Raphael

by Tillie Cole

Raphael turned the shower as high and as hot as it would go. Scalding water pelted his head, washing the taste of the trafficking bitch’s putrid pussy from his fingers and body. Then he stepped back, hair slicked over his forehead and face, and directed the red-hot water over his dick. He threw back his head and groaned as the water scalded his skin, but when he looked down, he wasn’t hard. He backed away from the shower and stumbled, dripping wet, along the tile floor.

  What was fuck was happening?

  Raphael curled his hands into fists and let his building rage loose. He swiped his arm along the top of his drawers, sending bottles and the mirror crashing to the ground. He yanked out the drawers, his clothes flying across the room and the wooden drawers smashing against the wall. He walked to the fireplace and threw his fist into the picture above it. He did it again, and again and again until his hand was bloodied and the plaster of the old wall underneath collapsed.

  He didn’t hear Maria come up behind him. He didn’t see her watching him destroy his rooms. He didn’t even think of her until a gentle hand landed on his back. Raphael swung around, seeing nothing but death before him. Maria’s tear-stained face broke through his fog. “You,” he snarled darkly, and stalked toward her. Maria stumbled back, trying to get out of his path. But Raphael was in a fury, unhinged, one rush of anger from killing anyone who dared get in his way. Maria’s back hit a wall, and he crowded where she stood. “It’s your fault.” He squeezed his defective dick. Maria’s eyes moved down to his hand. “You cried,” he growled, slamming his hand against the wall above her head. “You were crying and said ‘red rose.’ Why were you fucking crying?”

  Raphael stepped back and smacked his cock again, but nothing happened. His flesh wasn’t expanding and pressing against the cage. The agony he needed didn’t come. Raphael’s legs weakened, and he had to hold onto the bedpost to keep upright. He tried to breathe, to keep his composure. But this was who he was. He killed and he fucked. He fucked and he killed. They were synonymous to him. One didn’t exist without the other. He pictured hands around necks and scratches on his skin. Pain. Always pain. It had always been pain. The whips . . . the lashes . . . being held down and—

  Raphael’s head snapped back as a burst of pleasure shot through his body like a bullet to his heart. He sucked in a quick breath and felt his cock spring to life and push against the silicone cage. Raphael’s hands dug into the wood of the bedpost . . . and he looked down.

  “Maria . . .” he said hoarsely, his voice cut like shattered shards of glass. Raphael’s eyes grew leaden at the sight of Maria’s small, delicate hand holding his cock, the flesh swelling second by second. She didn’t move her hand. Just held his dick still as if it would burn her if she stroked it. As though feeling his eyes on her, Maria looked up, her gaze nervous and her skin pale. Her hand shook. But the familiar warmth that Raphael craved was ushering out the panic from his body. “Keep it there,” Raphael ordered as he gripped the bedpost tighter. Maria didn’t move her fingers, just let his cock fill its cage and her hand until the pain Raphael needed began pulsing in his groin, bolts of lightning splintering up his spine.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stayed that way, but when the strength returned to his legs, he sat back on the edge of the mattress. Maria went to move her hand, but Raphael reached out and kept it in place on him. He spread his legs and closed his eyes. Maria’s touch was warm—the perfect contradiction to the constrictive pain of the cage.

  “I don’t know what to do.” Maria’s timid voice sailed into his ears.

  Raphael opened his eyes to the sight of Maria before him, her white dress that showed her body’s small curves, and the yellow rose he had put in her hair that morning. Her hair was soft and smooth and fell in a blond waterfall over her shoulders and back. “Squeeze,” he ordered, his low voice revealing how little control he retained. “Squeeze as tightly as you can.”

  A quick exhale leaped from Maria’s shocked, parted lips. Raphael’s eyes were on her, never looking away, as he said, “I order you to squeeze my cock as hard as you can. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Maria said, casting her shining eyes down, like the good little submissive she was. Her cheeks blushed, telling Raphael she wanted this. Wanted to touch him and make him come.

  “Now,” he demanded. Maria’s fingers began to grip his length harder. Raphael hissed as the familiar needles of pressure began to gather in his balls. “Harder.” He bit down on his lip. Blood burst into his mouth, but he drank it down. Blood and pain and the feel of Maria choking his cock was paradise. “Harder. Harder!” he repeated as Maria’s hand began to shake with exertion. “HARDER!” Maria wrapped her second hand around him. His little rose suffocated him with all the strength she had.

  But he needed to be on top of her. He needed her small body beneath him. Reaching out, Raphael yanked on Maria’s arm and pulled her down to the bed. He straddled her waist and hiked up her dress until it bared her pussy and her stomach. “Grab me. Choke me. Strangle the fuck out of my cock,” he snarled. Maria obeyed his harshly spoken order, gripping hard with both hands. When her grasp was almost bruising, Raphael leaned forward, one of his hands on either side of her head. She was panting as fast as he, and her cheeks were flushed. Her pupils were dilated as she watched his face. Watched the hedonistic pain cut through his body like a million daggers being plunged into his skin. “Move your hand. Rub me up and down. Jerk my cock.” Raphael leaned down and licked along Maria’s cheek, down to her chin, and then over her bottom lip. She released a soft moan. “Strangle my cock, little rose. Make it pay for failing me.” Maria pumped her hand up and down over the silicone cage. Raphael’s head rolled back and his eyes closed. Maria worked him faster, her grip tightened, and the cage began to constrict around him. His balls were starved of blood, and his cock’s head began to pulse with the asphyxiation of his flesh. Maria’s touch was frenzied as Raphael’s body thrived off the pain, every muscle throbbing, needing the relief only his release could bring. Then his jaw clenched, and, swallowing the blood that was trickling from his sliced lip, Raphael roared and came. His neck strained and his eyes snapped open, watching the white streams of his release decorate Maria’s unblemished stomach. Twitching, still coming, Raphael tilted his hips until his final spurts of semen coated Maria’s bare pussy. He groaned when Maria’s hole clenched as the cum hit her.

  Raphael’s eyes were fixated on the cum covering Maria’s half-naked body. He groaned, then reached forward, rubbing the semen into her stomach. A carnal, primitive need drove him on. Made him rub and rub until his release had soaked into her skin. Then his hand moved lower, over her navel and over her hips. Maria’s breath hitched at his touch. When Raphael reached between her legs, he spread his cum onto her clit, then dropped to her hole. His eyes met hers and he slid his finger inside. Maria moaned loudly as he pushed his release inside her. A wave of ownership and possessiveness, so strong it made his chest ache, engulfed him. He pumped his finger inside her until there was no cum left on her body. Raphael withdrew his finger, and, making sure Maria was watching, her blue stare fixed on him, he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked the combination of him and her off his skin.

  Maria gasped. Heart pounding and pulse racing, Raphael lowered his mouth and licked along Maria’s inner thigh, along her pussy, and over her hips. His licked her stomach, lapping her navel—all of the places his cum had stained. He crawled above her, putting his hands on either side of her head. Raphael stared down at her face, at the innocent eyes looking back. At the pale tear-stained skin and freckles kissing her nose. “What have you done?” he rasped, shaking his head. “What the fuck have you done, little rose?” Exhaustion wrapped itself around him, pulling at his eyes to close and give his body rest. Raphael dropped beside Maria and took her hair in his hands. He lay on the mattress and stared at her pretty face.

  He hadn’t been able to fuck.

  He loved to kill and fuck. He lived for it. Was nothing without it.

  Little Maria had
interfered with his fun. His very purpose in life.

  Raphael kept his eyes on her as he wound her hair around his hand. Excitement swirled in his stomach at the thought of eventually wrapping the silken strands around her neck. At fucking her as she whispered his name . . .

  She was it for him until this was all over.

  Like the little rose she was, she was blooming under his touch, his forceful instruction. Then, when it was time, she would wilt and die, petals falling, taking her pretty breaths and heartbeats with her. Raphael inhaled, sleep coming to claim him.

  As he closed his eyes, he saw her in her coffin, clutching long stems in her hands, red rose petals crowning her head.

  Raphael smiled.

  What a sweet and decadent sight that would be.

