Kink: An Extreme Horror Story Read online

  Kink

  An Extreme Horror Story

  Crowley Barns

  The Barns Brothers

  Broken Barn Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 by Crowley Barns

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

  Cover art by Warren Barns

  Published by Broken Barn Publishing

  Created with Vellum

  For all the readers of depraved fiction everywhere…

  Contents

  1. Rich

  Earlier

  2. Rich

  3. Cassie

  4. Rich

  5. Cassie

  6. Rich

  7. Cassie

  8. Rich

  9. Cassie

  10. Rich

  11. Cassie

  12. Rich

  13. Cassie

  14. Rich

  15. Rich

  16. Cassie

  17. Rich

  18. Cassie

  19. Rich

  20. Cassie

  21. Rich

  22. Cassie

  23. Rich

  (Dead)endnotes and The Story of Ham

  Mailing List

  The Story of Ham

  About the Author

  Also by The Barns Brothers

  1 Rich

  I kneeled above the pale, naked girl lying atop her white satin sheets. It was what artists called the golden hour, and the warm glow of the almost setting sun pouring through the tilted venetian blinds lit her perfect body with a radiant glow.

  She was slick with sweat, her skin marked with scratches and red impressions that would soon become bruises. I'd never done anything like this before. I'd slept with girls, sure.

  But not like this.

  Not. Like. This.

  I slowly shook my head.

  "That was amazing. Amazing. I can't believe you didn't say it."

  She was silent for a moment, the only sound being her shallow breaths in and out. The frantic breathing of earlier now beginning to calm down. Her voice was weak and muffled as she spoke down into the pillow.

  "Say what?"

  "You know,” I said, lightly running my fingers over a deep red mark on her back, “the safe word."

  After what I’d done to her it amazed me she hadn’t said it. She’d told me to give it to her rough, and I did, but even so...

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about." There was another shallow breath as my heart dropped down into my stomach. "Please, don't kill me. Please."

  She began to sob.

  Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck.

  What the hell was going on?

  What had I done?

  Earlier

  2 Rich

  I had been sitting on one of the benches in the university gym next to Jake, panting, when he suddenly punched me on the arm.

  "What?”

  "Spill it."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Don't bullshit me, man. You've got a date. And you haven't told me about it. So, spill it."

  "How the fuck do you know that?"

  "Well, when you finished your arm set, you switched to one of those light weights and kept on going. You’re trying to get pumped. You wanna look good for a girl. That, and you're not talking today."

  Busted. He was right. I had been trying to get as pumped as possible. And it was because I was meeting a girl later. Well, meeting was perhaps not the precise term I should be using.

  "It's this chick from some dating app. But I'm not sure about meeting her."

  Jake cocked his head at me. "Why? Bit of a dog?"

  I laughed and shook my head, pulling out my phone. "Look," I said as I opened up the app and pulled up her photo.

  "Holy shit, he said, followed by a whistle. "That chick is fine. I didn’t know they made chicks like that over here."

  I looked down at the screen again for perhaps the thousandth time. He was right, of course. She was hot as balls. Toned and fit and with a killer smile. Probably ten years older than me, but didn’t they say women reach their sexual peak much later than men? That was partly why I was nervous about meeting her. Well, that was about 1% of it.

  "So what the hell is wrong with you? Is it because of Cathy?"

  Cathy was this Irish girl I’d been crushing on for a while. She was also, like me and Jake, an exchange student and we were supposed to be going to a Pimps ‘n Ho’s party she was hosting the following night. Rumor had it she had her eye on me too.

  But that definitely wasn’t it. I hadn’t even got with Cathy yet, and both Jake and I would be gone soon anyway. We were both just doing our junior year abroad here in Jolly Old England as they hated it to be called. It wasn’t like I was going to be having anything long term with any of these chicks. We’d both be back in the States once the semester — sorry, not semester, term — ended. We were here to get laid, not tied down.

  "Nah. This chick wants to meet this afternoon. I’m not even going to see Cathy ‘til tomorrow… and who knows if she’ll put out."

  “Dude, she will definitely put out. But that’s tomorrow. What about this one today?”

  "The thing is, this chick doesn't actually want to… you know… date."

  He punched me on the arm, again, and this time it actually kind of hurt. That meant he was excited.

  "Nor do you, dumbass. If she just wants to —" he looked at me with raised eyebrows as if he was about to use a clever euphemism, "—fuck, then what’s the matter?"

  “It’s just that — ”

  "Give me that," he said, snatching the phone out of my hand. He jabbed his finger repeatedly at the screen to punctuate his words. "Look. At. That. Body."

  I nodded. "I know, I know."

  "If you don't do her, you are, officially, gay. Got it?"

  I laughed.

