Chapter 1

“Take heed people of Babylon, of the broods wrought by the Wyrm, for their ways are subtle and grievous. They thrive on the subjugation of all that is good and holy, it is their very manna. Such beasts of the pit covet greatly, and not for material trinkets, these beasts hunger for flesh, and when they have it, let all of creation beware.”

Huddled into a tight naked ball, Ashley clung to the shadows of the corner as though they were a route out of this Stigean domain of terror.

Shivering slightly, her body was cold, numbed by the lack of warmth within the cellar. But she was trembling more from fear than from cold, a gnawing terror that had been set in her heart and her mind by the insanity she had just witnessed.

Together, the arch-fiends that held her here had killed already, and brought her to the brink of insanity with her helpless view of the grisly act. She had to be going mad. The things she had seen, the impossible revelations that had lurked in the corners of her eyes, the smells, the strange flick of shadow, it could not be real. Her mind was playing tricks on her, the stresses heaped so freely onto its puny shoulders causing her to behold all manner of bizarre phenomenon.

Gingerly she caressed her bruises and welts, the injuries they so freely applied to their captive being harsh and savage in their intensity. How could she hope to survive here? Escape was impossible. Being discovered and rescued was no longer an option, for one of her kidnappers was a police officer, and had no doubt sealed her doom with his bogus reports.

Hope was a tiny speck on her horizon, a half-believed notion that was her only link to reality. If only she could be free. All she wanted was to get out of here, anywhere, to run, to hide, to never come out of her house again, to barricade and fortify it so none might ever again sneak in and make off with her.

The smell of latex and leather, varnished wood and steel was again in her nose, replacing the foul caustic scents she had detected in the pit. What was that place? Some sort of shrine to their demented ideology of torture? A sick vault to house their most deranged acts, leaving no traces of homicide in their actual abode? How could they be so brazen about their torture and so furtive about murder?

As she often did, she started to sob, the tears rolling down her cheeks as she prayed for assistance, for clemency from fate. Whatever she had done to warrant such a judgement on her, surely she had paid her debt by now?

Her belly joined in the lament, singing a rumbling accompaniment, her hunger and thirst intense. She had been in the cell for hours, maybe even days all time becoming a forgotten topic to her.

Since last she had escaped, the only window here had been bricked shut, denying her knowledge as to whether it were day or night without. Her only clue as to the passage of the hours was her wounds, the fading of bruise, the withering and whitening of cut, these were now her time pieces.

The sound of the weighty door opening lifted her face from her folded arms, the skin wet from tumbling tears. The vault like portal that denied her flight from the torture chamber squeaked softly on its hinges and then rang its deep tone of closure.

Ashley’s heart seemed to sink in her chest and she forced herself back further, the sound of footfalls growing near. Tightening her frame, she compressed herself in the hope of eluding detection, like a caged and abused animal that knew it was time for more maltreatment.

The single spotlight that shone upon her from without effectively crippled all night vision, denying her the chance to see the many awful engines of restraint and punishment amassed here, or to see who was coming for her.

The grim form of Stuart (or what she assumed to be him) once more emerged, the young man clad again in his latex suit, the black fabric spilling across every contour of his frame. The muscular outlines were further enhanced by the overlaid leather harness, the studded garment set across his torso and tightened to a snug fit. His heavy boots were buckled up the side with a metal shin pad across the front, the hilt of the butterfly knife peeking just over the lip. Leather gloved hands twitched with wayward jerks, contemplating, eager to visit more mayhem onto Ashley’s hapless physique. Upon his head was a full mask, the bronze metal encrusted with gems and strange patterns, mixed with sigils and other occult symbols. Moulded into the visage of a lion, a mane of black hair sprouted out in all directions, falling over his shoulders and down his back in silken folds.

‘You like my new locks?’ he chuckled.

Ashley did not respond, merely held herself tight, trying to comfort her sense of trepidation.

‘Do you recognise them?’ he quizzed, turning and skipping in circles, his heavy soles scraping against the floor.

With a deft run he leapt up onto the heavy table and settled into a crouch, hands clamped to the edge, his eyes fixed into the gloom. With a bellowing cry he unleashed his imitation roar, declaring himself Lord in this perverse Jungle.

