Page 1 of Taming Achilles

Prologue

Pippa

20 years ago

“Don’t hold it like that!” My instructor said, adjusting the skinning knife in my hand. “You’re not in a bar fight. You’re making art.”

What kind of twisted art was this?

The man was tied to a metal chair, naked, his cock limply hanging between his spread legs. His bladder released in a moment of terror, creating a river that cascaded down the slope. It pooled around him until it found the opening of the drain.

There was something about this man I hated, but I didn’t know why. I had good instincts. Some might call it intuition. It was a sort of premonition that crackled in the air. I knew that I would do great harm to this man. And I would enjoy it.

“Pegasus.” He was calling me by a code name. One he told me to get used to, as though it was my christened name. “What are the most sensitive parts of the body?”

“The tongue, lips, face and fingertips.” I could recite these things in my sleep.

“And what parts of those would we not want to damage?” He meant which parts of the body do we not want to hurt during interrogation.

“Lips and tongue.”

“Why?”

“Because we want them to speak clearly.” I said, trying to keep any upward inflection from my voice. He wouldn’t want me to sound weak.

“Should we carve the face?” These were all trick questions. A morbid Socratic method that shouldn’t be appropriate for a seventeen year old. I knew that. But, for once, he believed in me. I couldn’t let him down now. If I did, he’d never give me another chance.

“No,” I answered, again forcing a downward inflection on my voice. “Not at first. We may want him to use his senses to identify something.”

“Good,” my father almost looked proud for a moment, his eyes gleamed with excitement. “What does that leave?”

“The fingertips.” I looked at the knife in my hand.

“Go on then.” He ordered.

Come on, Pip. You can do this.

I could make him squirm. I could hurt this man. I had to. I couldn’t fail. Not when he was my teacher, and it was the most attention he’d ever given me.

I placed the edge of the blade beneath his fingernail into the soft padding. The victim started shaking. The chair rattled against the stone floor.

“Hello there.” I tried to sound cool. Confident. Though I was terrified.

“This is not a great technique, Pegasus.” My instructor let out a loud yawn. “You need to build some rapport, give him hope that he can turn you to become his advocate if he just gives you the information you need.”

I was getting to that. I thought bitterly.

I pushed the blade slowly, so very slowly, into the padded flesh under his nail. He winced, then gritted his teeth. I pushed further, hearing the wet, sickening cracks of nails separating from skin.

“Are you a screamer?” I asked, as the man grunted at the pain, but said nothing. “I’ve heard that some people grit their teeth and never make a sound. Others scream to high heavens. You can do either, if you wish. I’m just curious what you’ll choose.”

I glanced briefly at my instructor who gave the smallest of sadistic smiles. I was doing something right in his eyes.

I went to another nail and did the same, slow peeling process. His mouth opened wide, I could see his molars as he let out a horrific scream.

“Maybe you want to be the silent type,” I asked calmly, as if I was giving him a manicure. “But aren’t?”

I went to another fingernail and as the blade went in, he blurted out, “Stop! Please!”

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