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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Erotic Horror  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Joanna White is in captivity. Her cell is dark, dingy and damp. There is no door or window, only a grille in the ceiling, where rusty water drips through. In one corner of her cell sits a pail, her toilet bucket.

Her cell is dark, dingy and damp. There is no door or window, only a grille in the ceiling, where rusty water drips through. In one corner of her cell sits a pail, her toilet bucket. At the centre of the room lies a soaking wet, unkempt bed with a striped-grey duvet, a scattering of pillows, and, bolted to the bare concrete floor, a varnished wooden chair.

She squats on her chair in her soiled white button-down dress and cuddles herself to sleep as best she can. On the floor, between her dirty bare feet, her cream bucket bag lies unopened, waiting for her to open it.

She closes her eyes and relives the moment of her abduction. When she left the wine bar alone, merry, not drunk, to catch the late-night train home. Took her shortcut down the dark alleyway in Spitalfields. Such murderous territory. He took her from behind, placed a wad over her nose and mouth, and suffocated her. Her last memory of normality was the tiny pinprick in her neck, slumping to her knees, her green eyes rolling up, revealing her petrified whites, then darkness.

Since waking in her brick-walled box, she has lost all sense of time, of reason. She blinks her bleary, sore eyes open, pushes her grubby hand through her greasy ginger hair and cries,

‘Why am I here? What do you want of me?’

She stares up at the grille in the ceiling. The constantly dripping water stains her cheeks blood red. She stands up, feeling the cold from the wet floor beneath her feet, tiptoes to the nearest wall, and runs the flats of her hands over the rough brick wall. Two paces later, she reaches a corner, turns left, four paces: another corner. Accidentally, she kicks over her toilet. Its putrid, foetid contents slop over her feet.

‘Let me out of here!’ she screams, ‘I want to go home!’

She turns left, walking four paces to her third corner. Then she turns left. After four more paces, she reaches the last corner. Two paces along, she turns and tiptoes back to her chair. She stares at her thick coarse rope dangling tantalisingly out of reach from the grille in the ceiling. The rope he lowered her into this hell-hole with.

The chair, she stands upon her chair like an acrobat, reaching for her rope. Her rope is pulled upwards and disappears through the grille. She climbs down off her chair, the water drip-drip-dripping into her hair, rusting it ferric red, and cries with frustration. On the floor between her feet lies her bucket bag: unopened, waiting for her to open it.

‘Let me out!’ she wails miserably, ‘Let me out, will you?’

She stares up as her thick coarse rope reappears dangling tantalisingly out of reach from the shadowy hole. Where there is no night. Where there are no stars. Only his dark. Her rusted rain.

He lowered her body, her slumped meat, dead-weight into this hell-hole.

Her chair, she stands upon her chair, reaching for her rope like a kitten stretching for her soft pink cotton playball. His kitten. He jerks her rope upwards making her leap and jump and paw and scratch thin air and blurt and cry and plead and beg. Jerks away her rope to freedom. She falls, toppling off of her slippery chair. He jerks her rope up out of the grille, his blank, black face leering at her. Her thick coarse rope disappears through the grille.

Despondently, she climbs down from her chair, the water drip-drip-dripping into her dyed hair, and cries in frustration. On her floor between her feet lies her cream bag, unopened, waiting for her to open. She starts to hallucinate. Seeing her captor as her lover, she whimpers for him,

‘Are we there yet, love?’

‘Be there in the morning. Think it’s sleepy time, don’t you?’ his voice is such a loving hush.

She yawns and stretches her twizzle arms.

‘Mm! Night, night. Love you.’

‘Love you too, baby, with all my heart. Night, night.’

Invisible fingers proudly stroke his kitten’s rusty hair. Missing lips kiss his kitten goodnight,

‘Why don’t you open the bag?’

She sucks her thumb, all child-like,

‘What is in the bag, please?’

‘Why don’t you open it and find out for yourself?’ his voice booms.

