Most Horrible Perverse Story Ever

Story subject - Adult trick or treaters are held prisoner in a locked building

All characters described in sexual situations are over the age of 18.

NON CONSENT/RELUCTANCE CATEGORY

TITLE--THE MOST HORRIBLE PERVERSE HALLOWEEN STORY EVER

A FEW INTRODUCTORY DETAILS

"The word gargoyle comes from the French word gargouille which means "gullet."

Gargoyles first appeared as ornaments on medieval churches and cathedrals. They are usually dog or monkey faced statues with strangely shaped genitals, sharp teeth, and very long pointed tongues. Although their original purpose was to protect against harmful spirits they give the appearance of being harmful spirits themselves.

............................

My name is Norman Pantiquist, I am 38 years old, and slender. I like a close shave and have a well cured narrow mustache. People say I remind them of Dick Powell from the "Thin Man" films. I'm a moderately successful writer, freelancing for several of the give away newspapers you see in street boxes on corners in New York City and passed out in the busy subway stations and supermarkets. I'd like to be a novelist but my few published books have never broken through enough to make me secure financially.

My wife and I rent a small condo in New York, in a new building just outside of old Chinatown. The area was once considered sketchy but gentrification has made it quite peaceful.

My wife Michelle is 32 years old, a bit more full figured now then when we met in college. I had seen her around campus but never spoken to her. I recall how she came into the library where I was studying and although there were many empty seats, she came over to my table, said,

"May I?" Of course I said, "Yes."

We made small talk. An hour later she followed me into the stacks and next thing I knew she'd unzipped my pants and was giving me my first blow job. We have been together ever since. She always says she first fell in love with my cock, then me. I think that's her way of teasing me and telling me that she finds me sexually attractive. After that incident, I knew I'd be with her for life. I guess I find a sexually aggressive woman very exciting.

Michelle works as a buyer for Macy's Department Stores. She specializes in the purchase of home accessories such as sheets, linens, towels, soap dishes, shower curtains and assorted novelty items. She has a slight bump on her nose that gives away her Italian background, large dark eyes, full lips and long dark hair. I find her Rubenesque figure very attractive.

Michelle is a great conversationalist and we have a full and happy marriage. She has always shared her stories of promiscuity. When I think of all the men and woman she has had sex with, including threesomes, it makes me smile, it even gives me an erection.

Occasionally Michelle spends a working weekend out of town on buying trips. If this gives her time for sexual adventures, then good for her. I don't ask questions. I know when she is ready, she will tell me all about it. I love to hear her stories. I have always considered myself straight, with the exception of some gay sexual experimentation in college. Although I enjoy Michelle's stories, I am not a big talker. I've never mentioned the brief affair I had with Tom, my freshman roommate. Michelle has a younger sister. When Clarissa comes to town, she crashes in our living room on the foldout couch.

Clarissa is a very successful photo model. She is a knockout. If you have looked in Vogue Magazine you probably would recognize her. Her professional name is Clarissa Fontaine. Her real last name is a difficult a to pronounce Neapolitan dialect. She was celebrating her 22nd birthday that fateful Halloween night. Unlike my wife, there isn't any hump on Clarissa's nose. It was nicely shaved off by a plastic surgeon when she was 15 years old. She watches her weight, when we go out to dinner she hardly eats anything. She has big eyes, perfect eyebrows, high cheekbones and full sensual lips. When she smiles you can sees the glimmer of her perfect teeth. She has beautiful breasts, surgically enhanced and a figure that demonstrates many hours of dedicated gym time. Her ass is a perfect miracle. Of course her hair is long , silky and blond.

Wherever we go out together, the men and women stare at Clarissa with envy. She has done a lot of TV commercials. You have probably seen the one where she is holding a Boston Terrier puppy and walks through a rustic New England outdoor marketplace. Then the announcer explains she is a patient taking some wonder drug whose name rhymes with Daisy or Crazy. He drones on that this wonder drug has the side effects of diarrhea, intestinal bleeding and a slow painful death. Of course this is the sale's pitch. She doesn't have any disease. She's just an actress shilling for a pharmaceutical company and very well paid to do so.

