Last year I wrote a creepy Halloween story – I will devour you. It was just a fun little thing to write, and I enjoyed letting my inner goth collaborate with my inner pervert to do something scary. I loved it so much that this year I wrote a new Halloween sex story: based on love and reanimation. It contains BDSM, intense pain, branding, zombie sex, death and more death. Please don’t read on if those things are likely to disturb you, but if you get a thrill from scary stuff then I hope you’ll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
It’s also available as audio (click ‘listen here’ above) or visit the audio porn hub to find more sexy stories read aloud, most of which, I promise, are much less creepy than this one.
Halloween story: Come back
“I’d bring you back if you died,” I tell him. Though if I tell him with my mouth or just my eyes I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything when I’m here with him like this.
He strokes my hair. Envelops me in a hug that’s warm with life, and then presses himself against me so hard I almost feel crushed.
I vow to bring him back if he dies, and seeing him smile wistfully I worry that he’s not taking my promise seriously. That he doesn’t understand the sheer weight of terror that consumes me when I think of him not there.
I’d bring him back if he died.
I would find a way – with potions or powders or powerful bolts of electricity zapped straight into his chest. Witchcraft, maybe: a spell that summons his essence and injects it into his rigid, chilly corpse.
I would bring. Him. Back.
It seems impossible to me that he would ever not exist. I lay next to him on the sofa last night, with my body curled round like a baby in the womb and his hot hands warming the skin of my back, and I couldn’t get over the miracle of him. He’s a bundle of flesh piled on a strata of bone-shaped rock and yet he lives. He breathes! He opens his mouth, sound waves are formed, the noise that comes out forms words and those words form a sentence and that sentence makes me happy!
“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much that I would conquer death to be beside you.”
The muscles in his face curve his lips into the upturned crescent of a smile. Atoms move, and I feel good. For this miracle alone I would bring him back if he died.
I love him so much, I would reach out across a chasm of death and yank him back from the darkness. However I could.
No matter what the cost.
I would bring him back if he died, even if it meant he was changed completely. Even if his body – thick and heavy with death, could only move a little. I would bring him back even if his quirks were gone, and he could no longer make me laugh or smile or squirm with anticipation and desire.
You can’t expect someone to get through death unchanged. Death is the ultimate trauma, after all. It shocks you into forgetting who you were. All the little things you loved are too fleeting for you to cling onto beyond the void. The books you read, the kisses you stole, the silly voices you used to use to comfort crying children… all that’s left is the basest, rawest version of what you used to be.
A pixellated personality: detail obscured, stripped down to dark shapes and bright patches … but I don’t care.
I would bring him back anyway.
I would lay his corpse down on the living room rug, and I would cover it with kisses. Press my face against his chest, where his heartbeat used to be, and rub him all over with the palms of my hands, whispering whichever spell would kickstart him back to life. Then I’d see the spark return to his eyes, and understand that it had begun: the process of bringing him back.
Knowing I’d need to wake his basest instincts first, I would climb on top and ride his ice-cold dick, clenching myself around him to try and make it twitch like it used to. Biting his nipples, I’d sense a stirring in one or the other – the tiny hints that he was coming back for me… and I would ride his cock harder and bite and beg and wish and moan and wonder how much of my pleading he could understand.
I’d bring him back, even if he were a shadow of himself, with all his loving detail destroyed. Kindnesses and memories deleted, only urges and instincts intact. I would breathe life into this precious creature until his limbs started to twitch and his eyes rolled and his lips parted to murmur groaning words I could not understand.
This tangle of limbs and urges would still be him – it would!
Though I’d hide him inside to keep for myself, away from the prying, terrified eyes of other people… thinking up new ways to help him grow stronger and fiercer and more like he used to be.
For my next step I’d make him angry. Torment him until his face – previously unresponsive – suddenly twitched to life with a new expression. Dark eyebrows, downturned mouth. Livid, life-giving anger.
I’d nurture that anger, because it would help him live again.
I would prop him up and make him watch as I invited a parade of living men to come inside me.
Kneel over his body with my tits pressed against his face as these other men fucked me into screaming. One after the other until spunk dripped down between my thighs, splashing onto his stomach.
