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Michael Alexander Stories

Chapel In The Woods (2003)

Chapel

Our footsteps crunched loudly in the autumn leaves as we walked along the forest trail and the late afternoon sun pierced the golden red canopy above with a glittering sparkle, brightening the undergrowth. The air was cool, yet not chilled with the approaching taste of winter, though I admit that I felt the forest preparing itself for the first snow.

The chapel stood ahead of us, its chiseled stone face and hard oaken doors stood like a monument against the seasons. Built by man, ostensibly for God, it had become a forgotten relic in the age of atheism. As we neared, I marveled, as I have often done, on the tendency of man to look upward, seeking some higher reward or divination, when so many of our baser instincts are focused inward.

We slowed our steps as we came to the massive carved doors, the stylistic designs carving an intricate pattern to the unknown deity. I reached out and touched the strong and tarnished brass handle, pulling. The door opened, the heavy weight sliding and creaking on the age old hinges.

We entered the chapel and I pulled the door shut behind us. I found the iron lock bolt, the one the archaic park service had installed, and slid it downward into the sunken hole in the floor. I turned and then stopped in wonder as the light from the setting sun struck the huge crimson stained glass windows, filling the chapel with a bloody light. I shivered, and for a moment I thought that the red tinged candle indicating the sanctity of the church had been remounted and lit in the presence of God. But no, the wooden pews had long been removed or fallen into disrepair, as had the accouterments of the ancient religion. I looked and saw the iron bolts where the scarlet candle had once been mounted, symbolizing the presence of God. Only the empty stone of the wall remained.

The walls were rough rock, hewed from granite, and placed together with simple mortar. Their grayed appearance brought to mind the stories of medieval dungeons and castles from long ago. We walked across the empty space of the floor to the nave, where a stone altar, bereft of its vestments, stood like a monument to a grave. Its surface was only marred by the inch long iron bolts, sticking out from the sides of the table where the candle holders of the ancient ceremonies had been mounted.

I looked back at my partner. She stood in quiet surrender, her long copper hair cascading down upon her sable cloak as she waited for me. I pulled slightly on the leather leash that led to the black collar encircling her neck, drawing her attention.

“What do you think?” I asked her, curious as to her thoughts.

Her pale blue eyes looked back at me and she shrugged her shoulders, seemingly hesitant to speak.

I swung back toward the altar and mounted the dais, pulling her upward with me. I moved around the stone table, until I stood behind it, gazing down upon the unseen congregation of emptiness.

I drew in the leash, pulling her close to me, detecting the soft scent of her rose flavored perfume. I threw my arms about her, picking her up and cradling her like a newborn child. I felt her head slide down upon my shoulder and I felt a sudden chill, knowing what was to happen to this woman, this girl, this sacrifice.

I had planned this moment for months, ever since seeing this place, this holy chamber. I knew what I needed to do. Not murder, I am no killer. Yet, in this place a sacrifice would be made, an unholy thing become divine. I would draw the attention of God back to this place.

I gently placed her upon the altar, lowering her until she rested on the stone. The black hood of her cloak pooled under her head, pillowing it and spreading the living wave of her hair across the cool granite. The cloak spread open, draping the altar in a soft black sheath, bathed in the scarlet light of the sunset.

Her shirt and long skirt were also black, a matching raven. I reached into my pocket for my knife, and I slid the blade up through the short sleeves of her shirt, slicing the thin cloth like water parting before a prophet. I dropped the knife on the table beside her and then slowly unbuttoned her shirt, exposing a sliver of white skin between the two pools of darkness.

When her shirt lay open, I pulled the edges apart, freeing the silk and watching as the pools of cardinal light flashed across my sacrifice’s skin. Her eyes were closed and she lay waiting whatever would come next. I smiled in anticipation of the delights and pleasures that awaited me, as well as the experience that awaited her. It was part of my desire, my dream, my offering.

Her skirt was fastened with a simple button, and I quickly pulled apart the cotton earth cloth. Her loins were bare, clear except for a single patch of down. Her legs were closed, guarding her secrets, and I resisted the urge to part her, to touch and taste her pleasure. But something that simple was not what she was here for.

