Sue me, I can’t help who I am. Frankly, I fucking love being me.
It seems lately, however, thoughts and feelings are awakening inside me that seem to come from some place long ago and far away. Like my legacy is waking up and preparing. For something. And just like I feel somehow responsible for the killer targeting Dominique, I feel like me, this house, and her are all connected in some way.
Which might be why when I see her walking up the front steps of the house, she looks like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
It might be why I want to pin her down on the front steps and fuck her, right there in front of God and everyone and brand the house with her, have her essence seep into the ground and plant her here forever.
Like a goddamn sacrifice.
I scrub a hand down my face, gnash my teeth together hard, and push those dark thoughts from my mind. I’ve always been on the kinky side, but the things I feel for Dominique, the things I want to do to her, the debasement and the darkness, it’s a whole other level of fucked up. I think what might be most disturbing is I can’t shake the thought the killer was here messing with Dominique’s car while I was fucking her inside. Like he knew. Like he was doing what he was doing to spite her, to punish her for giving herself to me. It’s crazy, I know, but it doesn’t change it.
What’s even crazier is I imagine him out there now, hiding somewhere amongst the trees watching us. I’d take her hard and make her scream out in pleasure over and over again imagining his fury because she’s mine and he wants her. I know he wants her; I can feel it. That’s why he was here, that’s why he came for her.
The moon is high in the sky when she stops at the large front double doors and turns to face me. Her face practically glows in the moonlight, like some dark magic princess who came to spell me.
I slowly approach her, my steps soft and measured. My mouth is watering, hungry for her taste, her scent, the feel of her skin, and the sound of her cries. I feel like a fucking animal. I can see her chest rising and falling quickly with her rapid breaths. She must sense my depraved want.
“Ignatius,” she murmurs when I’m standing in front of her at the door.
“Dominique.” Her name is practically a growl on my lips.
“What is it?” Her back is pressed against the panel.
I place my palms on the wall on either side of her head, lean in, and slowly run my nose up the side of her face. “Do you really want to know?” I ask darkly.
The sound of her breath is mixed with the owl calling out somewhere in the distance. “Yes,” she replies as her breasts press into my chest.
I reach down and cup one of the heavy globes and drag a thumb across the pebbled point of her nipple, then grip it tightly between thumb and finger. “I want to make you scream, cheri. I want to hear the music of your cries out here. Then I want to fuck you hard under the moonlight.” I hear her gasp with my perverse desires. “Would you let me do that, Dominique? Out here?” In front of the killer so he knows you belong to me?
We fucked like savage beasts at the back of the house outside. But that was different, that somehow seemed more private. Here, in the front of the house, it feels like we’d be on display. I can’t deny that makes me hard as hell.
Her breaths are coming short and quick, the warm air fanning against the skin of my neck. I pinch her nipple tighter, causing her back to arch into the touch and push her breast into my hand.
“Yes,” her answer comes quick and breathy, “I will. Here and now.”
“Fuck, Dominique.” I kiss her like the beast I am, devouring her mouth as I take her entire breast in my palm and squeeze while cupping her sex with the other. Her body rocks into my touch as I swallow her moans. I tear my mouth from hers, take a few steps back, and stop once I hit the steps. “Strip, Dominique. Let me see your skin shine in under the moon.” My eyes are glued to her mouth as her tongue swipes over her lower lip before she drags it between her teeth. My balls tighten with hunger at the sight. “Take your shirt off. Then touch your breasts like I touch them, bring them to your mouth, then flick your nipples with the tip of your tongue.”
Her mouth opens in shock and her eyes widen. But she doesn’t tell me no.
Slowly she starts at the top, pushing the little white buttons through the holes on her prim and proper crisp white shirt. It’s beautifully ironic how fucking filthy I’m going to make the pristine Detective Chavelle. When she gets the long row of buttons undone down the front of her blouse, she lifts her hands to open her cuffs. When the blouse is hanging open hinting at the luscious tits waiting for my mouth beneath it, I tell her, “The pants first, cheri, then on your knees.”
