Page 40 of The Flesh Remembers
His lips parted, and for a fleeting moment, he was the man she remembered, achingly tender, his gaze softening as he looked at her. But the moment was shattered when his body jerked violently against the restraints, his need overcoming him. The chains rattled, and his groans grew louder, more guttural.
Eleanor let out a soft breath as she glanced down, her eyes widening at the sight of his body straining not just against the chains but with the obvious sign of the intense desire coursing through him. His cock was thick and rigid and it seemed Eleanor’s mere presence so close to him was enough to bring him to a state of full arousal.
From the shadows, Lord Blackwood’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Such devotion,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery and admiration. “He’s bound for her, but her presence alone won’t sate him.”
Eleanor spun to face him, anger flaring in her eyes. “What are you saying?”
Blackwood stepped forward, his presence a suffocating mix of power and malice. “If you truly wish to calm the beast inside him, Dr. Ashcroft, you’ll have to give him what he craves. Completely.”
Her eyes widened, horror and arousal warring within her. “You can’t mean involving others in this mad–”
“Oh, but I do,” Blackwood interrupted, a slow smile forming. “And what a wondrous, sacred depravity it shall be.”
Excerpt from the journal of Lord Alastair Blackwood
Things are progressing as hoped. The subject, James Sinclair, lives, though by all accounts, he is not quite as he was in life. However, this is irrelevant to the process, as some changes are expected and unavoidable. The process is complex and puts a significant strain on the body, which death itself has strained beyond comprehension.
Eleanor continues to do her duty, although I wonder if she will give me problems later on. She is fiercely protective of the subject but seems equally horrified at the changes within him. I did not advise her of the changes, but had she known the risks, I could not have guaranteed she would willingly agree, and she is an integral part of this process. The guilt, fear, lust, passion, and love she feels for him are necessary sacrifices to sustain his lifeforce.
I did not advise her of subject A or the project we attempted three years ago. There was no reason to go into those details. They would not be helpful to the project at hand. We have learned so much in the past three years since that disaster. Eleanor is clever, and I am sure she doesn't trust me, but I have no reason to believe she will discover anything about subject A or what was done in that case. I will advise some attendants to keep her away from the east wing, just in case.
We are progressing to the next phase of the process. I know Fairfax despises the rituals, but they are necessary, and he knows it. He will do as ordered, knowing he cannot succeed independently. I own this property and all the equipment, so he would be out with nothing except that pretty little nurse of his, and I think she only has eyes for Dr. Ashcroft.
Tomorrow night will be one of our most sacred and explicit rites. The energy created by this ceremony should surely be sufficient to bring the subject fully back and restore him to his previous state. That should make Eleanor happy. And then we can move on to what comes next in the process.
A Swirl of Flesh and Fervor
Dusk bled into darkness over the clinic’s looming spires, yet the building bristled with unearthly life. Whispered rumours had circulated for days: Lord Blackwood invited more than the usual initiates, an entire flock of outsiders, each lured by the promise of forbiddenindulgence and a glimpse of necromantic wonders. The final hour had arrived, heralding a lavish and debauched gathering unlike anything the clinic’s corridors had witnessed before.
Eleanor, exhausted from nights of half-sleep and twisted erotic ceremonies, stood at an upper balcony that overlooked the main foyer, watching a procession of hooded figures enter. Their cloaks shimmered in candlelight; some wore elaborate masks etched with arcane symbols. Others arrived in pairs, kissing or embracing as they crossed the threshold. The hush of evening was splintered by breathy laughter, thejingle of metallic adornments, and the faint notes of an occult chant drifting from deeper within the estate.
She felt a hollow ache gnawing at her stomach. She knew this gathering was part of Blackwood’s final push: a major orgy of energies, culminating in a last-ditch attempt to fully resurrect James and the hope of restoring him to his former self. Fear and longing churned in her chest.We are truly crossing a forbidden line,she thought, trying to steady her breathing.No turning back now.
