Short Story: "The Sanguanini Sisters"

As any of you who have followed my work here already know, I don't so much consider myself a writer as a chronicler of the Atrocissimus, a collector of the dark stories from that evil realm. However, that doesn't mean that I, your humble servant dedicated to shining the light on this twisted world, don't occasionally like to write an original story that has nothing at all to do with the Atrocissimus. Even one burdened with so much dread knowledge as I sometimes likes to be creative, after all.

So here I now offer you up an original horror story. I have several such short stories which I will eventually gather together and publish, but for now, please do enjoy your visit with the Sanguanini Sisters...if you survive, that is.

The Sanguanini Sisters

Dear Billy,                                                                                                    9/20/43

Sorry I haven’t been able to write to you much lately. The Germans and Italians have been putting up one hell of a defense and these damn mountains make it easy for the bastards to hide in. No matter. We’ll break them in time.

I’m sending you something I found in the ruins of an old castle we came upon near Salerno while making our way north from Sicily. No, I’m sorry, it’s not a Lugar like you wanted, but as soon as I can take one off a dead Kraut I will, I promise. It’s a diary I found in the basement – I mean, that’s where it was, it could have been anywhere and been blown there when the building got hit – and it looks like it was written by some rich, noble guy named Walter Dixon from the 1880s.

Why did I bother to keep an old book, you might be asking? Well, let’s just say it’s not your average diary! Just read a little of it and you’ll see what I mean. Whatever you do, though, keep it away from Ma and Pop, especially Ma. She’d freak out if she saw what was in it.

The last couple pages, though…I don’t know, little brother. They’re weird. I mean, really weird. I can’t explain what this Dixon was talking about or what was happening to him. It’s just…bizarre. Drugs, maybe? Read it and you’ll see what I mean.

Anyway, I need to wrap up. Looks like we’ll be moving out soon, and I want to get this book in the mail. Listen, Billy, please don’t feel bad for being F4. You don’t want to be over here. You don’t want to be in this war. Trust me. This shitshow is a nightmare you can’t wake up from, so be thankful your ticker isn’t working quite right. I hope to be home very soon. Love to you all!

Tom

 

Monday, May 16, 1881

Today is a great day! I finally received an invitation to the Sanguanini sisters’ annual midsummer orgy. As you well know I’ve longed for such an invitation from them for years, and now that I’d finally gotten one, my heart is already racing with anticipated delights. 

It was with a great hunger that I beheld the invitation I feared I may never get. I licked my lips hungrily as I held the coveted black invitation with golden letters on it in my hands, with their unique emblem in red. These invitations are infamous all throughout Europe…at least in that unique slice of the continent that isn’t afraid to explore all the delights to be found via the human body and to revel in the different ways it might be used for exquisite pleasures.

But even amongst this small crowd of which I am a member – indeed, in my own ways, a leader! – there are none who surpass the primal lust and sheer wicked audacity of the Sanguaninis. Their skill at all things sexual, as well as their insatiable lust, are legendary.

Which is a delicious development for me since I’ve recently grown bored. I’ve been with every whore, washerwoman, and scullery maid in London. I’ve fucked my way through the villages around our country estate. I’ve explored the eastern delights to be found in India, China, and Japan. Hell, I even desecrated an altar by fucking a nun bent over one simply for the wicked joy of having done something so outrageous. Yet, nonetheless, nothing seems to satisfy me as it did when I was younger. My lust has abated none at all, despite my approaching 40 years of age, yet here I am, bored with most everything available.

And then, just as I was considering what new and outrageous pleasures I might be able to find, this glorious black invitation arrived. Oh, glory day, I am delivered! I believe all my pleasures will be satisfied, and I will never want for anything again.

One interesting note was found at the bottom of the invitation. Past all the usual things, such as where it is, when it is, what to bring, etc., there is a curious addendum stating that the recipient of the invitation is to keep this information strictly confidential, and that failure to do so would nullify it. 

That’s rather odd, don’t you think?

