InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Ruin ( Chapter 12 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Standing on the balcony as the sun sank on the horizon, Caipora frowned, arms crossed over his chest as he breathed in deeply, slowly, trying to figure out just why he felt as though something . . .

‘Something’s coming . . .’

It was that sense of something, lurking just out of view.  It was the same sense that he’d felt before at different times.  He’d learned to trust that feeling.  Time and again, it had proven to be true.  The trouble was that he never really knew what the warning entailed . . .

Despite that, he lingered, letting his gaze roam over the horizon: a horizon that looked so very peaceful, so normal.  It was deceptive, wasn’t it?  The sky would look the same, regardless of the good or ill that took place under its blanket, and the irony of that was not lost on him.

Letting out a deep breath, he started to turn, to go back inside.  The evening air was picking up a bit of a chill—not entirely surprising at this time of year—but the sound of the doors over to the side and around the outcropping in the rear of the mansion drew his attention.  From his vantage point, he couldn’t see anything, but he could easily hear the shrill sounds of crying—the scent of fresh blood that assailed him a moment later.  His eyes widened as instant understanding kicked in.  ‘435578 . . .’

The pounding on the antechamber door made his head snap to the side.  In the bedroom, Five scurried around the divider from the bathroom where she’d been prepping his bath.  She started to reach for the inner door handle.  “Stop,” he told her as he slipped inside, closed the balcony door.  He wasn’t entirely sure why he felt such a sense of urgency, but he did, and he didn’t ignore it.  “You can use my bath—play for a while, if you want,” he said.  “And then, go to bed—straight to bed . . . and don’t open the balcony doors.”

“But—”

Frowning as he knelt down, he grasped her spindly arms, scowled fiercely into her face.  That strange sense that something just wasn’t right was spiraling higher, and, given what he already knew . . . He had to make her understand.  “Five, you have to listen to me.  Take your bath, and straight to bed.  Got that?”

She nodded slowly, but seemed confused by the brusque and flat tone of his voice, but she didn’t argue with him as her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the room.  “Yes, Master,” she said.

He sighed, pushing himself to his feet once more.  Sparing a moment to cast her a little smile that he was far from feeling, he ruffled her hair and stepped past her, into the antechamber to answer the incessant pounding.

“Domajin wants you to report to the portico,” the enforcer known as Kato said, stepping back to allow Caipora to pass.

Caipora said nothing, pulling the door closed before falling into step behind him.  With every step he took, that sense of trepidation grew until it loomed, large and menacing, unseen yet entirely palpable.  Just as he’d thought, that fell wind . . . This was what it was warning him about, wasn’t it?  But . . .

Kato said nothing as the two of them made their way down the stairs and through the great room.  Through the bank of windows and the panes of the glass doors, he saw the blazing torches that lined the portico.  The flames bent and swayed in the wind kicking off the water, and in that flickering light, he saw the rack with a beaten and bloodied 435578 hanging from it.  Her sobs hit him, full in the face as he stepped out of the mansion, but it was the second rack—this one empty—that made him narrow his gaze.  If that demented old bastard though that Caipora was going back up there without a fight, then he was sadly mistaken . . .

But Domajin broke into a malignant little grin that added a hard glint to his eyes.  He started to open his mouth to speak, but the opening of the door again cut him off as Pablo strode outside with 984152 in tow.  984152—the one who had brought him a drink of water while he was trussed up on The Rack in the great room . . . “Kato, fetch the Toy Box,” he commanded instead.  The enforcer nodded, but remained silent as he pivoted on his heel and headed back inside.

“What’s going on?  What are you doing?” Caipora asked, forgetting for the moment that he really ought to try to not sound so contentious when speaking to the overmaster.

Domajin chuckled, closing the distance between them, laying a hand on his cheek like a lover.  “Caipora, put her on The Rack,” he commanded.

Caipora knocked Domajin’s hand away.  He didn’t know what Domajin was apparently set to punish 984152 for, but he wasn’t sure he ought to ruin the overmaster’s strangely happy mood, either.   He frowned at the overmaster for a few moments before striding over, grasping 984152’s arm to pull her over to the second rack.  She stood, allowed him to fasten the shackles around her wrists, as he stuck his foot between hers to kick them apart.  When he was done, he turned to scowl at Domajin.