I know Clarissa's secret. Michelle confided in me, probably so I wouldn't think her sister was as perfect as she looks. She was abused by a college professor. The affair lasted months and she offered no resistance to his advances. He was a sadist. To please him, Clarissa agreed to a threesome with his younger brother. The affair ended when the wife came home unexpectedly and discovered her husband locked to Clarissa's hips, while she was on all fours with his brother's cock in her mouth. I find the story a bit humorous and quite endearing.

Now on with the most horrible perverse Halloween story ever.

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The Lower East Side of New York City is a fascinating area. At its furthest point east, there is a large suspension bridge, know today as "The Brooklyn Bridge." That wasn't its original name. It was originally called "The East River Bridge" because it united the two boroughs with the first steel suspension bridge passing over the East River. The Brooklyn Bridge was financed by the corrupt Tweed ring (1860-1870) that controlled New York politics at that time. Being a suspension bridge, work was started on both sides of the river. The New York firmament was constructed on a base of supportive stone with a honeycomb of caves at the river's edge. These caves were a Native American burial ground. He who disturbs the Native American dead are subject to the wrath of malevolent spirits who share their grievances with other ghosts.

If you ever take a walking tour of lower New York City, I'd suggest you visit the 9/11 Memorial Monument. Afterwards, take a little side walk down Catherine St. towards the East River. Just before you arrive at the FDR Drive there is a small street, Catherine Slip, hidden behind the massive concrete balastra that is part of the East Side Highway's foundation. In colonial times the buildings that fronted on the water had secrete entrances that served as smuggler's points of entry.

After the Civil War concluded, a wealthy politician, Antonio Benedetto, later convoluted in the Tweed Scandal (1860-70), commissioned an architect named Gaston Bolognesi to build a three story mansion in a unique medieval French style. Each exterior level was fitted with carved statues of gargoyles imported from France. These statues were an integral part of the structure positioned to conduct rain water off of the building. When it rains, as it so often does in Manhattan, these conduits dump rain on unsuspecting victims who pass below.

This area has always had a troubled past. John Augustus Roebling, the engineer who designed the bridge was cursed. It was Roebling who directed that any skeletons or material found in the caves be destroyed when the massive cement suspension moorings were built above and around the caves. Within a few months, Roebling's foot was crushed in a construction accident and he died precipitously of a tetanus infection. His wife, consulting his plans, directed the completion of the bridge. Afterwards the remaining caves were converted into a vast warehouse. Depriving the dead spirits of their resting place doomed them to walk the earth for eternity.

During prohibition, bootleggers took control of the warehouse and used it to store alcoholic beverages smuggled in from Canada. This infuriated the spirits. Soon afterwards, a shootout occurred in the warehouse. Many were killed. Pieces of their bodies, chewed upon, were found washed up on shore. The bite marks examined by forensic experts matched no animal known to exist in North America.

The control of the storage rooms passed to the Italian Mafia who used them to store massive imports of Italian wine that were distributed to restaurants all over the 5 boroughs. It was also use as a staging area for New York crime. One gristly victim of the Mafia murders was Claudia Vespucci, a mob boss' mistress discovered in flagrante delicto. She was gang raped. Her broken body was cut into enough small pieces to feed all the fish in the East River. If you visit the foundation blocks of the bridge where the warehouse once exited, the erie noises you hear are not the crying sounds of the wind but are the screams of Claudia's ghost.

My Uncle Frank, was always involved in nefarious mob business. Still, he always found time at Halloween to load a bunch of us kids into his large black Packard and take us all to Coney Island. On the way back we'd pass over the Brooklyn Bridge and from that vantage point we could see the Benedetto Mansion with its scary animal shaped Gargoyles who seemed to snarl through the cloud cover as we passed by. Uncle Frank, always laughing, suddenly got serious. He must have know something because, he remarked,

"Stay away from that place, it's cursed."

Years later, in the University, I wrote a paper on Medieval French Architecture and its expression in New York City. I discussed The Benedetto Mansion, the Chrysler Building, The Wilshire Plaza, and The Cathedral of St. John the Divine. I guess it was the gargoyles on all of those building that peaked my interest. These realistic stone sculptures, often of snarling dogs or rabid monkeys were thought to keep other demons at bay. Years later when my wife and I passed the Benedetto Mansion early on Halloween night, I said to my wife,

"Michelle I remember this building from my childhood, but for some reason I never notice it except at Halloween."

