Adflictatio voluptabilis. [Lucianus]

[Chrysa Vanagor]

The gentleman lay bleeding on the floor, his once lithe form now barren of the silks and leathers it had been clad in only that morning. They had been carefully removed and set aside by the same delicate hands that now had a firm grasp on a flechette. The slender blade gleamed when the dim light struck it's keen edge, the loose, flickering bulb swinging back and forth. It was quiet outside of this small chamber, the long hallway bearing witness now to whimpered pleas.

Pleas for the life of his wife, who lay propped up against the wall nearby, in a grotesque parody of life. There was little skin left that could be called such, and what had once been a beautiful face bore little resemblance to anything human. Bright emerald green eyes had been carefully plucked out and set aside, before the rest of the delicate work had begun.

"No...no...no...this will not do. She cannot hear you any longer..." a delicate thread of laughter escaped blood-stained lips, the tip of a soft pink tongue darting out to lick the flat side of the blade. Pleasure rose through the woman's senses, forcing her to take a step back to cling to the support pole closer to the center of the room. Blood always tasted better when it was spiced with agony and suffering. It was almost overwhelming, considering the manner in which she had made a glutton of herself.

For nearly a week, she'd been a guest in the home of the couple, devotees of a violent 'god'...in reality, followers of a cult that offered corporal punishment in this lifetime for salvation in the next. With a disappointed sigh, she flicked her wrist and slit the man's throat, watching as his life's essence poured out onto the floor in a warm torrent.

Delicate, tender care was taken as she cleaned her blades, a length of white silk wiping away each trace of blood that marred their surface. Soon, she mused, tapping a fingers across her lips, they would be in need of a sharpening. But that would have to wait...the others were expecting her in the courtyard. As the newest intitiate, it was her turn to be brought into the fold at the evening's ceremony.

Barefoot as was her wont in moments such as these, she padded around the bits of gore and gingerly avoiding dipping her toes in the sticky pools of half-congealed blood. The door closed behind her with a whisper, and she smiled, blood on her lips still. Her tongue slowly swept across their fullness to gather up the precious crimson drops before a servant caught sight of them and spoiled her plans. A slender wall panel beside the door saw it locked and the incineration cycle begin.

She would have to keep this home as one of her own, the young woman mused, treading lightly down the long, sterile hallway. Chrysothemis paused when she reached the main floor, and entered the guest suite she had been granted the use of. There were some few needful preparations to be completed. One simply did not arrive to be 'tortured' in the same gown one had worn to the butchering of one's hosts. It would be terribly gauche.
A hot shower and a change of clothing, along with, of course, the proscribed prayers for forgiveness that she was to recite to prepare the way for the 'cleansing'. Another delicate thread of laughter escaped her lips. Oh, there would be prayers murmured and cried out, indeed. But not for the cleansing of her soul.

Cries of pleasure, and pleas for more, perhaps. But prayers for salvation? Never.

In time, she was ready. A fitted black gown, of the softest shimmersilk, draped around her curves. It left her back completely bare, the flawless skin gleaming a soft bronze in the light. Chestnut locks brushed straight until they gleamed, and pulled aside over one slender shoulder. There was no other artifice, her complexion left bare as per the outlines from the priest. Priest indeed...the lasciviousness in his gaze left little doubt as to what he did behind closed doors to devotees who were giving...confession.

Head properly bowed, she padded barefoot through the house and out onto the grounds. The stone courtyard sat some distance away, in a small green cup of grass between two hills. Almost impossible to find unless you were looking for it specifically, so clever was its construction. At the center of the cobblestones, there sat a tall, imposing stone pillar, stained in a myriad of shades of red. There was no blood on the cobblestones yet, save for what had soaked in during previous sessions. Chrysothemis took the proscribed steps forward, murmuring just loud enough to have it presumed that she was reciting the prayers, though it was wordless nonsense in reality.

She knelt, hands reaching up slowly, with a sense of theatricality, as she grabbed the metal ring created for that very purpose. Her wrists were bound with two leather straps, securing them in place. The metal tips of the flail were trailed along her back as the invocation fell from the priest's lips, her shudder mistaken for fear, the words falling from her lips for devotion.

It scored deeply across her back with the first flick of his wrist, inflaming her blood with the first sweet notes of pain.

It struck again, and left her speechless as the tracks crossed, notes melting into chords that drew a whimper of pleasure past parted lips.