She pulls her plump lower lip between her teeth again, her eyes locked on mine, and opens her slacks. I bet her panties are wet as she shimmies her cigar pants down her legs. She follows with her underwear, then pushes them to the side with her foot when they’re around her ankles.
She gets down on her knees.
“The blouse.” My voice is a rough timber.
As she slips her shirt from her shoulders and lets it fall to the porch behind her, I undo my belt and open my pants. She watches me watching her as she takes both her breasts in her hands, holding them from underneath, then lifts them to her mouth.
It’s a beautiful fucking sight.
I’ve got my hardness gripped firmly in my hand, tight and hard, hard enough to practically feel my heartbeat in my shaft. Her eyes dip close as her tongue circles the dark discs of her areolae. I want to come all over her face and chest, smother her in my cum, then make her lick it clean.
But I want to fuck her more.
I step slowly toward her, my hand gliding leisurely up and down my shaft. When I’m directly in front of her - so close, if I let go of myself, my dick would slap her in the face - I tell her, “Keep your hands right where they are. I’m going to fuck that beautiful face of yours. Pinch your nipples. Hard, and don’t stop.” I watch as the points poke out further between her fingers as I catch a handful of her hair. “Open.” She does. I shove my cock down her throat in one go, not stopping until I feel her gagging. Fuck, that’s incredible. I pull her back by her hair and watch the spit drip down her chin. “Lick it.” She does. She laps her spit and my pre-cum from the crown of my shaft, her sweet tongue circling the ridge, and I almost want to blow all over her.
“Lean back and open up for me. Let me see what’s mine, Dominique. I want to look at your beautiful pussy.”
Her mouth opens as she sucks in a gasp. But she obediently falls back and gets her legs out from underneath her. Propped up on her elbows, I pull her knees up and spread her wide. “Hold them open.” She flattens her back on the porch floor as she takes her knees in her hands and keeps herself open for me.
I drag a finger down her slit. “So wet,” I murmur as I press the tip inside her. I can feel her tighten around me, hungry for more. I slip in two digits. “I love the feel of you wrapped around my cock, Dominique.” I watch the tremors of her stomach muscles matching my thrusts. I lay a hand on her mound and pinch her clit as I remove my fingers, “But I want to fuck your ass tonight,” and press one against her tight back hole.
She sucks in a breath, I’m not sure if it’s shock, desire, or both. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is she didn’t refuse.
When I begin to rub her swollen nub between my fingers, her puckered entrance opens for me and allows me to slide right in. Her head dips back as she arches a deep curve off the floor.
“You’re almost ready to come, aren’t you?” She lets out a long breath and nods. “Yes,” I mumble and add another finger to her tightness. “This tight little ass is very sensitive. Look how you’re responding.”
“Ignatius,” she pants as I add a third finger. I let go of her clit, plunge two fingers into her heat and coat them with her slickness. She starts rocking into me. “Yes, please,” she moans.
Removing them, I coat my shaft with her wetness and kneel on the step. I slide my fingers from he
r and place the tip of my cock at her rear entrance. Then I press the head in.
“Fuck, Dominique,” I growl as I lift her legs over my shoulders and bite down on her calf.
“More,” she moans.
I give it to her. I thrust completely inside her tightness until my abdomen is pressed against the backs of her thighs. I don’t move as I give her a minute to get used to me being inside her. When her body relaxes, that’s when I begin to move. Slowly at first, I hold her legs up and back as I watch my cock disappear inside her ass, then slip back out.
“Every part of you is mine,” the words slip from my lips of their own accord. I’m claiming Dominique, every single part of her body, as the house claims us, makes us mark the threshold with our fluids, staining it, marking it, embedding ourselves into the very foundation.
“Yes,” she murmurs.
Everything in my body coils in a white-hot ball at the base of my spine. I’m close and I’m taking her with me.
I let go of one of her legs and take her clit between finger and thumb again. I pinch that sweet little nub as hard as I can as my hips piston in and out of her.
She flings her head back and cries out into the night as she pulses around me. I thrust completely inside her and come.
When the tremors subside, I slide from inside her, lower her feet to the floor, and kiss her slowly and completely. She wraps her arms around my neck. “Let’s go inside so I can take you to bed,” I murmur.
“Mmmm,” she murmurs sleepily. It sounds so damn good.
I gather her clothes, help her stand, then carry her inside.
We’ve done what I wanted. What was necessary.
I claimed Dominique. This was a ceremony, under the moon and the stars, on the threshold of the house at the front door. My house.
And Dominique is mine.
Fifteen
Do not let your heart envy sinners
– James 3:14-16,
It seems to be darkest between the hours of three and five in the morning. The stillness is thick and heavy, and the quiet seems to be listening. This must be the reason it’s called the Witching Hour, the time when the spirits come out and are at their strongest.
It was all I could do to wait until they’d finished and gone inside. The fury that’s flowing through my veins is intense. It started from the moment I watched the bastard Beauchamp lead the queen into the police precinct. It exploded as I watched them on the porch. He had his hands on her. I’m going to cut them off and burn them in front of his face. He’s not worthy of touching her, his blood is vile. The way she allows him to is almost more than I can stand.
He’s ruining everything!
I had a plan, everything was going perfectly. The ceremonies have to be done meticulously and with precision. I’ve been given a mission, and nothing is going to stop me. It was deemed so by God. He even delivered the queen into my hands as a gift, she’s to be the ultimate sacrifice. She was sent to anoint the ceremonies with her purity and her power. The crown on salvation.
Beauchamp is contaminating her.
He’s forcing my hand to deviate from the plan, to commit a sin. He has to pay.
Now Dominique must be punished to make her worthy once again.
I’m furious Beauchamp forced me to act rashly. This sacrifice was not carefully chosen. I needed to act quickly after wasting all that time watching them together, I couldn’t tear myself away from the transgressions unfolding before me. He’s made my blood boil and made me sin during this sacred procession. He made me release the seed of the Holy Communion as I watched him defile her. Tonight’s purging is going to have to be severe.
This sacrifice isn’t the same as the others, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to take her to stay on schedule. She wasn’t grateful, she didn’t understand she’d been chosen, that she’s meant to serve a special purpose. She screamed and caused a scene; it was Beauchamp’s fault. If he hadn’t forced me to watch them together, if he hadn’t forced me to act carelessly, it wouldn’t have gone this way. This time, people noticed, they must have heard her screams. I reacted when she punched me in the face. I think she broke my nose, the ungrateful cunt. I hit her, smashed my fist into her face, and it felt glorious. I want to cut her goddamn head off.
“This will be delivered unto you, God’s almighty wrath,” I spit the words out as I drag the tramp from the tree line.
It’s so still, so quiet, I can hear my heartbeat. There are no sounds except my footsteps and the sacrifice’s muffled screams. This is getting a bit bothersome. I roll my eyes. I stop, step to her side, and slam my foot into her ribs.
“You should feel special. You’ve been chosen. Stop acting like a fucking baby,” I snap at her.
No, no, no, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be! I take in a steadying breath and look up to the heavens. “Give me your strength,” I pray. I stand quietly a moment as tonight’s gift whimpers at my feet and I let the calm wash over me. When the fury subsides enough, and I feel in control, I let out another breath. “Ah, much better.”
I continue to pull her behind me. I’m not concerned with the trail I’m leaving behind us in the grass as I make my way to the building in the back. I’m pleased with tonight’s location. It wasn’t the first one I’d chosen for this ceremony, but considering the circumstances, it will do nicely. I like to imagine it’s the slave shack the young woman lived in, the one Bertrand Beauchamp burned. Having the ceremony here will be poetic justice.
