, trying to feel ready for whatever's waiting around that
ill-lit bend. Is it just more of the madman's sick idea of interior decoration, or...
He reaches the trio of phone nooks, and the turnstiles come into view. Henry's eyes come to rest
on a crumpled form lying beneath one of the rotating steel pillars, a pale figure with long,
unbelievably long jet-black hair caught up in the rungs of the turnstile.
That explains the hair...sort of. But it doesn't explain the smell, which is growing sweeter and
more cloying with every step he takes toward the fallen silhouette. Henry stops at a distance,
examines the tangled creature. Aside from the scent, there's something...something frighteningly,
unnervingly familiar about it...but the shadows surrounding it make it too difficult to make out
in its entirety. What *is* it? It can't be human...
...can it?



The titter turns to a faint whisper riding in on the brief air current that bustles up through
the turnstiles, the mantra seeming just as unearthly as the figure Eileen can't make out to save
her life. To her, it just looks like more hair-- at least, from this vantage point. Feeling her
heart all but skip a beat as she's asked to lag behind, her tongue flits across her lips, her
arms crossing lightly over her chest, the ridiculous little riding crop Henry'd acquired for her
tapping once against her cast, causing her shoulders to tense considerably.
Idiot impulses... it's just -her-, nothing else...
...nothing else.
That mantra, though... the creature that remains tangled amidst the turnstile is shifting, what
might be its shoulders moving ever so slightly to the repetition, though it doesn't appear as
though it's breathing. Shuddering somewhat, it's at least clear that it's 'alive,' such as the
case may be. The closer Henry comes to it, the more defined the figure appears-- the pale legs.
The turn skirt. The... All those colors are dulled, destroyed. So why on earth does it look so
familiar?
"...just..."
Another titter, breaking through the mantra. Bitter, caustic.
"...just a dream..."
The inflection may as well be Henry's own voice, soothing the woman that lay bleeding to death
on the floor of the small office. The voice... is indecipherable, whispered as it is. It couldn't
-possibly- be her, though, could it? After all... she's dead. There was no possible way to help
her, or even save her from what had occured. It wasn't possible to save any of them, as fate would
have it. However... as the mantra continues, interspersed as it is with a kind of... sing-song
giggling, the form begins to move all the more, the shoulders lifting as if hefted up by unseen
hands. Sighing out the relief of being able to move, the creature's intonations are becoming more
and more feminine... more and more recognizable.
It...
"...just a dream...?"
...is it?
"...it's okay... it's just a dream."
There it is. That faintly lecherous underpinning, the voice of what may as well have been a run of
the mill call girl. That voice that promised attentions the young man had only been allowed to give
himself in the midst of his confinement.
"...Henry..."
...had he even given her his name, initially?



Indeed, he had. But he's not currently concerned with remembering such tiny details at moment.
Mostly, he's occupied with being scared out of his mind.
Her hair has grown about three feet in length, all trace of sun-kissed pigmentation has gone from
her once-honeyed limbs, and the cheap jewels around her throat - the ones he'd so wanted to replace
with a very *special* necklace of his own making - have disappeared. Only the clothes are the same,
and they are tattered, stained crimson and dirt-brown. How could it be her? No, it can't be - it's
just a faded apparition, just a puppet left behind to torment him, remind him of the sunny Hispanic
seductress who'd bled to death in his arms.
But...but then...
Why is he so afraid?
Henry takes a step backwards, and another, and another, moving slowly, shaking his head in shocked
disbelief. The axe trembles in his unsteady grip, and his throat seizes the sound of denial he keeps
trying to make, squeezing it out as the whisper-echo of a moan. The knowledge of Eileen's presence,
somewhere behind him, dies, trampled beneath the weight of his sudden all-consuming panic. How could
this be happening? It's unreal, even for this place. When he'd first entered this world, he *had* thought
it was just a dream, and felt more or less comfortable consoling the dying woman that she'd wake up
soon...but now he knows better, knows that this, all this, is and has been really happening, and that if...if...
"Cynthia," he tries to say, but no sound comes.



Well. She'd practically invited such a thing, hadn't she?
Nonetheless, in the backdrop, the more the wreckage of the felled women rises, the more Eileen feels
her heart start to tremble. A nervous tic in her demeanor, firing off without warning, making her
want more than anything to cry out in her fears-- but she doesn't. Whatever childlike impulse it
is that calls for her to do so is locked in the back of her throat by the part of her that remains
sane, stable.
Is she really going crazy? Is it someone else's inclinations she feels slamming against her
esophagus to the tune of her overworked heartbeat?
Worse yet... is that -recognition- she sees in the panicked silhouette of Henry's features?
"...Henry?!" she blurts out, unable to completely help herself, trying to catch his attention and
pull him away from whatever it is that's ever-so-slowly makings its... no, -her- way towards him.
Through the obscenely long veil of hair, she can tell that this is, in fact, a woman that she's
appraising. Perhaps her attempts are worthless-- perhaps they slip past his ears in lieu of the
idle crooning brought about by none other than Cynthia herself, the attempted phrase causing another
light chuckle that splits
through the air. While the turnstiles still obscure part of her frame... she practically melts
through it, gliding over the floor without her feet so much as touching the tiles. "...Henry..."
Another whisper, though it's louder, all-encompassing. It's as though her words are going straight
into his head, weaving around his brain and -then- bouncing off of his ears in the form of
legitimate sound. "...Useless." This, while weakened, sounds a bit more like the spirited streetwalker
he came into contact with. "You might not've been... but a promise is a promise..."
Moving... ever so slowly... towards his position. With an eerie, uncanny grace, the tendrils of
her hair part faintly as if caught by a breeze, unobscuring her face just long enough to see the
pallid complexion that confirms his fears. It -is- her... the slant of those almond shaped eyes,
plush lips turned distressingly pale, though they still contrast against her blotchy skin.
"...Wouldn't want you to forget..."
A sigh, then... the parody of a pleasurable response to intimacies. One that practically resonates
through the enclosure... down the staircase...
"...our little deal."