It struck a third time and all thoughts of playing along fled her mind, the pleasure burning through her veins tearing a gasp from her throat. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she rested her forehead against the cool stone pillar, the night breeze playing havoc with the torn threads of flesh on her back.

Spoiler

adflictatio: physical torture, pain & voluptabilis: that causes pleasure

 

[Lucianus Adair]

In the times between lending the hand of power in aid to other worlds, bringing them into the fold, and the constant maintenance of his body and mind, the man… the beast… the predator found it pleasurable to pursue the sating of his predilections. The simplest of these, the need to kill, was largely cared for in the mere practice of maintaining and expanding the dominion of the Fringe, but the manner in which he carried it out in those venues was limited to what he could do efficiently and decisively. It was not elegant, and there was no foreplay to the act.

And there are many things to be said for foreplay.

He had been watching the cult for a week, now, its denizens blissfully unaware of his presence invading their space and their privacies, the talents of stealth, and the invisibility afforded him by the application of mental illusion being his silent, inconspicuous way into their world, without the mess of ceding to them control over his being. Here, in this place, individuals espoused a particular way of life that spoke to yet another facet of his very being - the absorption and meting out of pain, the taking of blood, of pound after pound of flesh. One side of the coin made him harder to put down in battle, and the other… the other gave him power over another that no other construct of power and ascension could. It was the latter that he had come here to chase.

Adair had meant to make use of these cultists, one by one, taking his time with them, putting them out to sea on the waves of pain intolerable to the point of pleasure, pleasure intolerable to the point of… but then they would pass from this life by his hand to their ‘violent god’, of whom he had learned by their devotions and prayers, by the pleadings and screams, that seeped into his ears, honeyed and intoxicating. This was his design… until another stepped in with other ideas, mostly indistinguishable from his own.

There was another one of the power, of the Force in this place. He had felt it ripple, colliding with his senses, snapping his attentions to its presence. There was another monster in this place, unaware of the full potential of their being, another possibly akin to him. The prospect held undeniable allure, and the Sith had to discover this one before they slipped through his fingers - Razielle, Baska, Dangereuse… they had all been kin to him like this, each in their own capacity, each with their limitations. It made him thirst to know just what the limitations of this unknown quantity were, and whether this individual could be of use to him.

Thus, he gave chase, by way of formulating a plan. He knew their schedules. He was intimately aware of the activities for the evening, he knew the words of their prayers, their invocations. All was committed to memory in the study of this cult, but the one thing he did not know was the place of this unknown variable, save for the obviousness of their signature in the Force, and the buzzing inkling that urged him to be in the stone courtyard, one of the few gifts of precognition that Adair had a firm handle on… and it meant that to maintain his secrecy, he would have to take the place of another.

The priest.

There was lasciviousness in his gaze the moment he looked on her for the first time, yes, but not for the reasons she believed. It pleased the predator to find that what he was not expecting to encounter in this place was continuously alluring to look on. After following the actions of this cult for days, his body and mind wanted for things he had not given them in months. Many, many months. Though this wanting was for the very basic thing of what man was to woman for what nature intended, his stance of a false priest to false god - all gods were false, in his mind - would exact from the quantity now known her visceral reaction to particular sets of stimuli… ones that would tell of the depths of her usefulness to him…

… and to the Fringe, should such suggestions be congruent with her mind and desires. If not… well.

He watched her approach the stone pillar, and followed, at a short distance until she knelt, taking the ring, whereupon he lashed her to the ring with straps of leather, binding her in place. Under the cowl of the vetements of the priest, he studied the rear view of her body, noting every detail of the virtually unmarked flesh, a stark opposite to his own, until the flail in his hand began to feel as if it was hot, and begging to be used. A darkness curled the corners of his mouth upward, and he began, pulling the tips of the flail across her flesh, imagining the ecstasy of expectation while reciting the invocation from memory, as devotion spilled softly from her mouth on the tail of a shudder that he could feel no fear from.

She wanted this, it was clear, and he gave it to her, stepping back just so to give the most effective distance, and made the first stroke with a well-practiced flick of the wrist, drawing blood almost immediately.

The second strike, and a small whimper that made the finer hairs on his body stand on end came from her.

