Characters belong to Henson And Company.
This story is from a prompt by Ellen Weaver.
WARNING: This is a story for mature persons. There is a point to this story, and it is rated M for good reason. This is a horror story. It is a standalone one-shot and has NO connection to any other stories I have written.
There are some very unpleasant things of a sexual nature happening in this story. This is not intended to be sexy or titillating. I repeat, this is a horror story. If you have triggering issues, you should stop right here.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The Devil's Dance Floor
Jareth stood and fixed his face into a smug and leering grin. He was the slender and elegant tempter, the despoiler of dreams, the incubus, the rapist, the villain, her favorite fantasy. He could see her approaching in her virginal garb, wide-eyed and innocent, ferocious in her appetite.
He waited, imperious, beautiful and silent as she searched the ballroom for him.
She slipped in and out of sight as she threaded through the dancers, dogging and dodging their steps. He glimpsed her green eyes shining in the light of the chandeliers. He caught hints of her slender figure stealing across the room. Her white dress was incandescent in the soft light. She was suddenly standing in front of him.
"You're him, aren't you?" she said sounding breathless and timid. "You're the Goblin King."
"I suppose I am," he smiled and tilted his head. She gazed up at him with huge eyes and soft, trembling lips.
"Is this your ballroom?" she asked. "Is this part of the Goblin castle?"
"What else would it be?" he said, smiling.
"It's very pretty." She paused. "Aren't you going to ask me to dance?" she said, batting her lashes and simpering.
"Your wish is my command," he replied. He took her right hand and put his hand on her waist. He began to lead her slowly about the dance floor.
For a while, she stared dreamily into his eyes. She stroked the lapels of his shimmering coat. She touched the blue streaks in his hair. She slid her hand down his shoulder and tested the firmness of his bicep. She wore an air of ownership as she inspected him.
After a time, she started to look around at the other dancers. They were dressed shabbily and provocatively, twirling around with torn and patched skirts swirling out. She flinched when a dusty skirt brushed up against her pristine white gown. It left a smudge. Her expression became sour. Her lip curled and she frowned.
"What disturbs you, Precious?" he asked.
"They're rather unpleasant, aren't they?" she said. "They're dancing too close to us."
A drunken couple stumbled into her. The man, dressed in a crumpled and wine-stained tuxedo, stuck his tongue out and waggled it at her while the woman with a disintegrating hairdo falling onto her face and exposed bosom, laughed with a shrill and ugly sound.
She squealed and twisted away from them. Jareth held her in a sudden vise-like grip so she could not avoid the pair.
She turned her head away from them only to face a fellow holding a large and unpleasant smelling toy out to her. She looked at the toy in puzzlement and then a disgusted awareness came into her face as she identified the purpose of the object.
"Don't you like to play with toys?" Jareth asked. "I have lots of toys, if that's what you like."
She gave him a look of contempt and looked away.
They made another circuit of the dance floor without speaking. She did not look at him, but her hands continued to pet his shoulders, his chest, and his waist. She gripped his hand tightly when she glimpsed a figure in the crowd completely covered in black leather, head covered with a black fitted hood, zippers where the eyes and mouth should be. A sniggering, corpulent woman, dressed in discolored velvet and tattered lace, yanked a leash attached to a chain and leather collar around the neck of the nameless figure, and waved merrily to the girl in the clean, white dress.
She jumped closer to him when a woman with greasy red lips slid cold, dirty hands around her shoulders and tried to kiss her. He turned a sharp glance on the woman. The red lips laughed in his face, but the woman staggered away from them.
"You should make friends," he suggested. "You might have a lot in common."
She gave him a look of distrust and fear.
"You're beginning to frighten me," she said.
"Am I?" he said. He spun her around roughly and aggressively walked her backwards, faster than the music, out of step, and awkward.
"Should I toss you into the pit?" he asked, wearing a tense smile. "Should I let you burn?"
She followed his glance to the richly upholstered and pillowed, sunken area in the center of the room. A group of revelers were gathered in a tight circle, intent upon some festivity. A half-naked young man, face taut with fear, shoved his way out of the group and attempted to break away from them. Raucous laughter erupted from behind vulgar masks as rough hands snatched at him and dragged him back inside the circle and out of her view. A cry of pain and outrage erupted, quickly stifled.
She made a face of disgust and fear. "What are they doing to him?" she asked.
"You have an imagination, Sarah," he answered. "You tell me."
He spun her in a circle, once, twice and then a third time. She looked as if she were getting dizzy, so he spun her again. She gasped and clung to him.
"You're going to hurt me, aren't you?" she said in a quivering voice. Her eyes glistened, and a tear trailed down her cheek.
They can to an abrupt stop in the middle of the dance floor. His eyes were cold and furious as he watched her tremble in her pretty gown.
"Well. Why not?" he snarled angrily and grabbing her upper arm, crushing the ridiculous puffy white sleeve, he dragged her toward the pit of pillows. She screamed and tried to pull away from him, but he effortlessly tossed her into the upholstered maw. She landed on her back and her skirt billowed up, revealing long, frantically kicking legs.