Henry is frozen where he stands, caught in a paroxysm of fright that must be ludicrous to behold,
especially to someone who has witnessed this man fighting all manner of strange and gory beasties
with nary an eyeblink. To his credit, he has not yet begun to scream. This, alone, is hopeful.
While the young man's ears acknowledge Eileen's distressed cry, his mind, the rest of his body, is so
fixated on the spectre that rises to her high heel-clad feet before him that Eileen might as well
have been calling from inside a soundproof room. His hand, shaking badly now, brandishes the axe
again, ready to bring it down with all the strength in his arms, to split the skull of the
apparition before him just as the heavy curtain of her hair splits in a neat line atop her
head...because even if it *is* her, every nerve ending in his body is shrieking, demanding that he
put this unwelcome memory down and get as far away from her as humanly possible.
And then he sees her face, is caught in her eerie golden gaze, and the axe topples from his
suddenly weak fingers to clatter unceremoniously on the floor.
"Cy-cy-cyn..."
The whole of his body is trembling now, the result of his muscles trying to tear themselves free of
his bones and escape since they can't seem to make him move from the spot where he is rooted.
Lovely Cynthia, back from the dead. The woman he thought he'd dreamed in a fit of subconscious
lust has returned, luscious body robed in dependant blue-black lividity, the dry flesh of her
elbows and knee joints split into gummy wounds ringed by chafed skin and caked blood. Her hair
seems the most live thing about her, but for her working features, her sly and accusing eyes.
He only half-registers her words, and what he registers, he can't begin to comprehend. All he can
think is 'alive - how?', and go on gaping, shuddering, petrified.
How can this *be?*



Eileen, for her part, is witness to this with a less-than-subtle note of abject terror. Staring,
blank-faced, at the clanging axe as it falls to the ground, she stumbles a couple steps forwards,
-shouting- the man's name a second time as the ghost begins to approach him. To her, the woman's
intent is painfully obvious-- to destroy him. To kill him, just like every other aberration in
this damned place has. Her hand grips the crop until her knuckles are sheet white, her expression
faltering all the more as she hears him try and speak. Of all the times to get creeped out... he
chooses now? What's so damn special about this one that isn't present in the other creatures
milling about? She was more terrified by the spectre of her -own face- than she is this thing.
So why this?
"-Henry!-"
"...Henry..." echoes Cynthia, obscuring Eileen's attempts at garnering his attentions.
"-HENRY!-"
"...-Henry-," comes another echo, lascivious, in tandem with that flaxen hair splaying out around
him, catching -tightly- to his arms and his waist, pulling him towards her with a surprising amount
of force backing it up. The instant this occurs, her body comes to meet with his own, her face mere
inches away from his as the distant, faded voice of Eileen continues to bleat helplessly in the
backdrop. While her skin is almost... -pliant- in a way it never should be, as if it's hanging
off of her frame, the contact is both disquieting... and intentionally salascious. Her hips roll
forwards against his, a low chortle emitting from her throat and resonating through his mind. "After
all this... you'd turn me down?" Her voice is gaining more substance. It's as though his fear alone
is fueling her ability to speak, her ability to appear almost... lifelike, instead of the hunched
over, ghoulish thing that floated over towards him initially.
"...You'd -deny- me?" Instead of angry... she sounds hurt.
"God..." Eileen whimpers, taking another couple steps to approach-- finding, all the more, that
her heart is... -pained-. It's as if something is clutching it and her lungs in the symptoms of a
tell-tale panic attack-- but she was never afflicted by those. She'd only heard of them. Is that
what this is? Is the twitching of her skin similarly attuned to this, or is it -her-? The ghost?
"...-HENRY!!-" She'll go hoarse soon. She knows it. She'll scream herself silent before he actually
takes notice of her. What in the -hell- is happening?
"Of course you wouldn't," Cynthia continues over the sharper shout that's given. "I could see it
before... so lonely. I was lonely, too... but the voices never stop now. Sometimes it's terrible...
just -terrible-. But now I have what I want... and... I think you owe it to me."



Strangely enough, when their bodies meet, there's a moment where his fear is blotted out, replaced
by an upsurgance of memory, a recollection of the last time their bodies touched this way.
It had started out so well. The subway station, dream-conveniently deserted save for that Hispanic
girl he'd seen from his window that morning; the one with legs for days, tits that made his mouth
water, and an outfit that gave him a great view of both. A man couldn't hope for a better dream
woman than that, especially when said woman reassures said man that it is in fact all a dream -
because for a minute there, he hadn't been sure; it was that way with all the nightmares he'd been
having lately - and then leans her wonderfully tight, voluptuous body up against his and tells him
that she's going to do him a, quote, 'special favor'.
Boy, oh, boy.
A sex dream - after five straight days of seeing the same dismal visions every time he dozed off
and living with his panicked fear of starvation in waking hours, it was about time his mind threw
something good his way. And it had been *better* than good. The heat, her teasing fingers dancing
over his chest, the very *smell* of carnality emanating from the woman - Cynthia, she said her
name was; *sin*-*thee*-*aahh* - was so vivid, so tangible, that he was instantly hard for her, and
was sure that he must be getting hard in reality as well. He'd no doubt have something throbbing
and very painful to deal with upon wakening, but for the moment, he could enjoy this little
succubus until his brain simply couldn't cling to dreaming any longer. The only question now was
what to do with her first: bend her over the nearest turnstile and divest her of the thong he could
see peeking over the top of the shawl she wore in lieu of a skirt, or lay her down and slide his
aching length into the cleavage formed by her ample breasts, thrusting until he shot his load all
over her face and throat. Nothing he could bring himself to do in the light of consciousness, were
Cynthia a real woman, of course, but this wasn't consciousness, and Cynthia wasn't real, and he had
a mind to do his very worst with her.
In the best possible sense of the term, of course.
Alas, even in 'dreams', he couldn't escape the man he was in reality, and Henry the Horny Demon Lover
couldn't manage to overpower Henry the Kinda Quiet But Overall Pretty Decent Guy even long enough to
reply verbally to her enticement, to place twitching hands upon the lovely cradle of her hips. In
the next moment, Cynthia and all her warmth was gone, sauntering away from his tingling body,
laughing, giving him a long last look at the succulent ass he'd been too shy to grab hold of when
it was being dangled right in front of him.
And then he'd lost her. For good - or so he'd thought, anyway.
Now, it appears he is again being offered the chance to sample Cynthia's wares...only it isn't
merely an offer. Nor is it Cynthia - or, rather, it is, but not the incarnation he found appealing;
it's only the dessicated dead-leaf echo of Cynthia, smelling of rot and perfume and the musk of
day-old sex...and though the press of her body has fooled his senses, has begun to seduce his body
into a state of unbecoming arousal, his mind is suddenly aware of the way she has entwined him
in the sinuous embrace of her hair...the same way a spider wraps up its pretty fluttering prey
just before devouring it.
The fear slams back home, and Henry with a great shout begins to claw at the lengths of hair which
hold him bound, ripping and tearing without regard for any pain he might be causing. The spell of
the sweet memory is broken, and he has to get free, get ahold of the axe again, somehow...somehow...



