"No Mercy"

WARNING: This story is intended for adult audiences only! It contains graphic depictions of sex, adult language, psychological profiling, light mutilation, BLOOD, "Satanic" themes, and Gothic music. If such subjects are offensive to your sensibilities, do not read further.

NO MERCY

Part the First:

In which an Old Goth lays bare his psychoses.

Ronan Wilde walked the merch area at Goth-Con, searching for the odd and unusual. He had been asked to attend by a business associate, to promote the associate's large commercial haunted attraction, and to seek out and purchase any items meeting the dual criteria. Although it had been years since Ronan last attended any sort of convention (mostly in the horror and steampunk genres), circumstances in his life had recently changed, freeing him up to attend the long weekend event, and he jumped at the chance.

This was the first big assembly of goths since the coronavirus restrictions ended, and the event was jam-packed with people "dressed to kill", hungry for social interaction as a cure for the recently-ended social distancing restrictions. Ronan himself was even dressed for the occasion -- high Demonia boots with numerous buckles, black leather pants that fit like a second skin, white ruffle-fronted shirt, and long formal tailcoat. Although his facial hair was beginning to be tinged with grey, and his long hair was beginning to thin, he felt quite comfortable being in "goth gear" once again -- he was, after all, an "elder goth" himself, one of those over thirty denizens in black who had followed the scene heavily since the early 1990's. Ronan was not even his real given name -- like so many other goths, he took a scene name, given to him during a past drunken evening when he accidentally slurred together the names of "Lenore" creator Roman Dirge and "Johnny the Homicidal Maniac" cartoonist Jhonen Vasquez in a discussion of gothy comics.

Being male, Ronan could not help but pay especial attention to the females in the large vendor room. They were, after all, dressed to impress, dying to be seen after long months of quarantine. Their ages ran from teenage "scene kids" with their visual kei pastel hair shades and lolita style dresses mixed in with the Emo girls in chunky boots and "My Chemical Romance" T-shirts, to the twenties crowd -- fishnet, tight latex, sumptuous velvets, plunging necklines with impressive cleavages -- a combination of sex and sophistication. Occasionally, Ronan would nod sympathetically to the occasional over thirty "elder goth" in the room, approving silently of their Siouxsie and the Banshees and Fields of the Nephilim t-shirts. He noticed ironically that most all of these "elder goths" were behind the vendor tables, selling this, that, and the other "dark essential".

Ronan's attention was arrested briefly by a young woman wearing nothing but a fishnet bodystocking and black stiletto heels. Her hair was bright, BRIGHT red and shoulder length, and she covered herself beneath the stocking only with a tiny black thong and crosses of gaffer's tape over the nipples of her fantastically large, surgically enhanced breasts. Ronan had always considered himself a "breast man". Instinctively, he felt the brief flush of lust unbridled wash over him, but quickly checked himself. His upbringing, as it was, made him "gentlemanly" to a fault around the opposite sex. To a fault -- but WHOSE? A sense of chivalry has often stood in the way of a good fuck throughout history.

He suddenly felt old, once again, worn and frayed, with his days of lusty passion behind him. At times like these he wore his exhaustion and disappointment like a wet blanket. It seemed his whole opportunity in life had passed him by, yet another "what might have been", if he were only "younger, better-looking, richer, more outgoing, less oblivious to the attentions of the opposite sex". "What the FUCK did I do with my life?" he whispered to himself, feeling depression grip his soul.

Distractions, then! If not the female form, then the offerings of the vendors. After all, that was one of the reasons he was even there in the first place. A vendor, "Turtle's Terrors", had a large selection of medical antiques and dark oddities for sale. Ronan loved the esoteric antique. Shrugging off the metaphoric wet blanket, he squeezed into a small alcove of the vendor's booth where a table offering vintage medical instruments stood. He discerningly examined a bone rongeur -- he KNEW this stuff, lived and breathed the odd and unusual, had devoted years of his life to study and research into the occult, the arcane, and the macabre.

A voice from behind, 'Do you know what you're looking at, love?"

