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Carnal Catharsis	By : PandaBearzh Category: +A through F > DRAMAtical Murder Views: 1254 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own DMMD or make any money off of this work.

Chapter List
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The texture which had felt so delicately smooth at first brush possessed a sort of magic that bit rings of raw tenderness into his wrists. He never noticed when it happened, but after the struggle, the buckle, and the thrash had ended, the leather cuffs chafed the thin wrist joint to inflammation, and he knew that his skin would wear these bracelets of pain for a duration after he would be released—if he would be released. His mind wasn’t there. It wasn’t on the tears that stained his blindfold, or the kind tickle of his golden locks against the dark wall. It was on the grounding flavor of the wooden bar that his lips kissed on the St. Andrew’s Cross, the heat of his breath as it bounced back to his collarbone, and the shrill way that his whimpers seemed to echo directly back into the pits of his ears.
The air rang with a thin wisp in the likeness of bristling leaves, and ended with a lightening clap. Theo gasped, immediately thereafter releasing the wounded plea which chased it. His rear cheeks were already sensitive. They were blemished, he could tell by the sting, and although each impact hit him subtly, the bubbling and electrifying pain that bloomed from the spot conjured a sharp impulse of his hips to jerk away from the object and grind his genitals into the crevice where the cross boards were nailed. There wasn’t any escape for him here. His wrists were spread far and apart above his head on the cross, and his feet balanced on their front pads, slipping and sliding around on the cooled hot wax that had previously dribbled over it them with each fully body writhe. Although the caning was directed against his rear, the position he held implied so much strain on his calves that those muscles felt as stiff as stainless steel, and ached as if it was shriveling beneath the flesh. Despite the cold air that filled the room, his entire body burned, from inside out, and though he knew how to make it all end with that single word, he refused, and called out others in its place.
“Eight,” he managed through staggered breaths. Immediately he was struck again.
“Speak up! No point if I can’t hear you. German. Let’s go!”
“Nei—!”
“Backwards.” Crack! Again the pain bled through his nerves, creeping up through his lower back and extending down into his thighs like roots seeking soil.
“Ach—”
“Faster.” Crack! He couldn’t imagine what he looked like in this red candle light. He couldn’t imagine anything. His eyes blinded, there was nothing to focus on but the pain and the challenge of the count.
“Siebe—” Crack! Slowly, but surely, a change was beginning to take place in him. Some might have defined it as a nirvana, but the state was certainly other than the one which he operated in. “Ghh—“ he protested, mouth slackening amidst the new experience of his body’s natural reaction to intense and prolonged delivery of hurt. The world diluted itself, and his skin prickled as his mind began to sink into the depths of the serotonin, enabling him to nearly miss Hersha’s next demand.
“English.” Theo’s eyes fluttered behind the mask. Did he say English? Sure, he did know English, but he wasn’t very good at it, and it had been a while. This game—the one where he had to count the strokes backwards and forward seemed incessant. The German hadn’t been so bad to start with, but his host had already upped the ante by introducing Japanese into it, and he would never forget the way his frustrated heart had sunken when his numbers had twice reversed. There was no way to know when Hersha would have his fill with it, and Theo had a gut feeling that this wasn’t the only game he would be playing tonight. Ah, wait – what was he doing again? His tormentor wasn’t easily pleased, and true to his judgement, his train of thought was interrupted by a slap of the cane in an area temptingly more intimate. His body shook against the cross, and he felt his wrists jerk in their holds once again. “Now, boy!” Oh, English. What was his number? How did he say it? He nearly slurred it as he fought against the chemical high, but managed to select his vocabulary.
“Fi—Augh!” A strong hold had jerked the roots of his hair backward. The chain at his neck snapped taught as his body was made to bend, but the terrifying notion that clasped him so thoroughly was how he would balance upon his toes. Earlier, an hour or so before the start of this game, Hersha had informed him that if he caught his heels touching the ground without explicit direction to do so, that they would lose their ability to support him for the several days that followed. They pandered, sweeping and tilting, easing dangerously close to actually touching the floor, though the blond would never know how close they had actually come.
