It's said that every work of literature has a message attached to it, even if that message is 'I have no message'. I'll be hoping that's wrong, because if it's right then I'm a very bad man. This story contains sex, violence and the combination thereof.
If you're under 18, go away.

For Lilith,
  By Bheid.

Cathedral of Blood. (M/F, NC, snuff, torture) 



I walked through the cathedral, not in uniform, trying to spare my jeans from the red splashes. The floor was covered in its perpetual blood layers. People think it's easy to make a puddle of genuine blood stay liquid; it's not, we have to add all sorts of anticoagulants. 

So I walked slowly through the puddles, dying my shoes (and socks) red. At least my jeans were faded blue still. I was going to meet Joseph, who was on the upper levels of the place.

I walked past the aqueduct system that carried blood instead of water. It carried it all the way down to the basement levels, where it would be carried back up by concealed machinery. The stairs were dry, because it was a safety regulation. I walked up them, leaving trainer marks which I would have to clean later. 

Joseph was wearing a bio-hazard suit, I recognised him only because his was supervisor blue, and was instructing several other suited men. I sighed, as I foresaw emergency duty coming my way. He was standing about eight feet away from the aqueduct, and was looking into the bloody depths of it. The men were carrying large nets, a single large net to two men. 

“Joe,” I said, “what's going on?” He turned around, and gave me a robotic look as his face was completely concealed by the mask. 

“Stupid bitch decided to jump into the stream. Drowned. The body's a bio-hazard,” a synthesised voice said; it captured the essence of his voice and the computer amplified its menace; it was a costume choice.

“That must of pissed our client off,” I said, shaking my trainers.

“He's the one who held her head under! Fucking cunt don't know how much contamination a body can cause. Anyway, we're going to grab the body, strip it of meat and viscera, and dump the bones back in. It'll probably amuse the twat who polluted my stream; that's all it's about, right?”

“Good luck with that. Hey, something's coming!” I said, pointing to the hole in the wall, which was the starting point for the aqueduct.

“Get ready, men!” the suit said. His men cast a net into the stream. They struggled as a load hit it, and then they pulled it back. Joseph examined the contents. “Is that a fag end? Who the fuck has been using my stream as a fucking bin?! Who the fuck has been smoking anywhere in this fucking temple?!” His men edged away. “All right...” He muttered, pocketing the fag end for evidence, “go clean the bones.” The men took the body and scurried off with it, to the very top floor, which was hidden. 

He strode over to me, his suit reddened, and grumbled, “we're probably going to have to drain the whole thing tomorrow, and Chelsea's playing.”

“Not enough time to do it today?”

“Nah, Client'll be here soon. Anyway, I'm out of here; going to go lift heavy things at the gym.” He said.

I nodded, somewhat sadly as my job was just beginning. He walked with me to the hidden upper level. When I slipped my ID card through a small slit in the wall, the wall slid to the left, exposing a staircase. I retrieved my card, and walked up. 

The upstairs was completely incongruent to the temple theme below; it was stainless steel and had the audible hum of machinery. The men Joseph had been bossing around were changing into their street clothes, which had splotches of red on them; it's an inevitability of the job. I think I have a pair of underpants that've been stained red at home. 

I said goodbye to Joseph, and walked to the surveillance room. The room had screens lining the walls, all broadcasting from hidden cameras in the temple. I was the head technician, which meant I played an angry god from my comfy swivel chair. I also administrated the camera feed.

We run a theme park for very rich people; the temple is an artificial construct littered with all sorts of high tech machinery, all hidden. The temple is of course dedicated to Lilith, the Dark Mother.

I sat in my swivel chair, pulled it forward and rested my feet onto the table. I reached into my desk, and pulled out a diet coke. According to the clock, I had fifty minutes to kill. 

The first monitor showed the entrance of the temple, which was rectangular and had the aqueduct system running on either side of the room, and at the very end it had a huge statue, which depicted a Egyptian-style crocodile-headed deity biting into the throat of a girl. There were no statues of Lilith, as depictions of her are extremely blasphemous; you can get your throat cut by drawing a stickman and labelling it Lilith.