"Yes -- bone rongeur...that's a 'councilman's saw'...curettes...urethral dilators...speculum...speculum...speculum...scarificator, and...ooh! A fleam! A bloodletting fleam! Mid-1800's!" He enthusiastically identified the items before him, then became aware of a pressure, something or someone squeezing past his backside, the distinct sound and feel of rubber on leather, passing behind. A hand, female, milky white and well-manicured with glossy black, sharply pointed nails, entered his field of vision and seized upon the fleam. He turned in the small space and found himself almost indecently pressed up against her....

"Not quite enough room in here for the four of us, eh, love? Fortunately, I DO love a tight fit!" She spoke with a British accent -- okay, three-quarters of the goth here spoke with a British accent, but hers? Hers sounded natural -- and sultry!

"Fo...four of us?" Ronan gasped, quickly trying to focus as he pushed his glasses back up on his nose.

"You, me, and these!"

Ronan's eyes came into focus, and he felt his heart drop straight to his groin. The woman standing before him was too stunning to be real! The first thing he noticed, couldn't help but notice, were her massive, round, obviously surgically enhanced to about a G-cup but nonetheless life-affirmingly gorgeous breasts! Never had he encountered such a magnificent pair outside of a porn video. And now, here they were, in the flesh, pressing hard, almost pneumatically, against his chest! There was quite simply nowhere else for them to go in that tiny alcove they shared. Ronan stiffened in shock and involuntarily felt a hot blush spread across his face.

Her makeup was immaculate, "goth as fuck", with smoky eyes emphasized with winged eyeliner, and high-gloss black lips hiding sharp canine fang caps behind a smirking, lascivious smile. Her black hair, full and wavy, hung long, to the small of her back, and was accentuated with an added white streak, much like Lily Munster. About her neck, she wore a wide Victorian lace choker accentuated with dangling pendants that appeared to be about ten small, dangling glass phials of blood.

The dress she wore, or almost wore, left little to the imagination. A copy of the dangerously-low necklined dress worn by iconic horror host Elvira -- but Elvira never dared one made of skin-tight black latex. It was SO tight that Ronan could clearly tell that both nipples of those sacred breasts were pierced! If the dress did not flare out over a perfect firm arse into a slit skirt, he might have been able to detect other more clandestine piercings, or clues as to her personal shaving routine. The dress barely contained her breasts, plunging to the waist as it did, and every breath taken threatened to burst them forth from concealment. She clearly knew this, for she deliberately thrust her chest forward to further tempt fate and pin Ronan in place. She tottered over Ronan's five-foot-nine-inches in her stiletto heel high boots that added six inches to her height, which had the added advantage of putting her breasts that much closer to his face -- purely intentional on her part. The ensemble was finished off by black fishnet stockings that climbed to her milk-white thighs. Ronan was speechless, hot, and red in the face. He died a little inside as he struggled to maintain his "socially expected" gentlemanly composure.

Lifting the fleam to her rising bosom and examining it closely, she stated, "You know quite a lot about this, love. I wonder if it's sharp?" She raised a well-arched eyebrow at Ronan as she quickly seized his left hand and placed it on her bosom. He was powerless to react. She opened one of the blades on the fleam and quickly nicked Ronan's index finger with the blade. He gasped as his blood sprung forth and dripped down her décolletage in a small stream. "Oops, my bad!" she purred teasingly before taking up Ronan's left hand and popping his bleeding index finger into her warm mouth, raking his finger past her fangs. Her green eyes locked onto Ronan's widening brown ones as her velvet tongue wrapped around his finger and began to slide up and down. Never once breaking eye contact, she held onto Ronan's hand and began sliding her lips quite deliberately up and down his bleeding finger in a salacious pantomime of fellatio. She began moaning softly and thrusting her groin forcefully against Ronan's own, forcing him to sit back on the edge of the vendor's table to maintain his balance. Her eyes rolled back into her head briefly in obvious pleasure as she tasted his blood. Ronan felt his cock suddenly slam hard against the leather of his pants, violently and instantly erect. All of his "gentlemanly" upbringing was fuck-all powerless to resist. His whole body went rigid as his pulse thundered in his ear.

She popped his finger out of her mouth, having staunched the bleeding, having left black sticky rings of lipstick encircling it. Raising her own finger to her lips, she wiped a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth and licked it off her fingertips. Then she suddenly placed her hand right on Ronan's throbbing bulge. "Mmm, nice!" she purred. "Ta, thanks then, love, I'll be seeing you again." And then suddenly she was gone.

