Riddle the Ripper

Warning: This is an extremely graphic chapter. Words cannot describe how cruel. To a serial killer, “murder” and “possession” are interchangeable phrases.


CHAPTER THREE: POSSESSION


Kicking her flats off, Ophelia reposed on top of the iron bedstead expectantly.

The prostitute rested a hand over her bony hip, the other twirling the curly ringlets of her hair, all the while gazing seductively at handsome Tom Riddle.

In one sweeping motion the wizard unclasped the silver fastenings of his cloak, letting it fall dramatically. He pounced onto the bed.

Riddle surveyed Ophelia with an inscrutable expression for several moments. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking.

His dark eyes glinted and he spoke sternly, “You shall call me 'Master' at all times and obey the commands I dictate.”

He waited for a reply. Ophelia laughed lightly thinking this to be a role-play, just like the games she’d played with other client’s many times before.

“Oh, yes master,” she answered, sweetly defiant.

His eyes narrowed at the apparent ease Ophelia had with submission. The atmosphere changed subtly. Riddle did not savor how his first order was regarded.

Riddle moved his prostitute from the sideways pose, laying her flat against him.

Ophelia could feel Riddle breathing down her chest, towards her supple, ripe breasts. He kissed with ferocious eagerness, from the forehead to the pouchy cheeks, and then her lips. He proceeded to her average-sized bust.

Ophelia kept raising her curly head, trying to do some of the snogging, wanting to taste his succulent lips. It was near impossible. Riddle would not allow a share of the control. The alert acuity was startling. Ophelia surmised there was not a chance to gain dominance. She would have to be totally submissive.

At her busts, he rapidly massaged them with his palms. Ophelia sighed peacefully, her nipples stimulated.

His large hands crept past to her torso, kissing the stomach and giving a final kiss: an intentional peck on her belly button.

But suddenly, Riddle grabbed her toes of both feet, and he spread her legs upward.

He fingered the vaginal tissues, stimulating a healthy dose of masturbation. Finding the clit, he pinched it. Ophelia shrieked with surprise. Yet, quick on the uptake, she enthusiastically voiced, “Thank-you, Master!”

She continued to produce the clear, syrupy liquid of female masturbation. Riddle did not want his prostitute to have comfort during intercourse. Making slurping sounds, he consumed her wetness.

“Now little witch…take your wand out and insert it all the way in. The incantation for temporary infertility,” he whispered.

Ophelia gaped at him silently. She shook her head.

Then sputtered, “Mr. R-Riddle…I’m not a w-witch. I am a disowned-“

“Squib!” he interrupted, seeing it through Legilimency, now she was thinking about it, he knew. He inwardly thought he should have probed her mind completely earlier.

Riddle’s eyes flashed red for a second. He jabbed his wand, plunging it inside her opening, and sneered, “You lied to your Master, filthy squib!....But no matter....”

He inserted his wand, penetrating inside her pussy. Ophelia’s scream pierced the air of the soundproof chamber. It felt like a knife, especially because she wasn’t wet.

Meanwhile, he did the incantation, non-verbally for infertility, still grasping the handle, several inches of the wand inside her.

Then just as harshly, he jerked the yew wand out.

A high ringing laugh ensued. Riddle’s hands darted to Opehlia’s lips, pressure mounting against the gums.

“You’re going to decay into a corpse after tonight, Ophelia,” Riddle said quietly, cruelly. That cool breath of his caressing her ears.

Ophelia shivered involuntarily. Riddle saw a vision of her pale visage, currently plastered with make-up, morph into a hideous skull.

She wondered if he’d gone mad, or maybe he was only pretending. She decided not to risk it, “P-please, sir. I want to stop. I had enough, we can d-do something else, Mr. Riddle. Don’t hurt me, sir!”

It was exactly what he wanted to hear: the squib begging him for mercy, for life!

Still donning his suit, Tom Riddle puffed his chest out imperiously, and made a gloating smile, “Ah, Ophelia, my pet. We have only just begun, and you shall pay for that memory lapse. You forgot to call me, 'Master'.”