The way he initially reacts... Eileen can't help but be appalled. Was she mistaken, or did she
see the slight quaver of his hips? Are her eyes playing tricks on her, or is that ghost doing
more than just -attacking- him? Just as soon as she's ready to walk forward again, her heart
continues to seize, as if caught in the midst of an attack that threatens to blank her out
completely. Standing as close as she can with as minimal discomfort as possible, she's... slackjawed.
The only thing that truly snaps her out of her haze is the loud *shout* he gives the moment he
seems to come to his senses, her entire frame tensing up as she jumps back a couple paces, her legs
threatening to bowl her over right then and there. Gasping out her surprise as she regains her
footing, she's through shouting for him-- or at least on 'pause,' insofar as that's concerned.
She can't, for the life of her, imagine what held him back to begin with. Is there something
she's not seeing from this vantage point? Is he as much as slave to his sex drive as every other
man she's had the displeasure of running into?
All signs would, in fact, point to yes.
"Henry..." This time... Eileen's voice CAN be heard. A pathetic appeal to catch his attention,
to see if he's returned to her in some way. In some fashion. To see if he's actually managed
to pull himself away from the trance-like state that's overtaken him-- and his body, for that
matter. "...Henry, please..."
"...Henry." Cynthia again, echoing Eileen as if to mock her. "Henry, -please-..."
The hair seems to tighten itself along his limbs, just as it does along his waistline. It
-jerks- at him, -thrusting- his hips against the junction of her legs, the elevation she
rests at allowing him to feel an odd amount of warmth at the apex of her thighs-- surrounded,
as it is, by an unearthly chill. Hot and cold, all felt along the budding arousal that presses
against his jeans. Her hands... idle up until this point, sneak down between their bodies, her
hips tilting backwards to give her some room. "She can't give you what I can... she won't
give you what I -will-... And you know I will, don't you?" At this, her fingers clasp at the
growing erection that strains against his jeans, her touch... distressingly poignant. Moreso
than any -normal- touch should ever be. Still, it seems as though he's been allowed full control
over his own senses-- just not over his ability to get away. Was that trance merely there
to... lure him to her?
To make him more compliant?
"You owe me," Cynthia repeats, her deadened, icy fingers still traversing the fly of his pants,
manipulating him with a note of experience. This woman -knows- full damn well what she's doing,
and how to do it-- to a point where it's entirely concievable that such attentions can and
-will- bring him to a precipace without warning. "You owe me..." The subtext is simple: he owes
her for lying to her. For telling her it was all a dream-- for trapping her here. For being
wholly unable to save her when he could have. Sighing against the curse of his stubbled
jawline, she arches her back just enough to press the swells of her breasts against his
chest-- but the resultant gasp isn't her's.
It's Eileen's.
"Henry, what are you -doing-?!" she shouts, her tone jangled with raw, unabating terror. "This
isn't... you can't..." He can't get -away-, you stupid woman. He can't -move-. He's -trapped-.
-Do- something about it! Unfortunately, every time she DOES advance, she's hit with the same
brick wall of pain-- though it's abating. Only a modicum, but either she's getting used to
it... or...
...She can't stand by and -watch- this... can she? There's no possible way she can help in the
here and now. Should she turn away? Look elsewhere? Or wait for her opening? Sparing him the
humiliation could end his life, and end -hers- in turn.



Henry's struggle is a valiant one, one must admit. He's a strong young man, and every ounce
of his strength has been fueled by adrenaline and channeled into the attempt to escape. But
Cynthia's living locks aren't bound by the framework of stiff bone. They are free to tear
loose, then whipcoil out again in silky tentacles which move at speeds far greater than his
flailing fists can match, free to mummify Henry's arms and waist in their barbed-wire tangle,
leaving him worse off even than he began. He's tiring quickly, what slight endurance he still
retains after more than three days (for who knows how long it's been?) without nourishment
draining with alarming rapidity - and what's more, what's *worse*, it seems as though every
one of his struggles only increases the friction, the heat between their two bodies - man and
wraith - and it is with a groan of utter shame that he feels himself harden completely, pressing
against her eager, chilly fingers, pressing into the warmth between her legs.
When finally he hears Eileen's cries, he matches them with one of his own: "Eileen!" he shouts.
"Nnngh. Christ...Eileen, get me the hell away from her! Help me!" And still Cynthia's hair
slithers around him, squeezing ever tighter, holding him fast and *close*, so he can feel, with
painful, arousing clarity, every movement the dead woman makes, every deft caress. It feels like
the hair has actually *penetrated* him, wrapping snug around his heart with almost threatening
tightness.
It's starting to sink in, with all-consuming horror: she has him bound, and in a sick parody
of his own designs when he'd first met her and thought her a mere amusement created by his
mind, she intends to use him the same way he'd wanted to use her.
He feels his skin literally *crawl* at that, and jerks his lips away from the pale, dead lips
hanging so near his own, turning his head as far as he can, catching the injured onlooker in
periphery with one panicked eye. "Eileen!" he cries again, his voice reaching fever-pitch.
"Please, help! I can't- she's-"
...going to...
He can't even verbalize it, the thought of what's coming, what she's preparing him for, is so
abhorrent. She's *dead*, dammit - dead and yet she's got him erect and ready, mindless tumescence
prodding, begging to be released from the confines of his jeans, begging to live out the fantasy
that it was denied. He can only hope that Eileen can't see the state he's in, what with the hair
drowning everything in a black shroud, and Cynthia's cold body pressed so near.
Because if she sees, if she realizes, she'll be horrified. And she'll leave him - he knows
it. She'll turn and limp away, and never look back. And if she does that, he's a dead man. Whether
from Cynthia's rancor, starvation, or some other monstrous machination of this monstrous place,
he will die, and he will die alone.
And right now, that thought terrifies him more than anything.



