The author narrates.
The footsteps echoed with an ancient weight.
They weren't hurried.
They were inevitable.
Each tread on the stone floor seemed to mark the rhythm of a ceremonial drum.
The corridor of rooms stretched like a spine between the walls of the bar.
There, souls surrendered to rest, to punishment, or to pleasure.
Some slept to forget.
Others to remember.
And a few… to be transformed.
A sign hung above one of the doors, carved in dark wood: "The pleasure of sleep"
—23 silver coins. Standard room.
Right next to it, another sign glowed with colored lights, as if it were breathing:
"Sex and Lust"
—50 gold coins. VIP Room. Everything included.
The silhouette advanced.
Large.
Dense.
As if the air parted before it.
Some shadows retreated against the walls.
Others stared at it with burning eyes, a mixture of desire and reverence.
He didn't stop.
He just walked.
Until he reached the door marked with the number VII.
There, he stopped.
He turned the handle.
And went in.
*
The room welcomed him with a warm breath.
The air was heavy.
Not just with heat.
But with something denser.
A scent of sweat, of skin, of moans that still vibrated off the walls.
The smell of untamed desire.
Of pleasure without conscience.
In the center, the round bed.
And on it…
the body.
Vikram rubbed himself against the sheets, panting, moaning, clinging to the pillows as if they were his only anchor.
His skin glistened with sweat.
His back arched with every movement.
And his breath was a broken song, a wordless plea.
The figure moved forward.
The light from the candelabras revealed its form:
An Executioner.
Another one.
Different.
But with the same pyramidal mask. The same silence.
It approached the bed.
It observed the small, exposed, vulnerable body.
Not with lust.
With intention.
It smiled beneath the mask.
Not out of tenderness.
But for amusement.
Out of anticipation.
Its task was not to punish.
It was to execute.
And to please.
In that order. Or at the same time.
He extended a hand.
Large.
Cold.
And placed it on Vikram's forehead.
Not violently.
But precisely.
Because what was coming next…
would not happen in the flesh.
But in the dream.
Where the body could not lie.
And pleasure…
was a sentence.
—⊰[💤]⊱—
The full moon hung motionless over a field of damp grass, dotted with pale flowers that seemed closed by the cold.
Everything was bathed in a silvery light, soft yet relentless, as if the entire world were suspended in a breath.
A melody floated in the air.
It didn't come from anywhere.
It simply… was.
As if dreams had a soundtrack.
The wind blew slowly, carrying with it an icy breeze that brushed against the skin like curious fingers.
There were no shelters.
No trees.
No walls.
Only fields.
Only sky.
Only him.
Vikram.
His body lay there, stretched out on its side, his back slightly arched as if he were still asleep.
But his brow was furrowed.
His lips were parted.
And a slight tremor ran through his legs, as if his skin knew something his mind hadn't yet recalled.
A low groan escaped his throat.
Not from pain.
From discomfort.
As if the ground felt too real to be a dream.
He sat up awkwardly, placing a hand on the grass.
His fingers dug into the damp turf, and a shiver ran down his arm.
He sat up.
Naked.
Confused.
His eyes, still heavy, scanned the landscape.
Stars.
An enormous moon.
And a field that stretched beyond what was visible, as if the horizon refused to close.
He blinked.
Once, twice.
And he looked down.
That's when he saw it.
His own body.
Exposed.
Naked.
Vulnerable.
And for a moment, he was…
stunned.
It wasn't exactly surprise.
Or shame.
It was that feeling of having been thrown onto a stage without knowing the script.
As if someone else had decided for him.
His skin itched.
Not from allergies.
But from the touch of the grass, from the cold, from the sudden awareness of being so… exposed to the world.
But he didn't get up.
He didn't cover himself.
He didn't scream.
He just interlaced his fingers in the grass.
He squeezed it.
As if he needed to feel something firm.
Something that wouldn't fall apart.
He took a deep breath.
The air was clean, but it didn't calm him. He closed his eyes.
And for a moment, he thought he had found peace.
But the silence wasn't innocent.
It was a mirror.
And things began to be reflected in it.
Memories.
Not as images.
But as sensations that seeped through his skin.
The first Executioner.
The second.
The weight of a body on top of his.
The heat.
The long tongue that slid across his mouth, stealing his breath.
The caresses he didn't ask for.
The pleasure his body couldn't resist.
His back arched slightly.
A spasm.
A tremor.
As if the memory were touching him again.
And then, Bi.
Her voice.
Her eyes.
The words that sounded sweet, but tasted like a trap.
Vikram opened his eyes.
His breathing had quickened without him realizing it.
And he thought, without moving his lips:
"Now I remember… this isn't real.
