Damali ran the brush over her face, leaving just a slight hue on her cheeks, as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror with the handle made out of bone. Her fingers matched the joints of the hand that formed the grip. She smiled as she finished with the rouge, her pale countenance highlighted perfectly, just how he liked it. Her eyes glimmered in the light from the single candle that stood on the little wooden table that was bolted to the stone wall. Its wax formed a little puddle that held an enticing aura, as visions of the past fluttered through her head. It had taken her a while to adjust to such little light, but she was a good pupil, and learned her lessons well.
Damali wasn’t her name when she had come here, but now it was her entire being. She had lost track of how much time had passed since he had brought her here; to this chamber of ancient stone. The darkness, and dampness of the walls had at first frightened her. She felt like she had been thrown into a well, its spherical opening sealed forever. She had begged, tears blurring her eyes, as she pleaded with him that she had changed her mind, but it was no use.
She stood, her posture perfect, as she took the bundle of clothes from the edge of the table. Sliding into the simple, black sundress, her fingers brushed against the scars that criss crossed her frame. She smoothed the fabric out, and adjusted the shoulders, as she traced the long welts as far as she could reach down her back. Straightening her collar, she glanced towards the mirror, and smiled at her pallor, beneath the thick leather around her neck. The curves of her collarbone were exquisitely distinguished in this light, and she pushed her breasts up to make sure the correct amount of cleavage was showing, just how she had been taught.
Her Master had won her on a bet. She didn’t know it at the time of course, but she had been fresh meat to the sharks; an object to be possessed. Unbeknownst to her, there had been a discreet competition; wagers made in red lit alcoves, beneath the flashing of strobes, and the pounding of the music. Whispers behind her back, seductions in her ear; as she took every lash…every beating. He was charismatic, and for a brief moment in time she had been the prize in his eyes. He had sensed something inside of her; something he could take, and mold into a masterpiece. Within a matter of weeks she had eyes for only him, as the others faded into the backdrop with looks of defeat painted upon their faces.
A troubled look came over her face, as she stared off into the candlelight; the shadows leering back at her. She sat on a small metal stool, watching a slow drizzle of water make its way down the stone wall; as she absentmindedly picked at the burns that lined the inside of her thighs. How long had it been…she desperately tried to remember. It was so hard to keep track of time as the days blurred together; it always seemed as if it had been ages since he had last come to see her. A ripple of pleasure ran through her as she thought of the rough grip of his hand on her throat; the ecstasy of the lash upon her back, and she ran a finger between her wet thighs, bringing it back up, and to her lips. Damali sighed, as the flame danced from an unseen breeze; he would come soon…he always did.
The beatings had been playful at first. She loved the adrenaline rush; as her eyes passed over the faces of the onlookers, a sense of lust in the air. She learned what brought him pleasure, and learned it well. Tied to a Saint Andrew’s cross she felt pure ecstasy as she looked into his grinning face; her body on display for all. She had tasted the fire of the whip, bent double to receive the sharp sting of the paddle, and floated in the hands of angels; suspended in simple bliss. She took it all with a smile, as she was molded into his obedient slave. Then the day came that had decided the rest of her life; she received her Master’s collar, and he had taken her away from the prying eyes, and brought her to her new home.
Damali remembered the anxiety that day, as they had driven up into the forest. It was snowing, and a cold blanket was draped over the land, as she felt the warmth of the heated leather seats in the car against her bare ass beneath the skirt he had told her to wear. She remembered his hand between her legs the entire drive, as he kept two fingers inside of her, and held her tight with his thumb pressed down on her clit; squeezing as if to say, this is mine now…forever. She remembered the gray sky above the trees, as they approached a stone building that lay behind a giant iron gate; unaware that it was the last time she would see the light of day. She remembered a second wooden gate closing behind them, as they walked into a courtyard, the leash that was clasped to her collar wrapped tightly around his fist. His warm hands helping her undress…a rattling, as he secured her to a post that stood in the courtyard…the cold snow kissing her skin…and then the light leaving his eyes, as his features turned cold.
