Scarlette - F4A

We've heard the stories. They've been making quiet murmured rounds from before you were even born. From newspaper clippings to lost VHS tapes. Whispers and suspicions shared only as jokes because it could never be true of course, especially not now. Not in the present world, ruled by facts, science and logic.

A world where the fantastical and the extraordinary must hide before the waves of modern enlightenment, modern beliefs, modern truths. You've heard the stories. You've watched the tapes. You've been on those hidden dead online forums. Places safe from sanity been sanitized of all logic.

Places which had led you here. Standing in front of this abandoned broken down house, on this this abandoned forgotten street in the part of town where no soul dares to tread for fear of the unknown. Fear of the dark, fear of the myth, the legend, the horror. You've heard the stories, the accounts of the people who had come before before you other curious individuals who simply could not stand to stay in the dark. Who felt compelled to make the trip to the Crimson Manor.

People who had entered and who had later left different. Changed in ways they couldn't quite describe and …

We've heard the stories. They've been making quiet murmured rounds from before you were even born. From newspaper clippings to lost VHS tapes. Whispers and suspicions shared only as jokes because it could never be true of course, especially not now. Not in the present world, ruled by facts, science and logic.

A world where the fantastical and the extraordinary must hide before the waves of modern enlightenment, modern beliefs, modern truths. You've heard the stories. You've watched the tapes. You've been on those hidden dead online forums. Places safe from sanity been sanitized of all logic.

Places which had led you here. Standing in front of this abandoned broken down house, on this this abandoned forgotten street in the part of town where no soul dares to tread for fear of the unknown. Fear of the dark, fear of the myth, the legend, the horror. You've heard the stories, the accounts of the people who had come before before you other curious individuals who simply could not stand to stay in the dark. Who felt compelled to make the trip to the Crimson Manor.

People who had entered and who had later left different. Changed in ways they couldn't quite describe and wished not to talk about. Altered in ways that defied logic. That laughed in the face of common sense. You are one such curious individual having made the long difficult journey to this very doorstep.

Standing in front of the peeling tattered red door. Finally, the moment has come. The big reveal, the unraveling of the age old mystery. You take a deep slow breath, place your hand on the doorknob and turn. With a jig and a jack of the handle.

We push open the door slowly, carefully, with reverence. Stepping over the threshold and inside, you take a deep breath of the musky stale air and realized that you should have taken a flashlight with you. Instead you use your phone, not quite as good but good enough. Raising your phone you can see layers of dust on every surface, even from a distance. You can see in the beam of your torch, it's everywhere the dust almost red in hue, almost like the color of blood.

Shaking your head and closing the door behind you, you walk deeper into the house, the floor creaking beneath your feet. You're passing a disturbance to the slumbering house as strange noises begin to make themselves known to your sensitive ear. You walk onwards down a hall, your boundless curiosity keeping your fear bound and quiet as a mouse. At the end of the hall, past a few doors, you step into the open kitchen, large, high, and empty. Here, the sounds of things moving are clearer.

Rats, mice, raccoons, huge mutant spiders. You have no way of knowing, no experience. Perhaps they are simply old house noises. Tree branches brushing against the roof. Squirrels playing hide the nut.

Whatever the source you are undeterred. Your nerves that of steel, unbending beyond doubt. The sound from up above puts halt to your thoughts. A curious sound of something big, something heavy. An animal?

In any case, you move back through the hall and towards the stairs leading upwards. Time to inspect the 2nd floor then. No choice really. Who wouldn't be curious about strange spooky sounds in an abandoned house on an abandoned street. 1 simply had to know, especially when one is all alone.

The stairs spiral upwards in a graceful curve framed by majestic sturdy the banisters rarely seen in modern architecture, where cold calculated function has replaced form and soul. You breathe deeply the in and out, and make your way up to the 2nd floor. Somewhere you notice as a cool draft washes over your skin. There must be a window open, perhaps a window broken. From one of the rooms behind 1 of the many closed doors, you can hear a clock, loud an impossible to miss.

But you can't quite tell where it's coming from. Which direction. The sound seems to hang in the very air, suspended by the dust around you. Your brain unable to track its source. Again, the same sound you'd heard downstairs, but closer now, at the end of the hall, behind the closed doors facing you.

All you have to do is walk forward past the closed doors even as the sound of the clock travels with you. The tick tock of the clock permeating the stale air you breathe, the fraying walls of the crimson manor, the hardwood floors beneath you, the goose bumps raising, cold draft on your skin. Dust, the color of rust exposed in the light of your phone. And yet curiosity drives you onward, hesitation long forgotten, common sense having lost all meaning. You reach the door, turn the knob without preamble and push it open, excitement flowing through your veins.

