Another short chapter which will give a bit more detail into the main characters. I hope you enjoy it, and please, don't hesitate to tell me what you think, in a comment or a PM.
“Cana, my love, do you like to sing?” He asked. His eyes looked over her body. He had had her washed earlier in the day. His three assistants had marched into the room, in the wake of a great white light that had burst on, illuminating everything and nearly blinding Cana. They grabbed her and tore off her shirt, and pulled off her jeans, and underwear, then brought out a bucket of soap and water.
No, they're going to rape me now... Cana thought with terror, as she felt her shirt being pulled away with the terrible rip. Gang rape ws the word that went though her mind. As her eyes adjusted gradually to the light, she could see the handsome faces of her male captors. They all looked like Dante, only darker, a tanned complexion lay upon their faces.
The men did not waste any time in what they did. They grabbed the naked young woman and doused her in one bucket of soapy water. The water stung her eyes for only a moment, and then was replaced by the sensation of squishy sponges slipping and sliding along her soles.
“YAAHAHAHAAA!!” Cana roared as she wriggled her toes and pulled her feet toward her, only to have them yanked back out as the sponges slid up her legs and down her arms. Scrub after laughter inducing scrub and squeak after agonizing squeak Cana rolled on the floor, flailing her limbs wildly as she bucked and stiffened up, relaxed and then broke down into laughter once more.
“I think she likes it,” one of the Dantesque men hissed villainously.
“I'd agree, but there isn't evidence D'Artagnan,” another of them said. “For, ticklish laughter has no more to do with mirth than a baby's grimace has with love.”
“Please stop talking, we must contiue to wash the woman,” the third of them said. He parted her legs and washed between them and then grabbed another bucket of water. Dousing her with more water while the others brought out spraying hoses.
Dante stood on the roof of his mansion, looking out over the forest that surrounded it. The mansion was placed on a hill, a massive one made of mostly rock and dead trees compacted in dirt. He played his mandolin as he spun about on the roof playing a dark melody, his eyes shut and his expression deep with a fearful passion.
“You need to stop playing that fucking violin you stupid boy!” The pale woman said to the little boy who sat on the floor, his right cheek red with the woman's hand imprint. “Why the Hell are you even here? You never do anything but sit around and play that fucking instrument!” She stormed out carrying the aforementioned instrument in her left hand.
“But...But God Mother,” Dante stuttered. The woman spun to face the little boy.
“I am going to stop this once and for all.” She said as she raised the instrument above her head.
“No! Give me my violin!”
“You spend too much time playing this damned thing!” She said as she smiled villainously while wiggling the violin.
“My violin, give it back!” Dante wailed.
“No, you'll never get it back.” She hissed maniacally as she swung the instrument down at a diagonal angle and smashed it against the post of the doorway. Dante stood in horror as the instrument broke in to a hundred pieces with a great twang. His dark eyes reflected the fragments s they clattered to the floor. For a moment there was silence as Dante walked forward and knelt to pick up the fragments of his instrument. His bottom lip trembled and then he let out a long, sorrowful, eldritch which was cut short by a swift kick to the guy by the god mother. He tumbled into a corner, curled into a ball, and wept.
Dante's eyes flashed open as he felt the tears again. He looked at the ground below and contemplated hurling himslef from the roof, to the road below. He considered the amount of pain he'd receive at each impact his skull made on the eaves, then the earth itself. He often contemplated the idea of suicide.
She never liked my music...he sighed. I hope she hears it in hell.
He pushed the door open and saw Cana before she shrieked. He stepped toward her, watching her hanging there, her breasts dangling, jiggling due to gravity's pull from below, and her elastic cells from above. He smiled. The scent of organic lavender soaps filled his nostrils as he inhaled then exhaled the darkness.
“Cana my love,” said with utmost curiosity. “Do you like to sing?”
“I do not,”
“Of course you do.”
“No, I do not.”
“You study, among other things, Opera at the University of the District of Columbia.”
“What?” Cana was horrified that this person knew this about her. “How do you know this?”
“I know because I am gifted with this knowledge.”
“You have been stalking me.”
“No.” Dante looked her in the eyes, half hidden in the darkness. “But let us return to my prior inquiry shall we?” He traced his finger along the young woman's bare hip tops. Her low rise jeans had been purposefully left unbuttoned. Seeing this, Dante buttoned them. “Do you like to sing? And don't omit the truth this time, you know I know much abour toy.”
