The First: Door of Sacrifice
Martha rose to her feet, legs trembling beneath her. The aftershocks of pleasure still lingered in her body like ghosts—but the doors had no interest in lust. Not now.
They waited.
Four of them.
Each one humming differently. Alive. Breathing.
Something in her—a pull, a whisper, a flicker of forgotten instinct—drew her to the one that pulsed. Faintly. Like a heartbeat muffled beneath skin.
She didn't think.
She moved.
And the moment her palm touched the door's handle—
The world vanished.
Darkness again.
But not the same.
This was not the void.
This was intentional darkness—crafted, confined.
A sudden, blinding light snapped on above her, and she realized—
She couldn't move.
Her wrists and ankles were shackled to a cold, jagged chair.
The metal dug into her naked flesh like teeth.
Her arms trembled. Her legs quaked. A tight, coarse gag filled her mouth, strapped cruelly around the back of her head.
Her screams muffled. Her breathing shallow.
And then—the room lit fully.
And she saw them.
Children.
Boys. Girls. Faces familiar in ways she couldn't place immediately. From the world before. From reality. From parks... passing smiles... a bus stop... a café table beside hers... dreams.
Each child stood, shackled as well—at the edge of the room, eyes wide and wild. They looked confused. Terrified.
And above them... the ceiling opened.
Mechanical arms dropped. Tools hung. Buzzing. Whirring. Sharpened.
And then—a voice.
Deep.
Unfeeling.
"Martha. Choose." "Accept servitude. Submit completely. Pledge yourself to the will that waits." "Or suffer through the cost of hesitation."
Her eyes widened. She tried to speak, to scream, to beg.
But the gag silenced all.
She shook her head violently. Tears spilled. She thrashed, wrists tearing at the binds.
"One minute of silence is one child's agony."
The machines moved.
The first child screamed.
A saw dropped—slow, methodical.
Martha's body convulsed. She screamed into the gag, choked on her breath, eyes wide with helpless horror as—
The blade met flesh.
It started at the shoulder.
The child shrieked.
The sound cracked the light above them.
Blood sprayed the floor.
And still, the voice said:
"Choose, Martha."
She tried again. Muffled moans. Ragged sobs. Her body writhing in protest.
"Time... moves."
The second child.
This one she remembered.
A girl. She'd given her half a sandwich once on a street corner. The child had smiled—eyes too big for her face.
Now—
Her legs were broken.
One by one.
Crushed in vices.
The sound was unbearable.
Martha gagged on her own vomit. Her body jolted. Her eyes rolled back.
But the nightmare continued.
"Your silence is complicity."
The third child cried, "Please!" with eyes locked on hers.
And then—
The arms pulled.
The child was ripped.
Martha screamed into the gag so hard, her throat bled. Her wrists tore open from struggling. Her mind cracked.
And finally—
"Will you serve?"
The voice now whispered directly into her head.
Soft.
Intimate.
Cruel.
"Will you serve without question, or let the world around you burn for your pride?"
Tears poured from her.
And something in her mind—something fragile—snapped.
Not because of pain.
Not because of fear.
But because she saw herself in the mirror of those screams.
And she realized—
This was never about choice.
This was about breaking.
And she had already begun to break.
Martha writhed in her chains, eyes wide and flooded, the taste of metal and bile choking her from within. She twisted, shook, moaned.
The voice loomed again, dispassionate and final:
"Will you serve?"
She tried to say yes.
Over and over.
The word pulsed in her skull like a drum.
"Yes... Yes... Please, yes..."
But her mouth was filled.
The gag muffled every broken cry, every desperate syllable. She screamed until her body gave out, until her muscles failed, until her soul begged for release.
"Yes—yes—YES!"
And just as her mind threatened to shatter entirely—
Darkness took her.
She awoke.
Flat on the white floor.
Smooth.
Clean.
As if none of it had happened.
No blood.
No children.
No voice.
No wounds on her wrists.
No bite marks on her lips.
Only Martha.
Breathing.
Alive.
And once again—
Three doors.
Standing tall. Silent. Waiting.
She sat up slowly, confused and shaking.
Her hands touched her throat. Then her wrists. Her ankles.
Smooth. Unharmed. Unscarred.
Her lips trembled. She whispered, "Why...? What is this...?"
And then—
The memory returned.
She screamed.
A guttural, animal sound of agony.
She scrambled to her feet, turned away from the doors, and ran.
But there was nowhere to run.
The white stretched endlessly—until it didn't.
A door.
The next door.
Opened on its own.
And swallowed her whole.
*The Door of Fear
Martha fell into the new world screaming.
Fell from nothing into wind and gravity and height and cold.
She dangled by her wrists.
Shackled again.
Only this time—
Over a city of impossible depth.
A vast, lifeless sprawl of pale gray towers stretched for miles beneath her, endless rows of windows like blank, watching eyes.
