Lustmord (A vengeful romance story)


Forum Newcomer
Feb 25, 2010
I wrote this about a week ago. It is my idea of a love story... with a splattering of revenge and hatred just to keep it interesting. I welcome feedback, and hope that reading it gets you as hot as writing it did for me haha.



The red pooled in the folds of the plastic. The red dripped or crawled down the walls. The red was clotting fast in His hair.

A salty crystalline teardrop rent its way through the mask of stiff, flaking blood on His face, and exploded on the cooling flesh before Him. “I always loved you…” escapes His blood-caked lips, a barely audible whisper after the deafening crash of the single anguished tear.
He looked down at the vacant eyes in His lap. He half-expected to see them watching Him again, always scrutinizing, with that air of imagined superiority. But they did not flicker, and they did not gledge - they just stared up at Him with their paling green, once so captivating, but now as empty and shallow as the love they once professed. He reached out and touched the motionless, blood-spattered face of the object in front of him. Apart from the livid bruise on the left cheekbone, it was still as perfect as it had always seemed. “It never could’ve worked anyway, I know”. Another lonely tear plummets down and strikes the plastic sheeting, subtly diluting the blood collected in its’ hollows. “I know it wouldn’t have worked because of you, you fucking cunt! You were the only thing that ever got in the way of us… Fuck you! I hate you!” and His fist struck the left cheek again. Momentarily, He shrank back quietly, startled by His own rage. Then He punched that perfect face again. “I fucking hate you! What have you done to me, you selfish fucking piece of shit?!”. Another punch. “Is this the thanks I get for everything I’ve done for you? Everything I’ve sacrificed?!”. Another punch. The flesh on the cheek had broken now, and tepid blood was on His knuckles. His eyes scanned the length of the naked body before Him - it was His turn to scrutinize.
“I always hated your hair”, he says to the cold face in his hands after a long silence. “You just looked so pretentious, so fake. I can’t believe I ever fell for you…”. He stared long and hard at the head in his lap. “…and your cheeks were too fat for the rest of your body”. Three slow tears strike the blood-splattered plastic, and it sounds like a funeral march to Him. “I always thought you were beautiful, and I always told you that you were. But you never believed me, you never listened… Or were you just hungry for more fucking attention, more praise, to make you feel wanted or needed? Why was my love and devotion not enough for you? You read my poems, read my lyrics… You even said you liked them. I bet that was a lie too, wasn‘t it, Mister Superior? I was never good enough for you, was I? You were always totally above me, weren‘t you, expecting me to be grateful just for you paying attention to me, a fucking “nobody“? Yeah, whatever. You’re not so amazing. Even now, dead, you‘re still just a corpse. Just another deceased fool. And I have less respect or admiration for you than ever before. You couldn‘t win. Did you ever really think I‘d let you?!”. He laughed at this, softly. “No… I wouldn’t give you this one. It’ll take more than you to break me down…”.
His fingertips traced the moist lips of a stab wound in the stomach on the plastic-covered floor. He touched His fingers to His lips, and smeared a fresh layer of congealing blood over His mouth. The salty taste made Him smile. He admired the marks His teeth had left all over the body. He remembered the screams, and His smile widened. The corpse before Him had felt the pain and helplessness He had felt, before He had ended it all. The flash of the knife blade, the splash of warm blood, the echoing scream. He hardened again in His blood-soaked trousers. He thought of the savage rape that had been the prelude to the murder. He laughed again to Himself, “Fucking prude. I showed you didn’t I? Did you like it? Did you fucking like it, bitch? Having your tight little arse bashed and ripped? Yeah, you fucking loved it…”. Images, memories, flashed through His mind. The long slice along the thigh… watching the cut well with blood. He had cupped His hand along the incision and wiped the blood over His hard length - blood for lubricant, He smiled again - and with one brutal thrust He had penetrated the small hole pressed against Him. He recalled the screams. Anguished, pained - the bound body had been helpless. He had His way. He shuddered with erotic energy as he recalled the tight, convulsing grip on his length.. The dripping blood, fresh from the forced entry… The tears- Oh how the tears had aroused him. He remembered His violent ejaculation as he had watched those tear-filled eyes beg for mercy as He thrust that final time and slammed the butcher knife through the failing heart. The memory of those last, painful gasps and the bloody death rattle were almost too much to bear. He parted those cut-covered thighs again, and slid into the blood-oozing, prolapsed entry before Him.
It was still warm inside. The blood and remnant semen squelched around His hardness with each slow movement of His pelvis. The pool of urine He was kneeling in was no deterrent to His lust, being aware only of His desire for pleasure and satisfaction. The lifeless meat moved subtly with His own movements, rhythmically shaking lifelessly in some kind of moribund dance. He climaxed again, bursting inside the object.
He collapse forward, lying on top the corpse. His head pressed against the lattice-work chest, but no heartbeat reached His ears - just blessed silence. There was no breath to pronounce shallow judgements, no breath to accuse and degrade and blame. Just silence. He lingered for a few minutes and withdrew and took up His butcher knife again. It was time to begin the last phase of the ritual.
He knelt beside the body and dragged the cold, unforgiving blade along the stomach. He held the knife aloft and slammed it down into the sternum. The bones cracked loudly as He twisted and levered the knife to open the wound. He carved and dragged the knife down the torso until the abdomen gaped a portal of entrails before Him. He reached in and dragged out a tepid heap of intestines and draped them over His shoulders. His laughter resounded through the empty building. He hacked a slab of flesh from the thigh and tore at it with His teeth. He chewed on the bloody chunk of flesh and swallowed it, smiling. He smeared gore over his body. He devoured more flesh, growling like a beast or wild animal. More and more he gorged himself on the raw meat of the one He once loved so intensely. He ate ravenously, wanting to imbibe all of His victim. He gnawed and devoured until he vomited. Red vomit splattered over the stab-riddled corpse. And he laughed.
And he laughed. Vaguely differing from screams of torment, the mad chuckle reached crescendo as a demented, lunatic cackle. And it echoed through the building, with no response from the dead world outside.

The red pooled in the folds of the plastic. The red dripped or crawled down the walls. The red was clotting fast in His hair… And He was happy, or content. At peace with His violent, bloodthirsty revenge.

He had won.