Her adoring eyes had held a hint of confusion, as she saw him pull a thick leather bullwhip from a hook on one of the stone walls, his footfalls heavy in the snow as he approached menacingly. That was the first time she had been truly whipped, as he put the full force of his weight into his swing. She squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating the blow, as it came whistling through the air. A deafening crack, as it connected with her thigh, and withdrew; leaving her spasming on the post, as the wet snow burned the raw flesh it fell upon. It was the first time she had screamed in his presence, but it was far from the last. The echo had pierced the silence, spreading into the forest as he circled behind her, letting out a cruel laugh that taunted her. The whip connected to her pale skin a second time, leaving a red welt across her back that throbbed in the cold. She could feel a trickle of warm blood, as one more time she heard the hiss of the leather, as it cut through the air, slicing down her back, and across the skin of her ass. Her screams carried into the whispering trees, broken only by the sobs that choked her throat.
Damali remembered the wetness between her legs, as her bladder emptied, the snow beneath her spotted with yellow and red, as it steamed. His laughter was a sharp slap to the face, as he slowly walked around her, sizing her up. She whimpered, her eyes shut tight, as she listened to his boots
crunching the snow beneath them. She could smell him near; sweat, and musk hanging on the crisp air, as her body shook, and she whimpered. Slowly, she opened her eyes, just in time to see his hand descending on her. Grabbing her by the jaw, he held her head so her gaze met his. There was none of the familiar warmth in his eyes, as he squeezed her breast with his other hand, sliding it down her belly, and grabbing her by her sex.
“Did I give you permission to scream, cunt? Did I give you permission to cry? This is your life now, and this body…this body is no longer yours. It belongs to me. Consider your former life, nothing but a fleeting dream; a dull fantasy, and nothing more. I own you, Damali.”
And just like that, he had turned, and left her there; his footfalls fading into the distance, as she shivered on the post.
Damali…it was a name she would grow to love, as her past faded like childhood memories. He came back for her a little while later; the snow had piled above her ankles, and she couldn’t stop her body from shaking. He had punished her with another lash of the whip, before he unhooked her from the post, and dragged her inside. She remembered that first time he had called her that so vividly, if not for the suddenness of it, as for the beating she took that day.
Once inside, he had brought her shivering, and limping to a room with a large fireplace; the warmth of the flames causing her to cringe, as her frozen body had begun to thaw. He removed the leather collar that was heavy with the dampness of the snow, and handed it to an old woman who had appeared from a doorway out of sight; ordering her to clean it, before she vanished back into the shadows without a word. He then took a new collar from a table next to a large crimson velour armchair, and secured it around her throat.
It was made of cloth, with a steel ring attached in the center, and she found she good breathe easier, as her body adjusted to the warmth. Her master had walked over to the fire, staring into the flames, as her shivering subsided. She took a moment to glance quickly around the room, its dark wood paneling giving a somber atmosphere against the light of the fire. It was sparsely furnished, with only the chair, a round glass table, and a couch visible upon a glossed black wooden floor that was polished to an immaculate glow. She turned her head back to him, and found him staring at her with a strange smile upon his face, and she felt herself grow wet unexpectedly. He pointed at the ground, without saying a word, and she lowered herself to her knees; her eyes lowered, as she waited for permission to look at him.
He crossed over to her, the worn, and cracked leather of his boots coming to a stop in front of her. She looked down at them, as she heard someone enter the room; and glancing out of the corner of her eye, she saw the old lady approaching with a silver tray. The crone’s face was covered in ancient scars, and one of her eyes lolled off to the side, as she looked down at Damali with amusement; her spidery
fingers gripping the tray tightly in her hands. She wore a black shawl that tufts of yellowed hair peeked out from, and a simple black dress that went down to her ankles. Distracted at observing the strange servant, she only realized too late, the blow that struck her as the woman chuckled.
“Ugne is to be treated as you would treat me cunt. Were you given permission to look at her?”