And at that, Riddle swiftly flicked his wrist.

Thin, flaming magical ropes binded the smooth, youthful hands at the midriff, the skin searing.

He undid his tie and Ophelia looked onward for one more fleeting second, before he gracefully wrapped it over her hazel-green eyes.

Unbuckling his belt, Riddle pulled his pants down to his knees along with his briefs. Adoringly, he stroked his huge dick. It was like the King of Serpents to the Heir of Slytherin. Pre-cum oozed. To him the crème of the crop, being, as he believed, the most powerful Dark Wizard alive. He continued to lazily stimulate his penis, whilst he monolouged to Ophelia. She listened hard, straining to hear every sound, her other sense's heightened by the blind-fold.

“I’m going to destroy you, worthless squib. You remind me of my mother. You see, she was a slut just like you. Submitted herself to a muggle fool to gain his affection. It was a love potion she gave my father….But first, I will control you…completely.”

He towered over her small frame, and his cock sunk into her vagina. He banged in and out with a timed rhythm.

Soon Ophelia, who had managed to become calm, moaned pleasurably. Her entryway was widening, turning a velvety red.

Riddle noticed this, and instantly, denied the squib orgasm. Then, his wand all the while in his hand, he bellowed, “CRUCIO!”

He watched for sheer amusement, the corners of his mouth curling, as his prostitute writhed on the bed. Torturing her was the real reason he enjoyed intercourse with victims.

“MERLIN,- help me!” Came a typical, agonizing cry for help.

Tom Riddle threw his head back. “Merlin?” he questioned incredulously. “I am the one and only authority, the Master. I, the one whom the world will call by title, being the greatest sorcerer. No…. Master does not show mercy.”

He being 'Master' as he called it was the absolute truth in Tom Riddle’s mind, because he considers his true identity to be Lord Voldemort.

He watched the prostitute writhe again. Finally bored of the screams that had been arousing him before, he relinquished the Cruciatus.

Leaning close, he gently peeled the blindfolds off. Ophelia stared up, appalled at the pitiless eyes, only wishing to find an ounce of remorse where there was none.

He pointed with his wand down to his balls, showing it off to intimidate her.

“Let’s see…” her Master said more to himself. “Yes…On your stomach!” He commanded.

“Oh, Master…. Please,” Ophelia dared plea for comfort.

He did not respond, but waited staring at her, becoming more infuriated the longer she hesitated to obey him.

She submitted to him, struggling to turn her body over. It was difficult with hands bound in searing ropes below her chest.

He started to pump his cock with vigor through her anus. Ophelia, maneuvered herself to the leap frog position, which she happened to enjoy immensely.

Riddle continued, until he found his long fingers quivering with delight.

His hands like large pale spiders found their way under Ophelia’s boobs hanging out the tube top. Riddle squeezed the pair of nipples like pincers, pinching so that the nipples were almost coming off. Her flowery nipples burst open with the sweet nectar of milk, so that it drizzled down her top.

“Oh! Do stop, sir! Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop….”

He made the decision to end rather abruptly. Dragging the woman by the arms like a sack of flour from the bed over to the armchairs by the fireplace. Ophelia’s hands grappled, trying, even though it was hopeless to escape.

Riddle sat down like on a throne, spreading his legs out. His mistress was on the stone floor, gazing upwards imploringly.

After several seconds, as he was marshaling his thoughts, Riddle undid the ropes binding her hands.

“Pour me a goblet of wine, Slave,” he ordered right after. Ophelia glowered at him, angry because the bottle was right next to him. But the prostitute did as ordered; relieved he wasn’t torturing her anymore. She bent down, picked the bottle up, and then took the goblet, filling it to the brim.

Without a shred of gratitude, Tom Riddle took the goblet in his hands. He waited for the sweating and shaking to subsume, allowing her to calm down. He’d wait a just a bit more before he would kill the thing.

“Entice me with a strip tease,” he announced.

