The Huntress 1

She sat alone in the corner of the dark smoke filled room. A perfection of innocence masked by a tough façade. Her image of disaffected youth fitting with those she found solace with. Beauty buried under grime, silken locks braided once, now left as a collection of rats tails gathered at the crown of her head. She blended in seamlessly, as her heavy lidded gaze scoured the room for victims.

Those in her company were like her, social misfits, outcasts from the norm. Privileged to be here, wasting away as if a disease had gripped them at birth. She wasn't like them. She was here only as a huntress. Deemed to be naïve, ignored for such. It gave her the perfect backdrop to give them what they wanted most. What they lusted for searched for in their nightly excursions to this place. She offered them an end to this vicious circle, in the form of an entry into her own.

He made his way slowly over to her, pausing briefly to greet the wasted souls he had to step across to make a path to her. She averted her eyes from the crowd to focus on him. He was stereotypical for this place. Clothes torn and dirty, a bottle in one hand, a joint in the other, he could have been any one of them, nameless and hated by all, but this one had chose her. Out of all the other street rats inhabiting this hellhole, he wanted her. And in her own way, she wanted him.

She flicked her cigarette away, watching the embers die on the cold floor as he kneeled beside her. She turned to him, legs half parted, eyes shining with wicked thoughts. Her innocence lost as instinct overwhelmed. He uttered something that she strained to catch before offering her a drink; she declined but nodded towards the exit, he smiled at her through bloodshot eyes. Taking his hand, she led him out and into the darkness beyond.

Weaving through the maze of passageways into the basement, his hands trailed down her back. Pressing her flesh hard enough as if he wanted to sculpt it to his own shape. She let him. Let him have his fun now, while he still could. She stopped at a heavy wooden door, which marked the entrance into their chambers. The chambers of her master and her mistress, of those she hunted and killed for. Of those she fucked for.

He stumbled into her, eyes unaccustomed to the light, even low, flickering candlelight such as this. Through clouded vision, he directed her to the mattress that lay to the side of the room. She smiled at him as he lay down first and she climbed astride his abused form. Rough hands scraped over her skin, tearing at her rags, tossing them aside to reveal pristine ashen flesh, she squirmed as his ragged nails tore into her flawless skin, welling blood to the surface which he licked away with the edge of his tongue. Eager and ready, she gave herself to him, her moans echoing out through the candlelit tomb.

Lost in the throes of passion, oblivious to their entrance, she continued to fill the basement with low growls as she neared her edge. Beneath her, he lay unaware of anything bar the movement of her breasts and attention of her tongue. Hand in hand standing in the shadows of the doorway, her Master and Mistress smiled, and approached the makeshift bed, watching their slave as she writhed atop her catch.

The woman clicked her tongue and the girl stopped, her head twisting violently to her saviours. Scurrying from the boy, she crawled across the floor to her Mistress. Drenched in sweat, her breathing still laboured she lifted the woman's sandal enclosed foot and slowly began to lick up the bitter tasting skin. The Mistress smiled and motioned the girl to stand. She stood slowly, her eyes lowered in total submission as her Mistress kissed her chastely, and pushed her aside to her Master, as the Mistress turned her attention to the boy who lay confused on the mite-ridden mattress.

The girl kneeled before the man, who silent until now murmured her name in a heavy, rasping voice, "Dulcie". She nodded slowly and began to part his robe, letting her mouth find its way home. The woman walked leisurely towards the boy who was now trembling in a mix of fear and anticipation, and with each click of her heels on the flagstones, the worse his reaction to her got. Bending down, hovering just inches from his face the woman whispered, "You may call me Mistress". He nodded mutely, his throat dry as he tried to avert his eyes from her curves and promiscuous gaze.

The Mistress crawled over his flesh, licking, biting, and tasting every inch of him. His eyes held his pleasurable distress, as did his body as she worked her way over him. Her voice low, she whispered, "Wouldn't want to waste a drop" as she went down on him. The boy gasped and groaned, before letting go, giving himself to this woman, who raised her head and smiled wantonly at him, his eyes rolled back into his head, and she went back to work.

The master, finished now, pushed Dulcie away, making her crash to the floor, scraping bruised flesh off the cold concrete. She whimpered and curled into herself, turning her back to the carnage she knew was about to occur. She heard her Master prepare the syringe, and the low sounds of the Mistress getting the boy ready, trussing him like a turkey, exposed and belittled.

The Master injected the boy, watching intrigued as the poison wormed its way home. The woman smiled, reaching under the mattress to pull out a small sewing kit. Ten needles all threaded with thread the colour of blood; all ready to seal and drain her masterpiece. She prepped another syringe, and injected him again. Watching as he fought against fast approaching sleep, trying to resist each relaxing muscle and nerve, he drifted away into a troubled slumber.

Long painted nails brushed against his eyelids, squeezing them gently between fingertips as she pushed the needle through the flesh. Working with practised ease, she sewed shut both his eyes, each prick making him bleed, shedding tears of blood down his dirt caked face. The blood ran fast and easy, a cause of the poison running through his veins which also gave it the ability to flow forever, its capability of stemming the flow now gone, leaving him free to bleed to death.

The Mistress worked speedily, sewing every orifice tightly shut, making each bleed its tiny line of blood to stream down his filthy flesh. He lay unmoving, now transferred to the icy floor so as not to spoil their mattress, lying, dying in a slowly forming pool of his own blood, victim of fantasies warped to perversion, acted out by this couple, victims entranced by their slave.

The woman dragged her needles across his flesh, carving a language long forgotten, and a text long dead. Symbols painstakingly sliced and licked clean by the master, their ritual one of ancient, twisted wisdom, meant to bring them power, only brought them blood lust and a yearning for sex, blood and death.

Uncurling herself, Dulcie gazed over at her Masters and the boy she had brought them. Crawling with the grace of a cat, and the curiosity of one, she made her way over to them. They each patted her absentmindedly, as they concentrated on the working of their ritual. Moving in towards each other as they sought to bind their spell through the mix of their own desires and energy, edging closer, their bodies lashing together with a mix of his blood and the memory of his carnal desires. Dulcie watched unfazed.

And while they thrashed together, releasing their needs on the stained mattress, Dulcie moved towards the boy and curled up gently around him. Licking him gently, tongue passing over the stitches, body clinging to his fading warmth. Wishing that he could live again, and give her the pleasure he gave her before. Perhaps give her freedom from these people who kept her bound through rituals and sadism, to bring them the unwanted, the suicidal, the wasted remnants of society's hatred of the strange and unusual. And as she lay, comforting herself with his skin, she prayed to pass in her sleep, and to join him on the other side.