The Scream by Eveline Hood

I couldn’t help it.  I didn’t want to scream, really I didn’t but I couldn’t take another second of the humiliation. Not one moment more of his inane, what passes for cocktail humour, or barbed little jabs at my expense. I was already bleeding from the cuts I’d endured earlier when I refused to go earlier, my body ached along with my mind.

So when the last edge covered backlash comes slugging along in my direction, like Hulk on a rampage, I open my mouth to sigh and deflect if I can, and I scream instead. No words. Just a primal shriek that stuns me as much as the affluent guests at this little soirée.  “Warner? What is this?” his boss mutters and my chest freezes and his eyes turn black as pitch. He stares at me with that expression, and I know what it means. I just don’t try to run when drags me away, his large hand clamped on my upper arm like a shackle.  I know he heard the whispers behind us.


“You stupid cunt,” he snarls and I bounce off of the tastefully colored wall, cracking the back of my head.  I see tracers and butterflies, and hear a voice full of drool and poison mutter, “Hurt her.”  Now I’m afraid, in terror, and helpless with my vision blurry.  I can’t protect myself;  he’s bigger than I am, stronger and can see.  “Hurt her and they will forget,” he mutters in that voice, and argues with himself in that strident, begging tone that resembles the wheedling quality of longtime practice. Back and forth, Warner fights with his illness, his monster, The one he’s hidden from everybody for too long except me.  I’m the constant companion of the beast.

“Your words hurt enough. Warner, must you embarrass me too? ” I sigh dejectedly, knowing full well the plot of this play, and where I will be if I don’t portray my part perfectly.  Still I have to try, for my peace of mind I have to;  I beg him to stop.  Beg him as he grabs a handful of my long blonde hair, twisting until it stings and forces me to my knees. Beg him not to humiliate us both in front of his colleagues. Beg him not to do this in public. Beg him not to hurt me again.  But it falls on deaf ears.  He is not here. Only the monster that lives in his head is here and it hates me with a passion that is only slaked through pain.

My breasts are exposed – His hands yank my dress down and trap my arms in the snug fabric, dipping to bite at my sensitive nipples.  Again I try, cry, and open my mouth to protest, and end up with a throat full of cock and a terminal blush of exposure staining my cheeks. “They set it up for you.  They want her to scream again,” the vicious voice whispers and he fucks my mouth with a snarl, laughing when I struggle.  I can’t breathe.

Warner pulls my head back hard so that the end of my hair tickles the small of my back. I can feel the thick shaft sliding across my lips, and the soft tip of his dick running slickly along the roof of my mouth, then dragging slightly over my teeth. “You have to scream now,” that wheedling tone connived, trying to soothe while the fingers that had been rolling my left nipple between then clamps down and twists, and I moan loudly with my eyes closed.

Then, I am on fire.  My skin is drenched in liquid fire and it sparkles like electricity through my nerve endings.  A loud grunt and a last excruciatingly hard squeeze, and the hand falls away.  My eyes open slowly, afraid to look and adjusting to what is in front of me.  My tormentor is bleeding all over my bare chest from a gaping cut on his throat.  He jitters, his voice a drowning gurgle and stops.


My new hero tosses the spent body aside with a leer, staring at my blood coated tits like he’s never seen a semi nude female before.  My boyfriend is dead, the last of his battery draining on the floor and I wish I felt badly, or felt something other than relief and vaguely turned on.  Here I am like some wanton starving animal staring at this stranger with the body of my boyfriend laying not three feet away,  and I wish he’d end me or, hug me or fuck me or something. Anything other than stare.

The party sounds are suddenly louder than my thoughts, startling me out of my crazy thoughts.  I hadn’t noticed that they had quieted some until they picked up again, and I saw that we were alone.  And I was still on my knees,  still trapped in my own dress, and he still stood with his eyes on me while my former flame’s corpse lay rapidly cooling nearby.

“I like you this way,” he gruffly whispers in my ear, his warm hands on my shoulders.  I shiver when he cups my breasts,  gently kissing my neck, then reluctantly tugs my dress back into place.  “Do you have your key?” he asks and I nod absently, at war inside and unable to focus on much of anything. He takes my hands and helps me to my feet, speaking words that do not register, and I just nod.  Outside a police car, then two and the blue multiplies and invades the space.

His fingers wrap in mine, a comforting gesture that I am unused to, and I smile slightly in return.  A female officer stands puffed up at the doorway, glaring at my bloodstained hair and face.  She speaks shortly into her mic and approaches with a superiority and my hero squeezes my hand.  “Remember. My name is Len.  Pleased to meet you at last Ani.  I have a feeling we will be very good friends, after this.”


Eveline Hood


Raw Screenshot from The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood Photo by Matt Farnsworth, Creator Releasing 2015  ©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
Raw Screenshot from The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood
Photo by Matt Farnsworth, Creator
Releasing 2015
©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC

Matt Farnsworth on Facebook   Matt Farnsworth Films     

“The characters Marcus Miller, and Babysister are owned by  Matt Farnsworth”
©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC All Rights Reserved

Cover Created by Tim MillerCover Created by Tim Miller

Slayful Stories Volume 1 is now available for Kindle and in paperback

Coming soon Volume 2 – The Death Maiden Journeys


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