Ronan sat on the table, rigid, in shock, unable to react to anything for several seconds. He was snapped back to reality by an angry vendor's shout of, "Oi, get off the table, you're sitting on a speculum!"

"What the fuck just happened?!" Ronan said to himself as he slowly recovered his faculties. Had it been a dream, a figment of his imagination? No, the bulge in his leather pants and the sly, smiling, approving nods of others on the convention floor who had witnessed the exchange attested to the reality of the encounter. Then there was Ronan's finger, an obvious nick in the skin, rings of black lipstick all along it. He attempted to reconcile in his mind what had actually happened. Was this amazing-looking woman who fairly exuded sex actually interested in him, or was it just a teasing lark for her? "FUCK!"

He needed nicotine, and quickly found the nearest exit. A small group was hanging out in the smoking area; more than once Ronan caught the unique aroma of a clove cigarette. He pulled out his lighter and lit up, and realised his hands were shaking as he did so. This made him angry with himself. Had this mystery woman shaken him up so that he could barely function? Once again, he mentally exclaimed, "FUCK!" The nicotine coursed through his veins, and he calmed a little. The familiar wet blanket descended once again, and he hunched his shoulders as if actually feeling its' weight. What was her game? Was it interest? Lust? Lust for him? Or was it just convention standard "fucking around"? On more than one occasion in the past, while attending a Rocky Horror night in costume, Ronan had had the female cast members playfully sit in his lap. He knew this wasn't to be taken seriously, it was "character acting", all "part of the show". So what was this then? Teasing him for her own amusement, most likely. Ronan's Gemini mind created a conundrum, a conundrum of hope and fear -- hope that he wouldn't see this mystery woman again so he could comfortably put the encounter out of his mind; hope that he would see her again, come across as calm and suave ("As if!" he thought.), and possibly seduce her. Fear that he wouldn't see her again and live in doubt once again of what might have happened, no matter how unrealistic his fantastic goals; fear that he would see her again, be unable to seduce her, and face the all-too-familiar humiliation of failure. There's a fine line between love and hate, but the opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. Ronan hated himself for being him, hated his life. Self-doubt lodged deep in his heart once again, his very soul ached.

It's not that Ronan was a virgin, wholly unversed and uneducated in the erotic art of sex. He'd had several lovers in spite of life circumstances that otherwise conspired against such possibility. Ronan had grown up sheltered in a very non sex-positive family, and it had made him majorly introverted. High school was a hell worse than death for him. He was an outcast, a nerd, deemed one "not worthy", so of course the very thought of even attempting to ask a girl out never dared cross his mind. Girls would often "tease the nerd" by cruelly playing with his affections, building a deep distrust of the female motives within him and making him shy and cynical, and wholly unable to detect real, genuine flirting.

College was a new chance to get away from the sex-negative home and out on his own, free to indulge his lustful appetite. He was already a fan of history, so a history degree was a natural fit. He managed to pull down Dean's List-worthy grades while being a regular fixture at parties, always looking for female companionship. But the "curse" would not die easy -- two years later, he was well on the way to destroying his liver with alcohol, but no closer to getting his dick wet. He withdrew from college in disgust at the end of his second year. Now nineteen, he drifted from one job to another, making ends meet, and getting him away from the anti-sex home environment and controlling mother. He hung out with a male friend with a history of numerous sexual conquests, hoping to serve as a "wing man", not too proud to try to pick up his friend's "leftovers". No luck, What made it especially frustrating was the friends of his who peppered their "boys' talk" with frequent queries of "You got laid yet?" Ronan, tainted by years of school humiliation, began to blame himself.

Nineteen years old, almost twenty, the streak was finally broken. Out at an all-ages show with his "player" friend Scott, he met goth-girl Ava. Two weeks after hanging out together at that show, Ava called Ronan and asked him out! If not for this, he probably would have never gotten up the nerve. The first date together, they began making out heavily. On the second date, while making out and heavy petting in the back of Ronan's SUV, Ava handed him a condom and said, "I want you in me!"

