— Posted in Always into Darkness, The Master Race, Vampire Noir

The Master Race, Chapter 08

Into the Abyss

This is not the house that Fisher and Hawk breached, vanquishing The Master. This house is so much worse, and that refers to more than just its worse squalor and decay. It has a presence, as if it’s alive. It’s unnatural.

The Master leads the magician, the dandy, and four of the dandy’s cohorts upstairs. As they ascend the winding staircase, the steps creak and groan in protest underfoot.

The Ogress slams the front door shut and leads the rest into the sitting room on the first floor. Over her widow’s dress, she’s sporting a lace-up hobble-skirt and a heavily-boned full-corset: B&D accoutrements which give her a Victorian lady’s stilted walk and wasp waist.

Unlike her bereavement dress, her skirt and corset are stiff leather. Cured hide from humans, not cows, in her case.

Sixty-something Helga fancies the kill. Figuratively smacking her considerable chops on the scraps, that she literally will be doing so in short order.

As a rule of thumb. Supernatural beings are quicker, stronger, faster healing, and more durable then mundane [i.e., non-supernatural] beings.

I’ll kill the Nubian, first. Wrap my hand around his neck from behind and squeeze. Crushing his neck, severing his head from his body. The Cimmerian, the one that they call Conan, will be next. I will be facing him when I crush his skull like an egg shell. At least, that’s the plan.

Although in no way legally obligated to do so, the real estate agent who sold the house to The Master and Helga revealed to them that it was supposed to be haunted. No good deed goes unpunished.

The realtor subsequently and mysteriously disappeared. He ended up in the pot. “Guess who?” stew, an Ogre specialty.

Of course, The Master and Helga knew about the haunt, as well as The Signs, beforehand. It’s why they bought the house in the first place.

The haunt and the Signs are bait for a trap. The trap of a powerful magician. The conjurer is John Jaspers’ twin sister Sara. Although John looks old and spent. She looks twenty-something. She is, of course, quite a bit older than she looks. What John saw in the abyss ultimately destroyed him. What she saw in the abyss made her into what she is today.

Sara was not fooled by The Master’s chicanery in that other house on Chandler lane, the house where Hawk slayed The Master. Furthermore. She believes that this prostitute is The Master in disguise. And so began a deadly game of cat and mouse. The question is. Who is the cat? And. Who is the mouse?

Without saying a word. What the men want is obvious. They crave the deadliest of games. Unbeknownst to them, she is an Ogre. And. Yes. Of course. They’ve mistaken her for a mundane cavewoman from the frozen wilderness of the far north.

A giant cavewoman such as they believe her to be, is still a most formidable opponent, indeed. So. Having heard stories of the prostitute’s huge woman servant, they’ve hedged their bets. They are all on a PED cocktail called “stimms”. It’s neither magic nor alchemy, but that new upstart abomination called science. Stimms make humans quicker, stronger, more durable, and faster healing. Sound familiar?

A blur of movement—i.e., fueled by stimms, for mortals it is called fast-forward. The glint of cold, tempered steel. A blade slices through Helga’s clothes and hacks off her breasts. Another blade, almost simultaneously cuts through the air. It’s aimed at her neck. She deflects it with ease with one of her massive forearms against the flat of the blade.

Drunk, yes—but, not to the point of impairing them. Buffoons, no—not ever. The food has turned into formidable rapiers. Their blades drawn, ready to cleave, carve, and in general butcher Helga into oblivion.

Someone executes a leg sweep in an attempt to take Helga off her feet. The guy who tries to sweep Helga ends up shattering his leg in the process. It’s as if her muscular lower limbs are made of granite. He screams out. Writhing on the floor in anguish. She literally punches her fist through the head of one of his cohorts as if her massive soup bone were smashing through a ripe watermelon with a sledge hammer. She breaks still another’s sword with her other fist against the flat of the blade.

She loves to block kicks by smashing her fist into whatever part of your lower limb that she can connect with. Ouch!!!

Helga unhinges her jaws and bite off the head of one of the men, swallowing it whole in one gulp, smacking her lips afterwards without dropping a beat whatsoever. Hand-to-hand fighting for her kind is fast, brutal, and extremely violent. They call their version of pugilism, The Grey.

A vicious jab, followed by an equally vicious uppercut—it’s vintage, old school fisticuffs. A man loses an arm. She’d punched through his shoulder joint. Severing a limb as opposed to merely dislocating his shoulder, with her bare-knuckled attack. Bright-red blood squirts from the gaping wound. Understandably, at least one major artery was severed. He goes into shock and loses consciousness before he hits the floor. Urination. Defecation. As he loses control of his bladder and bowels. He twitches a little on the floor involuntarily, as if he is a chicken who just got his head cut off.

The lucky ones are the ones who get to die in the fighting. She will endeavor to let one of them survive. That one she will eat to death. Drink live. Eat live. Eat whole. No half stepping.