She hung from a steel frame suspended between two skyscrapers, arms stretched high, shoulders screaming in pain. Her body swayed. Naked. Bare to the wind.
And below her—death.
She looked down.
She saw nothing.
But she felt the fall. The void licking her feet.
And then—
The voice.
Only it was different this time.
Feminine. Familiar. Hollow.
"Martha. Cross."
Ahead of her—materializing from nothing—was a long wooden board. Narrow. Splintered. Unstable. Leading to the other rooftop.
And on that rooftop—
Her mother.
Tied to a wooden pole.
Surrounded by fire.
Martha screamed. "MOM!"
Her voice carried through the howling wind.
Her mother looked up, eyes filled with tears.
"Martha, baby—help me! Please!"
The flames hissed louder.
"Cross," the voice demanded. "Walk. Save her."
Martha struggled in the chains—but they fell away.
Suddenly, she stood at the edge of the plank.
Wind rushing past her. Legs trembling.
Below—eternity.
Ahead—the only person she ever loved.
She tried to move.
She couldn't.
Her feet refused.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
What if she fell?
What if—
Her mother screamed.
The fire crept up her legs.
The skin blistered. Peeled.
"Martha! Please! Baby—PLEASE!"
Martha fell to her knees, sobbing.
"I can't... I can't..."
"Fear," the voice said. "Your truest self."
The wind roared.
The fire screamed.
Her mother burned.
And all Martha could do was crawl backward—away.
Back into herself.
Her screams echoed across the sky as she watched her mother's body become ash—
And then—
Silence.
Her mother's scream echoed in her skull long after the flames died.
Martha dropped to her knees atop the rooftop, gasping, trembling.
Her sobs broke into dry coughs. No tears came now. Just air. Grief without wetness. Grief that burned.
And then—
A crack.
Pain exploded across her back.
A whip.
She didn't see it.
She only felt it.
Another.
And another.
The sound was sharp—like bones snapping in a cave.
She screamed.
Writhing on the rooftop, bare skin laced with fiery lashes.
The wind didn't carry her pain away. It fed it.
Over and over, the lashes came. Her back became a canvas of red, streaked and raw.
Her screams turned to snarls, to curses, to hatred.
"STOP! STOP! I HATE YOU!"
But there was no reply.
Only the whip.
And her voice—dissolving into something primal.
Until—
She collapsed.
Face down. Blood pooling. Eyes rolled back.
Darkness claimed her again.
*The Door of Memory
She awoke—
In the white space once more.
Bare.
Breathless.
Her back now smooth. No wounds. No trace.
Only silence.
She didn't scream this time.
She didn't run.
She simply breathed.
And the third door opened on its own.
Gentler.
But unavoidable.
It pulled her in.
Fog. Cold. Soil. Decay.
The smell hit her first—wet dirt, rotting cloth, broken time.
Martha dangled upside down.
Ropes bound her ankles, suspending her from the high bough of a massive, twisted tree.
The tree rose from the heart of a cemetery—countless graves sprawled in every direction, stretching far into the fog.
She swung gently. Her arms hung limp.
And from below—
The dead began to scream.
They clawed out from their graves.
Half-rotted hands.
Empty eye sockets.
Some still had voices.
Some had faces she knew.
They didn't climb toward her.
They didn't attack.
They only spoke.
One by one. All at once.
"You left us." "You forgot." "You looked away." "You passed by while I cried." "You stepped over my pain like it was dirt." "You survived while we were erased."
Voices she hadn't thought about in years.
Regrets.
Old decisions.
A child she didn't protect.
A friend she never called back.
A woman she lied to.
A stranger she watched bleed and did nothing.
Their pain filled the fog.
Filled her ears.
Filled her mind.
Until something inside her went silent.
Not in fear.
Not in agony.
But in absence.
She became blank.
Emotionless.
Suspended above all the sins she didn't remember until they screamed her name.
She stopped struggling.
She simply hung.
And when her mind finally became still—
*The Door of Pleasure
She awoke.
Back in the white room.
No tears.
No sound.
Just Martha.
Numb.
Empty.
And then—
The final door opened.
It did not pull.
It did not scream.
It invited.
With warmth.
With sweetness.
With a soft golden glow.
And Martha—
Walked.
No questions.
No fear.
No resistance.
She was ready.
The door did not open.
It unfolded.
Like silk. Like petals. Like legs spreading.
And from its golden glow spilled warmth—radiant and thick, like honey across skin. It didn't reach her. It caressed her. It entered her pores before she even stepped forward.
Martha didn't think.
She didn't breathe with intention.
She simply moved.
Her bare feet touched the threshold, and the moment she crossed—
The world melted.
The space inside was not a room.
It was sensation made architecture.
