DESIGNS V

By Succubus

Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours, and time became a dream to Leigh. How long had she been here? Days? For sure. A week? Maybe. At times as she looked around the spare and dingy room, it seemed that she had never existed outside of it. She had the memories, sure, of what her life had been, of family and friends, but that was more a dream than reality.

She could smell herself, her sweat. Her hair, gone stringy with the dirt and sweat and tears hung limply about her face; some strands stuck to her cheeks. Her eyes stung, her muscles ached. She'd move about as much as she could, keeping the cramps barely at bay.

Should she cry again? No tears offered themselves up. She swallowed painfully, her throat gone dry, her tongue fuzzy.

And still he came, out of a nightmare, rousing her from her stupor long enough to force her to feel. She hated him after each time, cursed him in her mind, though in truth, hate was not what she felt while his body moved over hers.

For somehow, someway, he always made her respond.

Escape was something she didn't think of. Begging didn't work, and since the only times he let her loose was to escort her to the bathroom, standing over her while she peed, only to tie her back to the prison of the bed, she knew the chance to escape would never come.

Sometimes he'd wake her up, and just talk to her, tell her stories. Once he had brought back a bloody pair of panties. These he had ran all over her body as he fucked her, and then shoved them into her mouth, gagging her with them. She had tasted the blood, the urine, and the definite taste of female excitement on them. She wondered absently whom they had belonged to, and what had happened to their owner. She thought she knew, remembering her first night here and the corpse in the corner.

A rivulet of sweat ran across her ribcage, stinging the cut on her side. All over her body, tiny cuts like it had been carved into her, as each time he came he left a new mark. A living work of art she was becoming. His greatest creation.

Many times she knew he watched her, though she could not see him. She could feel his eyes upon her, his intense scrutiny.

Now he was gone, had been for some time, and she wondered again if he'd return or if she would be left to die on this filthy bed.

He did return, some hours later, while Leigh slept fitfully.

The sun was fading from the sky, and the dusk shadows crept across her form. He watched her intently for some time, admiring her beauty, admiring the beauty he was creating with her as the canvas.

She tossed about, moaning now and then, perhaps fighting in her sleep, as she couldn't while awake. Her hair covered her face as it turned to one side. Just the curve of her neck shone through, pale and tender. He felt himself stir, felt his excitement, there, on the verge, at the thought of the blood that ran just under the delicate flesh. He licked his lips. First things first, though.

He gathered up a bowl and rag, filling the bowl with hot soapy water. He sat on the bed, next to the sleeping woman, and gently smoothed the hair out of her face. He ran his fingers softly over her face, feeling the bones beneath. Her eyes opened and stared directly into his. For a moment, he was transfixed, caught up in the look.

He smiled at her, then took the rag, wetting it, wringing it out, and slowly wiped at her forehead. He began cleaning her.

Leigh watched him as he washed her, feeling again that peculiar sense of giving up that his presence made her feel. As though his will was so strong that to give in to him was inevitable. As though there were no choices, and she had no other desires. What was it about him?

His boyish grin, the curls across his forehead, all belied the reality of him. Surely no man who looked like this could be a monster, she thought for the thousandth time. The rag scraped over another cut and Leigh winced. She had better stop this, had better start believing--the cuts stinging across her body should have cured her romantic streak.

The layers of grime came off her slowly. He took his time, marveling in her body. He couldn't get enough of this one. And his artwork was coming along nicely. Two curlicues along the inside of each thigh, designs along her sides, these added to her beauty and value in his eyes. She was so truly his. Today he would begin the most precise parts of his creation.

The sponge bath completed, he dried her body with a rough towel, patting at his designs so as not to mar their perfection. The light was almost gone, so he lit a candle, moving it to the table beside the bed so it's flame would dance across her skin.

Gently he traced the lines of the cuts with his finger. Leigh winced and cringed slightly beneath him. Leaning down, he licked at the designs in her thighs, running his tongue along them, tasting them. He smiled up at her, his eyes aglow with excitement, with adoration.