Yep. If you’re lucky: the Ogre will kill you, rape you, eat you, and make clothes out of you, in that order. An Ogre’s definition of romantic lovemaking is rape. Then again, their definition of a casual one-night stand is indistinguishable from rape too. Truth be told, sex with an Ogre in any way, shape, or form is indistinguishable from rape. Fuck ‘em high. Fuck ‘em hard. Fuck ‘em any way but loose. And, make that asshole pucker!

The Nubian, who she had initially planned to finish first, charges her from behind as she defends a frontal assault from another. Helga dispenses with the man on the floor with the shattered leg. She crushes the cracker’s head under foot like an egg shell. Being a nigger lover, the monster has changed her mind and decided to save the shine for last.

Intending to finish her off and in the course of doing so putting the butch in her proper place, the Negro tries to bury a hatchet in the back of her head. He throws the hatchet and misses. So, he bear hugs her, instead. He is a big, powerful man. He’s as massive as she. And. He’s on stimms. But, he’s still food and human. And, she’s still supernatural and an Ogre, and being Ogre she’s inherently the better fighter.

Her front suitor stabs her several times with a pair of daggers. Face, neck, chest, and arms are viscously punctured. She breaks the nigger’s hold, breaking his arms in the process, and backhands the dagger wielding bravo into a wall as if he’s a pesky fly being swatted. You can hear the peckerwood’s neck snap like a dry twig as his head impacts the wall. He drops to floor, dead; a ragdoll to be consumed later.

Both arms broken. Compound, not complex, fractures. Broken, jagged bones poking through his flesh. Only the nigger is left. She gives him her undivided attention. Even flow. She changes levels, in a jiff. Blows from her fists knock off his kneecaps. He goes down. She gets on top of him and snaps his neck, severing his spine, paralyzing him from the neck down.

“Food … Welcome to slavery,” The Ogre gloats. “I promise it will be short-lived and so very, very, very painful.”

Helga strips him naked from the waist down. Violently yanking off his trousers and boots. Leering at his crotch, she covets his package. Wearing her strap-on, she’s hung like a horse with ginormous balls. He’s big too, just as big as she strapping. Maybe it’s true what they say about niggers, in that regard? Or is he the exception that just happens to fit the stereotype? Only God knows.

She rolls him onto his back and inspects his anus. Nice and tight. Unexplored territory. Can you say “bung hole”?

Good. A virgin. I get to be his first.

Conscious, alive, fully aware of what’s happening to him, she begins eating and drinking him. The carnage facilitates her healing. Already, her tits have grown back in full, as if they had never been hacked off. Yep. The lucky ones died in the fighting.

Supernaturals heal Biblically—i.e., no scars or evidence of injury, afterwards, whatsoever. They age the same way, also—i.e., they age Biblically.

She also rapes him, fucking him first in the ass, of course; shredding his bung as if he’s a prison biotch. And, in the course of doing so [raping him, that is], she begins incorporating some of his black, shiny skin into her attire. She intends to skin his massive penis and fashion it into a frockcoat for her dildo. His huge testicles will likewise be eviscerated, the skin sewn into a suitable skin covering for her strap-on’s prosthetic testicles.

The philosophy of an Ogre: Can I eat it … or … will it eat me? Somethings never change. Then again, why would they?

Upstairs, things will unfold quite differently. Because … As aforementioned, an Ogre is a person. The Master is not.

It’s commonplace for Ogres to draw things out, to maximize the pleasure of the fight. Ogres love to fight. For Ogres, the fight is the game. Carnage and mayhem … the end result.

Raped, ravaged, and eaten, the Nubian is given a reprieve from his agony. She pleasures him, against his will, and, he reacts instinctually.

He gets hard. His balls juicing his hot rod. His eyes roll back in his head. And those sounds come out of what’s left of his mouth.

Unhinging her jaws, she deep throats him with ease as he begins to geyser. His massive phallus disappears into her equally generous mouth.

When she hits rock bottom, her long facile tongue snakes out and plays Wimbledon tennis with his balls. She blows him like an all-day sucker. Of course, she swallows his jism.

And … when she pauses from the front, she turns to the back. Helga flips him like a fluffy pancake onto his stomach. Plying his cheeks apart she takes in the aroma of his pungent defecation. His boner still squirting, only now it’s into the floor instead of into her throat. For a while, she sandpapers his ass with her hair and gouges his ass with her tongue.

Then, she turns to the dirty business at hand. Dirty business for a very dirty girl. A nasty girl.

Helga’s tongue lengthens into its own kind of unholy serpent. It’s The Temptation, right out of the Garden of Eden. She plumbs his crack. Scooping up his “brown” into her waiting maw. The tip of her tongue tickling his pucker in the process. It’s what Ogres call “chewing a wad of chew”.

Ahhh!!! The taste of fresh shit!!! Nothing like it in the world!!!

When she’s cleaned him up. Left nothing of his spread. His crack glistening with the wet of her saliva, and nothing else. She stabs his asshole with her tongue. Her tongue goes past his rectum into his lower intestines far enough to fish for turds.

As aforementioned. Upstairs is another story, entirely.