1713 06-84 Abandoned after serving her purpose
1715 06-84 Death is the only angel coming for you
PREVIOUSLY: Chastity has been completely deprived of vision, hearing, smell, and taste, disoriented with her hands tied behind her back and left lying on a platform knowing only that there is no way off it without risking death or serious injury. After provoking Esmeray beyond reason, and being rescued and temporarily restored to hearing by Channah, who explained Esmeray would be allowed to spend her rage on Penny, Chas is put back under. NOW:
Would they really let Esmeray hurt Penny? Not injure her—Chas couldn’t believe that. Because it would interfere with Channah’s mysterious plans. But cause her pain? Oh, yes.
It was one thing for Esmeray to take revenge on Chas. She’d expected it. Shite, for reasons Chas didn’t fully understand, she’d egged it on. Long ago, at grammar school, she’d discovered her ability to take pain was greater than others’, so much greater it gave her power against her bullies and could even make her an object of a twisted kind of respect. But Penny was, if anything, the opposite—more vulnerable than most. Weak, sensitive—easily hurt. And she who was the most susceptible, had done nothing to deserve what was coming to her. Chas felt bad, her cheeks reddening under her bonds with her shame. A sharp, unambiguous moral shame that didn’t feed into her dark side at all.
She tried to scream in frustration and rage, imagining what was happening to Penny right now because of her. She shook her head because it was one of the only things she could do, even as she felt hands taking hold of her collar. Angrily, impulsively, she pulled away from the hands, refusing to cooperate. And when they took firmer hold of her, she resisted all the harder, jackknifing and twisting her body over onto her left side to wrench away from them.
Now two pairs of knees dropped on her, one from each side—one on her shoulders, their owner fighting with her collar; a second dropping on her hips. Chas had the crazy thought that if she resisted hard enough, the hellspawned demons would all be so busy with her, they couldn’t hurt Chas.
When the person on Chas’s hips tried to seize her leg, Chas raised her knee sharply, jerking away and then kneeing that person in the arm or hand or somewhere, hard. At the same time, she tried moving her head and shoulders to deny access to her collar to the first attacker.
More hands seized Chas’s leg, two or perhaps three people wrestling to hold it still enough for them to do something they seemed intent on, with her ankle cuff; while the person kneeling on Chas’s shoulder shifted, so they had one knee on her shoulder and the other on her head, pinning it to the ground.
And now they had her, good and proper.
At her neck, fingers tugged and worked at her collar. At her ankles, fingers tugged and worked at her cuff. A second after that, the person kneeling on her shoulder started jerking Chas’s collar, not to get her to move—how could she?—but simply to hurt her and threaten her again. And at her feet—they’d attached her ankle to… something. A chain? And they were using it to force her right leg up in the air, away from her left leg.
Chas was so busy defending her neck and ankles she let her attackers realize before she did, that opening her legs had created a new and much worse vulnerability. The hard toe of a boot (Esmeray’s, she wondered? Perhaps hoped, meaning her ruse was working?) slammed into her crotch, causing her to flinch—ineffectively, because she could go nowhere, let alone defend herself—and scream—again, ineffectively, because she could not even make a sound.
She could do nothing to the world, or to her attackers, not even compete with the other noises she knew they could hear but that were denied to Chas—their own speech, the roaring of the sea of devils and demons, the madness of the band pounding on their drums and discordantly screeching on their strings. All she could do, was hurt. And this did hurt, in a really terrible way, causing her throat and stomach to clench and spasm with a reflexive urge to vomit. Which really scared her, because it shoved all her anger and frustration aside to make room for the sobering realization if she threw up in the mask, it would drown her. She could die.
Between the extreme pain, the shock, and the fearful reckoning, she was distracted and limp for long enough for them to work on her other leg cuff and finish whatever they were doing. A second later the knees lifted from her and even more hands rolled her onto her stomach and yanked her legs up behind her, bending her knees. Something was controlling her ankles, pulling them both, in the same direction and with the same amount of force. Something she eventually worked out was a bar securing her ankles at opposite ends, restraining both of them with one another but at a distance of about a yard from one another, making movement of any kind awkward. It also gave her attackers new leverage in the form of clear, solid purchase: something they could hold onto and force her to move with. And they used it to bend her legs at the knees until they could secure Chas’s wrists to the center of the bar.
At that point, effectively hogtied, they had Chas right where they wanted her. They didn’t have to hold her down any more: her body secured itself. She could no more easily move around, than a fish could maneuver itself after being taken out of the water.
Everyone climbed off her, then she was roughly picked up and unceremoniously carried, like a sack of potatoes, to wherever they were taking her. At one point she was almost thrown from the hands onto a metal surface—or wood, except she hadn’t seen any wood up here—but definitely too flexible and resonant for stone. Even her hips and shoulders could sense enough to know that. Then she was picked up again and moved a bit further.
Her anger and frustration had reasserted themselves as the pain in her testicles subsided from a blinding white agony to a grating throb. Now, just as they returned, like companions more reckless than Chastity herself, they were shoved aside again by panic at the realization that as far as she could tell, she was being carried in a more-or-less straight line on a platform that was very limited in size.
They must certainly be reaching its edge. She’d gone too far. She’d pushed them too far and they were going to throw her off it! It was a traitorous thought; a foolish one her mind tried to reason her out of: if they were going to kill her, why would the Queen of Hell have married her? Why would they have rescued her and raised her–?
But she was too close to the eye of the storm to quite believe she mattered. Chas knew. No one knew that better than her, she who was nearest of all to Penny, almost her twin, made to appear her twin without being it and remaining, instead, her pale shadow. Thank goodness, Penny didn’t know, the silly little cow! But Chas knew, how could she not?
Everything was about Penny. Channah was obsessed with her. The other succubae were focused on her—not lovingly, but in a dangerous way. Penny mattered. In her weakest moments (and this was one of them) it hurt her so much—scared her so much—that she only mattered to Channah, to their Governess, maybe to existence itself—because Penny did.
And that made her vulnerable. She knew it, of course she did. In her heart, she was afraid she only mattered at all, to anyone, because of Penny. What would happen when she outlived her usefulness? When Penny was… ready, or whatever she was supposed to be?
What if that was right now?
What if Chas had pushed the envelope too far, and Channah had decided to wash her hands of Chastity?
Maybe Chas had even given her a perfect excuse, the one she was waiting for, to tell Penny Chastity had deliberately caused Esmeray to torture Penny? If they wanted to get rid of Chastity without upsetting Penny, she might as well have issued them an engraved invitation.
They were going to throw her off the edge!
Literature Section “06-84 The Agony of Chastity”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 84 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)— 1360 words—Accompanying Images: 1713-1716—Published 2025-05-06—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.