“What the fuck is that?” he croaks, more blood dripping down his chin.
“Boys,” I order, ignoring his question as two of our loyal Tailors come forward from the shadows to unstrap our spy from the gurney. He tries to fight, but the hours that he’s already spent in our care have left him weak and missing a lot of blood. They quickly overwhelm him, binding his wrists behind his back and attaching them to another pulley hanging from the ceiling.
They hold him still while I clamp the hoop around his waist, locking it with a padlock that makes a satisfying snick. I can see the fine tremble in his limbs as he wonders what’s going to happen next, and my heart pounds as the phantom sounds of the Cradle’s previous victims fill my ears.
I walk back over to the pulley that attaches to his waist hoop, and sharply tug, hoisting him up into the air. He shouts, and even Aeron cracks a small smile at his fear permeating the room.
Our guys help to get him into position, legs either side of the pyramid, the tip pressing into his asshole. I always strip our victims before starting, which saves time later on and means I don’t have to pause whilst torturing them. Preparation is key after all. They secure the metal cuffs around his ankles; the boys taking the ropes coming off each and tugging slightly.
“What the fuck is this?!” he screams as they pull him down by his ankles just enough so that the metal penetrates his anal sphincter.
“Have you ever heard of the saying ‘rip him a new one’?” I ask him conversationally, and his eyes go wide at the sound of my voice. It’s the first time I’ve spoken, and if my reputation has preceded me, he knows that to hear my voice is akin to signing his death warrant.
He shakes as the meaning of what I’m saying becomes all too clear.
“Now, you can still avoid having your asshole widened further. So perhaps you’ll answer our questions?” Aeron interjects, and my smile widens when I watch our little pig’s face grow hard.
“Go to Hell!” he howls, and I can’t help the crazed laugh that tumbles from my lips. I fucking love it when they refuse.
“Time for a brief history lesson,” I tell him, tying off the rope that attaches to the hoop around his waist so that there’s enough slack for us to lower him as much as we like. “Back in the sixteenth century, the Spanish Inquisition invented some of—in my opinion—the best methods of torture the world has ever seen.” I walk towards him, stroking my hand down the smooth wood when I reach the Cradle. “The Judas Cradle was one such invention, and the beauty of it is that we can have you on here for hours, days even. Widening you bit by bit until you’re ripped apart from the asshole up.”
The dripping sound and sharp ammonia scent lets me know that he’s pissed himself, and I tear my hand away just before any touches me. My nose wrinkles as I stalk away to stand next to Aeron. I give our guys a nod, and they tug hard, impaling him further as the point slips inside of his back passage easily. I did him a favor and oiled it up earlier.
His scream is like music to my ears, and my dick twitches in my pants when I hear a feminine echo, imagining our pretty bird impaled on my hardness. Maybe even Jude’s alongside mine, stretching her and stuffing her with our cocks.
“I’ll talk! Please! I’ll tell you anything!”
The shout has me blinking away my fantasy, and I focus to see blood now dripping down my beautiful Cradle. He’s sweating, shaking, and sobbing like a baby. I walk over to the pulley, pulling him up so that he’s no longer impaled by the pyramid. A wounded noise leaves his lips as he dangles there.
Aeron walks up to him, looking up at the blubbering mess of a human.
“Where is the Soldiers’ HQ?”
“I–I don’t know,” the man stutters, snot running down his face to mix with the blood from his mouth. “They don’t tell you until you make Corporal.”
Aeron growls at that.
“Then what fucking use are you to me?” he snarls, glancing over to me and giving a nod before turning his back. I pull the rope, making our piggy squeal.
“W–wait!” he shouts, and I pause. “They sent me to find out where you’re keeping her!”
Aeron and I both freeze at this, Aeron slowly turning around.
“Who?”
“The S–Soldier’s Darling! The Bossman wants her back. She’s how he keeps the others in line, and things are getting messy now she’s been gone so long.”
My blood boils at his words, at the implied meaning, and my knuckles whiten with how hard I’m clenching my fist around the rope.
“What do you mean, ‘keeps the others in line’?” Aeron asks, his voice deadly and cutting. He has that stillness again, like asnake about to strike. Like me, he needs to have his suspicions confirmed.
“W–when they’ve done a good job, a–as a reward, they get a night with The Darling. To do whatever they like,” the dead man stutters, eyes flicking from Aeron’s face to my own. He’ll find no comfort from either of us.
“Who gets her?” I ask, and his head whips over to me. I barely recognise my voice, it’s full of a darkness that rarely gets to see the light of day.
“A–as s–soon as you g–graduate to Corporal. I–it’s part of the celebrations. A–all the Corporals that graduate that night get a go.” His words stutter out more as the blackness of rage descends upon me. The Dead Soldiers are not a small gang and they’re constantly gaining new members with the lure of drugs, easy money, and presumably free pussy. Our bird’s unwilling pussy it seems.
With a calmness that belies the ire swirling in Aeron’s eyes, he walks over to my table of tools, placing his hands on the surface. His chest heaves once, twice, and on the third time, he lifts the whole thing and throws it against the wall. Metal tools and instruments go flying, the noise loud and echoing in the vast space.
