Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XXXIV. All That Was And All That Will Be

A/N: Warning – violence and non-consensual torture.

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Pain. It was – and always would be – the daughter of suffering, and fostered by this innate, insatiable need to punish the wicked. For most people, pain is just a temporary dull; a throb you breeze through. But for Macbeth, pain had such more intimacy. He liked flirting with pain more than the average being; loved the feeling of ripping the flesh from someoneʼs bones, loved seeing how pain could make any strong and sturdy man mindless and mad with need. And with every slew of pain, it was an orgasmic combination; torture and pain in a dingy, dimly-lit backdoor office, fashioned for his delight.

In the shrillness of the night, Marcella screamed...

And the pain was glorious.

"Let me go! Let, me, go!" she thundered through clenched teeth, struggling against the wall. In the backroom of the club, Macbeth had the bolted Marcellaʼs thumbscrews that glued him to the wall. As electric currents that surged through her, just as he was promised, Marcella hung limply from the desiccated wallʼs panels and sobbed – the splintered wood jutting through her skin. Bronze with the jealous envy of the sun, light curls lavishing every edge of pulpy, muscly meat that the chimera scarred her with. Eyes that were soft and warm, but poetic in their maroon anguish. Macbeth stood back, got a hand of his crafty work, and watched Marcella beg.

"Please, I donʼt know anything," she sobbed. "Iʼm just here on a college visit, I swear. Do...do you want money, sir? I can give you money, please–"

"That mouth will get you nowhere, my dear," Macbeth chastised, tskʼing.

  "Please," Marcella choked, shuddering breaths wracking her petite body. "Please. My mom has money. We have money."

"Please–"

   He clutched her; his fingers digging into her gums. She gasped, flailing and undulating and crying and sobbing against him, and that pushed him to tighten his grip around her. To feel her pulse skip against his fingers; to feel her throat bob against his cupped palm, to feel her muscles scrape against his callouses and for the pressure to dig into her skin as the meat dug into his. Marcella winced, grimacing against him, and let out a staggering cry when he let go. Her body tightened; a steel band writhing in pain when she doubled over, crying.

    "Oh god," she belched, sobbed.

   "Iʼve killed women biggerʼn you for less, sweetheart," Macbeth crooned, tongue poking out of his mouth as he stifled a laugh.

  "The chains are Illyrian steel, forged from the flames of Cnut the Greatʼs maeshowe dragons. Iʼm sure youʼre familiar with them, mʼdear, so, if you make a sound, I will rip your bones from your flesh and wear it as a necklace ʼround me neck with them."

Macbeth ground his teeth together.

"I have done more than pay for the privilege of chopping you into itty-bitty pieces, so you speak when you're spoken to, Marcella."

She nodded wordlessly, tears licking her neck as groaned against the panels of wood, glaring.

  "Now," Macbeth mused. "Where is Marjorie?"

   When Marcella went silent, Macbeth spat. Spraying her cheek with bloodied saliva and the anger that welled up inside his core, and when he slammed her head back, he choked her. Her pulse jackhammered against his fingers, her throat clenching in pain. Crying out, Marcella squirmed against his grip and gasped, the veins protruding from her head straining against her skin, and as Macbeth choked her – he screwed. Screwed the thumbscrew into her skin: onto her stomachʼs edges, the pads of her fingers, onto her feet.