Give the woman some credit.
She knows terror when she sees it. She can -hear- the balk in his tone as he tries to explain
what this apparition made solid is about to do to him. To that end... yes, Eileen is horrified,
but not at -him-. Not yet. SHe's a bright girl; she understand physiology as a fact of nature.
She understands full damn well that men are much more easy to bring to a poignant edge of
arousal than women-- and she can -easily- see the stroking of the woman's fingers over the
junction of his thighs. Taking in a sharp breath, she finds herself all too relieved that he
-is- talking back-- it's an easy enough way to convince herself that it wasn't -really- him that
seemed wanting of this. Merely a spell of some kind. That's it. That's all. It -has- to be...
has to be...
"I can't get close!" Eileen protests, frantic, wincing away as she sees Cynthia's fingers dance
along the clasp of his jeans, noting the obvious strain that presses against them. "Oh... jesus."
Of all times she wishes she could just -vomit-, now would be one of them. She can't fathom, for a
second, the implications of what's going on. And she's trying like hell to convince herself all the
more that he's -not- in control of his bodily reactions.
He can't be.
God help him if he is.
"Awful pretty," Cynthia drawls, undoing the clasp of his jeans deftly, her fingers dipping inwards
to take hold of the adjoining zipper. Her hair goes lax, just enough for his limbs to breathe, but
no further. It's still apparent that she has a -firm- hold on him, no matter how hard he tries to
struggle away. But out of his peripheral vision, he might be able to see Eileen gingerly approaching
another step as the ghost gains more and more clarity in tone... even a slight coloration dashed
upon obviously deadened skin. "Is this all for me, or is it for her?"
Can Eileen even hear this?
"You like 'em all beaten up, boyscout?" she continues, her fingers sneaking into the now-opened fly,
-seizing- the material hard enough to pull it down, her rapacious demeanor-- the demeanor she
harbored in life-- coming fully to the fore with a -far- more sinister twist. The aggressive manner,
the coyly stated sentiments... "Or do you like 'em like me...?" The insinuation is obvious. Like them
dead? Like them -that- pliant? "I don't even need vaseline," she goes on to say, upping the anti on
utter tastelessness. "Isn't that convenient... Henry?" The repetition of his name, still. Forcing
him to come back to his senses any time he feels the innate need to tap out. Of course, it's only
once she's freed him fully that she allows her body to trail backwards, giving the woeful onlooker
quite a -good- view of what her ministrations have done to him.
"What will she think, mn? Think she'll want this once she sees what I've got for you?"
Eileen is... in so many words, utterly shocked. Frozen in place at what she's percieving, she's having
entirely too much difficulty trying to reason this out. It's just physiology-- that's all it is. It's
nothing else. -Nothing-. And, just perhaps, were this any other situation, seeing him piqued to such
a state might catch her attention in a -good- light... in this, she feels a mixture of abhorrence and...
Her sympathy goes to the point of being pained. She can't imagine, for the life of her, what's going on
in his head-- and she only hopes, she -prays- he'll keep talking. Keep dispelling the idea that he, in
some way, -wants- this.
"-Talk to me-!" she blurts out, desperate to hear him talk back. "I can't get any closer, Henry--
-please-, just -concentrate-!"



He *is* concentrating. Unfortunately, it's on the wrong thing.
He simply can't believe he's hearing what Cynthia's slow, rhythmic words are implying.
Like them beaten up? Like them *dead*?! Oh, God...no. No. He's not *that* sick, despite the hole
in his wall as evidence to the contrary. So what if Eileen was a bit more enticing in her
wounded state? My dear, your bruises go *so well* with that dress. My, but don't you look great
in bloodstains. It didn't mean anything beyond the aesthetic - did it? It was just *her* - *she*
was beautiful, and in a faded, brutalized way, her injuries enhanced that beauty, just as a
well-chosen shade of lipstick can.
And besides, it was her *healthy*, un-marred body he'd last watched, imagined clutching to his own
and thrusting madly into as, panting, biting his lower lip and tossing back gray-spiderwebbed
mahogany hair, he'd brought himself to a climax that had left him stunned and weakened in its wake.
Remembering that last illicit viewing, he feels his nerves come alive with sudden shameful pleasure,
feels his exposed erection *twitch* at the conjured image of his neighbor's body, delightfully nude
and on display for him and him alone, open in a way she'd never be if she knew someone was watching.
But now the world is inside-out, and all is upside-down; for *she* is now the one watching *him*,
*his* is the body on display for the girl with the startled green eyes. He squeezes his own eyes shut,
unable to meet Eileen's gaze, not like this, not so dreadfully *exposed*, and knowing his own mind
and thoughts and hating himself for thinking them at a time like this. "No, no," he groans again and
again, as much to silence his own unbidden inner lecher as to reply to Cynthia, insisting that he's
just a normal man with normal cravings. Yes, of course, he desires Eileen, just like he desired
Cynthia when they first met. But Cynthia now? No...no...not even with the honey-brown in her lovely
long limbs starting to return, the plush red of her lips full and bright once more, and all traces of
decay in her perfume vanishing as if in a sudden breeze, replaced by the pure warm seduction of the
scent which had overrun his world as she'd whispered to him about favors, voice rife with innuendo
and the promise of everything a man could ever want, free of charge - step right up.
She is still dead. And even though her voice and smell and his own memories of latent pleasure are
threatening to send him into a state of toxic delirium, Cynthia is dead, and...and showing him to
Eileen...and it is too much...too shameful. He cannot cope.
"Why are you doing this?" he moans in a splintering voice to the florid spectre before him. "Cynthia,
I...stop. Please. I don't want this." He opens his eyes with difficulty and meets the Hispanic woman's
smirking golden gaze. "I'm...sorry...about what happened to you. If I could've saved you, I would
have, believe me - so, please...just...stop."