  "Dude, it’s not that. It’s just that she's into some... unorthodox stuff."

  "What? Freaky shit?"

  I nodded. "Very, very freaky shit."

  "Does she want you to piss on her?"

  His brown eyes were wide and twinkling with amusement.

  I burst out in laughter. "No! No, not that. But you know, she wants it… rough."

  Jake stood up, and stared down at me. "Man, that shit is the best. What the hell is wrong with you? That shit is wild. Primal, man. Dude, you have to do this."

  "Yeah, maybe. I don't know. It’s a bit weird..."

  "Holy shit," he said, as he peered down at the phone reading through our text exchanges. It took a while. We’d been chatting for a few days now. Most of it about what she wanted me to do to her.

  "Rich, man, dude, if you don't do this, I'm going to do it. Fuck it, I'll go in your place, pussy."

  "Well, I've already sent her some pics, so I think she might just notice you’re not me. "

  "You reckon?" he said to me with a grin.

  "Well, you are black."

  "Oh yeah," he said, peering down at his arms, "I forgot."

  "Give me my phone back."

  He handed it back with a chuckle. "Man, seriously, you have got to hit that. Trust me, you won't regret it."

  Wel
l, fuck it, I thought. He was right. Opportunities like this don't exactly come along every day, do they?

  If this older woman wanted it rough from a young stud like me, who was I to deny her? And shit, if I stayed over, banged her again in the morning, and then got lucky with Cathy later that day too… that’d be two chicks in one day. Never managed that before.

  “Alright, alright, alright. By the way, she said I wasn’t supposed to mention it to anyone.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. I read that. She’s probably just shy.”

  “Fuck it,” I said with a grin.

  “Fuck her,” he said with a final punch to my arm.

  3 Cassie

  I have the perfect life. That may sound silly, or even arrogant, but it was true. I had found the secret to living a fulfilled life, at least for me, anyway.

  What it boiled down to was this: I did exactly what I wanted, and only what I wanted. And beyond that, I knew exactly when and where I would be at all times. That was what made me so content. It was simply a matter of reducing the uncertainty and stress of everyday life to an absolutely fixed routine.

  In order to make my life this way, it had to be simple. The more confusion and clutter you have in your life, the harder it is to control everything, and thus to maintain your sense of comfort and well-being.

  At precisely 3:09 PM, exactly 9 minutes after leaving my workplace — a short walk away — I arrived home. I slid my key into the lock, twisted the perfectly smooth mechanism, and gently pushed the door so that its well-oiled hinges swung open to allow me to enter.

  It's nothing fancy. I don't need anything too glamorous to be happy. In fact, something bigger would make me less happy. The thing about having a small house, is that it’s easy to maintain, and keep clean and nicely in order.

  Not that easy of course. I do still spend two hours a day keeping everything exactly right, but far easier than it would be somewhere bigger. I mean, if you had something giant, like a three-bedroom house, you'd surely need to hire someone to keep it in order. At least if your standards are as high as mine. And then, inevitably, you would have the extra stress of having to manage someone, pay them, and deal with the hassle when they inevitably got sick, went on holiday, or someone close to them passed away.

  No, for me, what I had was just right. It was a small, old house. A bungalow. Although it was a stand-alone, it was still tiny. There was a kitchen, a living room, and a bedroom. Underneath the house was a kind of cellar, though I spent very little time down there. Usually just a few minutes each day.

  There was something about cellars that made them hard to keep clean. Dust seemed to appear from nowhere, spiders would break in and spin webs, and there were always uncomfortable noises. No, I kept the cellar door firmly shut, except when I needed to visit my deep-freeze or had some other business to attend to down there.

  Just before entering my home, I had slipped out of my shoes, placing one stockinged foot after the other onto the polished hardwood floor just inside the door before turning around and picking up the shoes I'd left at the door. I immediately stored them in the conveniently placed shoe cupboard, along with my thirteen other pieces of footwear.

  The outside world is filthy. The streets, the pavements, all covered in muck and dirt and dust and God knows what else. If you step on that, and then step into your home, you know what you've got? Filth. Filth coming straight into your house. As I very much do not like living in filth and squalor, it was imperative that I always removed my shoes before entering the home.

  I closed the door behind me and made my way through to the kitchen. My house wasn't big enough to have a separate laundry room, so my laundry machine was stuck in the kitchen. This was fine with me — laundry rooms were almost as bad as cellars at attracting dirt and dust and other filth anyway. Upon entering, I removed the contents of the washing machine, which were the previous night’s bedsheets and the pyjamas I'd slept in the night before.

