Aftermath Of Innocence

Spread-eagled, and held chaste across the blood-bathed altar, she writhed against her bonds. Each movement pulled the rope tauter across her milky skin, leaving deep red welts where once her purity had been. Her eyes rolled wildly in her head as her terrified gaze tried to take in her surroundings, the darkness-drenched dungeon stank of death, a smell that infused the air and was impossible to ignore. In the pale flicker of candlelight, she looked like an angel, captured and soon to be tormented. Muffled whimpers escaped past her gag as she felt his approach.

Metal struck off metal as edge ran along edge, a discordant harmony, pushing her further into terror with every grate. He stepped from the darkness, like a viscous shadow poured to life. Blades held high, gleaming in the gentle glow of the candlelight as he stood over her. She squirmed as he drank her innocence in with his eyes, his pleasure growing like fire behind the cold blue gaze. Slipping a blade into its sheath, he removed a garrotte from beneath the altar; he flexed it carefully in front of her, showing her, before slipping it around her throat, attaching it with ease to the bonds at her wrists. He smiled as he watched the horrified confusion grow on her face, now, with each jerk on the ropes, she'd start to suffocate herself.

The blade that remained in his hand he twisted in the light to admire, bringing it down slowly he scraped it gently across the smooth skin of her stomach, a thin red trail of blood left in its wake. He leaned over her his tongue dancing along the scratch tasting her flesh, drinking her blood; he shivered. She tasted pure this one was definitely untouched. A virgin sacrifice, the beast would be pleased.

His hands ran over every inch of her, she felt so good. He wanted her. He could feel her fighting the urge to struggle, as every movement crept her death closer. He played the knife over her, cutting deep enough to make her bleed but not enough to cause any serious harm. He etched the runes of invocation into her skin, the words of the ritual falling from his lips in a well-practised manner as the edge ran down her thigh, creating rivulets of blood that would pool between her legs. Slashing the knife across the back of his hand, he smeared his own blood across her forehead, chest and groin, marking the sacrifice as his.

The rope tightened around her throat, everything was going hazy now. She could feel the darkness closing in on her, pulling at her from all sides. She thought of how nice it would be to sleep, comfort beckoned her. Sleep would be good. All the pain would go away with sleep. He watched as she fought the gentle tug of death, tossing against her desires, closing the rope tighter to her throat. She didn't have much longer. She'd either manage to sleep without suffocating, or kill herself fighting to stave sleep off. Either way, she was dying soon.

The ritual was very precise, withdrawing his other knife; he climbed onto the altar and straddled across her without touching her. Her eyes were glazed now, she was still awake, but finding it very hard to breathe. He ran the edges of the blades down from her neck, round the curve of her breasts, as they came round the bottom, he slid the knife upwards, she had been small and pert, he sliced each off with the ease and mild manner of someone who is an old-hand at such things. Her bucking and flailing ceased as the rope severed her windpipe.

The blood collated in pools either side of the altar, he leaned down taking in the sweet smell of her blood before pressing his lips slowly against the crimson gaping wounds he drank as deeply as he could, savouring her taste. Pulling away, his head lolled back, she was delicious. Pure innocence always was. Raising the knives again, he tracked them down her centre, then down her legs, the blood flowing freely now, as he pressed hard for maximum effect.

Climbing down from the altar, he moved to her feet, he gazed up between her legs and marvelled at the blood that pooled there, not only from his injuries to her, but from the body itself. Wonders never cease the girl had been menstruating. He reached up and lazily dipped his fingers into her blood. Tasting it, he shuddered. The real lifeblood, it would enhance the spell's power more than he could imagine. He gently placed a knife between her, prising her open and pushing it deeper, crimson splashed forth in a torrent and he smiled, leaving the knife where it was, he moved round to face the altar.

Arms raised high, one bloodied knife held in his right hand; his voice boomed forth his words of power. Sketching with the aid of her blood, he drew a circle around himself. Protect thy self above all others, dropping to one knee, the incantation spilled forth. Drawing power from her death, he invoked it. He called it with all his might, and before him, it appeared.

Clawing at the darkness, as if fighting its way forth from a void, it filtered into being in this world. It seemed to glance around, almost sleepily before its finely tuned sense of smell caught the blood, pivoting, it descended on her, pawing and pulling at her carcass like a vulture, which, in its own way, it was. He watched, from his safety like a proud father.

The beast, its hunger sated, licked slowly, nearly sensually around each of her wounds, tonguing each until the blood ceased to rise. It treated her carefully, the initial rush to feed now gone, it viewed her as something special. Her innocence still clasped her like an aura it knew she was different. Tendrils of its power drew her innocence from her in an act so close to sex that he, a voyeur protected by his circle felt a tingling and heat flare through his groin.

As it sucked her purity from her, its power pulsated through her corpse in a steady rise of excitement; feeding back its impurity which caused the desecrated remains to twitch and shudder. Like an orgiastic peak, a leap of faith, she moaned, a noise, which echoed through the room now the gag had been torn away. Her body pulled against the bonds, the beast, as gentle as lover wrenched the ties free, and she rose from the altar.

He watched in horror, his safety now compromised. She was his sacrifice; the circle would provide no protection against her. She stood hesitant at the side of the altar, as if some part of her humanity was still shining through; she knew she shouldn't be able to stand, confusion passed across her face. The power knotted inside her and the demon caressed her gently, she was it's. Her eyes began to burn with understanding, and he gasped as they started to glitter with malice, and dark fantasies undone. She approached the circle.

His head bowed in submission, as her hands trailed down his arms. She tipped his chin up and stole a long and deep kiss from him, pulling his robe open. She went down on him, guided by her master; his screams reverberated throughout the dungeon as she tore at his flesh like a dog with a rag. She giggled as his blood coated her, spurting forth in a shower of crimson glory.

The demon watched, proud, pleased. Its power grew inside her, twisting and contorting as it healed the surface wounds. In it's eyes, she was beautiful, inside and out - and he had tasted both. He waited while she tore her executioner apart, limb-by-limb. She took delight in the taste of his flesh, slicked with blood; she rode the healing power, using it to pleasure herself as she rubbed herself down the length of the corpse.

Pulling herself away from the cadaver, the demon embraced her, its touch gentle as it explored its new creation. They leaned together, as if to kiss and in her arms, it transformed into a swirling mist, which curled in a haze and entered her mouth and forced her to drink it in. Breathless, she collapsed, the demon feeling its way throughout her body, with the return of her contaminated innocence she changed. Her features mutated, and her scars vanished.

She lay across the blood-saturated floor, the most beautiful thing ever to enter the human race, and with the power welling inside her; she was also the most dangerous. She hauled herself to her feet, each movement seeming new and unreal to her, lifting the ripped robe from where she had thrown it, she pulled it around herself and with a final glance behind her, to where her own blood had been spilled, her innocence lost and re-claimed, she left the dungeon. As she closed the door shut behind her, a name prickled on the tip of her tongue, "Ama-Amarata", her new name, she smiled wickedly. Ama-Amarata left the building, walking tall with an air of un-natural confidence; her life was just beginning.