NOTE: This piece was originally intended to slot into the cryopunk world I was developing and displayed in my post “Too Many People.” Who knows? I still might.
WARNING: This fragment is graphic. You’ve been warned.
He didn’t know her name; he didn’t know any names of his horrors. But she was young and round and sweet and had red hair. Someone had dressed her in a white shift, apparently after having run her around. She smelled of sweat and activity and fear. The scent of fear gave him some pause – it was bitter and acrid and probably had some measure of urine in it. It spoiled the palette.
The runes tattooed on his wrists glowed a pale blue and pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Since they hadn’t turned an angry red and reduced him to a mewling pile on the floor, he knew this one was specially prepared for him.
His nostrils flared and drank in her scent again. The fear was still there, but there was also arousal. There always was in the special ones, the ones set aside for his damnation. Their food and drink was laced with an aphrodisiac, brought to the fore with the exercise. The combination of those scents flowed up his nose and over the back of his tongue, bringing hunger to the surface. Beneath the simple black robe, his manhood stirred. The motion drew the girl’s attention, adding more arousal to the scent. But calling it his “manhood” was a misnomer – it wasn’t human at all anymore. The gifts of the fae were always dual-edged; his whole body was a testament to the twisted humor and cutting quality of their gifts.
He took a single step backwards, trying to get back out of the room, maybe close the door. As he took that step, crossing the threshold, the runes on his wrists and ankles flared red and he shrieked.