It's never that easy.
It'll never -be- that easy.
And while Eileen is repulsed by what she's seeing, she's finding she can edge in a bit closer,
though the distance remains rather noticable. At least six feet between herself and the pair-- and
she's by no means coordinated enough to throw her riding crop accurately. More to the point... it
wouldn't do nearly enough damage, if Henry can't wrestle himself free already. As he trembles, so
does she, but for different reasons. She hates being even more helpless than she was before he
arrived-- and while she found herself growing irritated with his constant worry, now it's -her- turn
to worry. Morbidly, her eyes take a fascinated arc down to the stiffened flesh that's been left
untended for the time being, though the trajectory very -quickly- averts itself back to his face. She
can't turn away, can she? She -wants- to... -god-, she wants to. But it comes back to the same thing
over and over...
Turn away, and he could die. Walk away, and he could be subjected to worse without her presence than
with. But how on earth can either of them look each other in the eyes once all of this is said and
done? How can either of them even -concieve- of carrying on a normal conversation without his head
reeling with implication? And hers, besides?
Just as morbidly, her eyes cling to the pained expression he fronts, finding it easier and easier to
believe. Anything but allowing her eyes to alight back upon the flesh the ghost teases.
"If you're so sorry," Cynthia purrs, her fingers taking a firm hold of his length, stroking up from
the base to tease around the head, her thumb smearing the very beginnings of moisture forming at the
tip. Both middle and forefinger curl around either side of him, extending outwards to bring him to
heighten his state. Loosening a low moan at what she feels, at the vague twitches that are wholly
involuntary, she nuzzles her face against the side of his neck, those tendrils of hair wrapping that
much more around his extremeties. "...If you're so sorry, then give me what I want. I want -you-,
Henry... you can see me. You're not one of them... and you can see me. I've thought about you, cooped
up in this shitty place..." The tendrils tug at one of his arms, guiding his hand effortlessly to the
skirt that covers her thighs. Even if he -does- struggle, and more than likely he will, the trajectory
remains the same, the tendrils tightening their grip to a painful level if compliance isn't met. The aims,
however, -will- be met. "Feel that?" she murmurs, indicating the warmth between her thighs, which is all
but -emanating- -- unnatural, like the chill... like -everything- in this place.
All the while, her hand is continuing to stroke at him... toy with him...
"...You wouldn't believe how wet you've got me, playing hard to get," she coos, shifting as if to
squirm, a sickening sound erupting from the deadened limbs she possesses, a breif flash of her true
state showing through before the 'repairs' reassert themselves, no matter how minute they are. "And you'd
deny me?" That question again. "You're heartless, Henry... All I want is this..." she squeezes his shaft,
though not to a point where it could be considered painful. "...in me."



Oh, God.
What he wouldn't have given to have heard that *prior* to the Latina's untimely demise. After
all, isn't it every man's fantasy to hear that all a woman wants is a good hard fucking from
the man in question - especially if the woman is as attractive as Cynthia...well, *was*? As
it stands, however, Henry is too repulsed for words. Though his senses have responded to the
stimuli, visual and sensory, that the wraith-woman is conveying to them, his mind is still
fully cognizant of the fact that this creature was shuffled loose the mortal coil before his
very eyes, and were he to follow through with her avid desires, he would be putting himself
inside the cold, dead passage of a cold, dead body, and that...that...
That thought is disgusting enough to cause his erection to flag a big, despite the admittedly
tantalizing stroking of her strong hands. And then his arousal almost shrinks completely, as
though backing away in slow horror, when his hand is forced into contact with the intimate folds
between her legs, and his fingers delve into clammy, goopy wetness that feels so different from
the way a woman's natural lubrication should that Henry actually feels his gorge rising, tastes
sour bile at the back of his throat. He wrenches his hand back, and cannot resist shooting a
glance down to his fingers...
And then he really *does* vomit as he sees that what is covering his fingers isn't a woman's sexual
juices at all, but rather smears and globs of viscous black blood.
Henry chokes, managing to turn his head away and aim the pittance that his stomach hurls out of
him in disgust away from himself and the spectre who holds him prisoner. He does not vomit a
second time - there's simply not enough in his stomach to allow for it - but he does continue to
gag and cough for several moments, body convulsing, mind pleading with the stagnant air - please
let her lose interest now that she no longer has him hard. Please. If there is any good left in
the world (the *real* one, not this abomination), this monster masquerading as a woman will let him go.



