#31ShortHorrors – The Gift (rated R)

October 2, 2015

The Gift

“Don’t rush me!” growled the man in the white coat.

“Okaaaaaay Masssssterrrrr,” growled his hunched over assistant, handing over a scalpel. “I’m sssssorrrrrryyyyyy,” the lumpy one hissed, “I’m just ssssssooo excssssssited, it’sssss been sssssoooo lonnnng…” the lumpy man humped the air and pulled his fists back and forth.

Frankentorte shook his head in disgust. “Only because it’s your 350th birthday,” he grumbled. “Suture,” he ordered. A few whips of his hands, fingers flying deftly through the gloom as lightning flashed outside the turret of the 13th century castle, he grinned crazily at his creation.

“Raise the gurney!” bellowed Frankentorte. Ingar cranked and cranked and cranked the heavy wheel as the gears fell into place in the large complicated system of wheels and pulleys. The storm intensified and thunderous booms echoed off the stone walls. The final gear clicked into place and the gurney filled the hole in the side of the roof.

“This is where the magic happens, ehh, buddy?” Frankentorte elbowed his assistant. Ingar whimpered and jumped from flat floppy foot to foot in anticipation.


Blinding light and a deafening boom filled the castle. Frankentorte on tiptoe, Ingar on half-flat-foot. A groan, a rumble, the gurney shook and swayed from its chain. Frankentorte elbowed the shortie once more.

“Down, Ingar! Down! We only need one jolt! Two, and it will be unmanageable!”

Ingar scrambled down the slippery spiral stone steps, down, down, down, run, run, flap, flap , flap, and then


“Shit,” squeaked Frankentorte. Ingar ran for the control panel. The gurney swayed wildly back and forth. Ingar cranked and cranked, huffing and puffing.

“Shit shit shit,” muttered Frankentorte as the gurney swayed and bounced. The gurney lowered slowly, too slowly for Frankenforte’s comfort. Arms stretched out beyond the boundaries of the moveable table as it lowered down to its anchor position. Flesh strained against the thick chains restraining it to the steel table. Ingar hopped up and down, clapping his hands, his thighs clapping as loud as his palms.

CLANK the gurney settled into place. Frankenforte flicked a link on one chain link of the “creation management system,” and ran off full tilt towards the side door, throwing it closed behind him. He leaned back panting and sweating against the door, a long heavy plank reinforcing the stone hinged door behind him.

“That boy. Good lord. I hope he gets what he asked for,” he squeaked to himself. Frankenforte straightened, took a deep breath, collected himself, and headed to his rooms. He kissed his husband, stroked his tentacles, fell into his embrace, and into his heart for the 898th time in 200 years.

The chains fell to the side.

Arms reached up, a torso raised from the bed. Legs stretched, one, two, three. Four.

Ingar’s eyes bulged. More than usual. His hips thrust forward. More than usual.

“Are you the keymaster?” a husky voice emanated from the darkness.

“Are you the gatekeeper?” Ingar replied.

“Indeed,” the voice replied. Legs, arms, a torso emerged from the darkness. Finally, a face. Ingar gasped.

“YOU!” he croaked.

“YOUUUUUUUU!” the answering shriek.

The creature extracted itself, limb by limb, from the chains, from the gurney. It turned to face Ingar.

“My beloved,” yelped Ingar.

“Arrrrghhhh youuuuuuuuuu” yelped his beloved.

“My masssssterrrrrr I never knew he carrrred thissss much,” Ingar rasped.

Ingar’s beloved embraced him, carefully removed his rags strand by strand, strip by strip. He nuzzled and moaned into the clammy flesh. Warm rumbling greeted him. Opened to him. Tentacles relieved him of what passed for pants. His erect penis stood hard in the cool stormy breeze.

They kissed, tongues intertwined, limbs intertwined. Tentacles pressed into him, into his orifice, left him breathless. He pressed forward, “Please, my darling,” and he sunk his hardness into the warmth, the wetness, the clinging moist flexing tunnel made for him, by him, so many centuries ago. Ingar thrust and thrust and thrust as tentacles and limbs surrounded him, enveloped him, loved him, and emptied him of his seed, his essence. He collapsed in that envelope, happy, loved, beloved.

The next morning, Frankentorte poked his head into the laboratory, “Everything ok in here?”

“Oh yesssssss Masssssterrrr, thank you for the wonderful giiiiiiiffffftttt,” came the hissing familiar, yet different, voice.

“Ah, Ingar, did you do something to your hair? Something new?”

“Yessss Massssterrrr, thank you for noticsssssssinggggg….” came the familiar yet not quite right tenor.

“Ah, Ingar. Is that your preferred name still? Ingar? We have lots to do today! Lots of raw materials to gather! Many projects to commence!”

“Massssterrrrr, if I may be so bold….” his assistant started, yet hesitated….

“Yes?” Frankentorte asked.

“I would like you to call me Igor, if it is not too much trouble….” his assistant requested.

“That is not a problem, Igor. I will be happy to address you as you wish to be addressed, my friend. Can I make an observation, however?” Frankentorte asked.

“Yessss, Masssterrrr?” his assistant, now known as Igor, asked.

“You look great today. Such nice posture, so straight and strong. I am proud of you, my friend,” Frankenforte observed.

“Well, Masssterrrr, it’s not every day I have a 50th birthday of some sort, much less a 350th birthday. So I should thank you.”

“You are quite welcome, my friend. I honor you, as you have made my work here tangible. Quite simply, any progress here in the lab would be impossible without you,” replied Frankforte.

“It is my honor, Massssterrrr.”

And with that, the tentacles slipped away, back to their accustomed place, behind the new Igor’s shoulders, to be called upon when necessary for science.


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