One by one by one I’d fuck them, and step by step I would bring. Him. Back.
Death can’t be cured with niceties. The gentle, loving memories of a life that’s been happily lived. We all rage against the dying of the light, and we need ten times that rage if we hope to come back from the darkness.
I will do this for him: I will conjure his rage. And as it grows, he will slowly come back.
As time goes on he will learn to stand. With arms outstretched in front of him, and eyes staring blankly at whatever I make him watch, but he will stand nonetheless. And I will hold his, cold, outstretched hands while I’m fucked.
Strange men will come and go, behind me. Pushing themselves into my cunt, still spunk-lubed from the guy before. I’ll look into his eyes and hold his hands while they do it, squeezing his wrists with each stroke, willing him to pull me away. I’ll tell him they’re bigger than he is. That they’re stronger and harder and better. That the back of my cunt aches from the bruising pounding of their dicks. I’ll moan like it pleases me then mewl like I don’t want it, until flickers of life in his eyes tell me that this trick just might be working and oh God if I keep going he’ll come back.
I’ll encourage them to hit me – hurt me. Whip stripes onto my backside with ratty canes and wire. Use floggers knotted with coarse plastic beads to draw blood with each lash at my back.
“Swing hard,” I’ll tell them. “Be brutal. Bring him back.”
I will scream extra-loud so he registers the pain, and if he moans along with me I will take that as progress.
I’ll bring him back when he dies.
I will take whip-cracks and hard fucks and piss and spit and blood and throughout all of it I will stare him in the face, urging him to listen to his basest instincts: to pull himself out of death, wake up and come back and fuck me oh please please fuck me.
And in between these precisely-tailored tortures designed to shake him from his undead stupor, I will rest and keep him close to me. I’ll allow myself to sit on the sofa, with him curled beside me like a baby, so I can use my living hands to warm his back. I’ll whisper to him about what we’ll do when he’s fully returned, eagerly feeding his basest instincts with stories of how we’ll fuck.
At the end of the day, I will close his eyelids – so softly – with my fingertips, and only when they’re closed will I let myself weep.
I wish that love were enough to bring someone back, but it’s not. I know that it’s not. You need rage and anger and blood – the promise of something to feast on. You can’t come back with the fuel of nothing more than love: you need something on which you can take out the despair that you tasted when your life came to an end.
You need vengeance and fury. Enough that it will drive you to rip out throats with your teeth.
That is what I’d give him, if he died. I would give him people to hate: men who fuck me and hurt me, over and over, until all he sees when I close his eyes at night is the vision of their smirking satisfaction and my own face twisted in agonised screams. I would fuel him with hate, and slowly stoke that furnace of anger within him until one day it catches and the whole of him is ablaze with life. Snarling and burning and ready to tear out throats. Break spines with his bare hands. Crack skulls open and feast on what’s inside.
I will bring him back, the only way I know how. Slowly. Gradually. Each day adding more rage, provoking anger, training him. Dragging his corpse from the living room rug until it stands, then teaching it to walk and moan and feel.
One day I will ask one of the men to brand me once we’ve fucked. To paint my tits with cum then heat a poker until it smokes and sizzles… I’ll ask him to burn trail-marks on my skin where his wet spunk landed then rest the red-hot poker tip against my chest – right where my heart beats. And keep it there until I stop screaming.
Oh, how it will hurt. It will hurt so much my screams will shake the walls and echo into this life and the next. He will hear my screams and look at me with undead eyes, then shed a single tear…
And I’ll know he’s coming back.
“I will do this for you,” I try to tell him. This man who is just flesh and rocks and a miracle. “I will bring you back when you’re dead. With rage and sex and pain and the smell of burning flesh, I will bring you back. I will give you so much to hate that you will have to come back to me. I cannot be without you. I cannot let you go. Even if you were no more than a bundle of your basest instincts – the drive for fucking and pain and love – still I would bring you back.”
But he just sighs, and holds me. He simply loves too much to hear what I need him to hear.
Curled beside him on the sofa, I can feel the blood thumping through his living hands as he uses them to warm my skin.
Then he closes my eyelids – so softly – with his fingertips.
This post is available as audio – click ‘listen here’ at the start of the post, and check out the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud.