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Purple Silk
Purple silk. The woman wore purple silk like skin and wielded it like a weapon. Her hips swayed to a beat that entranced any who allowed themselves up to be caught up in the movement. With arms held above her head, fluidly winding and twisting while occasionally falling to caress some body part, she danced. Thin strings of jewelry shrouded the woman like a spider's web, silver threads catching the avid watcher's eye. Here and there the tingling of a bell announced the twitch of a hip, the flick of a wrist, or the gentle lifting and dipping of a delicate ankle. She was exquisite.
The man before her, spellbound by the vision of perfectly proportioned beauty, was inclined to agree. His eyes held the beginnings of a lusty haze as he stared, voraciously devouring the visual feast laid out before him. His breathing was still slow and easy, though any sudden movement by the gyrating female would inspire a momentary hitch in his respiration. His expression was a blend of wolf-like hunger and devoted appreciation. Yes, he knew her. Quite well, in fact. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought she could or would do what he was witnessing, but he certainly wasn't complaining about the change of heart. The woman bent backward, slowly tipping her head back to the ground while simultaneously revealing a beautiful strip of toned, caramel brown skin. If that wasn't enough to break his train of thought, the wink of amethyst in her belly button was. He shifted, just slightly, in his seat and continued to watch.
His eyes were not the only one to appraise the dancing woman. Another's eyes followed the trail of thin, gauzy fabric that fluttered in the air, following the wrist to which it was attached. With every gesture, the cloth swayed and dipped, graceful and mesmerizing in its own right. It made the girl feel even more sick. In another room, behind a thick, one sided mirror, the dancer's less perfect doppelganger withered in the shadows. That's right. The two women were one and the same, and yet completely different.
One danced and undulated with the practiced ease of an athlete, the other was slow and lumpy, confined to the thick chains embedded in the wall behind her. One commanded attention with every breath she took, the other was invisible to even the most astute observer, not that anyone wanted to look at her anyway. In vain, she had spent the last hour trying to push those thoughts from her mind, but every playful giggle and flirty touch the two people before her exchanged brought an acidic bile to the top of her throat and burned in the pit of her stomach.
He had been her friend. More than that, for he had long since gone above and beyond the call of duty for any mere friend. They had shared everything, or as close as two people could come to it, so when she awoke to see the imposter clinging to his arm it nearly broke her. Sure, confusion had come first. Why was she in this room, locked to a wall with chains so thick she had no hope of escape? Who was that woman? Why were they so close? It hadn't taken more than a minute to realize they were on a date, and not much longer than that to see that her friend was enjoying himself. She didn't mind that, but something was still wrong. It wasn't until she caught a snippet of the conversation that she realized who her friend believed the woman to be. From there, her insecurities had done their work thoroughly. Every doubt, every vice, every issue with self image she had ever had was pulled to the surface when faced with the harsh reality of the woman her friend deserved. A woman she could never be.
Turning her head to the side, she clenched her eyes shut, trying to ignore the scene before her. The woman had been taking small, but deliberate steps forward, inching closer and closer to her prey. The smaller the distance, the smoother and more sensuous her movement became. Her dance spoke for itself, and it spoke thunderously.
The man's eyes flickered, checking to see if he was reading the signals correctly. She seemed so completely different, so unhindered and completely out of character. Again, to say he detested the changes would be a straight lie, but sharp and completely unforeseen transformation did raise a few alarms. Gentle hands caressing his face, running through his hair, then sliding up and down the woman's side silenced the alarms promptly. His thoughts shattered and scattered throughout his brain and, with her so close now, he did not care enough to collect them.
That seething bile bubbled in her stomach again. A whole slew of feelings she knew far too well assaulted her on far greater levels. Some part was jealousy, and she knew it. She could never be so bold or so beautiful. She'd never have the courage, or the assets to pull off such a feat. This feeling...was quite like being kicked in the stomach, including the subsequent gasping for air and tearing in the eyes. A small voice, growing steadily louder whispered everything she'd ever hated about herself into her ear. Again and again, she was measured, the slim beauty as her ruler, and endlessly, she was found wanting.
Her breath quickened with the weight of her failures just as the proximity of the warm, voluptuous body quickened his. They were only inches apart, her hand had stilled at the back of his neck and her gyrating had slowed to a barely imperceptible movement centimeters away from his body. The girl in the room was only inches from unconsciousness. Her breaths were too short, too shallow, too useless to keep her awake.