“Yes,” she said wirh a sigh. “Yes I like to sing.”
“Opera?”
“Yes.”
“Contralto?”
“Soprano, but you know that already don't you?”
“Of course, I just wanted to--”
“To see if I would lie.”
“Oh you're such a clever young student.”
“That's why I'm in Georgetown.”
“But you could be in Harvard.” There was silence. “Tell me, Cana, what is your favorite opera?”
“Does it have to be american?”
“Of course not.”
“Madame Butterfly.”
“Ah yes. Madame Butterfly. Such a beautiful piece. I prefer Tristan and Isolde. However, to each their own no?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
Darkness was the water that filled the world Marie floated in. She felt it lapping at her, pressing her lungs, squeezing the breath from her body, she felt it rush in waves past her face, down her throat, into her nostrils, it was an ocean of it. An infernal sea of darkness, and in it predators of desire, wishing to pull her down, but none coming close to her. None molesting her. Except those wicked demons she arrived with. And they lived now both within her dreams, and without. And she could feel them through the icy waves, coming closer, at lightning speed; soon they'd be at her heels, and then they'd be at her hips. She swam away, but she could not escape them. She knew, for they came at all sides. They were like Langoliers. But they don't devour eternity. They couldn't. But they could touch for eternity. And their touch, their stroke, their every menacing carress, was electrifying and horrifying at once. And Marie knew it wasn't long before before they had her.
In infinitely less time than it takes a neural pulse to race from the lowest nerve end on the body to the brain, Marie contemplated surrender, and then banished the thought. Cana had always said, “Never give up, and never surrender.” So she continued to swim, though her work was in vain. The beasts in the darkness were at her heels, then they grabbed her hips, and then latched their gripping fingers along her ribs. Another hand grabbed her right foot, lifting it out of the water, followed by another grabbing her wrists and holding her beneath the darkness.
And then she felt it, rough fingers crawling with gargalene intent about her ribs. Marie couldn't laugh or she'd drown, she knew it, but the sensations the fingertips caused as they explored her ribs made the idea quite tempting. And then her mind detected another finger, sliding along her now bare sole. Dancing along the wrinkles and tormenting her ticklish toes. Marie couldn't stand it anymore. She burst into roaring cackles and shook and flailed her hands and feet wildly as the dark hands pranced around her beautiful body. She felt the darkness rushing into her lungs with each laugh, and was gripped with fear of death as the icy sensation filled her chest.
The three Dantesque men held Marie down as they poked and prodded the young woman from Oxford. She arched her back and twisted her head right and left. She roared with unchained laughter, and much to the young men's delight. One man dug deeper into her ribs and underarms and relished in the beautiful melody that sprang from her lips.
“Hahahaha...HAAAA HA HA HA HAAA!!!!” Marie was obviously explosively ticklish. And the men wondered in unison, if Dante knew this, and then, f they should tell him.
“Tell me about your first love...” Cana said, in an attempt to evade the inevitable as she watched Dante as he loaded the record of Madame Butterfly onto the player. It was an old fashioned one, with the large brass horn on the end.
“Her name was Parvati,” he said as he placed the record on the turntable. “She was far lovelier than you. And she never wanted to live in the land she came from. Of course, this was in the days when the British had begun colotnizing India.”
“What?” Cana said in disbelief, “b-but that's...”
“Over a century ago, I know.” he turned to face the hanging young woman. “But now that I think bout it, she looked a bit like you, but her face was far more angular, and her eyes, far more dazzling than your's.” He pulled from his shirt pocket, a delicate white feather, about three inches long. “She and I were in love from the moment we umped into each other. It was quite a special relationship, as she herself was an untouchable of Mumbai, and I was of a noble family of British-Italian ancestry.” He brushed the soft feather along the bottom of her right breast. “Oh, we had so much fun together. And she had a peculiar delight, some would say. She enjoyed being tickled quite a bit. It was her ecstasy one might say.” The record began playing. “Until one night when a group of hateful Hindu men and women came and bore her away.”
1817, Mumbai India,
Dante stood before a wall in his house where a beautiful woman stood. She was unwrappng a long garment made of a bright colored fabirc. It was given to her by Dante. Her skin was a dark brown, his skin a healthy pinkish complexion, they both smiled with happiness in their hearts.
