"A THOUSAND SOULS SCREAM IN SILENCE BENEATH MY SKIN."
"Imagine I was the Lord, how would you confess your sins?" I said, stroking his dick and enjoying the groan of pain mixed with pleasure emanating from the man chained by the limbs to my wall.
He doesn't answer, too busy screaming for his life. Maybe if he could shut his fucking mouth for a second, he would be able to confess his sins and obtain forgiveness before I kill him.
"C'mon, man. I'm giving you a chance here. These chains will only get hotter, and you will lose your limbs in no time," I said, my hands still moving. "Confess your sins to me like you would to the Lord. And just maybe, I won't drag you down to hell with me."
That was a fucking lie.
The chains were getting red-hot by the second, burning into his flesh, and his church pants were pulled down while I stroked his already hard dick.
Horny prick.
How the hell is he still turned on despite the situation he's in? These church-goers sure are built differently.
"These are the people heaven is supposedly made for?" Omari asked, chuckling as he leaned against the wall, watching the man scream in pain from the burning chains and flex his hips into my palm.
I scoffed.
I might know nothing about the kingdom above, but I sure as hell knew that souls like these didn't stand a chance of going there.
Humans like to convince themselves of their own righteousness. It's in our very nature, believer or not. It's been that way since we gathered around the Christmas tree as kids, convinced Santa had dropped presents for us the night before because we just knew we weren't on the naughty list—
despite how many times we'd been naughty all year.
So what if we stole our friend's pencils a few times and lied about it? Santa wouldn't punish us for a thing like that, would he? Something so mediocre.
It was the exact thing I said when I was sentenced to hell—that I didn't deserve it. But right now, looking at this damned soul chained to my wall, I'm beginning to believe that perhaps hell was the perfect place for me.
And fuck me up the nose for saying this, but if I were to go back to the day of my death, I wouldn't want the sentencing to go any other way.
What in the world made me believe I deserved anything short of eternal damnation?
I am no angel. Just a fucking demon.
Hot white liquid spilled from the man's length ontop my hand causing a smile to form on my face.
The chains sizzled, red-hot, biting into his flesh as he howled against the wall; his shirt hung in tatters, his body a map of burns. Somewhere under the scream for mercy and for God, there was a quieter sound — a desperate, animal cry that wanted nothing but release.
That particular part of him was what would get him killed here and now.
I grabbed a towel from the table nearby, cleaning the cum from my hands. Tossing the rag aside, my hands went to the zipper of my sweatshirt.
"What the hell are you doing?" Omari's voice rolled through the room as I shrugged the hoodie off revealing my round luscious boobs.
The chained asshole was hard again. Despite the fact that one of his limbs had already been burned off by the chains around it.
"I'm simply giving our guest a parting gift, a proper send off. He's clearly more interested in having a taste of my pussy than dying right now."
The bastard screamed in disagreement but none of us were listening anyway.
Omari's face hardened as he glared back at me without a word. He didn't need words — his disapproval was a hard line across his face.
"Oh, c'mon! Omar, I'm going to kill him anyway."
"No one is fucking you before me Vel." he retorted with a tone of finalty.
I let out a loud laugh. I'll add pissing off Omar to the list of things that bring me great joy in this world.
"You don't get to decide what I do with my victims, remember? Torture them, kill them, fuck them... You have no say," I said, taunting, trying to rile him up, but instead he just hardens his glare on me.
Ugh. Such a buzzkill.
The man's second arm falls off.
"Alright, fine. Stop glaring holes into me. Get the rats and some coals — let's finish him off," I said, bored.
I was hoping to have some fun with this horny soul, but Omari's jealousy has taken the life out of what would have been a fun experience.
Oh well. There's always a next time.
Omari comes back with a sealed metal bucket and a pan of hot coals in hand.
My smile returns. The rat-bucket torture is my absolute favorite.
I move to the crying man now slumped on the floor. I grabbed a fistful of his hair to bring him up.
"Hi there," I chirped.
The man responded with something unintelligible. It was satisfying to see him in this state, as opposed to the confident-looking man who approached me in front of the church doors and offered to get in my car and drive off to an unknown place with me.
Either he's stupid enough to think that stranger danger was only meant for kids, or he blatantly underestimated the trouble he was getting himself into simply because I am a woman.
Like evil had anything to do with gender.
"Since you have refused to confess your sins, I guess it can't be helped."
"Haven't you done enough? Let me go. I promise I won't say a word."
"Oh, sweetie, that's not gonna happen," I said plainly, no longer in the mood to play anymore. "You're never seeing the light of day ever again. And as for why I'm doing this? The answer is simple: because I can."
We tied the man to a chair and set the sealed metal bucket beside him, the lid rattling as the rats scratched from the inside, desperate to get out. I crouched in front of him, close enough for him to smell the iron on my hands. His eyes were wide, rimmed red, and full of the kind of fear that made my pulse hum.
"What do we do while he suffers?" I asked, turning to Omari with a lazy tilt of my head.
He didn't answer right away, just stared at the man like he was studying something pathetic. Then, finally, his mouth curved slightly. "Let him scream," he said. "i'm curious to see how long before the rats make their way up."
I smiled. "Fine by me."
The bucket is tipped onto the man's belly, the lid lifted, and chaos spills out. The rats burrow and claw beneath the metal, the bucket shaking violently as they tear into him. His screams fill the room, jagged and raw, echoing off the stone walls.
I leaned back against the table, crossing my arms, watching him unravel. There was a rhythm to it — panic, pleading, pain — a kind of music in the misery.
The exact thing that makes this form of torture my absolute favourite.
Omari dropped the coals hot on the flipped bucket, his movements steady and methodical. He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. He just stood there bent over, calm as ever, the firelight flickering across his face. For a second, I wondered if he even felt anything at all.
I wondered if at this moment, I could make him feel.