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Old 04-07-2013, 09:37 AM   #1
Sasha Girl
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Default Betrayed

"I'm sorry baby, they sold you out."

The voice is cold, male and unfamiliar. As soon as I hear it, I snap awake and start to thrash around in my bonds. It's no use. I'm bound tight with heavy duty rope, my arms pulled back painfully and joined to my ankles. To make things worse, I'm gagged. Lying at the feet of my captor, I can only gaze up at him in horror, as he circles me, like a shark. His boots are noisy on the stone floor, too noisy in fact. I close my eyes against a wave of nausea, while he explains.

"You've been drugged, my dear. By none other than your closest associate. Don't worry, it'll wear off. His instructions were very clear: bring back the vixen, or perish. So, here you are."

I don't believe it. My partner, the man I had worked with for the past five years, is a double agent. Just wait till I get out of here, I'll have his guts for garter. As though reading my mind, my captor laughs.

"In case you're wondering, he's long gone. We couldn't very well have only one of you disappear, could we? Anyway, you shouldn't concern yourself with him. You have much more serious things to think about."

*************************

Examination room 1 is not much bigger than my holding cell, only a lot brighter. The source of the light is a large fluorescent tube fixed to the low ceiling. Directly underneath it is a large dentist’s chair, fitted with multiple leather straps. It doesn't take a genius to work out what that chair is for, and I struggle violently on seeing it. As one of the top agents, I have jujitsu training sufficient to defend myself in almost any situation. All I need is to be let out of the ropes for just a second. Just one second. But it never happens. Instead, the men lie me face down on the floor and grab hold of my arms. As the knots loosen around my wrists, their hold tightens. Soon, they are lifting me up, twisting one of my arms behind my back as a precaution.

“Mmm! Mmm!” I moan through the gag, as they drag me over the chair and manoeuver me into it. With my ankles still tied, I can’t kick out and before I know it, my wrists are strapped down. The leather tightened securely, they’ve done this many times before. “Mmmm! Mmmm!” I keep moaning, while I twist in the chair, but the men ignore me. While one of them pushes against my chest, the other one pulls out a knife.

“Say goodbye to your uniform,” he says, sliding the sharp blade under my top, at the neckline. There is a loud ‘rrrrip’ sound as the fabric gives way, then the process is repeated with my undershirt and bra. At the sight of my bare breasts, one of them lets out a wolf-whistle. “Damn shame.”

I tell myself he’s just trying to scare me.

They don’t feel me up, though, but proceed to strap me down more tightly, across my waist and upper arms. Only then do they untie my ankles. They undo my belt and pull my pants off, while I kick at them for all I’m worth. The men are very good at dodging the blows, but finally my foot connects with a face. Lucky for him I’m no longer wearing shoes.

“Aaaow! You little bitch!” My victim screams, clutching at his temple, where a large lump is already forming. His friend, meanwhile, steps toward my head, laughing. I cringe, expecting some kind of retaliation, but all he does is wrap a piece of my torn shirt over my eyes. “Try it now, you feisty thing.”

After that, they finish stripping me without difficulty. I feel their hands on my bare skin, pulling my legs into position. Then the straps are tightened around my ankles and thighs both, immobilising me completely. I’m naked, defenceless and so distressed, I can’t even moan. My chest heaves, courtesy of my struggles, so that I almost miss it when one of them whispers in my ear:

“A word of advice, little Miss. The Surgeon loves a feisty girl. He really takes his time with them – and you don’t want him to take his time with you, believe me. So, if you wanna spare yourself a slow, excruciatingly painful death… try and be a bit more accommodating for him.”

With that, the man pulls the makeshift blindfold from my eyes and steps away. I stare at him and his friend as they stroll away. Leaving me alone. I feel exposed and vulnerable under the fluorescent light, and I squirm uncomfortably while looking around. My discomfort increases when I soon spot the cameras watching me from every corner of the ceiling. Apart from the chair I'm sitting in, the room is empty of furniture, making me the centre of attention - an intensely disturbing feeling that increases with the passage of time. It isn’t long before I feel the stark concrete walls pressing in on me. I close my eyes, trying to imagine I was some place else. It’s difficult, what with the straps biting into my flesh and the drool dripping down my chin. But at last, I manage, even relaxing sufficiently to drift into a light sleep.

“Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty.”

The voice brings me back, like it did the first time. Startled, I open my eyes and am instantly blinded by the harsh light. I’m blinking rapidly, trying to clear my vision, when I feel his hands on my head. “Mmmm!” A sound of panic, a protest.