Moments later, she is on a bed, holding her stomach as Dante walks his fingers along her abdominal muscles. Her wide smile is accompanied by throaty laughter. Her eyes never leave Dante's as they stare at each other. Their favorite opera playing on the floor below, Euridice.
As Dante is stroking Parvati's bare feet, holding her from rolling onto the floor; the door to his room bursts open, and two men, one yellowish, another very dark burst in followed by two women and a child. The men punch Dante in the face, and the chest, then cast him out the window. The women take Parvati and drag her out of the room.
The men and women and child get into a poorly made carriage and ride down the road, Dante struggles to his feet, having landed in the garden beneath his window. He find his leg is broken, and falls again.
“Parvati...” he whispers.
The next day there is a commotion in the next district, as the body of a woman is found hanging from a tree. The worst is confirmed as Dante sees his love, dead.
“Her throat was slit, my dear,” Dante hissed, “her eyes were gouged. Not out, just punctured multiple times. Blood filled her hair, and a terrible flap of skin hung on her chin.” He seemed to be una ble to bear the memory. “But make no mistake my dear, I do not think you are my lovely Parvati, incarnate. Oh by no means.” He laughed softly at the idea. “I know you aren't her in any manner, or form.” He held the feather up again. “But, I know that you are the descendant of the only survivor of my wrath, and that is only because I could not find her.” he stared at her with great hatred. His next words were spoken softly, and it chilled Cana to the bone because there was no emotion in them. “You, my love, are the sole descendant of the sole child of the Govinda family, which extinguished the flames of my heart's desire.” A moment passed that seemed like an eternity for Cana, staring into Dante's dark, pitiless eyes; eyes offering no remorse, no sensation of amusement. It was frightening to Cana, who was now learning more about the past than she had ever wanted to know.
“What are you going to do to me?” Cana asked bravely.
“Now,” Dante said as he drew the feather up her trembling tummy, “I will make you sing.”
J.C.
Coochie Coochie
The Giggle Collector
Chapter Three
M.C. Laphar
“Agh!” Cana screamed as the door to her cell opened. The loud squeal of the doorway on its hinges pounded in her ears. She could see Dante as he walked inside. She was no longer standing upright. She now hung from the ceiling. Her limbs held up from the force of gravity by the heavy chains which linked her to the cold metal ceiling. Dante's shadow stretched along the floor and then along the wall, like a dark hand .reaching out to embrace her.The Giggle Collector
Chapter Three
M.C. Laphar
“Cana, my love, do you like to sing?” He asked. His eyes looked over her body. He had had her washed earlier in the day. His three assistants had marched into the room, in the wake of a great white light that had burst on, illuminating everything and nearly blinding Cana. They grabbed her and tore off her shirt, and pulled off her jeans, and underwear, then brought out a bucket of soap and water.
No, they're going to rape me now... Cana thought with terror, as she felt her shirt being pulled away with the terrible rip. Gang rape ws the word that went though her mind. As her eyes adjusted gradually to the light, she could see the handsome faces of her male captors. They all looked like Dante, only darker, a tanned complexion lay upon their faces.
The men did not waste any time in what they did. They grabbed the naked young woman and doused her in one bucket of soapy water. The water stung her eyes for only a moment, and then was replaced by the sensation of squishy sponges slipping and sliding along her soles.
“YAAHAHAHAAA!!” Cana roared as she wriggled her toes and pulled her feet toward her, only to have them yanked back out as the sponges slid up her legs and down her arms. Scrub after laughter inducing scrub and squeak after agonizing squeak Cana rolled on the floor, flailing her limbs wildly as she bucked and stiffened up, relaxed and then broke down into laughter once more.
“I think she likes it,” one of the Dantesque men hissed villainously.
“I'd agree, but there isn't evidence D'Artagnan,” another of them said. “For, ticklish laughter has no more to do with mirth than a baby's grimace has with love.”
“Please stop talking, we must contiue to wash the woman,” the third of them said. He parted her legs and washed between them and then grabbed another bucket of water. Dousing her with more water while the others brought out spraying hoses.
Dante stood on the roof of his mansion, looking out over the forest that surrounded it. The mansion was placed on a hill, a massive one made of mostly rock and dead trees compacted in dirt. He played his mandolin as he spun about on the roof playing a dark melody, his eyes shut and his expression deep with a fearful passion.