I turned and picked up the small pack I had carried, opening it and searching for the rope. It was strong hemp, thick and smooth, and I placed it on the table next to her. I had cut even strands, six feet long, and I began at her wrists, binding each carefully and tightly. I knelt down at the base of the altar and tied the rope ends off on the protruding bolts, until her arms stretched out above her head, parted.

Her ankles followed, and I licked my lips in appreciation as her tender sex was exposed for my eyes. Her rose colored slit glistened slightly, as if she was expecting a tender touch or penetrating experience. Finally, she was bound, stretched out upon the altar, like Andromeda for the Titan. I could not help my gaze lingering on the white marble skin lying among the folds of black. I treasured the sight of her petite and delicate feet laced into the black open toed sandals. She was beautiful, desirable. I smiled at the irony, for no captive was ever more captivating than my sacrifice. Her pleasure and suffering would bring God, if he existed, back down to this once hallowed hall.
Next I removed the four, red hued candles from my bag, setting them down upon the four corners of the altar. I lit them carefully, allowing the soft glow of candlelight to bathe my helpless lady in a sheen of beauty.

And truly she was beautiful. My mind played over the course of events and I reached once more into my pack.
I drew out a small bottle of brown ink and thin paint brush. With delicate patience, I dipped the brush into the bottle and slowly brushed my canvass of living skin. Her breath moved her body and I slipped the brush up and over her breasts, painting the delicate nipples, and then bringing the line down to her navel. I pushed the brush downward, looping it in intricate designs to her womanhood, actually sliding the brush through her soft down and into the crevice of her sex. For over an hour I worked, my hand moving steadily.

When I was done she looked like a Celtic goddess, inscribed with the old symbols of power and a desire. I stepped back and examined her, pleased with the outcome. I took hold of one of the candles and held it up over her body. I saw her eyes flash with momentary concern, but then glaze.

I turned the candle sideways and watched as the hot wax dripped down off the bell and fell toward my captive. I watched as the liquid splashed down upon her breast, coating the nipple in a red veneer. She gasped, but did not cry out, and I allowed the hot wax to fall, coating her breast over and over.

Her eyes were no longer glazed, and yet, I wanted more. I moved the candle an inch, dropping more of the hot pain upon her other breast. I watched her bosom heave under the intensity of the heat as the drippings splattered and splashed their way over her white full curves. I watched in fascination as the wax flowed down the mounds of her bosom and deep into the rift between them.

I set the candle down, letting the hot liquid cool and harden. Slowly she calmed, feeling the hot warmth flow through her body, no longer burning its way deep inside. I returned to my bag and removed the small thermos.
The contents had melted slightly, becoming the pure life giving substance. I reached in and deftly took one of the large cubes, drawing it out of the water. Her eyes still remained closed and I used one fingernail to pick the protective covering of wax from the brown stub of her nipple.

She felt the pull, but ignored it, and I took the opportunity to place the ice directly upon the exposed nub. She cried out, but quickly stifled it, and writhed in the tight bonds I had placed her in. I held the ice in place as I quickly peeled away more of the wax. Rivulets of ice water flowed down her hot breast, following the cool flow of wax down to her abdomen.

I placed the cold on her other breast, freezing the exposed nipple in a chilling bite of cruelty. I watched in pleasure as she struggled, pulling and twisting against the ropes, trying desperately to dislodge the hand which tortured her. Soon I relented and I moved the ice away from her skin. Feeling the cold in my fingers, I felt the melting water drop from my hand and fall onto her skin. I positioned my hand directly above her glistening sex and watched as the first drop fell, searing her tender petals.

Her hips thrust outward and she cried out, this time allowing the full throat of her wail to darken the fading light. More drops fell and I watched her muscles tense and pull, straining to close herself. The water droplets continued to fall, sliding down the lips of her flower, mingling with her own juices.

I tossed the cube away. Her open legs were beautiful, white creamy thighs leading downward to the pink petals. I pushed forward, dipping my head lower until the scent of her pushed at me. I extended my tongue and tasted the edge of her sex, feeling the cold water and hot juice of desire. I slid my tongue along the ridges, licking her soft moist skin and she pushed upward into me. My tongue found the round hole at the base of her sex and I dipped it in, licking the walls of her passage, loving her with my tongue. I moved back upwards and found her clitoris, sucking it in to my mouth, drawing it out of its hood. The dying sun cast its last breath on her skin as I tasted her spice.

