Hell's Household Ch. 02

A XXXecil for hire story commission, part 2. While it is a rousing tale in its own right; it would be better to read 'Hell's Housewife' first.

*

Hungrily, their lips tugged against each other. Scarcely did the rutting couple notice the vehicle in which they rode, the bumps and jostles of the faux ambulance as it conveyed them to where -- they did not care. The boy's rampant, male lusts where a convenient tool; the shill she would use to feed to feast... Heather did not quite understand why.... How precisely; just that it was important that this boy thrust his raging tool up -- up into the sopping depths of her clenching sex.

'Yes boy, lust after me, shag me with all your strength...' She thought with a quiver of delight, as his shaky hands pawed mercilessly at her voluminous boobage. Such a convenient balance -- his lust, her hunger. She clenched his shoulders with anticipation; knowing that her manprey would not have the luxury of simply cumming once and deflating for the evening. There would be no interruptions, nothing to stop his drilling, pounding, gushing into her ravening cunt. Heather sensed that her mysterious benefactor would not stop her, would allow her all the Rush, all the Cum she could seduce from his balls with wet coaxes of pulsating vaginal velvet.

A hoarse grown tore itself from her throat as she seemed to lose control of her pussy. Her womb throbbed and writhed, swirling motions made by pure instinct. There was something old within Heather's body. An old intelligence. Something that knew how to moan, undulate atop -- or beneath a man to send his skyrocketing libido into orgiastic overdrive -- a slave to his virile impulses until his white, wet reward fed the lusty chasm that drenched between her thighs.

"Harrrrrd...." She snarled at her manprey. "Fuck me harrrrrrrrderrrrrr...." She wrapped her legs around his pelvis, heels pressing at his lower back; a primal invitation to deluge her most fertile core with the hot virility of his spurting reward. A breeding signal. But Heather was on sexual autopilot now; the sultry intellect that lusted beneath the surface of her thoughts told her that such pronouncements will enhance a man's vigor -- his effort. "Longer... harder!" She ordered.

As her erstwhile mate wept furtive tears of lip-quivering joy, it seemed he could not decide whether to seize or caress her. Those overflowing silk-mountains of jiggle-happy tit-melons that jostled, shook with feminine potency within his sweat-slicked, ecstatic grip. They beckoned to his mind, his desire with their hyper-ripe curvaceous splendor.

Neither seemed to notice the bedding, or the plastic containers of medical supplies seeming to smoke, or curl with an unnatural source of heat.

Indeed the boy -- it wasn't necessary for her to remember his name -- ejaculated so explosively that he did not even notice his own hair withering into ash and blowing away into grey-white particulates from the infernal energies surrounding them both. So great was his orgasm that nothing else factored in. Still, Heather dimly wondered whether the new sensations from her body would be cause to give her lover alarm.

The feeding, the Rush, the pleasure-charged sperm that her pussy devoured so eagerly created such bliss that it didn't matter to Heather the fact that her shoulder blades were burning. Nor, that piercing ache right above her bulging ass. What mattered was the greed for his cock, his sperm. But he would not be the last, not by any means.

The manprey would be her primer... to prepare the way for the people she'd sensed in the stadium. Those three whom she knew it was her destiny to fuck. But for now, his dick -- his sperm would be enough. Until she had the chance she needed to track down her real targets.

Nothing would stop her, not the waves of heat her body produced, not the strange, new tingling on her fingers, not the fact that the ambulance had pulled into a parking garage, seemingly to look for a secluded place to hide.

"Like I figured; no stopping it now." Said the mysterious, unnamed woman who did not look at all like a paramedic. "At least you won't be alone for your first time." But the way his penis quivered inside Heather, the way her man's lips tugged mercilessly upon her nipples made it impossible for her to address this statement with more than a furtive gurgle.

But soon, the sensations became undeniable. She sat up, as the painful piercing in her shoulder-blades grew sharper -- more insistent. She clutched her mate with a lusting grunt as their nude bodies melded amidst sweat-stained pulsations of wanton yearning. But still, something was wrong -- different. It seemed like something sharp was... extruding from her lower back, like... axes were cutting her shoulder blades -- from the inside? As much as it should have hurt, the pain gave her an exhilaration she had not known possible. As if a relief far greater than any she had known would be hers once the -- change? Process? Was complete.

