From the Massacre Publishing collection BOYFISTGIRLSUCK
by alex SEVERIN & hertzan CHIMERA

Jonathan Swift was Deviant: it was written all through him like Blackpool through a stick of rock. Black-marker-penned and stuck fast to his being. Permanent. Indelible. Written all over him and inside him. Through him. The word was an integral part of every jiggling atom in his asymmetric body.

That kind of dirt was under the skin like a tattoo, beyond the epidermis. Carbolic and steel wool could not lather it up and scrub it off. He was made of it, inseparable. Inside and outside, he was Deviant.

Everybody in the Family Swift was an instant Paraphilia expert after the incident, dissecting his psyche, attempting to disinfect themselves and their own little kinks and fetishes. They could justify them, purging their guilt in the process. They were relieved that they could slap on a NORMAL label and wear it with pride.

The elders of the Family Swift kept him locked away day and night - he never saw the sun or moon. No call to his lawyers. No visitors. He was ostracized by every member of his family for his oddness, his deviance. The way he wouldn't join in their orgies of living dead dinners. The way he cringed when they brought him a beheaded virgin to entertain himself with. They way he looked at them, the members of his family, his blood. They all despised his Deviance. Jonathan Swift was thirteen years old when he decided to escape this crooked confinement. He had to expunge himself from this family before he became, like them, a victim of his need. But the only way out, as he saw it, was to convince them that he had converted to their creed and indulge in a bit of the greasy old consequence.

This, he resolved, was his only way out - to seem to give in to the Beast and when all around him had dozed off their frenzy, tiptoe the Hell outta there. Unnoticed.

Friday came so fast and with it the eager invitation from the elders to conjoin with the Beast in fruitful plunder.

None of them questioned his acute change of heart; they were so happy that the prodigal had returned, had purged himself of his deviance and his abnormality. They were happy to welcome the errant son back into the heaving milky bosom of the Family Swift.

The sight that met him in the grand dining hall made his gut instantly heave, the sting of bile in his throat like hot and sour soup. He tried to swallow it down and resume his fervent act but it came out in a whimper, nerves and stomach contents meeting each other head on in his gullet. The Family Swift took it as an expression of his excitement, a squeal of joy at being back in the fold again, ready for a sumptuous banquet. Gilles de Rais would have folded at the knees on seeing this spread - eviscerated, roasted corpses of male and female peasants lay garnished with wild herbs on the table where suckling pigs should have been, a Castrato was bound hand and foot on a wooden Saltire cross, two armless circus freaks tormenting his delicate, tiny cock with calloused feet.

A head, cracked open like a boiled egg sat at each place around the table, a sliver spoon embedded in the brain tissue. Jonathan's blood stopped in his veins, ceased to move, frozen on the inside. To get away from these monsters for good, he would have to eat the still-warm brain of a recently deceased person. No, wait, they were not deceased; dead heads don't blink.

Insanity crawled up his brainstem, threatening to make him one of them. If he allowed himself to be infected by their madness he would be locked into this family, chained to this house of horrors forever. But could he eat the brain of a live human being and hold on to that thread of his sanity?

His cousin (twice removed) Ethelred, the Ever-Ready, came up to Jonathan with a string of cut off vagina looped on his cock like receipts on an accountant's spike. He pulled one off and tore a hunk of the glowing pink gristle with his brown, nerve-showing teeth. In a back room of absolute agony, a woman was screaming forever. She held the note of horror for far longer than the rasping contents of human lungs, maybe they had transplanted bull lungs into her steaming ribcage, sewed on with virgin hair, or matted baby lamb's intestines.

Jonathan would never know - his time to eat had arrived and his stomach groaned with impending horror at what his Family were asking of him. But he had promised. An enormous black man, who the family had been torturing in another place for the last three nights, such that Jonathan had slept little, was led into the room. He no longer had a face. They had torn out his eyes. Cut off his nose. Hammered off his lower jaw. Scalped him. Hammered nails into his skull and poured boiling nitric acid over the remains of his head. A rusty metal pipe had been forced into the mess so that he could still breathe in his death.