The third, tore out of her a gasp. He could feel resistance fall, and knew that in that moment, he could have of her what he wished, if he desired. He set the flail aside, and went to her at the pillar, but did not take her down. He wanted a closer look at the art he had made of her back, a closer scenting of the life essence he had pulled from her, and knowledge of the look on her face after the ordeal. Tears. There were tears. And she looked beautiful and alive, yet sated and at peace. But the tears… were he possessed of less control over himself, he would be undone, right then and there. Instead, he released her, untying the straps and lowering her gently from the ring.

“You are not what I expected... and I am not what you think I am. Allow me to provide you care...” he rumbled lowly, heatedly, in her ear, holding her against him so her back was not, gingerly touching fingers to her fresh wounds. “...for there is much I wish to discuss with you, and it is important that you heal properly.”

 

[Chrysa Vanagor]

Her breath remained stolen away, the priest approaching her back to inspect his handiwork. Or perhaps, she mused with a distant tendril of thought, to press her for additional devotion. Her forehead pressed to the cool stone of the pillar, a most wanton shiver passing the length of her spine as she felt him trail fingertips across the fresh wounds. Pleasure burst anew across her senses, duller this time, the pain more at the forefront than it had been.

Something felt different…felt…off, somehow. The darkness that lay coiled in the depths of her mind was taut, poised as if to strike, and needed only her permission. Chrysothemis was paralyzed with confusion, her mind awash with tendrils of it mingled with the after-effects of pleasure. Hands with far gentler intent than they originally had loosened her bonds and lowered her from the ring with the greatest care.

This was not the priest she’d watched for so many weeks. This was…this was what she had sensed lingering outside of the gatherings, outside of the evening prayers and sessions of penance. This was the darkness she thought was simply an extension of her own. It was full, rich, and powerful…so powerful she could have more than happily drowned in the depths of the depravity she could practically taste.

He held her curled against his warm chest, eliciting a shiver from her form. Chrysothemis rested her arms about his shoulders, resting her head where his neck met his shoulder, the scent of his skin teasing her senses. His voice made her shiver deepen into a shudder, the warmth of it seeping into her ears like so much silk slipping through her hands. His fingertips barely brushing her wounds, he still somehow managed to hold her as if she was worth something.

Through the haze of pain and pleasure, she tilted her head up and whispered in his ear in return, lips brushing gently by. “I am in your debt…please follow the blue marked path. The manse at the end is where I am staying. It should be prepared by the time we arrive.”

 

[Lucianus Adair]

He took her direction, helping her along with practised care as they headed toward the manse, by scooping her up with ease, as if she were no more than a sleepy child. Everything that the act had brought forward in her was still wafting off in rollicking waves, and he was the first thing those waves came into contact with, with the current state of her body dependent on the strength of his. He knew that eventually the sensations would taper off, that she would 'come down' off of it, and that was a part of why the aftercare was so crucial, important.

"I have many things to ask, but I will start with this..." He began, tipping his cheek against her forehead as he walked, saying his words in a soft, yet frank manner, once they were within twenty feet of the front door of the manse. "...what is the name of the one I hold so close to my chest, and why does she kill? You do not need to answer right away."

He came to the door with her and wordlessly, they were admitted, the doors shut behind them once they were within. He proceeded a mite further, then stopped.

"You are my guide, in this place." he said, looking about, "Tell me where to go and I will go there."

 

[Chrysa Vanagor]

She couldn't help herself.

A soft, tender sound echoed from the back of her throat as he held her close, his strength tempered for her comfort. She savored the way his warm, rumbling voice strolled lazily through her senses, and his warm cheek pressed to her forehead. It was tender and gentle, and yet, this same man, these hands that carried her, had meted out such precise strikes...

Chrysothemis drew in a deep, ragged breath, pleasure welling up from the abyss in her soul once more, however briefly it stayed this time. She swallowed hard as she tried to control herself and succeeded in doing so by only the slimmest of margins. The tension melted from her frame and she took the comfort he offered within his embrace, losing herself to it until the cool night air drew a shiver the length of her spine and a fresh wince of pain.

By then, they had arrived at the lavish manse she had appropriated for her own, servants waiting within and scurrying about at their entrance. When he pause, she lifted her head from his shoulder, a delicate breath brushing across his cheek as she spoke. Her tone was lush and laced with the lingering after-effects of pleasure. "Take the main stairs just ahead up to the second floor. My rooms are behind the crimson doors at the far end of the hall on the left."

With a tender sigh, she settled back on his shoulder and found herself purring faintly.

"My name is Chrysothemis...and I...I kill for the pleasure that pain brings." she whispered.