The Blechhh Witch Project
23:53 Nov 23 2009
Times Read: 1,091
Part One
Much of the filming had been shot in and around the fields surrounding a girl guides HQ quite probably built in the twenties, or thirties, such was it’s size and style.
For a production as small as this, location was a vast part of the budget.
This was low, to no-budget filming; and other than catering for the cast and crew, the rent for the building occupied the lion’s share of the budget.
That said, Ffinola and her partner could take a small loss, after all they only needed to make a profit with one of these productions and, they’d recoup all their losses.
But this day they were shooting away at a big house, set midst a golf course opposite a cemetery. It had been a semi-residential home ‘for the disabled’, run by Social Services, being given to the council years earlier, by it’s owner a businessman and land-owner, with some arcane interests.
The tall gaunt fellow wearing gold-rimmed ‘John Lennon’ glasses, stood behind Zombie Number One, as he played his hand for a third time.
The three zombies, playing cards beneath a small square awning throughout the filming of the film within a film was a running gag that Ffinola would return to between scenes, depending on the availability of her actors.
The fellow was wearing a blue shirt, sorely ripped and shredded, over an olive green tee-shirt that his gut filled well. He was a radio D.J., in his daytime job and obtained the role through an interview with the films writer and producer, Ffinola Williams.
The second zombie followed with his hand, then he gave his line, “...and, what you’re saying is the nature of human existence is pain?”
John, third zombie placed down his card; and as he opened his mouth to speak, already gesticulating, Vivienne stood up, furled script in hand.
“It’s Zombie No.1 who speaks now,” she told the assembled crew.
The gaunt fellow adjusted the homburg he wore, to shield his eyes from the sun and sighed, knowing full well, yet another take would have to be shot.
And, the sun was coming out: three day’s of filming beneath a grey cloudy sky; and now the sun was coming out.
‘That’ll really help with continuity,’ he mused.
“Continuity?” He snorted disdainfully; the film was already on its third person in charge of continuity, and there was no way in his opinion that the diminutive Vivienne was going to fill that role, and that of runner.
The film had too much going against it: and, in the main that was down to the films selling point, that each actor bar two or three, purchased their roles on E-Bay; and each was filmed around their availability.
‘Film-making in reverse,’ he thought scornfully: ‘that did not help continuity, at all.’
He walked away from the set, as the crew set up for an alternative shot, due to the pleasant weather.
“Grant you,” he said to himself, rooting his jacket pockets, “she’ll do her best.”
Vivienne was four eleven, with blonde-hair, blue eyes and because of her size, had no problems whatsoever fitting into kids clothes: she was also a veritable dynamo.
And as Kevin found his cigarettes, he looked over to where they were setting up, not at all surprised to see her walking away, with tears in her eyes.
It’d become an in-joke at first, calling the film ‘The Blechhh Witch Project.’ And in part, Ffinola intended it as having a pop at ‘The Blair Witch Project’; but very quickly the fellows involved developed their own take on it; and more than once, a zombie had been seen two fingers down their throat, making a retching sound, after she had passed by.
And, she had shown no sign of noticing Vivienne showing increasing signs of frustration, as she walked from one minor catastrophe to another, wincing yet again as Ffinola would say, “It’ll come out all right in the edit.”
Furthermore, the real joke of it was that was that had been made a play of in the script that she had written and, due to the availability of some of the actors, re-written again and again.
“Blechhh..” Kevin muttered, turned and walked after Vivienne, his socks turning wet due to the heavy dew still clinging to the long grass he walked through.
And, with long strides he caught up with the blonde easily, calling her name so as not to surprise her.
She turned to face him on hearing her name, rubbing at her red eyes as she showed a wan smile, “You got a light?”
He smiled and answered, “Yes of course.”
There were more smokers involved in the film than none-smokers, hence the fact that the few ashtray’s dotted here and there were constantly full.
He brought out his lighter, lit his rollie and then passed the lighter to her.
