Page 26 of Of Heathens & Havoc

A murmur goes up, and the one holding me rolls his fingers slightly, pinching my inflamed, angry bud for the admiration of the crowd. The humiliation makes me crumple in on myself, but he supports my weight, spreading my lips for all to see the most shameful, intimate part of me as the hellhound pulls my panties over my bare feet and tucks them into his pocket. Sobs choke my throat, and I try to pull my arms down, but they’re still bound behind my tormentor’s head as he displays me for the others.

“Please,” I beg. “Let me go!”

The Hellhound in the wolf mask kneels, taking my knee and lifting it to one side.

“No,” I scream, trying to fight with my shaking legs.

But they’re too strong. The one who took my underwear and stripped them over my feet does the same on the other side, and they hold my knees wide, exposing me even further. I shriek and plead, but they stay silent. The crowd of faceless, masked men, most of them in goggles, and dead-eyed sheep stare at me like hellish statues as the man holding me brings me into a hell of his own design.

He possesses my body like a demon of depravity, his fingers stroking through my folds, tugging at them, spreading my lips wide and then pinching them together. His hot, experienced touch makes me quake and whimper, distracting me from the crowd. Arousal courses down my slit, and my core clenches greedily, wanting to be filled so badly I can’t think of anything else. And finally, I know that this is why I didn’t run. I knew what Heath would do if he found me, and though this is worse than having that virile part of him stabbing into me in the darkness, I can’t deny the truth any longer.

He thought he would ruin me tonight, but the truth is, I’m already steeped in sin. I’m already as depraved as they are. I can’t beat them at their own game because I’m no different than they are. No matter what I do, even if I never touched myself in my life, I’m already condemned. If I wasn’t, the heat pulsing inside me, the cries echoing in the dirt tunnel of this dark hell, wouldn’t be from pleasure as much as pain.

I beg for mercy, but just as Heath promised, they show me none. They stare at my open sex, watching it dripping with helpless need, watching my shame grow as a stranger defiles me in this horrifying way, watching my flesh swell with blood and arousal even as I plead for him to stop with every pulling stroke of my mangled flesh.

Finally, I’m shaking so hard they can hardly hold me, and the only sound is the rapid breathing of the crowd and my own sobs for them to stop. Suddenly, the man holding me clampshis two fingers around my clit, but this time he doesn’t pull. He begins to stroke beside it with this thumb. The new sensation makes the sobs tearing from me rise to a crescendo that’s half scream, half helpless plea.

Then his mouth presses to the side of my mask, and he speaks, the single word he’s said since telling me to be quiet before he touched me.

“Come,” he commands in my ear.

I don’t know where we’re going, but his voice is deep and soft, like hot velvet, and it rushes through my body in a flood of sin-soaked, dark heat. It pours into my abused, throbbing flesh, and suddenly, I can’t fight it anymore. He gives a vicious squeeze, and the last thread of control snaps.

Pleasure slams into me, and I throw back my head and scream, my hips jerking against his hand in helpless gyrations. A spray of hot liquid shoots from my sex and splatters over the back of the kneeling man’s phone and over his hand.

I want to die of shame and shock. Everything goes still. The only sound is my frantic cries as my body shakes wildly, as if gripped in the throes of some violent, erotic seizure.

My savior’s fingers slip over my slick bud, clamping down on it again. I shriek and writhe, my hips jerking forward as he holds my clit pinned so tightly the pain overtakes the pleasure. I think he’s warning me to stop, but I can’t. I scream and buck, but he only holds me tighter, his hand moving up from my middle and clamping around my throat, tightening on the sides and cutting off my blood flow until my vision goes black.

Still, my body won’t stop. Spasms roll through me like shockwaves, and I wonder distantly if I’m dying, the punishment for giving in to the sin of pleasure from a dark stranger’s damning touch. It lasts so long, for minutes on end, that I think it’ll never end. Tears pour down my face, wordless sobs tearing from me over and over, but still my body convulses and shakes.

At last, after minutes and minutes pass, the sounds fade in my throat and my body is left hanging limply in his arms.

For a moment, there’s only my ragged, sobbing breaths, and his hot ones in my ear, and the smell of my own sin, and dirt, and sweat.

At last I take in the rest of the group, all of them silently witnessing this unholy act, the ungodly heights of pleasure I have descended from, like demons waiting at the mouth of hell to welcome me to their midst.

“You have been baptized in the holy waters of her sacred cunt,” says the smooth, rich voice behind me.

“As have I,” says the man on the left of the one with the light. He holds out his arms, where splatters of wetness mark the dark fabric from whatever squirted out of me.

My shame burns like a thousand fires of hell. I don’t know how it hasn’t incinerated my body, how it’s satisfied with rending my soul to shreds.

“I as well,” says the man on the right, in the hellhound mask.

This time, horror rolls through me when I recognize the familiar rough edge of my brother’s voice. He wipes his mask and holds out his hand to show droplets of my release glistening on his skin. My soul dies a little inside me when a pulse grips the ache still throbbing deep inside me.

“This lamb has been delivered,” says the man holding me, and he reaches up, pulling his mask back over his face before he undoes the cincture from his belt and lowers my arms from around his neck, dropping my nightgown over the desecrated flesh of my cheapened, craven sex.

“Blessed be the lamb of god,” comes a chorus of voices from the masked, soulless crowd.

“You three have been anointed, chosen by god to take the first taste of the sacred flesh of our virgin,” says the one holding me. “Let us honor her sacrifice on the altar.”

eleven

The Saint

I follow the Master back to the sanctuary, an edge of unease nagging at the corner of my mind. There’s something unsettling about this sacrificial lamb, something about the way she clings to the neck of the man carrying her in the crook of his arm. Both her arms hug his neck, and she buries her face in his chest, as if seeking comfort and intimacy from the man who just gave her such pleasure. Definitely a virgin, like he said.

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