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Your legs settle on my shoulders. You stare down at me, quivering gently, suspended above me by the wrists from the chains you have come to cherish so much.
I smile up at you. The tiny fragments of frail light in your eyes cry to be extinguished.
You are ready, my love, aren't you. For this punishment. Or this reward? It's so hard to tell with you. Your little shakes, the twitching in your fingers – are they quivers of fear, or excitement? Both? They have begun to feel the same, I think. I wonder if you still remember which is which.
I show it to you.
Your eyes fall blankly on the pike, empty with an erosion so complete that your expression does not even flicker. For you are so long past protest. Though you never had the spine for it, did you, my love? I always liked that. Your weakness makes me wild, and you emerged from your mother’s hips so thin-willed that there was very little to break. Your eyes seem to spill for no apparent reason. Lolth, you are so pretty when you cry, your sorrow rolling down your ashen, lifeless skin. Tears suit you. They always have. I turn it slightly, letting the light catch upon its length. Long, balanced, tapered to the tip. It is lovely, isn't it? My thumb brushes along the shaft. So sharp here, so girthy there, so deserving of a fleshy shroud.
Reaching up to wipe a tear from the ridge of your cheek, I roll my wet finger over my tongue, suckle for a moment on the bitter salts. I press a kiss to your precious, soft belly, savouring the way the skin yields, just a little, the way you sigh into my touch as if I am the last thread tethering you to the world.
“Do you remember the first time we did this?”
I wait for your answer. It comes slowly, as it always does, the turning of your mind worn thin, each thought arriving late and dim. Eventually, you nod.
I replay that day in my mind, picturing you kneeling for me, so still. I was so proud. So proud, as I pressed those tiny little needles through your blackened, beaten flesh, breathing through blue-tinged lips. Those tiny points were nothing, really, but you were just a boy; a breathing, living toy, and you were so good for me, even then. Watching silver shafts vanish as I slid them into your flesh, pushing until I saw your skin bulge from within, those tiny pale domes rising to greet me, giving way to the sacred moment that the shining tip emerges with a bead of your blood.
Nothing makes me want you more fiercely than that feeling. Nothing unmakes me more than this.
Your body cannot lie to me. It never has. I lay a finger between your legs, gently stroking that place that yearns for rape. The pad of my finger comforts you. There. There.
Even though it does not touch you yet, the pike looks good between your legs. Angling it in line with your spine, I hold it there, smiling at the contrast between its bright sturdiness and your darkened, limp genitals, swaying uselessly, the tourniquet around the base of your sac and root so tight that without your vampiric blessing, they would wither and die. You know how much I like them like this, quiet and emptied of hunger.
Only this matters. I rub you there, spoil you rotten, really, letting you rest a little of your weight on my shoulders as I soothe the space between your legs.
My good boy.
The pointed tip whispers against your puckered skin. I listen to your sweet breath. Even after all this time, even in your undeath, you still do it the same way. Hold the air in your lungs, just the way I love, then let it slip slowly from your mouth, grounding yourself. Old habits. From times when blood still flushed in your cheeks. I always knew you could take anything, even then. That you can take this. The most perfect torture.
Your muscle stretches open, accepting the tapered tip. This feels good. Does it not, my delight? I hum against your skin, giving the answer for you. The razor sharp tip has not bitten yet. I know this space inside you so well, know just the right angle to push into you.
Not even a flicker.
Your face holds perfectly, every unwanted impulse quietly intercepted before it can reach the surface.
Beautiful.
Shall I lose myself in those eyes, just for a moment? Little windows into your cage that prove someone is still inside. Where your anguish will shine like fire through the bars. I press my hand deep into the flat of your stomach, searching for the bulge of the spike inside you, massaging upwards, deeply through the concave dip of your belly, helping the smooth metal roll against your walls. A treat. A little nip of the point, here and there. That slight roll of your eyes tells me you like it. Of course you do. Whore. My whore.
If I press a little deeper, you will reward me with blood.
So I do. I slide the shaft up. Feel that little push of resistance.