Eager hands grabbed at her and bright eyes peered through frightening masks. A shirtless, fat man, greasy with sweat grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her to him for a repugnant, tongue-filled kiss. Evidently his breath was foul, for she gagged and spit. He laughed, releasing her to turn his attentions to a drunken woman who was busy with her head in his lap.
She struggled to her knees and made a futile attempt to crawl away. Grasping, pinching hands brought her to a halt. The tight circle of revelers in the pit shifted and moved. Jareth watched her make momentary eye contact with the young man they held captive. The young man's teeth were clenched and the muscles in his neck were pulled tight with pain.
"Run!" he groaned.
As she tried to get to her feet, Jareth grasped the nape of her neck and pushed her face down into the pillows. She couldn't breathe and after a moment started to desperately fight for air. When she was finally released, she gasped and puffed.
He rolled her onto her back. He was looking down his nose, staring into her face.
"You devil!" she cursed him. "You're going to rape me, aren't you?"
He glared into her eyes for a moment, his lips pressed together in a thin angry line, then he pushed her down into the pillows. He took hold of the lacy bodice and effortlessly ripped it down the center. She screamed and twisted. He lowered his head to her breast. She cried out when he bit her, but moaned when he used his tongue.
"No!" she screamed, as the other occupants of the pit laughed. "They're disgusting! They're going to hurt me, too!
Her eyes were wide and frightened as some of the pit dwellers gave her their attention. A filthy, rumpled man held her arms as Jareth continued to bite and taste. She cried as two half-dressed, laughing women pulled her knees apart. She wriggled and fought as sweaty, dirty hands pinched and stroked her.
When he loomed over her, she quit fighting and stared up at him like a mouse would stare at a snake, while he opened his breeches and tugged at his clothing. When he pierced her, the fight came back. She yelled and bucked and cursed him. He ignored her protests and went about his business, thrusting in a detached manner, staring over her shoulder.
Her complaints gradually changed into something else. Her struggles became more rhythmic, she quit pushing away from him and began pulling at him. Finally she wrapped her legs around his waist. She writhed under him, groaning and gasping. She clutched at his shoulders, pounded on his back and cried out.
"Faster," she moaned, "Go faster."
He buried his face in her neck and panted for breath as he worked. She finally cried out as she found her release. He simply stopped moving and looked at her with flat, emotionless eyes. She relaxed, lolling her head and splaying her arms wantonly in the pillows. Her skirt was about her waist. The dress was torn, her breasts exposed and pale in the harsh light. Her legs were still wrapped around him.
"Was it everything you expected?" he said blandly. He rolled off her and adjusted his clothing. He stood up and surveyed her for a moment, taking in her torn, crumpled and soiled white dress, spotted with the red drops of her virginity's loss.
She looked back at him with tears welling in her eyes. Her chest hitched with sobs. She staggered to her feet, tangling in the voluminous skirt of her dress.
"You're a monster," she cried. "I hate you!" She clumsily crawled over the pillows, striking at the hands that reached for her, touched her ripped dress, and snatched at her feet.
He backed away from her, out of the reach of her slapping hands, her swinging fists, her angry spit. She viciously shoved the grinning revelers out of her path. She was suddenly powerful and roaring with fury. They fell in front of her like grass suffering the scythe of her outrage, giving no resistance, parting before her path.
She grabbed up a chair and swinging it like a hammer, smashed the crystal wall. The ceiling burst into stars and rained down on them. They jumped about, flailing and howling in imitation fright until she was gone. After that, the clamor quickly subsided and the music slowed to a discordant stop.
The tattered revelers regarded each other in silence. Women with distraught faces attempted to cover themselves again. A man wearing a jester's motley pulled his jacket off and put it over the shoulders of a youth with a face that was once again bruised and bleeding. Tears ran slowly down his impassive face. The young man in the pit of pillows turned to one of his weeping tormentors and tried to comfort her. A woman sat on the edge of the pit, wiping at her red, painted lips with frenzied movements. A man sat beside her, dimly watching her pointless efforts as he lit a cigarette.
Jareth sat down on the dirty, glitter strewn steps. He wanted to peel his skin off and burn it. He looked around at the other occupants of the horrible room with the peeling gilt, shabby curtains and cracked chandeliers.
"I'm exhausted," he whispered to himself. It was quiet for a moment, the only sounds were the low whispers and sobs of the revelers.
The same music started again, winding up like an elderly vinyl record player, crackling and popping as if the sound were being pulled from a wax cylinder, laced with static like a fading AM station.
The ashen faced players rose to their feet, groaning and cursing softly, and replaced their masks. They began to circle the floor again, stumbling at first, then stepping into the familiar dance, laboriously filling the air with harsh laughter.
Jareth stood and fixed his face into a smug and leering grin. He was the slender and elegant tempter, the despoiler of dreams, the incubus, the rapist, the villain, her favorite fantasy. He could see her approaching in her virginal garb, wide-eyed and innocent, ferocious in her appetite.
He waited, imperious, beautiful and silent as she searched the ballroom for him, and inside he screamed and screamed and screamed.