‘Please, may I open the bag?’

‘Why, course you can, baby.’

Big emphasis on her nickname bay-bee,

‘Now, open the bag.’

‘What’s in the bag?’

‘A surprise! Like surprises, don’t you?’

She smiles, speaks all childish,

‘Mm! I like surprises, candy and chocolate and dolls and…’

‘Do you like butterflies, girl?’

She stares up at his face in the shadow, always in the shadow,

‘Oh, yes! Red Admirals! Peacocks! Cabbage Whites!’

‘The bag is full of butterflies, insects, all-sorts of lovely creepy-crawlies for you to play with.’

‘Would you like to come out to play now?’

‘Oh, yes please! Please, say yes!’

He says yes, sighs, and stares down at his captive larvae, his pupating chrysalis, her imago,



‘Open the bag.’

She opens the bag to discover the bugs have hatched out in its warm silk lining, bred, swollen in size to thumbnail, and multiplied. They swarm all over her. Disgusted, she pushes them away tipping out the contents of her bag: tweezers, comb, lipstick, mirror, tampons, purse, hair brush, tissues. Littering the dirty floor under her chair, scattering the foul-vermin insects everywhere.

She stands up, stamping her feet, tries to shake them off. But the super-resilient, shock-resistant strain survives, crawling up her bandy-thin legs, underneath her dress, in search of her warmest breeding places. Desperately, she slaps, hits, squashes and pinches them flat in a vain bid to kill the devils. She freezes stiff as several bugs crawl inside her soft black cotton panties and nestle in her bald crotch. Still more bugs scamper over her stomach, scouring her deep navel, burrowing inside her under-wired, lacy black bra, nibbling at the soft undersides of her breasts, her erect nipples. They swarm over her, scratching her neck, eyes, ears, nose, throat. Infesting her hair follicles. Penetrating her roots.

Bristling with bugs, she staggers, sways and falls onto the sodden bed, her weak arms held aloft in the shape of the cross. Collapsing in their seething, blood red-treacle mess. Itching her knee, Complaining, as bugs stream up her legs. Shrieking like a baby. Shrill whelps of alarm emanate from her. She is no longer his kitten. She is his distressed sheep. Bleating for his unforthcoming assistance.

She emits a blood-curdling scream, rubbing fat bugs out of her eyes, glancing over her shoulder at the thousands of bugs streaming down the mildewed walls. OMG! Her legs go pole-straight, arms hang limply at her sides. Her eyes bulge. Her lank hair is riddled with bugs. Her jaw flaps open, showing off her pearly, white teeth. A fat bug rests awhile on her petrified upper lip, then disappears down her gaping throat. She screams and screams, hysterically brushing the greedy insects off her torso, scratching her bug-infected body for dear life.

Hordes more bugs scurry up her calves, her thighs, like bestial newlyweds, overwhelming the wretched woman. Every bite makes her itch, whine, and scratch. The bugs feast upon her body, infesting her gullet, swimming in the mucous lining in her lungs. Occupying her every crevice, orifice, and hole. Time is running out for her. She lies sprawled on the bed, moaning like mad, half-dead. The host is half-dead. Not her ghastly bugs. They are alive and thriving inside her.

The entomologist is concerned insects will be forced to find new habitats as humans destroy the environment. He is delighted to find that bugs can live in us. His project is almost complete.

White gabbles, insanely: ‘Mind the bugs don’t bite, Joanna! Please, mind the bugs don’t bite!’

The bugs eat her inside out. Her captivity comes to an abrupt end. He plans his next experiment.

Joanna. Joanna. She must be a Joanna, not an Anna, Polly Anna, or Joanne. Now where shall I find her? In the slums? Leaving the office? Boarding a late-night train. Missing her taxicab home? Oh, and she must be wearing a white dress - a virginal, pure, Cabbage White, dress…

Submitted: December 16, 2022

© Copyright 2023 harriet-jacqui x. All rights reserved.

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