38. Leandra #3
It’s too big, too rough, too wrong, and my body clenches against the invasion, trying to force it out but he only pushes harder. He only drives it deeper, and I am being split open, I am being hollowed out, I am being destroyed.
“Konstantine,” I sob, “please, please, it hurts, please stop, I’m begging you, please…”
“Shh,” he says, and his voice is so gentle, so full of love.
The colours around him are black now, completely black, an absence of light that consumes everything it touches.
“Shh, my darling. The pain is sacred. The pain is the doorway. Let it open you, let it prepare you. Let it make you ready for her.”
He’s fucking me with her bone. Oh god.
I want to die. I want to die now and just end this.
The thought cuts through the haze of pain and horror with terrible clarity. He is fucking me with the femur of his dead wife, and he is chanting. He is weeping with joy, and I am being unmade. I am being erased, I am being turned into a vessel for a ghost.
And the worst part, the part that makes me want to vomit, the part that makes me want to tear off my own skin and escape this body that has never truly been my own, the worst part is what my body does in response.
I have spent so long being moulded into something that responds to sexual touch whether I want it to or not.
Ezekiel and Isaac saw to that. They broke me and rebuilt me and broke me again, and now my body doesn’t know the difference between violation and pleasure, doesn’t know how to distinguish between pain and ecstasy, doesn’t belong to me anymore.
I feel myself getting wet, can feel my body heating in a way that is horrific, shameful, and disgusting.
The horror of it is almost worse than the bone inside me. I am being violated with the remains of a dead woman, and my traitorous body is responding, lubricating . Preparing itself for more, more, more.
My hips are moving. I can feel them moving with small, involuntary thrusts that match the rhythm of Konstantine’s relentless assault.
My breath is coming faster, and it’s not just from fear.
My heart is pounding with something that feels horribly, disgustingly like arousal.
I hate myself, I hate this body. I hate the men who made me this way, and I hate Konstantine for using it against me. I hate Ines for dying and leaving me to take her place.
“Yes,” Konstantine moans, and his hips are moving now, grinding against the altar.
I realize with a fresh wave of revulsion that he’s aroused, that he’s getting pleasure from this too.
“Yes, my love, I can feel her coming through. I can feel her stirring. You’re opening for her, aren’t you?
You’re becoming her vessel, you’re becoming her. ”
He’s touching himself. One hand is still forcing that bone into me but the other, the other he is using to pleasure himself. I can see his cock, I can hear his groans as he runs his hand up and down.
The bone plunges deeper, and I feel something tear inside me. The pain is white-hot, blinding, everything and nothing all at once. Blood trickles down my thighs. I can feel it, warm and wet against my skin, pooling on the cold stone beneath me.
And still my body responds, still my hips rise to meet the bone.
Still my breath comes in gasps that could be mistaken for passion.
My muscles clench and release around the object inside me, and I know.
I know with a certainty that makes me want to die that my body is building toward something, that the pressure is coiling in my belly, that my conditioned flesh is going to betray me one final time.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please, please, please.”
Konstantine clambers onto the altar, straddling my face.
The mask of Ines’s face has started to slide, the moisture from my tears and sweat loosening whatever grip it had on my skin.
He’s quick to press it back into place and then he’s pulling those rancid lips apart, forcing his cock between them and shoving it down my throat while I gag.
“You are her,” he breathes. “You are my Ines. My wife, my love. My eternal bride.”
The bone twists inside me, and the pressure breaks. My body convulses, and I can no longer hold it back, can no longer stop it’s devastating conclusion.
The orgasm is horrible. It’s violation made flesh, despair made sensation.
It tears through me like a blade, leaving nothing but shame and self-loathing in its wake.
My back arches off the altar, and behind his cock I let out a muffled scream that’s half pleasure and half agony.
The colours in my vision explode into a kaleidoscope of filth; brown, yellow, green and grey. The colours of rot, decay, and death.
As I slump back, as I give in entirely to my shame, I realise Konstantine is laughing. Or crying. Or both.
He fucks my throat one last time and then he comes with a groan while his come mixes with all that dried up bone paste coating my tongue.
“Welcome home, my love,” Konstantine whispers into my hair. “Welcome home at last.”