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For All The Wrong Reasons	By : darqstar Category: G through L > House of 1000 Corpses Views: 4942 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own House of 1000 Corpses, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
LEGAL DISCLAIMER: I do not in any way own any part of the movies House of 1000 Corpses or The Devil's Rejects. I do not own most of these characters. They are the property of Rob Zombie, Liongate films, and whoever else holds a commercial or property license over them. This is fan fiction, intended for the sole purpose of entertainment. No one has been paid to write or host this story. No one is paid or will have to pay to read it.

THE STORY ITSELF DISCLAIMER: This story is rated NC-17, for disturbing images and excessive violence as much if not more than sexual contents. If stories involving murder, rape, extreme violence, cannibalism, humiliation, and so on, are not your cup of tea, DO NOT READ IT. If you are under the age of 18 don't read it either.

Specific Chapter Warning: M/f, B-Mod (Yes, I promised!)

Again, this is in "raw" format. Sorry. As soon as my beta readers get on the stick, I'll post the edited versions.

Chapter Eleven

Rebirth In Blood

I don't think Otis or I fell asleep that night, I think we both passed out. I'm pretty sure I did. There's only so much raw pleasure a physically fit body can take, and I wasn't very physically fit anymore. When I woke up, sun was streaming through the window. I was half on top of Otis, my head resting on his chest. His arms were wrapped around me, holding me to him as if we were long time lovers. The window had stayed open all night, but the room still smelled of sweat and that musky, almost earthy odor that anyone with any experience knows is the scent of sex.

I stiffened, afraid to move and wondering what would happen when Otis woke up. I wanted to believe that whatever had happened between us last night, it had changed him. I knew better than to hope a few orgasms had changed him completely, so he would find himself swearing off being a necrophiliac mass murderer, let me free, and dedicate his life to giving art lessons to underprivileged urban youth. But, part of me dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd see me as just a little more human. Maybe he'd stop beating on me so much. Maybe the rapes would stop and instead become what we had the night before. Yeah, technically, since I'd never given him permission, every time he touched me it was rape, but with what I'd been through, if it always like it was that last night, I'd take it. Maybe I wouldn't have the prudish comfort of being able to say, �Yes, he took me over and over again, but like a good girl, I always hated it!� But, given the choice? I'll take the orgasm over internal injury. Let a jury refuse to convict him of rape on the basis of my enjoying myself, we were never going to get to that point anyway. I was sure I'd be dead before long, and he'd be onto someone else.

He woke up a few minutes after I did and wrapped his arms tighter around me. I wasn't sure if he meant to do that, or if it was just an automatic reaction. He made a small, almost grunting noise and I could hear him licking his lips, no doubt trying to get rid of the pasty morning-mouth feeling.

I waited to see what he would do. Would he push me off him, and start yelling at me? Would he be mad that I wasn't in my box? Would he start hitting me? Maybe lecture me, or play one of his, �Tell me how useless you are� games?

Instead of doing any of those things, he started nuzzling my neck, kissing and licking as he'd done last night. And I began responding as I'd done last night. After a bit of that, he wrapped his arms around me, and rolled so I was lying underneath him, and started kissing me on the lips. I wrapped my arms around him, returning those kisses with the same enthusiasm.

Unlike last night though, Otis didn't try to talk to me. No questions about former lovers, or the games I'd played with them. Instead, we were both quiet, letting our hands, mouths, and fingers do the talking. And yes, I did my fair share of intimate exploring, figuring that if I didn't start returning the favors being granted to me, he'd start getting upset. And, if I must be truthful, I wanted to. Up until last night, everything about Otis had been harsh and cold. Whether it was morbid curiosity, or starvation for affection, I wanted to touch this body that had brought me so much pain, yet could bring me so much pleasure. It was like having a rabid dog that was going for your throat suddenly climb up on the sofa next to you, and allow you to pet him. I was worried, but I was also curious and fascinated. I had to touch him, I had to explore him as he explored me.