Could this possibly get any worse?
Truly?
So far as Eileen can see, this entire display... -everything- about it is so many levels of wrong...
does ten years of therapy (should she survive) sound about par for the course? Clapping a hand
over her mouth, she stares on in the same abject horror as her eyes behold the spectacle, her own
stomach recoiling in her abdomen at the sight of the viscous fluid congealing along the man's
fingers. Oh... god. Oh god. Stumbling back a couple paces as Henry releases what little is in his
stomach, she, too, is -praying- that the action will cause the ghost to falter in her advances,
her shoulders swept up with another round of helpless quaking. Nonetheless-- the moment that it
happens, she can feel the constriction in her chest and the flailings of her heart wane just
enough to move forwards a bit more, no matter -how- much she, herself, is being adversely affected.
This is, as they say, one for the record books.
Cynthia, on the other hand, observes both the waning of his arousal and the rebellion of his gut
with a distressing note of indifference, her one visible eyebrow raising faintly, her smile
faltering some. Eventually, it twists into an obvious frown, her disappointment plain, though
her hands are still making it a point to continue their ministrations, unimpeded. "Now we'll have
to start all over again," she muses, her tone sporting exasperation. The moment the words come to
a halt, however, Henry is -lifted- bodily from the ground, the tendrils of hair sinking into his
epidermal layers as he's -thrust- back against a wall, the aberration herself following soon after,
the length of her hair allowing for such an action without too much trouble.
Made squeamish by the advent of vomit? Perhaps.
"You could stand to refine your technique a little bit, boyscout," she continues, her hands back on
him in an instant, though her form is slowly... ever so slowly... gliding downwards, his feet
allowed to touch the floor again-- though they, too, are soon wrapped up by the ebon locks that
hold his arms steady. Placing tender kisses against the buttons along her shirt, Cynthia murmurs
her approvals against his belly, her voice seeming to resonate -through- him, no matter how
quietly she's speaking. "No way I'm kissing -that- mouth. I don't care -what- you say..." Playing
it up like he still wants this? Not to say her perceptions havn't already been terrifyingly skewed,
but...
"Poor thing... guess I'll just have to doubletime this."
That said... the descent is complete. Flaccid or no, difficult or no, her -mouth- is what encases
him this time, an audible 'mmmmm' reverberating along the pliant flesh as her back arches, the
swells of her breasts pressing against either of his thighs. This...
...This, Eileen has apparently heard. Taking another couple steps forwards, though she's careful to
avoid the slickened puddle the poor man's unleashed, she's finding that it's not -quite- as difficult
to navigate with the ghost's concentration remaining solely on her victim. Blinking considerably at
the throaty, muffled coo that echoes through the enclosure, she pales all the more. "...Oh, Henry," she
whispers against her hand, which still clutches to her mouth as if attempting to continuously stave
off the possibility of her own revulsion.



No way.
No way in *hell*.
A man's equipment may be a mindless, greedy thing, but once you startle it into submission,
there's no rousing it again soon by *any* means. Right?
...right?
Sorry, Hank. You're zero for countless guesses today.
He does manage to stave off his body's reaction for a little while - after all, between the
jarring of his back hitting the wall and the simmering nausea still causing his stomach to roll
queasily, he's been pretty badly shaken, and for once in his healthy male libido's life, sex is
the absolute *last* thing he wants, especially given who's offering. But...if Cynthia's nether
parts feel nothing at all the way a woman's sex should, then her mouth, in comparison, more
than makes up for her other viable orifice's failings. The lips which enclose him are soft and
full, the tongue which flickers over the length of him, drawing him in deeper, is quick and hot
and moist, and what the overall effect boils down to the sweetest blowjob he's had in *years*.
Not that he's happy about it. As he feels the surge of heat and blood to his groin that heralds
the reemergance of his erection, Henry releases a choked groan to the air around him. "Oh," he
sobs, "fuck. Cynthia please, please..." His back arches involuntarily as a shudder of pleasure
crawls up his spine, and the total lack of control his mind is having over his body's reactions
horrifies him. Synapses fire, nerves tingle, the hunger for release replaces for a moment the
previously unabating hunger for sustenance, and Henry is ready to scream from the hopeless
frustration of it all. "Don't...!" A gasp curtails his words as he feels his hardening length
squeezed gently by Cynthia's working throat. His hands grip futile handfuls of her thick hair, and
he can barely manage a whisper as the words he'd tried to say a moment ago come spilling the rest
of the way out.
"Don't do this..."
Trapped as he is, knowing that nothing short of violence - violence that he is currently incapable
of - will stop Cynthia, no matter how he pleads and begs, Henry searches through the shroud of his
burgeoning, sickening desire to find the only person who can possible help him now. Pained, pleading
gray eyes find Eileen's one good, cautious green one and fix there, clinging on for dear life. He
doesn't want to alert his tormentor to the injured woman's encroaching presence, for fear that the
ghoul, who has until now seemed to regard his erstwhile traveling companion with the utmost
nonchalance, might suddenly turn hostile if gotten too close to - and so instead of calling out to
her, Henry moves his lips in a soundless, 'help me', then throws his head back against the concrete
wall and whimpers audibly as his hips jerk forward of their own volition, burying his length in
the warm embrace of Cynthia's throat. The action is unbidden, undeniable...as will be the inevitable
end of this, if the wraith keeps up her skilled ministrations for too much longer. Like as not,
she is playing him like an obstinate instrument, and he is losing more and more ground by the
minute, his mind threatening to give way completely, leaving him to plummet into utter thrall
of her. He has no other recourse but to *take* this...
Unless Eileen can somehow manage to put a stop to things, which he prays with every fiber of
his being that hasn't already given itself over to pleasure that she will do, and *quickly*, before...
Before...



