Page 23 of Deviant

One by onethey walk in. Twelve women, three men. All their faces are staring down at the floor, their shoulders are hunched over, everyone looks as though they’re trying to make themselves invisible. Only, that’s not the purpose of them being here.

I tilt my head, staring at the nearest woman. She’s got a thick, woolly, floor length cardigan wrapped tightly around her body like it’s a shield. Her black hair is a mess of tangles and the way she’s shaking tells me all I need to know about her state of mind. But she barely looks old enough to be out of training bras, what could she have possibly done to warrant such a punishment? It’s not my place to question. No, I’m the executioner, not the jury. I know my lane and I’m more than happy to stay in it.

Beside me, Conrad tuts. “Nothing of note.” he says, loud enough for me to hear, with that usual boredom dripping from his voice.

“How can you tell when they’re all so covered?” I reply, clicking my fingers and the guards around the room spring into action, yanking, clawing, tearing off fabric as our new merchandise scream and try to fight.

Within seconds, we have an entirely different view before us. One far more entertaining. Breasts and cunts are hastily covered by hands. Whimpers fill the room. Two of the men don’t even bother to hide their dicks, they just stand there, glaring.

They’ve all been tested already, had their blood taken. Those who have infections, diseases, STI’s, are quarantined until they’re clean. The Lords and Ladies who come here, who visit and play, expect a certain level of service, they’d hardly thank me if they left with an infection or worse.

I step forward, clearing my throat, and all those scared little eyes snap to me.

“Welcome to Oblivion.” I say.

A few of them react to that. One woman starts crying, shaking her head, as if this is all a bad nightmare and if she tries hard enough, she’ll wake herself up.

I don’t care for their hysterics, they’ll have time to make peace with this. I’m kind enough to grant them a week of training before my customers can have their pick. Besides, most of them are only here for a few months, six at best. They’ll take their punishment, they’ll serve their time and then they’ll return to their nice little lives, hopefully with a lesson or two learnt in the process.

But the man at the end, my lips quirk as I stare at him. He was once like me, a big name, a man to watch, before his big fuckup put him out of God’s favour and he ended up here.

“How far you’ve fallen.” I murmur.

He does me the courtesy of flinching and then he’s handed his mask. Red.

He looks back at me, his eyes narrowing, and I can see he’s already contemplating his escape. But there is none from Oblivion, that’s the point.

You’re sent here to serve, sent here to learn.

You leave when your sentence is done and not before.

But this man here, he has no limit. He has no end. He’ll stay here, he’ll be used, abused, fucked within an inch of his life, and forced to do all number of unspeakable things until he’s no longer fit for purpose. And when that happens it’ll get even worse, he’ll go to the lower levels, the ones where they don’t crave sex, where they crave blood and pain.

And he’ll bleed for them, alright. He’ll bleed, and he’ll cry, and he’ll beg for mercy just like they all do.

“A life sentence,” Conrad says, “Guess I’ll know how that feels soon...”

I roll my eyes, turning my attention back to my brother. “Don’t be so dramatic.” I sigh. “Anyone of these people would happily switch position with you.”

“They can do it. Perhaps it would be better to be here, with my arsehole fucked for eternity than be forced to marry…”

“You’re thirty-eight.” I state, growing irritated. “High time you were married, and high time you produced an heir, not just for yourself but for me, for our family.”

Conrad glares at me. “Make your own heirs. I’m not your stud you can rent out.”

“I found you a good bride. A pretty bride. A young one too.” I add. It could have been so much worse. In many ways he should be thanking me for landing such a prize.

He scowls like none of those things matter.

“Not to mention, she’s rich. Joining our two families will strengthen your position.”

“I’m not worried about my position.” Conrad mutters.

“You should be.” He’s a reaper, he’s a Blake, and yet he has no accolades, no merits, the man is the epitome of a rich playboy, and such a reputation will not bode well with the Brethren. We both know he needs to settle down, he needs to behave, present himself as a respectable member of society, even if he does continue to play in private.

“She’s a bitch. A stuck up, self-centred…”

“I don’t give a shit.” I cut across him. “You will marry her, you will fuck her, you will make sure she pops out a son or two and then, if she’s still giving you a headache you can lock her away and be done with it.”

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