“Whip her, Caipora,” he commanded.

“What did she do?” he asked, stepping behind her, tugging his whip free.  The severity of her transgression would dictate the number of lashes she’d be dealt . . .

The overmaster’s chuckle was downright nasty.  “It has come to my attention that she has a bad habit of acting of her own accord,” he replied easily.  “But you know all about that, don’t you, my pet?”

Caipora managed to keep his expression blanked despite the rush of surprise that he felt inside.  Somehow, he ought to have realized that Domajin would find out about that simple drink of water.  The place was rigged with cameras, he knew.  He also knew roughly where all of them were located.  There were at least three of them in the great room.  That Domajin knew about the slave’s reckless action wasn’t really as amazing as the idea that he’d waited this long to punish her for it was . . . Unless . . . ‘Unless he was waiting till I healed . . . Petty bastard . . .’

“How many?” he asked, figuring that he wasn’t going to get a numerical answer.

Domajin sat down in a stout wooden chair.  “Until I tell you to stop,” he growled, his patience starting to wear a little thin.  “Longer if you keep questioning my authority.”

Biting back the retort that had been forming on his tongue since the only thing he’d manage to do would be to prolong the slave’s torment, Caipora gritted his teeth as snapped the whip, as 984152 sucked in a sharp breath, but made no sound otherwise.

He measured the strength behind his strikes, careful not to hit her hard enough to cause any real or lasting damage.  It was a practiced art that he’d had plenty of time to perfect.  Hard enough to draw a little blood, not nearly hard enough to be cruel . . .

Domajin gave Pablo a curt little nod, a lifting of his fingers.  The lash in Pablo’s hand snapped loud, whizzed through the air as it came down on 435578’s already abused back.  She screamed in pain as her blood splattered in the air, misting over Pablo, who had the audacity to look like he was enjoying his task.

Kato pushed the rolling black cabinet outside, kicked the brake stands on the wheels to secure it.  Domajin grinned, a demonic light in his glowing gaze.

“Kato, Pablo, you are done here.  Wait inside.  Caipora can handle the rest.”

They said nothing, though Pablo cracked his whip in the air one last time before rolling it up and securing it to his waist once more.  It didn’t escape Caipora’s notice that it was the same whip that he’d used to truss the little fucker up when he’d tried to ambush him . . .

They disappeared back into the mansion.  Caipora kept whipping 984152, grinding his teeth as he let the lash fall.  It occurred to him that somehow, the entire thing had boiled down to a battle of wills—Domajin silently daring Caipora to question his authority while Caipora locked his jaw, refusing to worsen things for the girls on The Racks.  The balance was precarious, at best, and Caipora knew better than anyone, just how volatile Domajin could be when he thought that he was being coerced.  Time after time, the lash fell, and as much as he tried to stunt the blows, there was only so much that he could do.  Ribbons of blood streaked down her skin, flowing from one laceration to another in a webbing of marred skin and quiet sobs.

“That’s enough,” Domajin said after a good hour of whipping.  984152 was crying softly, her back a network of rent flesh.  Rolling up the whip as he stepped back, he thought that he was finished.  After all, it was the standard protocol.  They’d both been punished enough for their perceived misdeeds.  435578, while not able to be sold at the virgin auction, was still valuable enough to be sent to the Gauntlet to complete training as a regular sex slave, and 984152 . . . Maybe she shouldn’t have done what she did, but considering it would take a few days for her to heal from the flogging she’d been dealt?  Caipora figured that she would think twice before doing anything on her own again.

“Gear up, Caipora.”

Blinking in confusion, in disbelief, as he shot the overmaster a questioning look, he shook his head slightly.  Domajin jerked his head toward the black cabinet.

For some reason, a sense of foreboding crept up his spine as he stepped toward the closed cabinet.  He wasn’t sure what was waiting inside it, but he knew—knew—that it wasn’t going to be good.  The air seemed to thicken around his legs as a heaviness set in, and that heaviness was only compounded by the quiet whimpers of two slave girls who had already suffered quite enough, as it was.

