Page 2 of Decimation

With a yank he tears my underwear off entirely and as I register what that action means, he pulls my legs apart enough for what he want,s and then he’s pushing himself into me.

Oh God.

Oh God.

He’s big. So fucking big. Thrusting with a ferocity that’s terrifying. I want to hate it, to despise every moment of this violation, but my body after all those years of conditioning won’t let me.

It’s responding, arching into him, meeting his thrusts with a desperation that’s as shameful as it is undeniable.

I’m panting, writhing. Caught in a maelstrom of pleasure, pain, and a shame so overwhelming it’s tearing my soul apart.

He’s forcing me to come, his hand is still on my clit, his thrusts relentless.

I can’t stop it.

I can’t fight it.

My body is betraying me, responding to his touch with a fervour that’s impossible to deny.

Oh God, I’m doing it. I’m giving in, my body is convulsing with a pleasure that’s as intense as it is deeply wrong.

I hate it. I fucking hate him.

He’s panting now, his movements becoming more erratic as he nears his own climax. I can feel it building inside him; the tension in his body, the desperation in his thrusts. And then he’s coming too, his release hot and wet inside me.

I can feel it, the warmth of him, the finality of his violation.

He collapses on top of me, his breath hot against my skin. I’m trembling, my body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, but my mind is a whirlwind of confusion and shame. How could I enjoy that after everything I have been through, after everything I have endured?

He rolls off me and I’m left lying there, exposed and vulnerable.

I can feel his eyes on me, studying me with a curiosity that’s almost childlike.

He’s muttering again, words I can’t understand through the fogginess in my head, but the tone is unmistakable; he’s fascinated by me, by what he’s done to me.

I close my eyes, trying to block him out, but it’s impossible. His presence is overwhelming; his scent, his heat, his madness.

I can’t escape him. I can’t escape this.

I realize then that I’m not in any world I know. No, I’m in hell, and he’s the devil.

I’m his plaything, his toy to fuck and abuse as much as he wants.

I’m a sinner. A thing cursed for abandoning my prophet.

And this right here, is my divine punishment.

Chapter note here: if you’re deeply religious, I would highly recommend you skip this first chapter. It’s not for you. Please, please, just trust me on this.

Although, I will add that it’s curious anyone highly religious could tolerate my machinations of scripture enough to get to this point, but still…. There will be a little chapter overview after this chapter, so you won’t miss anything. It’ll just spare you the gory, gory details.

The air is thick with incense, the scent of myrrh curling like a ghost around the stone walls of the chamber. The candles flicker, casting long shadows that dance across the ancient tapestries depicting our Brethren’s lineage. I kneel beside my father, Emmanuel, the Grand Master as he sits in the copper tub, the water steaming faintly. His body is lean but still powerful, the muscles of his arms and chest taut beneath the skin though I can see the wear of time in the way his shoulders sag slightly, the way his hands tremble as he lifts them to his face to scrub away the last remnants of his earthly life.

“Lazarus,” he says, his voice low and steady, like the tolling of a distant bell. “You must guide him.”

I nod, dipping the sponge into the water and running it over his back. His skin is pale, almost translucent in the candlelight and I can see the faint blue veins beneath, the map of his mortality.

“Konstantine will need you,” he continues, his eyes fixed on the wall ahead, unseeing. “You are the only one who can speak to him as an equal. The only one he will listen to.”