Friday 28th November 4pm. Nightfall.
On a blood-chilling, late November evening in Sheftel. Stella Marsh didn’t feel the cold, which was probably just as well. She closed her eyes and felt the warm sensation, the tingle inside her fingers and toes, the bestial flow of craven need crawl up her arms, calves, and thighs, until it probed her torso, invading her pumping, pounding heart in its powerful coronary intervention. Seeding her darkest inner soul with an irresistible, unrefusable, animalistic desire too hard for her to ignore.
Then she was naked, up-on-all-fours, hungry, rabid, for something massive, powerful between her thighs. His knot locked itself inside her, she felt her fatty tissues melt away, felt him come, seeding her deep inside, strengthening the future of the breed. The thrill of it awakened Stella.
‘Satan! Must’ve been dreaming again. Dreaming of him, tearing me up inside. Must hurry. I’ll be late. Mustn’t be late for him. He needs to breed me, tonight, by a clear, shimmery, full moon. For that is what is decreed of me.’
Stella Marsh was sitting in a wire-backed chair, a window seat inside her prize possession, Café in the Dungeon, the sum of all her brilliant entrepreneurial flair, her brainchild, her baby, her cub. She’d rented three cramped basement cubicles under the village market hall for a pittance to showcase how Stella could attract custom to the boutique shops and stalls that traded over her head, and did she attract! Being a thirty-one year old, blonde, busty, biker girl, an angel from Hell on wheels, she couldn’t fail. The café, which served home-baked cakes, brownies, muffins, freshly-made rolls along with gingerbread men in lattes and cappuccinos to bleed for, was packed with bikers and their molls, tourists enjoying Sheftel, bargain shoppers seeking a well-earnt break, from 8am to 4pm when the sign on the door to the stone steps to the square was turned to closed.
415pm. Nightfall.
‘I haven’t turned the sign!’
Quickly, Stella stood, waltzed across to the plate glass door, and turned the sign to closed.
‘I’ll never close for him,’ she told herself, beaming with pride, ‘Tonight, I’ll be his bitch. Best I tidy up and prep here, first, else Sonia will have my pretty guts for garters when she gets in.’
Sonia was the mum-to-be who helped out with food prep and manned the till in the mornings: a mum-to-be, Stella’s wish. She thought of her cubs: of nurturing, feeding, caring for them well out of harm’s way in their converted campervan behind the derelict, desecrated church, amidst its mossy graves.
‘Curtains drawn, always,’ she felt, ‘Curtains will have to be drawn tight til nightfall, til darkness falls and they’re free to play with me,’ she pulled herself up short, ‘All this daydreaming isn’t going to get the café finished for the day.’
Stella cleared quickly, washing up plates and glasses, cleaning down work surfaces. The cakes, brownies, buns and muffins, she left out under domes for the next day, ‘If there is a next day?’
She wiped three round tables, brushed cakecrumbs off the wire-backed chairs. Beasts, like hers, were considered trophies by some cruel, heartless men – and women: trophies to be shot, killed, displayed in glass cases in museums, ferried round the countryside in travelling shows. Severed heads to be admired, studied, and sold to the highest bidder. There was no shortage of demand for the inexplicable, the unnatural, the strange, the weird and wonderful, where he came from.
Stella Marsh pictured him entering her dungeon only this morning: the strangest-looking man she’d ever seen. He was dressed entirely in black: black skull helmet bored with holes, black shirt, tie, woolly gloves, glasses. The café was lovely and warm. Stella saw to that each morning at 8am, turning the radiators on full. He’d scared her with his odd behaviour. The young man – she put him in his early twenties – walked up to the counter, spread his gloved hands out in front of her, left his helmet and sunglasses on, then spoke at her in a southern accent, not of these parts: Sheftel, Gargrave, Settle, at all. He wore a scrawny, untrimmed beard with tiny, candyfloss pink lips, cub’s lips?
‘Give me a black coffee,’ he said, no please or thank you.
‘Can I offer you a freshly baked double chocolate muffin, a hot bacon and sausage roll, maybe?’
