Hey hey I love you: Frankenstein erotica

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

It’s usually pretty hard to content note Halloween erotica. It’s fun to give myself the challenge of writing something dark and horror-focused at this time of year, and I like ’em gruesome. If you’re also into macabre sex stories you might enjoy the following, but if you don’t want to read about people fucking reanimated corpses, you should probably give it a miss. 

I wake up screaming. No idea why, but I wake up screaming. Just absolute, cold-blooded, throat-ripping screams. Christ. Fuck. I can’t understand it. It takes him a couple of minutes to calm me. Stroking me with gentle hands and crooning ‘ssssh’ into my ear.

I try to sit up. Can’t.

Try to move my hands. Can’t.

But at least I stop screaming. It’s like my voice just gives out, as if someone suddenly unplugged it. Or perhaps – no – like I was just using up a breath I’d taken before I went to sleep. That breath ran out, and the scream stopped dead. That’s it. No more breath, no more noise.

I try to breathe in again. Can’t.

He holds me for a while like that – my head weak and flopping into the crook of his arm. I can’t even straighten my neck to look up, which is agony because I know that if I could only see his face I’d be instantly reassured. But now that I think about it, head movement would be pointless anyway because I can’t open my eyelids by myself either. He plants a kiss on my lips, though, and I think I do feel movement in my own face as I try to respond. Even as broken as I am, instinctively I try to kiss him back. Can’t, obviously. But the desire is there.

His lips are wet and taste delightfully biological. The tang on my own tongue is pure chemical. It makes me want to gag.

Gently, he places one thumb on my left eyelid and peels it back – the bright light in the room burns through. Far too white. Shrieking through the aperture of my pupils which fail to constrict in response. Then, ah relief! He’s there. His face hovers in front of my vision, blocking some of that blinding light. Instantly I am calm. I cannot be frightened in the presence of this man: he knows me inside out and cares for me with infinite, unconditional love. As he looks into my eyes, brow furrowed with a gentle and loving concern, he tells me:

“It’s OK. I’m here. I’m here with you. You’re OK.”

I do not doubt him for a single second. I trust him with every single fibre of my… well… hmm… my what? My being? My body? Not sure. I am sure of his love though, that’s the foundational truth on top of which I’ll layer every new thing I learn from now on.

What’s his name, though? That’s going to drive me round the bend. What’s he called? This beautiful man who is caretaker of my soul… I must, surely, know his name?

Not a clue.

My memory is this mixture of terrifying unknowns (why can’t I move? And why did I wake up screaming?), confusing knowledge that I can almost-but-not-quite recall (I know there’s a reason why my pupils aren’t responding to bright light the way they should, it’s on the tip of my formaldehyde-tasting tongue but I cannot grasp it), and cast-iron certainty (the man who woke me up is safe, kind, beloved).

“You’re incredible, do you know that?” His voice is all softness. Chenille blankets and honey-and-lemon and warm bread with melting butter. I don’t know this man’s name, and yet it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest when the next words out of his mouth are: “I love you so much.”

He touches me with great care. Huge, rough hands wielded so gently. I am lying on the table, and I cannot feel where my body begins and ends, but as he strokes me with tender hands I can feel myself starting to wake up – to come alive. First my neck, the back of two of his fingers tracing the tendon running down the left-hand side. Then the lines of my collarbone – zing! As he caresses my body, inch by inch, so I become aware of it. It’s like he’s painting life into every part of me he touches.

I love him back. I don’t yet fully understand why I love him, I just know that I do. With the same certainty that I know I am lying on a metal table and the light is too bright and my tongue doesn’t taste like a tongue, I know that somehow I owe my life to this man.

He strokes my hair. My face. My shoulders. The rough, calloused pads of his fingertips trace the curve of each of my breasts and now suddenly they’re alive too – nipples straining to meet his lips as he dips his head to kiss them.

I can sense my memories returning along with the sensation. There was a fight, I think? Yelling, fear. The glint of a curved knife. The sickening thwock of a bat swung into somebody’s face. I remember the sound of shattering glass and my own voice begging for mercy. Screaming so loud I thought I would tear my own throat.