  Next, I opened the small door that led out of the kitchen, pulled out my garden sandals from the cupboard by the door, tossed them onto the ground outside, stepped into them, and then made my way across my tiny lawn, to my clothes line. My house isn't really big enough to have a dryer, and it's better to dry things in the open air anyway. If you use a dryer, with one of those little dryer sheets, you end up with your clothes smelling of fake freshness. Chemicals. I cannot abide those. The reek of chemicals on my clothing from a dryer sheet is enough to ruin my day.

  After hanging my sheets and pyjamas up, I headed indoors, removing my shoes at the door, as always, and again placing them in their special cupboard.

  I checked the time on my cell phone, and was pleased that it was precisely 3:15 PM. I I prefered to check the time using my cell phone as the time is kept perfectly accurate over the cellular network. My wall clocks were mostly for decoration and backup now. I could never rely on those battery-powered pieces of junk again.

  I was right on time. Of course. I opened my small refrigerator, and removed the salad that I had prepared that morning. It was precisely 350 calories worth of nutrition. I ate the exact same things, at the exact same time, every day. In fact, all my exercise, and food, was exactly the same almost every single day.

  Occasionally, I'd be roped into going out for a meal with work colleagues to celebrate some inconsequential occasion, and I'd have to make up for it the next day, but in general, I had everything planned down right to the last morsel of food, and second of the day. And that's why I was happy. Nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, everything under my control. My perfect control.

  While I ate I thought about something I'd seen on the TV recently. I didn't tend to watch TV much, but it had been on in the background in the lunchroom at work, and it had been showing a sitcom. In it, one of the characters had, upon completing the meal, put their bowl and cutlery into the sink, and left the room. I shuddered at the thought of it, the mere memory of it. I mean, who does something like that? Filling up their sink with crap and filth. It was unbelievable.

  With that memory fresh in my mind, the second I finished swallowing my last mouthful of food I went to the sink and rinsed my salad bowl and fork immediately. I dried them, put them away, and then surveyed my kitchen. With annoyance, I pushed the single solitary chair back under the small card table at which I'd just been eating. In my rush to get to the sink I had left the chair half-pushed out, like some kind of savage.

  Still annoyed at myself, I walked out of the kitchen, across the little hallway, through my bedroom, and into the only bathroom in the small house. I removed my clothes and folded them neatly, leaving them by the door.

  Although they were going to go straight into the laundry machine in just a few minutes, there was no reason to leave them in a piled heap, like I knew some people prefer to do. They were probably the same people who would leave things piled up in the sink! It was amazing how some people live their lives in such abject ignorant squalor.

  Next, I removed the measuring tape from the bathroom cabinet, wrapped it around my waist, and checked it. I bit my lip in a slight sense of consternation as I realised that my waist was now an eighth of an inch smaller than it should be. How could that be, I wondered. Had I perhaps been moving around too much in my sleep, burning extra calories? No, that wasn't it.

  It came to me. I realised that at work, in my office administrative job, I'd had to walk around a little more this week than usual. The other office administrator had been away on vacation, and although the workload hadn't significantly increased — I did most of it anyway, of course — I had ended up walking around the office a little more. That must've been it. It was eight days since Laura had gone away, and eight days of my calorie burn being increased.

  Oh well, what's an eighth of an inch between you and me? Not much. Although I was annoyed, you’d have to be a crazy person to worry about losing an eighth of an inch around your waist! Anyway, I was planning to have my annual ‘wild’ night soon where I really let myself go and spoiled myself. I
’d probably have to make some adjustments to my routine the following week anyway. No matter. Everything would be back in order soon.

  I checked myself in the mirror to make sure there were no other mishaps with my body. No suddenly developed wrinkles, or perhaps a third eye. But no, everything seemed to be in order. My creamy white skin managed to maintain the exact same colour over almost the entirety of my body. Thanks to the liberal application of sunblock, I hadn't been harmed by any of the sun's rays: deadly beams which can leave you wrinkled like an old leather hag if you let them.

  I took a warm three-minute shower to wash away some of the grime that had undoubtedly fallen upon me during the day. I didn't use any kind of soap during my afternoon shower, of course; I didn't want to dry out my skin; but I made sure to wash and wipe away all vestiges of the filth, both visible and invisible, of the outside world.

  Once I'd removed all the muck from my body, I dried myself using a clean towel. It's vitally important that you use a fresh one every time you have a shower, otherwise who knows what kind of awful skin disease you could end up with. Damp towels are breeding grounds for bacteria. And the thought of millions of dead skin cells trapped between the cotton fibres rubbing against my skin made me gag.

  Next, I applied moisturiser, and more sunblock. Usually, I would bring in my laundry around sunset, and even though the sun's rays are weaker by then it’s not worth the risk.

  I pulled on a pair of clean panties, and a white tank top. Partly due to my low weight, mostly due to my body genetics, I didn't really feel the need to wear a bra when I was at home.