No matter! If the sisters want me to keep this invitation confidential, then I most assuredly will. I will take this secret with me to the grave if that’s what they want. There is nothing on this wretched earth that will make me lose this opportunity for such carnal joys!

I will most likely not be so active in the next month as I usually am in my diary. This is, in part, due to the fact that now I know I have the taste of the Sanguaninis all but on my tongue, I’m more randy than even normal, and will likely be using the ladies at Madame Toussaint’s house quite a bit, and partly because I need to plan my wardrobe carefully!

 

Friday, May 20, 1881

Just as I supposed, I’ve been utilizing Madame Toussaint’s services daily – sometimes twice daily, one day thrice! – and haven’t been able to write much. However, one shocking thing occurred last night there that I felt compelled to document.

This was after the transaction had been concluded and I was sitting in the smoking-room chatting with several other gentlemen, discussing the events of the day, enjoying our cigars and pipes, etc. Burton was there, as was Worthington and Ashbee, and a few other of the regular chaps I know. There was a handful I’d never seen before. A typical Friday night amongst our little tribe.

As we are sitting there chatting, a flustered, sweaty, and very satisfied Anderson joined us there. He had apparently just enjoyed a new addition from the American south and was quite pleased with her talents.

At any rate, we sit there a spell, chatting still, when Anderson suddenly said, “Well, gents, as lovely as the girls here are, just earlier this week I was lucky enough to receive one of these,” as he pulled out of his coat pocket a black invitation with gold lettering. I, of course, immediately recognized it. I almost exclaimed about the warning to keep it secret but held my tongue as I recognized that would nullify my invitation as well. I instead played ignorant.

“What might that be, my good man?” I asked.

“This,” Anderson said smugly, “is none other than one of the coveted invitations to the Sanguanini sisters’ annual sexual bacchanalia.” A hush fell across the room as each man jealously gazed upon its ebony beauty, knowing the experiences that black piece of parchment opened for Anderson.

After getting their wits back about them, the lot began to speak as of one. Worthington said, “That is quite a treasure you have there, old boy. I might say I’m rather a bit envious of you.”

“I’m more than just a bit envious,” I said, still playing dumb.

“I’ve been all over the world and have documented every form of sexual enjoyment to be found, and not even I have received one of those,” said Burton. “I wish you luck, my good man.”

“Thank you all, gents,” Anderson said, either unaware or ignoring the fact that he’d nullified his invitation. “I will be certain to document every detail for you, and I’ll allow you to read my notes upon my return.” 

Perhaps he just assumed there could be no way two mysterious sisters who lived in Italy could know what was being said in London at that moment. Perhaps he didn’t care. Perhaps Anderson was too stupid to realize what he’d done. Regardless, I took no chances and kept the secret of my invitation to myself.

I did agree, however, that documenting the events of this several-day fete was an excellent idea and set myself upon doing so. I will also sketch drawings of my experiences, as I do always.

 

Saturday, May 21, 1881

One month until the event!

Today was otherwise another evening spent at Toussaint’s. I swear that woman could purchase herself a noble’s estate with the amount of money I’ve given for her ladies’ services.

One thing of great interest, though: As I entered, I noted a figure, sitting in the smoking-room, head in his hands. He looked disheveled and lugubrious beyond all measure. Curious, I approached the figure slowly in an attempt to ascertain what might be occurring.

I was shocked to see Anderson, his face pale, his eyes red with tears, a letter on the floor before him.

“Anderson?” I asked, quite confused. “Whatever is the matter, old boy?”

He didn’t respond. He merely continued to stare downward at the floor, looking for all the world as if he’d just lost his entire fortune. When he didn’t respond for some twenty seconds, I nudged him with my walking stick and again called his name, more sternly this time.

“My good man!” I said. “What is the matter with you?”

He now lifted his head, appearing almost drunk or exhausted. The look of loss was etched deeply onto his face.

“Dixon,” he said, as if finally coming to his senses and recognizing me. “Dixon. It’s you.”

