Death Of Gods

Rachel steps off the final step of the solid wooden staircase that links the basement level to the ground floor of the mansion. Her smile is devilish as her eyes scan over the dungeon she has had the basement fashioned into. A dungeon that is frequented by some seven occupants, most of whom are locked in cages or shackled to walls.

However, Rachel isn’t gleefully focused on any of them. Instead, she intends to put all her effort, for this session, into her most advanced specimen, a man. The sight of him sends tingles surging up and down her body with anticipation. It’s why she licks her lips as she stares at his naked body shackled to a cross fashioned out of thick beams of wood painted black. He cannot see her though, as a hood covers his head to deny him the opportunity. Instead, he simply grunts quietly into the gag that is tightly wedged into his mouth.

After all, Rachel does not want his balling and screaming to he heard by anyone. Though she would like it to be, the reality is that they do have neighbours. Plus, the woman more commonly known as Rupture has never been convinced that soundproofing is as effective as claimed. Older, more established methods, like gags, seem more competent in her mind. Especially as her subjects left arm has already been worked over by Rachel. You see during their last session she flayed a section of flesh off the upper section of that part of his body.

He’d squealed, grunted, thrashed and moaned. Rachel had loved every second of it. She’s a sadist, and delights in causing others pain. It’s a thrill for her. The best she has ever found.

Though, the flaying had been the bookend of their little session it had not been the only trial he had been forced to suffer through. In fact, he is still suffering through one of the others as he babbles incoherently to himself from beneath the hood, while acupuncture needles blanket his legs.

There are so many in fact, that it is difficult to determine if there is any exposed flesh between the long slender shafts of flexible metal jutting out from his lower limbs. If there are then Rachel will find and fill them, of that her subject can be sure. It’s what she excels at and right now she is eager to return to the thrill of inflicting pain upon another living being.

It’s a process that had started back when she’d been young. Unlike most sadists she didn’t begin with animals. She saw no point in that. It held no appeal. So instead, she’d dived right in with people. A local boy to the town she’d grown up in had been her first, to be truthful. He’d been older than her by a few years. Not that it mattered, especially as Rachel had by that age already mastered the use of her telekinetic powers. He’d been mesmerised and fascinated by her gifts and that in turn led to his willingness to subject himself to whatever whim she fancied. And all so he could be around her. It was like he believed that being in her presence meant he might inherit some of her gifts. He didn’t. It doesn’t work like that, but Rachel couldn’t say for certain, then or now, whether that was what he believed.

He’d served his purpose though. She’d experimented with and on him to effectively hone her skills. Then she simply cast him aside. He wasn’t enough for her. She wanted, no craved, more. Simple small cuts were not enough. Nor was the willing acceptance to enter into a pact with her. It’s why she turned to abduction and ever more severe and extreme forms of inflicting pain upon those that became hers. That was until she met Balthazar. Unlike anyone else before she confided in him and again unlike anyone else before he encouraged her. As a result they grew closer than she had ever grown to anyone else in her life. Even the relationship between Rachel and her parents held no comparison when held alongside what she and Balthazar came to possess. Yet, he would never be her plaything. They were equal and she would always need an outlet. It’s for that reason alone that they built their first dungeon and housed their first slaves. It was a far cry from the makeshift hovel Rachel had stowed her specimens in before they’d met, or the space she stands in now.

Returning to the here and now, that walk down memory lane does in no way change the reality that right now Rachel is dissatisfied and for no other reason than because, in her mind, she has made a lack of progress with this specimen. That is why she shakes her head from side to side as the bright white lights recessed into the ceiling above illuminate every nook and cranny of the room.

Suddenly Rachel sighs shattering the silence. Her expression having morphed into an effigy of deep thought and contemplation during which she considers what the next step should be on this journey. Meanwhile her other captives whimper quietly from their imprisoned positions of being crammed into too small mesh cages or shackled to walls. They are all adorned with animal ears and a tail. It’s humiliating but they are at least able to see, even if they don’t want to. Though, their muscles are on fire. A result of the poses they are forced to maintain, sometimes for days on end without a break.

