Crimson Lips:
Hold
onto the image; the pussy is your friend. That's right, stroke its fur gently.
It's your friend and it's enjoying this. It likes your attention. Keep stroking.
Move a little closer if you like. See, that's easy isn't it? nothing to be
afraid of. Everything is just fine. Keep stroking, can you hear the contented
purr? It's happy, not angry. The pussy is your friend and there's nothing to
worry about. This pussy isn't going to bite you...
The
Night Of A Thousand Eyes:
As she looked up at the small figures
crowding down the alley after her, she saw them more clearly in the pale light
of the flickering streetlamp than she had in the candle-lit room. They were all
dressed in the quaint old clothes that dolls usually wore, all held razor blades
in their tiny plastic hands, but now she was struck by the incredible, almost
lifelike, detail of their tiny round faces - betrayed only by their dead doll's
eyes. And as they shuffled nearer, bringing the haunting, excited whispering
ever closer to her, Mary realised with heart-breaking terror that one of the
dolls had Rob's face.
As he reached out his hand to touch her shoulder, Denton noticed two things that were very wrong here. First of all, there were thick ropes binding the girl to the chair which he hadn't noticed before, and secondly he could now see spots of dark crimson running down over the girl's neck and onto her white dress. A chill ran down his spine as his hand fell on her shoulder, too late to stop it, and he stepped around in front of her; stupid words forming in the tense air. 'Are you all right?'. The girl had no face. She wouldn't be able to answer him, not now not ever, because someone had sliced her fucking face off.
