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Like a waterfall, she starts to squirt for a second time. The girl’s screams engulf the firelit room as she allows air back into her lungs and savors her climax as I drain her. The blood and cum mix and run all over her legs and down between her asscheeks. It isn’t as magnificent as the first, but still exquisite. My hand is dripping with all the fluids that she created when I finally pull back. Her breathing returns to normal.
Nova. She would be breathtaking if she were like this. Her raven hair spread out against the white marble altar, her pale skin splattered with red from blood, and her expression when I call her a dirty slut or a good girl. Mm-hmm, I will make this happen one day.
My dick is so hard that it aches. I want to release him from my jeans, but I can’t. She’s in a state of bliss, temporarily forgetting the pain she has endured so far. I wanted to put her in this subspace because this next process will hurt, and I want to taste her agony.
One last step.
Hangnails
I untie her right wrist and take the female's hand into mine, pretending to be comforting. She has gotten her nails done recently– in a French manicure style. I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb, calming her with my touch. Reaching for the seax, I stop caressing her.
Her eyes open once again. They look crazed– like she can’t determine if she’s in pain or still in her subspace. I smile maniacally and try to mentally map out everything about her mutilated face; her missing lips, her green eyes that don’t quite shine like mine, and the blood and cum that is splattered across her face.
I use the seax to carefully fillet the skin on her middle finger. The blade runs across the top of her nail and cuts into her cuticle, peeling away from her fingernail and causing her whimper to build up into a scream. She attempts to jerk her hand away, but I’m too strong for her.
I set the dagger down and lick up some of the blood that starts to pour out. Just like every normal person’s nightmare, I grab the piece of skin that hung loose from her nail bed and rip. I keep pulling her skin, taut within my grip. I begin stripping up her middle finger, then her hand, and continue on until I reach her elbow. Her head bangs against the surface as she shrieks between gasping inhales. The rope that ties her wrists and ankles chafe against her once pale skin, turning it bright pink.
I yank on the skin like it’s a hangnail– it’s supple and decadent. My mouth waters, and my dick throbs, but my concentration never wavers until I finish. The girl has finally passed out from the pain– and quite possibly the drugs.
Everyone claps again, happy that I finished my part while also pushing her past her limits. I gently hover the skin over the candle by her squirming foot, letting the fire singe the skin and give off an aroma that makes the crowd inhale in unison and applaud gratefully.
The smell of smoke still lingers in the air for the members to enjoy as a quirky smile comes over my face. I take the piece of skin that I ripped from her body and lay it tenderly onto my tongue like a long spaghetti noodle, crunching down on the crisped flesh. She tastes salty from her anxious sweat, and even though they cleansed her before the ritual, I swear I can still taste a hint of a floral fragrance.
Once I’m done, it’s time to commence the rest of the naming ceremony. It’s now Marcus’s turn to taste a living human. He picks her most delicate spot; her vaginal lips. They are covered in the mixture of blood and cum that makes most of us smile. His hands are steady as he eats, biting into her like she’s a Thanksgiving meal. I can tell he’s been wanting to eat someone out like this for a while.
I lean my back against a post and watch as the ritual proceeds. Those who founded The Society begin to cut off pieces of her once Marcus is done, while the newest members wait patiently for their turn.
When we’re all finished, the second step of the Blót begins. It’s time to pick out Marcus’s new name and carve it into his chest. Each member will cut a line that makes up the letters of his name. The Boss will get the last line, finishing the ceremony.
“Any suggestions on this young’n’s name?” The Boss booms through the church.
“How about Mimir? The Norse God of wisdom, because he is so tech savvy.” I step forward, putting my hand on Marcus’s shoulder.
No one opposed the name, so I head towards the seax dagger. It’s Society law that the last new member makes the first cut. However, since Ødger was the member who had most recently been initiated, and since he was my last pupil, the responsibility falls upon me. I smirk and walk towards Marcus, and he huffs a laugh while removing his shirt.
I take the Damascus blade and engrave the first line. The crimson liquid pools at the tip of the blade before spilling down towards his navel. Each member of The Society takes turns deliberately marring his body. It’s been a few years since someone new has joined, and we all need new blood. After all the marks are finished and the dancing has started, the Boss pulls me aside.
“Loki, meet me at the diner in three nights at 7 o’clock. I expect you to be there exactly on time. Not a minute late.”
“Yes, Odin.” I nod at him.
I haven’t called him by his real name in so long that it almost feels foreign as it rolls off my tongue. He’s the All-Father, the Watcher, the one who takes care of us. His name is fitting. I’m named Loki because of my carefree, mischievous attitude and my lack of giving-a-fuck. Every one of us has a Norse God or Goddess nickname that becomes a part of us as we amalgamate into our Society.
I glance back at Mimir. He’s beaming as he converses with a couple of other members about his new name.
“Mimir… I like it!” My apprentice says excitedly as he looks down at his bloody chest while chewing on a piece of the girl.
I have high expectations of Mimir, and due to his actual craziness, I hope he doesn't end up in the same predicament as my last pupil. Insane, unhinged, and tortured to death by his own delusions.
Discoveries
As I strut into the old-fashioned diner once again, I notice the expression Odin’s wearing. His eyebrows are furrowed together, his lips are tight, and his eyes glow with rage. He wears a wrinkled black shirt and a pair of dirty grey slacks. His beard is unkempt, and his blond hair is unruly, displaying silver streaks. I don’t dare ask him what happened or why he looks like he’s been up since the Blót.
“Odin, what's going on?” I ask, trying to keep the concern from my voice. We have been decent friends since I first joined. He was my mentor, and I can’t recall a time that he has ever been seriously upset with me.
“I thought we talked about this, Loki. You had one fucking job to do. You aren’t supposed to be frolicking around and making shit so obvious.” Odin slams a fist down on the sticky diner table. He’s more angry than I initially thought.
“I… um…” I stutter, trying to figure out the words he wants to hear.