Greedily, she clung to the man-boy whose sex she feasted upon. Something unnatural was happening to her -- but the deep, sexual intelligence burning in her brain told her that this didn't give her prey the right to run off in terror. That was the price he had to pay to fuck her so hard, so deeply.

"No... escape... only.... Fucking..." Heather snarled, as the changes accelerated. Manprey seemed not to notice, delirious yet again from a soul-shattering orgasm that jerked him in her grip like an ejaculating rag-doll. They clutched each other upright, as long-time lovers might. But he was just a cock to her -- a cock for her cunt.

"No... ESCAPE!!!" and the two of them vanished in a blistering roar of seething flames! Leaving only charred bedding and dark streaks on the walls of the ambulance interior.

**********

Norm Craven could spot them coming from a mile away. At least, he hoped he could. He sat upon an uncomfortable bar-stool, wreathed in cigarette smoke, quietly nursing a Tequila from a smudged tumbler. He drank enough to not appear suspicious by a failure to imbibe what he'd ordered, yet he did not intend to finish his intoxicating beverage. It was a delicate game.

The Reverse Pick-up.

"Hell yeah I would've done the bitch!" Craven barked luridly into his cellphone. "...Married, what do I care? That was one hot piece of ass!" He grumbled; trying to sound as piggishly opportunistic as possible. "Yeah... yeah... no bra! ... tenting that blouse big-time! Ha ha!" His strategy, he believed was having the desired effect.

Craven was using multiple cell phones; calling on one from a cheesy motel room, to another also in his possession. The connection was real, but the conversation entirely concocted. Yes... there we go... other bar patrons were taking notice. "Yeah, I'd hit that! Eighteen!? Who the hell cares!? For tits like that... yeah, worth the risk ma'man!" Good. All the sane, natural, human women would be clearing out. His grotesque conduct should serve as an effective, efficient filter.

Anyone who was left would be....

No... One of them, a brunette with poofy, 80's frizz hair had visible traces of wrinkles, though she did a good job of presenting an impressive slope of cleavage. An aging Hooker, no doubt. She was not his target. If his theories were correct, then his chosen enemies would not display any hint of physical imperfection or age. You couldn't always be sure; there were plenty of hotties without much in the way of obvious blemishes, so he needed to screen them. They should appear as fantastically gorgeous samples of feminine youth and fertility --

Which they weren't.

And the most brazen displays of predatory male lust would actually entice them...

Soon, that left two likely candidates. Two? Hmm.... Craven had believed that they preferred to...ehhh.... Hunt, singly.

"Damn straight, and the slut had NOOOOO gag reflex! Hah!" he declared in his one-sided false conversation, just to seal the deal.

A definite, catty vibe between the two he presumed to be his enemies. Eyes narrowed, busts bulged upwards, but when looking at him, they were both all smiles. Two of them. Was it possible? Then again; did it matter? Would another presence interfere with his plans?

Craven expected the redhead. That seemed to be a predictable pattern. She was not a freckled ginger, but her skin was still porcelain smooth and with that surreal perfection of youthful vitality that he had come to expect. Her fiery color was natural, down to the roots, that is -- if anything about her could be considered 'natural.'His enemy seemed to be either redheads, or women with jet-black raven hair. Her face was an aquiline statue of sculpted beauty of a type Craven had seen before, but which never failed to astound him. Why was this woman not making millions on a Paris fashion-model runway? He knew... he knew all too well.

She crossed her sleek legs in his direction, her bare milky legs capped with pearlescent¬ white high-heels gave her appearance a sexual wantonness that seemed even more delicious than if she had chosen to wear nylons. Her white cocktail dress revealed the sultry curves of her sumptuous hips and belly, while riding high upon her bosom.

Yes, her breasts were massive, but the dress presently showed very little cleavage; adding an air of mystery -- as if to reward a man with the courage to paw, grope, and seize those captive mounds with a burgeoning glory more femilicious than he had dared imagine possible. Her very silhouette screamed a seething womanly appeal.

Then there was the blond, much more of an enigma. For some reason, the suspects he'd been chasing, whom he knew were behind the series of sexual-transformation attacks had never seemed to have the golden flax hair of this ravishing beauty. Otherwise, she was a perfect match in terms of physical perfection. Too gorgeous; it just didn't seem possible that a woman with such spectacular seductive charms wasn't already a millionaire supermodel. But they all shared a common, deadly thread. Yet never blond in Craven's experience.