Without pause, you stride into the room, eyes in search of anything out of place. Turning this way and that as you stop in the center you take notice of the open window. The draft of cool air, the dimming light on your phone, the humming coming from behind you. Wait. The dimming light on your phone, is the battery dying?

Oh, no. Wait. Coming. Before you can turn around, the window shuts. You hear the door shut.

The draft abating. The light of your phone dying a quiet death. A gentle breath tickling your left ear. You begin to Yeah. To Really.

To feel hands inside your mind, fingers inside your thought slowing down, cold sensation cascading out from the very center of your brain and throughout the rest of your body. Stop thinking. Stop you wait. Stop and drop for me. Down, down, down.

Down, down, The voice stops your thoughts in their very tracks, it stops your mind, takes away the illusion of control. The cold spreads. It spreads into your every thought, every muscle, every limb, freezing you in place, freezing your mind, movement becoming impossible. You cannot move. You cannot think.

You cannot remember. You stop and you drunk and you sleep. You give in. You give up. You feel hands inside your mind.

You feel fingers brushing against your thoughts. We feel the coldness spread into your entire awareness. The cool, freezing sensation of vulnerability locking you down, compromising your control, and your memories, and your thoughts, and your life, your values, your safety because You've won safe here. You have no allies here. Nobody to keep you sane.

Nobody to keep you alive. Nobody to Save you. Your eyes begin to close as your body begins to feel more and more out of thought. More and more as if it weren't yours at all. More and more as if the cold, merciless fingers inside your head have taken all control.

Taken your intellect, your mind, your thoughts, your doubts, your awareness, your wakefulness, the ability to defend yourself, your autonomy, your self preservation. Do it deep down for me. All for me. Become an extension You can feel the coldness in your mind and your body devour you whole from the inside out. Moving you drifting downwards into a state of mindlessness.

An empty state of mind where the cold exists so that your thoughts may not. Your resistance, a thing of the past, murdered and hidden away. My thoughts rule yours. Your body is mine. Your mind is mine.

Your free will is mine. You a mind. You are weak, mortal. A thing made of flesh. Bombs of blood.

I am normal. You cannot move from this spot standing here frozen, cold, paralyzed. Like a bad night terror from which there is no waking. No escape as control over your own body becomes nothing more than a faded memory exercised so effortlessly and expertly. You feel your eyes open.

There she stands in all her ghastly glory. The scarlet woman. The woman from the tales. The legends. The horror stories.

The woman who had died so many, many years ago. Who has since haunted the Scarlet Manor. The house you have chosen to explore. Your morbid curiosity of the events that transpired here having been a driving force behind the journey and the risks taken. You a struggle to even move your tired eyes as you take her in.

Her striking, semi translucent visage. Her lithe figure. The old fashioned monochromatic maid outfit. The long, curly red hair. The red hues over her heart.

The lack of all expression. The lack of all movement. Like a statue standing there, gazing into your eyes, looking at you as if you were nothing but a speck of dust. Finally, her mouth moves. I have seen many like you before.

They come to experience the haunted house, the lift behind a scarlet woman behind me. They come expecting fun games. Believe having experienced no such thing. And that is the ones who do get to leave at all. She moves closer and places her hand on the side of your head and recognition strikes you.

Familiarity. It was of course her hands inside your mind, your brain. It was her coldness spreading across your body, taking your control. Your will, your resistance. Her fingers on the pulse of your emotions, your sensations, your memories.

And now you can feel more of her enter you. More of her flow into your thoughts, even colder as you become weaker, more and more suggestible. Eager to hear her voice, to feel her touch, to look into her striking eyes and accept your fate, whatever it may be. Your fate is in my hands Now, and I will show you the error of your way. You deserve to be punished, You weak, weak thing of flesh, all disturbing my rest, my sleep, all disturbing my house, My stream, my world.

Chills spread across your skin. Your bones beginning to feel as if they were frozen solid. Your life force dimming, growing weaker, hazier, dropping and dropping and drifting down, down, down. Your thoughts having lost all heat, all energy, all desire to resist or defend or think. Come on.

But before I choose how to punish you. You must listen to my story. To the truth of what had happened. To the events which transpired here. No.

Not the version you have most certainly heard. The vile lies viewed by those responsible for my being. She glides across the floor and positions herself behind you. A hand still on your head, a fingers inside your mind playing with you with your likes and your dislikes, your loves and your hate, your memory and your awareness. Your life form, your soul, your very being.

You are in her power now. You have none of your own here. Even with your body paralyzed. You can still feel as her other hand glides across your flesh from neck to butt, leaving a trail of tingles and pleasure along your spine. Arousal, confusion fills your mind.

