Sacrificial Lamb is a retelling of Chapter 4 of Invitation to Hell by Skylar Reyes.
This is a retelling of Chapter 4 from my book Invitation to Hell, from Anastasia’s perspective.
I knocked softly on the mahogany door to Roman’s private suite, then pushed it open when I heard his muffled response. “Mr. Asher? It’s time to come downstairs and begin.”
His elaborate costume—black robes with arcane symbols embroidered in silver thread—was laid out carefully on his massive four-poster bed. I’d seen him wearing various outfits for his events before, but this one seemed darker, like a mystical satanic priest.
“I’ll be right there,” came his voice from the attached bathroom.
I was checking my messages when he emerged with one of the makeup artists following close behind. He was in full makeup now, but with only a white towel wrapped around his waist. I stared at his lean, muscular torso as he moved toward the bed with that predatory grace that made him so compelling and dangerous.
“Excuse me,” I said quickly, starting to turn away.
But I froze, as he let the towel drop.
My eyes were involuntarily drawn to what I’d only heard whispered about in hushed conversations among the other staff. His penis was... monstrous. There was no other word for it. Grotesquely deformed yet somehow hypnotic in its ugliness. It hung heavy and misshapen, covered in bulging veins and strange lumps, nothing like the few normal ones I’d seen in my limited sexual experience.
I couldn’t look away, even as revulsion churned in my stomach.
“It’s too bad you’re my employee, Anastasia,” Roman said casually as he began pulling on his undergarments, completely unbothered by my staring. “I would love to use it on you sometime.”
The idea made bile rise in my throat, but I forced my expression to remain neutral. “I... I should let you get dressed.”
“Stay, we’ll walk down together,” he commanded, and I obeyed, though I finally managed to look away as he continued dressing.
His phone rang just as he was pulling the ornate robe over his head. I recognized the ringtone—his banker, Mr. Whitmore. Roman answered on the second ring.
“Harold, good evening... Yes, I need you to transfer two hundred and fifty thousand from my main account to the holding account we discussed... Immediately... Yes, I understand it’s after hours, but this is time-sensitive...”
I tried not to listen, but it was impossible to ignore. A quarter of a million dollars? That was more money than I could comprehend, and he just shifted it around like it was nothing.
“Excellent. I’ll need confirmation of the transfer within the hour... Yes, thank you.”
He hung up and finished adjusting his costume, completely ignoring my presence until we started walking toward the dining hall.
“Mr. Asher,” I finally worked up the courage to ask, “why are you transferring so much money tonight?”
“I’m offering it as a prize to the last guests standing at the end of the evening,” he said matter-of-factly, as if announcing the dinner menu.
My steps faltered. “A prize? Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”
He stopped and turned to face me with those cold blue eyes of his. “Because, frankly, it’s none of your business. I thought of it yesterday as an extra incentive for people not to quit. I want people to really push their boundaries tonight.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he was already pushing through the doors into the dining hall, leaving me to follow behind like the good little assistant I was.
Roman’s speech to the guests was vintage him—dramatic, mysterious, designed to both entice and intimidate. When he asked everyone to join him in the Sanctuary, I fell into step beside him as we made our way through the mansion’s shadowy corridors.
“Mr. Asher,” I said quietly, my heart pounding with what I was about to propose. “I want to compete for that money.”
He didn’t even slow down. “No.”
“Please, just hear me out—”
“No, Anastasia. Absolutely not.”
“But I could really use that money. My student loans alone—”
He stopped abruptly and whirled to face me, his expression darkening. “This is not some cheap reality show competition. The money is simply an extra incentive for people already interested in pushing their boundaries. You’re not experienced and strong enough to join this group.”
Not strong enough? Heat flashed through me—anger, indignation, and something else I couldn’t quite name. He thought I was just some naive little girl who couldn’t handle his games.
“What about Meridian Pharmaceuticals?” I said quietly.
His entire body went rigid. “What?”
“The stock you bought three weeks ago. Right before their drug trial results were announced. Results that you somehow knew would be positive.” I kept my voice steady, professional, even as my pulse raced. “You took that call from the researcher while I was fixing your password on your computer, remember?”
For a moment, I thought he might actually strike me. His jaw clenched, and those pale eyes turned to ice.
“Are you threatening me?” His voice was deadly quiet.
“All I’m asking for is a chance. Nothing more. I’m not asking for special treatment—just the opportunity to try.” I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze directly. “I think I’ve earned that much.”
Several long seconds passed. When he finally spoke, there was something like respect in his voice, though it was layered with fury.
“I have a newfound appreciation for you, Anastasia. I didn’t think you had it in you to threaten me.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. “But you’re making a huge mistake. A mistake that’s going to cost you far more than money.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? We’ll see.”