Sadly, there's a varitable wall thrown up between Eileen and the debauchery occuring right in
front of her. A decent five feet stands between herself and Henry, her entirity starting to
shudder all the more as she attempts to press further. Gasping, she jerks back again, her good
hand falling down to her throat to massage at it gently, her breath -held- once his eyes come to
catch hers in a woeful stare. Freezing in place, her sympathy is obvious-- though she can't
show much more than that. Quietly, she mouths back a fervent 'I'm sorry,' her hand clutching
into a fist as it comes to rest against her chest. Oh, for the ability to -break this up-... More
to the point, she prays that he doesn't see her eyes flickering down towards what's going on
further down. The -reactions- he has... the light groans, no matter how pained they are, are...
No. Not in this situation.
But like it or not, what she sees, beyond all of its horrific elements, is...
Oh, jesus.
A light, staccato burst of resonance akin to a chuckle dances along the length of him as
Cynthia houses him -deep- in her throat, her deadened lungs requiring no oxygen... her throat
possessing no gag reflex to speak of. This in mind, she's allowed the ability to sink her
mouth down along him with no discomforture whatsoever, her esophagus... -constricting- around
him in the disconcerting parody of a woman's sex. Her hands, idle at his thighs, begin to
tilt inwards, the left caressing his thigh while its mate reaches up to cradle his untended
sac, thumb brushing over it tenderly as her head shifts back, leaving his erection fully
exposed to the chill air that surrounds him-- though it doesn't seem as though it'll be for
long. After all, going the way she is...
"Let her see," she drawls, tongue skirting over the lower swell of her lips before flickering
out against the tip of his arousal. "Let her see how much you want me..."
Indeed, her hair -parts- to give Eileen more than an eyefull of what's going on-- of the
slight, saliva-sheened glint along his length. Of course, the moment the 'window' is opened,
the wraith sinks back down against the object of her affections, taking him in as deeply as
she had before-- to the -hilt-. While there are no immediate bobbing motions, the roiling of
her throat is constant, fluctuating around him with a disturbing about of precision. Her
state, it would seem, is allowing her to manipulate parts of her that no human should be able
to-- but this much has already been made clear. Worse yet, her -tongue- begins to swill along
the underside of his erection, pressing him -tightly- against the roof of her mouth, though
surprisingly, her teeth never seem to enter the equasion.
Sad, that what's most likely to be the best blowjob of his life is... -this-.
In this action, however, Eileen is able to move in a little closer, her paces taking her closer
to the fallen axe that rests behind Cynthia, her motions as stuttered as ever. Her eyes continue
to flicker back towards Henry's face, as if to reassure as best as possible-- an action she
knows full damn well is futile, given what she's -seeing-. The fact that she can't see a -hint-
of the flesh the ghost is teasing when she's within a better visual range is proof enough of
that-- proof enough that his humiliation will undoubtedly be 'sealed with a kiss.'



Henry is abject. That's the only word to describe the state in which he hangs, pathetic
and helpless as he's yanked this way and that, caught in a tug-of-war between wild
sexual delight and the need to fight, to get away from these loathsome goings-on by any
means necessary.
And, we hate to say it, sports fans, but - as Cynthia's masterful manipulations of him
increase in speed and variety, causing the deadly demons of his desire to tear through his
boiling blood, shreiking madly - it looks like the former is winning.
The young man's vocabulary has been reduced to a chorus of whimpers, sobs, and moans, all
of which echo back, harmonizing in the excellent acoustics of the underground, orchestrating
his downfall. His skin is flushed crimson, mortified not only at his state, but at the fact
that Eileen's watching of him is somehow *heightening* the already incredible pleasure he
gleans from Cynthia's mouth and throat *twisting* around his bursting tumescence. He can see
Eileen struggle with herself to keep her eyes off of his length and the horrible, fantastic
things that Cynthia is doing to it, can see her fight something that occasionally resembles
a strange, unbidden hunger of her own.
Oh, Eileen, were it only *you* doing this to him!
*That* thought - of lovely Eileen, whose body he knows better than she can imagine, on
her knees like this, for him, the smooth tip of his arousal prodding at her bruised and
swollen lips, seeking entrance - causes another tremor of perverse pleasure to dance over
his nerve endings, and he squints his eyes shut and *cries out*, burying his length in
Cynthia's accomodating mouth, as deep as it will go. Then, coming back to himself - the
need to fight gaining a little ground, struggling up from the mud into which it has fallen -
Henry tries to pull away, to jerk his hips away from the unwanted (and yet desired)
mouth...but there is nothing for it. Pulling away only causes his erection to drag against
Cynthia's swilling, teasing tongue, causes her fingernails to scrape over the naked skin
of his thighs in ways that send delicious shivers to his extremities - in fighting, he is
only increasing the effectiveness of the ghoul's actions, and once more, Henry is left with
nothing else to do but swoon against his bindings and the wall behind him and *take* what
Cynthia lavishes upon him, his complete helplessness in the matter making every touch and
flicker and kiss all the more poignantly felt.
He can feel his insides simmering through the riot of confusion in him, can feel the
pressure inside building up to the climax that only seems to grow closer the more he
wishes it and all the rest of this away. With his mind and body warring like this, and
the pleasure he recieves trebling with each new movement Cynthia makes, he's not going
to be able to hold out much longer - and his eyes, glazed though they are, convey that
to Eileen with ever more urgent looks, pleading with her to hurry, to act somehow, and *soon* -
- because he won't be able to bear it if she's still hanging back, watching, when he
spills his essence right down Cynthia's waiting throat.