Pulling the doors apart, he stepped back, blinked, stared in horror, in complete incredulity at the assembly of unholy things that should never, ever have been used or even deemed as necessary.  An assortment of cocksleeves hung on one side: those same black leather ones with the metal spikes, ranging from small spikes that would hurt but wouldn’t do nearly as much damage to longer, nastier spikes . . . and to his horror, the inch-long ones he’d already seen on that damned video weren’t the longest—not even close.  Ugly, shining, two-inch spiked ones glinted at him from the darkness of the cabinet.  On the other side?  Nipple weights that pierced the nipples with adjustable weights that systematically dragged them down, clitoris clamps to clip over the clitoris to prevent orgasm, trading pleasure for unimaginable pain—or so he’d been told—penis stranglers meant only to shred one’s cock as one grew harder and harder, crotch buds—a metal rod that released razor sharp petals with the simple push of a button . . . Four petals were bad enough, but the chrysanthemum version, with its countless tiny petals, was so much worse . . .

“Choose your poison, Caipora—or I’ll do it for you,” Domajin growled.

Snapping the cabinet closed, he turned to face the demented overmaster.  “I refuse,” he said.  “They’ve both been punished enough.”

Domajin moved in a blur, shooting out of the chair and across the portico, grabbing Caipora by the throat, bearing him back against the cabinet so hard that the cabinet shook, groaned.  “You’ll do it, my pretty pet—or they will do it to you.  We’ll see how much the slaves like training with you when you have no goddamn lips on your face!” he hissed, eyes flashing with an insane light.  “This is your fault, you know—all your fault.  They’re in love with you, did you know?  And you . . . you get off on that, don’t you?  Brainwashing them into doing whatever you want them to do?  Well, I will not have it!  I am overmaster!  Everything in this godforsaken place, including you, belongs to me!”

Shifting his gaze to the side, spotting Pablo and Kato, standing just inside at the windows, watching, waiting, Caipora narrowed his eyes when he looked back at Domajin once more.  “Then do it if you have the guts.  Kill me.  Go ahead.”

“You want to die?” Domajin scoffed, bringing his hand up, caressing Caipora’s cheek with the back of his fingers.  “Now, that would truly be a waste, my pet.  Would you really sacrifice yourself for a couple of worthless slaves?  Slaves who will live out their entire lives as little more than animated objects . . .? Make no mistake: these slaves will die—these whores, drenched in their own wetness as they dream a million times about fucking you . . . Ruining themselves—trying to ruin me—all because of you!  So, if you live, if you die, you won’t be a martyr, Caipora.  You can die with them—or you can live.  I leave it up to you.”

“You will rot in hell,” Caipora ground out, knocking Domajin’s hands away.

The overmaster chuckled again, the raw sound of it, grating on his nerves, cocking his fingers at the window, drawing the two enforcers outside again.  “Kato, help Caipora take a seat over there so he can watch the show.  I’ll deal with him later.  Come, Pablo.  You shall assist me.”

Uttering a terse growl as Kato grabbed his arm, walked him over to the vacated chair, Caipora sat down, struggling to figure out, just how he could intervene without being killed—how he could possibly save those slaves from a fate worse than death . . . In his mind, he saw that video, saw what they’d done to Lorenzo, and as horrifying as that was, to have forced himself to bear witness to that, to be able to do nothing but watch as the same thing was done to these girls, and for what?  He gritted his teeth as Kato snapped shackles around his wrists, around the armrests of the heavy wooden chair . . .

He watched as Domajin and Pablo stripped down, as that miserable Pablo stroked both of their dicks, as he got them both hard.  Unable to do a thing but watch as they donned those godawful cocksleeves, Caipora narrowed his eyes.  Pablo wore one with three-quarter inch, flared spikes, but Domajin . . .

He meant to make it last as long as he possibly could, Caipora realized.  The miserable bastard had chosen a sleeve with clusters of short spikes with two long, nasty impaling spikes that stuck out a good two inches past the head of his malignant cock.  It was designed to rip up the punished slowly—horribly slowly—brutally and terribly, until they were begging for death, to rip up the uterus—or the bowels . . . or the throat . . .

