A Piece of The Sun

1. Noah's Arc

TW: Cruelty, Explicit Language and Mentions of Torture

Author POV

A Mid-Eastern heat bodied the entirety of the dimly lit dungeon, puddles of tepid water ripple on the generous cold concrete floor, offering relief to the unfortunate enslaved willing participant, and blood-pumping sultry music fills the ears of giver and receiver alike, inducing the preexisting trance. A world a night in drugs. 

Hell existed in the bottom of a cold heart in a house that resided in New York where the devil danced and committed his every favorite sin away from the ignorant or uneducated eyes. His hips moved influx to every beat, following the ebb and flow of his anatomical undying heart, as his soul remained unfeeling, neutral, and yet excited as he stalked toward the unfortunate buxom box-dyed redhead. 

She shuddered in half-mocked fear, reminding herself in the lockbox of her mind that she had signed the NDA, she wanted this: Time with him. And for him, he'd not one care, this was a Friday night for him and she'd been so lucky to spend a lot of Sundays with him. Her juices collected between her legs and mucked underneath her ass on the steel chair. 

He walked akin to a panther if she wasn't too sure he was one, or a skinwalker to say the least, his hips dictated the way he strode toward her, one bare pale foot before the other, wearing a sly, wry nearly blase smile upon his perfect rose pink lips, not once did the smile reach his eyes. Naked, twice baked in the head, and sadistic, cold behind the eyes. 

He saw right through her of course, reading her for filth: Knowing every cent behind her scattered brain and heaving breasts, that she remembered she is under contract and when he is done lash for lash that she will be able to leave then. "Jasmine," He purred.

Poor Jasmine's eyes had been tracked on him but only then when he called on her, truly, did she meet him and her soul spoke in lieu of her body. "Master," she answered. Sweat poured in droplets off her hardened, bruise-forming peaked nipples, dribbling down her stomach, highlighting her soft wavy stretch marks. 

He whipped across her breast, effortlessly, earning her another lash when dissatisfied with her careless answer. She failed and it had been six months, surely she knew already that was the wrong answer, when he addressed her so patiently, personally, and admirably, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. Jasmine squeaked, yelping in the chair, and jumped, nearly enough to send her flying back if she hadn't watched her ass. "What did I do?" Jasmine asked, sputtering through her gritted, bloody red lipstick teeth. 

"Wrong, wrong, wrong," He tittered. He was right of course, not that she knew it, he wanted her to know she was wrong and for her not to have done it or ever been wrong before. He wanted to be understood and seen through, as easily seen as he had seen right through Jasmine. Jasmine wasn't stupid, she was just unfortunate. She wouldn't have another choice after this. 

The devil turned a full shade numb, still keeping his limestone-toned skin instead of turning its unusual shade of blue, composed, he unexpectedly dropped his brown leather whip from his balmy hand. "Jasmine?" He tests her name on his tongue as if for the first time ever, his Alcatraz steel gray eyes bore into her soul, darkening and affixing to his mood. He stood there, still waiting for some kind of absolution. 

"Noah." She answered. 

Every cell once locked, opened. Every safe is cracked. All the doors now opened. 

He always felt so cold, that is why the dungeon felt like hell for them, so they could sweat and tell him the truth and go mad, telling him what he needed to hear. He can't be lied to. His mother lied to him for the first ten years of his life, and then more lies by his birth mother, he'd make sure he was never lied to again and for another ten years, the love of his life lied to him about how she felt and turned her back on him for a close foe. This was his only salve, his only blanket and protection, no matter how severe it came.