Virginia - Vol 07

[Content:] Dark magic, transformation, Victorian, mild bodily horror, group, voyeur, doll, backstory, lore

[CW:] n/a

[Spice Level:] Medium hot

[Notes:] Though there are sexy bits in this section, this is mostly a window into Mme. Scarlet's past and how she became a demon. The first section is backstory though the end has some pretty fucked up doll sex. Enjoy, you freaks.

[Summary:] As she sleeps, Madame Scarlet has a dream of her beloved. We learn about her past as a human in 1800's France & the series of unfortunate events that led her to become a demon.

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[This volume is narrated by Mme. Scarlet]

My beloved visits me again. The dream is much the same. It begins with the bells of Montmartre, ringing out to announce the sunrise. They are my eulogy.

Chrysanthemums hang from baskets lining the cobbled streets. I make my way over to the façade marked "Médecin." She is in the third room today, half asleep in the far corner, coughing profusely. The doctor wears a leather face covering, causing some of the children to recoil in fear. I wonder if the mask truly serves to protect him or whether it is simply superstition. He checks each of the children for lesions, pox or other markings while allowing me a seat in the corner.

Eventually, he pulls the leather mask from his face and addresses me.

"Mademoiselle, she won't make it another week. I would advise you to keep your distance, as we don't yet know --"

"She's my daughter, doctor." I reply strongly. He pauses and his expression softens.

"I've done all that I can do for her here. It is no use." He sighs resolutely, "Perhaps some fresh air would do her good. Take her out to the country. See how she fares."

Despite the risks, I walk my child out of the ward. Her hand is warm, too warm -- dotted with tiny red pustules. The scarlet fever is taking her from me.

As evening approaches, we journey out to the hills beyond the city and I sit with her beneath an old oak tree. Her eyes meet mine, radiant and green. We lie beneath the tree, carving stories into the clouds. Then, her green eyes close and her breathing becomes shallow. How cruel that eyes so full of life could be made to shut so soon.

Panic. The same panic. She is slipping from me and I cannot reach her.

"Please, please!" I scream, shaking her. My head arches skyward, "Let me keep my daughter. I just need more time. If only the scarlet fever could abate a while. Please, please."

Tears cascade down my cheeks. I hurl profanity at the gods. I implore them, I curse them.

Suddenly, roots of the oak tree snake towards my daughter's fragile form. The roots weave around her, encasing her in whorls of wood.

Horrified and awestruck, I watch as my beloved becomes a sculpture of herself, perfectly still. A wooden doll. The roots retreat, leaving me with what remains of my daughter. "Ma chèrie, speak to me. Speak to me, please." But it is no use. I understand. The scarlet fever inside her has subsided. But she is no longer human. She is hollow. Gone.

My grief consumes me. I reach my fingernails into the soil, sobbing, convulsing. I hardly notice as tiny black tentacles rise from the earth like spectral worms drawn to the surface after rain. Perhaps they are basking in my tears. The small creatures reach up at first, then begin to crawl up my knees. The dark worms cover my body, and I do not stop them. My sobbing continues, unabated. The miniscule creatures coat my body, then and begin to fill my orifices, burrowing into my mouth, my ears, my nostrils. I do not care. Let them have me. Without my beloved, I am already dead.

As I weep, rage fills the hollow space in my chest. My vision glows red, the color of blood, the color of the scarlet plague that took her. My hand still caresses her lifeless cheek instinctively. My fingers grow long and pointed. Sharpened twigs -- extensions of the oak tree. Otherworldly power seeps into me as I scream, wail, mourn. She is hollow. She is gone. Gone.

--

At first, I search for a cure. I test the boundaries of my magic, cursing wandering strangers and binding their souls to cursed objects. They are transformed - becoming marionettes, porcelain dolls, wooden figurines. I quickly learn that my power is in making dolls, not in unmaking them.

"My beloved, I will bring you back," I think helplessly. It is more of a plea than a promise. As months become years, my hope ferments, turning to spite. I know in my heart that she is gone. My child will not come back to me.

"If I cannot bring her to me, then I will become a scourge upon humanity. I will take them, one at a time, just as she was taken from me."

My grief and rage find direction as I explore the quartier of Le Moulin Rouge. Drunken silhouettes stumble homeward nightly. I wait outside the cabaret halls, pushing my breasts high in a silk maroon bodice. Dragging on a long cigarette, I wait for the shows to end, then welcome drunken vagrants into my arms.

I find some pleasure in fucking men before I transform them into dolls, though I quickly grow tired of their prickly thighs and primal smell while luring them home. Androgynous victims are more enticing. I feel some connection to them, living outside the rigid expectations of the world. I know what it is to be cast aside.

But above all, I find the highest reward in women. Fewer of them frequent the cabaret shows, but enough are drawn to exchange words with me after a show. Those words are their last.

Petticoats upheld by a lattice, breasts bound, frilly hats veiling feline eyes. These women are like me, and yet they are not. My transvestite body has always been seen as different. Since I knew I can never be what society wanted of me, I am free of shame. The creatures that I bring home, however, wreak of timidity. Such women have been conditioned to be meek and quiet. Even the cunning ones, the ones who discover the nature of my game, speak proudly to mask deep insecurity. One, a mademoiselle from Bordeaux, asks me, "Can I at least powder my nose before you kill me?"

I laugh scornfully. "My dear, of course you may. And I won't kill you. That fate is much too plain for a beautiful creature like you. Instead, you will unravel for me."

--

The cellar is getting full. Marionettes line the far wall. Porcelain dolls lie beneath them, and a couple of wooden figures are slumped in the corner by the wine barrels.

Every night, I place them in a circle surrounded by candlelight. I set their lifeless arms behind them and position their painted eyes towards the center. In the middle of the room, I burn sage, rosemary, jasmine. Apothecaries insist such aromas are cleansing. To me, they are an invitation. They stoke the fire of my passion.

One by one, I take the dolls from their places on the periphery and fuck them in the middle of the room. Their artificial skin bends to meet my cock, which becomes dark and strong as I transform. When my vision grows red, I lose my restraint. I thrust into the dolls with impossible strength, often breaking their delicate bodies. But I don't care. My playthings are exhilarating.

Shining porcelain vaginas hug my cock like nothing else. The dolls with penises even leak ever so slightly as I fuck them from behind. When they do, I collect their pre-cum with my finger and rub it over their lifeless lips.

As I fuck my dolls one at a time, the others watch. I am surrounded by dozens of lifeless eyes that cannot look away. I can hear them - each and every one of my captives. Some hold their tongues, some beg to be released, some moan in satisfaction as I degrade the other toys. With each passing night, the cacophony becomes harder and harder to bear. They plead with me silently, asking to die, asking to be made human again. I cannot oblige them. So, I ignore their entreaties and bury myself inside their artificial bodies.