Of course, the whole thing is covered in blood; saturated with it. Of course it was: we'd sprayed the walls this morning as sometimes it pools on the floor and leaves the walls clean. I opened the drawer again and took out a bottle. I swigged the whiskey, burning my throat. 

Soon, when the world was more malleable through the alcohol induced omnipotence, the time was worn out, gone, the ghosts I espied through my perception demanded attention.

The television screens weren't black and white and grainy, because that would have been so stupid some god would've smote us long ago if it was the case. Instead they were crystal clear and high definition, all the better for the recording: clients pay big money for a souvenir. A little red dot lit up under the entrance screen; which indicted the ride was starting.

A blonde woman timidly walked into the temple. She had clothes on, which was an exception and not the rule, and had the obligatory upside down V on her head, which signalled slavery. She had no shoes or socks on though, which meant she splashed through the blood of her predecessors in her bare flesh.

She took in the sanguine scenery with gasping horror, as you would. When she saw the man-crocodile at front, she did her best to walk to it without staining her feet too much; she failed on that account. She looked to the side and took in the morbid scernery of Joseph's river of blood, probably believing it to be merely coloured water. Everyone thinks that, but then Joe invites you to taste it, which makes you think again...

Now, the upper parts of the statue are cleaned of blood, and one of my jobs is to royally freak out the slave that beholds it. I pressed a button on the console, and blood started to seep out of the victim half of the statue, from the torn throat. It gushed, staining the statue for the Nth time, while she no doubt tried to remember which god she hadn't sacrificed to recently, and which one could be victimising her like this. Which one indeed.

She backed off, walking backwards until she slipped on the blood. She landed on her rear, totally ruining the fine silver dress she'd been wearing. It must have cost more than a hundred quid for that dress, which was probably pocket lint to the client who arranged it. I wished I had lint like that. She got to her feet, sniffed her soiled hands, and by the adorable expression on her pretty face, finally realised what it really was.

The door to the cathedral boomed open. The client was standing inside of it, wielding a hefty mace, which without spikes looked like a oversized maraca. He was also... naked. That was a first; they usually try to emphasise the hunt and not demean it. He was hugely built, and had probably lifted a lot of heavy stuff at the gym. His cock matched his frame, and was as stiff and as thick as a maypole. 

She saw him, stared briefly: he looked like the rapacious Zeus, and everyone knows Zeus always got the girl, and not by love, either. She fled up the stairs, gasping in fear.

He waved his mace around a few times, and strode to the stairs himself. I quickly clicked onto another camera. 

She ran to the secret entrance to my level, which she didn't recognise, thank the gods; that would have been awkward. He advanced slowly, prowling. His ankles were covered blood just by walking. She pressed herself to the wall, crying lightly. She was a small woman, and he looked like he could press her between two pieces of bread and swallow her whole, crusts optional. When he got to about six feet to her, she pushed his chest back, and tried to make a run for it back the way she came.

He would have none of it, and swung a mighty blow with his mace, striking her on the crown of the skull with a dull thud. Her bleached blonde hair became strawberry blonde with the addition of a head wound. Her feet swung forward as she was mid stride, and she landed head forward on the concrete.

He picked her head up with his monstrously huge hands, and squeezed her nose shut with two fingers. She gasped to breathe, and he took the opportunity to jam her throat with his cock. I could tell she didn't like that, by the way she was flailing with her arms and trying to punch his thighs. She couldn't exactly struggle very much though, as head trauma takes a lot of energy away. Her legs were kicking, but in that resigned way of a headless chicken.

He shoved it into her with renewed fury, and she threw up around it, mixing fetid yellow with the native red; it mainly came out her nose, however, as he never let up. He roared out load, mightily, and glared down at her. She was probably biting him. He pulled her all the way down on him, forcing more yellow bile through her nose. I could see his free fist drop the mace, and then roll into a tight fist. He was having difficulty not punching her, I saw.

He forced her up, and she snapped of a bit of his foreskin with her teeth. He tensed, as she took the time to spit out his blood, which was now drooling down her chin. He lent down to face, restraining her still with his hand, and took in his mouth the top of her ear. He pulled back. The scream forced me to wrench the headphones from my ears and turn the volume down.

