A Bloody Good Haunting(Victorian Woman Tg) (Patreon)

The hunter hunted. That was all that he did, not one for talking or thinking which is why this tale requires a narrator. After all, after enough years of killing the same ghosts the same way, you become used to them, habituated to their patterns and flaws. In fact, you could say that this hunter began to believe it was all little more than a game. Oh he had dissipated a great number of their lot, especially these ghosties as he found himself in Cainhurst once more. Across the ruined castle, hordes of undead women roamed, some carrying their own heads, others daggers, each one bemoaning the terrible fate that had led them to their untimely demises. They were a bothersome lot, but manageable and the hunter at this point was skilled in their swift destruction or avoiding any that posed a threat. But there was danger in skill, a sureness and lulling you don't realize are but the setup, each step of the road leading you into an unseen trap.

Amongst the faded tapestries the hunter stalked, slowly avoiding the blindfolded dagger widows and their bothersome range. He felt confident, no markings from a Cain's Servant to ruin his usual pace. He didn't mind the daggers all that much, their attacks slow and filled with wind up, making them easy to dodge unless a screamer had struck him still. There was always something strange and enticing about Cainhurst Castle, one of the few areas with such a paucity of lore that it was hard not to be intrigued. The closest thing to answers to its mysteries came from a fanatical executioner, though Alfred had gone missing recently leaving an enticing note that he had finally realized the castle's secrets along with a map. It was a scribbled thing, yet it was also marked with a room that had multiple notes scribbled on it, "END OF THE HUNT" the one that stood out the most as he stalked towards the hidden partition he had missed the first time, entering the rotten wooden hallway tucked behind a collapsed bookcase.

There was surely some anticipation as he moved towards the end goal, careful to avoid the rotten patches, side stepping uprooted floorboards that could squeak. Such a narrow hallway could be dangerous, especially if he was swarmed, but being so close to his goal and stocked up on Bolt Paper left him rather cocky. It was easy to avoid wasting them when the once fearsome creatures held little surprises for him, that he knew of at least. At the end was a great oaken door, one that would have required five men to open when shut, the ancient wood bloated from the centuries of disuse and thick humidity that crowded in the summer nights, the warped parts cracking through the finely carved intricacies. Truly it would have been a massive hassle to open, especially the noise from creaking open its complicated locks, sure to attract a number of Bound Widows the second it sent a noise echoing along the drafty halls. Thankfully it was wide open, any nervousness surely fading from the skilled hunter as he entered.

The carvings were beautiful, little of their beauty lost to time. One of the few advantages of being in a forsaken land of eternal night was the lack of a sun to bleach the ruins or fade the beauty of the work, some spots bulging and cracked, but even the cracks were still vibrant and the design was of a horde of women gathered around an ornate circle singing to a man oddly garbed in women's clothing. The expression on his face was rapturous, the detail divinely brought to life in a way that was lost on the simple mind of the hunter as he walked past it. He ignored the other side completely, the circle complete, a woman that could have been the man's sister staring out eternally stuck in a scream. Whether it was of rapture or horror couldn't be discerned, the mystery sunken into the floorboards like the rest, whispered in the brittle screams of the wind as it shrieked endlessly into the night.

Compared to the rest of the mansion, this tucked away spot was almost lush, the carpet barely eaten away, a great circle filled with all manner of alchemical symbols surrounded by more ancient glyphs whose meanings had long been lost or perverted by shifts in culture. Again, the hunter ignored them, walking over a series of concentric circles, more interested in the paintings, pulling out the map and silently fuming as the lack of any moonlight making it hard to see where the instructions told him to look.

There were a few slivers of moonlight, the silver cracks in the darkness from splintered floorboards having him scrounge around to properly read. One spot of ceiling had been especially ransacked by the ruins of time, giving a solid beam that lead squarely to a painting of marvelous quality, somehow looking fresh, another detail ignored by the hunter as he held up the map to the light, having nary a moment to react as the painted lady sprung forth, her head separated as an unearthly scream froze the hunter in place, his blood running cold as the ghost stunned him into the center of the room.