I glance up at the house as I shove the sacrifice inside and envision the queen in bed with Beauchamp. Like a whore, a filthy whore like the slave was to Bertrand, and look at what happened to her. Rage unfurls inside me, hot and thick like molten lava. It wants to destroy everything, purge and cleanse the entire estate and leave nothing left.
Patience. You’ve got a job to do.
Because I had to deviate from the original plan, I don’t have any supplies. The only things I have is a can of lighter fluid, a lighter, the cat-o-nines-tails, and a knife. And the sacrifice.
“I will just have to make do,” I mumble as I grab the sacrifice by the hair and yank her up.
Looking around the space, it appears it was used as a workshop when the plantation was operable, but it’s now rundown and in a state of disrepair. The roof is barely intact, with a huge hole that lets a lot of moonlight in, enough to see in the darkened room.
Grabbing the rope that binds her wrists together, I jerk her up and feed it onto a rusted hook on the wall, one maybe a bridle or tools hung from. The sight of her nakedness makes me angry. It only reminds me of the two of them up there in his bed.
I have to fix that.
The only thing I can see in the dark are the whites of her eyes, big and round and bloodshot from crying. They’re the wrong color, I seethe. Goddamn Beauchamp! I grab the whip and lash her with it. Her body arcs like a bow, bent and rigid. The long talons of rapture reach up and scrape along my flesh, digging deep and eliciting a whisper of euphoria. I keep whipping her, lash after lash rains down on her flesh, tearing her apart, ripping her open. Finally, I drop my arm, for no other reason than it’s tired.
Her head is dropped forward, maybe she passed out. It annoys me. Everything feels wrong. Even the spirits inside me are not pleased, I can feel their fury. It’s raging like a tornado.
I drop the whip and pick up the knife. I clench my jaw and drag the tip across my left palm.
“This is my blood,” I snarl as blood pours from the wound on my hand. The usual sensations of bliss and joy do not come, and that angers me more. I turn my palm up so the blood of purification of the Holy Communion pools in my hand. I continue the prayer, “It will be shed for you, the new and everlasting covenant.” I flick my hand and splatter the anointment across the sacrifice’s body. “It will be shed for you,” the words feel wrong, and it fuels my rage. “So that sins may be forgiven.”
I drag my right hand down the sacrifice’s body, covering it with her flesh and blood.
I use it to w
rite the symbols on the walls and floors. It’s time-consuming, but this is actually better. It will make it more powerful.
“This is your body,” my voice is low and raspy. It’s not mine, but one of the spirits. I dip my fingers into an especially deep wound, causing the sacrifice to moan in pain. The spirits stir inside me. They like that, and that pleases me. “It will be given up for you.”
When the symbols are complete, I stare at the sacrifice.
I want more.
This time, I dig my fingers into her wounds and coat my hand with her flesh and blood.
There’s a special message I want to leave this time. I smear the blood on the walls.
The spirits are worked up in a furor. They’re still hungry as well. They’re demanding something special. I have to give it to them.
I grab the knife and slit her throat. Patiently, I wait for all her blood to drain out of her. I watch it ooze from her like a waterfall and pool all around my feet. There’s so much of it, it spills out the door and onto the grass, warm and thick. Finally, when it lessens, I sever her head from her body. It’s not an easy thing to do. When I’m done, my body is finally prepared for the final blessing, hard and swollen.
I set her dismembered head on the floor near my feet, then open my pants. I fist my shaft, my hand covered in the Holy Communion.
“Accept the sacrifice,” I begin to pump and work the white seed of anointment from my body. “Take her soul, she’s yours.” My hand begins to move faster. “She is my gift to you.” The tremors of euphoria start to shake my body. “Yes! Look favorably upon me,” I growl. “So that I may fulfill my destiny.” The first burst shoots from me and explodes onto the sacrifice, blending with the thick red blood and the torn pieces of flesh. The Eucharist. I keep pumping until I’m empty. Panting, I say, “Thank you for accepting my gift. Bless me with your power.”
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