  Chapter Eleven

  Maria carefully extracted her hair from Raphael’s hands. As quiet as could be, she crept out of the bed and padded to the bathroom. Her heart was racing with every step she made. She closed the door behind her. Turning, Maria caught sight of herself in the mirror. She didn’t move. She just stared at her reflection. At her mussed hair and flushed cheeks. She took a tentative step forward, and another. And as she drew closer to the mirror, she pushed the strap from her dress and let the fabric pool at her feet. Naked, she met her reflection. She ran her hands over her stomach and between her legs. She could still feel Raphael’s warm release kissing her flesh. She could still feel his calloused hand touching her, massaging the semen into her skin. Maria ghosted her fingers over her channel and felt her cheeks heat as though scalded by an open flame. But his semen on her flesh wasn’t what felt most sinful. That honor belonged to the thought of Raphael’s finger pushing inside her, a primal, savage expression on his face.

  In that moment, he had claimed her as his own. Maria almost laughed. It wasn’t just this moment. For weeks now, Maria had been steadily falling further and further into Raphael’s arms. She had given herself to the killer—mind, body, and soul—because it was what God wanted. But with every pleasurable hour that passed in his rooms, each day in his arms, his mouth on her core, Maria could no longer pretend it was only God’s will that kept her in his bed. She felt a part of herself break away with the first orgasm he gave her. Felt that broken part of her anchor in his embrace. And he had kept her there, attached to his side.

  She was no longer Sister Maria Agnes, but Maria, Raphael’s little rose.

  Maria inhaled a shuddering breath. Lifting her hand, she stared at her palms, her fingers. She could still feel the echo of Raphael in her hands. She shook her head, recalling his need for her to hurt him. The despair on his face when he couldn’t grow hard. His anger as he backed her against the wall and slammed his hand above her head.

  She had made him come.

  Maria, with both hands strangling his penis, working it up and down, had made him come. And when he had . . . his face, as he looked down at her . . . it was as though she had offered him her soul on a gilded plate. He spoke her name like a benediction.

  Maria . . . little rose . . .

  Maria shuddered and closed her eyes, her skin breaking out into a million goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with a pair of golden eyes that had seared their way through her high walls and into her bruised heart.

  Maria faced her reflection again, lifting her hand to the glass. “He is a lost soul, one who kills,” she whispered, yet she could only think of the pain he bore as he tore his room apart. As his face crumpled when he gripped onto the post, his body positioned as if someone were hurting him from behind. His back arched as though someone were lashing him, unleashing torrents of abuse. Tears sprung to Maria’s eyes when she thought of his back. Turning slowly, Maria faced the shower. Her hands shook at the thought of turning around. The entire day, since she had heard the butler mention today’s date, that date had plagued her mind, stabbed her heart and weakened her strength.

  Maria’s feet were unsteady as she reached behind her and lifted her thigh-length hair off her back. The warm, still-damp bathroom air kissed her skin, the skin she never revealed. Turn, she silently told herself. This year she would do it. She was determined. This year she would face the pain of her past, allow the long-repressed memories to be exorcised, not locked away down deep. But when her arms weakened and she dropped her blanket of thick hair back into place, she knew she had failed again.

  She liked to think that she was strong. She liked to pretend that she was here, with Raphael, in the manor of killers, for God. And she was. But the irony was, she was endeavoring to heal Raphael . . . yet she couldn’t even heal herself.

  Maria stared at her naked body. She had no idea how long she had left to live. But she wanted to be at peace with her past when that time came. When she would sacrifice herself for the cause of saving a sinner, like many martyrs before her. Maria expelled a mirthless laugh. Because she was sure the martyrs who had died for their faith and their God had not done so liking it. A flicker of shame washed through Maria. Because Maria liked it. She liked the submission. She liked the control being torn from her hands. But worse, she liked being touched by Raphael’s skillful hands. She liked his tongue between her legs, and she liked his fingers thrusting inside her, making her splinter apart in pleasure. A hot flush raced up Maria’s neck. She bit her lip at the building pressure between her thighs. Just the thought of being touched so carnally caused her body to shake and shiver. Maria wondered if God had given her this enjoyment to help her heal Raphael. Or whether it was just Raphael, period. She and Raphael together that made something dormant inside her come to life.

  When she opened her eyes, her pupils had almost eradicated the blue of her irises. She was exhausted. She was spent. Maria glanced at the shower and moved to turn it on, to wash Raphael’s release from her skin. But her feet stopped in the center of the bathroom, and instead she picked up her dress from the floor and pulled it back on.