She moaned loudly, twisting upward as I suckled her. I felt her pleasure coursing through her body like wild lightning and I pulled backward and up, disappointing her. I knew her needs, but the night was still young, and God had not yet seen true suffering.

I removed the candle wax from her skin. It came loose easily, as if the only true merging had come when the paraffin was hot and heavy. Then the skin and liquid fire melded as one. I cast the melts away from her, like the tossing of coins for charity. I leaned down and took the tender nipple of her breast into my mouth and licked at it. She jumped and then arched her back, pushing her breast up into me. I felt her need to be taken, to be eaten and consumed. Yet I was not ready.

I reached again into my bag of tricks, knowing exactly what was to come next in this choreographed theater. The two small balls, linked by a chain, glistened in the soft light of the candles. I moved to her parted legs and wet slit. With gentle fingers, I split the lips of her flower, spreading the skin outward. I wetted the first balls with her own juices, spreading the slick sex over its plastic face. I positioned it delicately, directly at her opening and pushed, sending it down. The second ball was easier to prepare, and I quickly pressed the small pressure switch on the side as I plunged it in to her body.

Immediately, she tensed as both balls began vibrating, rolling and shaking around in the moist warm heart of her pleasure. Her loins involuntarily spasmed, and I watched in amusement as she pushed and pulled, trying in some unfathomable way to satisfy her need.

But I knew that it would be fruitless. The balls would only tantalize, stimulate and torture, until the very sides of her well were sore from the sensations. I knew I could leave her like this, tied for the night, and find her catatonic in distress the next morning, all without a sliver of pain.

But that was not my plan, and while it would have been exciting, in a cruel way, to watch as the toys worked her body; I knew that my needs would come first. I returned to my bag, drawing out the long leather whip, and I gazed at my victim.

I began with her breasts using long, strong, slow strikes, always targeting the tenderest spots. The end of the whip was wide, over two inches, and the repeated strikes began to turn her light tinged skin a deep shade of crimson. It took more blows than I had expected to change her skin color, and her voice echoed through the chamber as the combined forces of balls and whip took her over the edge of pleasure and pain, to the sublime place were the lines between blurred and faded.

Her breasts were hot to the touch, the skin dry and sensitive. I dropped the whip and removed the small bottle of oil. It was simple baby oil, a common substance which I poured out over her body. I cupped her breasts, feeling the heat, and then I began to massage the oil into her body. Her breasts glistened in the candlelight, and then her abdomen. I caressed her thighs and her calves, even anointing the tops of her feet through the sandal straps.
I moved back upward, drawing the excess oil to her collared neck. I rubbed the liquid into her skin and then up over her arms. With my fingers, I lingered over her forehead, cheeks, nose, and lips.

When I was done, her body glowed with a thousand jewels of light. Rivers of luminescence streaked across her skin, sparkling. I could still see the painted designs, but they had faded in the brightness, and I saw my sacrifice as unworldly, perhaps touched.

Her body still heaved with the pleasure streaking up between her legs and I moved onward in my plan. I picked up the whip again and proceeded to strike her breasts, striking one and then the other in an unholy symmetry. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, mingling with the oil, and I moved downward to her thighs, taking special care to strike low, staying away from her tender sex.

I finished punishing her thighs, and I put the large whip away, picking up the light thong cat of nine tails I had purchased for this night. I moved around to the side of the altar, positioning myself between her outstretched legs. I raised the whip high and brought it down directly on the exposed opening of her sex.

Her sharp cry split the air and her bottom leapt off the cloak, straining upward. I quickly lashed her again, sending the stinging straps against the moist wet lips of her sex. Her scream ricocheted across the sacristy, raising goose bumps on my skin. I struck her again, this time make sure that the straps dug down, parting the slit and sending their small spark of pain deep into her body. Her voice cried out, tearing into the air her desire and pain.

But she did not ask for mercy. No words escaped her mouth.

She knew, as did I, that there would be no mercy on this night. No safe words. No moment of peace. She knew, as did I, that tonight she was a sacrificial lamb, led to the slaughter.

The whip smacked into her with a wet slap, striking against the saturated petals of her flower. I watched as the juices of her sex dripped from her body, soaking the cloak beneath her legs. I imagined that I could see the minute vibrations of the balls inside her, tickling and tingling her flesh into waves of pleasure.