On that night I paid attention to it not only because it was covered with a plethora of quaint gargoyles and also because there was a sign on the front gate that read,

"ADULT HALLOWEEN TRICK OR TREATERS ADMITTED-- NO CHILDREN PERMITTED."

That sign seemed strange. My wife agreed, but was curious,

"Next year we will have to give it a try, that is if we are still adults."

I laughed, what a silly thing to say, of course we would still be adults.

-----------------------------------one year later------------------------------------------

How fast does a year pass? Before we knew it, Halloween had come again. Like three idiots, Michelle, her sister Clarissa and I donned our costumes that we keep in a plastic box in the hall closet and went uptown to see the Gay Halloween Parade. If you ever saw a Gay Pride Parade, this is a lot more fun. All different types of LGBTQ are there, scantily dressed or with clever political costumes. Drinks and drugs are everywhere. It is very festive. The event starts in midtown and ends up downtown. I was dressed as Donald Duck and Michelle was Daisy Duck. Clarissa was dressed as Tinkerbell, her outfit was very cute but quite brief, transparent and she wore a sequined eye mask.

The night was cool. I'd wished I'd worn a warm sweater underneath. Afterwards we headed over to Kelly's Bar on Bleecker Street. I had an Irish Whiskey to warm me up and the ladies had mandarin vodka with seltzer. All night guys were sending over free drinks with little notes. We quaffed the drinks but Clarissa wasn't in the mood to try out new guys. She was recently engaged to a upcoming young politician who was a New York City Councilman and they planned to be married in December at the Central Park Tavern.

On the way out of Kelly's Bar, all of us a bit drunk, our judgement probably clouded, Michelle remembered the "adult trick or treat sign" and suggested we check it out as we passed near the place on our way home.

"Maybe they are having some crazy fun party," she guessed

"You mean we have to pay admission?

"I'm sure they will take a credit card," said Clarissa.

When you are a bit drunk you do stupid things. This was one stupid thing I will regret for the rest of my life.

We arrived at the building and there it was, that same strange sign,

"ADULT HALLOWEEN TRICK OR TREATERS ADMITTED-- NO CHILDREN PERMITTED."

We approached the building's entrance where there was an arrow pointing towards a metal gate. On the gate was another sign,

"ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE."

"Isn't that a steal from Dante's inferno?" I said, knowing it was.

"What's Dante's Infernal," said Claris.

"The Inferno, Not Infernal."

"Sorry," said Clarissa, "I spent most of my school time in front of the camera lens so my English Lit education was not complete."

"It's not even English, it's Italian, but they have a lot of good English translations. It's a story from the 1300s about how Dante journeyed to hell. When he arrives at the Gate to Hell, he finds those same words written there."

"What the fuck is he doing in hell," said Clarissa.

"Well if you really want to know, he was infatuated with another man's wife, she died very young and he searches for her in Purgatory."

"What is Purge-atory?"

"Not Purge-atory, it's Purgatory. Catholics believe it is the place you go after you die and wait there before going to heaven or into the circles of hell.

"So did this guy get her out," said Clarissa.

"No they just spoke to each other."

"How romantic," said Michelle.

"Yuck," said Clarissa, "no fucking?"

My wife piped up, "It's not a porno story Clarissa."

"Well lots of men have sex with other people's wives."

"Be quiet both of you," I said, I'd spotted a circular plaque on the wall next to the gate with a knotted rope in the center, when I pulled on it a bell rang and the lock on the gate clicked open.

"Well, are we going in?" I asked.

"Sure, what the fuck? said Clarissa, "it can't be any worse then some of the swimsuit shoots I do where the photographer pinches my tits to make sure my nipples are hard."

"Come on," said Michelle, "we came this far, let's see what it's all about."

I pushed the iron gate forward, it was stiff and made a loud creaking noise. I didn't imagine a gate this hard to open was used very often.

"Let's go," said Claris who started to push with me and the with the two of us pushing the gate it swung open as if it had been freshly lubricated."

I looked at the large hinges and a sticky substance seemed to have dripped down from the low ceiling above. The slime had coated the hinge, but it had served to lubricate.