It spoke volumes to Caipora that Domajin chose to brutalize 984152, the sorrel-haired virgin that had taken pity on him, that had brought him the water-soaked rag.  Gritting his teeth as Domajin stuffed a ball gag into her mouth, fastened it behind her head, and yanked the rack down, ignoring her whimpers, her cloying fear—fear that brought on the rise of bile as Caipora was forced to sit and watch.

435578’s blood-curdling scream pierced the night first as Pablo jammed his dick home deep, the gush of blood from her, immediate and intense, squeezing out around Pablo’s dick, running down her legs in shocking strands of crimson.  The bastard threw his head back, laughing so loudly he almost drowned out her piteous shrieks as he pumped her hard, as her blood splattered everywhere . . .

Domajin, however . . . Positioning himself carefully, he paused, met Caipora’s gaze as a maniacal smile twisted his features, as he slowly, methodically, pushed into 984152.  Her moans that should have been screams were stifled by the gag.  Inch by agonizing inch, he pulled her hips back against him as she tried to pull away, as she struggled and fought—and sobbed.

“Puta merda,” Kato muttered, his voice registering his revulsion at what he was witnessing.  He looked like a man, caught somewhere between nightmare and dawn, the listless inability to perceive what was real, what was truth, and what was merely illusion . . .

Domajin stopped for a second as the spikes on the end of the cocksleeve reached the natural barrier of her cervix.  From where Caipora sat, he saw the bastard grasp her hips harder, bracing for a split second before slamming his dick home.

She screamed around the gag, her face mottling a deep crimson, eyes bulging out as he ripped his dick out, only to slam it home again.  Despite the distance between them, he could hear her flesh being torn, the sickening squelch of Domajin’s dick as it drilled into her deep . . .

435578 had her mouth wide open, face contorted in a mask of agony, and no sound came from her.  Screaming so forcefully that it had lost all voice, her body shook, her knees buckled, and all the while, Pablo rode her like she was some kind of macabre prized bull.

Caipora fought against the shackles, ignoring the incessant burns as the ofuda within them activated, blistering his youkai-blood, singing him bone deep.  “Stop, damn you!  Stop it!” he screamed.  “Kill them if you want to kill them, but stop this!”

“These bitches don’t deserve to live!” Domajin shot back as he kept humping her, stabbing her from the inside with those spikes.  “Caipora will never be yours!” he shrieked, his jealousy, his seething hatred, so thick in the air that it lingered like an invisible mist.

All of it, everything, all based upon the jealousy of one very unbalanced youkai . . . The thought of it was enough to make him want to puke.  He managed to choke it back, though, unable to staunch the roughened growl that issued from deep in his throat.  “Unlock me,” he said, whipping his head to the side to glower at Kato, who was staring at the entire thing in the most horrified way without blinking, rooted to the spot.  He looked as though he were almost catatonic.  Caipora spit at him to gain his attention.  It didn’t work.  “Kato!” he screamed, jerking on the shackles, ignoring the searing burn as the ofuda within activated, trying to lunge at him.  “Damn you!  Unlock me!”

It did no good.

Pablo let out a high-pitched whoop, slamming into 435578, a gush of blood rising up, splattering him in the chest as he came in her.  With every pump, she shrieked, a guttural cloying sound.  Smashing his dick into her a few more times, grinding his pelvis against her, he looked like a man possessed.  “You like that, don’t you, bitch?” he growled.  Then he ripped his dick out of her—covered with blood, with come as pieces of her plopped onto the ground, he repositioned himself at her asshole and slammed himself in deep to the tune of her renewed shrieks, her voice shredding, breaking, her bloodshot eyes curiously dry, as though the pain was so bad that the tears could not form . . .

Domajin laughed, a long trail of spittle dripping from his bottom lip onto the torn flesh of her back.  “Domaji-i-i-in!” Caipora screamed, recognizing that look on his face from the innumerable times he’d seen it up close.  His madness was taking over, his cruelty crossing the line between brutality and sheer insanity . . . “Stop!” he shrieked.  “Damn it, stop!”