  She had no idea why she wanted to keep her skin so sullied. But she smelled Raphael all around her. His scent was intoxicating. But strangely, it made her feel safe. She almost laughed at the irony. Her kidnapper and killer making her feel safe.

  It was the worst kind of affliction.

  But it was what she felt all the same.

  Slipping out of the bathroom, Maria moved toward the closet that housed her bed. But when she caught sight of Raphael, she stilled. Her hands ran down her dress as she fought an inner war.

  Raphael won.

  Maria tiptoed over to where he lay. He was where she had left him, his tired body stretched across the mattress. He was lying on his side, his cheek resting softly on his arm.

  He was beautiful. A fallen angel in the flesh. She wondered if this was what Satan looked like. The most beautiful of men but with the wickedest of souls. He too was a fallen angel, after all. The first. He hadn’t always been evil; he was a child of God. There had been good in him once.

  Just like Raphael. She believed that with her whole heart.

  Maria’s eyes dropped to Raphael’s now-flaccid penis. She swallowed on seeing the contraption that encased it. Black silicone caged his flesh. Maria couldn’t imagine such a device bringing him pleasure. Then it made sense. It was why he hissed sometimes. Why, when he was aroused, his head would snap back and he would bare his teeth as though he were being wrapped in a blanket of pain.

  “Why?” she whispered to no one but herself. Maria stared at Raphael’s body and noticed scar after scar under the heavy lines and dark tattoos.

  Why would he wear such an awful thing as a cage . . . ?

  She dropped her head. If unspeakable things were done to him . . . to anyone . . . it left scars that ran deeper than could be expressed on the flesh. It was the scars underneath that cut the deepest. The scars that sliced into the soul, that clawed at the flesh of the heart.

  That mutilated the mind.

  She knew. She knew that all too well . . .

  Suddenly cold, Maria walked back to her bed. She climbed under the cove
rs and closed her eyes. But the memories of this date five years ago and the following months came in strong, robbing her of breath. So she held onto the pillow and hugged it to her chest. When sleep claimed her, her sheets were damp with tears and her body ached from tension.

  But sleep did come. Just not for long.

  Maria’s eyes snapped open at the loud scream from the bedroom. Her heart raced as she tried to clear the heavy fog of sleep from her mind.

  Raphael.

  Maria hugged her sheet closer to her chest as she heard him thrash in his slumber, fighting whatever demons devoured him in his dreams. Each night he would shout and scream in his sleep. Each night she hovered close, like an angel, watching over him while he slept. She had never dared touch him after how he had punished her when she first arrived. She wouldn’t push her comfort on someone who seemed to be repulsed by it. But tonight seemed different somehow. The screams were ones of utter pain. The cries were ones of anguish and intense sorrow. And it didn’t stop. They came, wave after wave, until Raphael’s voice had grown hoarse, until his cries were replaced with the quiet, agonized sound of sobs.

  Body trembling, and nerves raw, she climbed from the bed and tiptoed to the closet doors. The bedroom curtains had been left open, and the moon was full and high. The blue glow from the sky kissed the room, illuminating where Raphael usually lay. But when Maria’s eyes found him, he wasn’t lying down. He was kneeling on the bed, head cast down and palms flat to the mattress. He was inhaling shaky, shallow breaths. Maria stepped forward, and when she grew near she saw that he was coated in sweat. His messy dark hair was clumped into strands and lay haphazardly over his forehead. A lump lodged in her throat at seeing such a formidable man so torn.

  Maria couldn’t help it. She reached forward and laid her hand on Raphael’s head. His breathing paused. Maria’s heart lodged in her throat, fearing she’d pushed him too far. Raphael’s body grew rigid, but his head began to rise, slowly. Maria held her breath as his haunted golden eyes met hers. Her bottom lip trembled at the lost expression on his face, at the tear tracks tattooed on his stubbled cheeks. His lips were pale and, seeing him there, alone on his bed with nowhere to turn, Maria wanted to be the one he turned to. No, she needed to be. She knew that feeling. Knew that suffocating, all-consuming, drowning feeling of being absolutely alone in the world, segregated by pain and despair.