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Bishop
Moon
- Joined
- Nov 3, 2015
- Location
- Eastern U.S.
That was sloppy, Virgil. The work of a novice. No one will appreciate that display, no one will admire that amateurism. Dispose of it and don’t make the same mistake with the next one.
He stared at his reflection in the water basin, its clarity corrupted by the crimson taint of blood. Ophelia’s blood. Its ripples had calmed, giving him clear view of his likeness, its red hue demonic. The symbolism was not lost on him. He returned to his cleansing, dipping calloused hands within the water. Try as he might, no amount of scrubbing would remove the residue from beneath his fingernails. It was no matter, it wouldn’t be much later in the night that he would once again be wiping fresh blood from his flesh.
Thus far, the night's foray into the recesses of his darkest ambitions had been a resounding failure, if the mangled specimen behind him was any indication. He turned to face it, his brow furrowing and lips curling downward in disdain. Where there was once a beautiful woman, there now lied a grotesque abomination, a hideous corpse. There was no precision, no majesty in the outcome. He took something beautiful, and instead of guiding its ascension to grandeur, he decimated any remnant of grace. A resounding failure. His failure. And yet another corpse destined to sink to the bottom of Havard Bay.
The human anatomy is a fickle thing, wrought with many a vulnerability. With surgical precision, one could extinguish life nearly instantaneously without so much as a twitch from the victim. To say that Ophelia twitched would be an understatement. She had thrashed, and his measures had grown drastic.
When a shepherd is forced to slay one of his lambs, he will hide the blade from their line of sight, as to prevent fear from tainting the meat. Fear had tainted his masterpiece tonight. When she saw the blade, an evening of risqué ventures was seen as precisely what it was: the end of her life. What generally ends with a swift dagger to the heart collapsed into multiple gashes to her chest and throat. Sloppy.
Fortunately, despite his misgivings, the night still held some hope. The evening had been far more successful than his late-night endeavors, stemming from his arrival at the masquerade.
His overcoat wasn’t enough to combat the crispness of that late September evening chill. The sun was just starting to set over the horizon, and throngs of the city’s wealthiest strolled onto the patio, masks in hand. Naturally, Virgil Dunstance received an invite. With such a last name, it was an obligation. Wealth had its benefits, such as a classical education and invitations to the most prestigious of events. And it is here that he would prowl.
He had already chosen his next target. In fact, she had been the subject of his attention for a couple of weeks now. He was very particular about how he selected his playthings. Ophelia’s beauty was matched by her grace, and her emerald eyes shimmered in the moonlight, even through her mask. They had danced as strangers, elbows locked with one another as they spun elegantly to tunes of flute and violin. And without a trace, she vanished.
She had run to the arms of a dear friend. He was entirely unfamiliar with the woman, but he could not deny her charms. She far surpassed Ophelia in every manner, and he found himself staring in admiration of this stranger. He approached without caution, eager to enact his plans with the potential of a second suiter. To his surprise, not only did he manage to convince Ophelia to return to his manse, but her companion would accompany them as well. Juliet was her name, he had learned. Juliet Rosendahl. A last name unfamiliar to him. A rare, precious jewel, unsoiled by the taint of prestige. He absolutely must have her.
The carriage ride was far more enjoyable than most. It was plain to see that Ophelia was quite accustomed to the courtesies of her stature. It was all very boring, and reeked of familiarity. It seemed as if all of these young aristocrats had been raised with the same personality. Juliet was different, Virgil could sense. Her laugh was genuine, her bright blue eyes containing a light of innocence. It was this innocence he wished to preserve, and as they slowly drifted into unconsciousness from the sedated wine he had provided them, there was a pang of regret in Virgil’s heart.
For over a year he had been collecting his playthings, but it wasn’t their deaths that brought him pleasure. No, he would draw pleasure from their bodies in the moments before he would take their lives. The methods would vary: some would be bound and gagged, taken like the beast they desired to be; some would be caressed passionately, eased into their pleasure; some would require a combination of each. The one overarching similarity with all encounters would be their climax. No matter how much they struggled, in the end their orgasm would overtake their reservations. And that’s when he’d do it.
He didn’t do this for that pleasure, but for their redemption. They had sold their souls to society, taking their mantle with their true self abandoned, and to Virgil this was no life at all. In their moments of bliss, all else was naught. Their only focus was the heat growing in their bellies, the moisture coating their thighs, and the man who would provide them with such a sensation. In that moment, their souls would return to them. In that moment they would die, jubilant and beautiful. All people die, yet not all meet such a graceful end. Ophelia had not been blessed with such an end.
When she regained her consciousness, she was bound and gagged upon the duvet in his basement, as some are wont to awaken to. There was panic in her eyes as she set her sight upon Virgil. Her eyes widened and her feminine frame began to tremble. He took her without a word, and she fought against him. At first. Before long, she had resigned to her fate, and had even begun to become an active participant. It was in these moments that Virgil knew he had succeeded.