Pillars of soft light stretched high into the unseen. The floor pulsed gently beneath her, like the heartbeat of a giant beneath silk sheets. The air was warm and thick, saturated with the smell of vanilla and sweat, of sex and incense, of arousal so distilled it felt sacred.
Her nipples hardened before she knew.
Her thighs pressed together—but only lightly, like a prelude to submission.
There was no sound.
Until there was.
A hum.
Low. Deep. Orgasmic.
The hum of wanting.
From everywhere. From within.
And then—they came.
Hands.
Not seen, but felt.
First, the faintest touch—a fingertip down her spine.
Then more.
A pair of palms over her shoulders. Fingernails grazing her belly.
A breath at her neck. A mouth that wasn't there, yet kissed her.
Martha didn't react.
She didn't need to.
Her body welcomed it all without command.
The first hand cupped her breast, thumb circling her nipple in maddening spirals. Another slid between her thighs, parting her gently, stroking her folds with a reverence that felt divine.
A soft moan escaped her lips—unearned and effortless.
It wasn't lust. It wasn't hunger.
It was obedience.
More hands.
Dozens.
Gliding. Squeezing. Opening her like a book of flesh and longing.
She was lifted again—hovering mid-air, arms drifting outward, legs parting on their own. Her hair flowed behind her as if underwater. She was a doll now. A canvas. A sacrament.
Fingers entered her—slow and thick.
One.
Two.
More.
They moved in rhythm, curling with knowledge that didn't belong to man. Her back arched, her breath caught. Her nipples were rolled and pinched. Her toes curled.
Her body began to glow.
Not with light—but with surrender.
The moans came again, deeper, more primal, and unrelenting.
She was rocked between dimensions—pain no longer a memory, identity no longer a boundary.
She was.
And she was not.
Tongues licked where lips had never formed. Invisible mouths suckled at her thighs, her neck, her breasts, her mind. Her body danced on pleasure's fingers like a marionette carved from lust.
Her mouth opened in a scream—but no sound came.
Only breath.
Only ecstasy.
Her orgasm didn't come like a wave—it came like the birth of a star.
She shattered.
And kept shattering.
Over and over.
Her limbs convulsed, her skin burned with bliss. She came again—harder. Then again. Each climax washing her further into oblivion.
She moaned. Cried. Laughed.
No thought. No shame.
Only service.
She came so many times she lost count.
Her body writhed, pleasure vibrating through every nerve.
And then—stillness.
Not silence.
But serenity.
The hands placed her gently on her knees.
Her thighs glistened.
Her lips trembled.
And somewhere behind her—again—
That chuckle.
Low.
Delighted.
Satisfied.
And hungry.
She didn't wake.
She was moved.
Gently.
Like dew rolling off a petal.
When Martha's eyes fluttered open, she lay at the edge of a crystalline stream that sang as it danced over smooth, moon-colored stones. Flowers—blue, violet, gold—carpeted the field around her in fragrant disarray. The air here smelled of rain and roses, and somewhere, windchimes rang where no wind blew.
Her nakedness felt natural here.
Like the field itself had birthed her.
She sat up slowly, her skin bathed in soft sunlight that didn't burn, her body aching not in pain but in memory.
And then—he was there.
Standing just across the stream.
He hadn't walked in.
He simply was.
Master.
An elegance impossible to describe unfolded in his posture. He stood with no slouch, no flaw—his limbs long, his shoulders regal, his silence a kind of gravity that bent the world around him. His form was clothed in garments that shifted like liquid darkness trimmed in quiet fire—neither cloth nor smoke, but something divine.
And his face—
Masked.
Smooth silver. Impossibly refined. Like it had been crafted by gods then forgotten in the ruins of heaven. No mouth. No eyes. No voice hole.
And yet—he spoke.
"A penny for your trouble."
The words did not echo.
They entered her.
Straight into the deepest hollow of her being.
And Martha—blank, bare, reborn—shivered.
Not with fear.
Not with desire.
But with reverence.
Her body bowed without instruction.
Not because she chose to.
But because it was right.
The stream stilled.
The air grew thick with bloom and breath.
And then—with a gesture too elegant for motion—he lifted a single finger.
And the world obeyed.
From nowhere, a chariot assembled itself—
Black as night and gleaming like onyx, pulled by creatures that weren't horses but phantoms, hooved shadows with glowing eyes and whispering manes.
The wheels did not turn.
They glided.
The chariot approached her.
Master turned to it—then to her.
He did not beckon.
He did not need to.
She stood, knees trembling. Climbed in.
And then—they rode.
Through the flower fields, past twisted trees, into golden fog that blurred heaven and earth. The phantoms whispered languages only stars could understand.
Martha looked to Master.
But he was already gone.
Vanished into mist.
Only the memory of his presence clung to her skin like perfume.
As the chariot slowed—she saw it in the distance.
A castle.