And, he watched as she cupped her hands around the cigarette in her mouth, noticing that she was shaking.
“Are you alright?” He asked as she inhaled on the smoke and handed him his lighter back.
“Yeah, I guess..” Vivienne muttered, looking down to her shoes.
“You guess? Don’t you know?” Kevin asked, trying to elicit an answer from her.
“I know I don’t know where to find a bucket of blood,” she told him in answer.
“Huh? A bucket of ..?” There had been no such thing in the script he’d read.
‘Was this another of her adjustments to the script?” He wondered.
“Yes, someone suggested it might be good in the scene in the woods over there,” she indicated, pointing to some scrubland five hundred yards to the right of where they stood.
“Someone?” He knew the answer to that one. The ‘someone’ was the friend of the young Liverpool comedian, brought in to fill in the role that had been vacated by Sophie, a housewife who could only fit in two days before going on holiday: that of the shoots photographer.
“And it’s your job to find the blood?” Kevin asked, as she stopped walking a moment, to take her breath, before drawing hard on her smoke.
“Yes,” she nodded sadly.
Much had been asked of Vivienne since the shoot had begun, and now the strain was beginning to tell: that much Kevin could easily see.
He wanted to tell her that it would be all right; he wanted to give her a hug; instead of doing either, he took her gently by the left elbow and guided her toward the big house.
“I’ve got a couple of illegals in the tin,” he told her, “let them do as they’re doing, we’ll go take a few minutes out, eh?”
“I can’t!” She told him, her voice rising in pitch, “They’re depending on me.”
But she didn’t resist his encouragement, as he carried on walking toward the building, a gentle smile on his face as he stared at her face in profile.
“And right now you’re taking time-out with me, okay?” He said to Vivienne.
Behind them they heard the word “Action” shouted out: and, they both looked at one another, then grinned.
“An who’s taking charge of continuity?” Kevin asked, as they came to the gravel path that surrounded the large house, built many centuries earlier.
“Ffinola and Jake,” she answered: and their grins widened.
Jake was the fellow brought in to replace Sophie, and was everywhere; doing as much as possible to ingratiate himself with the big woman, who’d had issues of her own, many years previously.
They both ruminated for a second on the idea of those two working together and their grins widened.
“Lucky crew,” Kevin muttered.
“Lucky us,” Vivienne added, her left hand finding his right, as they approached the ivy covered brickwork.
“True,” he muttered, grinding his rollie beneath his shoe.
And they continued to walk round the outside of the building, hand in hand, as day passed by and clouds moved overhead once again.
“Looks like it’s gonnn to rain again?” Kevin said to his companion glancing upward.
“Yes I think you’re right,” Vivienne agreed looking upward.
Above, the sky was blackening, as dark clouds moved overhead, in waves.
“Almost looks unreal,” he muttered, standing and slowly turning round, as he tilted his head to look up himself.
Then the rain began to fall, in droplets at first, then heavily.
“Fucks sake,” this is ridiculous Kevin exclaimed, watching as day turned to night, while rainfall rapidly soaked him to the skin.
Beside him Vivienne shivered.
“Let’s get undercover, please?” she asked, walking on and, unbeknown to her, approaching the rear entrance of the old building.
“We could go back to the others,” he said over the sound of a crack of lightning, striking nearby as thunder rolled overhead.
“Yes, we could,” she told him in answer, as she wiped rainwater away from her face, “but me? I’d rather get dry, if I can.”
The idea sounded good to him, so Kevin just nodded his agreement, as he followed the blonde, as she carried on a few feet and more by luck, than good judgement, she found the rear back door, with an enquiring hand.
“Now if only I had a key..” she muttered aloud, her fingers finding the keyhole, beneath the round bakelite doorknob, which she turned, half expecting it not to open, but it did.
And, as he followed Vivienne inside, into the gloom of an empty kitchen, unused for many years, Kevin said slowly, “Didn’t tell you I used to work here, did I?”
She walked into a large heavy table banging her left hip; and turning her head toward him said, “No, you didn’t.”