“You need to stop playing that fucking violin you stupid boy!” The pale woman said to the little boy who sat on the floor, his right cheek red with the woman's hand imprint. “Why the Hell are you even here? You never do anything but sit around and play that fucking instrument!” She stormed out carrying the aforementioned instrument in her left hand.
“But...But God Mother,” Dante stuttered. The woman spun to face the little boy.
“I am going to stop this once and for all.” She said as she raised the instrument above her head.
“No! Give me my violin!”
“You spend too much time playing this damned thing!” She said as she smiled villainously while wiggling the violin.
“My violin, give it back!” Dante wailed.
“No, you'll never get it back.” She hissed maniacally as she swung the instrument down at a diagonal angle and smashed it against the post of the doorway. Dante stood in horror as the instrument broke in to a hundred pieces with a great twang. His dark eyes reflected the fragments s they clattered to the floor. For a moment there was silence as Dante walked forward and knelt to pick up the fragments of his instrument. His bottom lip trembled and then he let out a long, sorrowful, eldritch which was cut short by a swift kick to the guy by the god mother. He tumbled into a corner, curled into a ball, and wept.
Dante's eyes flashed open as he felt the tears again. He looked at the ground below and contemplated hurling himslef from the roof, to the road below. He considered the amount of pain he'd receive at each impact his skull made on the eaves, then the earth itself. He often contemplated the idea of suicide.
She never liked my music...he sighed. I hope she hears it in hell.
He pushed the door open and saw Cana before she shrieked. He stepped toward her, watching her hanging there, her breasts dangling, jiggling due to gravity's pull from below, and her elastic cells from above. He smiled. The scent of organic lavender soaps filled his nostrils as he inhaled then exhaled the darkness.
“Cana my love,” said with utmost curiosity. “Do you like to sing?”
“I do not,”
“Of course you do.”
“No, I do not.”
“You study, among other things, Opera at the University of the District of Columbia.”
“What?” Cana was horrified that this person knew this about her. “How do you know this?”
“I know because I am gifted with this knowledge.”
“You have been stalking me.”
“No.” Dante looked her in the eyes, half hidden in the darkness. “But let us return to my prior inquiry shall we?” He traced his finger along the young woman's bare hip tops. Her low rise jeans had been purposefully left unbuttoned. Seeing this, Dante buttoned them. “Do you like to sing? And don't omit the truth this time, you know I know much abour toy.”
“Yes,” she said wirh a sigh. “Yes I like to sing.”
“Opera?”
“Yes.”
“Contralto?”
“Soprano, but you know that already don't you?”
“Of course, I just wanted to--”
“To see if I would lie.”
“Oh you're such a clever young student.”
“That's why I'm in Georgetown.”
“But you could be in Harvard.” There was silence. “Tell me, Cana, what is your favorite opera?”
“Does it have to be american?”
“Of course not.”
“Madame Butterfly.”
“Ah yes. Madame Butterfly. Such a beautiful piece. I prefer Tristan and Isolde. However, to each their own no?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
Darkness was the water that filled the world Marie floated in. She felt it lapping at her, pressing her lungs, squeezing the breath from her body, she felt it rush in waves past her face, down her throat, into her nostrils, it was an ocean of it. An infernal sea of darkness, and in it predators of desire, wishing to pull her down, but none coming close to her. None molesting her. Except those wicked demons she arrived with. And they lived now both within her dreams, and without. And she could feel them through the icy waves, coming closer, at lightning speed; soon they'd be at her heels, and then they'd be at her hips. She swam away, but she could not escape them. She knew, for they came at all sides. They were like Langoliers. But they don't devour eternity. They couldn't. But they could touch for eternity. And their touch, their stroke, their every menacing carress, was electrifying and horrifying at once. And Marie knew it wasn't long before before they had her.
In infinitely less time than it takes a neural pulse to race from the lowest nerve end on the body to the brain, Marie contemplated surrender, and then banished the thought. Cana had always said, “Never give up, and never surrender.” So she continued to swim, though her work was in vain. The beasts in the darkness were at her heels, then they grabbed her hips, and then latched their gripping fingers along her ribs. Another hand grabbed her right foot, lifting it out of the water, followed by another grabbing her wrists and holding her beneath the darkness.
