Diluted

DILUTED by Jesse Haltom



She held a red and white polka-dotted parisol in gloved hands when it didn't rain.
She liked old-fashioned clothes, silk corsets and dresses made of taffeta lace. Born in the modern world, yet swimming in the cool fantasies of times of coaches and glamourous courtesauns and a decadent sexuality shielded by a false innocence.

She practically worshiped Elizabith Bathory, a noblewoman who murdered her virginal servants and bathed in their blood to maintain her youthful glow and she fantasized about being ripped apart by her soft pale hands, her blood spilling all over gold tiled floor.

She had ran away from home at thirteen and soon after began working the busy streets of New York, her money flowing through her outstretched fingers effortlessly.

At eighteen she had a penthouse filled with lovely leather furniture. The wood panneled floors were covered throughout with antique persian rugs of magnificent design.

In the back room she had a few men -her faithful customers- build her a secret den that housed equipment from a torture chamber found in a castle deep in the mossy woods of Ireland.

Her favorite accesory to the dimly lit hidden room was the iron maiden, a hulking beast of a painted woman, with crimson lips smiling as if she mocked her potential victims before her doors closed, slowly killing them. The spikes on the door were still dangerously sharp and stained brown with spilt blood. Once, alone one cold winter night and not feeling up to walking the streets, she stood in it and imagined them closing the doors on her, the blades, almost dick-like penetrating every one of her orfices and creating even more.

As she walked the rain slicked streets in her ankle breaking stilletos and ballerina like skirt, she noticed a young man in his late teens eyeing her from across the road with brilliant blue eyes. She took him with her to her sprawling home.

He marvelled at her furniture and questioned why she had no tv. "No use for it," she said, slipping out of her fur coat and throwing it to her feet, "I belong in another time, you see." He nodded in reply, though he probably didn't understand what she meant.

He was a virgin, surprisingly enough. Even with the chiseled body and the beautiful angel's face, his humongous cock had went untouched. She shook her platinum ringlets from her eyes and lowered her head to his swelling member, taking it into her mouth as he gasped for breath from perfect cherub's lips.

She pulled the clasp on her corset when he didn't seem to know how and pulled his large slender hands to feel her breasts. When he was finally inside of her, she rode him fast, on top and they both moaned until he came with one great thrust, whimpering.

He lay in her bed, covered in warm velvet blankets and completely at ease. "That was wonderful," he sighed. She nodded to him and he stood up, mistaking her preoccupation with the far wall as a sign that she wanted him to leave. "How much do you want?" he asked. "I have one-hundred dollars, but if you want more I can go to the bank down the street and-" Her high, silvery laugh interupted him, "No I want you to see something before you leave." He looked at her, a little perplexed, "What?"

"A most marvelous item I bought a short while ago. Noone has seen it, but a few people."

He stood out of her bed,vulnerably naked and covered in a thin film of sweat. His golden curls clung to his forehead and she noticed quite bemusedly he stared at her with the uptmost affection.

She led him to a large bookcase, the sides covered in gold filigree that hung to the floor. She pulled the side of it back, almost upsetting a shelf at the top, and it swung so easily, the man knew that the books that covered the shelves were fake and empty.

The room wasn't as luxurious looking as the other parts of the house and was so covered in shadows that it seemed to bleed them from the high narrow walls, painted to look like stones. It was the replica of a medievil torture chamber. "Whoa," he exclaimed looking around, his eyes lingering over the deadly beauty of the iron maiden.

"It's my favorite," she said, "Would you like to stand in it?"

"Huh?"

"Would you like to stand in it; see what hundreds of others saw long ago right before it closed to their demise."

"I guess," he said. He held his hands between his legs, shyly, even though what he was covering he proudly displayed just an hour before.

He walked to the iron maiden as she opened it, creakingly. Peering inside, he said in awe, "There's blood on the blades. How old it must be."

When he turned around, before he could say another thing, she pushed him inside deftly enough to where his head hit the back wall and stuck there, held by a sharp spike, barely poking out of his forehead. A bright red rivulet ran down his face as he stared at her in muted horror, still alive and breathing painfully. "Let's see if the other blades are sharp enough," she grinned before closing the door, the blades loudly entering him in a satisfying crunch.

He yelped just as soon as they impaled him, a pitifully animalistic sound that reverberated around the room and tickled her ears so much she laughed.

There were victims before him and there would be more. Time had faded and twisted into lilting circles that spun almost to a stop then started again. Her murderous inclinations stopped suddenly, then started again just as abruptly. She wouldn't and couldn't deny it.

THE END.