***
I stood outside the Sanctuary, my back pressed against the cool stone wall, listening as Roman began his performance inside. Through the heavy wooden doors, I could hear him talking about occult literature and Aleister Crowley, his voice taking on that theatrical quality that always made me want to roll my eyes.
Ancient literature and forgotten rituals, I thought dismissively. It’s all for show. Roman was brilliant at psychological manipulation, but this mystical nonsense was just theater designed to unnerve his guests. I’d seen him practice these “ancient incantations” in his study—most of it was Latin he’d pulled from various texts, arranged to sound impressive.
The muffled sound of his voice grew more intense as he began reading from that old book of his. The Lesser Key of Solomon. I’d cataloged it myself when organizing his library. First edition, worth a fortune, but ultimately just words on a page. Roman’s power came from understanding people’s fears and desires, not from summoning demons.
I heard footsteps as some guests began leaving, their voices nervous and apologetic as they hurried past my hiding spot. Tourists, just like Roman had said. The people serious about staying would be the real competition.
But I could handle whatever he threw at me. How hard could it be? I’d grown up in a household where my father’s drunken rages were far more terrifying than anything Roman could devise. I’d survived poverty, discrimination, and working multiple jobs while maintaining a 4.0 GPA. A night of kinky games with a bunch of deviant rich people? Please.
$250,000 divided by however many people lasted... even if ten people made it through, that was $25,000 each. Enough to finish school without drowning in debt.
I was so lost in my calculations that I didn’t hear them approaching until it was too late.
The black cloth bag went over my head with brutal efficiency, cutting off my vision and filling my nostrils with the smell of musty fabric. I screamed and immediately began fighting, my hands clawing at the rough material as strong arms wrapped around me from behind.
“No! Let me go! Mr. Asher!” I thrashed wildly, but there were at least two of them, maybe more, and they were so much stronger than me.
Hands grabbed at my top, and I heard the fabric tear. “Stop it! Don’t—” But my words were lost in the sound of ripping cloth as they systematically destroyed my carefully chosen costume.
My blouse came apart in their hands, buttons scattering across the ground. I felt cool air hit my skin as my bra was cut away, my small breasts suddenly exposed. The humiliation was worse than the fear.
“Please,” I whimpered, but they showed no mercy. My skirt was yanked down roughly, taking my panties with it. In seconds, I was completely naked, my clothes in tatters around my feet.
The bag was ripped from my head, and harsh light flooded my vision. Before I could fully process what was happening, rough hands shoved me forward through the Sanctuary doors.
I stumbled into the chapel completely nude, my hands instinctively trying to cover myself as every eye in the room turned to stare at my exposed young body. The mortification was overwhelming—these people had seen me as a professional, competent assistant just a few minutes ago, and now I was standing before them naked and trembling like a sacrificial offering.
Which, I realized with growing horror, was exactly what I was.
***
“Anastasia,” Roman called from the altar, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Please join me.”
My legs felt like water as I forced myself to walk toward him. Every step was agony—not physical pain, but the psychological torture of being so completely exposed and vulnerable. I could feel their eyes on my skin like physical touches, cataloging every inch of my body.
I’d never been comfortable with nudity, even in private. My few sexual experiences had been hurried, awkward encounters in darkened dorm rooms with boys who barely knew my name. The idea of being seen like this, by so many old people, by Roman... it was the stuff of nightmares.
When I finally reached the altar, Roman looked down at me with what might have been genuine concern—or perhaps just clinical interest.
“One more time, Anastasia. Are you certain you want to join this group tonight?”
Every instinct screamed at me to run… to flee to the safety of my room. But then I thought about my student loans, about the credit card bills, about calling my parents to beg for money I knew they didn’t have.
I straightened my spine and lifted my chin, meeting his gaze directly, and nodded.
“A nod will not suffice,” Roman said sternly. “I need to hear it.”
“Yes,” I said again, surprised by the strength in my own voice. “I want to join the group.”
Roman studied me for a long moment, and I saw something flicker in his expression—respect, perhaps, or maybe just cruel amusement.
“Very well. It’s against my better judgment, but I will respect your decision. Do you understand how safewords work?”
“Yes.”
Without warning, he swept me up in his arms and laid me on the wooden altar. The ancient wood was rough against my bare skin, and I couldn’t stop myself from trembling as he positioned me, spreading my legs wide so that everyone could see my most intimate parts.
I’d shaved that morning—a routine habit—but now I felt grateful for it. At least that small dignity remained.
Roman removed his priestly robe, revealing the muscular torso I’d seen in his bedroom. When he began removing his undergarments, my breathing became rapid and shallow. I knew what was coming. I’d seen what he was hiding beneath those clothes.
When he finally dropped his underwear, terror shot through me like ice water.