Another blow struck Damali, that brought all the stars in the heavens to twinkle before her eyes; as she fell backwards to the floor. His boot came down on the side of her face, and pressed her head against the wood, as he leaned down and stroked her hair. At the touch of his fingers she felt a rush of euphoria, and she re-positioned her body so that he could see her chest; her nipples rigid, as he patted her on the head, and removed his foot. He pulled her to her knees, and then ran a hand beneath her jaw, raising her gaze to meet his. She could feel the bulge in his pants in front of her, as she looked into his eyes, and began to run her hand along it. She could feel it growing, as he gripped her jaw harder; a grin upon his face, and then abruptly he moved off to her side. She felt like a kid robbed of a summer ice cream cone, as his cock slid away from her hand, and she frowned as she lowered her head again.
He slid behind her, and pulled her hair away from her shoulders, as she saw Ugne move closer. The old woman carried with her a sweet and sour scent, of cloves mingling with apples, and she moved silently, as if a phantom that would disappear at dawn. He pulled her hair tight, wrapping it in one hand, as her
head whiplashed, and his other hand gripped her throat. She could feel the breath being taken away from her, and then a slight relaxing of his grip, as she gasped for air. The moment her mouth opened she felt a quick movement, as his fingers slid with precision past her lips, and she felt his nails dig into the inside of her mouth as he forced her mouth apart. Caught off guard she let out a gurgling scream, as Ugne took a step closer, and then knelt down to her level.
“Did you think you would evade a punishment for your misbehavior earlier? You have no voice, unless I say you do. You do not speak, unless spoken to. You are not an individual anymore, capable of choosing whether or not to speak, or scream for that matter. It would serve you well to be a good slave, and learn that quickly.”
With that he pulled her head back, his hands still forcing her mouth apart, as the old crone took a gag from the tray, and slid the straps around her head. Using the palm of her hand, she forced the ball into her mouth, and as he released his fingers from each corner, she pulled the straps through a clasp tightly. Ugne rose to her feet, and taking the tray with her, she disappeared off to do other duties. With that, her master stood before her, measuring her up as he gazed down upon her.
He leaned forward, and reaching between her legs, he grabbed her and squeezed. She felt a sharp pain in her chest as she gasped beneath the gag, and then a sudden wave of pleasure, as he held her nipple between his thumb and index finger and stretched it away from her body. Releasing it, her back arched, as he pushed a third, and fourth finger into her. She could feel a pool forming between her thighs, and he removed his fingers to taste her nectar. That was when she noticed the rack of implements near the door Ugne had exited from. He was an artist, and for the next two hours she would be made to his design. Each mark upon her made with deliberate intent, as he split her skin, and broke her will; her body the canvas he honored with graceful strokes of pain, blended with prodigious pleasure.
The candles flickered, and Damali sighed longingly. She hated the drafts that would blow at random throughout her room, swirling around, as they caressed the stone, and chilled her bones. Perhaps room wasn’t the right word for it, she thought, an oubliette seemed much more appropriate. That is what her life had been, as far as she could remember…a place to be forgotten. Her life had been one of somnambulism, as she wandered through a thick fog, hardly noticed by those around her. She had family, and lovers; but to them she had been nothing but a hollow vestige of their lives. She was a novelty; a broken play thing that wasn’t worth fixing, and was therefore discarded for the next shiny toy. There was no purpose to her life; she just floated along, that is, until she had met him. He had lifted the veil that clouded her eyes. Through him she had found a purpose. Through him she had felt passion for life…a lust for pleasure…a sense of purpose, in a world where she had been nothing but a glimpse of a shadow. He had given her hope, and then left her in this hole. An oubliette…yes, that was what this room was.
That first day had been a challenge, but she was determined not to let him down again. After toying with her for a little bit, he had thrown her to the ground. Taking a length of rope, he had tied her legs together, and secured them to a ring that hung from the ceiling; the chain dangled from rattling softly. Her senses hypersensitive, he had thrown open a heavy curtain that had blended with the darkness, and she was blinded by the bright winter light that had been hiding behind it. Walking over to his selection of implements, he had picked a heavy walnut paddle, and with a swift kick to her midsection, rolled her over. Digging the heel of his foot into her ass, he tapped her lightly with it a couple times, as he chuckled.