Hers was the proverbial 'little black dress' spaghetti straps supporting breast-tacular F-cups. She seemed the more daring of the pair; a deepening valley of silky seduction plunged downward into bosomy depths of bulging boobage.

"You sound like a man who knows how to handle a woman..." But it was not the blond, rather the redhead who spoke, seemingly deciding that now was the time to make her move.

"Uhhh... hell-yeah miss hot-pants! I got the magic touch, if you got the goods -- and I see you do!" Sometimes he had to force himself -- it took all of his acting skills to pretend that he was such a blatant, chauvinistic caricature. "Call ya back later, Hoss. Dick's got a hot little number lookin' for a ride. And my name ain't Richard." He hung up the phone that was calling his other phone. He licked his lips, trying to appear as offensively predatory as possible.

Two... this hadn't happened before. The danger to Craven himself was probably greater this way -- and yet -- his plan, ultimately should still work just as well with two. Hmm... maybe nine or ten would allow some to slip through the cracks... but he should be able to handle this. For lurid effect, he tugged upon his belt, as if to allow room for his raging manhood.

Redhead looped her arm through his.

"I hope you don't think I'm too forward; it's just that I like being very... forward. I'm the kind of girl who knows what she wants, and isn't afraid to take life by the balls." Literally, no doubt. Craven responded with a hearty gloat of boastful, arrogant laughter. He did deeply fear that someone would recognize him, and genuinely label him as the vile pig of a man he was pretending to be -- but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

But as he stood up to leave for an apparent one-night-stand, the Blonde made her move.

Semi-surreptitiously, she took the martini she'd been nursing, and splashed it thoroughly into his groin. He was drenched utterly below the belt.

"Ohhhhh.... I am just soooo clumsy tonight. So sorry, big man. I kinda get that way -- when I'm feeling lonely." Blonde in the black dress purred. "You've just got to let me make it up to you; Back at my place, you can get that all dried off."

"Well uh, I was kinda hopin' to..."

"Oh, I insist." Her eyes, deepest blue with almost... golden motes inside? That was unusual. But the gaze she turned upon him was hungry, sultry. It was a look that promised the fulfillment of all his most venal male desires.

"Well... I should do something about this..." Craven agreed, eyes darting to the suspicious 'accident', while trying not to notice Redhead's snarling outrage. Yes, it might be better to get the Blonde alone. Just her presence here -- and similarity to the sexual-mutation suspects -- and lack of similarity, suggested that the deadly dance he'd been playing was about to get more complicated. Perhaps alone, he could find out what, if anything had changed.

Unsure of what to say to the Redhead, Craven turned back to utter something offensively sexist, but in a huff, the impossibly perfect woman stormed off in a rage. Or was it rage? Was there a hint of... of... fear, in the way she excused herself and scampered off? That alone made him think. Did they... did these she-devils fight each other? He'd thought at first they were in some sort of cooperative sorority to satisfy whatever unwholesome desires led them to commit their heinous, sex-attacks. But the truth it seemed; was much more complicated.

Admittedly, plotting and scheming where far more challenging the way the blond smiled at him, and pressed her mouth-watering breasts against his arm.

A complex double-cross; he had to appear like a sleazebag trying to pick up women for one-night stands, not so he could succeed at it; but to attract the attention of those looking for such men. So that he might entrap them.

**********

"Underestimated." Came the voice that rasped through the wall of flame that surrounded. "My entire life. My work. My genius. The very EXISTENCE of my craft. Now you, you too -- Sarai'Erothkok, underestimated my resolllllllve...." The last word was a purr dipped in acid. Heather had no idea who the man was, or what he was talking about. It was... harder to remember... her pussy throbbed; a guy -- she'd just been with a guy -- yes... he had erupted inside of her many times, but that had only made her want more. Cheated... that more sperm hadn't gushed into her hungering womb. She grit her teeth... something was different... wrong. Yes, she wanted to fuck and be fucked with a mania that no sex therapist could hope to comprehend.

But something had changed...inside... outside? She could only roar with the furious ache to fucksuck every hard-cocked man she knew. Sperm.... Penetration. She felt her nails scratching through stone? -- cement? But the strangeness of this did not register -- not compared with the bottomless, pussy-drenching furor to devour the seed of Man between her thighs, to drink deep of male release beyond sanity, beyond death.

