, , , , , , , ,

I’m freezing my fucking tits off, Rosalba cried, rubbing her bare shoulders erratically. How much longer is this queue? We’ve been waiting for hours.

It’s hardly been hours, Matt argued. Never mind, we’re almost in now.

They grew silent upon a third person’s abrupt squeak. The unnamed protagonist in question felt a sudden, probing warmth between her frozen legs, in the form of some unsolicited fingers sneaking up her sweltering dress.

She blushed profusely, holding back tears. This sort of scene wasn’t her. She never went out drinking, clubbing, or anything of the sort, and there was a good reason for that.

But being a fresh-faced student came with certain requirements, not including her excessive grade point average. If she wanted any friends, she would have to learn how to live dirty; feeling woozy from third-rate vodka, throwing up from her first, irreconcilable experience with pot, and, of course, the invasive sensation of manhood piercing her ripened flower bud. Even if it meant losing some degree of self-control.

After all, she was nineteen. It was about time she had some fun, her friends cooed, although her idea of fun was something remarkably more questionable and solitary than the average student.

The club’s music blared out as they waited in line for the remaining fifteen minutes. Upon entering the bustling orchestra of hormones and stimulants, Rosalba and Matt pushed through to the middle of the dancefloor, leaving our heroine instantly lost in the polychromatic ocean of intoxicated faces.

But not to fear, a quick grope of her right buttock soon sent her reeling forwards into a most alluring, handsome young man.

What gorgeous eyes… or rather, what lovely blurry orbs, she thought. She was discovering for the first time how very useless the lights were in squally clubs. It was indeed perfect for people to engage in casual copulation, as you could either be fucking Dorian Grey or simple, old Podrick from the Warlocks society down the road.

He opened his mouth. She couldn’t hear anything over the blurring bass.

I see why Rosalba loves the men here so much, our heroine noted.

He took her by the waist, drawing her towards him. She felt herself humming with joy and unexpected pleasure, in places which formerly received little to no attention.

Our pure little maiden was coerced to the bar, where she was sat down most unexpectedly in his lap. Her stomach twisted and turned at the growing bulge pushing out underneath her plump bottom.

Young women in such situations, experiencing lust for the first time, we must remember, often feel a mix of both euphoria and utmost disgust.

This particular young lass had read many a tale of men who were so gentle and kind, until they hypnotised the fair virgin to the nearby, dingy toilet, before growing savage and frenzied; crushing the fairer sex into committing to whatever sinful act they placed upon them.

And so our sweet heroine did not know what to do. She was in a rather hard conundrum.

Her friends had vanished. If their stories were anything to go by, then they had already left with an anonymous figure, fleeing to a nearby hotel or bench, to express their negligible level of devotion.

But this strange man placed a drink on front of her, and well, it was simply rude to refuse.


The gutter reeked of excrement, but her head was still pressed right against it regardless.

Where was she? How did she get there? She had very little idea, fair reader. These beasts can sniff out an inexperienced virgin miles away, and it only turns them on more. The fear in their eyes as they commit heinous acts only increases the pleasure, the excitement.

Looking up granted her just a blurry, submarine image of a naked figure towering over her. She felt a throbbing pain between her legs, a wetness trailing down her legs.

It was too late.

Her scraped feet, blended with gravel and dirt, tenderly brought her to a standing position, as she faced the grinning man.

He laughed. You enjoyed that didn’t you? You dirty little whore. I’d like to see you to explain that to your precious rich-girl daddy! And the laughter continued.

Then she felt it, the dirty hunger in her throat. It was knawing at her, robbing her of the little reason she had left. And she was always so careful…


The fingers dropped to the floor one at a time, drained and succulent.

He had brought her to a pleasantly secluded spot, at least, she mused, eroding away on the last remaining thigh.

And then she was finished. Picking up the tattered rags of clothing, she covered her immodesty, and started on the long walk home.

Yes, there was a good reason why she never went out to social gatherings like this, she thought.


Is this not what happens in clubs? No? Ok.

Click here to read the rest of the stories in my Gothic series For I Am No Lover of Lilies! Or alternatively, my Gothic tag is full of mermaids, vampires and pretty much any unpleasant phenomenon you can ever think of.

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt