Mistress of Souls, page 13
Despite the slow burn of fear, I feel my pussy getting wet from his scent alone.
My young body has known pleasure—nothing that was life-altering, but I had fun. I’ve messed around with some of the creatures down here, and I don’t discriminate. Male, female, demon, or other, if it can give and receive pleasure, I am all in. But I have never reacted instantly to anyone before, which is pissing me off.
I don’t like elements out of my control. Anger surges throughout my body, trying to surface, but stops just under my skin, simmering and ready to strike.
The enticing smelling male continues his swaggering gait through the rows of desks, sending out his dominant male aura through the room as he moves. He gracefully lowers his tall frame onto one of the horrid stools; the stool that was, until a moment ago, sitting vacant next to mine.
I need to focus on succeeding in this course. This is my purpose. If I fail torture training, I’ll be recycled back into the ether. The male’s scent is too distracting.
My mind whirls with disconnected thoughts, some full of lust and some an intense need to dive into his brain and sift through his being. What is he?
The slow instructor interrupts my thoughts by finally beginning the session.
“Welcome to Torture 101. I’m Instructor Lasandre. Sit down, shut the fuck up, and learn your craft. I have assigned you to become proficient in the art of torture. You must serve as a professional torturer for a minimum of two thousand years after your initial fifty-year training period.”
He pauses to glance around the room, noting the emotions playing across the faces of those present.
“I don’t know what you sorry fucks did to end up here. However, you will either fail your training and we get to snuff you back into non-existence or become something of a nightmare should you pass.”
The instructor drones on about the importance of torturers and their place within the hierarchy of Inferuna. There will always be plentiful souls to torture. However, other beings here were sent to serve as punishment, and occasionally, some volunteered. There are many throughout Inferuna, as expected. Still, only a select few choose to do anything other than drink themselves into oblivion at one of the bars on Lamenting Street.
There are a few interesting supernatural creatures throughout the classroom, such as a minotaur, siren, leprechaun, vampire, and a cyclops to name a few. It is way too easy to tell which ones volunteered, were forced, or were created to be here, like me.
The volunteers sit tall, shoulders back, and chin lifted with pride. Idiots. The forced ones are almost cowering, leaning back as far as they can without toppling off their stools. And the torture demons look, well, bored. It is not new what is expected of us. It is part of our makeup to crave giving pain. The only difference is we haven’t honed the skills awakened in our brains. We lack the practical hands-on training that will see us not being recycled.
I feel eyes on me from my right, but I refuse to acknowledge his presence.
He has been staring at me and obnoxiously tapping his pen to no beat I’ve ever heard since he sat next to me twenty minutes ago. He also has an annoying habit of weaving a wisp of shadow between his fingers, the motion similar to one walking a coin across their knuckles.
I don’t feel like entertaining this asshole’s interest or playing fifty questions. He is clearly one of the imbecile volunteers. They have to be seriously psychotic to volunteer for this shit. Does he get off on torturing people and need a new avenue to slake his lust?
What is he, anyway? His presence is palpable, his dominating personality overwhelming. I don’t think I could fully ignore him if I tried, and I am trying. The room feels smaller with him in it. The power he exudes thrums against my skin.
Why am I even thinking about him?
I focus back on the instructor to view the list of torture practices we will learn to employ. He turns toward the whiteboard and scribbles a list:
Bamboo shards
Poison
Waterboarding
Paper cut method
Boiling
Flaying flesh
Burning
The list continues endlessly.
About an hour later, I’m about ready to slam the instructor’s skull into the whiteboard until his skull cracks. How can someone make something like literal torture techniques boring?
His voice has a nasal quality, a slightly high pitch, and a cadence that would make a goddamn sloth jealous. The only time he essentially reanimates is if someone interrupts his practiced speech.
A blur of color shifts in my peripheral when a demon turns in his seat to stare in my direction. I can just make out around my tablemate’s large frame a gaze full of malice and it immediately puts me on edge. Is he looking at me or the dick next to me? He then grips the back of the neck of the demon to his right, causing it to slump forward onto the desk as if asleep.
Somehow, no one else noticed their brief exchange.
Swifter than even I can process, Instructor Lasandre lashes out. Claws as sharp as blades tear through the flesh of the unconscious demon sitting in the next row forward. I didn’t even see the professor transform into the more lethal part of himself.
His face morphs into a permanent snarl, thin lips pulled back to expose two rows of sharp, half rotten teeth. His arms elongate so far that his knuckles drag on the ground. Wicked claws replace his hands, with seven on the end of each arm. But his eyes are the creepiest aspect of this form. They are a muddied yellow with black spots of different sizes that cover his entire eyeball; they remind me of a banana peel well past ripe. There is no pupil to speak of and it is impossible to tell where his stare settles.
Huh, I guess that’s why he teaches torture courses.
Blood sprays the front rows as the demon’s head is severed from his neck. Some beings lean back, and others throw their arms above their head as if they can shield themselves from the expelling carnage. The entire front row of desks gets soaked in blood.