But that was long ago. More recent memories are all of him: my love. My saviour. My… maker?

As he kisses life into my upper arms, I try to turn my head to see what they look like. I have memories of him toiling away above me, pulling surgical thread through the skin where arm meets shoulder. Whispering to me that I am beautiful, perfect, as he bites through the thread and declares that particular job finished.

He saved me, I think. Or did he resurrect me? The latter feels more likely. Somewhere deep in my soul I know that once I was dead.

Again, I try to breathe. Can’t. Maybe I’m still dead, and this is what comes after.

Wrists now, he takes each of my wrists in turn and plants dry lips on the inside where a pulse should be. I can’t move my head to look down at him, but as soon as he does it I feel it. He is the giver of life. My life, at least. And by the time he is kissing my stomach I remember more. The flesh there is torn – tattered – but sewn back together like a patchwork quilt. He runs his palms over my stomach and breasts and in doing so shows me exactly where the scars are. His fingertips catch on a spiderweb of raised lines and I marvel at how much skill it must have taken to stitch me back together.

“Everything about you is so precious,” he murmurs, painting a trail of kisses down over my scarred and twisted flesh. “I love you so much it hurts me not to touch you,” as his hands linger on my hips, sliding round to grip the meat of my buttocks and squeeze life into the ragged skin that covers the muscles of my glutes and thighs.

“I love you,” I try to tell him in return, but all that comes out is “mmmrgh.”

OK, so my words don’t work. Just the grunts and the screaming. But ‘mmmrgh’ is more than nothing, so inside I glow with pleasure.

He pauses what he’s doing and turns to me, showing himself to me. Positioning himself so that his face is in full view of my unmoving eyeballs. His own shine with tears and there’s love glowing from every pore of his skin. I don’t remember his name, and my chest hurts with the shame of that. Now that I can see into his eyes – that deep brown that is so rich and warm with kindness – it hits me with full force that this is far from our first encounter. I have known this man for many many years. I despise myself for not being able to remember his name, but looking upon his face I feel the most powerful throb of love. He looks like the feeling that used to make my heart beat twice in quick succession. His face shape conjures safety and his smile evokes such joy I can barely contain it.

Every inch of this man looks like salvation.

“Hello you,” he whispers. And I can feel the inside of my ears and my brain thrumming with yet more life, tingling with the cadence of his words. I try to reply, to beg him for more touching and words and kisses and warmth, but all that comes out is:


“Don’t worry,” he replies. “you won’t be able to speak right now. We’ll have to work with one grunt for yes, two grunts for no. OK?”

I grunt once: yes. “Mggh.”

“Do you remember who you are?”

Two grunts: no.

“Do you remember how you got here?”

Two grunts again.

“Do you know who I am?”

This time I pause. The answer is no, technically. I couldn’t tell you his name or how I met him or even for how long we’ve known each other. This is a two-grunt answer, for sure, but I pause anyway. Because deep down I do know this man. He and I are knit together – we are one and the same. My heart which does not beat nevertheless echoes to the same rhythm as his.

I have blurry memories of his hands oh-so-carefully putting my body back together. Positioning ankles against calves so the bones match up. Splinting, stapling, sewing. Mending the patchwork of my flesh with neat, sharp stitches. Lovingly preserving every broken piece of my body in jars upon jars upon jars.

I am here because he kept me, it’s that simple. So although I don’t know this man’s name, I do know he’s my saviour.

So instead of two grunts, I give one. And I look with longing into those deep brown eyes and hope he gets my meaning.

He does. I should never have doubted. I will never ever doubt him again.

“I understand,” he tells me, slowly kneading his own hands down my homemade body, waking each limb to sensation as he goes. “Would you like me to rouse you properly?”

One grunt: yes. I don’t know what he means, but yes. I know it’s a yes as surely as I know that he will do it gently and kindly and with care.

