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|[Paris, France] The Systematic Rape of Kira Mendas; Closed|
|Topic Started: Jun 25 2012, 01:54 PM (93 Views)|
|Post #1 Jun 25 2012, 01:54 PM||Blade|
Slith Clair was relished the dark.
This was his punishment.
The man with the oil-slick black hair scoffed. He watched the young specimens, drugged to sluggish compliance, twirl lazily in the center of the raised stage, their bejeweled bras and panties winking in the light like crystalline arthropod eyes of a horde of wasps. Slith sat in one of the ornate red plush chairs, leaning back, and letting the boredom show on his face. There was a white button on a table next to him. He let the specimens be purchased one by one, seemingly uninterested. Slith pressed the button randomly, not caring what occurred.
"Five hundred thousand, sold, to number 8."
He was the eighth of the males there, dressed in a similar manner. A black tuxedo, trimmed to his thin, almost emaciated body. The green orbs flecked with gold could identify the faces of the hollowed shadows around him. Several were notable government officials of France. Disgusting old worms with a foul taste in females.
Slith Clair was not there to make purchases for himself. He would never look at the girls he purchased, never know that the Kogano family would free the teenage girls from their prison of sex trafficking. He was on a job. Slith Clair played the game to get here to purchase the main attraction, a hideous creature with a whiny prune of a father who didn't deserve to breathe Slith's air. He met the man under his alias of Games, bargained a much higher price than needed to spite the old prune.
Slith Clair was mad.
This was his punishment for torturing his pet Kira Mendas all these months ago. Job after job after job of petty, worthless runts of mice scurrying around, begging for his skill set. He was shipped all over the world in large metal tubes, treated by cattle and with very little interest in his work. This was one of the few times he actually disliked what he did, never enjoying the killings as he should.
He knew this measure was necessary. But that didn't stop Slith from seething.
The bejeweled pigeons swayed on stage, knees weak, eyes glazed. He didn't bother to hide his disinterest and consequently the quivering mouse behind him kept looking to refill his untouched champagne glass. Nervous eyes glanced at him as the man retreated, back to the shadows behind Slith. The man did not know who Slith was, as he knew none of the members of this exclusive "club", but the feeling he got from this one was bad. Very bad.
The green-gold eyes were soulless.
Slith found the task bothersome. He had no interest in sex, for it was not a bodily pleasure he enjoyed. In fact, Slith did not know this, but he could not be aroused by anything remotely sexual. He could not see it in a sexual context. That part of him had long died, buried in the past like a small doll lost in a storage space. To some degree, this was very useful. No could could seduce Slith voluntarily. It was just something about him.
That and at the ripe young age of eighteen, he systematically raped an eight-year old until he no longer found pleasure in that activity.
A lot of strange circumstances lead up to that point. Slith himself did not know how it happened. He had been removed from usual area by his usual liaison, and taken somewhere else, somewhere new. His head was hooded, but suddenly he felt the sharp stab of a needle, then another, then a final shot. Slith did not know what any of the shots contained.
One of them was testosterone.
Young Slith only know that time passed. He began to feel strange. Excited. His blood flowed from every corner of his body, pumping, breathing, seething. He was then taken, bonds cut and hood removed and shoved into a room.
There was one light bulb hanging from the ceiling. A simple hospital bed, with white pristine sheets and a crappy mattress. So much white. A white hospital gown. White straps restraining the body. Pale skin. Shallow, cursed breathing. It seemed like his body knew what to do without command. His thin teenage body crawled on top of the quivering form. Small pink mouth. Long black hair fanned out like a halo.
And round, wide cerulean eyes that spoke of oceans.
The female wasn't gagged. She didn't make a sound. The green-gold orbs that were Slith Clair's poked around curiously. He poked her stomach. Ribs. Collarbone. Neck. His fingers were cold against the warm skin, but the small girl still did not make a sound.
Then he poked her arms and she screamed.
He inspected the bandages. The sound did not startle him, but it somehow heightened his senses. The young man didn't tell her to stop. He simply climbed on top of her, removed his pants and violated her. It was a strange, otherworldly sensation. It wasn't so much the pleasure of the act as it was the sensation of being in such a situation, of having his blood pump so fast, of his senses tuned as he jabbed the girl's arms over and over again, until bruises appeared.
Over and over.
He didn't stop until everything wore off, until the girl was bruised purple and black with his assault. She only screamed when in pain. The pet said nothing to stop him. He would fall on top of her, surely almost suffocating the small flail body. He breathed in her scent. She just looked at him.
Orange and chocolate.
Later he would be carried away and the girl would be given a shot to erase her short term memory. It only lasted a short time, but it was enough. She would never remember the incident, but it would bear a mark on her mental status, just like how the systematic rape of Mayu Kogano by her butler forced her mental condition. He, on the other hand, would be puzzled by the outcome. He would repeat this process several times, in weeks, months, and so on. Always the same situation, for roughly a year. Then it stopped. He did not complain. His handlers never told him her name and Slith never asked, He later developed an affinity for his pet, perhaps out of an unconscious connection and guilt.
Kira Mendas would never remember the incidents, but what was required was the raw materials to cultivate a mental disorder. It was a shame.
Lyrics from Thirty Seconds to Mars - Up in the Air
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