Ethelred put a parental arm round Jonathan's naked shoulder - they had only allowed him access to the familial inner sanctum in the Freeborn State of Absolute hairless nudity. Jonathan's initiation was not to be the brain-eating of a freshly-killed eunuch, but an endurance of a much tastier fetish; his initiation was a test of his own security in his manhood and his willingness to give himself over to experimentation. He heard bull-like snorting in another room at the other side of the house, has face paling, wondering if the snorting beast had anything to do with him.

Ethelred grinned at young Jonathan, delighting in his innocence. But before this night had passed, lines would mark that youthful, unblemished face and experience would darken his eyes and his soul.

Ethelred fondled the pussies impaled on his cock, moved them back and forth like a four-mouthed blow-job, the purple aubergine head of his member glistening with pre-cum, lubricating the path of the severed snatches. Jonathan could not avert his eyes from the dazzling show. 'Would you like to try one of my voluptuous vaginas, Jonathan?'

Jonathan almost fell over the pile of severed limbs his brothers and sisters (who were invariably also his cousins and aunts and uncles) were feasting on, stripping them of skin and flesh and fat, stripping off the sinew like strings of mozzarella on a pizza, down to the bone. A young boy with amputated genitals stood nearby with a pepper mill as big as himself and a face as pale as the bones inside the snacks of Jonathan's siblings chowed down on.

"Screw this foreplay!" Jonathan Swift announced, raising his scrawny arms. He had the enormous black man on all fours, his heals dug into his ribs as he rode him like a horse. In came the Bull that some fool had released. It had a snorting white foam snout and an engorged cock the length and girth of this enormous black man's powerful thigh. Jonathan giddy-up'd the black man. With a low moan of hatred, horsee galloped off over the wreckage of an earlier meal - a cobbled floor strewn with shattered crystal goblets and shaft-snapped stilletoes, hunks of animal and human debris skidded underpaw, and the bull got the scent of the enormous black man's hairy sweating anus.

There was a musky pungency to it the bull couldn't resist - talk about a red rag! The bull pursued horsee and his mount, Jonathan Swift, all round the slaughterhouse, gouging out long flanks of manmeat with its horns and cracking ribs with its vicious hooves until the entire Family Swift were on their back in slavering wank heaven.

Jonathan was finally thrown from horsee as the bull's rampant cock homed in on its target, missed and impaled poor Jonathan Swift instead. The virgin arsehole would have screamed like Jonathan's throat, had it the necessary vocal cords to make a pained noise. He felt his pouting pucker-hole split and his intestines stretch as the bull filled him up with a beast-fuck. The family Swift wanked and flicked their respective cocks and clits, fisted sopping cunts and over-used gaping poop-shutes, flapping in the breeze from years of fucking abuse.

Jonathan Swift watched the debauchery with fascination, the pain in his arse heightening his senses. The bull snorted its affection into his ear, covering his face with hot, clear snot that smelled like cow arse-grease.

Jonathan turned his attention to sounds coming from the dining table. The starters moaned as they enjoyed the spectacle of Jonathan's bestial rape and wanked fuck out of their cocks, bucking and jerking, dislodging their brain-spoons which clanked onto the table, some smashing fine cut-crystal glassware, which would no doubt end up being their dinner as a punishment.

Jonathan concentrated all his Deviant power on the act - he clamped hard on his sphincter muscles and crimped off the bull cock tip. Silence fell across the vulgar scenery that was his family. As a ghostly mist crawls across a Scottish heather glen, the fist-fucking members of the Swift Family tore across by the drag of their sandpaper dry tongues. They snailed up the thin white shins of Jonathan Swift as the Bull fell to one side stunned to death by the sexual decapitation. Tongues dragged up white hairless skin. And Jonathan bit off all their stinking cock heads and tore out all their wretched clitorises with his milk teeth.

His belly was full; he was brimming with Deviance.