It was a sight to behold.

I dropped the whip and picked up the thermos. I reached in and picked up another ice cube. I held it over her mouth, letting the cold water fall on her lips. Her pink tongue rose, licking the water, drinking the small droplets. She held out her tongue and I let the drops fall directly on to it, sating her thirst. When she closed her mouth, I moved the ice downward and placed it against her lips. She shivered, and then tensed as I slid the ice down her throat, over her collar, and to her breasts. The ice traced a cold path in the oil as it passed up the slope of her breast and then over her nipple, and I watched in satisfaction as the small brown bump rose sharply. I moved to her other breast, cooling its heat with the frozen water, and taking delight in the texture of her tightened areola.
It was time to move on with my strange tableau, and I dropped the melting ice onto her belly. She cried out as she realized that I was leaving it there and she began to thrash against her bonds.

“Don’t.” I commanded her. “Or I’ll plunge that little piece of ice right into your hot little hole.” I said.

She whimpered and tried to hold still, but couldn’t command enough self will power to obey. In a flash I picked up the ice as it began sliding down the side of her belly and pushed it right into the hot moist place I had whipped only moments before.

Her entire body rose up, pulling against the ropes, and she cried out again. I dipped my fingers into her sex, feeling the magical mix of cold water and hot juice before my fingers touched the shuddering vibration of the balls. Her cries became hot with desire and I knew that she was close to orgasming. Yet I was unready. There was still more to come.

I took hold of the closest ball and drew it out of her. The second ball, still attached by the chain to the first, followed quickly, falling out and over her clitoris. She moaned loudly, desperately, as if a disastrous calamity had befallen her. I laid my hand on her soft down of hair and felt her body shudder, over and over, as it dealt with the forced removal of the stimulus. I smiled.

I glanced at my watch. Over two hours had passed and I had subjected her to unspeakable torments. She was at the stage where her desire had mixed with pain and I could begin the real torture. I moved to my bag and removed the butt plug from its depths. Lacking any lubricant, I rolled it through the sodden lips of her flower, making its rubber body slick.

I moved it under her, and she lifted her bottom off the cloak to allow me to push it into her bottom. Slowly, it moved deeper, finally settling deep into the small orifice. I pushed the switch and the slight hum of the vibrator began.

Next I grabbed a tube of lubricant, a special jelly meant for sex. It had special nutrients to calm the sensitive sides of a woman’s sex, and I knew that she would need it. I had left the vibroballs between her legs, and I took hold of the small strip of duct tape needed for her next torture.

I disconnected one of the balls, leaving a single vibrating menace. I then took the bottle of jelly and inserted the nozzle like end deep into her hole. She shook as she felt the rough plastic insert dig through her body, but I watched in satisfaction as she moaned when I began squirting the contents of the tube into her. Slowly, ever so slowly, I pressed against the sides of the tube, sending more and more of the special cream deep into my victim’s body. It was a large tube, and by the time it was empty, I realized that there was not a sliver of room left.

I moved the tube away and watched as some of the jelly began to leak out. I quickly pinched the lips of her flower shut as I scrambled for the vibroball. Finding it, I jammed it in, splurting and squirting the jelly outward. I was prepared for this though, and I cleaned the excess gel away, clearing her skin.

The strip of duct tape came next, and I applied it directly over her female opening, closing the sides of her flower shut. She was moaning continuously now. I moved around the altar and reached toward my bag, but drying my hands on the sides of her cloak in the process.

In the bag I removed a small black box and several wires. I placed the items on the altar, near her breasts and retrieved a small razor from the bag. Enough gel and cream still lay near her groin, and I carefully trimmed the small triangle of hair from her pubic mound. That small bump of fat, with all its nerves and sensitive sensors, would soon be the site of even more sensation. I hummed with excitement and carefully unwound the small black wires.
Each wire ended in a bare metal strip. With careful deliberation, I placed the slip of the first wire directly on to her pubic mound, running the end directly down to the top of her slit which was covered in gel. I knew that the water based jelly would conduct electricity. Two other wires were placed on her breasts and my black electrical tape secured them, though albeit with difficulty due to the oil.

