
19 Nov Lover
βLoverβ
Written by B.T. Joy Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/ACopyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).
π§ Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
β° ESTIMATED READING TIME β 12 minutes
Randy Wense had been parked on the corner of Water and 3rd for the last fifteen minutes listening to the newest reports.
The radio presenter was relaying a statement that the special agent in charge of the investigation had made earlier that day.
He was explaining how theyβd found a duffel bag in a dumpster in Charleston full of the personal effects of the latest disappearance. It was apparently a new habit among the prostitutes of West Virginia to secrete a small number of identifiable items near any place where they picked up a john. That way, if things turned nasty, at least the streetwalking community would find out about it and the law would know how to proceed.
The reporter on the radio was now saying how great a step forward these findings were and how, without a shadow of a doubt, both local police and the federal authorities now believed that the nineteen-some disappearances of women in West Virginia, Pennsylvania and New York were the work of a single abductor.
Randy dialed down the radio slowly. There was a slightly shrill tenor to the reporterβs voice and, truthfully, it had been getting on his nerves.
He sat in the silence now. Just the darkness of the abandoned car-lot behind him; around him the solid discretion of derelict industrial shells and, out in front, the slight sparkle of white glints on black water, from the artificial road-lights that shone on the Monongahela River from its further bank.
Of course Randy knew what theyβd be saying about him. Theyβd no evidence. Not a trace. Apart from that one duffel bag, he didnβt know that the whore had stowed away.
No blood. No semen. No DNA of any description. And yet theyβd still be saying it β the civilized people of Charleston and Albany and, here, in Pittsburgh.
Theyβd say he was raping those girls.
Theyβd it because they had small and uncomplicated minds. Prostitutes are sex-workers, and so the crimes against them must be sexual in nature.
Worse! Women are sex objects and so crimes against them β against the entire gender β are interpreted by the masses as being about sex ninety-percent of the time.
Randy felt like spitting, he was so disgusted.
He hated human beings. He hated their dirty, small, uncomplicated minds.
He hadnβt raped anyone. He couldnβt. As far as he was concerned human sexuality was a violence. He wanted nothing to do with it.
There was only one for him. He thought about her and his stomach filled up with static. He closed his eyes to see her better in his memory. His Lover, waiting for him to come home, even now, across the New York border with Canada.
He pictured her the last way heβd seen her. Lying in their basement so enticingly. Urging him to love her as a body loves a body.
There was a dull noise of thin knuckles on glass.
Randyβs eyes shot open and the tingles of love in his stomach disappeared.
He looked up disgustedly at the face leering down at him from outside the car. She was dressed in a low-cut, high-riding rag of sparkly magenta. She mustβve been thirty, or thirty-five, and even the partial light hovering through the trees from the Monongahela showed on her face the blotches and abrasions of one who had recently cultivated an addiction for crystal meth.
That, and her tiny head and skinny body.
Sheβs disgusting, Randy thought. But sheβll do just fine.
* * * * * *
Randy adjusted his rearview disinterestedly as the prostitute ran through her tariff from the passenger seat.
Forty bucks for pussy. Twenty-five for head. Apparently, for ten bucks, sheβd rub him off, and for a Benjamin, sheβd let him take her up the ass.
βI donβt want sex,β Randy had said at last, abruptly cutting off her tirade of smut.
He looked at her.
βI just want to talk,β he said.
She looked back at him, scrutinizing. Sheβd figured he wouldnβt expect much of a party the minute sheβd seen him. He was one of those painfully polite johns β she reckoned β one of those who would finish too soon and probably apologize.
Hell, sheβd had guys pay extra for their premature ejaculations; like she gave a shit if it took them five minutes or thirty seconds.
βWhat you want to talk about, honey?β She settled in for an easy trick.
βCan we begin with your name?β Randy asked, polite still, but somehow unnaturally clinical at the same time.
βItβs Francesca,β Francesca smiled. βAnd you? What do I call you, honey?β
βRandy,β Randy answered. βRandy Wense.β
βDonβt get a lot of Randyβs anymore,β Francesca observed. βKind of an old-fashioned name.β
βWell it suits me then,β Randy smiled tightly. βIβm a bit of an old-fashioned guy.β
βSo how come you donβt wanna fuck, Randy?βΒ She slapped his shoulder playfully. βYouβre a good lookinβ guy.β
He closed his eyes briefly. His shoulder, where sheβd touched it, stung like a flare-up of dermatitis. He felt unclean.