He waited, dark eyes fixed over his goblet, planning to sip when his slave started. Ophelia bit her tongue, and looked away, she meekly spoke, “No,...Master.”

Frustrated, Riddle raised his wand and quipped, “Imperio!”

Observing the haziness and blankness overtake the squib’s eyes, he told Ophelia, “Strip down!”

She instantly unbuttoned her tube-top and Riddle watched taking measured sips. She slowly pulled the tinny black miniskirt to the ankles. She had not been wearing a bra or knickers.

“Hands behind your back.” Ophelia assented.

Riddle set his goblet down and said imperiously, “Bow to the Master. You’re to suck like it’s a pacifier, Cunt.”

Understanding what he meant, Ophelia mindlessly bent over, ignoring muscles stretching painfully. She rather enjoyed this activity as a prostitute, so it came naturally under the Imperius. She looked up at Master, locking her eyes with his, seeing he was enjoying it too. He watched the little frame sticking out before him, the back arched with a cute rump raised, and the neck straining.

After a minute, Tom Riddle was growing steadily weary of the sensation, and Ophelia was nearly choking, his cock was so far down her throat. He pushed her away, and removed the Curse.

“I had to resort to the Imperius Curse, to force my slave to obey me,” he reported, lacking affect.

Ophelia’s face burned with deep shame, and he clucked his tongue like a displeased Schoolmaster.

In one sweeping motion, the handsome Tom Riddle had her over his lap.

She clung to his leg in desperation, embracing the shins.

“What a silly, naughty girl,” he cooed sarcastically.

Expecting a harsh punishment, Ophelia flexed her plump lobes perched across his knee. The prostitute knew from experience that she was in for a good spanking.

But punishment was prolonged; instead Ophelia felt her buttocks being kneaded like they were dough about to be baked.

“Did you forget I said you’d become a corpse, Ophelia?…”

He lazily raised his right hand. The spanking was executed with precision. Ophelia’s doughy buttocks were singed, burning hot.

She began to sob and he teased, “Oh, look…crying…. I think it’s about time for you to leave.”

He grabbed a fistful of those raven curls by the scalp and shoved her off his knee. He jumped up and made her to stand as well.

He raised that long, yew wand, and she was flung against the wall. Ophelia landed as Riddle had planned, on iron spikes nailed to the wall. They dug into the flesh of her back, blood spurting.

Tom Riddle edged forward and jammed one last time into her vagina. Ophelia was conscious; her back feeling like it had been bludgeoned by an ax. It was pain beyond pain. For besides the bloodied backside with the severely spanked rear, there were bruises and creaking joints, seared wrists and a seared midriff, torn, leaking nipples, sore insides from the brutal sex, with an exhausted Crucioed body and an Imperiused mind to boot. She thought, she actually hoped he would finish her.

He fucked her one last time in standing position, the prostitute’s legs wrapping themselves around his from a reflex reaction.

Just as he reached the consummate ejaculation, Riddle triumphantly yelled, “AVADA KEDAVRA!”

There was a jet of green light and Ophelia Sinistra was jolted to death. That was all there would be to the life of that prostitute, the unlucky target of Lord Voldemort.

Riddle glimpsed the lifeless hazel-green eyes, feeling maximum pleasure. His hunger for dominance satisfied, he licked his lips. Smacking them, he murmured a moan of desire, thinking how he was going to dismember the body.

He ripped the leather choker off the body’s neck, and the head tilted down.

He turned away from the macabre display.

He placed the choker with the serpent etched in the middle on his dresser. It would serve him as a sentimental memento.

“Accio skull!”

A skull he’d been keeping from the shop zoomed through the air and Riddle erected it, marking it like a crown over the head of the corpse. It signified the murder scene. Then with his wand, he siphoned the remnants of blood and semen, as normally as if it was the routine for clearing up one of his experiments. The evidence disappeared into oblivion.

Riddle extracted his latest victim off the rungs of the spikes and disapparated to his cave. The very cave where he’d terrorized two fellow orphans as a ten-year-old.


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