No such luck, mn? But at least, in the midst of this... the more he starts to move, the
more he starts to loosen everything from a wretched sob to a wanting -cry-, the more
leeway Eileen's given. Her eyes are -fixated- on his face now, her mind -reeling- at
her inability to keep herself from observing the rocking of his hips... the overtly
seductive motions of the woman tending him... Even the sound of his -voice- is compelling
in its own right, whenever it raises in something other than a pained whimper. It'd
be difficult -not- to call to life certain scenerios by those alone-- but now is -not-
the time. And sad to say, unbidden hunger or no, she has other priorities. Unaware
that -she's- the source of the outcry, she finally retrieves the axe, her arm complaining
-fiercely- at the weight of it. She only has one arm to do this with-- and she's gonna
have to make it -count-, without hurting -him- any.
No one said this'd be easy... but god-damn-.
With the muscles along her good limb screaming out in their myriad of agonies, the
woman is doing her level best to keep the head of the axe elevated as she moves, finding
that Cynthia's concentration on her quarry is keeping -her- out of harms way. This,
alone, is good-- but finding a proper way to strike is the first and ONLY thing on
her mind. With the woman's mouth so firmly locked around Henry's length, it's... The
angle is dubious at best. Moving as she has to position herself behind the wraith,
she knows full damn well that one false move with the axe, and -teeth- will come down
around him. In this... once again, she finds herself utterly helpless. Utterly unable
to do anything, no matter how much she tries to figure her way around it. No matter
WHAT she does, she'll be putting him in danger of getting seriously hurt.
It'll be all about timing. That's it-- that's all.
In the meantime, she looks back into his eyes with all the futility of the world
riding on her shoulders. It's clear she wants to do -something-, but she -can't-...
not now.
The aberration, on the other hand, is still indulging herself in the poignant
ministrations, her throat beginning to constrict all the more along him as he
plunges emphatically back into her, her head tilting just enough to the side so
as to change the notes of pressure that are being dealt out. Her hands come around
to either side of his hips, -holding- him in place the more he jerks around,
unwilling to let him run from her-- not when she knows, -senses-, how close he is.
Keeping her enthusiasm at top speed, she practically -writhes- against him, her
hips giving their own subtle motions back and forth as she rocks against him, allowing
her throat to -pull- at him even more. To lavish him with stimulus that he's likely
to have never dreamt possible. It's a wonder, though... if the motions of her hips
are for -his- benefit, or to taunt Eileen. Either way, it's -effective-... and it's
as unrelenting as it's been since the entire, violating act began.
To up the anti, as if it -needs- anything more, her -voice- gets added into it. Somehow,
around the tensing length of his erection, there's a low purr that reverberates around
him, adding yet another source of stimulus to this otherworldly act. Her hands drive him
as far into her as possible, her face practically nuzzling at the skin along his
base, her head continuing the idle shifts.



He sees Eileen take up the axe, and suddenly there is hope. His companion is *right behind*
Cynthia's kneeling ghost, and all she needed do was drive the blade home - just one
well-placed strike, and Cynthia would release him, would *have to* release him, and
then he would be free to help Eileen put an end to her.
He watches, gasping occasionally, hips still shifting and thrusting involuntariliy,
as the girl examines the tableau with her one good eye. He watches her expression grow
ever more fretful and sad, until finally that one green eye rolls up to meet his
questioning stare, the pained look it gives him speaking volumes of inutile frustration.
She cannot do it. To strike out at Cynthia now would be to put him in even greater
danger, considering his rather, heh, precarious positioning at moment. She's going to
have to wait until the phantom releases him, and the way things are looking, that isn't
going to be until the inevitable happens.
Realizing this, Henry feels his spirits sink, feels the last of his will to fight ebb
away in time to the insistant throbbing of his arousal in the confines of Cynthia's
mouth. Giving up those last reserves of mental control causes an internal dam to break,
allows wave upon wave of blistering physical sensation to crash down on the young man,
driving him against the sharp rocks of horror-tinged desire. His head swims in the deluge,
his many moans and gasps becoming one long, undulating cry as Cynthia forces him, step
by aching, tantalizing step up the final path to Calvary, to execution and to climax.
His thrusts become erratic, panic-driven, and they are so fast and hard that no living
woman could possibly tolerate the onslaught...but Cynthia hasn't had to worry about the
various discomforts of living for quite some time now, and Henry's brutal movements are
met with nothing but ever-increasing compliance - thus, he is only spurred onward toward
his shameful end. He feels himself reach the breaking point, cries out in wordless
defeat, and then -
And then a riptide of intensity unlike any climax he's ever known is raking its sinister
fingernails down his spine, and he thrusts deep into the Hispanic woman's throat one
final time, grasping hands tearing at her hair as he uses it to *pull* her down around
him, impaling her as deeply as possible as he hits critical. With every beat of his
fluttering heart, he feels his essence ready to explode from him, ready to shoot hot gouts
into Cynthia's accomodating throat - the throat which even now is milking his erection as
though seeking to suck his very *life* from it along with his seed.
Throughout the bare moments preceeding his orgasm, he keeps his eyes affixed to Eileen,
giving her a clear picture of all the lust and the torment swelling within him, a front-row
seat with popcorn at his passion and crucifixion. This is it, sweetheart - the final nail
in the coffin. Henry lets himself go boneless, willing the world to come to a sudden and
violent end around him.
Just kill them both, Eileen. You'll be doing him a favor.
Because he's about to shoot his load in a dead woman's mouth - and he's *loving* it.
He's done.



In a moment where it feels as though everything's come crashing down-- every hormonal twist,
every wretched uprising of pleasure absolute-- the twisted nature of it never fails to
disappoint. Though his hands may hold tightly to the long tendrils of hair that encircle
his hands, there's a -fight- that goes on almost instantly. His attempts to pull at -her-
are being circumvented by the locks pulling back at -him-, attempting all the more to
throw him off-balance... to -prove-, once and for all, that he is NOT the one in control.
More to the point... it makes his own reactions that much more apparent to him. Makes the
strength he exerts piston up through his musculature to the rhythm of his hips, -reminds-
him of the immense amounts of physical gratification he's gaining from this, one of
the most taboo of acts.
This in mind, Cynthia begins to draw her head away as the first of the spasms begin--
though it may feel as though her throat is still on him. Should he chance a look... it's
her -tongue-, lengthened like that of the aberrant dogs of this realm, -gripping- him
like an unrelenting viper. Her hands, holding -tightly- to his hips, allow him to jerk
freely as the first of the fluid jettisons out from the tip. Were she able, there -would-
be a low titter greeting him-- but what isn't heard is -felt- resonating through him,
tearing itself through his mind as though the connection forged allowed for such passage.
She... is -in- him.
And just as swiftly -out-.
The split second it takes for her to draw her head back and appraise the very beginnings
of his orgasm is the moment there's a lapse in -every- point of contact. A sudden, jarring
motion that causes the body before Henry to tremble, sink... leave him spraypainting his
excess across falling hair, and the handle of an axe. To this end, the involuntary jerks
of his hands and hips jostle the body, the increased weight of the axe buried -firmly-
into the dead woman's head making it apparent as to what's happened--
--What's -happening-.