Yet something wasn’t right about the scenario he found himself in. It was very familiar, yet far different than any he had experienced prior. In the back of his mind, he knew what it was, was aware of what kept him distracted. Juliet. He found himself unable to take Ophelia any longer, deigning to the use of fingers and other apparatuses to finish the deed. She seemed unfazed, bucking her hips upon the faux phallus that he used to replace his own. She reached her peak, then saw the blade.
With a rough prod of his cane, Ophelia vanished beneath the frigid surface of the bay, never to be seen again. The benefits of a bayside manse. In successful endeavors, the body would be left to be found by passerbys, his work of art meant to be admired by the masses. Ophelia was not a successful endeavor, and had to be disposed of harshly.
He returned to his home, settling his cane next to the front door. He had mopped the mess from the basement prior to disposal, so he led himself toward his study. It was here that Juliet was resting, nestled upon a couch along the eastern wall. Even in slumber, her elegance could not be mistaken. He simply stood at the foot of the couch, staring for what felt like an hour. Did she deserve this? Would he be capable of remorse if he followed through? These thoughts did nothing to calm the raging storm in his heart as he approached, arms slipping beneath the female’s body as he lifted her to his chest. He dragged her down to his dungeon, the fresh sheets of his bed enveloping her in their warmth.
In pained him to bind her, yet it’s what must be done. It was far too late for hesitation, as she would no doubt catch on to what happened to her dearest Ophelia if she was released. No, she would never be released. The least he could do was give her a proper end, lest all be a waste.
But why end such innocence? Such purity? Let her live, Virgil, and see her reach ascension in another form.
The thought was not lost upon him, as the concept bounced about inside his mind. Yet this was not the time of ponderance, but the time of action. Her hands were bound behind her back, palms pressed to opposite elbows. He pulled her from the cushioned surface, dropping her to the floor at the foot of the bed. Her dress would be soiled by the action, the filth of the ground tainting its vibrancy. It mattered not, as it was only a matter of time before it was torn from her frame.
There was one final touch, fitting of such a plaything. He approached the wardrobe nestled in the corner, the home of his tools of the trade. What he procured had belonged to his first, the one who he thought would be with him forever. She had the same innocence, the same youthful glow. A leash and collar.
The collar was strapped about Juliet’s throat, its accompanying leash bound to the bedpost. As he stepped back from his work, he admired how wonderfully the collar suited her. It was time for the show to begin. He knelt before the sleeping femme, procuring a small packet of smelling salts and wafting it toward her nostrils. He watched as she shuttered into consciousness, bright blues meeting his dark brown gaze once again.
“Good evening, Juliet.”
He stared at his reflection in the water basin, its clarity corrupted by the crimson taint of blood. Ophelia’s blood. Its ripples had calmed, giving him clear view of his likeness, its red hue demonic. The symbolism was not lost on him. He returned to his cleansing, dipping calloused hands within the water. Try as he might, no amount of scrubbing would remove the residue from beneath his fingernails. It was no matter, it wouldn’t be much later in the night that he would once again be wiping fresh blood from his flesh.
Thus far, the night's foray into the recesses of his darkest ambitions had been a resounding failure, if the mangled specimen behind him was any indication. He turned to face it, his brow furrowing and lips curling downward in disdain. Where there was once a beautiful woman, there now lied a grotesque abomination, a hideous corpse. There was no precision, no majesty in the outcome. He took something beautiful, and instead of guiding its ascension to grandeur, he decimated any remnant of grace. A resounding failure. His failure. And yet another corpse destined to sink to the bottom of Havard Bay.
The human anatomy is a fickle thing, wrought with many a vulnerability. With surgical precision, one could extinguish life nearly instantaneously without so much as a twitch from the victim. To say that Ophelia twitched would be an understatement. She had thrashed, and his measures had grown drastic.
When a shepherd is forced to slay one of his lambs, he will hide the blade from their line of sight, as to prevent fear from tainting the meat. Fear had tainted his masterpiece tonight. When she saw the blade, an evening of risqué ventures was seen as precisely what it was: the end of her life. What generally ends with a swift dagger to the heart collapsed into multiple gashes to her chest and throat. Sloppy.
Fortunately, despite his misgivings, the night still held some hope. The evening had been far more successful than his late-night endeavors, stemming from his arrival at the masquerade.
~~~
His overcoat wasn’t enough to combat the crispness of that late September evening chill. The sun was just starting to set over the horizon, and throngs of the city’s wealthiest strolled onto the patio, masks in hand. Naturally, Virgil Dunstance received an invite. With such a last name, it was an obligation. Wealth had its benefits, such as a classical education and invitations to the most prestigious of events. And it is here that he would prowl.
He had already chosen his next target. In fact, she had been the subject of his attention for a couple of weeks now. He was very particular about how he selected his playthings. Ophelia’s beauty was matched by her grace, and her emerald eyes shimmered in the moonlight, even through her mask. They had danced as strangers, elbows locked with one another as they spun elegantly to tunes of flute and violin. And without a trace, she vanished.
