Authors: Mary Ann Mitchell
"Damn," shouted Stuart as he toppled into the
lake.
Liliana's body jolted as the water swallowed
her treasure.
Stuart lifted himself up and stood dripping
wet while holding the golden beaded bag indecorously in his right
hand.
"Don't look so serious, Lil. The bag and I
shall dry out soon enough." He laughed.
Her jaw ached as she closed her mouth and
attempted to spread her lips into a smile.
Stuart waded onto the land and built a small
fire with the dry pieces of wood, twigs, and leaves that lay
abundantly around them. Liliana watched, sweeping her long nails
across her lips. Eventually she sucked the middle finger of her
right hand and winced when she realized she had drawn her own
blood.
Stuart sat in front of the fire and placed
her purse at his feet. Gently he pulled Liliana down beside him.
His jacket fell from her arms onto his knees. She looked into his
face and saw his irises dance with life before the flames. The
whites of his eyes nestled this life in their cloudy softness. His
mouth met her lips for the first time. She spread apart her lips,
and he pulled away. The jacket was in his hands, and he was
nervously grabbing for something in his pocket. A black velvet box
appeared in the palm of his hand. He presented it to her. She
opened the box. Inside was a ring whose colors under the fire's
light rivaled any rainbow she had seen. However, the reflection of
the diamond against her tears caused a stabbing pain inside her
head.
He embraced her. The warmth of him against
her cold flesh made her tremble. He held her tight against his
chest. His heart pumped hard; she could feel the steady throb. The
sounds of the liquid passing through its chambers roared in her
ears. Liliana could even smell the succulent red corpuscles
flushing to his skin's surface. She pressed her face deep into the
crook of his neck, then drew her tongue across his shoulder.
Suddenly she bit hard into his flesh, not to steal his blood but to
stem her own passion for him. She pulled her mouth away from his
shoulder. The skin was bruised but not broken.
She loved him. Not simply with a physical
passion in which she had taken so many other lives, but with an
almost forgotten purity, gentleness, and empathy.
Liliana swept her hand across his cheek and
refused the ring with a slow shake of her head.
"I absolutely forbid that my body be opened upon any
pretext whatsoever. I urgently insist that it be kept a full
forty-eight hours in the chamber where I shall have died, placed in
a wooden coffin which shall not be nailed shut until the prescribed
forty-eight hours have elapsed, at the end of which period the said
coffin shall be nailed shut; during this interval a message shall
be sent express to M. Le Normand, wood seller in Versailles, living
at number 101, boulevard de l'Egalité, requesting him to come in
his own person with a cart, to fetch my body away..."
Last Will and Testament
D. A. F. Sade
Chapter 1
Early 21st Century
The house stood on a corner lot. A busy
thoroughfare passed by on the right of the house; the other side
faced a decrepit old cottage that was probably held together by
chains of termites. The entrance faced a quiet street, not a dead
end but near to it in the amount of traffic passing through.
A Victorian charm made the house look
inviting. Curlicues and gingerbread decorations swept across the
exterior. Lacy gauze curtains covered each window, except for the
dormer window. Red-wine velvet curtains hung from that one. No hint
of light ever shined from the top window, no flowery vase as
appeared in the living-room window. But once a week, if neighbors
bothered to look they would see the velvet curtains parted. Two
hands would lift the window, and a third hand would quickly dispose
of a blessed liquid offering that fell onto the abundant spring and
summer flowers growing below. In winter the liquid would soften the
layer of snow covering the ground. Year round the goddess accepted
the offering.
On this night a full moon backdropped the
black cat-shaped weather vane. Louis Sade had noted the sight
before approaching the sage and pine wreath hanging on the front
door. A thirtyish earth mother, Heloise, had brought him here to
experience the old religion.
Now Louis stood in that dormer room, part of
a human circle. They held hands. The earth mother's hand felt rough
and strong. The woman on his other side had a softer, gentler
grasp. He could hear her swallow in giant gulps as the others
measured their breathing to the events of the evening. Undoubtably
she was a new convert and a very young one, from what he could see.
