Page 38 of Demonic Delights

“Shit ... fuck ... cock ... cunt,” Roxana chants in a sing-song voice.

Pushing herself from it with her rear, she steps away from the cross and begins spinning in a circle with her arms outstretched.

“Cum ... twat ... piss ... bollocks .... oh, bugger!” she squeals as she drunkenly trips over the chain in earnest this time.

She almost crashes to the ground, but I shoot forward to catch her, all the muscles in my pawn’s body tensing. My hands close around her lithe, firm body. The heat of her skin and her faint, musky scent are almost too much for me.

I groan, panting, feeling like I’m about to tip over the brink of sanity.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Roxana croons, running her fingers down my chest.

I should not like it so much when she calls me that.

“Stand with your back to the cross and spread your arms,” I growl at her.

“Oooo,” she trills, her eyes glazed and unfocused.

I guide her to the cross, pushing her against it. She stares vacantly ahead, her pupils large and her breathing a little uneven, her chest hardly rising at all for a few heartbeats, only to then expand tremendously in a mighty inhale.

The chain rattles ominously as I pick it up from the ground. When I straighten, I can see that Roxana has closed her eyes, as if falling asleep. But they flutter open when I grab her right arm, extend it and then start weaving the chain tightly around it and the crossbar. I repeat the same on the other side until she is tied up in a crucifixion pose, her toes barely touching the ground.

“Here.” I extract a flask from my pocket. “Drink, dark darling.”

I unscrew the cap and press the opening against her ruby-red lips, smearing her lipstick. Her delicate neck bobs up and down as she takes a sip. She’d likely want to have more, the way her face pursues the trajectory of the flask when I take it away, her head tilting forward.

But I don’t let her. Instead, I pour the rest of the clear alcohol over her bare chest and rub the area between and beneath her breasts. Judging by the smell, it’s palinka, the potent fruit spirit Roxana’s mother always brings with her when she comes to visit.

“Hey, I wanted that,” Roxana slurs, but then she inhales sharply when I brandish a small, ornate knife from my pocket and press it into that soft spot between her ribs, right below the sternum.

“Yes!” She cheers, utterly demented, looking and sounding like she has no grasp on reality anymore. “Brand me! Brand me, Daddy, brand me!”

I dive my spare hand into my pocket again and shoot it forward with a flash of turquoise-blue, shoving the prayer beads in her mouth before she gets a chance to close it.

“Bite down,” I instruct her.

She does as she’s told, not caring at all where the beads may have been and who may have touched them. Filthy girl.

I put pressure on the knife until its tip burrows into her flesh with a bloom of bright red blood. And I drag it through her skin in a circle, feeling the resistance of her tissue through the handle like a multitude of small tears and snaps. Roxana groans, and her chest heaves. But she doesn’t appear in agony; clearly, the pills are doing their thing. I work fast, adding lines; three triangles that meet and intersect in the middle. I pull on Roxana’s skin this way or that to aid my efforts, my hand slick with her sweat and the blood welling from her new wounds.

When I finish, I straighten up to admire my handiwork in the dance of candlelight.

An introverted pentagram.

Her nostrils flaring with sharp breaths, she tips her head forward and spits the prayer beads out. They fall to the ground with a clatter disproportionate to their size, magnified by the acoustics of the chapel.

Roxana lowers her head further yet, until her chin touches her clavicle, and she examines my creation. Then she raises her eyes to me, the look in them a little less unfocused and a little more present.

“I give you my blood.” Despite its sardonic edge, her voice echoes eerily.

My heart speeds up, my mouth waters, and my dick is so hard that it hurts.

I crouch so that my face is level with her fresh brand, oozing that ruby-red liquid, which is the foundation of all mortal life, that nutritious infusion of minerals with its primordial scent. I run my tongue all around Roxana’s injury, my taste buds exploding with the rich, metallic flavour; hot but not scalding, and so similar in texture to the fluids of her arousal that I’m instantly thinking of her pussy and of the way its delicate, slippery flesh would feel on my tongue. And my own blood seems to increase in volume a thousandfold, drumming fast and loud in my ears and flooding my erection until my balls ache with sharp, rhythmic tugs like a heartbeat.

I lap Roxana’s blood until its flow eases and until my pawn’s feeble stomach’s churning with it, bouts of nausea coursing through me along with my unquenchable thirst, lust radiating in pain waves from my crotch deep into my belly.

When I stop and lean away from her, she gives me a dizzy, drunken smile.

“I give you my body,” she purrs.