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She woke up stark naked on the shore of the lake, with no idea how she'd gotten there. And then it all started to come back to her...


Submitted:Jun 11, 2011    Reads: 1,056    Comments: 4    Likes: 4   


She had no idea where she was.

She had the feeling that she must have fallen asleep.

She could clearly see that she was outside, and that the sky up above was being leeched of its blue, becoming twilight.

What was she doing outside?

She sat up.

She found she was naked, lying on the bank of their lake, spattered with mud. Black and granular. Like coffee grounds. The bank was all churned up, its thin green skin of moss punctured all over by footprints, sunk deep into the loam, each divet filled up with water.

It started coming back to her.

Jacques.

'You want it like this?'

That French accent of his. Like it was put on. Like he were a character on Madeline.

He was not yet inside of her. She could anticipate the feeling of his cock sliding into her folds, of his nuts resting against her bottom, tickling. It was uncomfortable to have her legs up that high, that spread apart, but it was worth it for the feeling of being so utterly penetrated.

She bit her lip and nodded. She wanted it this way alright. She held onto the bars of the bedhead, bracing herself.

'I am not so sure this is the best way,' he said. Despite his words, she waited for him to thrust into her, to set up that rhythm. The one that sent her into her animal self.

He shook his head.

'It is time for a change.'

He dropped into a half crouch and growled at her, like he had become some kind of demon. It was a game he often played. She had to pretend, now, that she was frightened of him. She had to run, and he would chase her.

When he caught her, he would fuck her.

She looked longingly at his cock. She just wanted it to be the normal way, the way they usually did it. She still held her legs up, expectantly.

He growled again, and grabbed at her, his demonic claws raking the bedclothes.

So it was no use resisting the game any longer.

She squealed and rolled off the bed. He cornered her, and she had to explode past him to escape. The talons of his left claw grabbed her tit as she rushed past, and it actually hurt.

But in a nice way.

She found herself in the hallway, running toward the kitchen. She always got into the game, once she started to play. It was hard not to. Jacques was such a convincing demon.

The old farmhouse was ablaze with sunlight. They liked doing it in the heat of the afternoon. They had the whole farm to themselves, and they were completely isolated out there, so why not just strip off and have sex whenever they felt like it?

You're only young once, after all.

The farmhouse was the perfect setting for these romantic weekends of theirs. It was over a century old, built to house a large contingent of farm hands as well as the family. The original owner, Jacques' great-grandfather, had built it, in a utilitarian way, in the shape of a barn. There was a lot of exposed beamwork going on, and an attempt to gentrify the old manse in the fifties hadn't managed to ruin its old world charm.

And now, instead of thirty or forty hard working labourers, cooks, and the other hangers on and necessaries of a full production farm, it was just him and her.

And he was after her.

Where to run to? The farm was just that one huge, double storey building, some tractor sheds, fields, and the lake.

She ran from room to room, clutching at doorjambs, screaming in a mixture of excitement and anticipation, as the Jacques demon pursued her.

It became clear she had to get out of the house. He kept cornering her, and she kept having to run past him, braving the razor swipes of his talons.

She'd thundered down the stairs and out into the buzzing heat of the afternoon.

Once unimpeded by the confines of the house, she could really get a jog on. Her boobs bounced painfully, and she put one arm across them to try to hold them in place a bit. Behind her, she heard him burst into the yard and take up the pursuit. She ran faster, but she was so out of breath now, her legs burning with effort, that she didn't think she could evade him much longer.

The lake.

It was a quarter mile to the lake, and that four hundred yards seemed like a marathon. She'd given up trying to hold her bouncing tits in check long before half way, and in the end she had to put everything she had into simply keeping ahead of the demon.

But, as much as she tried, he slowly caught up to her.

She came pounding down the embankment just as he drew up to her. She had no plan except to reach the lake. Perhaps getting to the water would be like making sure to keep your legs off the bedroom floor when you're a kid, so that the monster under the bed can't get you?

She threw her arms up like she were breasting the finish line tape, and he, having caught up at the last possible second, gave her a shove in the back that sent her overbalancing into the still, brown water.

She went in, headlong, submerged, and found herself unable to breathe.

She was still underwater when he grabbed her.

She could feel herself being pulled up.

Air again. She breathed.

The Jacques demon half carried, half dragged her toward the shore. Before leaving the water altogether, he dropped her into the shallows. Then he was upon her.