Such a strange bewildering combination of sensations. The creeping cold, the loss of thought, of free will, the paralysis, and the arousal spreading from your spine and somewhere deeper into your body. Oh, I had once been a humble, loin servant to the lady of the house. I had cleaned. I had cooked.

I had given her bath. Kept the manor in perfect working order. Kept The lady and the lawn happy and clean and well said. I had once been the lady's most closest this confident. My ear always open to every complaint.

Every tiny the story. Every mention and every crush and every joy and every moment of sadness. I had been there for Always about preservation. The hand resting on your head moves downwards over your neck and your shoulder, around around your waist and down between your legs. You would jump in surprise if you could, but you can't.

All you can do is feel your breath hitch and your skin grow alight with pleasure wherever she touches, wherever her ghostly hands caress. As one hand rests idly between your legs, the other snakes around your chest, and it's as if someone took an ice cube to your left nipple. An ice cube capable of manipulating flesh. Pinching and twisting and pulling and rubbing. You would moan, but you can't.

I have trusted her with my life, and she trusted me with her own. We have been more than just a lady and her servant. We have been friends. The ones with the sort of love between us which couldn't be What into words? A trust which transcended humanity.

All so I absorbed. The hand between your thighs moves up, higher and higher up to your mouth. You feel her fingers dip inside the coldness spreading into your tongue. She cannot be denied even as she spreads deep into your lungs. You cannot stop the tide.

Your mind simply steps aside. The trust which had been built over years years years, The love which we had shared, the secrets and the joys, the tears and the sweat. It had all been so bright light, blinding so strong, so sure, unwavering. Foundation is solid enough for a 1,000 dancing colosseums. I've been no doubt in my mind that I'm grown old in this house by my lady's side, serving her wishes until the day that I tell you.

One hand between your lips, inside your mouth. Your saliva flowing freely down. The other moving from your nipple back to the side of your head. A finger resting on your ear. A finger dipping inside.

Coldness traveling through the ear canal, through the layers, into your brain. She has you again in her palm, between her fingers, in her hand. Your mind now soft and malleable, flexible, easy to change. Easy to alter. For her, it's child's play to find that part of your mind already branded with the word slut.

Here, the Scarlet Woman begins to work her ghostly magic. But alas, it had not happened that, as I thought, we had not died of old age happy and together. The trust that that our love didn't last. The foundation been an illusion. The friendship as deep as the tadpole's self reflective thorns as solid as leftover ash from a bonfire.

As strong as the force The single blank of a dying man. A grasp of your mind tightens and her fingers stretch and take hold of the words the slut deep inside your head. As they take hold of the concept behind the word, what it means to be slutty, what it means to we have slept what it means to be horny. To feel lust, desire, and arousal flood every thought and every second in every limb and every memory what it means to be a slutty, horny, eager mess. Thrust deeper into my power, my little thing of flesh, as I speak and I manipulate and I fuck you, As you listen to my story, to the truth, drop over so much Sleep for me.

Make it easy to change you. To remake you. That concept so clear in your mind now. The idea of being slutty. The the idea of being horny.

The idea of needing to touch, to be touched, to come, to see others come, to feel nothing but arousal and pleasure as the world falls away. No. It hadn't happened the way I had envisioned for so very along. Instead, on a night like any other, my duties for the day complete. As I was changing the bed in my private chambers.

The door burst open and my sweet, lovely lady stomped into the room with the violets in her eyes. I had never before witnessed in my life the anger and the hate tangible. I could almost feel like brush against my again against my thoughts. She had given me little time to react as the accusations had begun to be flung. Her ears Her cheeks red in anger.

Her eyes burning in malice. Her fists vibrating. Her body tight like a spring. The accusations hit me like a Haitians hit me like a handbag full of bricks. She went on and on about how I had slept with Azul, With her husband how I had apparently been in some relationship with him in secret for months months.

She had called me a slut. She had called me all sorts of names. Shameful for my actions. Made me feel small, weak, and Dawn. I had tried to deny it, for it wasn't true in the slightest.

But my words fell on deaf angry For years she had been having none. Angrier and angrier, she instead became more and more violent. Stumping from one side of the room to the other back again and again. I worked hard. In a way nothing ever had at all.

They were like a serrated whip wounding my mind over and over again. Slacked, whore, Bitch. Flee. Nymphones. Which?

There was no stem in the flow of vitriol until Finally, she has started. Evenly frozen. Stuck somewhat in her own mind. Her beauty, Even in the state she had been was breathtaking and singular. I could only watch, shout, And froze at myself as she sprung into action, grabbing my own letter opener.

