The Dark Age Desires: Inquisitors Unleashed

I feel the damp, frigid stone against my back as I lean against the musty wall, standing in a pool of water that splashes up with every step. The drops of water fall onto my shoulder in a relentless, rhythmic drumming.

A drop.

Drop.

The air is thick with the stench of decay and human filth. The tang of blood isn’t the worst assault on my nostrils; I swear they might be permanently marred by this odour.

But none of this matters. I stand there, relishing the moment. God has triumphed.

I have triumphed.

I step out of the shadows, striding towards the figure huddled behind the heavy steel bars that stretch from floor to ceiling. Her outline is barely discernible in the dim light, but I can’t tear my gaze away.

She’s still strikingly beautiful.

Her once lavishly manicured hair now hangs greasy and limp, and her face, so accustomed to resting on the finest of cushions, is a ghostly shade of pallor. Her once-soft, pampered hands are now bruised and battered, evidence of her futile attempts to pound on the bars and scream for mercy.

She’s still clad in sumptuous garments, precious fabrics from exotic, pagan lands. Her hands pressed to her chest do little to conceal the wantonness of her chaste bodice. Full, youthful breasts that are surely the devil’s work, not God’s.

Yet her beauty remains breathtaking.

The stench is overpowering.

It reeks of urine, faeces, and sweat, but most pungently, it carries the scent of something she’s never known before: desperation and hunger seeping from her very pores.

I recognise that smell. It’s been my companion since birth. I grew up with it.

I inhale deeply, savouring the familiar scent.

She senses my presence and looks up.

Her eyes, wide and brown, sparkle with recognition.

“Father!”

She stands, taking tentative steps towards the bars of her tiny cell. She comes close enough for me to count the freckles on her delicate nose, to almost feel the heat from her heaving chest.

I remain unmoved.

“Father,” she repeats, her voice trembling with hope and joy. “God must have sent you. There’s been some mistake. I’ve lost track of time in this wretched place. Help me, all you need to do is…”

“Be quiet, you wretched soul,” I say, savouring the bitterness of my words. “Do not flinch. Do not call upon the God you have so brazenly rejected.”

“Father,” she whispers, still clutching at hope as if it were a lifeline. It’s the only thing she has left.

“Pray. Plead for mercy.”

“Please!”

“Not from me, you shameful woman! Beg God. For our Lord is merciful.”

She blinks, startled.

I’ve never seen her so close. Once, in my black cassock with a large cross adorning my belly, I was a mere shadow in the grand hall, overlooked amid a sea of colourfully dressed nobility. She, on a small stool beside the prince’s throne, was the centre of attention.

Unreachable, distant, cold.

The exception, of course, was when, in God’s sanctuary, after my fiery sermon, with a bow, she received the wafer on her tongue, offering me a view of her bosom. Now, as ever, her cleavage offered a spectacular view of two lovely mounds and her stiff, dark pink nipples peeking out of the lace.

Wicked.

“Slut! Whore of Satan!”

Her hands, clasped in desperate supplication, fall listlessly to her hips. She bows her head with a gentle grace, her posture and delicate features evoking the serene statue of the pious Mother of God, Saint Mary, forever enshrined in marble in the temple where, as a youth at seminary with a stomach constantly growling in agony, I spent my days in sanctimonious, scourge-driven contemplation.

The audacity.

This demonic harlot dares to compare herself to the virgin goddess. I bite my lip, feeling it twitch with barely contained fury.

I can’t take my eyes off those nipples. Anger grows in my chest.

“God will punish you. Only the flames will cleanse your sinful body!”

“Please, Father,” she says. My senses sharpen. Her tone has changed completely. It’s the tramp in her talking. To confirm my suspicions, she spreads the fabric of her chest with her hands and lays her nasty, sinful, round, smooth breasts bare.

“I’ll do anything.”

She drops to her knees.

She kneels in front of me, her hand snakes through the bars and touches me. Only now do I realize how strong and firm my erection is. She squeezes it gently.

I close my eyes for a moment.

I let out a moan.

That moment of weakness, that moment of sin.

Oh, Father, forgive me. I have sinned.

“Whore of Satan!” I scream and hurl her away with such force that her arm nearly dislocates from the socket.

I take a few steps back and lean against the wall again. The agonising pleasure doesn’t leave me. It’s the devil tempting me. The devil materialised into the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

I was right.

The Abbot dismissed my suspicions with derision, too craven to confront someone of such power. Fear and cowardice made him tremble; he shook his head and sent me away. On the two occasions I saw him, he mocked me openly, and he never deigned to answer my letters.

I finally convinced him.

I had a well-known blind witch arrested just outside the village. They only tortured her for two days and she already confessed everything I needed. When I showed the abbot her confession of how Anabel, the honourable wife of the prince, raves at night on a goat, makes love to it and invokes the devil, he wept. We also arrested two other midwives, who, besides rooting and begetting children, had long been said to be cursing cattle and frolicking with the devil’s servants at night.

Anabel’s hand is still through the bars, hanging in the air. Her fingers gently knead something invisible in the air, and I feel the movements on my throbbing, impure disgust. I can feel the heat in my crotch.

It’s the devil testing me.

It’s the devil testing me.

It’s the devil.

“Executioner!” I scream.

The hooded, scarred figure and his henchmen are waiting at the door. At my command, they run to me, one of the vultures unlocks the cell, and they drag the creature of Satan out.

All the time they dragged her through the corridors to the torture chamber, she remained silent. Our footsteps echo resound in the undercroft, just a few floors up, her unhappy, lovelorn husband coaxes the guards, who have sworn allegiance not to him but to the Church, to allow him to speak to her. When the wretch burns at the stake, I’m sure he’ll be relieved, and God will open his eyes.

The torture chamber is a wonderful room.

God has given the church power over human life and suffering. And within the cold, stone walls here stand instruments of sophistication and thoroughness. Coldly awaiting the master of a venerable and unjustly despised craft.

The executioner leads his men to the scraper, and as she is, in her dirty, tattered clothes, he wants to tie her up, but I step in. I give the order.

And the two holdings her tight rip her clothes off in one swift jerk. The rich layers of fabric rustle at her feet as she stands there quite naked.

I want to look away.

I want God to protect me from the sight of that unclean body, but God has betrayed me. He has left me alone with a hunger in my soul that cannot be satisfied.

“Why have you forsaken me,” I whisper.

The executioner waits. Waiting for instructions on what to do with her. Which pain device to choose for her?

But I remain silent.

I sense nothing but the body. I’ve seen naked women before. Watching from afar as the executioner tries to exorcise the devil from the witch, I’ve felt nothing but revulsion.

Now God is testing me.

I see her beautiful face. Full lips, perfect. I imagine those lips leaning down to my crotch just moments ago, and I start to shiver. I see her slim shoulders and arms. Breasts more graceful than they’ve ever fallen out of a bodice on me.

My hand itches in a cruel desire to touch those breasts. Squeeze a nipple, and rub it. To caress that softness. Embrace the whole curve in my palm, and adjust to it.

I bite my tongue and try to stop shaking.

I fail. I keep staring at her.

Her flat stomach heaves as jerkily as her chest.

And my eyes finally slide to her lap. To the fine hairs between which the devil’s bedmate’s womb shines.

I can feel it.

The inwardness of womanhood. I feel it for the first time, but I know it with certainty.

My knees buckle, I lean against the bench behind me and give the command.

The Executioner’s henchmen grab her arms violently and lock her in metal cuffs hanging from the ceiling. It clicks loudly, and she arches in pain.

First time.

The hands pull her entire body upwards, making her round breasts bulge even more. They are even more enticing in their wickedness. She tries to stand on tiptoe to relieve the burning pain in her shoulders.

I nod to the executioner, and he takes up the reprimands, spreads himself, and the tangled pieces of skin with thorns fall on the woman’s back.

She screams.

“Again,” I say.

Another blow and the sinner arches her back, tangles on her tiptoes and lets out a long, agonized wail.

So similar to the ones I used to hear from the bedroom when I hid in her closet, that’s when her husband visited her and lay down on her bed with her.

Her nakedness glistens in the candlelight and nothing can overpower her beauty. Suffering seems to have added to it.

My suffering.

The longing in the groin beneath my cassock is still rising, insistent. I sit down on the edge of the bench, cross my hands in my lap, and try to push the sinful nastiness down. Destroy it.

She comes back into my hand even firmer, harder.

A moan escapes my throat and I nod to the executioner, who delivers another blow to the naked body.

The sin-ridden vessel of pleasure writhes like a snake. Like a beautiful, glossy snake, scented with femininity and hard nipples on swaying breasts.

“Again,” I whisper, continuing to press against my crotch. I take the elongated thing under my dress in my palm and try to tame it. I grunt, my eyes misting over and I blink, not taking my eyes off the devil’s harlot.

She screams. A wail now comes from a throat that must have whispered Satan’s name into the night. She begs me. She pleads with God.

I hate her.

And that is why I must punish her.

“More!”

Another blow lands. This one is for never returning my longing gaze. She ignored me. I didn’t exist for her.

Now she sees me.

Oh, now she knows about me. I’m everything to her. I’m the one who can stop all this.

“More! Push! Do your job properly!”

The executioner buckles, takes two steps back, and with a slight start, hits the naked back again with the bloodied reprimands.

This one is for fornicating with a young stable boy. She screamed at that, she shouted, it’s so easy to confuse the moans with the screams she’s letting out with each blow now.

Her shoulders have given up, hanging now in their restraints slightly off the ground, and her legs parted in mid-air, exposing her wickedly wanton wet hole to me.

“That’s enough,” I run over to the executioner and snatch the reprimands from his hand. I brace myself and strike the treacherous sinner hard. With my other hand, I grip the throbbing hardness firmly beneath my cassock.

A scribe sits at a desk in the corner, paper ready, ink dripping from his pen. He writes nothing. I ask no questions, so no confession comes.

I have Anabel in front of me. Her shiny nakedness is under my hands. I don’t notice the open wounds, I touch her cheeks, and my finger goes between them. I touch the hairs, my fingers are so close to her sinful sanctuary. I whisper her name as I penetrate her with my index finger. The slut tightens wetly around my finger, and I feel a powerful pulse, and then I lose myself in the pleasure that floods me.

From my last throes of rapture, I strike her again, then drop to my knees and there, beneath her legs into the folds of her rich dress, the devil’s seed spurts out of me in several streams.

It cleanses me.

It drives the temptation out of me. My strength leaves me, too, and when I think it’s over and I go to my Lord for eternity, washed clean of sin, I take a deep breath.

I get up.

I straighten my cassock and gently caress the cross on my chest.

I walk away with only one more murmur behind me. “Let her burn at dawn.”

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