Must she use those vulgar words!?
He calmed himself. He thought of the New York border. He thought of the basement back home and the Lover who was waiting for him.
βIβve got someone,β he said, a little distractedly. βSheβs waiting for me back home in Canada.β
βYou got a girl?β Francesca smiled.
Donβt call her that, you whore, Randy thought.
Again he had to make an effort to calm down.
βSheβs my Lover,β he said.
Francescaβs mouth cracked in the ugliest laugh heβd ever heard; a hooting, gasping thing that wrinkled her face and aggravated those repulsive drug-induced scars.
He stared at her angrily.
βOh, Iβm sorry, honey!β She was still laughing. βWhen you said you were old-fashioned I didnβt think you meant knights on white horses and shit… Sheβs your lover?β
βYes,β he said, trying to seem unfazed. βSheβs waiting for me in Canada.β
Francescaβs ugly laugh grew weaker and then she looked at him with something like respect.
βAw, well, good for you, Randy.β She congratulated. βNice to see a man who sticks by his woman; Jesus knows there ainβt many. And thatβs how come you donβt wanna fuck tonight?β
Randy sniffed.
βTruthfully, Francesca, I donβt like sex,β he answered. βI think thereβs a basic brutality in it, donβt you?β
He looked at her. She looked the same as every other dumb whore heβd had in that car. The whores of Charleston, Albany, Pittsburgh. They were all the same. None of them ever understood: why he thought the way he did; why he had to do the things to them he did.
He decided at least to try to explain.
βThink about it, Francesca,β he shook his head pityingly. βWhat do people say when they hate one another? Fuck you! Get the fuck outta here!? Iβll fuck you up!?Β To be fucked is to be wasted, ruined, degraded. Thatβs how we see sex. As a species Iβm talking about now, Francesca, as a species we look on sex as a form of aggression.β
Francesca moved a little uncomfortably in her seat. This easy trick was turning into a worse chore than screwing.
βThatβs why I hate the sex trade, too, Francesca,β Randy went on. βOh, not you, itβs not really your fault. Youβre the victim in all this. Itβs these bastards I hate…β
He pointed out across the river at the artificial lights and the hundreds of thousands of human sentiences they implied.
βPeople, Francesca. I hate people. Small. Uncomplicated. Confined. Condemned to commit the same violence and have the same violence committed on them again and again and again… The kicked cat kicking downwards, Francesca… Some fucking company accountant gets chewed out over a few numbers in the wrong column and suddenly heβs here β ghosting the streets of McKeesport β looking for you, Francesca. So he can pound out all that rage. So he can leave it behind, between your legs.β
It was Francescaβs turn to look disgusted and when Randy looked at her next he could see it written all over her face.
Time to change the mood, he thought to himself. Even whores could get squeamish.
βLetβs change the subject,β he suggested. βDo you smoke?β
Francesca nodded. Sheβd gone slightly silent and Randy guessed heβd shocked her with his philosophies.
βI donβt suppose many of your clients talk like I do.β
He fished around in the dash and produced a pack of smokes.
βHell, mister,β Francesca shook her head, βhardly anyone Iβve met talks like you. You had college?β
Randy smiled at her. He offered her a cigarette and she took it. Then he gave her a light and she puffed out a trail from the gape of her nostrils.
βI went to Stanford,β he said.
Francesca choked on her smoke.
βStanford?β She snorted. βLike in California? That Stanford?β
βDonβt be too impressed,β Randy said. βI dropped out before the end of my degree.β
Francesca coughed a little on her cigarette again and then looked at Randy.
βWhat were you studying?β
βI was studying medicine,β he answered, βbut I didnβt like the professors very much.β
βYou donβt like a lot aβ folks, huh, Randy?β Francesca observed.
Randy shook his head, dreamily.
In truth, he was only half in the car. The other part of him wanted the entire charade to be at an end. He wanted to be moving again. Out of the cesspit of Pittsburgh. Out over the pockmarked body of Pennsylvania. Through New York and away from the failed experiment of the United States.
Back to the basement in his home. Back to his Lover.
βI took my first panic attack at Stanford,β he confided.
Francesca just sat there listening; making the odd dry rasp from the harshness of the cigarette.