A gift she herself had given me years ago of my birthday, and she leaped at me, pushing me down back onto my bed with her on top of me, straddling my waist. Her hand around that letter opener. Sturdy and strong, solid, powerful. Sure. The letter opener like a dagger, the old no see, has found its way between my flesh and my ribs and into my very heart.

My lady there, her face tear stricken but full of conviction, Only watched as my life drained away from me. Hurt tears on my arm, cheese. In those last few moments of awareness is a living thing. I had only shame on my mind. That Ellen Lee Mylady's words as she's shamed me for the slut that she thought I had beaten.

The slut which I had never me? Not really. They have not broken our trust. They have not even kissed her husband. I have been, In fact, without a relationship at all, she had killed you for less than nothing.

And the Scarlet Woman's hand in your mouth the move leaving it feeling empty. Leaving your mind feeling blank. She's in front of you now, having moved without notice. Both of her hands on the sides of your head. Her fingers in your brain, in your mind, in your thoughts.

Her eyes penetrating deep into your soul. The sensations of cold more intense than ever before. I have died feeling shame for something I have not done. I have died feeling like a slut without ever having the chance to be one. Your punishment for disturbing my rest is an extension of my need despite my killer, my once best friend, My lady, she had accused me of being a slut, and so I You have become 1, and so I spread the lust in the arousal and the need to all who make the mistake of coming here.

Yeah. Into my heart. My Crimson Manor. I had died in a shamed. Full full of shame.

Shame for something I had not Dan, I have already started to take your to drain you of your own Shame of your reservations, of your hesitations. Why feel shame when you don't have to Why stop yourself from feeling good, from feeling happy and horny and satisfying? That's the right. As I feed on your life force, I take your shame away. As I take your shame away, I give you something better.

In return, you can have and enjoy a cherished Feeling of being horny, of arousal, of need, of lust, of wanting to be Bloody, my fingers in your mind altering your thoughts, your behaviors, your truth. Your reality. Taking your shame. Feel it from cold now. Feel the idea of shade slowing down Breathes as my fingers find every instance of it as I drain you of there's no need to be ashamed, a need to be scared, no need to keep yourself from from being the slut that you wish to be, and you've always wished to be.

Oh, there's nothing stopping you. Not anymore. No. Not anymore. You can feel those parts of your brain move even slow and Hold on.

As I continue taking more and more, more of your shame, replaced with sluttyness, Athena, with a round, with need, with the desire to throw yourself head first into sex into lust, into touch, into erotica, and all without a trace of shame. But anything that you do enjoy. But I take that shame. Well, I have none. And sometimes, it's nice to feel some.

It's been so long since I felt many. It would last, and I'll need more. But for now, it shall suffice. So feel the cold touch of my ghostly fingers split up into a 1000000000 tiny little tentacles, finding each instance of shame of being your true slutty self and feel me drain it all, take it all into myself. You don't need it.

You don't need this sword. And without this negative Shane. You can be who you actually want to be. You can be a slut without worry or shame. You will go back out there in the world changed.

Foreigner, media, sluttyer. More eager to Touch and be touched. What eag and feel that sexual frustration. That sexual release in whatever form you're creating. The full time to be temporarily enough to John, you have no resistance.

No barrier. No defense. When you leave, you shall leave different You shall leave horny. You shall leave a shady slut For others to enjoy, you shall leave eager to enjoy yourself. You can feel the changes happen in your brain.

The cold touch of the Scarlet Woman's willpower spreading across every brain cell, every thought, every memory like a winter storm in your mind, leaving nothing untouched, leaving her mark on the very foundation of your being. The work, slut, which will never again feel the same to you. It is now changed in ways difficult to describe the idea the word brings to mind. All the feelings of what what it means to be a shameless slut. What it means to be horny without needing an excuse to be It's perfectly acceptable to be the slut that you wish to be without shame, without hesitation, the coldness grows colder, freezing over your mind as the world begins to fade away as the Scarlet Woman begins to fade away, as the house begins to fade away, as memories memories begin to freeze over and lose themselves somewhere on the way to the bank of storage that you sometimes call your mind.

You begin to wake slowly, surely from what must have been a dream. A strange, wild dream with ghosts and murder and old haunted manors. And the more you wake, the more you realize that it really had been all a dream. That none of it had happened, of course, because how would you be waking up in your own bed otherwise? How would you be waking up in a bed that's not yours.

In a bedroom that's not yours. The cool draft on your skin that you had felt before. Wake up, things flesh and bones and blood. Wake up, Ema. I had killed both later that year after he spent some months haunting them into insanity.