#

Jonathan Swift was now the head of his fucked up family and ruled them with a rod of iron. The genitally mutilated blood relatives were quieter than dead mice and their ever-festering wounds smelled as bad. None of them could ever have imagined that his perversions and deviancy would be ten-fold what any of theirs' had been. All of them wished they had kept Jonathan Swift firmly under lock and key.

#

Jonathan Swift didn't want to keep this incestuous passions they'd all indulged in to himself and his family; he wanted to spread the word, spread it far and wide, share the sickness that had been genetically passed on to him and psycho-physically drummed into him but he had managed to suppress all those years of subjugation. He arranged for a Decadent Ball to take place at the Swift Family mansion.

The brutal child was exhausted after completing all the arrangements for the ball and so indulged in his favourite relaxation, steeping his feet. But, of course, he did not steep his feet in hot water like a normal human boy; Jonathan Swift had one of the servant boys hacked open with an axe from one of the antique suits of armour that lined the great hall of the house.

Steeping his feet in the hot innards of a young boy was sublime; he loved the feeling of steaming viscera squelching through his toes. He would try to pick up organs with his feet and become annoyed when they slippery-slipped from his grasp; he'd end up seizing them in his fist and hurling them at a wall or one of his expendable servants. One poor, angel-innocent young girl from the village received a length of intestine, slap bang in the kisser and fainted. She never woke from that faint and stayed safe inside her catatonia. Jonathan Swift locked her away in a secret room in the bowels of the mansion and paid her nocturnal visits when he could sneak away.

The wretched virgin-servant became the young Deviant's living Diary - night after night he would recite the song of his debauchery. How he no longer prayed in the family chapel of horrors. How he longed to escape this insane hole of filth and live a better life with someone like her. He told her constantly of plans to release her, set her free from her imprisonment and conjoin with her in holy matrimony, building for them an imaginary cottage in a torturer's forest that was burning in towards its furnace centre - she never suspected he was a lying bastard who would hot poker out her innards after the months of mental torture.

But that is another story, for now the first guests of the Decadents Ball had started to arrive, their antique carriages rolling down the cobbled driveway of the Swift Family home.

#

The guest arrived, adorned in a mine of gold and the lace, silk and velvet of bygone fops and dandies. All of them, thinking they were wicked and depraved smelled like innocence to Jonathan Swift. He held them in contempt and would only call them friends if they were able to survive this night with him, endure through the long hours of the Decadents Ball.

Their glinting eyes drank in the sights of the great entrance hall - implements of ancient tortures adorned the hall, a hot-seat, fire lit beneath the sitter, searing her flesh, a common torture for witches and cock-hardener for the witch-finder. A man who would not last for very long was being stretched on a rack; passers by could hear his spine crack like tinder on a fire. Blood began to trickle out from the bottom of the Iron Maiden, the small metal spikes penetrating the flesh of the young man who dared to knock at the door of the mansion and try to sell Jonathan Swift a bible.

Those who passed by not looking too closely revelled at the wonder of Jonathan Swift's trickery, trying to decipher how he could have achieved such magic.

Those who looked closer, those who smelled the burning flesh and the metallic nose of the blood, saw the rolling eyes of the victims, knew that there was no trickery here, no magic. They had walked across the thresh hold of fucking hell. And this was just an appetiser.

In the central dining hall they had arranged a long curving slide. It had ladders up it like any normal slide but when you got to the top, there was no safe chute to slide down. Instead, there was a single arc of razor sharp steel that glimmered in the light from the swinging chandeliers two floor up in the marble balconied space. They brought in virgins, stripped them naked with violent head butts and vicious knees to the groin until the blood started to flow and the dogs chained to the foot of the slide got a whiff of it. They did not hear the dull groans, the petrified murmurs or the terrified screams of the brutalised girls. They only saw the raw meat that would soon be plummeting down to rid their bellies of the aching hunger.

They made the naked, battered virgins sing hymns, on their knees before the God of the Debauch, the fuck prince regent himself Jonathan Swift. They sang their little hearts out until...one voice croaks under the strain or cracks as the ribs rack with tears...the sole of a jackboot from behind and the virgin slides down the lethal edge, bisected until her sternum grinds down the horror edge with a grating whine as of a juggernaut skidding to a halt.