He spat out the meat, and punched her face into the concrete with his rolled up fist, utilising all his pent up pain. His cock was covered in bites, and she'd broken the skin in several places down the shaft.

He grabbed her hair, and dragged her along the floor with it, she screaming and in bitter pain behind him, her nose all wonky. He walked down the steps, and her head cracked against the stones every time he went down one. He had pity, though, and started to drag her by the shins instead, so she wouldn't become dead through the head trauma.

He dragged her through the main room, and then he dragged her down into the solemn used chamber, through several other rooms. This chamber was neglected by most of our clientèle because it, well, it only had a strap-equipped table and several scalpels and knives. It hadn't been neglected by the maintenance team, though, who made sure the table had a nice even blood coat.

He dumped her on the table, and she tried to push him away, to get up. He pushed her head roughly back on, but she persisted even through the punishment her head had suffered. He took the leather neck strap with one hand, and with the other held her down. Finally, he had her, adjusting it a little too tight. He took a few punches to his chest and one to the groin before he got her hands, but he took them like a true follower of Lilith. Her feet were easy after that, as she sort of stopped struggling a little.

He took a scalpel from the blooded table. It was the number three, which was viciously serrated. 

He mumbled under his breath, but we had top quality hardware, “change the make-up change the hair, who are you now? Too many shells you wear and they are more than skin deep; they go beyond normality and etch themselves to your bones. I do this for you.”

Rather than immediately de-etching her bones, however, he cut away her silver dress, aready yellow and red, leaving her naked. She didn't like this at all, weeping in all that glory of the pit of despair only the bipolar or truly victimised experience.

He took a larger knife from the table, and then grabbed her hair. I zoomed in close, expecting a throat cut, but he merely cut away her hair. It used to be long, now it was short. She looked like a Barbie doll that had been ill treated by a mean older brother.

He went to her feet, and then stabbed the knife into her thigh. She screamed until she was hoarse; she must have been making herself thirsty, although her tears were near her mouth, so it was only a matter of time. He pulled the knife out, and a spray of blood hit his chest. He used this as soap, washing his chest and cock, and painting his face. 

He climbed onto the table, which was not advisable, because it could collapse under both their weight. He cupped the wound until he had a handful of blood, and then slapped it onto her cunt. He obviously took this as needed lubrication, because his next action was to rape her. 

He fucked her in a twisted mockery of the missionary position; her blood lathered between them, her breasts covered in it, as he rubbed his hairy chest on them. She didn't try to bite him as he forced his tongue into her mouth, her will no doubt broken through the agony and humiliation.

He took a knife from the table, and then drew it between them both. That was a bitch, since it meant the killing blow would be concealed from the camera. 

A sea of blood started to flow between them. He kept on fucking her, the blood covering them, allowing him to pick up speed from the added liquid. She just laid her head back and cried, no more screaming. He grunted and gasped, smiling inanely, showing off his pink foamed teeth. 

Soon he slowed, and I saw it took all his willpower to keep on fucking into her body. He was almost hyperventilating now, and his eyes shut. He collapsed completely onto her body, giving a wet splat from the blood. His arms fell from the side, and hung underneath their bodies.

His arms dripped blood profusely as they hung off the table. They... still gushed blood after a minute or two. And he still didn't move. He was also unbelievably white, and she was still crying...

Shit. I sprayed my chug of whiskey from my mouth, and picked up the phone. I dialled the emergency number.

“Dan?” A voice said, “is there a problem?”

I was cold sweating now, imagining consequences. “Some nutter's just killed himself up here! Looks like he slit his wrists!”

“...” the helpful voice said, “...are you sure?”

“Yeah! Well, pretty damn sure anyway. He's a corpse and she isn't. We are so sued!”

“Go make sure, and then call back. Can dead clients sue us?”

“Ok...” I said, breathing heavily, “their relatives can, I think.”

I went to check on the client. The girl plead for help, which indeed was awkward, and I just smiled politely and ignored her. The client had cut his wrists half off, and was dead.

And I liked my job, too.