The paddle came down hard the third time and her legs spasmed, as he struck her 4 more times in quick succession. She could feel the bruises, as the capillaries burst, and he gave her a kick to the tender spot he had just created. His boot came down on her hip and she struggled against the gag to catch her breath, when the paddle hit her again. She shook, as the chain rattled above her, and he picked up a thin piece of bamboo that resembled a ruler. He held her ankles in one hand and brought it down with a crack in the center of the soles of her feet. Shrieking behind the gag, he kicked her in the shins, and scraped the edge of the bamboo across her heel.
She curled into a fetal position, her legs swaying in the air, as he went back to the rack. Returning with a flogger, he brought in down on her in a fury, as tears poured down her face. The lashings cut open the wounds the whip had made, and she could feel blood mixing with sweat, as her body was set on fire. She felt like she was going to die, and for a terrified moment she struggled to scream against the ball
that was shoved into her mouth, choking on her saliva. Her noises spurred him on, and he berated her with kicks. Her eyes burned as sweat dripped down her face, and then a sudden rush of air, as he ripped the gag off of her. Panting, she blinked her eyes, and asked her master for more.
She could see the snow still falling outside, as he loosened the rope a little. Her body shaking, he grabbed a handful of hair, and yanked her to her knees. With her feet bound, he had to do most of the work; as she clawed her hands into the wood floor attempting to find balance, and a blow to the back she received for being too slow. She bit her lip, determined not to let him down, and stifled the sounds that wanted to escape her throat. Finally catching her balance, she put her arms out before her, and pressed her face to the ground, as if she were prostrating before a god.
Her ass in the air, he swung the paddle three more times, the wood connecting each time to her flesh with a loud thwack. She held back her screams though, and his rough hands grabbed her by the waist to adjust her. He kept a constant pressure on her lower back, and she heard him unzip his pants. Then with one fluid motion, he penetrated her, sodomizing her as her moans of pleasure echoed throughout the house. His spilt seed filled her up, and then withdrawing his blade, he kicked her to the ground, and left the room.
She had slept like a kitten in his arms that night. The pillows felt like clouds, the throbbing sensation of the bruises, and lacerations along her body lightning that struck around her. After untying her legs, Unge had helped her to a bath, and taken sponges to her body. The smell of lavender soap had lifted her to another plane, despite the discomfort it caused the wounds he had inflicted. She felt as if she were in heaven, as the old lady had gently washed the blood, and sweat from her hair.
They had all eaten dinner together, in a hall made for banquets; a long oak table stretching down the room. She had eaten at her master’s side, the leather collar back around her neck, and chained to a leg of the table. Her dessert had been in his lap, as he shoved her head between his legs; his length filling her mouth, as she eagerly took in each stroke, until he filled her throat with its sweet filling. He had taken her again before bed; legs under his arms, as he thrust inside of her, her reflection looking down at her from a mirrored ceiling as she came. And now, as the dawn’s light broke the darkness; resting her head on his chest beneath the warm blankets, she smiled as she felt the weight of his collar around her neck and awaited his command.
On the second day, her master had arisen, and she dressed him, and shaved him. Unge had brought coffee into the bedroom at some point, and while he sipped it, and stared thoughtfully out the window, she knelt patiently at his side with her eyes lowered. He ran his fingers gently over his handiwork, putting pressure where the whip had struck her back when he noticed her wince. She didn’t make a sound, and he smiled.
“I will be going back to the city for a bit, while I am gone Unge will be instructing you on your daily duties. These are to be carried out with no mistakes. For every mistake you make, you will be punished with severity; once by Unge, and from myself when I return, as well. Do you know what the name Unge means slave? It means fire, and there are very specific reasons I chose that name for our dear housemate. Learn your lessons well.”