Most people would be horrified at this situation, knowing that this was just the start, an army of knife wielding widows coming for their guts and life in the slowest manner possible tantamount to the ultimate torture. Yet at this moment, the hunter mostly felt annoyed, bracing for death as he tried to think where his last lamp had been left. For a hunter, dying was just a part of the hunt, yet strangely none of the dagger widows were arriving, screamers popping out of the paintings instead, all of them humming. It was disquieting for sure, but screamers alone were just annoying, unable to harm even the weakest of-

And then the screaming began, each bound widow standing in their respective circle as the voices joined together into an unholy mass that bled into the sky.

This was new, their screams harmonizing, intensified into a wailing maelstrom that ripped through the stunned hunter, his blood ice, flesh stone, the screaming rising into a deafening cacophony. His blades shattered as the resonance bore through the metal, everything from buckles to bullets crumbling to powdered shards of scrap metal, his bones rattling, the hunter sure they would be the next to shatter as their despair choked him like a thick miasma of suffering before it finished.

Something had popped inside of him, the hunter confused, grunting from his stunned position and unable to figure out what had popped, the numbing after effects of their communal screaming leaving his body stuck and unfeeling. That was when each screamer pulled their heads upwards, blood spurting from all sides as the usually immaterial substance splattered onto his blacks. It ran thick and pasty, dribbling down his clothing, congealing in thick pockets and weighing down, the material not blood, far too thick and viscous, gallons of the red stuff eventually finding their way over the hunter's skin and into his open mouth. The tastes that flooded in were linseed oil, oxides that left a metallic tang and a most disgusting beeswax, the hunter being drowned in red paint.

It would be a terrible death, but a death at least, though this new behavior worried the hunter, unsure whether this was room specific and if it would have nasty affects upon his return. Instead the heavy flow of red stopped, the shrieking silenced, each ghost moving back to roam the halls, though the most disquieting part of the night came as the hunter studied their pale faces. He had never seen them make an expression that wasn't anguished or angered, yet the gaggle of ghosts were smiling as they left, their accursed screaming ringing in the hunter's ears, leaving his skin abuzz as he came out of his stupor and into a thick sludgy haze.

The stun was lifting, the hunter's usual grunts now drowned in a bubbly gurgle as paint flowed amidst his organs, coating more and more, yet not letting him die. The strangest sensation was spreading with the paint, the flecks grappling his innards, spreading into his bloodstream, slowly massaging his insides in a way that unbelievably was starting to feel good. The hunter though didn't have such insight into the workings of his insides, confused as a sensation that could only be described as pleasure was slowly but surely spreading throughout him. This was when the panic began to set in, his weapons gone, his attackers smiling for reasons he didn't understand and the fact that there was pleasure didn't mean that this was a good thing. No, it meant that whatever was about to happen to him wanted to lull him, to make him give in through the temptations of ecstasy.

Already there was a tightness in his breeches, paint coating the hunter's cock from the inside and slowly vibrating, forcing the appendage out to fullness, the only hard thing left to the disarmed hunter. There was one thought that animated him, the realization that he had to die, and soon. Each groan was a labor, bubbling up through the clogs in his body, the buzzing making them start to gain a whistling type of quality, rising with each bubbled up moan, his body sluggish to move. The paint in his blood was thickening, not making movement impossible, but greatly slowing his once spry body. As he moved as if through a wall of molasses, his red covered blacks were melting into the paint, his impressive leather coat merging into a solid red outer layer without a front opening. The outer red  La Modeste that had been his jacket closed like some hungry beast, absorbing his vests, his tricorn, devouring the boots, black jeans and dissolving them in acidic reds before spitting them back onto his body in a greatly altered form.

The shards of metal had been reworked into a frame that built like a skeleton to the flowing silks, a hoop frame for the Fidele that had been his undergarments, his jeans roughening into a more textured Frippone in varying shades of scarlet. The outer layer of paint was now a satiny Modeste, the bottom of a flowing red Victorian ball gown fluttering around his naked legs and cock. With a shudder and groan, the underskirt spat out some digested fibers around the hunter's erection, trapping it in red silk panties, red fluids trembling out his cock as the swaddled silk pleasured his straining manhood. More metal was processed into ribs, a busk hugging his male frame before the paint pressed on it, his brittle bones easily popping as a moan was forced out, trembling up to a guttural alto as the painted silks and busk forced his waist to compress.

The threads were pulled taut, his insides buzzing with delight as more forced moans left, the paint softening his muscles, liquifying them for easier shifting as his stocky body turned waifish, his hands panicking as they patted the impossible thinness, curves from an exaggerated portrait now sported on his softened body, the muscles draining as all that shrunken mass was forced out into the hunter's buttocks to his delight and horror.

Like the hoop that had floofed out, his ass was expanding out quickly, toned muscle unable to remain strong amidst such glorious pleasure, his moans now clearly feminine as he paused at the edge of the hidden hallway's entrance. His slow progress was halted, unable to walk as he felt the insides of his ass swell and grapple to flesh that was losing all its imperfections, squeezed tightly as the silk ran up his ass crack. The panties gripped his cheeks and spread them, breaking his hips into a wider stance, forcing his thighs to clamp down over his cock as paint and fat swelled them into succulent softness, a great bout of cum finally sloshing out with an ecstatic shriek that was almost a wail.

His seed came out thickened and cream colored, another hue added to the red tapestry his body had become, white flecks joining the skirt as other slivers sewed up higher, four successive releases draining the hunter as his balls felt deflated, his cock still hard and more aroused than ever as the inner coating only left pure pounding pleasure from the release, no rawness to the successive releases. Each orgasm was bequeathed with a cream bow popping from his dress's bodice, a turning of the screw as some breathing room was given at the top of the bodice, his chest heaving for air between the tightness in his waist and the sweaty screams of pleasure still tumbling from his open mouth. His legs were covered in releases, slivers traveling to further thicken his thighs, others molding to his calves, rounding them, adding to central bulge of their backs as more tightened into cream stockings, connecting into a proper garter belt whose straps wrapped around and dug into his shoulders.

While the pressure built up top, his legs finished their final contortions, brittle pops accompanying his shrinking feet, horror flaring up through the haze of pleasure as the hunter realized with the final slivering of his toes, his dainty soles covered in elegant mules slippers, he could no longer control his gait, each step taking him to a final location of which he dreaded and yearned for, knowing it would at least release him from this terrible ecstasy. The gloves and long sleeves compressed around his hands, the waxy paint forming oversized molds of a woman's hands and arms before compressing. Like the rest, the bones broke beautifully, elegance causing his cock to fire hot air pockets of nothing, his balls continuing to decompress and shrivel as even the air inside was forced out. It was a dizzying high of pleasure, paint splitting apart to reveal regal hands and arms, elegantly sculpted into the height of womanhood and flexing against his will to dainty poses.

The peeled open cloth became slashings to the ruffles, pearls and other thick cloth opening into oversized, flowery sleeves. As his legs dragged the helpless hunter through a ballroom he tried to get the attention of a dagger widow, moaning as they ignored him, some even stepping out of his way as he walked deeper into the mansion. His lumbering gait had become graceful, as if every step was part of a ballroom dance, sluggishly performed underwater as he creeped towards doom. The garter belt was fully strangling his frame now, working with the dress to pull in his male broadness, smooth away those jagged edges and pull in his shoulders. It accomplished it as easily as one would tailor a dress, the hunter moaning as his frame finished its slide into elegant womanhood, his sloped shoulders and lowered collarbone jutting out his accented chest as his moans became a continuous cry of forced pleasure.

It was surging into his chest, paint, flesh, cartilage, all of it blended into a churning mass that puffed up his bare nipples, swelling them with lust, with ducts, with alien pleasure as his cock puffed away. The hunter could feel viscerally how each release was ravaging his manhood, his testicles tight to his body, trapped in a deflated scrotum that throbbed, a dry wheeze whistling through his cock. There was no need to grope his building bosom, the dress and undergarments tweaking his nipples, pulling at the mounting fat, slapping the swelling flesh as the tightness of the dress made his newfound bustiness puff out, as if his body was forcing him to regale the world in his busty beauty. Each globe was its own world of pleasure, a breaking point finally huffing out as two dry FLLPS sent the hunter's mind reeling, spasms running through his groin as he was helpless to stop both balls from slipping inside out, paint moistening the inverted lumps before swelling his dried scrotum into split open lips, red liquid dribbling out as his cock limped between wet pussy lips.

