Chapter 13 #2
This is a place where forbidden desires are supposed to be fulfilled, sexual or not.
Every kink, every single thing that brings pleasure, in any shape or form, is accepted.
Actions that the rest of the world would catalog as barbaric and worthy of jail time, are considered normal here.
A psychotic heaven. The only rule is not to kill—or better say, don’t kill the personnel—but everything else is game.
I take off my jacket and fold it neatly, leaving it by the door.
As soon as the guard leaves she starts to speak, pleading and begging, while dropping to her knees and playing with the zipper of my pants.
“Please punish me.”
This action would have meant nothing just days ago. But now? It’s repulsive. How could she beg so easily when Victoria barely cared if I were present or not? I shove two fingers in her mouth and press down on her tongue until she gags.
“Get on the table.”
Her eyes widened, full of excitement and eager for more.
I start tying her to the table with the ropes, watching her wetness roll down her thighs. Vincent didn’t lie. This bitch is craving pain. This must be her lucky day because I have no problem giving it, but it’s not the type she’s expecting, and this will leave marks.
After all her limbs are tied, I move a lock of hair off her face, bringing it to the side of her head.
I watch her expression, but I can’t see the bitch in front of me.
Her face is replaced by Victoria’s, the same one that made me lose control, that penetrated my skull and has refused to get out.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t rip her from my thoughts.
I circle the table, moving to the corner of the room where my toys for tonight are waiting. There are vibrators, collars, bondage accessories, blades, scalpels, and many other torture instruments that deranged minds would fight over.
I grimace at the idea of using the first part of the items; they are the exact reason for my current mental state.
In fact, I’ll make sure Vincent removes them from any of my future encounters.
Focusing on the other tools, I choose a knife that resembles a dirk, sharp at both edges and a pointed tip that might just make my day better.
I press the long edge to her chest, dragging it down her body. I’m not sure if it’s from excitement or the cold of the blade, but her body jerks, and the way her eyes roll and a moan escapes her, makes me want to end her existence. Azrael, you’ve lost your touch.
Having a primal kink is one thing. Being under the control of a full-on psychopath is different.
I move to her face, bending down over the table until her eyes meet mine: “You’re paying for my little ember’s sins. You might die tonight.”
The shift in the air is almost instant, as her previously excited demeanor turns into pure fear.
“You—you’re not allowed to kill me.” She tries to counter, like this would ever be a reason for me to stop.
“Let’s verify that theory, shall we?”
She doesn’t know that I am the whole reason this place exists. I created it, I created Vincent—subject 139—and I might as well turn her into something new as well. I’m the one that creates the rules here, and if I say she must die, she will.
She whimpers as the first cut slices into her abdomen, carving the skin superficially. Millimeter by millimeter, blood unfurls, and her screams fill the room, louder by the minute.
“She shouldn’t have made me lose control, that’s not what good subjects do.”
Her uncontrollable sobbing doesn’t stop, just pauses every time I remove the blade for a second, interrupting the beautiful melody of desperation that reverberates through the room.
“Keep going, I’ll only make the bleeding worse if you stop showing me how bad it hurts.” I whisper.
Down her side, deeper this time. Her body writhes. I grip her face, forcing her to look at me.
“That’s all she did, provoked me, confronted me, and beat me at my own game.” I tilt my head to the side, trying to read something in her face’s expression. “Now tell me, what should I do with her?”
She shakes her head.
“I don’t know what you—” Wrong answer. I slam my fist into her cheek, and a crack echoes.
“What do you think? Maybe I was too weak?”
I go to the corner, bringing a posture collar back with me.
The collar makes her body stay put in an unnatural position, pinned by the back of her head. She is almost out of breath, but not remotely close enough to release her from this hell. Her screams are nothing more than whispered sobs now, but that’s not important.
“She made me want to kneel, so now I must own her.”
I drag the blade along her torso—engraving her name, letter by letter.
V. I. C. T. O. R. I. A.
I turn her head toward the mirrored wall on the left that lets her see her new tattoo on display.
“Do you think she’ll like that I put her name on your skin? She might actually kill you for it.”
She faints, but it doesn’t matter. It was never about her.
I put the dirk down, take my jacket and leave the room.
“Call a doctor. She’s done here. Pay her what she asks and fire her, nobody is allowed to touch her again,” I say in passing to Vincent. He may not like it, but nobody is allowed to touch her, even if she’s just the pretend Victoria.
“Doctor?”
“Talk.”
“They sent you a message.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“But this one is not like the others. It says, Leave her.”
Well, at least there’s been one interesting piece of news today.
I don’t remember walking through The Place or leaving it for that matter. Just the sound of the door hissing shut behind me. The drive back is a blur, streetlights smearing across the buildings in a grotesque painting. My hands are clean, but my mind isn’t.
At home, the only things I care about are a bottle of whiskey and the recording from the warehouse that I found in Victoria’s room. How did she go from that broken woman to the one that I almost begged to hear moaning?
One pour. Then another. Then enough to empty the entire bottle. I want silence. I want oblivion. And I want to know how to fucking destroy my little dying ember.
But all I get is her voice, her moans, the image of her body. The way she never begged, yet I offered myself without hesitation.
I drink until the world tilts, until my body sinks into the leather chair. My phone is in my hands before I even realize I’m typing something, perhaps a message. But I’m not in control anymore. And maybe that’s what she wanted all along.