“Yes, of course, it’s me. Why are you like this? Whatever has happened to you, old boy?”

“They found out,” he said weakly. “I don’t know how they found out, but they did. The sisters found out what I’d done…” he trailed off, his head sliding back down into his hands.

Impatient with his frailty, I picked up the note before him and saw it was inscribed with the Sanguanini emblem. The perfumed message read very simply, just a few short words, yet I could understand why the blow would strike so hard.

 

You have violated our simple rules. You told others of your invitation, and so you will therefore never be welcomed to Castello Sanguanini.

Goodbye.

Giovanna and Lucrezia Sanguanini.

 

I thanked my lucky stars for having kept my invitation to myself!

I was, however, very curious about this, and so said, “My good man, how did this happen? You only told us last night about the invitation. How could they possibly have heard about it and gotten the post to you this quickly?”

“It wasn’t a post,” he said, still hanging his head. “One of their men delivered it.”

I pressed further, and after some prompting, he told me that just earlier he’d gotten done with that delight from last night when Madame Toussaint said there was a man at the door with a message for him. Anderson said he was confused as there was no one who knew he was at this establishment, but he assumed it was just one of the chaps here.

At the door he found a man, in a tuxedo, waistcoat, cape, and top hot, who also wore a blank white mask over his face. The Sanguanini emblem was on the forehead of the mask, and without saying a word he handed over the message, bowed, then slowly walked away. Anderson watched as the man was quickly swallowed up in the fog, then returned to the smoking-room to open the envelope.

There was little I could do to comfort him, so instead, I chose my girl for the night and started my work with her. I did, however, keep the note. The odor of the sisters’ perfume was too delicious for me to do otherwise.

 

Sunday, May 22, 1881

Such a sad day.

I knew, of course, Anderson was devastated with losing his invitation, but I certainly never believed he could do what he did. How does a man, especially a man of such high social status and expectation, regardless of his recent losses or struggles, cut his lovely wife and beautiful children to pieces with his service sabre and then douse himself in pitch to burn himself alive?! I can’t even begin to fathom how such a thing is possible. What was he thinking? Why, oh why, did he do such a thing?

Anderson was a good chap, even if he did go quite mad in the end. Their gorgeous mansion was destroyed in the subsequent fire, adding another layer of tragedy to this story.

One lingering mystery continues to vex me greatly: How did they know? How did they find out, and how did they get their man to London so quickly?

I find that question to be somewhat discomfiting.

My only comfort as I write this is the sisters’ sweetly perfumed letter. It somehow evokes images in my mind that are beyond arousing, ones that lead me steadily away from any disturbing or vexatious thoughts. I’ve already been to Madame Toussaint’s once today. Perhaps I’d best get a hansom cab and find myself a “lady” in Whitechapel. They always help me take the edge off.

 

Tuesday, May 31, 1881

Passage booked, clothes picked out, bags and trunk are packed. Now if time could just fly along as swiftly as possible, I’d be perfectly delighted! I’m scheduled to leave on the seventh in order to arrive at Castello Sanguanini, in the mountains outside of Salerno, in plenty of time. I don’t want at all to be late to such a luscious affair as this one!

The odor of the sisters clings tenaciously to this parchment from Anderson, and it helps me remain calm. Have I become the equivalent of an opium-eater, locked in their fell dens as they waste away their lives in pursuit of pipe dreams?

Perhaps, but I don’t care. The taste of these delicious twins will be worth everything.

Everything!

 

Tuesday, June 21, 1881

Despite my best-laid plans, everything possible to delay my voyage that could occur did occur. First, the steamer across the Channel had engine issues, whereby the steam was venting and, therefore, our speed was much reduced. Two of the trains I had to take were stopped literally for days due to repairs, and the roads in Italy are utterly atrocious. I kept the letter with me, often deeply breathing in the sisters’ scent to remind me what all this trouble was about.

I arrived only today, and, as I write this just before the scheduled midnight commencement of the erotic activities, am still not aware of how many others there are here.