The softened cock was no less sensitive, springy and jostling about with every step as it began to dribble out its own mass, the shaft sliding against moistened pussy lips and walls, slowly dragging itself into his body. It was beyond earthly pleasure, any joy as a male eclipsed by the roaring, endless void of female ecstasy. The hunter thought that nothing could possibly tear his mind away from each searing throb that dragged his cock inwards, the inner paint beginning to spread his thin slit wider. That was when he saw it, the heart of the manor, the place his body had always been leading him to, the end of this torturous ecstasy and likely his mind.

At first he was confused, a hall of paintings around him, filled with countless women from bygone eras, a sea of blank canvases between them, yet what he was stepping towards looked more like a mirror. It was only as he drew closer did he realized with horror that it was a blank canvas, the paint shifting to match his movements, his eyes shutting closed to try and ignore whatever black magic awaited him. It was a useless attempt, the hunter feeling his lashes grow and flutter, the jelly of his eyes molded by paint as red pupiled beauties demanded to be seen, forcing his eyes to watch as the painted replica of his face soon shifted to a great beauty, his moans finally matched by an equally arousing visage. Each facial tweak sent paint boiling into his mind, the hunter finding the manor alive with whispers, secrets, forbidden knowledge.

It was making him a part of it, a part of the horrors, the unspeakable darkness, the demented desires that had shaped it into what it was. He didn't want to know, his mind begging for ignorance as dark horrors tore at his mind, his moans now sustained screams as thick red goop poured from his cock. The universe was shredding his sanity, mashing the threads into red slop that quickly poured from his shrinking cock, each pulse another maddening insight into the manor, a delectable dive into the eldritch horrors that ruled him. There was no way to make it stop, each terrible truth slamming into his cock, fucking his mind, his body, dark tentacles of mental stress jamming into his widened cock, corrupting his essence, tearing at the otherworldly powers that made him a hunter. There was one final tug at his cock, the hunter's mouth shutting as his ecstatic shriek wasn't even allowed to ring out, posing for the picture as her cock was dragged into the abyss, a moist pop causing a muffled wail to explode as her pussy fucked her insane.

Red drained out her nethers, the former hunter utterly broken and defiled, giving in to the terrible secrets as she broke free from the cycle of the hunt, moaning hysterically as she grabbed at her head, pulling as more and more knowledge overwhelmed her mind. With each red release, her color drained, the dress turning greyer, her skin white and her maddened tugging was reaching a feverish toll, her neck muscles flaring as more and more pressure pulled at her chin. As the last of her color pumped out between her thighs, the madness stabbed into her, manicured nails sharpened to daggers, digging into bloodless flesh as she gouged her neck out, her head tearing free as thick paint spurted out, her hands gripping the tight bun of her hair as her detached head wailed into the night, her body hot and needy as the ritual was complete.

Undeath was an unending constant fire in her loins, the orgasms stopping but the built up lust there kept at impossibly deep levels, the new bound widow doing her first pace through the castle, desperate to find something living to kill. Killing was one of the only ways to satisfy the beast that had done this to the residents, a glorious orgasm accompanying each kill, but nothing compared to the sweet final release of conversion, these desires replacing all other goals, a map scrap slipping from her immaterial form as it was pulled away by the wind, ready to land at the feet of the manor's next victim. It had not lied, her soul stripped from the Hunt, a different one replacing her original prison.The dream had become a nightmare, one in which she would never awake from, never escape. It tortured her, it ravaged her, it thrilled the lost ghost as she roamed the secret halls of Cainhurst, her screams of madness and ecstasy mixing with the others until she was but another doomed soul, endlessly wandering their castle, and hungry for the next victim to join their eternal ecstasy.