His monstrous cock was even more horrifying up close. Thick as my wrist, a mangled mess of bumps and veins, it looked like something from a medical textbook about disfigurements. How was that supposed to fit inside me? How would it slide in and out without scraping against the walls of my tiny pussy?
He grew hard as he touched my body, becoming even more intimidating. When his fingers pushed inside me, I bit my lip to keep from crying out. I wasn’t wet—fear and revulsion weren’t exactly aphrodisiacs—and his rough exploration was uncomfortable at best.
Then his mouth replaced his fingers, his tongue working against my clit. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think of anything else—my grocery list, my class schedule, the Russian poetry my grandmother used to recite. But my body betrayed me, responding despite my mind’s revulsion, creating the moisture he would need to... to do what he was about to do.
He stood and positioned himself at my entrance, as I scanned the audience and met the eyes of a blonde woman in the front row. What was her name? Oh yeah, Brooke. She was watching me with something that might have been sympathy, and I tried to draw strength from her.
Roman began to push inside, and the pain was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It felt like being torn in half, like my body was being forced to accommodate something it was never designed to hold. I pressed my lips together to keep from screaming, determined not to give him the satisfaction.
But I couldn’t stop the tears. They leaked from my eyes despite my best efforts, hot tracks down my cheeks as he stretched me beyond what should have been possible.
He was surprisingly gentle, working himself in slowly, giving my body time to adjust to his impossible size. But gentle or not, it hurt. It hurt so much that I saw stars at the edges of my vision, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
Before long, I was stretched enough that it became more bearable. He began to move with something approaching a normal rhythm, and I focused on the vaulted ceiling above me, counting the stone arches and trying to pretend I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
He finished inside me with a grunt of satisfaction, and I felt his release shoot into me and then spill out of my pussy onto the altar. My body relaxed, thinking that I had survived this first trial and that the worst was over. I was wrong.
“The first challenge,” Roman announced as he pulled out of me, “will be for all the men to take a turn with her.”
“No!” The word escaped before I could stop it, pure instinct overriding everything else.
Roman paused. “Do you mean ‘red’? You really need to understand how this works, darling. I think you should say red and be done with this.”
But I thought about the money. About freedom. About proving I was stronger than anyone—including myself—believed.
“No. I’m not saying that word. Bring them on.”
What followed was a blur of bodies and sensations that my mind tried desperately to compartmentalize. The first man was older, distinguished-looking, but his hands were rough as he positioned me. He smelled like expensive cologne and cigar smoke, and he made small grunting sounds as he moved inside me.
The second was younger, more enthusiastic, and he flipped me over to take me from behind. His hands left red marks on my pale bottom as he spanked me, the sharp stings somehow easier to process than the deeper ache of penetration.
One made me take him in my mouth, his hands on the back of my head as he fucked my face. I gagged and choked, tears streaming as I struggled to breathe around his intrusion. His taste was bitter, and I fought not to vomit when he finished and I felt his cum shoot down my throat.
Some finished inside me, adding to the growing mess between my legs. Others pulled out to shoot their loads over my smooth, youthful skin, painting my stomach and breasts with evidence of my degradation.
Through it all, I endured. I counted ceiling stones and tried to think of anything other than how these old men were using my young body. But I couldn’t escape the smells—sweat and arousal and the musky scents of so many different men. I couldn’t ignore the sounds—their grunts and moans and whispered obscenities. I couldn’t pretend away the feeling of being used, of being nothing more than a receptacle for their pleasure.
By the time the last man approached—the blonde woman’s husband, I realized—I felt like I was floating outside my own body, watching someone else endure this humiliation. He took me from behind with an intensity that surprised me. But it was over quickly, and then it was done.
“I’m very proud of you, Anastasia,” Roman said, helping me sit up on the altar. “You’re stronger than I could have imagined. Perhaps you’ll make it through the night after all.”
As I tried to clean myself with the tissues someone offered, I felt something unexpected: pride. I had survived. Whatever came next, I was ready.
Brooke and her friend, Richelle, approached me as I struggled back into what remained of my clothes.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly.
I looked up at them and, surprisingly, managed to smile. “Thank you for checking on me. I’m okay. I actually started to enjoy it when I accepted what was happening. And I just kept thinking about how I might use the money to pay for the rest of college without having to work.”
It wasn’t entirely true—the “enjoying it” part was mostly bravado—but I needed to project strength. Weakness would only invite more predation.
The husband spoke next, his voice filled with what sounded like genuine regret. “I’m sorry you had to go through that and that I participated.”
I smiled up at him. “I asked for this. Roman warned me, and I didn’t listen. We’re all adults, and I practically begged to join this game.”
And I meant it. This had been my choice, my gamble. Whatever happened next, I would own it completely.
One of the security guards approached with my costume and dropped it beside me. As the others helped me dress, I felt a fierce determination settling in my chest like armor. I liked these two women, but they were competition, and I would crush them.
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