Where am I exactly?"
But he didn't get up.
He didn't scream.
He just stayed there.
Breathing.
As if his mind still didn't know what to do with a body that had already begun to react.
He sat for a few more minutes, his fingers still digging into the damp grass.
The wind caressed his bare back, and the moon was still there, motionless, as if watching over him.
There were no paths.
There were no signs.
But something inside him—a silent intuition, an impulse without origin—told him he had to move.
He stood up.
Naked.
Fragile.
But determined.
He took a step.
Just one.
And then his body broke.
A spasm shot through his abdomen like an electric shock.
His legs buckled without warning. He fell to his knees, gasping, his eyes wide open.
And then…
his body gave way completely.
He collapsed onto the grass, sideways, then on his back, as if something inside him were forcing him open.
His chest rose and fell violently. His fingers twitched.
His thighs trembled.
And the pleasure…
came.
Not like a caress.
But like a hot wave engulfing him from within.
An urgency he didn't understand.
A need he hadn't chosen.
Vikram: What… what's happening to me? —he whispered, but his voice was lost in the wind.
Her right hand slid down his torso, without his command.
It grazed his chest, his abdomen, his hip.
And each touch was like fire.
As if his skin were made of exposed nerves.
His body arched.
His heels dug into the ground.
And a groan escaped his throat, deep, involuntary, almost animalistic.
"No… I don't want this…" he thought, but his body wouldn't listen.
The heat was unbearable.
His skin was sweating, even though the air was still cold.
His member throbbed, hard, glistening, dripping continuously.
And he…
he could only tremble.
He brought both hands to his face, as if trying to cover his eyes.
But his hips kept moving. Rubbing against the floor.
Seeking friction.
Seeking relief.
Vikram: Why do I feel like this?
Who did this to me?
But there was no answer.
Only his breathing.
Only his body.
Only the relentless pleasure.
And there he remained.
Writhing.
Moaning.
Touching himself for no reason.
As if sleep were devouring him from within.
And it wasn't over yet.
Lying on the grass, panting, eyes closed, body still trembling.
He hadn't come.
But his body remained ablaze, as if climax were a suspended promise, always on the verge, always denied.
His hands moved over his torso, his ribs, his neck.
They weren't seeking pleasure.
But they found it.
Each touch was a spark.
Each caress, a betrayal.
"Vikram: Stop..." he whispered, his voice breaking.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
His body arched with each exhalation, as if breathing from his pelvis.
As if the very air excited him.
He tried to get up.
It was difficult.
His legs wouldn't fully respond.
But he gritted his teeth, dug his fingers into the ground, and forced himself to stand.
He was trembling.
Not from the cold.
From something deeper.
More urgent.
He began to walk.
Slowly.
Each step was an effort.
Not because of the terrain.
But because of what he felt.
His right hand, as if it had a will of its own, began to descend.
It brushed against his abdomen.
It went down a little further.
And he stopped it.
Vikram: No… I don't want to… —he murmured, his eyes wide—. Why do you want this?
He clenched his fist.
He brought it to his chest, as if he could deceive himself.
As if he could redirect desire.
But the heat was still there.
Pulsing.
Demanding.
He took a few more steps, with difficulty.
His body tensed.
His hard member brushed against his thigh with every movement.
And he ignored it.
Or tried to.
Then the memories came.
Fragments of pleasure.
Mouths on his skin. Tongues on his chest.
Kisses on his lips.
Soft hands that caressed him tenderly.
He smiled.
Awkwardly.
Almost embarrassed.
And without realizing it, his fingers slid down his side with more intensity.
As if trying to recreate what was gone.
But something else crept in.
Something he hadn't invited.
Images that weren't his.
Scenarios he hadn't imagined.
Him, face down.
Him, bound.
Him, moaning beneath bodies he couldn't fully see.
Shadows. Masks.
Executioners.
Touches that weren't his.
Whispers he didn't understand.
Rashes that made him tremble.
Vikram: No… no… I don't want to! —he shouted, bringing both hands to his head.
He struck his temple with his open palm. Once.
Twice.
As if he could erase the images.
But his body…
kept touching itself.
Not there.
Not quite.
But close.
Too close.
Vikram: Why do I feel like this? Why do I desire it if I don't want it?
His breath was a constant moan.
His legs, unsteady.
And his mind…
a cage of mirrors.
There he stopped.
In the middle of the field.
Alone.
Trembling.
With his body ablaze and his mind at war.
And the dream…
continued.
Relentlessly.
Without pause.
The wind changed suddenly.
It was no longer a breeze.
It was a breath.
A breath that came not from the sky, nor from the earth, but from someone else.
Vikram opened his eyes.