“Yeah,” he responded, “seems a thousand years ago now. But yeah, I did. The place was a care home then, semi-residential care. And, I was a care assistant.”
“Really?” She asked, before moving on again, arms outstretched before her.
“Yeah,” he answered dully, listening to the wind outside, the rain upon the panes of glass in the kitchen window: and finally, the thunder and lightning, as the storm seemed to increase in its severity.
He knew the Hall and, knew a little of it’s history: and, being inside it, as a storm raged and he followed Vivienne into the darkness, gave him the heebie-jeebies.
And then, he heard a thud, as his companion found the door to the hallway, of which many of the ground-floor rooms branched off.
“Are you alright?” He asked.
“Yes, but I’ll have a beauty of a bruise there tomorrow,” she answered tartly.
“Where?” he enquired, his own arms outstretched.
“Never you mind..” Vivienne told him, as she opened the door. And, as it creaked open, lightning flashed again, illuminating where they stood: and, a shadow just ahead seemed to move, in the moment of light.
“We’re out of the rain, why move on?” he asked, recalling the room upstairs, leading off from a bedroom, that got smaller and smaller as it stretched on, toward a door just big enough to ease into by stooping down.
‘Like something from Alice in Wonderland,’ he’d thought then. Now, he recalled that door and the room beyond it, hexagonal in shape, part of a turret, attached to the main structure of the house.
Back then he’d have hated to sleep in that bedroom, the one with the corridor leading to that door. Now, he just hated the very idea of that room being above him: that, and the other stuff he knew of.
“Vivienne! Vivienne!” He called out, suddenly very aware that he was alone, in the doorway, his hands reaching out toward where she had stood: ‘Where was she?’
The Blechhh Witch Project
Part Two
With each hand reaching out in a wide arc, Kevin called out, “Vivienne! Vivienne!”
His pulse was racing, and with his heartbeat loud in his own ears, Kevin found the hardwood panelling to his left; and with slow timorous steps, he stepped forward.
Even after twenty-odd years, he had a good idea of the layout of the Old Hall and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to get his bearings somewhat.
He had been a naïve youth of seventeen when he had worked in this building, with the job being one of his first.
Working both early and late shifts, it’d been the atmosphere in the dark foreboding house that had got to him on almost every late shift that he had worked.
On that very first day, one of the girls working the eight to two with him had told him of the eccentric who had owned the house, which he’d left to the council in his will, on the proviso that it’s fixtures and fittings remained as they were.
That had included the pentagram beneath the carpet in the larger of the two rooms downstairs, opposite the stairway leading upstairs.
Maid to please
15:48 Nov 19 2009
Times Read: 1,111
*A short story, for Adults.
You enter the warmth of the lounge, having dressed for me as a French maid and stand before me hands clasped together against the white apron tied round your slim waist, your eyes looking at the tips of your black high heels, as I appraise your dress and deportment.
And, I rise from my armchair slowly, appreciating that you’ve chosen to satisfy our fantasy in this manner; then binding your ankles and wrists together, I tease your body awhile; before I kiss your neck, prior to parting your buttocks, to see you, then use you, for my satisfaction.
With a smile, I slide my hands beneath your armpits and under your knees, to lift you and take you through to my bedroom, laying you face down on my bed.
I kneel down on the bed between your delightful globes of flesh, leaning into you, tonguing your asshole, lubing you with my saliva, as you groan into the pillow and I unzip myself, ready to enter you.
"Just relax," I'd assure you, "I'll go slow."
Widening you, I tease you open, with a finger from either hand, stretching you, to ease my entry, my erection throbbing with arousal.
You want to be used: and I want to use, I think; as I kneel behind you, ready.
So my left hand, on the back of your neck, to hold you in place, I guide my length toward to your puckered entrance, just waiting for me.
And although you're initially tight against my inward thrust, I persist, taking your groans as acknowledge of your enjoyment, through subjugation.