He kisses me first – deep and intense and slow. And every atom of my lips cries out for this warmth and humanity. My tongue still has that chemical tang, and my eyes still shriek from the lighting, but the pain of these things fades away at the touch of my lover, my maker. He plants a trail of kisses all the way down my body, following the network of scars that seemingly binds me together. I can feel the way his lips catch against the more significant injuries – raised scars which tie arms to shoulders and thighs to torso and knees to calves. Occasionally he runs his tongue along them, as if by lavishing affection he can make this horror beautiful.

Murmuring about how amazing I am, how precious I am, how grateful he is to have me whole again, my lover strips off his white coat, then the t-shirt and jeans that seem so incongruous beneath it. He climbs up onto the table and presses his body against mine. And the thrill of so much skin-to-skin contact crashes over me like a wave. Everywhere his bare flesh touches mine, I am coming to life. In the soles of my feet, which brush against the upper parts of his: alive. In my left calf, as he slides his leg over mine to claim me: alive! My thighs, now entwined with his and warmed by the blissful beating heart that feeds blood through the body of the man who saved me from darkness: ALIVE!

I am here, and I am alive. And it’s all because of him! I can now say with cast-iron certainty that there is nothing greater in life or death than being truly awakened by a lover’s touch.

He rolls on top of me and the weight of him – the solid, hefty, satisfying weight of him – acts as a catalyst to bring me even further to the brink of movement. If I focus hard, I can flick my eyes upwards ever-so-slightly, to pick which part of his face I look at as he holds me, moves me, makes me ready for him.

There is no blood running through me, but I let myself focus on the places where his body touches mine…. his hands cupping my breasts and gripping my shoulders. Stroking, pressing, groping, squeezing, massaging, caressing… and in doing this I trick myself into believing that his pulse is my own. That we beat, the pair of us, as one.

My master. My maker. My lover. My god.

His rough hands grip my thighs and pull them apart, and I ache with desperation to move my hips even a single inch. I want to tilt them to make it easier for him to enter me. Split me open with the blood-filled heat of his cock. Pour that life-giving force which radiates from him deep into my body, into the cold centre where it is needed the most.

But fingers first. He reaches for a jar on a shelf next to where we lie entwined on the table (well, he is entwined, I am little more than a lump of meat) from which he scoops something oily and viscous. Pushes first one, then another finger into the dry hole that would once have been soaking wet for him. I try so hard not to feel shame.

As if he’s read my mind, he mutters a soft ‘ssssh’. Tells me there is nothing to worry about. That it’s not my fault I am like this. This – he emphasises the point with a short, firm thrust into the depths of my cunt, waking up brand new flesh inside me and giving me a pulse of aching pleasure – is just a temporary solution.

One more thrust, and my cunt is alive with longing.

Another, and I know that I would be begging him to fuck me if I could.

“Mmngh,” I tell him, and he does it again. Each deep stroke with two fingers awakens another ridge of long-dead flesh, and the nerve endings – much like my brain – sing with joy at the sudden revival.

I want him so much.

He shifts again, so that now he is fully on top of me. The flesh of his stomach kissing mine, his thighs between my thighs. The hot, solid length of his cock pressed against my slit. And everywhere he touches, I can feel myself coming alive.

I may not have the sexual response you’d expect from a living person, but it is no less real because of that. The physical throb at the entrance to my cunt that I remember from life isn’t there, but it has been replaced by an urgent ache somewhere in the pit of my soul. When he thrusts inside me, I am sated more thoroughly than I ever have been by mere fucking before. I feel an unfurling somewhere in my mind, an even greater awakening.

He wraps his arms around me, pulling against my shoulders to yank me down onto his cock, like he’s forcing life even deeper inside me. And at some point I swear I feel a spasm in the muscles of my cunt.

Am I… moving?

Grunting now with the exertion of it, my lover pounds harder into me. I can’t sense how rigid and cold the table is, only how soft and warm his flesh feels where it meets my own. The heat of his breath and the tickle of his stubble as he buries his face in the stiff, cold crook of my neck. Faster and faster his breaths come, with each thrust of his dick. And as he speeds up, so I almost start to wonder if I’m breathing along with him.