He was gone for a week. She spent that time in a simple room, with basic furnishings, and an outdated floral print that climbed the wall. She was allowed one hour of the day to do as she wished, but was not allowed outside. The basement was forbidden. The majority of her day was spent doing household tasks, most of which were fairly easy. Unge hardly spoke a word, except to bark an order to her, or
explain the necessity of proper form while doing a task. Damali picked it up quick, and things carried on that way for a few months, as she became enamored with her new way of life. She learned the hidden pleasure that could be found in pain; the joy that servitude brought her, that had always been missing from her life. Her master would come, and go on business, always returning to his proud slave. It was on one of these occasions, she had been looking forward to the return of her master, when she made a mistake.
It had been a quiet day, and she had finished her chores early. Unge had left to run some errands, and Damali had been left chained next to the sink while she washed the dishes. She was daydreaming, staring out the window at the seamless snow that trailed off towards the woods, when she had been startled from her reverie by a thump from the basement. She knelt down, and put her ear to the floor to see if there were any further disturbances. The basement was off limits to her, and from what she had observed, Unge was the only one who ever went down there. She was beginning to stand up, when another loud thump broke the silence, and she fell backwards. As she fell, her chain reached its end, and snapped from the counter it had been attached to. She slid backwards across the floor, confused, and frightened by her sudden freedom.
The door to the basement was only ten steps away, and nervously she stared at its worn wood. Slowly, she had pushed herself to her feet, and looking around as if a child getting into mischief, she had crept cautiously over to it. Resting the palms of her hands on each side, she pressed the side of her face against the wood. There was another thump, and she inadvertently let out a yelp, as she stumbled backward. Her chain sounded like a clap of thunder, as it rattled against the floor, chipping a tile in the process. Anxiety getting the best of her, Damali turned to head back to the sink to try and reattach her chain. As she turned, she caught the sight of the back of the old crone’s hand, and then there was darkness.
She ran her fingers down the sides of her breasts, tracing the scar tissue beneath her dress that ran along both sides of them. He had told her that they were one of his favorite parts of her body; how he loved to squeeze them until they turned a purplish hue, and then watch her squirm as he attached clamps to her nipples. How she regretted that day, that one mistake. Now, her breasts were a mark of shame…a constant reminder of the trust she had broken. If only she had done better, been the perfection that he expected her to be. A tear ran down her face as she stared into the flickering light of the candle, lost in it’s fire.
She had awoken strapped to a wooden table, a stockade locked around her breasts so tight that they looked alien to her, as they bulged out from the wood. They were a deep violet hue, and a throbbing pain was pounding her chest. Frantically, she looked around the unfamiliar room, and saw the old lady sitting beside a fire. The wood inside crackled, and popped, as Damali noticed the poker Unge held to the flame. It’s tip was glowing, and when she noticed that Damali had awoken, she had stood and walked over to her with it.
“Breaking your chain.” She placed the red hot iron to one side of her breast, the skin sizzling, as her flesh was seared.
A scream erupted from Damali, as the old lady spoke, “Touching the door of a forbidden place.” The other side of her breast exploded in pain, as the smell of cooking flesh filled the room.
Damali could feel her legs trying to force their restraints away, to no avail, as her head throbbed in agony.
“Breaking a kitchen tile.” Once again, Unge pressed the metal to her skin, this time on the opposite breast. Her voice had left her, and Damali screamed silently, as the woman looked down at her with contempt.
“Disobedience.”
She had passed into unconsciousness before the fourth burn, a sweet seduction of death calling her name, as she faded into the darkness. She didn’t hear the clamor of the iron, as it fell to the floor, nor feel the pain of her burns, as her body went into shock. She was given a sweet release for a fleeting moment, and then Unge dumped a bucket of ice cold water on her chest, and she shrieked as she shook against her restraints, snapping back to reality. The old woman slapped her across the face, as she spit out water; steam rising from her marks of shame.
“Stupid bitch, I will come back for you in two hours…” and with that Damali was left with only the glow of the fire, and her shame.
Her master had returned, and upon entering the house had shot her a look of disgust, as she knelt to unlace his boots. In the low cut dress she wore, there was no hiding her discretions from him, as the healing flesh was glaringly revealed. She placed his boots beside the door, and ran off to the kitchen to grab a broom to sweep up any loose dirt that may have fallen to the floor. He quickly strode into his den, without a second glance at her, and she felt a pang of hurt that he hadn’t spoken to her.