You hands between us, I press down, thrusting into you as your sphincter muscles accommodate my use of your asshole, for my use, as I choose, much as I might have chosen your mouth, or elsewhere.
Back and forth I pump, my flesh easing in and out of your warm sheath, designed it seems at that moment, solely for my pleasure.
And I paw at your bound body; as I fuck you, slowly at first. Then, as the urgency of impending climax sweeps through me, my strokes increase in speed.
Until, holding you down, by your shoulders, I feel the tremble begin in my groin, announcing the onset of climax. And I lean forward, my teeth to your neck; and as my semen shoots into your rectum I bite, hard.
As I continue to thrust in and out of you, mauling your breast flesh, tweaking at your nipples, I continue the bite, as I slowly begin to wilt, inside you, taking real delight, in your moans of pain and pleasure.
It is later, much later, as my breathing regains normalcy, I turn to you, as you lie in my arms, still bound: “Are you pleased you were made to please me?” I ask.
And, as I run my right hand of the uniform you still wear, you nod quietly.
Mister Jones Exotic Massage
16:35 Nov 13 2009
Times Read: 1,130
*For Adults Only.
Candles lighted the second floor room; that covered almost every flat surface of the small room, a room that was dominated by a double bed, a wardrobe and, a chest of drawers. The dark red curtains were closed to the night traffic below and the smell of sandalwood filled the air.
It was warm outside and getting warmer inside.
He lay on his back, head on the billows; short brown hair, brown eyes and a little too much weight round his middle.
Lying on her right side, her left crooked leg draped over his left, as she reached for his hardening shaft.
The right elbow on the bed and her right hand supporting her head as she watched his face, Poona gripped his flesh in her left hand and, milked him briskly a moment.
He body of a dark cinnamon colour contrasted with his pale Caucasian skin, making it seem even more pallid: and against her dark skin, even the whites of her wide doe-eyes stood out.
And, the small room was littered with the prelude to their love-making, since the transaction he’d made with her ‘Uncle’ earlier.
She wore but a large silk multi-coloured silk scarf that covered belly, sex and part of her thigh’s; and on her wrists Poona was several many layered bands and, several heavy metal bangles, that seemed cumbersome, compared to the light earrings and two rings she wore.
And, her hand worked up and down for a moment or two, as she watched for his reaction with a rapacious gaze; as he revelled in her touch. Suddenly she stopped.
Then with an almost feline agility she turned, till she was sitting between his knees, her slim shapely legs draped over his thighs.
And with her eyes sparkling with mischievous delight, she lay forward her head bobbing up and down, as she kissed his chest, her hands fisted round his tumescent member.
His eyes had clouded over, and his half-lidded eyes fluttered, with the young Indians dextrous ministrations.
And beneath her legs, Poona could feel the white-mans thigh’s tremble, as he approached orgasm.
‘He’d come for a special massage,’ Poona thought with a smile; ‘a special massage, with a young Indian, who he’d been assured, was “just a little too young”. And, he’d liked that. He’d liked that a lot, quickly agreeing to the extra her “Uncle” had charged him.’ And momentarily, her smile widened.
‘There was no doubt about it,’ Poona thought, ‘this Westerner is not a good man.’
And, her metal bracelets jangled, as her small hands pumped up and down: and Poona was shocked, to find that herself getting aroused, at the prospect of what was to come.
And, the kisses continued, soft and eager, hard and pressing: while the man known as Paul Jones moaned with pleasure.
He had never met a girl like Poona before: and, never would again.
Then he groaned, as his balls seemed to contract and his creamy seed smeared both their bodies. And, that was the moment Poona chose to turn her kisses to the bite that would end the man’s life.
Releasing his still spurting shaft, she formed her talon-like nails into claws, leaping up a few feet, to sink her teeth into his neck, shredding his flesh, causing blood to shower out from the wound.
And Paul Jones eyes closed as he sighed his dying breath; and Poona sat back onto her haunches and wiped her bloody lips with the back of her right hand, smearing a scarlet trail across her right cheek.
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