Soft, thick, moist lips make contact with the man's just as the world went dark and the girl in chains hit the floor.
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Hold Your Breath
He watched her struggle with a queer sort of fascination as her plump little body writhed helplessly on the bed. She clawed uselessly at her throat, trying to loosen a noose that wasn't there. Of course, she didn't know that. The flash of a camera blinded and dazed her for a moment, and he couldn't help but smile at her pained and bewildered expression. Her eyes were unfocused, darting everywhere, flicking from one spot to another to the tempo of her weakening gasps.
Every pitiful sound she uttered sent an almost arousing shudder through her spectator. Succinylcholine had been an excellent choice, he thought. It was so simple, so sneaky, so perfect for the whore. It was a nifty little muscle relaxant he'd found in the internet. Made the muscles in the throat so relaxed and weak that the victim couldn't even breathe. Well, that's not what it was made for, of course. It was supposed to help with respiratory surgeries and the like, but its effect was too beautiful to pass up. And the sweet hallucinogen he'd added into the mix only made the experience more enticing. What better way to watch her die than to see her night gown creep up her body as she struggled to catch a breath? Every movement pulled the fabric higher, gradually exposing new and delicious patches of skin to her observer's eye. The long line of her legs, muscles taut with strain, seemed like the work of a master artist.
Unable to restrain himself, he approached her on the bed. She had settled now as her body sank into unconsciousness. It wouldn't take long, but he wouldn't need a lot of time to enjoy her while she was still alive. He only needed her breathing for the foreplay.
Gently, he peeled the plastic glove off his hand and wiped it on the rough denim of his jeans. His excitement made his hands turn clammy and moist in the glove, and that was no way for them to be the first time she felt his touch. So he cleaned it briefly before placing his hand on her calf, which twitched gently beneath his fingers. His breath stuttered and his eyes fluttered closed as another rush of lust rippled through him, setting off that glorious humming in his mind. His attention returned to her and he began to slide his trembling hand farther up her leg, over her knee and onto her juicy thigh. With relish, he began to knead the warm flesh as his eyes scraped up her body, over her barely undulating chest and up to her face.
Her hands had fallen away from her neck, leaving her head in a halo of black-brown hair, spread from her earlier ministrations. Her eyes had closed when she fainted and the only sign of consciousness now was the occasional tremble of her barely parted lips. Thick, plump, purpling lips. That would be his prize, but to get there, he must traverse the many hills of her body.
A knife, pulled from a pocket, sliced through her thin gown like wind might cut through a clear sky. The whisper of cloth on metal only served to heighten the dramatic moment when her near nakedness was revealed to him after he'd thrown the ripped clothing open. He could feel the wetness of his hunger pooling in his mouth, and in other places, as he stared at her.
Immediately, his hands dove into the rolls that formed hills around her stomach. Some people did not understand why he preferred the plump ones. They were always so colorful during the chase. Some were insecure and so willing to trust anyone who showed interest. Others had learned to be strong, to be independent. They'd realized they didn't have the figure to get big breaks for being a woman, so they learned to be tough and rely on no one else. Those were the ones that required finesse, a challenge all too welcome. All that was necessary was persistence and a little attention to detail. Take the time to prove you're the white knight they hadn't dared to hope for, and suddenly they're more soft and vulnerable than they'd ever been.
But that wasn't all. Oh no. The best part comes when his hands sink into her flesh and are surrounded by its soft warmth. The skin, so smooth, slides under hard hands like silk until they reach the breasts, and bliss. That was another thing. The breasts were almost always better. Juicy and large, they sit like twin jewels on her chest, waiting for him to ravish them. And that he did. There was no need to rush now. She would be gone soon, if she wasn't already, but her body would remain warm for several hours to come. He was almost done anyway.
Straightening, he let his eyes rake over her body once more as he took slow, careful steps away from the body. She looked just as beautiful through the camera lens, so he took care to frame the scene so the light just barely poured over her nakedness. Again, his passion overwhelmed him and his body begged for his attentions. He could deny his urges no more, so he let the camera fall into the open bag on the floor, even as he began to loosen his belt. Hungry eyes could not tear themselves from the feast before them, the sight calling to his sensibilities like a siren song. The heady intoxication of the moment put him into a haze, robbing all thoughts else from his mind as soon as the door clicked shut.