Unfortunately, after more than a minute of thought Rachel still hasn’t reached a decision and so she asks mockingly, “How are my pets?”

She gets no answer and expects none either. Each and every one of them knows better than to reply. If they did then she’d punish them, painfully. She doesn’t need an excuse to, but such insubordination can be a welcome distraction that helps her conjure up some fresh new idea. A cruel smile crawls across her full lips as memories leap into the forefront of her mind reminding her of her options. She studies them for a time and then settles on the one that interests her most right now, the bull whip.

The whip is laid out nearby. Rachel knows exactly where and so she takes the two steps over to it, her footsteps silent due to her lack of shoes, and then she wraps her slender fingers around its leathery finish. It’s cool to her touch, a result of the temperature in the basement dungeon being artificially kept at a level that no one would ever be able to call comfortable, unless they are able to wrap themselves in layers that is.

None of her specimens are able to do such a thing, so she can only imagine how severely they must wish she would show them mercy. There is no chance of that and just to prove it she cracks the whip against the cold concrete floor beneath her feet, which has been sealed with resin and then polished to a shine. Not for aesthetic purposes however, but for convenience. You see, the resin prevents any fluids from staining the otherwise grey porous mass, thus making it a breeze to simply wipe clean with the help of a bucket of water and a mop.

At the sound of the loud crack of the whip all her subjects erupt into a short round of whimpers and cries, muffled and panicked. The response is just what Rachel wanted and is why another wide smile forms across her face. After all, tormenting these souls is what she lives for.

However, mass torment will never give her the satisfaction she so craves. That is why she soon turns to the man who will be the focus on this session, just like he was the focus of her last.

The man in question fidgets relentlessly. His body swaying from side to side as he struggles and attempts to test the shackles that are keeping him secured in place. His attempts, which are far weaker now than they had been when he first was imprisoned here, still amount to nothing. And to make matters worse he is completely unaware of the fact that he will again be the focus of Rachel’s attention. If he was aware he likely wouldn’t continue to wriggle uselessly like he is. But his wriggling soon stops when Rachel places her right hand upon his chest. In that moment he freezes in place. It’s like he’s been paralysed by her touch, which in a way he has but as a result of fear. Only the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he inhales and exhales serves to indicate otherwise.

Then, without warning, a stinging pain tears through his chest. It isn’t the bite of the whip he heard cracked earlier. Instead, it is the twisting of his nipple by Rachel’s slender fingers. The same hand that had been slowly gliding over his exposed chest, caressing him gently.

The surge of pain is unbearable, and all he wants to do is scream as loud and for as long as his lungs will allow. But he can’t, and not for lack of trying. It is just impossible with this gag in his mouth. The only sounds through which he can make being grunts and moans, muffled ones at that. He hates this woman and he’d give anything to be free of her. She’s made clear however that such a thing will never happen. He’ll die first. All her slaves, whom she insists on calling anything but, have been informed of the same. The man with the flayed arm currently being tortured by Rachel heard the words spoken to each of them with his own ears.

Suddenly, the pain in his chest relents as Rachel releases her grip on his nipple. She takes a step back and then, with her feet quickly moved to be spaced a shoulders width apart, to keep herself planted, she unleashes the first strike of what will be a great many more.

The tail of the bull whip slashes across the captive mans’ midriff painfully. Muffled howls of pain escape around the edges of the gag, somehow petering out just in time for the next crack of the whip to be delivered.

The man’s immediate, and unsurprising response, is another attempt at howling as he feels the next ripple of pain. However, the third strike, unlike the second, comes before he is finished his moans. As a result his howls morph into one another until they are nothing more than a relentless series of grunts, moans and attempted cries. Each sound somehow more unintelligible than the last, and not just because of the presence of the gag. You see, the man’s mind is swimming in pain. So much pain in fact that he hasn’t a chance to think for even a second because of how overwhelming and perfectly timed each new pang is.