"Tonight is special, Leigh," he said, "tonight we begin the most intricate work. You will be so beautiful, I will make you into an object of beauty beyond that which you've ever known."

Lying on the table beside the bed was a knife. Small, with a thin blade that ended at a razor point, it had a small bone handle. He lifted the knife with another smile, running his finger over the blade to test its sharpness. A line of blood appeared on his finger and he grinned, sliding his finger into Leigh's mouth. Without being told to, she licked and sucked the blood away.

He leaned forward and kissed her, holding her mouth open with his finger. His tongue licked across her lips, darted into her mouth. Leigh closed her eyes hard, feeling herself respond to the kiss in a way that made her hate herself.

"I love you, Leigh," he said, then lowered the blade to her cheek.

She felt the cold steel against her cheek, then nothing for a moment. He drew the knife back and Leigh saw blood upon the blade, her blood. Only then did she feel the slice upon her cheek.

Surprising herself, she screamed, realizing he was cutting her face, marring it, scarring it. The blade lowered again, but this time Leigh struggled, turning her head from side to side, desperately fighting her bonds to stop him.

He shook his head as though she were a child who simply couldn't understand and rose, walking from the room.

He returned a few minutes later, one hand behind his back as he approached. He sat beside her again, petting at her, then licked at the blood coming from her cheek. Leigh moaned and squirmed, feeling panic rising up in her.

"I thought this might be a bit much for you, my dear little Leigh," he said, "so you'll see I planned ahead."

From behind his back he pulled a syringe, half full of a yellowish clear fluid. Before Leigh could register what was happening, he plunged the syringe into her arm, pumping the fluid into her bloodstream. Leigh could only look on amazed.

"Don't worry, this won't knock you out, it will only numb you. You'll still be awake, but you won't feel it, see?" He said.

It was just a quick moment before she felt the drugs kicking in. Her head swam fuzzy, and she felt light, as though she floated an inch above the bed. Not much mattered, she realized through the stupor of the drugs. Nothing really mattered at all.

He waited only a couple minutes before he lowered the blade once more to her face. Leigh felt some slight pressure, but that was all. Absently she watched him, as though what he did had nothing whatsoever to do with her.

He cut into the fragile skin of her face, concentrating hard. It must be perfect, each cut, must be exactly right. He licked the blood off the blade, ran the soapy rag over the new cut to check its accuracy, and smiled. Wonderful, this was going to be just wonderful.

Time and time again he cut into her, doing only a little bit at a time. He curled along her jaw line, etched at her high cheekbones, and circled her eyes and lips. Along the corner of each eye, he sliced a tear of blood into life. Leigh looked on passively.

Once done, he wiped across her face with the rag, admiring his handiwork, his craftsmanship, knowing he was a master. Her face still bled, along each cut, and the site of it excited him beyond belief. Licking the blood-tears from her eyes, he climbed atop her body.

Without prelude he entered her, forcing himself deeply inside of Leigh. Her body had grown used to his assaults, and willingly opened. Leigh watched on, wondering when she would feel something, anything. Wondering when she would care.

He stared into her eyes as he slid his cock in and out of her. She felt swallowed by him. With a groan, he came, pumping his seed into her womb. With a final sheepish grin, he rose and left the room.

Leigh floated in the drug haze for some time, until eventually she drifted once more into sleep.

When she awoke, it was daylight again. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, wondering what it was she saw. As her eyes opened more, she saw a face above her, a face of blood with huge eyes showing through. As the eyes grew and the face moved with hers, she realized what she saw was herself, reflected from above in a mirror.

Across her face were scores of cuts, her face decorated in blood and lines like a tribal tattoo of the sickest sort. Once more, Leigh surprised herself as her tears began to fall, each stinging the cuts more. She could barely recognize herself. Her heart sank at the thought of how she used to look, of her old smile. Leigh sobbed for who she once was. The face above her blurred then swam as tears washed her away.