Close My Eyes

CLOSE MY EYES
By: Alexander Rivera

The Scarlet Maiden scurried up the stairs with red hair streaming over back, cascading from the wind that entered through a nearby window, in time to further lacerate and desecrate her newest patron and client in her manor into submission. The Scarlet Maiden was utterly frustrated at her inability to bring her subject fully to her whim and control as she tightened her lips, and veiling the aggravation from beneath the hateful gleam in her dark eyes.

For the third time, she had failed to bring Lord Lyre to her feet. The noble adept was already ready for the final stage of initiation yet his deep propensity for pain endurance still held his ego together, if barely maintaining its very crumbling foundations. One more whip lash, one more needle to inject, yet nothing brought him to the full heights of excruciating ecstasy wrought with mind-numbing pain.

She opened the two enormous, wooden doors to the chapel that resembled one of a medieval monastery, full of religious iconography stretched across a wide varieties of traditions and practices from the rosaries of Catholicism to the Kundalini serpent imagery of the east as she made her way past the altar and at the ending of the room was a great scarlet cross, stretched upon an upright, obsidian sacrificial altar, just big enough for a grown man. Ordinarily the smooth, flat surface would match the obsidian altar, but tonight it was alive with a harsh, gray light. Screams and howls come out of that turbulent mirror.

On it was her next client, his face to the wood, his wrists and ankles swollen over the whip lashes that bound him, hung the bare figure. She strolled over to a table that resembled a veterinarian’s examination table. The only additions that were never seen in the workplace of a veterinarian were four grotesque leather straps positioned to constrict the movements of any given client.

The room itself was a vast dome with very little light. The top of the dome was made of black wood, reflecting little light in its polish. There was no other entrance. Stained glass decorated the walls, all of them images of torture, beyond the portrayals of the tantric and bridal chamber rites of passage.

From head to toe, from the soft flesh of Lyre’s eyelids to the tip of his penis, he was scarred and tattooed. Lines of power have been drawn on him with knives since he was a young and still perturbed man. The Scarlet Maiden, redemptrix and temptress took her victims young and firm and bended them to her worship.

Pain was now the center of his life. Before a line could be inked, it must be cut and healed over and over again. Slowly the scars grew and are raised up. Rituals and incantations must be spoken. Vows of worship were extracted. Then the black tattooing came and the pain was multiplied as power is grafted to a soul. There has not been a single day of his life that has not held some pain. Today would be the worst, however.

The Scarlet Goddess’s arm slid like a serpent from underneath her falling coat of a veil, and with the cutting whip she struck Lord Lyre between the shoulders. A shriek rang out as another voice followed; the Scarlet Goddess’ icy laugh. She struck again as great welts of purple stood on the man’s tattooed back; froth tinged with blood came from his mouth, for she had bitten her lips and tongue in agony.

The Scarlet Maiden grew excited, her bare breasts heaved her lips parted; her whole demeanor seemed to writhe with sadist glee. She chanted an all too familiar line to an initiate taken from a book of sordid esotericism: “Lo! I gather up every spirit that is pure, and weave him into my vesture of flame. I lick up the lives of men, and their souls sparkle from mine eyes. I am the mighty sorceress, the lust of the spirit. And by my dancing I gather for my mother Nuit the heads of all them that are baptized in the waters of life. I am the lust of the spirit that eateth up the soul of man. I have prepared a feast for the adepts, and they that partake thereof shall see God.”

Skin began to burst open as raw flesh oozed blood that dribbled down Lyre’s back as rivulets met and waxed the graal chalice below his naked form. How he longed to be reborn from within the arising Dark Goddess’s womb, no longer known by his former title but by a name chosen by his new companion as spiritual enlightenment became synonymous with pure desecration.

Dropping the whip, the Scarlet Maiden’s smile turned gleeful as the blood coated her hands. She moaned as she worked down his torso with a ceremonial, anointed dagger, turning him to his front while still held in bondage by the blood-stained chains. He had never had every line of power opened at once before and the sensation was both terrifying and erotic. The Scarlet Maiden was in a passion. The sight of his blood in such great quantities filled her eyes with lust. She stopped occasionally to lick her fingers clean, or to smear the blood across her skin.

More than half of his body was opened up and he felt dizzy and disconnected from his own flesh. The tingle of her knife as it traced its bloody path along his genitals is not the excruciation he had endured on his first inking, but is turned into an erotic sensation unlike any other. He almost orgasm as the blade traces the last line on his erection.