I muffle my snicker with my hand, my body trembling with the effort. Those poor bastards were in the splash zone. I roll my eyes at the sheer stupidity of everyone else’s fear or concern. The demon will regenerate in due time, so it’s just a minor punishment.
They had been learning about far worse things.
Demon blood is thick in the air with the scent of the brimstone that helps make us. The front rows of tables are dripping with the crimson liquid. The headless corpse of the demon slips off its stool and thuds on the floor.
“And that is why you don’t fall asleep in my course.” The instructor states simply, transforming into his normal, boring appearance, with the bonus of blood splatter on his cheap clothing.
“Everyone turn to the being sharing your desk. Meet your new torture buddy.”
My body tenses, muscles rigid with the unwelcome announcement. Turning my body to the right, I face my new buddy, trying my best to impale him with the invisible daggers shooting from my eyes.
I’d guess he is close to a foot taller than me. His body is well muscled and toned, but not thick or bulky. His inky hair is messy in an effortlessly sexy way. It’s shaggy and would come down just past his ears if I were to pull a piece straight down.
And to my dismay, he seems to be covered in tattoos, at least from what I can see on his arms and throat. I make a conscious effort to keep my jaw from falling open as I spot the intricate black rose on his throat.
His shaggy hair matches the dark stubble covering the bottom half of his face. The facial hair accentuating his high cheekbones and shapely lips. They’re far too pouty for a male, yet it works for him. His bottom lip is fuller than the top, a light imperfection that only serves to enhance his stunning but intense features.
As he assesses me in return, some of his hair falls over his forehead and partially blocks one of his intense purple eyes. No, purple is too ordinary of a shade to describe their hypnotizing depths; they’re violet but bright and iridescent, like a tempting flame glows behind them beckoning me to dive into their perilous pools.
“Well shit, angel, it looks like we will be spending a lot of time together,” he says cockily, his voice deep and gravely.
I narrow my eyes, intent on making my opinion of having a mandatory partner clear. “Who do you think you are, you piece of fuck? Don’t call me angel again. Angels are nasty creatures that are made to look innocent and glorious. Have you ever met one? Douches, all of them.” My voice is pitched low and quiet so as not to alert the instructor or other demons of our conversation.
“Oh, are we being conversational now? You’ve been ignoring me the entire lesson.”
I snort a laugh. “Yeah, I noticed your pitiful attempts at gaining my notice. Do you know how hard it’s been to listen with you tapping on the fucking desk? Are you that desperate for a scrap of attention?”
His dark eyebrows shoot up his forehead in disbelief.
Well? His tapping had been annoying! I was considering breaking his finger the entire lesson.
“Seems like you’re practicing how to be a rude brat who doesn’t know a superior being when she sees one.”
“Wow. I’m a brat? Are you kidding me? If you’re expecting a subservient torture buddy, you’ll be sorely disappointed,” I say, seething.
“It’d be best not to upset your new torture buddy. Otherwise, I can add a little more salt to your wounds.” He leans forward with a broken grin that promises malice. “You know, while I’m delivering them.”
“I could tell from the moment you walked in that you were a cocky bastard. Why do I get stuck with the biggest dick in the room? Go fuck yourself, Cupcake.”
“Cupcake? Do I look like the type to allow pet names? How about you call me Daddy, and if you’re a good girl, I’ll allow you to taste my cock later.”
I cackle, leaning closer to him.
“Yes, you sure as shit are a cupcake. A deliciously sinful treat that calls out for attention. Pretty on the outside, but is nothing more than a soft, quick treat that will never satisfy your craving fully. Something that’ll do nothing but rot your teeth.” I cross my arms in defiance, brat mode fully engaged. “I do not doubt you taste delectable, but hard pass.”
My ears ring in agony when the instructor slowly grates his claws together, making an eerie screech. The students get quiet quickly, turning to face the instructor en masse.
“Okay, okay, shut the fuck up and let me finish my obligatory speech.”
A few snickers sound from the right side of the room.
“Torture buddies are partners for everything from now until your training is complete. You will eat, sleep, and train together. Everyone will be assigned suites with two bedrooms and a common space to share. When you are not in training, you are not allowed to harm your partner in any way, mentally or physically. You are also not allowed to fornicate. I fucking mean it. End of discussion. There are consequences for those who choose to ignore protocol.”
His last statement is news to me. Why would they assign everyone torture buddies and then also room them together? They can’t expect no one to screw.
The male next to me clears his throat. “Why are we not allowed to fuck our buddy? How can that possibly be an issue? We are here to learn how to torture flesh, but we cannot participate in the pleasures of it? That is a bunch of bullshit.”
I groan and slump my head onto the desk. Well, shit, aren’t we off to a great start? Draw his attention to us you worthless fuck!
“First of all, you don’t get to question me. I don’t give a flying shit that you’re a djinn and older than Father Time’s balls. Do it again, and I will take it out on your pretty new torture buddy, Mariax.”
My desk mate must have a hearing problem because he interrupts again.