Allow me to explain.

Much to my surprise, I found there was a hansom waiting for me when I arrived at the station in Salerno. I knew the hansom was from the sisters as it had their distinctive symbol upon its door. One of the Sanguanini men – which was exactly as Anderson had described them, very formal in a crisp tuxedo, silk waistcoat of gleaming white, top hat, plain mask, etc. – was standing next to it, white-gloved hands clasped before him.

“My good man,” I said, approaching him, wiping the sweat from my brow, “how can you stand this awful heat here?”

The man stood there wordlessly, staring at me.

Feeling odd from being stared at and fearing he spoke no English, I said, “My name is Walter Dixon. I’m to be a guest of the Sanguaninis. Are you here to pick me up, old boy? Are you my ride to the castle?”

Rather than speaking, the man instead nodded slowly.

“Ah, jolly good,” I said. “My trunk and other bags are being unloaded from the train now. Do you have porters to help you? They’re really quite heavy, I’m afraid. I may have packed rather a bit too much.”

Rather than answering, or even waiting for me to finish speaking, the man slowly trod his way to the station to collect my bags. I was shocked a moment later to see him returning with my heavy oak trunk being carried on his shoulder and my several other bags clutched tightly in his other hand. This beast of a man was carrying what must have been several stones worth of luggage with no apparent effort, simply walking just as slowly as he ever had.

What struck me the oddest of this, even more so than one chap lifting around fourteen stone of bags, is that this fellow wasn’t at all large. In fact, he was rather skinny, with no apparent muscles worth noting. I suppose they grow them wiry but strong in Italy!

After loading my luggage into the hansom, this chap drove me up a winding, pitted dirt road higher and higher into the mountains. This afforded me a gorgeous view of the plain below, which was indeed lovely. I arrived after some time to Castello Sanguanini, a beautiful but imposing black stone edifice. The Sanguanini home wasn’t a medieval castle, as I had assumed it to be, but rather more of a French chateau of the later Renaissance period.

The driver stopped in front of the long, broad stairs that led to the front doors, and set upon removing my bags just as he had earlier loaded them. I all but ran up the steps, then knocked on the huge doors, my eager anticipation almost too much to bear. I waited, strumming my fingers against my leg impatiently, then again knocked. I was becoming perturbed and was about to begin pounding on the door when it slowly opened, showing another servant dressed just as the previous one had been – including the top hat, something I found rather impolite and odd, given that the chap was inside. 

“I’m Walter Dixon,” I said eagerly, handing the man my calling card. “I’m here at the invitation of the Sanguanini sisters.”

Rather than taking my card, rather than showing me to the sitting room and then later announcing me to the ladies of the house, he merely bowed, then beckoned me in. I, of course, followed, surprised by this behavior that in good old England would be considered quite rude. I suppose things were done differently in Italy.

The man then began to slowly walk up the grand staircase without saying a word to me. I looked around, confused and unsure of myself, but then perceived that the man was showing me my rooms. I followed him as he trudged laboriously up the stairs.

We turned down a long hall with several closed doors, though I could see the door at the end of the hall was ajar. It was to that room we trod, where the man opened the door fully and swept his arm forward, inviting me in.

Before me was a suite worthy of a Renaissance prince, which I believed was exactly what these rooms once were. I walked in, my eyes drawn to the exquisitely carved wooden details all around the room, to the ornate marble fireplace, to the four-poster bed with massive, carved posts that were shaped into a lazy swirl, something like a rope. There was a writing desk (where I now sit) and a table set with wine, cheese, fruit, and meats.

I then saw that, on the bed, was a folded silken dressing gown, a mask like the Sanguanini’s men wore, and a neatly folded letter. I immediately perceived the delicate yet delicious odor of the sisters about the crisp parchment, and eagerly open it. I shall transcribe it exactly as it was written:

 

Mr. Dixon,

It is with great anticipation and delight that we welcome you to Italy and to our home. We are so happy to have you here. We know of your exploits and have long been following your career in the deeper exploration of sexual gratification. So rare it is to find such a kindred spirit, especially one with so wicked a mind and such an insatiable drive.