She had run to the arms of a dear friend. He was entirely unfamiliar with the woman, but he could not deny her charms. She far surpassed Ophelia in every manner, and he found himself staring in admiration of this stranger. He approached without caution, eager to enact his plans with the potential of a second suiter. To his surprise, not only did he manage to convince Ophelia to return to his manse, but her companion would accompany them as well. Juliet was her name, he had learned. Juliet Rosendahl. A last name unfamiliar to him. A rare, precious jewel, unsoiled by the taint of prestige. He absolutely must have her.
The carriage ride was far more enjoyable than most. It was plain to see that Ophelia was quite accustomed to the courtesies of her stature. It was all very boring, and reeked of familiarity. It seemed as if all of these young aristocrats had been raised with the same personality. Juliet was different, Virgil could sense. Her laugh was genuine, her bright blue eyes containing a light of innocence. It was this innocence he wished to preserve, and as they slowly drifted into unconsciousness from the sedated wine he had provided them, there was a pang of regret in Virgil’s heart.
For over a year he had been collecting his playthings, but it wasn’t their deaths that brought him pleasure. No, he would draw pleasure from their bodies in the moments before he would take their lives. The methods would vary: some would be bound and gagged, taken like the beast they desired to be; some would be caressed passionately, eased into their pleasure; some would require a combination of each. The one overarching similarity with all encounters would be their climax. No matter how much they struggled, in the end their orgasm would overtake their reservations. And that’s when he’d do it.
He didn’t do this for that pleasure, but for their redemption. They had sold their souls to society, taking their mantle with their true self abandoned, and to Virgil this was no life at all. In their moments of bliss, all else was naught. Their only focus was the heat growing in their bellies, the moisture coating their thighs, and the man who would provide them with such a sensation. In that moment, their souls would return to them. In that moment they would die, jubilant and beautiful. All people die, yet not all meet such a graceful end. Ophelia had not been blessed with such an end.
When she regained her consciousness, she was bound and gagged upon the duvet in his basement, as some are wont to awaken to. There was panic in her eyes as she set her sight upon Virgil. Her eyes widened and her feminine frame began to tremble. He took her without a word, and she fought against him. At first. Before long, she had resigned to her fate, and had even begun to become an active participant. It was in these moments that Virgil knew he had succeeded.
Yet something wasn’t right about the scenario he found himself in. It was very familiar, yet far different than any he had experienced prior. In the back of his mind, he knew what it was, was aware of what kept him distracted. Juliet. He found himself unable to take Ophelia any longer, deigning to the use of fingers and other apparatuses to finish the deed. She seemed unfazed, bucking her hips upon the faux phallus that he used to replace his own. She reached her peak, then saw the blade.
~~~
With a rough prod of his cane, Ophelia vanished beneath the frigid surface of the bay, never to be seen again. The benefits of a bayside manse. In successful endeavors, the body would be left to be found by passerbys, his work of art meant to be admired by the masses. Ophelia was not a successful endeavor, and had to be disposed of harshly.
He returned to his home, settling his cane next to the front door. He had mopped the mess from the basement prior to disposal, so he led himself toward his study. It was here that Juliet was resting, nestled upon a couch along the eastern wall. Even in slumber, her elegance could not be mistaken. He simply stood at the foot of the couch, staring for what felt like an hour. Did she deserve this? Would he be capable of remorse if he followed through? These thoughts did nothing to calm the raging storm in his heart as he approached, arms slipping beneath the female’s body as he lifted her to his chest. He dragged her down to his dungeon, the fresh sheets of his bed enveloping her in their warmth.
In pained him to bind her, yet it’s what must be done. It was far too late for hesitation, as she would no doubt catch on to what happened to her dearest Ophelia if she was released. No, she would never be released. The least he could do was give her a proper end, lest all be a waste.
But why end such innocence? Such purity? Let her live, Virgil, and see her reach ascension in another form.
The thought was not lost upon him, as the concept bounced about inside his mind. Yet this was not the time of ponderance, but the time of action. Her hands were bound behind her back, palms pressed to opposite elbows. He pulled her from the cushioned surface, dropping her to the floor at the foot of the bed. Her dress would be soiled by the action, the filth of the ground tainting its vibrancy. It mattered not, as it was only a matter of time before it was torn from her frame.
There was one final touch, fitting of such a plaything. He approached the wardrobe nestled in the corner, the home of his tools of the trade. What he procured had belonged to his first, the one who he thought would be with him forever. She had the same innocence, the same youthful glow. A leash and collar.
The collar was strapped about Juliet’s throat, its accompanying leash bound to the bedpost. As he stepped back from his work, he admired how wonderfully the collar suited her. It was time for the show to begin. He knelt before the sleeping femme, procuring a small packet of smelling salts and wafting it toward her nostrils. He watched as she shuttered into consciousness, bright blues meeting his dark brown gaze once again.
“Good evening, Juliet.”