‘Just give me the coffee.’
‘Drink in or takeaway?’
‘Takeaway.’
He removed his shades. His eyes were coal black rimmed with red. The stare he gave her when he paid by card. The way his eyes bored, wormed into hers: his evident disdain, disgust for her, as if to say, ‘I know who you are, what you are, why you are, where you’ll be tonight and how.’
Stella was visibly trembling by the time he stormed out of the café. She felt a warm hand grip her chilled bare forearm, its hairs standing on end from fear, or something worse: she felt Sonia.
‘You alright, luv?’
‘I’ll be fine, thanks. He gave me a bit of a fright, is all.’
‘I’m not surprised. Looked a right creep, if you ask me.
The right creep, Nick Fox, got up in complete darkness for the third day in a row, skipping his B&B wrapped croissant, butter pat and raspberry jam portion, his array of instant coffee tubes, in favour of a pre-dawn raid on the market square. Dawn hadn’t yet broken when the big blonde woman pulled into the square on her motorbike wearing her black crash helmet, leather jacket, gloves, trousers and knee-high boots. He’d stayed well out of sight behind a stone cottage wall, watching her intently as she dismounted, took off her helmet, shook out her wavy blonde hair, pulled out the ignition keys, and made her way to the stone steps that led to the café dungeon. Only when she was well out of sight did he come out of hiding, pass her motorcycle, and attach the sticky device under her saddle. His face whitened with cold; Fox had waited until the place opened before venturing inside to buy a coffee to warm himself through. A short ride on his blood red scooter took him back to his B&B, an overcooked breakfast with fried black pudding, which he hated, and a full day’s sleep. In readiness for the night ahead.
430pm. Nightfall.
Stella entered the cramped changing room-cum-toilet, undressed and admired her body in the full-length mirror. Best described as chubby, the result of her indulging in too many chocolate brownies and gingerbread men cappuccinos, her best assets were, undoubtedly, the blonde hair that flowed in fanciful waves as far as the cocoa-tinted flat round nipples on her mummy breasts and the soft, cuddly, handlebars of fat bulging on her hips. She pursed her dried lips, and smiled.
‘You’ll do for him tonight, Stella.’
Satisfied, she dressed up in her leathers, grabbed her helmet then left the café, locking the door securely behind her, before ascending the steep stone steps up the cobbled street. Outside, the alpha male bikers, their gorgeous molls and bikes were clustered around the stone market cross.
‘Coming for a ride with me tonight, girl?’ one of the sexiest molls, a honey-haired vixen clothed in blood red lace basque, garish crimson stiletto heels and short zip-up leather jacket, enquired.
‘Can’t tonight, Lisa. I’m on a rut,’ Stella bayed at her, fastening her helmet.
‘A rut? I should be so lucky! Have fun then. Love me tomorrow, under the stars, at midnight?’
‘Don’t worry, I intend to – do both!’ her mistress of the night laughed back.
Stella sat astride her bike, revved the engine then roared off into the darkness leaving the young, ripe, woman to drool, salivate, and lust after her cherished lover.
Warmly dressed in a black balaclava and matching thermal jumpsuit, Fox: refreshed, equipped, prepared for tonight’s thrilling action; followed Marsh from a safe distance on his scooter, using the tracker he had so cunningly fitted to the woman’s machine beneath its roaring jaguar’s face.
5pm. Full Moon.
He was waiting for her in the mist, crouched behind an ancient headstone bearing his epitaph: the beast who came back from the dead to breed cubs under a full moon. Stella pulled up next to a freshly dug grave, took off her crash helmet, unzipped her leather jacket, skintight leather trews, black knee high riding boots, red lace bra and panties, and threw them on the dewy grass.
‘Won’t need those where I’m going tonight,’ she cried.
She sat up on her powerful motorbike, its leather saddle abrading the insides of her soft thighs.
‘Come and get me,’ she screamed, hysterically, ‘I’m all yours.’