In you, good sir, we may have met our match. We will see.

There are, as ever, some rules we kindly ask of our guests. First, the mask must be worn at all times when not in your suite of rooms. Some of our guests would be loath to have their identity known, so to provide a more comfortable environment for everyone, we ask that privacy be maintained by use of the masks.

Second, when not engaging in the gratifying scheduled events for the next several days, you are asked to remain in your rooms. After all, this is our home and the building from which we oversee our many businesses, so we can hardly have masked strangers wandering about. If you need writing materials, books, newspapers, cables or letters sent, etc., simply let the butler assigned to you know and it will be provided. You may ring the bell near your bed at any hour of day or night and your butler will immediately respond.

Finally, all meals will be provided to you so that you may eat in the comfort of your rooms. Merely convey your dietary wishes to your butler and he will happily see that your every gustatory desire is fulfilled. We, however, will ensure your sexual desires are equally fulfilled.

Please refer to the enclosed schedule for all planned activities.

Yours very truly,

Giovanna and Lucrezia Sanguanini.

 

I noted that the schedule – or at least that part of the schedule I was interested in – begins tonight at midnight, very shortly. That’s when the orgy is set to start. There is another one tomorrow at midnight, but then I see the next two nights, from midnight until six o’clock in the morning, is what’s called “Personal Time – to be announced.”

I do wonder what that is?

Regardless, the clock is about to strike that glorious witching hour, and I have no intention of being late. I shall end here for now and pick up later after I return. Allons-y!

 

Thursday, June 23, 1881

I have been in a stupor the past two days.

It’s almost like I’ve been drunk, yet no wine has ever been as sweet as those twins, no bourbon has ever burned like they. Their bodies are…unnatural. They can do things that I simply can’t describe, make a man feel things I don’t have the language to express. There are literally no words for what these delicious sisters are able to do.

They are beyond words. They defy explanation. They resist description. I can’t even sketch what happened or what positions we found ourselves, because when I try to remember the events of the past two nights all I can recall is the feeling, the intense emotion and explosive physical reactions these two ladies were capable of creating.

I am addicted to these ladies like none other. Oh, how I wish I could remain here for the rest of my days, to serve these delicious ladies forever. But, sadly, there is no orgy scheduled for tonight, but rather the “personal time” mentioned in the schedule.

Whatever shall I do if I can’t see them tonight? I may go mad, I say! Mad!!

I now understand why Anderson did what he did.

 

Later –

My heart is racing in joy and anticipation! It’s just a few minutes after midnight and I was sitting near the fireplace trying to read, but finding my mind wandering such that I was essentially just staring at the same page for hours.

I then heard a gentle knock on the door.

I opened it, hoping against hope that it would be the sisters, only to find my butler standing there. He held out a small silver platter, on which was a pocket card. I took it, reading the very few words written on it.

 

Personal time: four o’clock. Be prepared.

G&LS

 

My head swam with anticipated pleasures. I now understood what this meant. Rather than engaging in an orgy, the twins were spending the night serving each one of their guests in turn. I’d get to enjoy the immeasurable charms of these two devilishly vivacious and sultry women all to myself for one full hour!

I cannot wait! How can I wait?!

 

Later still –

Am I mad? Have I gone insane?! Surely, I must be quite mad because that’s the only explanation for what I saw. I would prefer madness under the circumstances if that meant my vision was wrong and I did not perceive what I thought I did. Madness would explain much. It does not, however, explain the unending pounding on my door, a door I see will soon give way.

I fear I only have a few minutes to write this before they break down the door to take me away.

I had earlier received the note stating my personal time was scheduled for 4.00 in the morning. I couldn’t wait and paced eagerly until my hour came. I kept checking my pocket watch, but time seemed to have stood still. How could I possibly endure hours and hours of this interminable wait?! It was torture!