The girl appeared tender, unused, and highly susceptible. He would
correct the cursory introduction that had been made by engaging her
in a lengthy chat after the ritual had ended.
"Let us call the quarters," a meaty woman
across from him said. "Zaira, would you perform the task?"
A spindly matronly-looking woman stepped from
the circle and drew a black-handled knife from a scabbard lying low
on her hip. Her green velvet robe dragged along the floor as she
walked to the East. With the knife in her right hand she raised her
right arm and spoke.
"Greetings unto the spirits of the East,
Rulers of the Air, Gwydion, Master of Phantasy and Illusion. We
call upon thee to guard our rites and protect our circle."
The lit candle before her flickered and died.
Silence.
Louis smirked. If these women were really
witches they would be unable to work their magic tonight, he knew.
The young woman next to him seemed to stop breathing, while an
octogenarian female used an altar taper to try and relight the
Eastern candle. "Zaira, please move on to the South," said the
meaty woman, who was high priestess.
Holding her knife high, Zaira faced the
South, and the flame on that candle immediately died. Zaira cleared
her throat and spoke, while the octogenarian rushed to light the
South's candle.
"Greetings unto the Guardians of the South,
Rulers of Fire. Bridgit..."
The elderly woman had no luck in lighting the
candle. She turned and shrugged in the direction of the high
priestess.
"There must be a draft in here," Heloise
whispered. She gripped his hand tighter.
"No draft," pronounced the high priestess.
She shivered when she made eye contact with Louis.
"Does this happen often?" Louis innocently
asked.
"It has never happened before," pronounced
the high priestess.
"Once," Heloise interrupted. "When Penelope's
cat was in the room."
The matronly-looking woman's back stiffened.
She sniffed her indignation.
"Perhaps you should scabbard the knife,
Penelope," Louis suggested as he saw her hand tighten around the
handle.
"Zaira," Penelope answered.
"We have magic names," Heloise explained. "I
misspoke by using her mundane name. I'm Chrisyllis. Our high
priestess is Bride, and then there's Amaranth," she said, nodding
at the elderly woman, who continued trying to light the candle.
"And you, my dear?" Louis asked, turning to
the young girl. Her eyes were wide, and she seemed speechless.
"She doesn't have a magic name yet. She's not
initiated," said Heloise.
"So even in this room you're still called
Lora." His eyes fixed on the girl's, and he rubbed the back of her
hand with his thumb. She didn't pull away, but she looked frozen
and incapable of moving. Wisps of short brown hair framed Lora's
face, emphasizing the arched brows, the round blue eyes, the short
pert nose, and the succulently thick lips, parted just enough for
him to glimpse the straight white teeth. His mouth watered, and the
swelling in his loins forced him to change position. He noted that
Lora’s nipples had hardened against the thin knitted cotton of her
blouse.
"Louis." Heloise rested a hand on his arm.
"The candles are relit. We're going to try again." She tugged at
his sleeve until he turned to face the center of the circle.
The high priestess glared at him, and he
amiably smiled back.
Gwydion was called again and the East went
dark.
His smile grew broader as the high priestess'
expression grew darker.
She's got me pegged,
he thought.
"Why don't you call the guardians, Mr. Sade,"
said the high priestess.
Louis reached out for Zaira's knife and all
the candles blew out.
"Don't give your athame to
him."
Zaira
followed the high priestess' instructions and slid the knife back
into its scabbard.
"Children, drunks, criminals, and the insane
should never be trusted with sharp instruments. You are a sage
woman." He sensed that the other women were confused, and each
turned in a circle, checking each of the nonburning candles.
Finally Amaranth scurried over to the altar
and took up one of the side candles.
"It will not be necessary to light the
candles."
"But, Bride, shouldn't we try at least once
more?"
"Amaranth, give the candle to Heloise's
guest. Please light the candles, Mr. Sade."
For some reason unfathomable to Louis, the
high priestess wanted a confrontation between him and the spirits.
He knew she expected him to back down. Instead he took the altar
candle and turned to the East.