βPeople later said it was my age,β Randy said, βtoo young, they said. Too young for all the responsibility of a medical degree at one of the nationβs foremost universities. But that wasnβt it. It was a philosophy electiveβ of all things. You see, Francesca, there was an idea in that lesson Iβd never heard before but didnβt learn that day either. Itβd been in my bones for as long as I could remember.β
He looked at her.
βDo you know David Hume?β
She shook her head.
βDoesnβt matter,β he looked away. βDavid Hume believed the world was basically limited. A world of small, uncomplicated people; making the same mistakes over and over; having no way of making new ideas.
Except we can link things together, Francesca; jumble things up or make things smaller or β and this idea has been with me all my life β we can augment reality.β
βIβm not gonna lie to you, Randy,β Francesca said. βI donβt understand a word just came outta your mouth.β
She laughed. She coughed.
βAugmentation!β Randy stared at her angrily. βMaking… things… bigger!β
She still didnβt understand. Christ, what did he have to do to make these whores understand!?
βYouβre you, Francesca,β he lectured. βYouβll always be just you. A tiny little girl staggering in your stilettos from one car to the next. Servicing one collection of genitals after the next. Just you. Tiny, little you!β
Francescaβs ghost of a cough was getting worse. She was really hacking now.
βHell, Randy…β she choked. βThis is some strong cigarette.β
βAlways just you!β Randy was nearly shouting now. βUnless someone makes you bigger! Unless someone augments you!β
He was pressing closer to her and Francesca was starting to notice the woozy feeling the smoke had produced in the center of her skull.
βTell you what…β she slurred. βKeep the cash, honey. I think Iβve had about enough.β
She opened the door to the car. He let her. He adjusted his rearview before pulling out after her. After all, it was a long drive to Canada.
Francesca staggered out of the car; hooping and spluttering as her throat seemed to close in on itself.
βWhat the fuck was in that cigarette!?β she screamed.
Randy left the car door open and started moving towards her, checking the river and the nearest streets for the telltale shapes of watching humans.
There were none.
Francesca screamed againβ but for the last timeβ as Randy grabbed her around the shoulders and wrestled her to the floor.
βShhhh… shhhh…β he soothed, as his alarmingly strong hand clamped her mouth shut. βThe drugβll begin to take action in just a few seconds, Francesca.β
His voice was low and soothing. As though he was speaking to a child.
βItβs okay,β he kissed her blotched forehead. βAll the painβs over now. When you wake up thereβll be no more of this smallness. No more limitation. When you wake up youβll be bigger. Bigger and better than you ever thought youβd be.β
Francesca continued to try to scream from behind the hard barrier of her attackerβs flesh.
Randy just lay there in the deserted car-lot, with the light of the Monongahela flitting like ghost moths over his and Francescaβs bodies.
He held her face tightly as she lost consciousness. And, all the while, he kept the same perfect picture in his mindβs eye.
His Lover. Her massive, augmented body lying on the concrete floor of their basement, begging him to love her.
* * * * * *
Lover. Lover. Lover. Lover.
In complete darkness, Francesca heard the words. For long minutes she never knew where she was β and that feeling was terrifying.
In the end, she began to feel the bump and grind of the wheels passing concrete under her body. She felt the shape of her confinement and recognized it.
Christ! She was in the trunk of his car!
She could hear him, through there, in the driverβs seatβ hauling ass, no doubt, for whatever psychosβ Disneyland heβd built up in Canada β and he was talking to himself as he drove.
Lover, he was saying. Itβs okay, Lover. Iβm coming. Iβm coming.
Francesca started to scream. She pounded her bound wrists on the cold metal door of his trunk. Trying, against all the odds, to attract attention.
The only attention she attracted was Randyβs.
βItβs okay, Francesca!β he shouted back at her. βSoon youβll be bigger! Soon youβll be bigger and better, Francesca!β
βYou sick bastard!β she screamed and battered at her tiny prison. βLet me out!β
She continued to fight and hammer away until Randy was forced to pull the car off into a lay-by.
She heard the engine die.
She heard his boots trudging over small stones.
Then she heard his key entering the locked trunk.
Her heart started beating faster. She had to fight him! She had to get out of there!
There was a moment of blue sky and painful light as Randy opened the trunk. In his right hand, he was holding a stained rag.
Francesca screamed; lashing out at him with her ligatured limbs; trying to bite him.
He forced the cloth down over her nose and mouth.
βSleepy time, my angel,β he smiled down at her.
She tried to hold her breath, but it was hopeless.