With just one hour to go, I heard a muffled knock as the chap in the next room to mine was summoned for his personal time. Dying with curiosity, I gently cracked open the door to my chambers to see what was happening. There I saw a butler tying a red silk scarf across the man’s eyes to act as a blindfold. He wore no mask, but I supposed that, since it would just be the twins and he, there was no need for a mask.

I watched as he was led away to the Sanguanini’s room in which the orgy had previously been held. Jealous and so eager to be there, I gently closed the door as I had no wish to risk expulsion at this point. However, my curiosity and lust to watch what carnal charms might await me, I carefully opened the door and crept down the hallway to the twins’ room.

The door, I was surprised to see, was open just a crack. I inched my way to the small opening, walking as quietly as possible, and knelt in order to watch the spectacle before me. There, I saw the Sanguanini sisters kneeling on a cushion with their backs to me, pleasuring this fellow orally as he stood before them. I noted that the twins seemed to be painted red for some reason, but at that time I could think of nothing but watching these luscious women demonstrate their remarkable skill.

I watched as the Sanguaninis teased this poor fellow, bringing him almost to the edge again and again and again, but then denying him the sweet release I know he ached so painfully to have. This went on for what seemed a terribly long time, until I noticed two butlers who were in the room slowly make their way towards this poor fellow. The butlers, acting as of one mind, suddenly seized the man’s arms and tried to hold him still, but he fought back vigorously, trying desperately to get away.

In his thrashing, the man knocked off one of the butler’s hat, then got hold of his mask and wretched it away from his face. There, much to my disgusted horror, I saw a rotted, putrid face, a skull covered with scraps of green and black skin, its eyes empty sockets, its lips decayed away and showing its teeth like some wild smile, was revealed under the pristine white mask.

Surely, I must be mad! This cannot possibly be happening!

But if it isn’t happening, then who is it pounding my door down?!

When I saw the creature’s face I almost let out a shriek of terror, but clamped a hand over my mouth to prevent that. Even as I did, however, I could feel my eyes bulging from their sockets and the blood draining from my face. But the real horror was just beginning.

Though the man struggled, the butlers – or whatever nightmare fiends they might be – have an unnatural strength, and they got the man under control by snapping his arms like two dried twigs. I heard the loud snaps, followed by the man screeching in agony.

“You are so fortunate,” said one of the twins in her thick Italian accent. “You now are fortunate enough to join our staff of butlers.”

The sisters reclined on their cushion as the butlers holding his snapped arms leaned him forward, so he was almost over the twins. Then, a third butler came up behind the man and began to saw at his throat with a long, curved knife. This poor soul made choking, gurgling sounds as the knife easily sliced deeper and deeper into his neck.

The hot blood squirted all over the sisters as they moaned seductively and rubbed it all over their naked bodies, while the butler killing this poor man grabbed his hair and pulled back until he eventually cut almost all the way through the chap’s neck. The two butlers holding him lifted his body and positioned it to drain all the blood over the sisters, his head flopping around lazily. They laughed happily as they were drenched in this man’s hot, crimson fluid.

My heart pounding, my breath racing, I could stand this dreadful terror no more. With a wild scream of utter panic, I ran now back to my rooms, pulling what furniture I could to block the door. I had originally hoped I might somehow survive, perhaps escape, but now I know I’m doomed.

I heard as the other gents came to their doors to see what was the matter, their confused voices replaced with their own shrieks of horror and terror. I can only assume I ruined the Sanguaninis’ plans and they had to dispatch the others quickly. Or perhaps the remaining men were all dragged back to the sister’s room to be slaughtered en masse.

The door is splintering, and I know I only have but a few minutes left. I know my fate will be that of the other poor chap I saw, to have my throat slit and my blood drained so it might pour all over the twins, those evil witches. I plan to hide this diary in this room somewhere in the hopes that some future fellow might find it and have time to save himself.

But as for me, I am doomed.

I said I had wanted to remain here for the rest of my life, and to serve these sisters for all time. It appears my fondest wishes are about to come true.