Dutifully, she finished sweeping, and then eyes lowered, proceeding to kneel at his side. He was reading a newspaper, and kept it at an angle so that she was not within his sight, as her anxiety grew. She could feel the anger in his silence; as Unge entered the room, and after greeting him, proceeded to list off her bad behavior. He lowered the paper, and rising to his feet, cracked his knuckles as he looked down at
her.
“You disappoint me.”
He turned, and began to walk towards the other room, as Damali crawled after him, begging at his heels. She pleaded for her master’s forgiveness, tears rolling down her face, but her laments only fueled his anger. With a quick movement, he turned and slapped her across the face.
The blow took her by surprise, and she let out a gasp of surprise, as his foot came down on her midsection. Taking a riding crop from the rack of implements near the fireplace, he let loose with fury upon the marks the old crone had made upon her chest. The pain was unlike anything she had felt, as the skin that had molded itself over the burns, was ripped away. Damali let out a wild yelp, like an injured dog, and he gave her a kick to the thigh as she scuttled backwards to try to avoid another strike from the riding crop.
“Did I say you could move slut?” He roared, as he towered over her.
Cowering, she slowly slid back to him, and he grabbed her by her collar, and lifted her to her feet with a strength she didn’t know he possessed. She tried to sputter out an apology, but he struck her with a closed fist as he released her collar, and she tumbled back to the ground. Dazed, she pulled herself back up to a kneeling position, and bowed her head; a silent, apologetic entreaty. He stared down at her, fire in his eyes, and motioned with a finger for her to follow him.
Damali stood in her chamber, stretching her joints, as she began a slow stride around the room. Her fingertips ran along the cool stones of the wall, as she tilted her head back, staring up into the onyx abyss above. Hopefully he would return today, she was eager to serve; to show her love for him. She yearned for the weight of his body as he thrust inside of her; his fingers wrapped around her throat. She needed the pain that only he could inflict. Her life was empty without his dominance; without his orders. She knew that soon he would return. She circled the room in an endless trail, as the hours ticked on.
She was strapped to a table, her arms and legs spread to the corners; as he bled her. With precision he had cut through her soft flesh, leaving criss cross cuts, from which streams of blood were fed. The tears had run dry, as he put his tools down to stop and look at his handiwork. Turning a crank attached to the edge of the table, the wood slowly lifted, until she was vertical to him. Her blood fell to the floor, drop by drop, as her head hung in exhaustion. Damali had felt his anger leave, as the blood had begun to flow, and although she would be sore for days to follow, his punishment could have been much more severe. Sensing something had changed in the room, she lifted her head a little, and glanced at him.
He was shirtless with her blood smeared across his chest, his black jeans hugging an erection that was visibly noticeable, as he gave her a devious grin. Unsure of what his look was all about, she watched her blood pooling on the floor; and tried to ignore the numbness in her arms, and legs. Her master took a step toward her, and grabbed her cunt, two fingers sliding into her in the process, as she let out a sigh of pleasure. Every time he grabbed her that way, she knew that her pussy was his; that he owned every orifice on her body. She felt her back unconsciously try to arc against the restraints, as he tightened his grip on her. He worked a third finger inside of her, as she hung before him, unable to do anything but enjoy the pleasure that was welling up in her. He grabbed her nipple tight between two fingers, and twisted it, as he continued working his fingers into her greedily, his grip never loosening. Sparks of electricity were running through her body, and the pain in her extremities had vanished from her mind, as she felt his grip loosen, and a fourth finger entered her body. Her sighs turning to moans, he slid his fingers back, and forth, as she found herself unable to think. Eyes glazed over, she tried to push her body onto his fingers, the waves of ecstasy overwhelming her.