In the East, South, and West, each candle's
wick refused the flame's kiss; however, there were no other
repercussions. He would complete the charade and then shrug
innocently at his audience, he thought.
One last candle, in the North. Where the
powers of the earth resided. He moved quickly in that direction,
but found himself falling back a step, a heaviness building in his
chest. He moved forward again and felt the suffocating weight of
the earth pushing him down under its layers. He could not get
within arm's length of the northern candle. Fear, an emotion that
he had almost forgotten, tensed his body. He belonged under the
earth, not above it. He should be decaying into the loam.
Bride now chanted in a Celtic tongue. He
could not absorb the words; they seemed purposefully to rush by
him.
To whom is that exécrable femme calling?
No one else
said a word. The flame of the altar candle flickered. Hot wax fell
onto the knuckles of his right hand. He gripped the candle too
close to the flame. His hand was colder than it had ever been. The
dripping wax caused practically no pain, since the hand was almost
numb from frost. But he knew the room was warm. There was no chill,
only the iciness of his death, which was coming for him again to
recapture his condemned soul. Something hit the outside of the
window, and the curtains behind the Northern candle shivered.
The smell of burning incense turned his
stomach, but soon the fragrance was overcome by the odors of moss
and clay. The earth wanted him back.
"No!" He tossed the altar candle at the
window. "You can't have me!"
Bride was still chanting. He turned and saw
that the other women were stunned. Amaranth suddenly reached out a
hand. He followed the direction in which she pointed and turned to
see the bottom of the velvet curtains smoldering. Jagged swirls of
smoke ascended, followed by the lick of flames. But no one else
moved.
Louis reached out and pulled the curtain from
its rod. The window pane shattered, allowing a fireball to enter
and light the North's candle.
Screams were rising behind him, but he stood
his ground as a ribbon of fire circled the room.
"You
imbécile!"
he yelled at the high
priestess.
And still she chanted in the Celtic tongue
while the other women clustered together in the center of the
room.
The black smoke from the carpet emanated a
foul odor, a sickly, deathly odor of rotted souls sizzling in the
depths of hell.
He would never succumb. He would survive and
replicate as he always had done. The fire had cut off the exit.
Black smoke clouded his vision. But he knew where the door was and
rushed through the sooty fog.
"All universal moral principles are idle
fantasies."
The 120 Days of Sodom
by the
Marquis de Sade
Chapter 2
Sour, salty sweat dripped from the tip of his
nose onto his protruding lips. His tongue licked the chapped and
swollen flesh. The handcuffs scrapped his wrists as his body jerked
in fear. She brought the flat end of the straight-edge razor down
his erect penis. The dribble of his semen frightened him. His
Maîtresse
had forbade him to have an orgasm. But the cold
steel of the blade caused a shiver of pleasure. La Maîtresse used
the flat side of the blade to swat the tip of his organ. A
warning!
He wanted to close his legs, protect his
privates, but the bar separating his manacled ankles prevented
that.
Maîtresse la Présidente
smoothed on more soapy suds
across his loin and continued to shave his pubic hair. The delicate
slide of the blade across his skin made his breath quicken.
The mirror to the right of him revealed the
slow movements of his
Maîtresse'
s hands. Her small white
hand would set the edge of the blade against his organ and then
glide the blade downward, removing foam and hair. The black votive
candles burning on either side of the reflection gave the scene a
surreal look. Was that Garrett Winter's penis bobbing and waving to
the rhythm of
La Présidente'
s hand? Garrett Norwell Winter
III, power-hungry entrepreneur, feared by the titans of
industry?
La Présidente
reached for one of the
black candles. She smiled up at him as she brought the candle
closer to his penis. His loin, now naked of hair, looked vulnerable
in the mirror. Even more so when she rubbed the side of the candle
against his penis. She lifted his organ and poised the bottom of
the candle atop its tip. Involuntarily he cried out as he watched
the hot wax slide down the side of the candle. The wax stung the
sides of his cock. The skin was unbearably stretched to the point
of aching.