The clinic pulsed, not just with awareness but with heat, thick, humid, suffocating. The air clung to Eleanor’s skin, damp and fevered, a living thing pressing against her like a body too close, too knowing. The walls vibrated with a rhythm that felt less like stone and more like flesh, exhaling the unspoken desires of those within. Shadows bled across the surfaces, slick and sluggish, stretching and curling beneath the lazy flicker of iron sconces. The heat carried scent like a whisper against her throat, incense curling sweet and choking, but beneath it lurked something raw, metallic, and ripe, the mingling stench of iron, sweat, and sin. The space did not merely watch; it exuded, consumed, swallowed her whole.
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around the cold metal railing as she stared at the gathering below from her perch on the upper balcony. The arrivals moved like predators, each step deliberate, their movements precise and sinuous. They were cloaked in black silks and satins, fabrics shimmering under the light like liquid shadows. Their masks were grotesque masterpieces: golden faces with jagged edges, animalistic horns curling skyward, beaked visages that obscured all humanity. These weren’t mere disguises but symbols of transformation, each representing a boundary left behind at the door.
Soft moans and muffled gasps echoed from the alcoves. Couples and more vanished into the shadows, theirsilhouettes visible only in brief flashes of light. A trio stood near the far wall, their bodies painted with gold and crimson patterns that seemed to writhe and shift under the flickering glow of the sconces. Their movements were slow and deliberate, and they explored one another with a mixture of reverence and hunger.
The energy in the room was suffocating, thick, and heady. Eleanor felt it pressing against her chest, quickening her breath and racing her pulse. It wasn’t just her distaste for the debauched ceremony, though she could not deny the arousal that came in unwelcome waves as she looked upon the chaotic scene; it was something darker, a compulsion that seemed to seep into her bones.
Descending the spiral staircase was like stepping into another world. The hum of electricity grew louder with each step, mingling with the chorus of soft cries, gasps, and the rhythmic chanting that resonated from the dais at the centre of the room.
The main hall was unrecognizable, transformed into a temple of indulgence. Plush cushions and velvet draperies covered the cold marble, their rich colours deepened by the flickering candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, spiced wine, and a metallic undertone that hinted at blood.
Bodies writhed in tangled heaps across the cushions, their movements unrestrained, their cries of pleasure rising in waves that seemed to fuel the room's growing energy. Flesh glistened under the light, marked with runes painted in glowing ink that pulsed in time with the galvanic coils surrounding the dais.
Eleanor moved through the chaos, her cheeks flushed as she skirted past indulgence scenes that grew brazen with every step. The air was alive with energy, a pulsating rhythm that made her skin prickle and her breath quicken. She wore the same ceremonial robe as the rest of the attendees and acolytes, although she did not feel like one of them by any means. Blackwood had told her that she had to become more intimately a part of the cult, and so, for James, she put on a brave face and pretended that she was not appalled by what she saw before her.
Amid the chaotic swirl of flesh and fervour, Dr. Fairfax lingered in the shadows like a ghost, his face pale with dread. The once-proud man of science seemed barely able to hold himself together, his hands twitching as if he might pull the entire operation apart with his bare fingers. His eyes darted over the writhing bodies with something between horror and guilt, but beneath the surface, a flicker of something darker, fascination, betrayed him.
He caught sight of Eleanor near the edge of the dais and moved swiftly, his scowl deepening with every step. When he reached her, his voice trembled as he hissed, “This has gone too far, Eleanor. Far beyond decency, far beyond control. Blackwood’s madness will destroy everything.”
The hypnotic chanting of the cultists seemed to grow louder in response, their voices weaving into an oppressive harmony that vibrated in Eleanor’s chest. She tried to focus on Dr. Fairfax’s words, but the pull of the scene around her was almost overwhelming.
“You said you’d do anything to see James revived,” she reminded him, her voice equal parts resolve and desperation.
Fairfax’s lips thinned. His gaze flicked to the dais, where robed attendants stacked galvanic rods, their tips sparking as cables connected to the central device. The apparatus thrummed with growing energy, its arcs of electricity reflecting the crowd's frenzied lust.