And then it happens: he comes. The intense throb of his cock as it spits spunk inside me, slinging life-giving warmth right into the centre of my body. I can’t fuck back, but I can imagine. And in doing so… I… wait… do my eyelids flutter? I swear my fucking eyelids flutter!

“Unngh,” he grunts as he milks out the last few drops of his climax inside me.

“Mngfh,” I reply, hoping he feels the passion in it even though I have no words.

Somewhere between his orgasmic pulses, I realise my left leg has twitched. Just one twitch, but definite movement: I am alive!

Each shot of his cum inside me thrums with yet more life, warming me from within. The limbs that until now felt dead and limp suddenly quiver with an energy I can’t quite place. It’s not proper life, not a pulse or anything like that. It’s something deeper and more primal. Magical, almost?

He shudders and collapses onto me, his head nestled in my shoulder where he cannot see my face. But I’m so desperate to show him because I think I can feel a twitch at the corner of my mouth.

I’m alive!

I’m alive! I am fucking ALIVE! Oh, he’s going to be so delighted when he sees!

My lover – my maker – rolls off me, putting one hand on the table and another on my right breast to steady himself as he stands. Looks around the room with eyes that are no longer filled with lust and need, but now look blank with shame. Oh how that will change in a second though! How happy he’ll be when he sees what I can do!

I practice moving my hands – curling and uncurling my fingers. There’s not much movement yet, just little twitches here and there, but it’s coming. I’m alive and it’s fucking coming. There! It happened! A twitch in my face! I am smiling! My lips are moving and I can smile!

I am alive! 

He has his back to me as he pulls on underpants and jeans. Wipes the residue off his cock with a nearby cloth, then zips himself up. Oh, he’ll be so happy when he turns and sees me smile! I cannot wait to show him my new trick. The joy is so great that my smile spreads wider – not a grin, not yet a grin, but close.

My toes curl now, and I start to sense the awakening flood into the rest of my body. It’s almost like I’ve been infected with life. I am riddled with it now.

“Mngaaaah!” I grunt at him, and surely he can hear me? I’m so much louder now than I was when I first woke up.

Oh turn around! See me! See what I can do! I feel like I’m thawing out. I may not be alive in the same way that he is, but I am starting to move. His touch has given me vitality – existence – and in this moment I can imagine no greater joy than to share that with him. I can only begin to imagine how much swifter my recovery will be in the beaming joy of his smile.

Oh please turn around! See me! Know that the next time we entwine like this it won’t just be you thrusting into me, but me thrusting back. Gripping you tight between my thighs and clinging to your shoulders with hands that tremble and clamping my cunt good and tight around you while I whisper into your ear just how much I love you and how grateful I am to you for saving me.

You saved me. You saved me and revived me and I don’t know how I can repay you.

“Hmgh!” I tell him, then regroup and pause and try yet again but this time with feeling. “Hey!”

I did it!


He doesn’t hear me. Why doesn’t he hear me?

He puts his t-shirt on, my lover – back still turned like he’s teasing me. And now I can wiggle my toes if I try. My fingers too, come to think of it.

My arms no longer feel numb. I can raise one of them from the table as if to wave.

“Hey!” I yell again, this time louder. And this time, unlike before, I see him flinch in recognition. Just a subtle shift in his position, like he’s resigning himself to something.

“Hey!” I shout again, and this time I lift one of my arms and try to reach towards him. Maybe if I can reach out and touch him, he’ll turn around. This man I love with my whole soul. The man who saved me. The one who looks into my eyes with such intimate love that I love him back even though I can’t recall his name.

His name. Even as my mind gets clearer, I still can’t remember this man’s name. The realisation that I may never have known it starts to creep down my spine like a frost. He still has his back to me, still hasn’t turned. Now he dons the white coat again – another barrier between his life-giving touch and my own needy flesh. Why has he never told me his fucking name?

