Out on a Limb

In the Twilight Hours

It was well after four o'clock when Constance eased her toned and tanned body into a warm sitz bath to alleviate the pain around the opening of her vagina and swollen labia. Donald had been particularly attentive to her pubic mound and clitoris this evening, but virtually everything below her waist and above her knees ached for one reason or another thanks to his raucous ministrations.

She lightly examined the bite marks that hadn't quite broken through flesh (and those that did), and as most people were wont to do, she sadistically tested out the various fingerprint-sized bruises forming across her inner thighs. She matched up her own hand to the darkening circles and squeezed, at once triggering memories of how they occurred and feeling herself rouse, her body trying to lubricate itself, then subsequently burning as a result.

She winced at the discomforting pleasure of it and shut her eyes for only a minute, not daring to close them for too long lest she fall asleep altogether and catch a chill in the cooling bath.  She moved her finely manicured fingers back and forth through the current she created and then gingerly reached between her legs and spread the folds of her femininity to allow the healing waters into every part of her.

She couldn't resist stroking her clitoris, out of curiosity at first, and then out of pleasure secondly. Fire and lightning seared her core, but she persisted until she climaxed and was  momentarily blinded by the flash of release that nearly made her scream out in agony.

This private moment of self-pleasure wasn't a new one to Constance; she had been here before and she knew she would be here again. She also knew if she cried out too loudly she might awaken the sleeping beast in the next room, so she quickly grabbed a washcloth and stuffed it in her mouth, then went back to the source of her pain and stroked at herself again. Once, twice, three times more until another sharp orgasm ripped through her and gave her the release she craved.

Without any fanfare, but with all of the innate confidence of someone who has been fit and beautiful their entire life, she stepped from the rounded tub and covered her skin with extravagant creams and oils that professed to speed up the healing the process. In reality they did nothing more than make her skin tingle and smell exotic, but this gave the illusion of effectiveness and assured any frugality she may have possessed that its five-figure price tag was appropriate.

She paid careful attention to the tenderest parts of her womanhood during her ministrations, and reminded herself that she needed to place one of her homemade ice strips on her mound to complete her healing routine (and several more over the next few days judging by how swollen everything was).  A few ice chips rubbed on her clitoris and tucked inside of her vagina wouldn't hurt either; the freezing sensation typically sparked additional micro-orgasms (a plus any woman would welcome), but melted before they could do any damage like burning her already tender flesh.

Her bathroom routine now complete, her skin glowed as if it were lit from within. She slipped into an authentic Japanese silk kimono robe Donald had given her following his last trip to Japan (stripped from the massacred body of an authentic Geisha no less) and pinned up her hair in a careless chignon that made her appear far younger than her actual age.  She chose her steps carefully as she left the bathroom, even though her path kept her well out of earshot and the luxurious carpet muffled any sounds she could possibly make with her light footfalls. She slipped out of the room as she had done on many occasions, and quietly left the master bedroom to be guarded by her ravenous beast and his satiated lust that still hung in the air.

Constance's steps were quick and light, and she followed her usual path down the hall and winding staircase, across the formal entry and past the receiving room until finally she ducked into the kitchen through the butler's pantry and headed for the oversized fridge and freezer.

Her body was ripe and raw from lovemaking, and just as she hoped, placing an ice cube against her swollen flesh triggered another round of orgasms. She braced herself against the island opposite the freezer and glided the melting block back and forth as spark after spark popped inside of her until the tiny block of pleasure melted away to nothing more than chilled droplets running down her thighs.

Afterwards she removed a container from the freezer, opened it, and quickly withdrew two strips of cloth, tucked them into her panties as a liner, and placed the container back in the freezer.  It held a dozen or so more strips of cloth that had been soaked in water and then frozen between layers of parchment paper, their very quantity suggesting this was a practice she had completed many times over. The numbness of the ice strip would wear off quickly enough and leave an uncomfortable, if pleasurably moist heat behind, and would likely have to be repeated several more times as part of her therapeutic routine.

Given Donald's appetite tonight, she simply must remember to remind Greta to make more. (When Greta inquired curiously as to their purpose on one occasion Constance told her outright they were for her swollen lips — Greta had looked her square in the eye and laughed uproariously and claimed the notion to be ridiculous. Her mouth was beautiful just the way it was.)

The final steps of her therapy now complete and traces of her actions wiped away, she shut the lights off in the kitchen and retraced her steps back the way she had come. Through the butler's pantry. Passed the hallway leading to the staff quarters. Round the corner that intersected to either wing of the house and back in front of the stairwell just long enough to listen and make sure her beast slept on.

Constance didn't go back upstairs to Donald's side but instead kept on her path (one she had also taken many times) and walked over to her husband's private office area without so much as a pause. She let herself into the forbidden room and took a minute or two to admire its masculine grandeur and the smell of the wood and leather all around her. Rich walnut panelling covered the walls and reached all the way up to the fourteen foot ceilings; leather bound books lined shelves like a picture out of some glorious library from the 1700s. Knick-knacks that cost a fortune were also scattered with strategic precision about the room, and Constance couldn't help but go over to Don's desk and touch an item here and there, then smile with maternal pride at the nonsensical sculpture little Alex had made for his father that was now displayed so prominently for everyone to see.

It was a wonderful room to be in, but it was Don's private sanctuary, and that was something she highly respected and never violated (at least while he was awake).  She spent several more minutes admiring books on the shelves, running her hand across the heavy navy curtains hanging over the windows, and paging through items left on his desk (but meticulously left the way she had found them). She toured the room with the same worship-like ritual she always felt, and ended the rites of her ceremony with the most sacred and reverent stop of her pilgrimage on her knees in front of the concealed safe in the floor.

She took her time turning the dial on the combination, and as always each tick! tick! tick! of the knob sent her pulse racing, her insides rolling, and made her slick with desire. She spun the dial repeatedly so it whirled like a merry-go-round and once satisfied she easily entered the three-part combination (found on a work order left on his desk and assumed never to be seen by eyes other than his own) and opened the safe to reveal the forbidden jewels inside.

Constance had an incredible memory and organizational skills came hand-in-hand with the talent. It meant she could sit at the dining table and tell little Alex which side of which drawer his favourite pyjamas were in, and she could tell the gardener how many rows in and back he needed to go to address a specific section of her roses. She could tell Greta which shelf the squid ink pasta would be on and how full the cardamom jar was, and she could remember each of the souvenirs Don collected from his kills and which order they were placed in within his treasured floor safe.

Constance knew all of the souvenirs and the victims they belonged to, even the ones collected before her and Don got together. Some had taken months, even years to match up and identify, but patience and determination were strong virtues of hers, and in time she pieced together the whole of her husband's life through the forty-nine people he had tortured, burned, dismembered, stabbed, strangled and tortured to death.