He moans quietly as he wakes up. The last thing he remembers was her standing over him, smirking in triumph. He had failed, the wicked sorceress had — somehow, impossibly — seen through his ruse and anticipated his attack.
He shakes his head, trying to rouse himself out of the stupor. Oddly, he seems to be standing up already. No, not standing, hanging. With sudden dread he realises he is bound, shackled to a diagonal cross, leather manacles holding his wrists and ankles. He is trapped, made impotent.
Wrong again, not impotent, at least not completely. As his mind clears up more, he is made aware of what woke him; he feels her, her body against his naked self. And she is not cold as they said, her skin is not like that of a snake, she does not stink of death, she is not any of the foul things they described her as. No, quite the contrary; she is warm, smooth, fragrant, intoxicating to the touch. His body has already woken up before him, and his base instincts are leading the way as she explores his bound form.
Her hands caress over his body, not roughly, not hating, instead nearly reverent. Her eyes follow, watching, taking in everything about him. The touch and the gaze trace over firm muscles, strong limbs, over his face. Softly, sensually, her hands wrap around his manhood. He wants to resist, wants her to be the villain. But it is a losing battle as her hands grow more insistent, more eager. Her body presses into his with fervour, with lustful intensity. He finds himself gasping, shuddering with pleasure. His eyes close, head falling back, his own lust swelling both his chest and his member.
So much greater the shock then, when she seems to have stopped, and he opens his eyes, only to be greeted by the sight of just that. The absence of pain just increases the shock, seeing her hold "him" in her hand, still firm, throbbing, his loins contracted and filled with seed. Whatever magic she has put on his flesh the spell is keeping it "alive". And he should be in pain, bleeding out, but he is not. She wants him to live, for some reason. His mind is trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, but he is barely holding on to his sanity as it is.
She steps away from him, her fully naked form visible to him. At the center of her dark chamber is a low pedestal, pillows on either side of it. She places her prize on it, making it stand erect. It stands on that pedestal, shuddering slightly, as if eager for what will follow. Placing her feet to straddle the pillar, she stands over the pulsing trophy. Then she bends her knees, lowering herself down over it, onto it, until it sinks deep inside her, and she places her knees on the pillows, mounting herself fully over his severed member.
He can feel her. His mind is wracked by the paradox, the impossibility of indeed sensing her. It is not a clear and sharp sensation, only distant, hazy. But he is experienced enough to have knowledge of what a woman feels like, and he knows it is her. As she raises and lowers herself rhythmically, he is given the faintest notion of what it is like to be ridden by her. He shakes his head, trying to close his eyes, but it is impossible for him to look away or shut out the sensation.
Her breath quickens, her bronze skin prickles with goose-bumps. She tosses her head back and lets out a pleasured wail as her insides contract around the member, coaxing what she wants out of it. He can see it, even from that distance, how it pulses and pumps his seed into her. She presses herself down into it, taking it as deep as she can, as close to her womb as possible. And he can but watch, tearing helplessly at the bonds that hold him to the cross.
The captive blinks awake. Well, "awake" is a relative term, "less unconscious" better describes his state, like going from dreamless sleep, back into the bad dream. How long as it been? Days? No, weeks. Many weeks.
She is standing before him again, in the nude. Her belly, yes, it is indeed swollen, there is that noticeable rounding on it. Even with his mind barely able to sustain consciousness, the realisation reaches his awareness: she is carrying his offspring. A faint sliver of hope is raised. Will his legacy go on? Will his bloodline continue? Will he father a child, even if corrupted by this wicked sorceress?
Then he notices the dagger in her hand. Why is she holding a dagger? Is this when she — finally — kills him? She just wanted him to see that she will bear his child before finally giving him the mercy of death? His mind quickens, he pulls breaths faster at the thought of the terror ending, and — in the very least — not meaning the extinction of him.
Instead, the unthinkable happens. She puts the gleaming sharp blade, not to his skin, but instead low at her own belly. She looks up at him, into his eyes, capturing his gaze, and lets the dagger sink into her flesh. She lets out a cry, but remains standing firm. Slowly, methodically, she keeps cutting across her abdomen. She is hurting, only unnatural strength, magic and determination lets her continue. His eyes are wide open, shaking his head, pleading, begging for the nightmare to end.
Her hand reaches inside, through the wound. It sinks deep, past her wrist, colouring her arm deep red. She lets hear a roar of blinding pain, and keeps going. Finally withdrawing her arm, while tears stream down her face. Triumphantly, she succeeds in her grizzly task, moving up her hand before his face, showing him what she is holding. The cord is still providing it with life, it is moving ever so slightly, and he wants to scream.
She moves over the floor, towards the cauldron, her belly and legs soaked with her blood, leaving wet footprints on the floor. She is holding the dagger still in one hand, in the other his — their — unborn, lifting it over the cauldron. He tosses his head from side to side, begging her to stop, to make the evil vision end. Whatever little rationality is left in his mind tries to deny the inevitable, clinging to the hope that she will not do it to her own flesh and blood.
But her flesh is already cut, her blood is already on the floor. With a quickly slit, she collects the life-force of their offspring, letting it flow into the cauldron. He thrashes in the bonds, crying, his mind fighting to maintain his last shreds of sanity as she cuts the cord and puts aside her harvest.
She walks back over the floor to her captive, her soaked hands by her sides, striding confidently — almost nonchalantly — to him. She stops before him, stilling his thrashing with a soft grip on his chin. She kisses him tenderly; warm, soft, sensual lips gracing his with their touch.
She steps to his side and turns around, her blooded hand touching his cheek, turning his head to — again — show him his manhood, mounted on the pedestal. She whispers to him, purring sensually in his ear "thank you".
...and he resigns to the knowledge that this grizzly ritual will happen again, over and over, never stopping. "His" children murdered, for her benefit. He sobs quietly, his mind caving to the fact that the nightmare will not end, not even with his death. Such is the numbness that he barely feels the warm stream down his chest, the blood filling his lungs, as she all but severs his head from his shoulders. All that is before his tormented mind as it fades, is the image of her, by the cauldron.
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