Now, finally.

She opened her legs, and his erection jabbed at her, seeking its entry point. The cold water made everything feel numb, and when it did jut into her, she hardly felt it at all.

The demon had one hand at her throat, a European love-making thing, she understood, but she wasn't sure she liked the feeling, however sophisticated it was. Then the stiffness penetrating her came out, and she floundered. He released her throat and stood up, looking down at her.

The two of them looked at each other, panting.

Then he was on her again, and this time he jabbed straight into her, thrusting over and over and over.

His hands were at her breasts, her face, her throat again, and all the time that thrusting. It felt strange, in the cold of the water, but she nonetheless gave in to it, felt her conscious self melting away, becoming the animal.

Again he stopped and pulled out. She crawled away up the bank, but he grabbed her and pulled her back into the water, mounting her once more, and this time not only holding her throat, but holding her head underwater as he fucked her.

They'd played with erotic asphyxiation, of course, but this was still surreal. To be underwater, in a world of silence, and to be feeling that thrusting.

Again he stopped, and she came up for air. He was kneeling in the water, and she backed away, crab-style, up the bank until she was lying amongst the footprints where they'd entered the water. He knelt and watched her for a time, and she lay there panting. Then he stood up and plodded to her, like a man weary of the world. He lay on top of her again, there in the mud, and put his lips over hers.

That was the last she remembered.

She figured that they'd kissed like that, and then fallen into exhausted slumber.

He must have woken up first and gone back inside, leaving her to bask in the sunshine.

Except that now it was getting cold.

She stood up and inspected the damage. She didn't like the mud all over her, so she walked into the water to wash it off her legs. Strangely, the water wasn't as cold as it looked, and so she walked a little further in, until finally she lowered herself into a swimming position and swam a few strokes. Butterfly.

She stepped from the water, clean, and walked back up the embankment to the path she'd ran down.

She could see the farmhouse from there. She could go back the way she'd come, or she could take a shortcut through the field.

Field.

Jacques paid a man to come and plough the fields while he himself sat at his desk, making deals on the phone with other businessmen. She had no idea how one man could make the same dent on the agricultural requirements of a farm as thirty or forty labourers had, but Jacques paid him good money, and he duly came out here, fired up the tractor, and put in a crop of potatoes, or beetroot, or some other mundane root vegetable.

It didn't look like the field had been ploughed in a while, though, and grass had grown up tall along the sides of the furrow she was walking.

For some reason, that grass bothered her. She couldn't put her finger on why, though.

Nevermind, she thought to herself.

The warm, loamy earth felt good between her toes. She breathed in the fragrance of it, a spice compared to the dusty dry grass.

It felt resoundingly good to be at one with the earth. Resoundingly good.

She felt rather like Cathy Senior, in Wuthering Heights, out walking the moors alone.

Although she was pretty sure that Cathy had never walked the moors stark naked.

For a moment she felt she would like to burrow down, down, down into the earth itself, but then she remembered Jacques, and kept walking.

The front door to the farmhouse was closed, and seemed to be locked. She couldn't even get the doorknob to roll.

Weird.

She walked around the peeling walls, looking for an open window, or some other way that she could call out to Jacques, so that he could let her in. She peered in through windows shut fast, but there was no sign of life. Not in the front room, not in the second bedroom, not in the laundry.

Not until she reached the kitchen.

She had begun to think that Jacques was upstairs, in the master bedroom, fast asleep. But no. There he was. On the kitchen table, fucking a blonde girl.

This made no sense. She had to stare for a full minute before she even registered what she was seeing.

It made her think of the time when she was a child, and she had found her little dog, Trixie, in the backyard with another dog joined to it, a big, black, sleek-furred dog that somehow seemed stuck to the little precious that she fed table scraps to every night, and that slept on the foot of her bed.

The table was large and solid, and had no doubt at one time seated a large number of the labourers who toiled in the fields. The frame barely moved as Jacques thrust away between the thighs of the blonde.

Then came a moment in the proceedings that she recognised all too well, and then stillness. She had been too befuddled to knock on the window, or to call out, and now it seemed somehow inappropriate.

She watched, stunned, as her Jacques lifted himself off of this strange blonde woman, his cock slick with her and him combined. He lowered himself to the floor.