FUCK MEEEEEEE!!!" It was both curse, and Commandment. She arched her back, raised her hands to clutch unimaginable breasts for which only a basketball could hope to form a suitable bra. Were they bigger! Had to be! As her cunt throbbed luridly, she stood on all fours with a wailing grown of tormented craving, flapping her wings with excitement. What, wings? No... can't be. She was just so horny that she wasn't thinking straight. A dream. That was the only explanation. She must have fucked silly that Slurpee guy in the Ambulance, and had passed out, and this was some really detailed, very sexy dream. Yup. And there was a man, that voice she'd heard -- could she get him past this wall of flames to ravage her soft, young womb like she deserved?

"But through it all, I... Erebus Cain have perseverrrrrrrrrred...." He trilled in dark promise. But the wall of flames! Strange that it didn't seem to burn her -- She couldn't... quite... make him out... make out... make out with him! His cock! "I know what you were thinking, demoness...." He continued. "A good plan -- simply multiply my libido by a factor of tennnnnnn.... Surely, I would no longer have the concentration needed to work the intricacies of my magic!"

Ten? That sounded promising to someone that craved a man's thrusts as she did.

"But again, you did not take into account how much my determination has ... hardened." He teased, as the flames lowered, allowing her a glimpse. She wished the man would stop raving and just unleash himself into her willing womb! Didn't he know that She wanted it even more than he did? She licked her lips with a tongue that had somehow become forked without her knowing it, as she waited to see his --

Back?

He was a wiry man, almost gaunt. Eerie scar patterns and painted runes could be seen tracing the quivering lines of his eager muscles and nude skin. But she could not see his face -- or more to the point -- his cock.

But there was more in the darkened room besides just him. Shadowy, yet pale shapes slinked at the edge of illumination cast by the ring of fire -- which she knew instinctively she could not cross. Others... female shapes. Pale and soft, womanly.

"Yes demoness, you thought I would be bested by your trickery, to spend the rest of my days ejaculating endlessly 'til men in white cart me off to an asylum of madness." He lowered his head, shoulders heavy. "But you did not take into account that with enough male vigor to impregnate a convent, you have ALSO made me the first man in two-thousand years to fulfill the Lineage Prophecy of The-Serpent-Below!" His voice deepened, and his female captive could sense that he was... quoting. "And when the beast that thrashes in his smallclothes grows so mighty that no earthly womb dare sate his unnatural hungers, then shall even the Daughters of Lilim be drawn to the Master of The-Serpent-Below, and yea -- my works shall be made manifest in him; even the direst mysteries of Shub-Niggurath the ever-fertile shalt the Master be able to invoke." One of the feminine figures slinked closer, closer to the madman.

She was a pale creature, the form of a woman -- yet without the flesh. She was like a pornographic milk sculpture of outrageous over-female curves, and bosomy swells. Upon the forehead of the ravishing she-creature was a pink-glowing, eldritch rune of potent, mystical powers. Erebus Cain continued his dire recitation.

"Yea, for the deepest lore needing one-hundred moons for completion, shalt he fulfill in but a fortnight. And lo, the Daughters of the Lilim shalt fear him; for when The-Serpent-Below throbs in the hands of the Master, The touch of it shalt overcome even the womb of Lilith herself -- How then shalt her Daughters endure the pleasure, without the giving of their own essence that the Master's thrusts continue?" His last line rose in cadence. "The answer is..." Cain was no longer quoting. "They shall not." He hunched over in mocking, megalomaniacal laughter. His female captive rubbed her pussy; the strange passage exciting, tempting her beyond endurance. Something told her that it wasn't from the Bible. Of course, the creature that had once been Heather Cox had not the slightest idea what he was talking about. It sounded like he was boasting about his 'package'. Well, Heather would be the judge of that!

"You see, my pet -- when you enhanced my penis as you did," for some reason, Heather's tail swayed with renewed excitement, the scorpion stinger dribbling with venom. Odd -- had she always had a tail? It felt natural. "...That made it far too easy -- almost effortless to begin the creation of Pleasure golems." He reached a ring-bedecked hand. "A creation spell that should have taken nearly three years I was able to accomplish in just dayyyyyyyys!" Cain cackled. Two more of the milky woman-things sashayed up to him, making cooing sounds as they caressed his thighs and ass.