It was almost a lewd pleasure.
No, not almost.
As Grell lay down in the bed she had prepared, the different softness of the black silk sheets and the red rose petals caressed her marble white skin.
The silver blade was also soft against it.
She stretched out her completely ripped right arm, every delightfully pulsing and streaming wound making her head number with sweet lecherous pain, the tickle of the blood drops sliding down her slender, pale fingers increasing the slow tantalizing enticement it had.
The rope, tightened around her wrists, was not soft, but it was indeed pleasant, as were the thorns complementing the roses that crammed her bed, and it dug inside her wound, that was open and receiving like crimson lips, as she watched the white material it was made of soak and dye in red, like it was absorbing her life with her blood.
She spread her legs wider and withered, panting in a desperately lustful manner as the blade made its way to the inner of her thigh, leaving a trail of lip-like wounds, approaching to her loins. The softer, the more sensitive and plush the female-like flesh was, the greater the forbidden, unholy, perfect mix of pain and pleasure grew.
When it had almost reached her core, a silk fishnet stocking was rolled up her leg, and another rope was tightened around an ankle that had already been graced with a circled cut which fitted it like a ruby anklet, sparkling in the slightly coppery light and overflowing through the stocking and over the rope. The strong threads of the net dug their sharp, biting caress to a calf that had been bruised by steel shackles worn under her clothes all day long, and to a thigh that had blossomed in cuts resembling her own gaping, dripping wet scarlet mouth.
A velvety tongue was trailed along her other leg, grazing all those roses that had bloomed –the blue and purple roses of the bruises, the pink roses of the older wounds; the scarlet, and crimson, and vermilion roses of those whose blood kept pouring. Because she, indeed, was in herself a delicate bud –a lily made of ivory, a rose made of blood, an orchid made of tears, a carnation made of sorrow. That blending that was held in the core of her soul, for she was a petal, fragile and fearful, soft and silky upon his hands as he slowly tore her completely apart; and she was a thorn that would fight with all her strength though it was fully useless, and this slight pain made it only more worthwhile. And that duality that sustained her and that he used in his advantage, was what had attracted him to her in the very start.
That delightful corruption and that unstained pureness that could only coexist in a being like her.
The oversensitive, beautifully maltreated skin responded to the touch, and Grell's body shivered and twitched in anticipation.
The best was yet to come.