“I can and will question anyone I want. Your life is a blip compared to my grand existence. Why would I care if you take out your irritation on her? We are to torture each other anyway, correct?
A deep growly gurgle comes from the instructor’s throat as he ignores my buddy and continues. “Second, sleeping together creates feelings that have no place in torture training. If you would have let me finish, you would have learned that the purpose of rooming the partners together is a practice in patience and resistance.”
“What gives you the authority to–”
“I said to be silent. In my classroom you are my underling. If threats of harming Mariax don’t assuage you to behave, maybe expelling you will?” The instructor questions with a glare before moving on. “Now, being a torturer is not an easy gig. You can become addicted to causing pain, enthralled by the very thought that you hold the power to stop the pain or create more. It also helps your mind make a connection to stay grounded and build an unshakable foundation within yourself to prevent the mind from going mad, thus making you as useless as you already are.”
The room is silent, not even a retort from the annoying djinn next to me.
The instructor makes a shooing motion. “Once you’re done meeting your buddy, get the fuck out.”.
My personal space shrinks as he grazes his knee against mine, shifting towards me.
I cannot contain my irritation with him any longer, despite the smoldering emitting from his violet irises. “Are you a psychopath or what? You announced, like a giant bag of dicks, that you plan on screwing me in front of the entire room,” I whisper yell.
The last thing I need is more attention.
“I won’t deny it. Yes, I am a dick. However, you weren’t curious why the Potentate would enforce such harsh rules?”
“No. I just want to be left alone, and that includes from you. Furthermore, I don’t give a fuck if we are allowed to fuck. I am not a female who will throw her legs open for any male.”
I arch a brow, daring him to challenge me.
He seizes my chin, slowly sliding his hand down my tattooed neck to rest it at the base. He applies slight pressure, my pulse races against the pads of his long tattooed fingers.
I really hope he cannot scent my body’s interest in him.
He bares his teeth at me, and his face contorts as if battling some internal struggle. He applies more pressure against my throat, and I close my eyes to hide my growing attraction to his rough handling.
However, my eyes fly open when he speaks again so quietly I can barely hear him, even with my demon hearing.
“You don’t know anything about me, little girl. I was interested in you before, but you just laid down a challenge I cannot resist.”
“What challenge?” I whisper back, entirely bemused.
“Tell yourself all the lies you wish, but you desire me. I can read everything your body is telling me,” he responds, leaning closer until our lips are inches from each other.
“I would never sleep with you, forced proximity or otherwise.”
He ignores my rebuff and continues speaking quietly. Our lips are so close I swear I can feel the ghost of contact as his lips move.
“Screwing you before would’ve been fun. But now? Breaking you and making you submit to me will make the game much more thrilling. Can you resist the call of a male dominating you, ruining your pussy, and being your daddy?” He inhales audibly, seeming to take in my scent. “Come to think of it, you’ve probably never had a daddy, have you?”
That’s it. I’m done with this shit.
His eyes widen in surprise when my tail whips out and shoves him in the chest. He lets go of my throat, falls off the stool, and tumbles onto his ass.
Everyone in the room turns to watch the drama unfolding.
He groans in pain and lays his head back on the floor.
I stand over him, my tail swishing in irritation, hands clenched into fists at my sides. Faster than he can process, I straddle him and hiss in his ear, “I will never be your submissive.”
He scoffs, “Ah, but I know exactly what your body and mind need, even if you have yet to realize it.”
I slowly pull back enough so he can see my expression, my hair now hiding us like a curtain as it hangs down around his face. “I look forward to torturing this pretty boy flesh. See you around, buddy.”
I stand abruptly, my tail slapping him in the face in the process, and then storm from the room.
Chapter 16
Mariax
You can do it, Mariax. Seriously, grab it by the balls and get to work.
Does it have balls?
On occasion, I have to give myself these pep talks. There are a few clients that, while in their true state, are fucking disgusting. No one has dreamed of anything like my current client, the Mayor of Philadelphia.
With his glamor applied, he is a handsome politician, silver streaks thread through his chestnut hair, and blue eyes hold the citizens in his snare. He looks just old enough to know the inner workings of politics, but is young enough to be sexy. Overall, an ideal image for most humans of the voting age.
I had to train for fifty years just to torture souls, and these humans are allowing what amounts to infants to make enormous life decisions? That concept is insane to me.
Anyway, the mayor is a horrifying mess of gray rolls, tentacles, eight eyes, and leaking orifices that look like assholes speckled all over his tentacles.
Inhaling deeply, I step into the room with grim determination.
Mayor Gloam is already lounging on the couch of his designated chamber, P3. His tentacles hang grotesquely over the back and sides.
In any other circumstance, I am pro-tentacle.
They’re so sexy when not attached to a repulsive bag of dicks like the client in front of me, although my anger doesn’t stem from what he is, but from what he’s threatened me with.
This room has floor to ceiling and wall-to-wall rubber mats. The couch is covered in those plastic sheets that human grandmas used to cover their ugly ass floral furniture. The cover squeaks and creaks when you move and stick to any exposed skin.