A flow of chloroform vapors rushed into her lungs.
Then there was nothing but darkness again.
* * * * * *
The next time she woke Francesca was on her back and she mustβve been lying on something sharp because there was a pain, or a series of pains, running down the length of her body.
The room was so dark she couldnβt have seen a hand in front of her face, but she could smell the mildew in the air; the cloy of antiseptic and, everywhere, a stink so putrid she couldnβt put a name to it. It was like the fruity smell of badly sunburnt skin.
Randy wiped her forehead with a soft, wet cloth.
βWakey, wakey,β he soothed.
She moaned, not yet able to make an intelligible plea.
βDonβt try to speak,β he said softly. βYouβve been through a lot and youβre probably in a lot of pain.β
The pain down her back was intense. It was like lying naked on a nest of fire ants.
βItβs just growing pains, my angel,β Randy stroked her forehead lovingly. βYouβve grown so much β become so much bigger and better β in so short a time. Itβs bound to be uncomfortable.β
βPlease…β her voice quivered. βPlease. Randy. I wanna go home.β
He smiled. God. God, he loved her.
βYou are home, Lover,β he said.
Francesca shook her head. She was hyperventilating with the panic.
βYouβre confused, Randy,β she tried to convince him. βYouβre just confused. Iβm not her. Iβm not… your ‘lover’. You said she was waiting for you… in Canada.β
βShe was,β Randy nodded. βAnd she was waiting for you, too.β
βI donβt understand!β Francesca cried.
βYou will, Lover,β he stroked her.Β Only when his hands touched her breasts did she notice she was naked. βSoon youβll understand everything.β
He walked away into the dark and Francesca tried to pull herself to her feet. She couldnβt. It felt like something was holding her to the floor.
βIβve always been attracted to hugeness, Lover…β Randyβs voice issued from somewhere in the dark basement. βDo you know Baudelaire?β
Francesca just lay there; drawing in frightened rags of breath.
βAh, Baudelaire,β Randy breathed, βhe said it best: ‘At the time when Nature with a lusty spirit was conceiving monstrous children each day, I should have liked to live near a young giantess, like a voluptuous cat at the feet of a queen.’β
βRandy! Please!β Francesca screamed.
Randy laughed.
β’I should have liked to see her soul and body thrive… and grow without restraint in her terrible games… to explore leisurely her magnificent form… to crawl upon the slopes of her enormous knees!’β
There was a hard snapping sound and suddenly the entire room was flooded in a painful, white light.
It took Francescaβs eyes long moments to adjust to what they were seeing.
Then it took the mind even longer to adjust to the evidence of the eyes.
She didnβt scream β not at first β the horror was too sublime for that.
Randy had mounted an elaborate mirror of the ceiling of the basement room so that Francesca could view herself; could view what sheβd become:
Heβd sewn her back and the backs of her legs and arms to the spongey floor. That was the reason for the pain.
And the floor. The floor wasnβt concrete. It was covered, as with rolls of carpet, with yard upon yard of human skin.
Francescaβs eyes swiveled around the room.
The walls too were papered in skin. The whole room. The door. Everything was skin. And the legs and the arms of dead girls hung down from out of it like the lolling heads of past trophies.
Finally she started to scream. She rocked her naked body, trying to get up onto her feet. The central mound of flesh that made up the center of Randyβs basement, the mound sheβd been surgically attached to, seemed to rock and undulate with her feverish movements. As though the entire room was her body.
Randy stepped closer and kneeled down by the newly installed face of his Lover. The chloroform steeped cloth was already in his hand.
βGet away!β she screamed. βJesus! Jesus Christ! Whatβve you done to me?!β
He clamped the rag over her face and watched again as the lights of consciousness dulled in her fright-crazed eyes.
When she was safely sleeping he kissed her forehead and the entire room seemed to quiver. His Lover, his Giantess, begging him to love her.
He smiled; leaning in and kissing her new lips; fondling her new breasts.
He was in heaven… like a voluptuous cat at the feet of a queen.
βI love you, Lover,β he whispered to the room.
A drugged groan issued from Francescaβs mouth.
Randy smiled.
He knew it was really the Lover speaking.
He knew that she was really saying: I love you, too.
π§ Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
Written by B.T. Joy Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/Aπ More stories from author: B.T. Joy
Publisher's Notes: N/A Author's Notes: N/AMore Stories from Author B.T. Joy:
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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).