Page 136 of Decimation

His tongue is rough, not pleasurable but punishing. He licks and bites at my sensitive flesh. His fingers pinch and twist my clit until I’m writhing in a mix of pain and pleasure that takes me back to those memories, to when I was little more than a sex slave. I cry out, hating this, but he clearly doesn’t care about my comfort; he only cares about getting the job done. But even his cruelty can’t deny the pleasure he brings. His tongue fucks me deeply, his fingers working me, demanding my body obey and I’m screaming, my orgasm tearing through me like a storm.

He then rises, bows to Lazarus and mutters “She is strong.”

The fourth Guardian waits until the third is completely out of the way. He tilts his head, staring at my pussy as if he wants to memorise it, and it makes me wonder if he’s ever been with a woman before. But of course he has, he’s a Brethren Lord, a Guardian. He would have been taught to fuck, taught exactly how to use women for his own pleasure. His touch is hesitant at first. He kneels before me, his hands almost trembling as he spreads my thighs. Even his tongue is tentative, exploring me slowly, as though he’s savouring every inch of me. His fingers are gentle, caressing me with a tenderness that I think I hate more than the pain. He builds me up slowly, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony. When I come it’s with a sob, my body shaking with the intensity of it. He then rises, staring at me, his eyes soft with a reverence I can’t figure out.

“She…” He begins, then clears his throat. “She is sacred.”

He turns and joins the other Guardians who have finished their task, and I steal a glance at Lazarus.

He is staring right back at me, his eyes electrified like a man possessed, having to hold himself back.

I mouth his name and his lips curl. He then mouths back to me “one more.”

The fifth Guardian is Zayn. I know that much. His wheelchair doesn’t even make a sound as he stops in front of me.

I look down at him, and I realise that there’s no way his mouth can reach me. But two other Guardians appear, and while he holds himself up by his arms, they help move me too so that my body is pressed against his waiting lips.

His mouth is relentless, his tongue flicking against my clit in rapid, precise strokes. He pushes one finger in, then another, teasing my entrance before plunging inside, curling against that sweet spot that makes me arch against the ropes. He builds me up quickly, his tongue and fingers working in tandem and because I’ve already come too many times to count now, it isn’t long until I’m climaxing once more.

Zayn sits back, his lips glistening with what I know is his saliva and my come. He turns, looking across to Lazarus. “She is yours.”

“It is done,” Lazarus says, his voice filled with triumph.

“It is done,” the men reply in unison.

I don’t watch as all the robed men leave. I can’t do anything but hang here, completely and utterly exhausted by what they have done to me and what they have forced my body to do in response.

“You’ve done so well,” Lazarus murmurs, making me jump from his proximity.

He’s cutting me down, I realise. Finally, he is cutting me down.

I collapse into his arms, my body trembling so badly I can’t stop even if I wanted to, and he holds me close, his voice soothing. “You’re perfect.”

I want to protest, to tell him I hate him for this, but the words won’t come. And I’m not so sure what I feel right now is hate.

Instead I bury my face in his chest, and he carries me out of the chapel, his strong arms holding me in way that gives me a sense of safety despite everything he has done to me.

I hate him, but I also need him.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

Her body is limp, her breathing shallow, her skin slick with sweat and blood. I carry her through the dimly lit corridors while her head rests against my chest. She looks like a martyr, a saint, a queen. My queen. And she is mine. Finally, mine.

I push open the door to my chambers and the scent of lavender and sandalwood greets us, having already been prepared. The room is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the flickering flames casting shadows that dance across the walls. I lay her gently on the bed, her body sinking into the softness of the silk sheets. She stirs slightly, a faint moan escaping her lips, but she doesn’t wake. Her skin is marked with the remnants of the ritual; bruises, scratches, the outline of the crucifix burned into her back. She is strong. She endured. And now, she is mine to care for.

I fill a basin with warm water, adding a few drops of lavender oil to soothe her. I dip a cloth into the water, wringing it out before bringing it to her skin. I start with her face, wiping away the dirt and blood, my touch as gentle as a whisper. Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn’t wake. I move down her neck, her shoulders, her arms, cleaning every inch of her with reverence. She is a masterpiece, a work of art and I am the artist, restoring her to her former glory.

When I reach her back I pause, my breath catching in my throat. The crucifix is raw and angry, the skin red and blistered. I dip the cloth into the water again, pressing it gently against the wound. She gasps, her body jerking slightly but I hold her steady, whispering soothing words into her ear.

“Shh, my love. You’re safe now. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

I reach for the ointment; a salve made from aloe and honey and carefully rub it into her skin. She winces, her body tensing but I continue, my touch as light as a feather.

“You did so well,” I murmur. “I’m so proud of you.”

Her breathing evens out, her body relaxing under my touch. I lean down, pressing a kiss to the base of her neck, my lips lingering against her skin. She smells of sweat and blood, but beneath it all there’s the faint scent of her, sweet and intoxicating. I move lower, kissing the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her spine, the swell of her hips. Each kiss is a prayer, a vow, a promise. She is mine, and I am hers.

I turn her gently onto her back, her body limp and pliant. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath as though teasing me, and I can’t resist the urge to touch her, to feel her warmth beneath my fingers. I cup her breast, marvelling at the softness of her skin, the weight of her in my hand. She stirs, a soft moan escaping her lips, but she doesn’t wake. I lean down, taking her nipple into my mouth, sucking gently, teasing her with my tongue. Her body responds instinctively, arching into my touch as her breathing quickens.