“Oh, how much in love I am with this pain, in love with the giver of the pain. I offer myself up to your altar as a sacrifice.” The adept cheered and wailed in ecstasy, giving a reason to the Scarlet Maiden cackle at the admission as music to her ears, now that the Lord Lyre was under her Black Widow-like spell cast over her subject.

It seemed as though the oral invocation invited certain invisible principalities to writhe, as the mirror began to churn and bubble. Excitement and fear alternately flashed through his body. He stopped before the shrieking mirror as a crescendo of hellish prayer culled further, “Come and accept our love for you, Great and Almighty Goddess of Babylon!” The chanting turns from hundreds speaking with one voice to the cacophony of a crowd, each person screaming their adulation to the Scarlet Maiden.

His straps suddenly relinquished him from his bondage, bloody and wounded from his night of ecstasy. He stood properly before the portal to hell. He could almost see the spirits and demons that wailed and scram. As he watched, one fought with the barrier between worlds, anger and hunger contorting its face. A bulge formed on the flat surface of the shining mirror.

A naked toe emerged from the frothing mirror, soon followed by a shapely leg. Then, as if trying to take her gathered followers by surprise, the Scarlet Maiden crossed over in a rush. She stood there triumphant and beautiful. Her physique was perfect in every way. Pert breasts are delicately held in place by thin, black leather straps just large enough to cover the nipple. Leather hugs her form in small strips, keeping nothing hidden. A supple turn of calf led up to shapely thighs, which in turn lead to perfectly rounded hips.
She worked hard to reveal just enough of her perfect form to fill every man, and some women, mad with lust. She turned to receive her adoration. Beautiful black hair bounced around her in curls as she moved. Her smile seemed to be a secret smile, one that promised passion and fire. Every man would have thought it is meant just for him, if they would bare witness to her spectacle.

She turned that smile on to Lyre, taking in his naked form. She arched her eyebrow and tapped her lip with her finger, as if deciding what to wear. I couldn’t stop his erection and she smirked at his eagerness. The Scarlet Maiden met with her other half that emerged from the accursed mirror and began to make love with her tongues, enticing the Lyre to come.

“I am the Whore of Babylon, the Maiden of Wrath. Would you become my lover then?” The Darker Goddess asked.

“Yes, my Dark Goddess.”

“Would you give me your body?”

“Yes.”

“Would you give me your heart?”

“Yes.”

“Would you give me your soul?” At this the demons become frantic in their hunger, and somehow, Lord Lyre knew exactly where his soul would be sent.

“Yes,” He said without hesitation.

She made a slight gesture, merely a twitch of two fingers, and two robed acolytes came forward. Wordlessly they grabbed the initiate and lead him toward the black altar. The cool obsidian against his naked flesh makes goose bumps run down his body. She smiled a surprisingly innocent smile as she watched him being tied and bound to the stone.

Five small steps had brung the dark haired beauty next to him to finish the job. The smile never left her face as she caressed his naked skin. She ran her finger along his scalp and face. Her gentle touch was a fire that traveled through his body and finally settled in his loins. Someone handed her a very thin, ceremonial knife. Not really pausing in her caresses, she traced his tattoos with the knife. Beads of blood ran down his scalp. Her hand moved quickly and soon blood was rushing down the sides of the altar.

Tendrils of power floated into the air. Lord Lyre could feel the power rushing from him. He saw it leave his scarred body in a thick stream. To his growing horror it is being drawn into the mirror. The demons delight as they gorge onto his life force. They are both panting heavily. A crowd of multitude of screams, chants, and wild drumming came from the Abyss that was the mirror. Finally, although he had dreaded its coming, the Dark Goddess traced the last line. Though he could not see it, he knew that a massive pool of black blood has formed beneath the altar—he felt as if he had been drained, in body and spirit, hanging onto dear life by a mere thread.

The Dark Goddess bowed over his face, locking eyes with his frightened pupils filled with absolute dread. “You have given me your body. Now you will give us your heart. If you are not strong enough, then I will let you die.” He was given no more warning and she drove the knife directly into the top of his sternum.