She was still moaning when I turned the dial of the small control box near her breast and I saw her body jerk as the current, at its lowest setting, coursed into her breasts and groin. I watched as her nipples rose against the tape and wire, higher than even the ice had brought them. Her hips began moving, thrusting up and then down in a strange dance. I smiled as the electricity played her like a violin.

I stepped back from my work, stretching and moving. My eyes roamed around the chamber, looking for something, yet not knowing what. I glanced at my watch. I walked away from the altar to exercise my legs. I moved around in the dim light, seeing my shadow fall on the stone and listening to the small helpless cries of a girl in distress. I circled the whole church, relishing the sound of her moans echoing through the corners. Finally I approached the altar again.

The control box had five settings, each one more strenuous than the previous. The first level was a small current, stimulating, yet tantalizing. The second level was more robust, sending even the heartiest woman into shuddering delight. Yet neither first nor second levels could bring a woman to orgasm. The third level, if left on long enough could cause a woman to come. However, if used as a catalyst for the fourth level, the controller could cause a buildup that could only be satisfied by the pain/pleasure of level five.

I turned the current off, watching as she slowly relaxed. Her rapid breathing slowed and became steady. Then I swiftly turned the dial to level two. The effect was electrifying. Her body went ridged and she cried out loudly. I saw the muscles of her thighs and arms rippling as her body dealt with the sudden jolt. Her mouth clenched, cutting the small scream into a squeal and her body shivered uncontrollably.

I stepped backward, watching with intensity as my victim’s body was subjected to torture. I smiled at the thought of the word, doubting that even the Inquisition had tormented heretics like this. Her body rose up and down, pulling against the bonds holding her to the altar, and I quickly checked the knots to make sure they held.
I turned the knob to level three and her mouth widened and her vocal cords let loose a true scream. Yet I could tell that this was not a scream of pain, but one of unfulfilled desire, demanding satisfaction yet finding only increased torment. I quivered in the realization of what my sacrifice was experiencing, and I felt my excitement rise.

I again looked at my watch and saw that most of the night had passed us. Quickly I moved to the dial and turned it to level four. The tonality of my victim’s scream changed, and I knew she was feeling the first sparks of pain. The pain mixed with the pleasure however, and I knew her mind had passed the point of distinguishing the two. Her body thumped against the altar, her fingers clenched into fists and then slamming outward.

I looked up and saw the glow of the morning sun begin to lighten the stained glass windows. I watched, waiting patiently as the sound of her cries echoed the brightening chamber. Slowly, I saw the red orb of the rising sun pierce the tree line and the first rays struck the glass windows, sending the room into a chorus of red hues. I raced to the altar and turned the dial to five.

She threw her head back and released a soundless scream into the sun’s light. Her body arched upward and stayed there. I watched her eyelids flutter, and then she gasped loudly. Her body clenched and I jumped in surprise as the vibroball exploded out of her body with a wet and solid thunk, shoving the tape aside. A spasm of shudders erupted through her limbs and I watched as she pulsed, taken through the multiple orgasms like a drummer doing a roll.

Finally she collapsed, and I turned off the electricity. Her eyes were closed and she lay still on the sable cloak. I walked around her, seeing her breaths slow and steady, her heart beat thickening. Between her legs, the mass of gel I had squirted into her was oozing out like a turgid river.

I realized that she was asleep. Overtaxed and abused, her body had shut down to repair itself, and reenergize. I untied her wrists and ankles, rubbing an emollient cream into her chapped wrists. She remained asleep as I moved her arms and legs, bending them and massaging them.

I repacked my supplies in the bag. I felt tired, and yet strangely sated. I looked about the chapel, trying to sense a change, but the only change I felt was the one inside me. I felt at peace, sensitive to the world, and I laid a gentle hand on my love’s forehead.

“Thank you, my lady.” I whispered to her.

I watched as her eyelids fluttered open slightly and she murmured something back to me. I kissed her on the cheek and then picked her up, leaving the sodden cloak on the altar. Her slick body was beautiful in the morning sun, streaming through the windows and I carried her across the floor of the chapel to the door.

With my foot I unlatched the bolt and pushed the door open with my back. I carried her out into the morning forest while birds sang and the pure white sunlight shimmered on her skin. I carried her naked down the trail, away from the chapel in the woods. I had finished my sacrifice, and found what I wanted.

 

The End

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