My Sadist King

My clothes weren’t finished washing by the time I had fallen asleep that night. The next morning, I awoke naked on the basement floor--chained up as I had been for the past few days. Eventually, that day, my clothes were brought back to me. A fresh scent lingered on the fabric and I was finally at ease.

After that day had ended, I lost track of time until my king was generous enough to bring me food twice a day. Once, in the early morning, and the other, in the early evening. It was the same meal every time--a bowl of soup and a short glass of water.

Every morning, the first thing I thought of was my king’s face when I had asked him, yet again, not to put me back down in the basement. He wasn’t as harsh the second time around. He thought about it, but it was still the same answer. The only thing that soothed me before I slept was the look of remorse on his face before he left me down there again. I knew that he had thought I hadn’t seen that remorse, but I took in every bit of it.

The evenings grew harder to sleep through as the week ended. Ever since that night between us, I’d been dreaming of him every second I closed my eyes. It was the same dream--pieces being added on every night. The first night, it was a simple dream of him looking at me with those cold, blue eyes. As the nights went on, the dream became a conversation and eventually a reminiscence of our intimate night together.

My body always trembled madly as I awoke. At the end of the week, the dream was complete. It ended with a pool of blood with us standing in the middle of it, covered in the contents. Our hands were intertwined, like I had wanted them to be the other night. But in the dream, it took flesh and blood to initiate our bond.

Gooseflesh remained along my skin as I waited for him to come home that day. The lack of footsteps on the floorboards above told me that he was gone. I was hoping that he would be much more talkative that time around, given that he was almost completely silent every time he saw me.

The only things he spoke to me about were his methods. What he liked to do with people and what he did with them after he got his fill. These conversations would only last a couple of minutes before he abandoned me again, leaving me in chains.

But it was different when he came home. I heard the front door open and he came barging into the basement only seconds later with a huge, black bag slung over his shoulder. It was a body. Dirty sneakers poked out of the end of the bag, dangling with every step my king took down the stairs. A sloshing noise emanated from the deep end of the bag, as if something wet were inside. He passed by me and walked straight into the sealed off room, dropping the body carelessly onto the cement. Blood poured out from the open end, spilling around the victim’s sneakers.

“This one’s a keeper,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I finally dumped out the other girl’s body--the one you helped me kill.” He stepped into my half of the room. “She was an innocent, but this one… he’s pissed me off for the last fucking time.”

“He bullied you?” I asked.

My king lit up a cigarette and shook his head. “You bet he did.” Smoke filed out of his parted lips. “It felt so good to break his bones and finally slice his throat open.” His eyes transitioned into windows to his thoughts. He was proud, blissful, and turned on at the same time. I looked below his waistline and fought the smirk that urged at me.

He picked at the collar of his charcoal gray t-shirt and let out a deep breath. He walked over to me and kneeled in front of me, unlocking the shackles. “We’d better get started.”

My urging smile suddenly vanished and the freezing temperature became the least of my concerns. He unlocked the shackles, grabbed my wrist and pulled me through the cloud of smoke and into his sanctuary. I stood at the door, defenseless like a stray animal in the middle of a highway.

He lowered himself into a squat and ripped the plastic bag away from the body of a man in his thirties. His navy blue tracksuit was in rags--huge chunks of the fabric missing. My king removed his shirt and tossed it over his shoulder, tearing some of the bloody clothes away from the body.

I cleared my throat.

"What do you want me to do?"

He sucked onto his cigarette and let out another smoky breath. "I want you to sit there and watch..."

"What if I don't--"

"You'll do as I say," he interrupted. His glare into my eyes gripped me like a noose and I wouldn't dare try to free myself. I lowered myself to the concrete floor, gripping my knees to my chest, and hid my face with my hair.

The man's body was completely lifeless, face down on the ground--bruises and cuts all over the skin. A pool of blood surrounded him, but it wasn't enough blood to satisfy my king. My king liked consolidating things so they would fit in the freezer. He loved seeing the life float away from frightened strangers' eyes before he sliced another piece of their flesh off.