He screamed in surprise and pain, despite all his training. This was not a distant and tingling sensation. This was harsh and sharp in his mind. He gasped and gagged at the feeling, choking a bit on his own blood. She waited dramatically before dragging the knife down his chest. Gouts of blood poured out. She smiled wide. When the knife reached the soft flesh of his stomach, some unseen power ripped him open wide enough to expose his heart.

He lifted his head to eye at the horror of his own exposed organ. I can see it! My God—close my eyes! He thought. How he wanted to shut his eyes to the horror, but he knew that she would take this as weakness. Weakness trembled throughout his wirework of nerves and was thankful to be tied down. The Dark Goddess scraped the tip along his beating organ, etching black lines into his very heart. His muscles locked as he fought the pain and sickness. No words could describe this horror. She moaned with every shudder he made.

At last the work was finished. When he again opened his eyes, he was whole. Every line was once again black. His chest was complete, without scar. The Dark Goddess straddled above and around him on the altar. She was drenched in blood as he was.

“You wish to be my lover? Then do so.” As she spoke these words, the adept noticed he was no longer bound. Although his body screamed out for rest and his spirit was drained to near death, Lord Lyre forced himself to sit up. His black and crimson arms circle her small frame and force her against him. His tongue licked her stained lips and then passed through. Her nails, as claws, scraped his chest as she grinded against his flaccid member. Then tender flesh set fire to his nerves. He forced it to respond by envisioning himself in his Goddess, envisioning the power he was about to receive. He came alive against her and she laughed with ecstasy.

He lifted her in a rough embrace and twisted her onto the stone, now warm with his blood. She purred and ran her hands through the luscious liquid. He no longer needed to force his body into action and plunged into his Goddess. Their frantic motions were animal-like. His Goddess was aggressive, biting and tearing at his newly healed flesh. Overcome, he bit back and she screamed his name. His body was pain and pleasure and could not for the life of him, distinguish between the two.

The other Scarlet Maiden watched the two, dance the tango of intercourse, while a satisfied grin crept into her diabolical expression, thankful that she made an unholy pact with the essence of a Demoness. Eventually, he climaxed and convulsed inside her, and pulled out, anointing her with the life force she desired as she wrapped her slender arms around him in a gentle caress. He panted his mind numb with the emotions of fear, pain, pleasure and heightened sexual arousal all co-existing in the same space that filled his thoughts yet slowly smiled, knowing he had succeeded; the dissolution of the ego in the infernal regions of his passions; purifying himself from the essence of all sin and karma.

He lifted his Dark Goddess and set her onto the dais floor and noticed the host of shadows writhing in the background in celebration and cheer with their fetid whispers.

He stood before his new subjects, the Goddess behind him, and accepted their triumphant cries. This was the moment he had strived for. This was the moment he had suffered for.

No longer considered “Lord” over his own essence, now the adept Lyre turned to his lovers, the Goddess of his dream, “What are your commands to me, as your new lover and leader of your worshippers?”

“Die.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Simply that. Die. I prefer my lovers with a bit more stamina.”

The naked and ravaged adept took a step back, uncomprehending. Some unseen obstacle tripped him and fell backward. Even as he fell, he knew it is she, the mirrored Lilith like Black Widow who tripped him by sheer will. Time paused for a brief moment and he helplessly watched the room rotate sporadically as if he were on a hallucinogenic drug. Ice touched his flailing hand and time rushed forward. He stumbled and fell backward into the writhing mirror, the window to the Tempest of the Abyss, filled of black mire, eternal waters.

He could feel each cry filled with sorrow and the gnashing of teeth as each of their hands gripped onto him. Raging, he tried to tear free and return to the world before, to take vengeance. Lyre looked at both of their faces with eyes burning with resolve; their glaring eyes filled artic chill of the Tundra.

Lyre, the ravaged adept of an occultist order knew what she saw in him, as the rest of the restless failed horde. His tattooed body was no more, destroyed by their rage and torment—now a lingering spirit trapped in the infradimension of the Avitchi, the Abyss, Hell; raving and gnashing with the rest of the would-have-been lovers, forever.

“Close my eyes, please!” He screamed with all his might. Yet he couldn’t—they were plucked out with sheer sadistic glee while engaged into the downward spiral, shifting over and over…

“Your eyes are now shut…” The Dark Goddess whispered sweetly as she rent her Scarlet summoner apart, starting first at her throat by her sacrificial dagger, ravishing in her pouring showers of blood.

THE END