I don’t need to see. I know that smooth dip deep in the top of your colon where it twists towards your side. It is, after all, the place we most love to rip open.
Your eyes widen, a little flare of feeling slipping past them as the sensation outruns your ability to contain it. And moments later, the thick, red drops gather at your entrance, beading at the top of the metal, sliding down the shaft.
You like this, too.
Pain is all you have ever wanted, really. It helps, doesn't it?
I know, sweet boy, I know.
You have suffered enough.
You seek relief, and I will give it to you.
The sight of you swallowing the long rod from below, stretching you open… The tightening. The tremor. The tearing. I run my fingers down your vertebrae, feeling the slight rise between my fingers as the pressure builds against your spine, just like the crude rise, that I cannot seem to help, between my legs.
“That’s it,” I sigh. “Don’t fight.”
Blood spurts from between your skinny thighs, coating my chest in your lukewarm juices. I hum deeply, feeling the trickles find shallow channels through the lattice of muscles in my abdomen, wetting the hem of my breeches. I lift your legs from my shoulders, and you grimace as gravity pulls them towards the floor, your body hanging from their restraints once more.
And as I thread you a new iron spine, you slowly come apart.
The way you break, the way you suffer… Gods. I have always loved this. The cadence of your tortured lungs, how faithfully they try to follow the old pattern, as though, even now, even dead, it still soothes you. Sharp, uneven pulls that cannot quite fill them, each shorter than the last, refusing rhythm, muscles seizing without your leave. You try to steady it, but you can’t. Your eyes give you away, blown wide, focus soft and useless, emptying out in front of me.
Irresistible.
So much so, I feel it pounding through my hipbones so fiercely it hurts. This is what you do to me.
Jagged, wet gargling rattles through your throat. I savour it. Keep my hand pressed against your ribs, feeling each convulsion wrack through you, measuring them, sensing your body tension slipping away as I inch the pike through you.
Then I see it.
A subtle distortion in the hollow of your throat. Yes. And at last, your eyes are ruined by it, the dead thing inside you spilling free the only way it can.
I gather you in, one arm firm around your side as your body begins to give, spasming with small, helpless bursts you can’t contain. “I’ve got you,” I murmur. The chains fall slack from the rafters with a quiet clatter as I release them, your weight settling fully into me. You sag, unsteady, and I hold you closer. Just for a moment. Kiss you from cheek to chin. Press my forehead to yours. Something rises in your throat that isn’t air. A gargling of thick crimson, and something else. The base of the pike finds its place against the stone below us. I set it there, pinning it into the bracket below, then guide you down, just a little further.
“Stay with me,” I say softly.
You try.
You really do.
I feel it in the way you twitch and spasm as gushes of blood bubble and jet from your mouth, the way your body tries and fails to resolve itself around what I am doing to you.
I grip your hair, drawing your jaw open as I guide you, easing you down as your throat turns traitor to itself, pulling, tightening, trying to swallow against the direction of it. Until I see it. A flash of bloodied metal.
Something hums through my teeth and the root of my jaw at the sight of it, the sensation new, even now, after all of the extraordinary things we have done with your pretty body.
Your weight sinks, edging past your lips until they are wrapped taut around the circumference of the metal, the blood-slicked pole protruding from your hungry jaw. I drink in the sight of you, utterly consumed, and press my lips to the corner of your mouth, tasting the bloody froth.
I could leave you like this.
How long, I wonder.
A week?
Two?
I hold my gaze on you, committing every tiny quiver, every distended vein to memory – the way your body continues its quiet, futile corrections. You will keep doing that, I think. For a while.
A month, then.
I let the idea lengthen, stretch out, I massage it in my mind until my loins burn and my head goes light. Where is the urgency? I have you exactly as you were born to be. You are not going anywhere.
We can take our time.
x x x
That night, I slip off my bloodied breeches and lie under your bones, suspended there in the frame of our four-poster bed. Tell you a bedtime story about your sweet little nephew. The extraordinary thing we did with his pretty body.
Watch me, Mistress.
Let me show you just how much I enjoyed it.