Fox, being a wary, cautious creep, parked his scooter at the far end of the narrow winding lane, a good half mile away from his prize, where he would neither be seen nor heard by the beasts. He unzipped and checked the contents of his sea blue rucksack. They were all there: the mobile, the night sight, his cruel surprises. The act itself, his first kill, his first blood, would only be the initial thrill. Afterward, after the deed was done, and the beast was slain, the real fun began. Its doctored head and shoulders image would attract millions of views on the dark web, interest in seeing the whole body, lying bloodied and naked on the damp grass by the beast’s grave which he could send them for a hefty price. Then there was the head. If he could sever the head, pop it into his free corner shop carrier bag then offer his prize trophy for sale to a like-minded creep.
‘That’ll fetch me a pretty penny,’ he mused.
Fox crept into the churchyard, under cover of the night, taking up position behind the yew trees, as close to the beast as he dare without risking it smelling his scent. Cold sweat trickled down his cheeks under the warm balaclava when he saw the café girl, naked, sprawled, astride her saddle, a devilish cowgirl ready to ride. He instantly grew erect. She looked so beautiful without her servile tabard and black dress on, alluring, tempting, distracting him, as something moved.
The beast emerged from behind its tombstone, his coarse hairy pelt strewn with dirt and bits of hay, fangs drawn, talons extended, his red feral eyes alight with fiery passion. He looked around and sniffed the chill, damp air, sensing her musky scent, craving her naked body, desperate to satisfy his need to breed, to give her cubs, offspring, a litter of his wildest babies for the next generation of beasts. Electrified by his masculine charm, his basic animal instinct for her, Stella gave herself to him, writhing in ecstasy, as he cradled her nude body in his arms and held her up, as if in sacrifice, to the bright full moon hanging, like their glow ball lantern of love, in the brooding night sky. He spread her body on the earthy soil. He laid her on her freshly dug grave.
Then she was naked, up-on-all-fours, hungry, rabid for his massive bulbus glandis between her thighs. His knot locked itself deep inside her, she felt her fatty tissues melt away, felt him come, seeding her, strengthening the future of the breed. The thrill of his ejaculation awakened Stella.
‘Want to come,’ she screamed, as he drew his rigid knot out of her lubricious vent, ‘Lie back.’
Obliging her, the beast lay back in the clinging earthy soil. She mounted him, rode him cowgirl, writhing on his rigid tarse, gripping his waist with her thighs, screaming obscenities at his love, imploring him to grasp her bouncing breasts in his clawed hands, rising in ecstasy, her coming, orgasmic gush.
There was a flash of light. A shot rang out from behind the yew. Stella came as the silver bullet penetrated her chest, entering her heart between her breasts, bursting out of her body, her back.
‘Got the bitch!’ sneered the creep, loud enough to be heard, emerging from his hideout to take a few choice pictures of the beast and his woman. Then he ran, far too late to save his sick life.
Sensing his mate was dead, the beast pushed Stella’s bloody corpse off him, rolled onto his feet and bound with alarming speed into the clump of yew trees surrounding the graves. He tore the creep apart limb by limb. He left him in a bloody heap on top of the church manure compound, a filthy, decomposing hole where scum like Fox deserved to lie at rest, to rot in stinking hell.
Stella was lying, strewn, across his grave, his shattered, broken, bloodied marionette. Gently, the heartbroken animal lifted her off the earth. Cradling her body in his strong arms, he howled, in anguish at the moon.
*****
Saturday 29th November 4pm. Nightfall.
Lisa Hart didn’t feel the cold. She shut her eyes and felt his warmth, the tingling sensation in her spinal cord, the bestial flow of craven need crawling up her arms, calves and thighs, till it probed her torso, invading her pumping, pounding heart in its powerful, coronary intervention. Seeding her mind with an irresistible, unrefusable, animalistic desire, too hard for her to ignore.
Then she was naked, up-on-all-fours, hungry, rabid, for something rigid throbbing between her thighs. His knot locked inside her, she felt her torso melt away, felt him come, seeding her deep inside, strengthening the futures of their breed. The thrill of it all woke Lisa. She sat up in bed.
She was only dreaming, after all.
Or was she?