Thankfully, Ronan grew up along with the internet, and with it, access to increasing quality of free porn. No longer would he have to shoplift Playboys from the local store -- they were too tame for his tastes, anyhow; he preferred the raunchier of the "smut mags", like Club, with their large-breasted pornstars drenched in jizz. He became an inveterate mastrubator -- always in deep cover, and well-hidden, locked in his room in the early-morning hours in the sex-negative home. He began to associate sex as an undiscussable and private matter. But he spent those years as a virgin learning all he could about his body, his reactions, his stamina. He explored his tastes, becoming not only a "breast man", but a fan of the BDSM lifestyle, among various other fetishes. He know it in theory -- how to pleasure a woman, how to pleasure himself in so doing -- and now it was finally time to put it all into practise.

Amazingly, he manages to last about five minutes that first time. Thus began a year of sneaking around for stolen private moments with Ava to have as much sex as possible. He began to explore, developed his cunnilingus technique, tried any and all positions, kinks, and light BDSM. Eventually the strain of sex-negative parents on his end and the lure of bigger and better cocks on Ava's end brought an end to the relationship after only a year. But she had made him discover and embrace the goth lifestyle. And she had made him a man.

Years passed, and five more sexual encounters, ranging from "plainly vanilla" to a "one week" stand heavy on the BDSM sex. One of these girlfriends accompanied Ronan to a weekly BDSM nightclub event in Washington, DC as his "submissive" on several occasions. Other times he went alone, regularly, to seek to expand his sexual repertoire. He watched and assisted in several demonstrations of bondage and flogging, got his arse flogged each year on his birthday by the club's "house Dominatrix", but he never found the intense sexual relationship he desperately sought. None of these relationships survived more than a year -- the interference of a disapproving, controlling mother created an unbearable strain. He doubted his own worthiness to sate his sexual desires.

The last relationship, the seventh, and his "current", had begun intensely, fuelled by a fear of being alone and a need for contact, and had even led to an engagement. Sh was older than Ronan, and less prone to play "high-school games", more able to endure the interference of a disapproving mother. They moved in together -- but as their bodies aged the passion faded, the sex became vanilla, and then became so infrequent as to all but cease. They were taking a "break" in their relationship, opening it, to see if it could be salvaged. The convention was a much-needed break from this stress, the appearance of this stunning woman and her actions turned Ronan's entire world upside-down.

He pulled out his watch. SHITE! In one hour he was due to present in the conference room on behalf of his business associate's haunted attraction. Better go to his room and prepare for it. He flicked away the cigarette and walked back to his room at the convention's hotel, looking around the whole way, hoping to avoid any more chance encounters with the mystery woman. "Fuck it! Gotta focus on what I'm here to do!" He unlocked the door to his room, and sat on the bed. Most of his presentation materials were already taken to the conference room by the show-runners, but he needed his presentation DVD, and to rehearse the "script" of his presentation. He lit another cigarette and began to scan the text. His mind, however, refused to stay focused. He looked at this cut finger and realised it was still smeared with black, glossy lipstick. Fuck! He wiped it off angrily, crushed out his cigarette, and flopped back on the bed to run through his script mentally. The wet blanket hung oppressively on his shoulders. His eyes fluttered closed.

Breasts. Massive G's, milky-white and heaving. Glistening black lips fellating his finger. Sharp-nailed hands squeezing his erection through his leather pants. Thoughts of her refused to leave his mind at peace to focus on his work. No mercy! The thoughts became insistent, undeniable, unstoppable. His pulse pounded in his ears, his breathing quickened. Before he was aware that he had done so, he had his pants and underwear down, hand around his throbbing, pulsing erection! Pre-cum dripped down over his shaft -- in fact, had been dripping since the encounter at Turtle's Terrors vendor stall. It lubricated his fingers as he surrendered to the mental image of the woman and began pumping his cock in his grip. He felt possessed, he could not stop. Her image teased lewdly in his mind. It became urgent, insistent. His pace quickened, he began to gasp out loud. The pressure of her breasts against his chest, the pressure of her hand on his bulge - the pressure building in his balls, travelling up his shaft, pounding in his ears. His grip tightened and his speed increased to a frenzy, against all will to stop or slow as his hips began to thrust upward involuntarily. He stiffened, gasped. His prostate began throbbing, balls swelling and drawing up. His pre-cum-slick shaft stiffened more in his grasp. Instinctively, he began to fight his imminent release, holding back to delay as long as possible. His hand, however, gripped tighter and pumped more demandingly. The struggle began.