No words were spoken until again, he had me gasping and almost crying for the want of him, and he was above me poised, and able, but again teasing me. Then he whispered into my ear, �Who are you, and what do you want?�

I knew what he wanted to hear and this time I didn't hesitate. �I'm your whore, fuck me.�

My words pleased him and he rewarded me.

*****

For the next few days, I could almost believe I wasn't a victim. Almost, but never quite. I didn't know what game Otis was playing and I didn't dare ask him. I just knew that at least for now, he seemed more interested in having me crave his touch, rather than fear it. We spent most of the time in bed and surprisingly little of that time sleeping. By the time it ended, I was pretty sure that there wasn't a whole lot about sex I hadn't done, at least two-person heterosexual sex. If I dared to allow myself to feel hope about my future, I might have speculated that if I ever got out of this place and got married, my husband wouldn't have to worry that there was anything I didn't know how to do. I could have been the poster woman for the sexual revolution. �I've seen it all, I've done it all.�

At the end of the third day of these fun and games, we were lying in bed together, arms wrapped around each other. He was nuzzling my neck, biting on my ear, when he whispered, �What's your name?�

I had to think for a moment. Since I'd been brought to this room, I'd tried to forget my name. That may sound strange, but it was my unique way of coping. As Karen, I'd had such a low-key, uneventful life, I believed as long as I thought of myself as her, I never could have coped with what was happening. If I forced myself to believe I was some nameless girl, someone who'd never known a normal life, it was easier. You can't miss what you never had. �I-I,� I began, then stopped. �Does it matter?�

�Yeah, it does,� he said, still kissing, still whispering, which tickled, but felt strangely good too. �C'mon, tell Otis who you are.�

I realized then that he could care less what the name I'd been given at birth was. He wanted to know who I was now. I snuggled further into him. �I'm your whore.�

He kissed the top of my head, then whispered, �And who am I?�

Well, that was easy. �Otis.�

His hand was rubbing my back in slow, lazy, circles. �So, who are you?�

I was confused for a moment, then realized what he wanted from me. �I'm Otis's whore,� I murmured.

�Yeah, that's right.� He sat up, pulling me up with him. He shifted me, so I was in his arms, looking up at him. �You're my little whore for as long as you live, right?�

I nodded.

�And I'm the one that decides how long you live and when you die, right?� His eyes were starting to take on that glint that I never would trust, because it usually indicated Otis's mind was starting to work in a direction I wouldn't like. I forced myself not to stiffen, least I push him further down this path and instead nodded. This pleased him and he nodded. One of his hands was curled around me, holding me. The other he began to run up my stomach, between my breasts and up to my throat. His fingers wrapped around my throat, not squeezing, but just lightly resting. If he'd wanted to choke me, he could do it before I'd even know what was happening.

It took everything I had not to raise my hand to try to stop him. I forced myself to at least pretend I was calm.

He leaned over, fingers still on my throat, and whispered in my ear. �Who are you?�

�Otis's whore,� I said.

He sat up and moved away from me, so I was no longer in his arms, but fell onto the bed instead. He rose off the bed, to his feet and looked down at me. �Prove it,� he said.

�How?� I asked. I really was beginning to strongly dislike where this was going, but I knew I couldn't panic, that would only make things worse.

He put on a pair of jeans that were lying on the floor by the bed, then disappeared behind the curtain to his studio. When he returned, he was holding a long, sharp, wicked looking knife. He came over and sat down on the edge of the bed.

I stared at the knife, unable to take my eyes off of it. Was this it? A few days of orgasmic bliss and now he was going to cut me up? Was this all a little game? Give me something that almost resembled happiness for a bit, so that my death would seem all the more bitter to me?

�Who are you?� he asked me again, those eyes of his staring at me, as if their gaze would burn my skin.