And then she felt it, rough fingers crawling with gargalene intent about her ribs. Marie couldn't laugh or she'd drown, she knew it, but the sensations the fingertips caused as they explored her ribs made the idea quite tempting. And then her mind detected another finger, sliding along her now bare sole. Dancing along the wrinkles and tormenting her ticklish toes. Marie couldn't stand it anymore. She burst into roaring cackles and shook and flailed her hands and feet wildly as the dark hands pranced around her beautiful body. She felt the darkness rushing into her lungs with each laugh, and was gripped with fear of death as the icy sensation filled her chest.
The three Dantesque men held Marie down as they poked and prodded the young woman from Oxford. She arched her back and twisted her head right and left. She roared with unchained laughter, and much to the young men's delight. One man dug deeper into her ribs and underarms and relished in the beautiful melody that sprang from her lips.
“Hahahaha...HAAAA HA HA HA HAAA!!!!” Marie was obviously explosively ticklish. And the men wondered in unison, if Dante knew this, and then, f they should tell him.
“Tell me about your first love...” Cana said, in an attempt to evade the inevitable as she watched Dante as he loaded the record of Madame Butterfly onto the player. It was an old fashioned one, with the large brass horn on the end.
“Her name was Parvati,” he said as he placed the record on the turntable. “She was far lovelier than you. And she never wanted to live in the land she came from. Of course, this was in the days when the British had begun colotnizing India.”
“What?” Cana said in disbelief, “b-but that's...”
“Over a century ago, I know.” he turned to face the hanging young woman. “But now that I think bout it, she looked a bit like you, but her face was far more angular, and her eyes, far more dazzling than your's.” He pulled from his shirt pocket, a delicate white feather, about three inches long. “She and I were in love from the moment we umped into each other. It was quite a special relationship, as she herself was an untouchable of Mumbai, and I was of a noble family of British-Italian ancestry.” He brushed the soft feather along the bottom of her right breast. “Oh, we had so much fun together. And she had a peculiar delight, some would say. She enjoyed being tickled quite a bit. It was her ecstasy one might say.” The record began playing. “Until one night when a group of hateful Hindu men and women came and bore her away.”
1817, Mumbai India,
Dante stood before a wall in his house where a beautiful woman stood. She was unwrappng a long garment made of a bright colored fabirc. It was given to her by Dante. Her skin was a dark brown, his skin a healthy pinkish complexion, they both smiled with happiness in their hearts.
Moments later, she is on a bed, holding her stomach as Dante walks his fingers along her abdominal muscles. Her wide smile is accompanied by throaty laughter. Her eyes never leave Dante's as they stare at each other. Their favorite opera playing on the floor below, Euridice.
As Dante is stroking Parvati's bare feet, holding her from rolling onto the floor; the door to his room bursts open, and two men, one yellowish, another very dark burst in followed by two women and a child. The men punch Dante in the face, and the chest, then cast him out the window. The women take Parvati and drag her out of the room.
The men and women and child get into a poorly made carriage and ride down the road, Dante struggles to his feet, having landed in the garden beneath his window. He find his leg is broken, and falls again.
“Parvati...” he whispers.
The next day there is a commotion in the next district, as the body of a woman is found hanging from a tree. The worst is confirmed as Dante sees his love, dead.
“Her throat was slit, my dear,” Dante hissed, “her eyes were gouged. Not out, just punctured multiple times. Blood filled her hair, and a terrible flap of skin hung on her chin.” He seemed to be una ble to bear the memory. “But make no mistake my dear, I do not think you are my lovely Parvati, incarnate. Oh by no means.” He laughed softly at the idea. “I know you aren't her in any manner, or form.” He held the feather up again. “But, I know that you are the descendant of the only survivor of my wrath, and that is only because I could not find her.” he stared at her with great hatred. His next words were spoken softly, and it chilled Cana to the bone because there was no emotion in them. “You, my love, are the sole descendant of the sole child of the Govinda family, which extinguished the flames of my heart's desire.” A moment passed that seemed like an eternity for Cana, staring into Dante's dark, pitiless eyes; eyes offering no remorse, no sensation of amusement. It was frightening to Cana, who was now learning more about the past than she had ever wanted to know.
“What are you going to do to me?” Cana asked bravely.
“Now,” Dante said as he drew the feather up her trembling tummy, “I will make you sing.”
