I have arrived at the Darkrange castle late last night by carriage, which my kind host paid for in advance. I had not seen him before tonight, for he is a lonely, but busy man. So far the evening has been spent going through finance papers, and the late night meal, could not have come at a better time.
"Are you enjoying your fo-OOORH-d, my friend?" Mr. Darkrange asks, while lifting a fork full of skewered eastern delicacies toward his immaculate mouth. He is impatient for an answer, judging by his fast nail tapping against the table. The fingers- and by extension the hand attached to them- are by no means an eyesore, creating an odd sort of offbeat rhythm. In fact, I wouldn't call them that by a mile. The fingers are long and lean, just like the dark wine red nails. The joints are slightly bulky, making the pale flesh look like albino willow branches. They're securing in place four large rings of unknown pale metal, and precious stone, each made to be uneasy to look at, with harsh sleek shiny lines of metal caging the stone. The way the frame of the jewelry prevents any light from shining through the stones, makes one feel very trapped, like one becomes the futile struggle of the light itself.
"Are you listening to me?" he asks displeased. I meet his eyes, and cower:" I must begin your pardon sir, but you have the most captivating rings. What beautiful craftsmanship." I stumble at these fancy words, but the speech filter hides my stutter. The words fade out as I say them, on an invisible wall between us. I'm basically looking straight in his eyes. Oh if real life was this easy.
He takes a sip of wine, and gives his rings a glance:" Yes, indeed. Quite out of this world... Enjoying your food?" I look at the plate full of herby four legged game, and answer:" I must admit I'm used to more of a humble type of food. I thank you for such welcoming accommodations. Your home and staff, are so very kind to me. I spent all morning and noon in your library. It could be a small castle on it's own."
He smiles at me tightly down his nose, white hair of his ponytail bouncing gently with words: "Your flattery is deserved. The library is a family heirloom, that took generations to procure. It is my most precious property, and the true joy of my life." He doesn't show any prominent emotion whilst saying this, as has he not all evening.
We fall into a silence and I empty my plate, the rich fatty taste still lingering long after. "Desert will be served in the cigar room shortly," a butler announces. He shows me the way to a small pleasant space with armchairs and heavy velvet drapes covering the walls. A large candelabra in the middle gives all around a soft feel. He shows me to a dark green leather seat, as he chooses the one opposite. He sits legs crossed in his body hugging black gown. The ruffled long hem of it is made of fabric so light, it moves in the non-existent breeze. He takes an opened box of cigars from a member of the staff, chooses two to his liking and hands it back. The anonymous woman closes the door behind her.
When we are once alone, he hands me a cigar, already lit at the tip. Between us is an ashtray, that he promptly uses to discard the minimal ash forming at the tip of his. It seems more habit than need. Then for the first time he relaxes, and finds a good position in his seat, making the leather creak. I feel as tho the eyes and ears of the house have turned away, for this private setting to occur.
We fill the room with bittersweet curls of smoke, as I wait for him to start what ever conversation we're here for. "Your father is a diligent but old man, and now I see well why he has sent you on this trip in his stead… You have a good sense of just business," he says. The praise makes me sit a bit taller as I answer: "He really has passed the days of hard leighbour, but let me assure you, his absence is purely out of practicality. He has gone to Wien, to discuss with a new client. He will be back late august, and thus I'm covering all his calls back home." The first sign of emotion in the form of surprise crosses his face for a fraction of a moment :" Well you have certainly outperformed then. I shall write this to your father. You shall take the letter with." I nod. He takes a drag and changes the position of his legs, giving me a momentary glance at his pale, smooth and strong shin, through a slit on the side. I feel a fluster creeping up my neck. Our eyes meet, and I know he saw my gaze. He raises an elegant eyebrow but keeps his silence, letting me speak: "That would be the best of gifts."
I follow him weighing me with his eyes. He takes yet another drag, as his gaze lingers on my thigh. He trails up lazily to the sliver of neck that's left bare by my dress shirt, and another drag. My own smoking has become uncoordinated, and I cough in punishment.
He gets up while I'm clearing my pipes, and goes to pour himself whiskey to a crystal tumbler. He doesn't sit down afterwards, but leans on the armrest of his previous seat, taking a sip. Over the rim of the glass our eyes meet, and once more, I can feel myself reddening. He takes a step towards me, and stops right in front, so that the tips of our shoes meet. I see him raise the glass to my lips, and I drink what I'm given. The liquid is not whiskey to my surprise, but instead tastes metallic and rich. All too soon I feel the burn of whiskey, and am left baffled as to what I just drank. He looks at me swallowing through lowered lashes, and soon I also notice a small parting of the rosed lips.
He wipes the corner of my mouth with the pinky of the hand holding the crystal. But I'm sure I couldn't possibly have anything there. He takes a drag, and the hand is retracted, if only to put the now empty tumbler next to the ashtray. He turns back, still towering over me, and blows the smoke on my face making my eyes feel dry as raisins. This reaction he smirks at. Mind you, just with the left corner of his mouth, and even then a miniscule amount.
