Spike's Delight
by Brianna Aisling


She's tied down, spread eagle, on a table too small for her body. Leather straps pin her arms at the elbows and her legs at the knees. Her arms are twisted down, her wrists and ankles tied to the table legs. She's making small, uncontrolled, bird-like noises in her throat. His blood's already pounding through his veins. She smells of fear and shame---she's naked.



Her corset has left red lines on her body. He eyes them in disgust. He likes smooth, pale skin, unblemished skin. Dru's clothes leave no lines; she has no fat to hold back, is skin stretched over bone. The woman used to lift her head occasionally to watch him as he leaned against the wall, sliding his fingers along the blade's edge, studying her. Now, she can't. The smell of fear has steadily strengthened, and he's finally ready.



He paints the corset on her in blood, drawing it out from deep beneath her skin, a lesson in vanity she'd bear the rest of her life. The color's bright and fresh. The smell has him panting heavily. It makes his head spin, tips the heady sweetness in his veins to delighted bliss. Her sounds are no longer small and bird- like, but loud and desperately pained. He cuts deeper on her thigh than he means to, and she cries out---screams. Dru's voice rises in his mind, whispers of nothing always present. She likes the pain she sees.



He's marked her outside, left her streaked in red. Dru's voice whispers what a waste, and he slides his tongue over the woman's body, making her jerk, her cry catching in her throat, a strangled sound of horror. He bites to feel her jerk again, bites to hear her make that noise again.



He wants to take her: to force her and make that shame smell so much sharper than it already is. The dagger has him though, with its silver blade and gilded handle streaked with blood. He drags it down the other thigh. She's sobbing now, huge gasping breaths that end high. Fine tremors roll through her muscles. He looks down, sees his reflection near the hilt where blood has yet to run, and knows. He presses his hand high on her thigh over the line of blood he'd smeared with his tongue. He enters her with the knife, causing her to scream, her back arching in mindless panic. He continues to press; the hilt touches her labia. Blood wells up and spills onto the table.



She'd been a virgin before him.


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