The field was still there.
The moon was still.
But now… there was a shadow.
Tall.
Dense.
With a pyramidal mask gleaming in the silvery light.
The fourth Executioner.
He wasn't walking.
He wasn't moving.
He just was.
And yet, the air trembled around him, as if the whole world were breathing with him.
Vikram fell back on his knees, his body still ablaze, panting.
He wanted to speak.
He wanted to scream.
But his voice broke in his throat.
The Executioner raised a hand.
Large.
Cold.
And the field responded.
The flowers burst open, exhaling a thick, intoxicating perfume.
The grass grew damper, stickier, as if it wanted to trap him.
And Vikram's body… arched.
Not of his own volition.
By decree.
The Executioner said nothing.
He didn't need to.
His presence was enough. His silence was an order.
Vikram trembled.
Pleasure coursed through him like invisible chains.
And in his mind, a voice that wasn't his whispered:
"Don't fight.
Don't deny it.
Just feel."
That voice frightened him, since he hadn't expected it; it wasn't coming from him.
He continued writhing with pleasure, touching his body with his hands, trembling, feeling that liquid fire inside him... the Executioner didn't take his eyes off the human lying on the damp grass, not because he saw something interesting in that body, but because he was testing him. He was curious to know how far Vikram could go with the excitement coursing through his body and how he would face what was about to happen.
Vikram began to feel uneasy about the pleasure he hadn't asked for, about the heat he felt in his body. He clenched his fists tightly and began to rise from the ground, a few moans escaping his lips. He let out soft, sometimes hoarse, gasps.
The executioner was somewhat surprised by the human's resistance.
When Vikram finally saw him completely, he didn't back down.
His chest rose and fell forcefully, not from effort, but from that damned pleasure he felt throughout his body, as if he were being pleasured from within.
He closed his eyes tightly when he felt a stronger tingling in his intimate area, one that urged him to touch himself, to release what he held back. But he refused, he denied it.
When he looked at the executioner again, he saw that the man's head was tilted, as if he were examining him. Vikram didn't like that; it bothered him even more. So much so that he took the first step, and the executioner didn't flinch, didn't move, only watched how the human would react.
Vikram approached him, his legs threatening to give way, but he resisted the urge, knowing that if he allowed himself to savor this pleasure, he wouldn't be able to continue.
He took one step, then another, getting closer to the executioner who observed him like a fascinating sculpture.
Vikram's fist rose in rage, charged with strength and a desire to be free.
But before he could unleash it, the world responded.
A sharp, dry crack pierced the air.
It wasn't a natural sound.
It was the sound of an immense pane of glass shattering from within.
The field, the moon, the flowers—everything fractured.
The lines of rupture spread like luminous veins across the sky and the earth.
And in an instant, the entire scene exploded into a thousand fragments.
The pieces floated around him, suspended, shimmering with silvery reflections. The images in those fragments showed the landscape where Vikram had been, only scattered. And in the distance, on another piece of glass, was the moon, shining for the last time before disappearing into the darkness.
It was as if the dream had become a broken mirror, forcing him to see all its contradictions at once.
The ground vanished beneath his feet.
The damp grass was gone.
Only a dark, deep, infinite void remained.
He was suspended in mid-air...
Vikram held his breath.
His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum.
And then, gravity claimed him.
His body began to fall.
Fast.
Violent.
The icy wind lashed his bare skin as he descended into the darkness.
Shards of glass accompanied him, swirling around him, slicing through the air with flashes.
Each piece that passed close by showed him a different image:
—His own hand trembling.
—The sweat glistening on his abdomen.
—The Executioner watching, head tilted, like a judge who needs no words.
Vikram screamed, but his voice was lost in the void.
The echo did not return.
Only silence, heavy, absolute.
Above, the Executioner stood. Immutable.
As if beneath his feet there were an invisible floor, solid, eternal.
He floated in the darkness, his pyramidal mask gleaming in the reflections of the crystals.
He did not move.
He did not extend his hand.
He only watched.
As if the falling human were nothing more than part of the judgment.
An experiment.
An inevitable fate.
Then he vanished into the darkness, and the broken fragments that accompanied Vikram disappeared until he was left alone in the darkness.
___________________________________
.░▒▓█Episode completed█▓▒░.
Those who know, know!
Wow, it's been a long few weeks since my last update (chapter updates don't count).
I can't promise to update as often, since I had a serious problem with my story editor partner, and I'm honestly a bit disappointed.
So if you notice a change in the narrative and it's not very clear, that's probably why. Just letting you know, in case.
Would you give me your vote? It's the motivation I need to publish the next chapters of Vikram and the Executioners.
Thanks for reading!
💤[-☘️-];