�Otis's whore,� I said, fighting as hard as I could to keep the tremble out of my voice and to not stare at that knife.

�Do you really believe that?� he asked.

I nodded.

�Do you really believe that?� he repeated, sounding angry.

Clearly nodding wasn't enough. �I do,� I said, �With all that I am.�

I got a smile from him with the last part, although I'm not sure I was glad about that. �Will you prove it?� he asked me.

�How?�

He pressed the knife handle into my hand. �Mark yourself.�

My fingers curled around the knife handle, but I shook my head at his words. �Mark myself?�

He had slipped his hand over my hand, so we were both holding the knife. �Mark yourself,� he repeated and moved my hand until the tip of the knife was touching the outer part of my right thigh. �Carve your name...right here.�

I couldn't believe what he was asking. �What?�

�Carve your name here,� he said again, firmer this time, as if he was making a perfectly reasonable request of me. �If you are really my whore, as you say you are, you shouldn't mind labeling yourself as such.�

�I-I can't do that!� I said, my throat suddenly feeling as if someone poured a bucket of sand into it.

�Why not?�

�B-because it's just-� I began, then stopped. I didn't think telling him that carving my skin would be sick and disgusting would make him happy. �I-I don't know how,� I said instead.

�It's easy.� His hand was still over mine, still holding the knife with me. �You just press in...� he paused and pushed the tip of the knife into my thigh, slowly. I gasped as it split the skin and started sliding in. �...and you start cutting,� his voice was soft, almost seductive. He moved the blade down, slicing my skin. �...and before you know it, it's done. Skin peals off easier than you might think.�

I was already gasping at the little bit of cutting that already had happened. �I-I don't think I can do this,� I whimpered

�Then I guess you're just a liar,� he said, bringing his other hand up and wrapping the fingers around my neck. �And I don't like liars. Especially liars that work their way into my bed.� He spoke as if our relationship was a voluntary one on both of our parts, as if I were his girlfriend or something.

I did something desperate, I begged. �Please, Otis, no.� It didn't help, it only made him push the knife deeper and further into my skin and tighten his fingers around his throat. Blood was trickling down my thigh, onto the somewhat clean comforter and sheets.

�It's up to you, bitch.� His lips curled into a sneer. �You can live for now, as my whore, or you can die my bitch. And trust me, I won't just snap your neck. I'll make sure your death is very slow, very painful. And before you go off to Hell? You'll have whoever you are, carved into your skin. What's it gonna be? My whore, or my bitch?�

He was deadly serious and I knew it. Either way, I was going to be carved up, it was just with one way, I had a chance of living a bit longer. �I-I'll do it,� I whispered.

He removed his hand from my throat, and leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. �Good girl.� He removed his hand from around mine and around the knife handle. Then, he reached around behind him and pulled a gun out of the waistband of his jeans. �Sorry 'bout this,� he said, as he aimed it at my head. �I'm not too sure I can trust you with a sharp knife like that and all, so I'm just going to take some precautions.�

Ironically, until he spoke, I had never considered trying to overpower him with the knife. His dominance over me was total; by this point, I believed that no matter what, I was helpless.

He sat down on the bed again, and moved the gun so it was behind me, pressed into the neck at the base of my skull, angled slightly upward. �If I pull this trigger, your brains are going to come crashing out of your forehead,� he murmured, leaning over to kiss the top of my head. �Now, get to work. Sooner it's over, sooner it's done.�

I looked down at my hand and the knife. Gritting my teeth, I started sliding the knife down my thigh, cutting through the skin and into the muscle. Blood was flowing freely as I cut...and cut...

Keeping the gun in my neck, he leaned over and dabbed some blood on his finger. He used it to draw a line above where he'd started me cutting, and then dabbed more and did the same across the bottom. �Make it that big,� he whispered.