She sat up, this blonde, and smiled. She said something, but it was impossible to hear what. Jacques was at the sideboard now, fossicking for something. He found it, and threw the blonde a packet of cigarettes and a cheap lighter.

She lit up and blew a plume of grey smoke straight up into the air.

Jacques was saying something, and the girl was giggling.

The awkward moment seemed to have passed. She hammered on the window.

Neither the fuckee nor the fucker seemed to notice.

She hammered again, this time with both hands.

They were ignoring her.

The nerve!

She stepped back from the window, looking for something to smash the damn thing in with. She found a likely looking rock, but when she tried to lift it, it simply stayed wedged in the earth.

She screamed at them through the window, slamming at its insolent panes again with her palms.

No effect. It was like she wasn't even there.

Jacques was now sitting on the table, nuzzling at the blonde's breasts. Soon they fell back flat onto the table again, the girl thinking it all too hilarious, and he climbing back on top of her, hoping no doubt for a repeat performance.

She couldn't watch. She stormed away, stomping around the house toward the back door. She noticed, in her fury, a strange car resting on the gravel drive.

It had, this strange car, Jacques' personalised plates: JRK-987.

Which made no sense.

How had his Audi become a Peugeot in the space of a few hours?

She stared at the car, hoping that by force of will she would make it make sense.

She stepped right up to it and stared at the Peugeot badge. Some sort of lion monster, standing on its hind legs, arms out like a zombie, or a demon...

It started coming back to her.

Jacques.

'You want it like this?'

He stood in the bedroom doorway, holding the knife.

She stared at the knife, anticipated it, could feel it in her, feel it cutting her up inside. She held onto the bars of the bed, as if that would somehow help keep it a barrier between them. All she wanted was for them to keep on being together. Was that so much to ask?

'I am not so sure this is the best way,' he said. He tossed the knife from one hand to the other. She watched it sail through the air, hoping he would drop it, hoping they could talk this out.

He caught the knife easily, adeptly.

He shook his head.

'It is time for a change.'

He dropped into a half crouch and growled at her, like he had become some kind of demon. It was a game they had often played as lovers, before the coldness had come between them, before he no longer wanted her in his life. This whole weekend had been supposedly to give it all one last shot, one last try. But it hadn't worked out. She had to run, and he would chase her.

When he caught her, he would kill her.

She let go of the bed as he lunged at her, and made a desperate try for the door. He slashed at her, and caught her breast as she slid past. The cut stung cold, and she could feel the slipperiness of blood, but she had to keep going, or die there in the hallway.

She ran from doorway to doorway, his pursuit slow and methodical. Where could she run to? The farmhouse was totally isolated, and she was stark naked and badly injured.

But she ran.

She ran from the house, heading to the lake. She had no plan other than to reach the lake. Somehow the lake would keep her safe. Her feet pounded the earth, and her injured breast ached with a throb on each footfall. She tried to hold it still to stop it aching so, and she was certain she could feel internal tissues slipping out the gash.

He was catching up. There was no stopping him, and she couldn't outrun him, but she kept going nonetheless. He caught up with her just as she reached the water, the water that was meant to save her. He shoved her headlong into the still, brown lake, and walked in after her.

She tried to stand, but it was too difficult. The first time the knife went in, it felt like he had punched her, not really sharp at all. He stood back to see what she would do after having been stabbed, and, when she hadn't died straight out, he had climbed on top of her and stabbed her repeatedly.

Again he stood up, to see the effect, and again she didn't die.

He fell upon her again, stabbing and stabbing. As well as the stabbing, he'd been grabbing her the whole time by the throat with his spare hand and trying to throttle her.

She wouldn't die. In fact, she was starting to crawl away.

Desperation setting in, he'd dragged her back in and held her head under water. When still she didn't die, he'd dragged her onto the bank and covered her mouth and nose with his bloodied hands until finally she'd become still.

And then she'd woken up.

She realised that she was still looking at the Peugeot badge. Her head was spinning. She noticed something unusual about the badge, and peered closer.

She couldn't see her reflection in the chrome.

She gave up on trying to contact Jacques and his blonde, and walked back down to the lake.

She looked through the long grass and rushes that lined the shoreline, wading from spot to spot. It took a while, but finally she found herself.

She was well hidden, and the colour of her bleached bones and the scraps of rotted skin and sinew almost exactly matched the mottled earth colours of the grass and rushes.

So, she thought to herself.

Now what.





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