The clown prince applauds as the dogs begin their feast and announces the purpose of the Ball.

'Fellow decadents! Gather round me and I shall reveal why all of you are here. You are here to help me on a quest. There is no evil left here for me to indulge in. Your petty little kinks and fetishes bore the fuck out of me. And your fucking is abysmal. You use ready-made holes when one can make a new one, turn the whore into a virgin again and make her feel the pain of her first fucking, show her where she went wrong by submitting her maidenhood so fiercely to the first hard cock who looked at her one-eyed.'

His audience stood in silence; Jonathan Swift continued his sermon, gnashing his milk teeeth.

'And the men amongst you, and I use that term loosely, think that the height of evil acts is ramming each other's arses with your meat or your fist. You've not lived til you've been butt-fucked by a bull, Sirs. But I digress. My quest. Accentuate the positive. My quest is to conjure evil its self, to have evil here around us and inside us. Tonight, friends, you shall be a part of conjuring up every single fucking angel that fell from Heaven and into the Abyss. Tonight, friends, we empty HELL'.

The circus freak caravan of all the living practitioners of Satanism known to mortal man paraded into the central hall, their minions, wretched hair shirt wearing flagellators all of them, cowered in behind their masters.

The incantations began and the lights flickered, melodramatically - you could imagine a helpful stagehand flicking on and off the mains with a black-toothed grin on his pock-marked face.

There was no drama when Hell emptied. No one realises but Hell long ago forgot the ancient art of dramatic entrance. Hell was devoid of showmanship. Instead a weary portal unsphinctered like a fisted anus and out fell black oil that hovered menacingly in front of people like a greasy scintillation in the eroto-ether; poking; testing; looking for flaws; cracks in the make-up; ways in.

The oily puddle suddenly split, and things fell from the cunt-like opening like new-borns; they stood up and dusted themselves down; they all mumbled to each other - fuck's sake, more bored aristocrats. Cunts.

Some of the revellers still believed the whole thing to be some sort of trickery, expert showmanship - the very own PT Barnum, their own camp-as-knickers modern-day sorcerer with a Dickensian name that harked back to the old days of circuses and freak shows and drum-drowned-out dentistry. Others retched, their guts knowing the truth before their little brains did and spilling the contents on the floor at the feet of the demons, some fainting when they thought the demon was gonna fuck with them for spewing on his feet.

Jonathan Swift nearly filled his britches as the demon who seemed to be in charge of the rest of them headed straight for him, his eyes not like human eyes but literally flames in his sockets that entranced Jonathan.

Lix Tetrax studied Jonathan Swift for an age before opening his flaming maw to utter Hellish damnation on this little runt who had been the indirect Summoner.

Jonathan Swift reached forward into the glooming horror that confronted him and flicked it's nose, sending it reeling back whimpering in pain. "I could tell you all how I was able to do that. Turning a ferocious.." he made a melodrama of the word, "beast into a cowering pup. But there is no time. Hell is emptied. And that is all I need for now. Demons..." the army of the undead rose from the floor shattering all foundation, " Leave no molecule unfettered on Planet Earth. Adieu, mes amis."

And he bounded into the black oily portal like Mario 64 hollering a boyish "Here we go!" as the blackness sphinctered behind him. The guests looked at each other in utter shame and almost everyone started to cry and plead for their pitiful life as Lix Tetrax gleamed a boiling smile of the coming retribution.

* * * * *

THE END

The Surrogate
by Alex Severin
Bram Stoker Award Nominee 2000

The wind carried us into the churchyard like a gentle ushering hand, the hard rain attempting to cool the passion that sizzled on our skins beneath its icy veil.

The cemetery we walked hand in hand through was so old; it was as dead and decayed as the corpses that lay beneath its earth and I could smell the death of the very soil itself as well as the humanity it sheltered.

The tomb was is a state of disrepair, the ornate padlock on its wrought iron gate crumbling and rusted. It fell to dust on the ground as I clasped it in my hand; the gate swung open as if in invitation, welcoming us inside, beckoning us to enter.