He put a hand around her throat, and watched her as he saw her consciousness start to fade; her moans turning into mumbles, and then suddenly he released his grip, as he tucked his thumb in, and pushed his entire fist through. She shook back to consciousness on the table with a suddenness that made her scream in pleasure, as his fist penetrated her. Deeper, and harder into her he made his way; his fingers opening and closing, swirling around, as he twisted his wrist in a way that reminded her of a jellyfish. Her screams became choked pleas, as he slid his arm, and she began to drool. Damali had never felt such an intense pressure before, as his fist filled her completely, and she rode an ocean of orgasms, as her body soaked the floor with her fluids. He extracted his fist, and crossed the room to pick up his whip. The lash hit Damali like a bag of rocks, and she orgasmed again as it tore the flesh of her thigh. Panting, and heaving, she begged for more, as he repeated the motion in the opposite direction. She was having an out of body experience, as she uttered the fateful words that never should have been spoken,
“I love you…” There was a sudden deafening silence, as her master dropped the whip to the ground, and stared at her.
“Love…” He scoffed,” Do you think this is about love? I am a libertine, silly child. I come from the ilk of men like Caligula, Sade, and Wilmot. Do you think that a man such as I gives a single cum shot
about love? I derive my pleasure from that which makes me discharge; by using insolent tools such as you, my engine feeds it’s endless hunger; until the devil himself takes me to see the pleasures beyond this realm. You are nothing but a rag with which I wipe myself clean, after spilling my seed. An ottoman on which I kick the dirt from my boots. I find pleasure in the taste of your tears, and the knowledge that I own you, as one would a dog. As you beg for more, I am off to my next conquest. You were made to serve; your nature created you to cower at my feet, slut. Whores like you, are a dime a dozen, and easily supplanted for misbehavior. Do you think for a moment that I have not procured others? You beg as if you are worth something, that you are special, but what has been special about your pathetic life? Were you to leave here, you would have no purpose, for your sole purpose is subject to my whims, and desires. My dear, dear Damali; after all this time, you feel you have the right to talk to me of emotions? To dishonor everything you have been taught, with such childish fancy? You are but the shit in the field I tread upon. You cannot even bring yourself to walk out that door, without being commanded to do so; for you are my property. And now, I have grown tired of you.”
The old woman watched from the shadows, and he ordered her to prepare a room. With that, he let loose her restraints, as she fell on her face to the floor. Retrieving the whip from the ground, he lashed her until she thought she was to die. Grabbing her by her hair, he dragged her from room to room, his boots landing blows upon her body. Stopping in the kitchen, he took a moment to slide the lock on the basement door. Throwing it open, he tossed her broken, and bruised body to the bottom of the stairs. Unge had joined them, and as they dragged her through a labyrinth of ancient hallways made of stone, whispering voices rose from behind the walls. Forcing Damali to her knees on the dusty floor, beside a neat stack of bricks, he had leaned down so that his face was all she could see. Distorted with anger, he looked like a demon, as he jeered at her.
“I had such high hopes for you Damali, alas, you have let me down. I have had Unge prepare for you, a room in which you will spend the rest of your days. In it you will have a bed of roses…the petals are for your rose tinted dreams of love, and the thorns are the harsh reality of your naive emotions.”
With that, he lifted her from beneath her arms, and hurled her into the room. She had hit the pile of clipped roses hard, their thorns slicing her skin, as she inhaled the sweetness of the petals. She had heard his footfalls fade down the hall, and the scraping as Unge sealed the chamber with the bricks that were out in the labyrinth. She was left in silence, except for her tears.
The madness had settled in after eleven days, the roses having decomposed completely on the tenth. He watched, as she stumbled over old plates of food that had been slid into her while she slept. She wandered around, and around; stopping only to do her makeup for him with the illusory powder, and mirror that she saw in her crazed state. Her clothes had grown ragged, and she was caked with dried blood, as she crossed his view. He smiled, as stared wildly back at him, before sliding the brick back into its place in the wall. Her screams followed him down the corridor, as he felt himself grow stiff.
— Josef Desade is a poet and dark fantasy/horror author from Manchester, CT. Using words to create dark dreamscapes, he transports the reader to a visual landscape of the taboo. He has been featured in The Helix Art & Literature Magazine, Schlock!, Lovecraftiana, The Freshwater Literary Journal and other publications. His first novel, Tohu Wa-Bohu was released in 2021.