"No, no, no," my king said, squatting beside me and pushing my hair out of my face. The hot blood on his hand spread along my forehead and soaked into my hair. He smirked as I whimpered in fear and shoved his lips to mine, the vile taste of tobacco entering my mouth. "I want you to have a good view of it, okay?" he said, standing up and squeezing the handle of the axe in his hand.

Above all, my king loved to make me watch.

Making me watch was what got him off the most. It had been a while since the last time he had forced me to be present. The last time was with the girl with coral-colored hair. The innocent one, as he called her. My heart ached as I thought of her in her last moments. She cursed us before her life was taken from her. She was afraid but she still fought.

“Hmm, where should I start?” he said. “I always have trouble deciding which limb to sever first.” He held the point of the axe at the back of the man’s knee. “There’s the calves…” he whispered. He moved it up to the shoulder. “Or the entire arm.”

“Either way,” he said, inhaling more of his cigarette. “It’s always just as satisfying…” He held the cigarette between his lips and raised the axe above his head. “To cut the pieces one by one.”

My heart nearly detonated when the axe slammed down onto the man’s shoulder and clattered noisily with the floor. The arm was severed completely and with one swing of my king’s arms. Part of myself begged for me to shut my eyes as my king continued to cut that man into over a dozen pieces.

But I wasn’t listening to that part of me.

My eyes won the battle.

Before I could blink again, my king was finished with his job. Spatters of blood covered his chest and face, matching the patterns across my skin. The room reeked of that metallic, sour smell of blood and the sudden silence was alarming.

“Fuck, that felt good,” he said, tapping his cigarette between his fingers. A long stream of ash fell from it, swimming in the pool of blood below and bloating up into a clump of red. From what I could see, my king was even more aroused than he had been before. Despite an unusual urge within me that yearned to touch him, I remained glued to the floor.

Like I had constantly found myself doing, I let my eyes wander all over his abdomen and watched drops of blood slither between the crevices of the muscles. A single drop tantalized me when it reached the top edge of his pants.

I couldn’t fight the thoughts that kept running through my head. I had never been aware of how strange I really was. A normal person would have let such an event traumatize them and even make them sick to their stomach. But I just sat there. I sat there and longed to be intimate with my murderous king.

“Get over here,” my king called.

I looked up, completely stunned and suddenly belittled. He was standing there with the axe’s handle still in his hand, the blade grazing the floor beneath his boots. I was too caught up in my dreamy state to believe that he was going to grant my wish and feared that he wanted to kill me.

I rose to my feet anyway and stepped around the pool of blood. When I had reached my king, he turned the axe on its sharp point and suddenly tossed it away from him. The tool landed with a loud clang and sent a tremor through the floor. “Did you get a good view?” he asked.

I nodded and gulped audibly. He grinned and placed his hand behind my neck, underneath my perspiring hair. He took a moment to look at me, examining the dark rings under my eyes and the droplets of blood all over my face. “You have just as much blood on you as I have on me,” he whispered. He smeared the collected blood along my chin and stared at his fingertip. “Which means you kept your eyes peeled.”

He brought the blood-soaked finger to his lips and tasted it, sending my yearning heart through the roof. “The sickest people always have the best tasting blood,” he said. “I can imagine what yours would taste like.”

His mouth collided with my neck, sucking off the stranger’s blood and then breaching the skin even harder than the other night. I nearly screamed as I cried out, letting his grip around my torso tighten until I was unable to move. My hand clutched the back of his hair and ripped a few strands out.

He lifted me up onto the autopsy table--where the innocent woman had been killed--and began to suck blood out of me as his hands gripped my thighs. It was so painful, yet I was so submissive to it. The feeling of the blood spilling slowly out of me in tiny groups levitated me into a blissful cloud. His lack of fictional vampire fangs made the experience more painful but I enjoyed every second of it.

I reached down and undid the buckle of his belt, unzipping his jeans a second later. He followed suit and ripped my pants away from my legs.

For a while, we were pressed together with that body beneath us, just a couple of feet away. Someone was probably out there, looking for this unnamed man--this apparent bully. And he was in our presence, in a hundred pieces, while we fed off each other’s psychopathic arousal.