Ashley closed her eyes as her breath broke into random fits, crippled with sorrow as she guessed from length and colour where the materials had been gained for this new adornment. The prostitute had identical hair, stolen from her by those that had stolen her dignity and then her life.

‘Suits me better, don’t you think? Or maybe you do? Are you thinking you little slut? Are you scared of the predator before you?’ he muttered, his tone uneven.

He paused, looking at her with questioning, cocking his head from side to side, rattling his gloved fingertips to the wood.

‘You want to escape again, eh? Well, too bad. I got Stuart to seal that little chink in our defences. Now it’s just us, just us and darkness. Darkness absolute,’ he stated, trailing of into a whisper, as though thinking on far away deeds and places, reminiscing about other such times he had a helpless person cowering before him.

With a flurry of movement he jumped down and hurled his arms around, swatting at the air, as though assailed by a cloud of flying insects that he was driving away. After a few grunts of anger, he settled down once more, turning his hidden eyes to his prisoner, his head askew as he shivered with the thrill of his overwhelming role.

‘But let’s make certain. Trust is a tricky thing, you either have it, and if you don’t - well, who cares.’

With a jump of sudden dedication, he rolled back across the table and fled into the darker depths, the clink and clatter of metal upon metal sounding before he came forward into the light of her cell once more.

In his hands he held a pair of leather manacles, the sturdy restraints attached to lengths of thick rope that snaked back into the depths, their origin lost to her. All she could see was the light upon her and a sheet of impenetrable darkness beyond, a wall she could penetrate.

‘Get up, you filthy bitch. Get over here, you have suffering to do,’ he growled, his words laden with menace, hiding his hope that she would rebel so he might make her pay for such disrespect to his rule over her.

With hesitant motions, Ashley pushed herself up onto her feet, her body responding with protest to the commands of movement. Her contusions pulsated with new life, the long hours she had spent in the cell having let them heal, but they were still testy to the touch and especially to use. She did not want to give in, she did not want to do as she was told by this licentious beast, but what choice did she have?

‘Give me your hands,’ he ordered sternly through the bars, wringing the cuffs, making the rope beneath jostle and dance.

Ashley swayed unsteadily before him, watching his actions through the wall of stout bars that separated them. His demeanour was as before - sadistic and playful, like a child with a small animal, torturing it without care, not truly seeing it as alive, but a toy to provide amusement with its distress. Was that all she was to him? A plaything? An object upon which he exacted his frustrations and personal flaws.

‘Give me your hands, or I’ll chop the fucking things off!’ he roared, violently slamming a palm to the bars, bringing out a deep tone, his fury exploding, no doubt fuelled by the brutal rape his partner had performed on him.

Unwilling to test his resolve on this matter, she reached out, each arm straight forward through the corresponding gap. Throwing a hand in, he grabbed her hair, pulling the tangled handful through so her cheek was pressed to the cold metal.

‘Don’t fuck with me, bitch. You know who you’re fucking with? If you did, you’d be pleading for death, but it isn’t happening, not yet, not until you have a chat with Belial,’ he hissed into her face, his breath scented with a rancid smell, an aroma that churned her stomach, reminding her of what she had detected in the pit. She had to stay focused, she could not allow delusions of insanity to encroach, to start eating away at her, turning her into their slavering pet.

‘There, that’s better, that’s what you’re supposed to do,’ he announced with a soft drone, her wilt into submissiveness pleasing him.

Releasing his hold, he started affixing the manacles, setting them in place, the leather settling tight about her joints.

She knew better than to speak, this dark tyrant would not brook it. So instead she let herself be confined, lost in her misery, resigned to her ordeal, whatever it might be.

‘Now, we shall see if these bars are secure enough to hold you. Wouldn’t do to have you sneaking out uninvited now, would it? Not when there are invites left to give. There’s a party coming and you’ll not want to miss it. It’ll be party of the millennium,’ he voiced, reaching through and squeezing her cheeks inward with a pinch of his hand, distorting her lips into a puckered expression.

Retreating, he turned off her spotlight and switched on an overhead, bringing a soft amber glow to the chamber. It was still an ocean of shadow and contorted anonymous shapes, but more was open to her gaze now and at least she could see what he was preparing and if the officer was to attend her.