He knew this woman was a monster before but this, if somehow nothing else does, proves it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Unfortunately, such a conclusion has no bearing on Rachel’s actions as she continues to flog him across the abdomen until her arm begins to ache and grow heavy some time later. He can’t say how long. He simply does not know.

Rachel releases her grip on the whip. It drops to the floor with a thud. The man breathes a sigh of relief sure that his beating is done. He doubts this respite will last long, if never does, but it’s a respite nonetheless and so he has no intention of taking it for granted. That is, until the hood is wrenched from over his head, affording him the opportunity of sight once more.

Instantly he regrets the change he had no part in and mentally begs for the hood to be replaced. Not because of the bright lights that are burning his eyes, but because he knows that whatever will follow next will be so much worse. Some might question why such a thought is going through his head and the truth is that that has been his experience thus far.

The acupuncture needles having come before the flaying of his arm. And before that the bruises on his back, as large and as black as they might be, were nothing compared to the agonising slices this sadist inflicted all over the same mass of flesh. She did it as though his back was meant to represent some sort of canvas and the knife, controlled by her mind, was meant to be akin to a paint brush. Except, it was haphazardly dashed left, right, up and down with reckless abandon until she was satisfied with the work she had created. That process alone had lasted hours, had been exhausting and excruciating and why he doubts he could survive another similar such ordeal, especially as since then he has had the flesh from his arm flayed.

The man, though he knows he could, continues to resist the urge to look at the skinless section of his outstretched wounded limb. If he fails to resist he has a feeling that he’ll lose the limb for good. It’s the sort of sick and insane act he can easily imagine this woman would enjoy partaking in.

He is right about one thing however, and that is that what will be coming next will be worse. During the flogging Rachel had an idea coalesce in her mind and the more she’d thought about it the more perfect it became in her opinion. That is why a smirk is carved across her face as she stares hungrily at the source of her entertain. And to make matters worse, for the poor man anyway, Rachel will use her powers to do it. Not on him though. Like before she will use her powers on the object that will be the implement of his discomfort.

Nevertheless the man catches sight of the objects movement immediately and is forced to watch as it rises from the mirror-like surface of a metal surgical tray. Yet, he doesn’t understand what it is or what it is for. And that only helps to add to the terror he feels as the long, thin metal rod continues to rise into the air until suddenly it comes to an abrupt stop. Following that, it hangs there for a time. He can’t say how long. Time has lost all meaning in this torture chamber. Everything either feels like an age or a moment. With the pain being the thing that lasts forever, while the respites seem to end less than a heart beat after they have begun. Whether that is true or not he doubts he will ever know for sure. Unlike how he knows he hates, will all his being, this woman. That is a constant thought and one that never leaves his pain-addled brain, even during the agonies he has thus far been forced to endure by her.

With the rod beginning to move again, the man’s attention is drawn back to it, fully, and why he watches as it effortlessly floats toward him.

If it were not for the fact that he can see nothing and no one holding the rod he would swear that it has to be in the grip of a steady hand. Especially, as it does not twitch, shake or sway in any way while slipping ever closer toward him.

And he’d be lying if he did not admit that he is worried by the presence of the rod as it sails towards him, still without a clue as to what this monster of a woman might be plotting. What he is sure of is that whatever his darkest ideas of what might be in store for him are, they will be nothing compared to the depths of depravity to which this woman will sink.

It does however, make him wonder how this woman was ever chosen to become one of the beings commonly referred to as Gods. The very same people who had once, before some kind of revolutionary procedure he knows nothing about, been no different than him or anyone else in this room.

He does have to admit that he hasn’t a clue at what age they went through whatever it is that made them into what they are today. But he does ponder whether that procedure somehow warped this woman’s mind. His belief is that it must have. Perhaps as a result of some form of trauma because of whatever was done to her. It wouldn’t have been the first time such events have occurred and he imagines, in addition, that it was done prior to her reaching adulthood. Her teenage years seem the most probable period during which the damage was done and these ‘gifts’ bestowed. Not that any of that helps him or any other of the victims that she has imprisoned in this hellish torture den of hers.

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