“Wrong.” The cold voice chilled him as thoroughly as if liquid nitrogen had been injected into his veins. He swallowed and exhaled with trepidation, awaiting the punishment that would be swiftly delivered as all of the others had been. Instead, a single order followed the brief silence; “Plead asylum.”
His mouth ran dry. He couldn’t give in. His shoulders trembled, and his throat grew tighter the longer that Hersha gingerly held him in this way, expectantly waiting in unforgiving silence. He could feel the coarseness of his hand against is over-sensitized skin, and the demand of the clutch of his fingers hold steady at his roots while he patiently waited for the word to pour. It was not in the overwhelming pain, but in the exhibition of this peculiar empathy, this unique kind of consideration, this bittersweet offering of salvation; that the protective shell of Theo’s heart ruptured, and memories of his brother bled down his cheeks in a heated ocean froth of tears.
That the choice belonged to him to yield to the demand was illusionary. He had been yielding all night to the pain. He’d bowed to the torrent that Hersha had unleashed on him, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what Hersha wanted from him. It wasn’t what he wanted for himself. Hersha was testing him, wasn’t he? He was his judge, but whatever punishment he bestowed, Theo didn’t consider it adequate in comparison to his crimes.
It was his brother; it was always his brother. His brother, Wilhelm. He would sell his soul to Hell itself for his brother’s happiness, and he would do it a thousand times if he only had the opportunity to do so, especially for the hand that he had played in the way that fate had orchestrated their futures.
“I…. wont….” Heavy heaving gasps broke through his teeth, and he gradually realized that something was changing in Hersha as well. He was waiting, still. What was he feeling? What was he thinking right now? His hands held his body steady until a hard rod grazed his upper arm and in a moment, the blindfold was removed.
Immediately the red candlelight of the dungeon embraced him, and he realized, by looking at the sinister reflection of his broken form in Hersha’s eyes, that it appeared that rivers of blood flowed over his cheeks, down his chest, and god only knew what the rest of his skin looked like. Hersha looked grumpy. His lips were taught into a strained curl, and even at the angle that Theo’s head was jerked at, he could recognize the tenseness in his host’s jaw.
“Please,” the foreigner begged, his lids closing upon one another and lashes blotting some of his emotions from his eyes. “Don’t stop.” Hersha received the information without indication, though after a moment did allow a smirk to peel over his tense countenance.
“You pious bitch,” he provoked, releasing his grip and bending the cane between his fingertips. “All of this just to free your brother’s boyfriend. What about you? I can see how badly you want to say it. Just…” the cane began to trace the inner parts of his legs gingerly, “Just say it. It’s only one word. I’ll do it for you if you want.” Theo’s head slapped the wall, lips once again gluing against the flat, moist bar to which he had whispered his secrets. “Ah.” Hersha was continuing his taunt, though surprised Theo with a slender slip of his hand against his lower abdomen. It drew the syllables out as he spoke them: “Sa-I-Li-Mu?” Still, the boy said nothing, but hung his head against the cross. “No? Still no? All right. Don’t say it. Don’t say a thing.”
A cruel twist of the root of his hair dropped his jaw wide enough for a spherical object to be pressed into it, the likes of which was thereafter secured tightly behind Theo’s head. A gag. It sat between his teeth and pinned his tongue behind it, which didn’t so much as prevent the noises from procuring from the throat as much as it prevented him from saying anything discernible. Hersha’s voice rumbled luxuriously over his shoulder; “I’ve made you scream. But, you’ve since lost your privilege to do so with that little language fuck up back then.” Theo hung his head and felt his nails scrape around his palms. He was ready for this. Whatever it would be, he would endure it. Where would the pain meet him? His rear? His thighs? His back? Wherever it would be, he was determined. He would endure it as he had endured its predecessor, and he would embrace the pain in a way that his brother was unable to.
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To be continued in Part 2
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Carnal Catharsis