"If you want that letter, you shall do nothing to tarnish my good name for the remainder of your mortal life. And you will take what is given, without a cross word or lament, for that is my will. You should have no questions."
I nod, my neck bent uncomfortably to meet his eyes. He takes a drag, assesses me momentarily, and then unceremoniously stubs the cigar on my shoulder. It crumbles as it burns through the thick fabric, soon searing my skin. My jaw is stilted as I bite back a cry. The pain goes right down my body making my toes curl, as the smell of burnt fiber and flesh reaches my nostrils. I have no questions, for I know my place and role.
He takes me to his bedchambers, and before I know it, I'm tied in a 'x'-shape from my ankles and my wrist. There is a mirror on the canopy, and I follow his every move. He does is it in a rehearsed manner. The position is easy to accept in my clothed state. He is drinking once more at the and of the luxurious bed, admiring his work. His eyes don't leave my body as the glass gets thrown on the carpet blindly. I shamelessly admire the lean body before me. For his age, he is almost too well preserved, and the body beneath the thin fabric seems toned, to the point of being predator like and… inhuman.
He opens a drawer on his bedside, taking out a hand file, and leisurely begins to work on his index finger. I look closely, and see that he's forming a sharp point on the keratin. The nailpolish flakes, and falls on the bedding with the nail dust.
Once he is happy with the results, he straddles me like a legless horse. The sharp nail is placed against my sternum. I take shallow breaths as not to disturb him, and out of fear.
One at the time, the nail hooks one of the buttons on my shirt and undoes it. Faster than I previously thought possible, the undergarment is ripped in half as well. Now he lays his nail directly on my sternum, and the difference is vast. The impossibly sharp tip rest on top of the skin separating it from bone, and yet it feels like he's under the skin touching the white formation. I take a breath, and accompanied by a faint 'pop' the skin breaks. I bite my lip, holding back a surprised shout.
He hasn't lifted the finger, and is letting the foreign object keep the wound open, while a small ring of crimson is forming around it. I see his nostrils flare, and a satisfied smile permanently form on his sensual yet thin lips, as he drags the finger lower. Like a plow going through a field, the nail breaks smooth surface, and brings up moist elements. It drops down at the lower edge of the bone, plummeting to softer skin on my belly. I want to scream, but cannot breathe. The entire free edge of the nail is embedded inside. He moves it just a bit, and I feel every micrometer of it, as it scratches the surfaces of my organs.
Slowly, savouring each tiny movement, he opens a slit down to my naval. I taste blood, as I have pierced the inside of my cheeks. I feel a vein on my forehead thump.
He reaches once again to the bedside table, and this time rings a small golden bell. Promptly a servant enters, and pushes a cart covered in a sheet. It stops right next to the bed, and the man leaves with a bow.
Mr. Darkrange lifts it off gently with one hand, the other still in me. Underneath is domes like the ones our food was served under earlier. Beside four of these domes, there are a few instruments unknown to me. He picks them all at once, and drops all but one on the bed. The one he has in hand he lifts to the slit he has made and pries it open by attaching one hook inside, and one hook on skin. I cannot help the strained noise that escapes me. He immediately slaps me with the back of his hand, rings acting like a heavy knuckle iron, landing spot on at the side of my cheek. Then he applies all five rest of the instruments. I feel as I might crack a tooth as I grind my jaw.
He then removes the lids on the cart, revealing bowls of precut fruits and berries. From top of the largest pile he takes a decorative lemon carved into a flower. It is brought on the opening with careful hands, as not to break it, then suddenly crushed. The juice sprays all over me, but mostly where I want it the most. Instinctively I press my body away from the pain, digging deeper into the satin. I'm rewarded another slap on the same side. This time it's accompanied by a wet feeling as half my face gets a citrusy dressing.
The used up lemon gets discarded like the glass.
Thanks to the mirror I see in gruesome detail how the juice in me mixes with the growing amount of blood in slow swirls. It's almost beautiful. Looking at myself I haven't noticed he has taken a handful of fruit, and am privy to this fact when they're dropped in the puddle, splashing blood everywhere in large droplets that shatter on impact. The bedding soaks it up instantaneously, leaving behind only moist patches.
He looks in my eye, as he lowers his body between my legs, and leans down. He picks a blood covered grape with his teeth and eats it with a pleased cry. "Oh my god," he whispers braking character a bit, and slumping slightly. He is in ecstasy, as he picks another fruit and eats it followed by a new cry. This goes on 'till I'm almost empty. He hasn't let a single piece smudge his face even when his hands are covered in red. Even his lips are licked clean after every bite.
Blood has by this point ran freely down my sides, and I'm close to losing consciousness. He notices this, or knew in advance. He crawls up my body, rubbing the instruments deeper. Once he has reached my face, he breathes on me a metallic breeze, and then he kisses me in the sweetest of ways. Perfect soft and pure, amidst my agony and the fight against unconsciousness. I know it can't last, and I'm proven right, as while his lips still linger on mine, he reaches in the opening and pushes with all his might until he has a grasp on my heart. The last thing I see while I scream out my lungs is him taking a bite of it.