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Execution of a Sinner
They were not very quiet. Though, they didn't really need to be. If anyone heard them, no one would care to stop them from carrying out their task. In fact, Lorna would not doubt that some of the villagers would be willing to assist the night intruders. So, she ignored the whispers, footsteps and miscellaneous noises that slipped through the openings in her windows. Instead, she continued scribbling her most immediate thoughts in the small, leather-bound journal she reserved for sleepless nights such as this one.
She did not stop writing until the splintering of wood, probably the front door to her home, interrupted her thoughts. With a sigh, she brought the latest entry to a close, signed and dated it, then closed the little notebook and slipped it into a desk drawer. Ignoring the crash of plates and the rip of cloth coming from outside her bedroom, she sat patiently, humming to herself. A quiet knock quickly crescendo-ed into a ruckus she felt not even her self-absorbed neighbors would miss. Again, she heard the wood of a door crack, grate against the frame that held it in place, then splinter inwards, though this time the process was accompanied by the vibrations that resulted from the steady pounding and the uncomfortable sensation of wood splinters pattering against her back with the breaking of the door.
The group burst into the room, huffing and mumbling to themselves. Still, she kept her back to them, even going so far as to close her eyes and focus on taking deep and slow breaths to calm the heart that would not obey her mind's orders. She clung to silence, even as one man fisted his hand in the thick darkness of her hair and yanked her from her seat, throwing her on the floor into the circle of black clad figures. Lorna drew her focus to a dark knob in the floorboard, fastening her concentration on the small disfigurement to pull her attentions away from the pain that bloomed in her stomach, her arms and her legs with the slam of each boot toe and heel.
They spat names at her, the kindest of which was "whoring witch." She said nothing, and though her body would not let her fully contain the yelps and groans that the pummeling pulled from her, no one could say she did not make a mighty effort to do otherwise. Naturally, this angered her assailants all the more, until one (it's difficult to determine identity in the midst of a beating) once again utilized her thick hair to heave her face into a meaty hand, propelled with significant force by a hatred that extended far beyond words.
Rape was an option, but none wished for the poison the cursed creature would surely bring with the act, not that she was worthy of that sort of violation in the first place. Of course, this meant they soon grew tired of their bludgeoning ministrations, and were forced to progress from fisticuffs to armed retaliation. Granted, retaliation is hardly a fitting term when one opponent refused to fight back, but not one of the midnight intruders believed they were doing anything less than noble. Staring down at the woman, if she should even be called that, one man spit on her, then drew a blade from his side, only glancing up briefly to see his brothers in arms do the same.
To kill her quickly would have been more of a blessing than the monster deserved. So they gave her more than her due, cutting at every accessible piece of flesh until wounded skin could not be told apart from unwounded, as all was hidden beneath the blanket of blood that had spread over her skin like a sickening paint. If they were to be honest, the garish, red hue was a surprise to the lot of them, as any sign of humanity on their target could not be believed. She was a monster, a witch, a perilous threat to them all. Ridding the world of her was not only a duty, but a pleasure. So, they ignored the cries that sprung from her raw throat, merely avoided the pained thrashing of bleeding and broken limbs, and carried on with their work until all had had their fill.
Lorna was lost in the pain and the hurt, though she asked no questions of her punishment. She knew as well as they that it was what she deserved, that she was what they said, possibly more. Surely she had done something to deserve this hateful treatment. She repeated this in her mind, the voices of the villagers rising as a dreadful chorus to condemn her, though none had ever seen fit to name her crime. Even so, the woman tried to bare it as quietly and compliantly as possible, but somewhere she had lost touch with her control and could do more than thrash uselessly and react violently to every slice, kick and burst of hellish pain that struck her.
Breathing hard, sweat streaking the spots of blood that speckled the men's faces, they stopped their gruesome work one by one until all were still. As one, they watched the woman jerk and thrash in the bloody puddle until she was still, save for the shaking of her chest as she sobbed to herself. Then, again as one, they stabbed, cutting deep. One in the heart. One in the stomach. One on her back. One after another until she was still, silent, dead.
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