The coarse ropes led back to a winch, the barrel and crank bolted to the far wall directly opposite her. The machine was lodged beneath shelves of paraphernalia, kept in darkness so it could easily be overlooked. The lengths ran across the awful things he had built for his captives, some of which she had experienced, others of which she had thankfully not felt the embrace of just yet.

The brute wove his route through the objects, standing beside the winch and slapping a palm to the handle.

‘Oh God, no,’ spluttered Ashley, seeing now what his intentions were.

‘God’s got better things to do than stroll in here and help one pathetic little trollop,’ retorted Stuart and started to crank the winch, hauling at its level, turning the barrel in flying jolts so that it stole away the slack.

Ashley tried to pull herself back, her fingers fumbling on the manacles, trying to defeat them, to get them off before she was stopped from even trying.

‘Come on! You call that trying! You must really want this after all. Are you as eager to see if your prison is secure as I? That feeble attempt you’re making isn’t tricking me, I know it’s a lie. You’re all liars, all of you, but we’re better,’ he hissed, slowing his rate as the rope started to lift up and draw taut, his dawdling prolonging her maddened attempt to get out.

Ashley was pulled forward a little, the rope dragging her onto the bars, her arms stretching out.

‘No! Please, no!’ she cried out, her arms almost raised horizontal, spread apart, her fingers frantically trying to complete the impossible task.

Her words became an ascending cry, her howl rising in octaves as she was dragged against the chill cage, her arms being tensed and then forced beyond.

The sadist continued, flicking it on a notch at a time, squashing her breasts into the indomitable rods, her arms flicking with apoplectic riots as they were cruelly racked. She could feel the ligaments and tendons groaning with strain, her joints feeling ready to pop any second.

She screamed for him to stop, that he was killing her, that her arms were coming out, but nothing stopped him, he just stood and watched her suffer until he deemed her brought to a satisfactory level of duress.

The winch was locked into position and Ashley was left barely able to breathe, her ribs fighting the bars she was being so mercilessly pulled into. Her legs were shaking and weak beneath her, the severe haul to her limbs serving to keep her upright. Her head lolled back and around, tears rolling down her face as she cried out to try and ease her pain, as though it were a pressure within her, one she could vent.

‘Now let’s really test them,’ he offered, and snatched up a cane, the slender stick of bamboo a fearsome weapon to suffer the attentions of.

‘Please, it’s secure, it’s secure. I’ll not try to escape, I promise, I swear it,’ she whimpered, afraid that a whipping might prompt her into dislocating her own arms with the paroxysms it would manufacture.

‘Hush now, we have to be sure, don’t we?’ he mused, hacking into the air with some swings of preparation, readying himself for the punishment. The sight of such strength and brutality behind the weapon made Ashley gibber and weep in turmoil, helpless to deny him this guiding bias for deranged persecution.

Unlocking the cage door, he strolled blithely in, walking around the cell and inspecting its barren content before stepping behind her. A leather-clad finger trailed down her spine, the passage eased by the faint sheen of sweat rising from her skin.

‘Look at you, tempting me, trying to use your foul little body to trap me. Well, you’ll learn, bitch. You’ll learn about who you’re fucking with,’ he snapped, and the gentle caress became a flashing eruption of heat across her buttocks.

Ashley jerked upright, every muscle tense as she screamed against the bars, the initial flare of the stroke giving way to the dwindling accursed throb of its lingering effects. She couldn’t take a caning, she just couldn’t. Instantly her pleas and incoherent streams of grizzling petitions came forth.

Her attacker paid them no mind, savouring only their woe and not their text, and, once satisfied that the full effects of the cane had been experienced, he treated her to another lash. Her heartfelt diction collapsed into a shriek and she shook as though suffering a fit, pressing her face to the bars as she once more rode through the full tempest of the stroke.

The third had her drop her head back, blindly regarding the ceiling as she shrieked her loathing to the heavens. He was letting her feel it all before continuing. As a change, a sudden batch of six strokes were slammed into her, the flesh of her buttocks rippling under each scathing impact, making her throw herself against her restraints, overcome with the sole instinct to get free.