Sequestered ((Solo))

[DarkDelights]

((Contains adult content, situations, and course language))

Part 1

Lithe fingers brushed her throat, outlining the rectangular sides of a red book crisscrossed in chains. The artwork was somewhere between iconism and the baroque art of old masters one might find plastered on domed chapel ceilings with oil paint. Something with red hands reaches for the tome but its face and form are sequestered in a tumble of hair so black it could have been made of shadow-stuff. The owner of the red hands lived on her collarbone and beyond, and perhaps she knew why it lusted after that red tome chained to her neck, perhaps not. It could have been that the long, thin lines of jagged and jarring script that ran the course of her arms from slight shoulders to the very fingers that explored the markings, told the story. Her fingers crept from the book, down the contour of her neck, and dove into the tangle of night, in a secret meeting with the obscured seeker of knowledge. She held her hand there, pressed firmly against the soft skin of her chest, thumbing her clavicle while she felt her heartbeat quicken through her palm.

The other hand trembled as it felt its way along the porcelain edge of a the sink, fumbling ever so slightly without the aid of her eyes, busy elsewhere. The black characters of archaic markings seemed to swim as her smallest finger found the cold metal of the desired object.

“I answer the call of Yvain, Maiden of Deceit,” shapely, dark lips painted violet formed the words and she chewed every syllable, hammering every consonant, and she bared her teeth as she hissed the word 'deceit.' Striking emerald eyes met green orbs, every bit as brilliant. Her reflection formed every juicy word of the dark prayer that she herself did. Her reflection had the same faint lines running from the corners of her eyes from sleepless nights and a life spent on the cusp of terror.

Schlik.

With a deft flick of her hand, a steel razor edge sprung from the black textured handle, outstretched like the arm of a mantis. She dragged the razor gently over her breast, drawing only a single droplet of crimson liquid. The blade of the razor paid its respects to the scarlet book, and passed, drawing more blood as it crested her pointed chin. The droplets pattered on the crisp white edge of the sink, and some making it to pale skin of her delicate feet. She balled her toes on the shaggy bathroom carpet at the sensation. She focused, scowling, her mirror-self scowling back.

“FLAYER OF SAINTS!”

She pressed the razor into her cheek and sliced. A spurt of blood made it to the dirty mirror and rivulets dripped. The wound was grave and the sickly pink of bared flesh showed through.

“Cenobite Whore!”

She dragged the razor over her forehead violently which gave the mirror a second coat.

“Give me your blessing, give it to me!” she pleaded, her eyes desperate, but the emerald eyes in the mirror were cool and collected.

“I like it when you beg,” her reflection drawled.

“I know, my lady, we've done this for more than one-thousand nights,” she spoke hoarsely, and she sliced deep the bridge of her nose. “Please! Your blessing please, it hurts too much!”

“Pathetic. Did you know there are six-hundred-and-sixty-six cold iron hooks in my lungs, and when I breathe, they pull in six-hundred-and-sixty-six different directions? What is your pain compared to mine, you mewling caterpillar? BEG,” her exact likeness demanded.

“Rending Slut of the Abyss, I plead! PLEASE! Your... blessing,” the servant begged of her likeness. The razor tumbled from her shaking hand and clattered into the sink which was itself crimson now. She felt faint. Her knees shook violently.

“Fine pig, your duress is pleasing. You shall have it. Awaken tomorrow and your majesty shall be a pale shadow of my own. My blessing be unto you, my only faithful,” her reflection spoke, smiling, satisfied, bleeding. It lowered its head and raven tresses to the slick, warm, rim of the sink, and rested a moment.

It took a long moment to steady herself, but the petite, raven-haired woman, covered from head to toe in an encyclopedia of infernal markings, stumbled out of the bathroom, catching the wooden door frame for support on the way. She face-planted her soft, white bed in exhaustion, and immediately regretted it. As peaceful, utter unconsciousness began to take precedence over the jarring ache of her wounds, she muttered sweetly into her now blood-stained pillow.

“That was one of the top ten best orgasms I've ever had.”

***