The coffin lay on a stone table; the wood had long since began to rot away and it splintered beneath me as he laid me down on top of it; I could feel the bones of its resident, dry beneath my rain-soaked flesh.

He undressed me slowly, teasing me, tantalising me. He picked up fistfulls of the remains beneath me and rubbed them into my naked breasts. I could feel the bone fragments scratching at my nipples like the thorns of a rose, piercing my skin and leaving the scarlet stain of my blood there.

He tormented my nipples with his tongue, tasting the dust of what was once a man, a man who pulsed with passion and desire as we did now. I lay down on the remnants of the coffin and parted my legs for him. He kissed his way down my body much too slowly; I took his long blonde curls in my hands and forced his head between my thighs, placing one leg over his shoulder and caressing his back with my calf.

His exquisite tongue made me moan and gasp his name as he delivered fast then slow licks over my engorged clit. I arched my back in appreciation as he hungrily licked and gently bit at my dripping sex.

I pulled him onto me, pulled him up by his hair, making him cry out in pain. I was selfish, I didn't care that I hurt him, I just wanted to feel the hardness of his cock filling me up inside, pulsing in my sex, impaling me, driving hard into me.

As he entered me, hard and fast, making me cry out now, teaching me a lesson, I felt the grit and dust of the remains I lay on being pushed inside me with the force of his thrusting. I could feel it on my ass and between my slick thighs, I could feel it working it's way up inside me, searching for the soft bloody walls of my womb.

I fancied that the remains of this old man would bury themselves into the safe and warm of the lining inside my womb, nestle there, grow there, mature, and wait to be reborn to this world again.

I imagined what it would look like when I gave birth to it, this thing that I was sure, at that very moment we made love in his tomb, was forming inside me. No ordinary child. No, it would be an old man, it would be aged and wizened and would talk to me the second I gave it birth; it would laugh at me and call me 'mommy' and taunt me, I was sure.

As I came, I screamed, partly from the explosive climax that ripped through me and partly from the horror of what was in my thoughts, the thoughts of the putrid old child that would grow and grow in my womb.

I was certain that I would go mad as the months passed and I watched the swelling in my belly and dreaded the day when I would have to give this thing life. I would lose all sense the day it would claw its way out of me, tearing at my flesh with long dirty nails, punching my insides with scrawny, sharp, twisted fingers, fingers like the knotted limbs of the trees in the graveyard. I would go insane if I heard the rasping painful laughter from its fluid filled lungs echoing from inside my cunt.

I don't know how long I screamed for but I came to my senses to find my lover slapping me senseless, trying to dislodge the hysteria that had a firm grip on me.

Of course, when I told him what I had been thinking as we made love in the old man's vault, his face was a confused mixture of his love for me, concern that I may be losing my mind and utter revulsion.

We often make love in cemeteries, we enjoy it, it excites us, turns us on. But lately, I feel different when we do it. There is something beautiful now about the cemetery we visit most frequently, the one with the old man's vault in it. It's strange, it makes me feel at home and uneasy at the same time. It makes me feel scared and safe all at once.

I feel as if I am home when we visit this place. I feel like I have been here forever when I step through these rusted old gates. I feel that I belong here, that I am meant to be here in this decrepit old bone yard.

The gnarling of the tree branches is beautiful to me. The stench of the foetid earth is divine to me. The aroma of the death that is all around us here is tantalising, appealing to me.

I know that I belong here now. I know that this is where I am meant to be. I know that some day I will lie in the earth of this place. I pray that some consciousness remains after death so that I can feel my skin decay and my flesh putrify, the organs inside me turn into a meaty liquid and the bones beneath crumble away till there is nothing left of me but dust.

And I have no fear anymore of the life that grows within the heart of my womanhood. It is a life my body has helped to create, a life that will spring forth from my loins and into this world, be born once again and have a chance to live once more.

I am proud that he chose me to be his mother. I am proud to be the first woman on earth ever to be the resurrector of a life deceased. I am proud to be a surrogate to the dead.

©2000 Alex Severin