“Hey hey hey!” I repeat, slapping the cold metal of the table on which I’m lying to see if that might get his attention. But his back is still turned and all he does is reach for something from high up on the wall. It glints in the light but I can’t turn my eyeballs far enough to make out what it is. I’m starting to panic now: the creeping dread that tingled down my spine is spreading to my other limbs too. A flash of pride – more proof of life! – is almost immediately usurped by a flash of horror – he doesn’t care! He never cared! – and suddenly movement feels more urgent. I need to stand up, get up, get … out?

“I love you!” I yell at this nameless man, who only seconds ago felt like my saviour. “Hey hey! I love you!” Again, no response. And now I’m moving both my arms, flailing like a caught fish having spasms in the bottom of a boat. I can move but I don’t yet have control, and my throat is starting to ache from the effort of pushing out the words. I can sense the shift in tone and it terrifies me. My lover, my maker, my God… he’s no longer soft and gentle. Everything about him radiates tension and frustration. Anger, even? Perhaps anger too.

Why would he be angry now that I am alive for him?

Finally – finally – he turns. And my heart shudders and cracks like instant ice – my supposed saviour is observing me now with dark eyes that hold no love. Where preciously I’d seen soft, wet lips that spoke of hope and beauty, now they’re twisted into a thin, determined grimace. I try to smile at him but it has no effect. Try to lift my hand to reach for his, but he snatches it away. In his other hand, behind his back, he grips tightly onto whatever he pulled off the wall.

“I love you!” I yell at him, tricking myself into believing that he’s under some sort of spell. And all he needs are my adoring words to snap him out of it.

But he says nothing. It’s as if he doesn’t hear me at all. The adoration in his eyes has been snuffed out. The man who stands before me isn’t my saviour or my maker or my God, he’s just a guy in a white coat with a blank stare and – now, he reveals it – a curved blade in his right hand. A man who doesn’t look into my eyes as he starts to hack at my shoulders: no more waving my arms. Then my ankles: there goes the hope that I’ll walk!

“Hey!” I yell, because I don’t know what else to do. “Hey hey! Heyheyhey! I love you!”

He swings the blade up over his shoulder and then down to sever my hand at the wrist. Then up and back down to slice through muscle, tendon, skin. All so carefully stitched together and so easily carved back up. Again and again and again. Re-ripping the patchwork of my body into pieces. Pieces that I know will be stored in jars upon jars upon jars.

“I love you!” I continue to yell as he dismembers me. I’m on autopilot now. But it must have some effect, because I see his eyes flicker to my face. Not for long, just a split second. My voice has penetrated the barriers he put up the second he’d finished fucking me, and now for a brief flash he makes eye contact with the corpse he considers his property. The chilling blankness in the eyes of my lover is the final straw for my sanity: I start to scream so loudly that it almost tears my throat.

As he lifts the blade one final time, to sever my head from my neck, I remind myself that I’ll be back here on this table again one day. Repaired. Stitched together. Made whole again. In love with him once more.

And I won’t remember why I woke up screaming.



Yeah this Frankenstein erotica is super grim isn’t it? Maybe my grimmest to date, sorry for being such a teenage goth. If you want more depraved sex with Halloween monsters, have a go on this zombie, a werewolf, a siren, a vampire, or last year’s – the monster that lives under your bed


  • Mosscat says:

    Delicious shivers.

  • Chris says:

    I’m someone who always tries to figure out the twist before the story tells me. It’s fun for me, but it takes most of the shock out of horror… until you write it, apparently. Even anticipating this was one way the story might end, you wrote it so perfectly, my subconscious was bringing it up days later. Absolutely brilliant work!

    • Girl on the net says:

      Ohhh thank you so much Chris! I massively appreciate that. I really enjoy writing these dark little stories, but they don’t tend to get much by way of traffic and comments so I always wonder if I should just sack it off for next year. But it’s really lovely to know that you liked it – and it is fun for me to play in the gruesome spaces sometimes. Thank you <3

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