If his words reached the crazed overmaster, they only served to fuel the fire.  With every thrust of his dick, he was ripping 984152 to shreds.  Whipping his cock out of her wrecked pussy as a flood of blood and flesh poured from her, plopping on the ground with a series of sickening, gut churning squelches, Domajin slammed into her ass, spikes first, the pain drawing her up as far as she could, body taut, eyes rolling back in her head as her body released, slumped over as he literally impaled her over and over again . . .

“Kato!  Goddamn it!  Listen to me!” Caipora screamed, wincing as another jolt from the ofuda jarred painfully up his arms.  He wanted—needed—to put a stop to it—for their sakes as much as for his own.  It was too much—way too much—too much that he’d seen, that he couldn’t block out, that he couldn’t separate himself from . . . “Unlock me!  Do you hear me!  Unlock me!”  scooting around in his seat, he managed to reverse kick Kato, his heel connecting with his shin.  With a startled little scream, Kato blinked, wild gaze coming to rest on Caipora. “Unlock me,” he said again, willing his outrage to make Kato understand.  “Unlock me so I can put an end to this!”

Kato didn’t seem to think to argue.  Fumbling with the keys in his hand, it took him a few tries to manage the first shackle.  It fell away, hitting the side of the chair with a dull clatter as Caipora yanked the keys away and unbuckled the other wrist himself.

He didn’t really know what he was doing.  Some sort of understanding reminded him that he dare not just run over there, to kill them in a more direct way.  If he did, Domajin would make good on his threat, and yet, he couldn’t allow it to go on any longer, either . . . Body moving as though possessed by some other entity that was simply using him as a vessel, he stripped off his clothes, strode over to the cabinet as he deliberately stroked his cock.  Scanning the awful things, he chose the worst one he could find—one that had two-inch spikes and a long, almost drill-like cone on the end.  Slipping it on, tightening the straps, he blocked out everything that seemed to buzz around his brain.

Stepping before 435578—she looked up at him, and through the haze of her misery, two fat tears squeezed out of her eyes.  She couldn’t speak, but she didn’t have to.  Begging him to end it—to end her, and he thought that he nodded.  Closing his eyes, he grasped her head, shoved her down as he thrust forward as hard as he could.  She started to scream, to burble around the wicked contraption as the scrape of the metal spikes against all the surfaces of her mouth rattled through the metal, straight into him, un unsettling and appalling sensation that hardened his cock even more.  Yanking on her head as he gritted his teeth, as the sound of splintering bone, of sinew and muscle and . . . and other things echoed in his head, louder than the screams and the cries and the garbled pleas for mercy.

435578’s body tensed for a moment, then suddenly released as the mercy of death settled over her.

Grinding his teeth together, Caipora had to jerk hard to free himself—to loosen the spike that had pierced the back of her throat—had severed her spinal cord. Reaching over her limp body, Caipora dealt Pablo a hard shove—hard enough to send the bastard flying.  He hit the wall twenty feet away, his head cracking soundly with a deafening thud.  He crumpled to the ground, and whether he was dead or just knocked out, Caipora didn’t rightfully care as he turned and strode over to Domajin—and 984152.

He said nothing, looking into her hazed over eyes.  She was in much worse shape than 435578, but, for a moment, her gaze cleared, and the misery in her eyes seared itself into his brain.  Glaring over her at the demented overmaster, Caipora narrowed his eyes.  Domajin—the brightness in his stare, the trace smile on his face . . . He thought that he’d won.

Caipora braced his stance, forced 984152’s mouth open wide.  Taking a deep breath, he grimaced, jamming himself in deep as he simply repeated the process.  She didn’t die from the first thrust, but her body did go into a fit of spasms—a seizure.  Wrenching the spike free, he thrust harder the second time.  This time, the spike severed her spinal cord, and he looked up, locked eyes with Domajin, as he jerked out of her throat.  Staring at him for several moments—moments that felt like minutes, like hours—Caipora refused to back down, refused to look away.

Finally, though, Domajin started to laugh—a slow chuckle that escalated into a mad screech.  He really did think that he’d won the war when, in reality, he’d won nothing at all.

Turning his back on the overmaster—at the carnage that was left behind—he yanked the sleeve off and tossed it to the side, before striding over, snatching up his discarded clothes as he stomped inside and headed to his room . . .