It wasn't as bad at first. The knife was very sharp, so it cut so easily at first, that I would barely feel it. Then, as I trailed it downward, the stinging began as the nerve endings realized what I was doing. I bit my lip and kept cutting, getting the first cut down to where he wanted it, then curving it around to form the bottom of the O.

�That's my girl,� Otis whispered, staring down at what I was doing. �See? It's not so bad, is it?�

I wanted to yell at him, scream at him, throw the knife across the room and pound on his chest with my fists, Yes it is, you motherfucker, it fucking hurts! Instead, I started to cry. �I don't think I can do this,� I sobbed.

�Yes you can,� he said, leaning close to me and nuzzling my hair. �I know you can do it,and I know that in truth, you love this and want it. You want everyone to know who you are, right?�

I didn't answer, I was too busy mutilating myself. I made the curve, then carved up, completing the O as the blood kept flowing from the wound, running down my leg, soaking the bedclothes under me.

I hoped he might be satisfied with just a single cut for each letter, but Otis wanted to make sure this was something that would last forever. �Now like this,� he murmured, putting his free hand over mine to guide the knife. He wanted me to make sure the letters were a good quarter inch wide. �Yeah, my little whore, you're doing good,� he said, as I worked on making that O.

As I started in on the �T�, I could feel the blood starting to spread over the bed, down to my knees, up under my ass. �I-I'm gonna-� I paused to gasp. �-ruin the mattress.�

�It'll be okay,� he assured me. He still had the gun to my neck, but he was leaning over me again, kissing my hair in encouragement as if I were a beloved child being forced for her own good, to do something she found distasteful. He was watching me cut myself too, completely fascinated with what I was doing.

By the time I got through his name, I was starting to feel lightheaded. �I-I don't know if I can finish,� I gasped. �Don't...feel...�

�Shh, you can do it,� he said. He leaned over and ran his finger over my leg, smearing blood on it. �You're stronger than you think.� He drew a line from the top of my forehead, down to the end of my nose.

Gasping, shaking, fighting not to pass out, I kept cutting. W-H-O-R-E. Five letters left. Five letters that suddenly seemed huge and menacing. I began working on the W.

He helped himself to another smear of my blood and brought it up to my face. This time he drew a line across my eyelids and nose, effectively making a bloody cross on my face. When he was done, he brought his bloodstained fingertip to his lips and licked it clean. �Yeah, that's it, keep going.�

I had stopped crying by now, because I just didn't have the strength. I was starting to feel cold, colder than I had ever felt in my life. �Please,� I whispered, as I started on the H. �Please, don't make me do anymore... I-I can't.�

�Sure you can,� he disagreed. �C'mon, keep going.�

I made it half way through the H and my fingers just stopped working. I felt the knife slip out of them. If Otis hadn't had the gun to the back of my head, I would have fallen back onto the bed. As it was, I started to crumple, but he caught me. �You did real good, my little whore,� he said. He helped so I was lying down on the bed. I could feel wet blood, my blood, on my back, where it had soaked into the mattress �Do you want me to finish it for you? I will.�

At that moment, it was like something in my brain just shut down completely and I couldn't remember why I'd been carving into my leg, or how this had all started. All I could remember was that I had to do it, that if my new name wasn't carved into my thigh completely, something really bad would happen. I looked at Otis and nodded, wanting to weep in gratitude. �Would you mind?�

�Nah.� He stroked my hair and then picked up the knife. �I'll do it as quick as I can too.�

He was as good as his word. He grabbed my leg and started cutting into my thigh with swift, sure moves. I tried my best not to shake or tremble.

I was passed out by the time he finished.

End of Chapter Eleven

==========================================

Author's Notes: Again, thank you to all of you who are reading this and letting me know. I really appreciate it, it keeps me going.
Again, this story is in raw format. I'm sorry if that makes it difficult / impossible to read. I just don't know when my beta readers are going to get this stuff back to me. *sigh*
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- 12
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For All The Wrong Reasons

Rebirth In Blood

End of Chapter Eleven