I pointed at it and Clarissa, always one to make vulgar jokes, smiled her haughty smile and said,

"Looks like some 'trick or treater' jerked off on it."

We all laughed, but I admit, it did look like that.

I thought this whole situation was odd, but I held the gate open and the two girls pushed on ahead of me down the dark corridor. I ran after them and just as I caught up we heard a loud clang as the gate swung shut behind us.

Michelle, concerned, ran back, then quickly returned to us,

"The gate is locked, how are we going to get out? she said.

"Oh there must be a release button somewhere, we'll figure it out or ask someone to help us when we leave."

"It won't be too soon for me," said Michelle who seemed to be shivering.

"Are you cold," I asked.

"No, I'm scared."

"Don't be, we are all together, it will be fine," I asured my wife, as if I really knew anything.

"I hope so," she said.

We walked down the long dark hallway. Weird noises were emanating from the walls.

"Probably some scary recording," I commented, "and very well done."

We could hear laughing and what sounded like the sound of a wolf baying at the moon and the anguished sound of some poor soul being tortured. There was also a dank humid odor that definitely was not pleasant.

Clarissa noticed this and said, "Jeze it stinks in here, did someone piss against the wall."

"Yeah, maybe, said Michelle, I've gotta go to the little girl's room myself. Is there a bathroom around here?"

"Oh sure, said Clarissa, "dream on. You can always squat."

"Don't be disgusting," said Michelle.

Finally we reached the end of the corridor where there was a thick dark rustic wooden door covered with short metal spikes.

"Should I knock on the door," I asked.

"Yes," said Clarissa, otherwise what did we come here for?"

I knocked on the wood, avoiding the spikes, but there was no answer.

"Knock harder." said Michelle, "it's cold out here."

I knocked again, so hard I was afraid I split my knuckle.

The door slowly creaked open. I looked down and saw a figure about five foot tall with broad shoulders dressed in a devil's suit. At first I marveled at the details of his costume, his hands and feet had gloves with claws, there was a movable tail that I didn't quite understand how they got it to move like a cat's tail. The "creature" mumbled something indiscernible as we walked in and extended his very cold hand as if in greeting.

Before I realized what was happening, another figure stepped out of the darkness, tall and powerful. He grabbed my other hand and spun me around pinning my hands behind my back and attaching some sort of manacle on my wrists. I tried to pull away but I could not use my arms and his grip was very powerful. The constraint turned out to be some sort of short chained medieval iron handcuffs.

As I was stood there in shock, I could hear screams and comotion. I realized the same fate was being experienced by my wife and her sister. It was obvious from their shouts and protests they were not pleased. I could hear my wife shouting,

"I have to go to the bathroom, I have to go now. What are you doing! Don't rip my clothes."

Then a loud slap, whimpering and then the clear sound of urine spattering on the floor from a standing woman.

I was quickly herded away into another room by two smaller devils. With my hands chained behind my back there was no way I could resist. My eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. I could see a few funerary candles lit in front of some sort of alter.

"What's going on here?" I shouted, "let me go."

The tall powerful figure who'd grabbed me approached quickly, he seemed to be in some sort of ape costume, he grabbed me roughly by my shoulder. His voice was deep and strange,

"If you say one more word I will cut out your tongue."

I knew this guy meant business. As upset and confused as I was, I was too frozen in fear to say another word.

The broad shouldered devil pulled my head down, his breath was sulfurous, I puzzled to hear him as he spoke with a hoarse but high pitched voice,

"Here we don't give treats, it is up to you to do the tricks. If we are amused you pass to the next level. If not, you go in the dungeon till next year's Halloween."

As he continued his mumbling in my ear, I was getting used to his voice and began to make sense of it, he continued,

"There are three levels here. You must pass through them all to reach the bridge of light and if you should arrive, from there you can leave. If you do not pass through, you are doomed to remain here and most likely you will perish and your body will be devoured".

I was stupefied. How could that be possible? Then I remembered stories of adults who disappeared on Halloween in recent years. Some reappeared with strange stories, their personalities and reality perceptions so altered that they had to be institutionalized. Some committed suicide and others, the missing, never surfaced again. In some cases body pieces were found washed up in the East River.