“Shhh, little one, don’t be afraid. I’m only taking your gag out.”

He works as he talks and in moments the straps are undone. As he pulls the heavy rubber ball out of my mouth, I cough weakly. My throat is dry and he obviously knows it, because he has the water bottle in his hand. Wordlessly, he brings it up to my lips and tilts it. He watches me as I drink and when I’ve had my fill, he takes the bottle away.

“Thanks,” I say and curse inwardly. The man they call ‘the Surgeon’ grins.

“You’re welcome,” he says in that foreign accent of his. I’ve travelled far and wide, but for the life of me I can’t place it. He must have lived here long enough to lose the worst of it. As if reading my thoughts, he leans in close, saying: “I used to be married to a beautiful Scandinavian girl. After more than 20 years with her, I picked up her accent.”

The steely gaze is calm as he says this, and I feel he’s telling the truth. He isn’t old, but he certainly looks mature, his short hair tinged with silver on the sides. Furthermore, why would he lie? He’s not the one strapped down in a chair, naked. Thinking about this, I shiver, and he notices at once.

“You are nervous.” It is a statement, not a question. The room is quite warm, too warm to make one shiver. I stare at him in silence, while he leans down and picks up something from a bag at his side. Just that simple gesture nearly has me jumping out of my skin. Then I see it’s only a soft cloth. I have to pull myself together, I think, while he leans forward once more. His hand is gentle as he wipes the drool from my face and chest. “I suppose you have reason to be. Meeting me for the first time, and in such dire circumstances.”

I have nothing to say to that. He is stating the obvious, and he is deriving enjoyment from it. The look on my face must convey my thoughts to him, because he smiles a tight smile.

“I know what you think of me,” he says. “You and the rest of your team. For years, you’ve analysed me, trying to work out my next move. Yet all it did was get more people killed. Good agents, who could’ve been helping the community, instead of clogging the drain in my examination rooms with their blood and guts.”

“You bastard!” I cry, unable to hold myself in check, any more. “You sick, mother fucking psychopath! Those were innocent people you tortured! And for what? For fun? You Goddamn sicko, you’ll burn in he…”

Smack! The slap on my face is unexpected, a hard, stinging slap that throws my head to the side. I scream, and he slaps me hard again, with the back of his hand – then twice more, for good measure. By the time he’s finished, my head is spinning and my lip split and bleeding. The crimson droplets dripping onto my chest, while I wait for him to speak. When he does, his voice is calm, despite the violent display.

“Lesson number one: never speak out of turn. Especially if it’s to curse and swear at me.” He dabs at my lip, gently. Cleaning up the blood and making me tremble in fear. I guess it’s because the reality of the situation is only now sinking in for me. The silence stretches between us as he finishes the simple task. Then he is reaching for his bag once more, pulling out a set of electrodes. I know that’s what they are, I’ve seen them used often enough. All of a sudden, the purpose of me being strapped down in the chair becomes clear. I swallow a lump of fear, before I’m able to speak.

“Please.” I make it a whisper, so as not to provoke him into slapping me again. “You don’t have to do that.”

In response, he pushes my head back and straps it down. “Oh, but I do.” Taping the first of the electrodes to my forehead. “If you really knew me, you’d know why.”

But I don’t know and I don’t ask. What would be the point? I’m about to find out, anyway.



It takes the Surgeon only a few minutes to attach approximately twenty electrodes to my body. He places them along my head, chest and inner thighs. The ones on my head are for recording my reactions, no doubt. The rest I’d rather not think about. I squirm uncomfortably, while trying to keep calm. But when he speaks, my heart rate increases and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Now, my dear vixen,” he says, silkily. “Your partner tells me you are one of the top agents in this city. That means you have a very high security clearance. Tell me, what do you know about operation Vicious?”

I swallow hard. It just so happens I’m in charge of that operation. Or was, until now. The operation is aimed at organised crime, with special emphasis on the Surgeon and the people who hire him. I could tell him this without any qualms, if it wasn’t for the undercover agents. The men and women, totalling twenty-three in number, who are out there in the streets, risking their lives to bring down murderous bastards like him. So I say nothing, I just shrug my shoulders.

“Wrong answer,” he says and a split second later, the electricity is coursing through me, along my thighs and chest, both. I shout obscenities at him as my muscles contract then begin to pulse, causing me to vibrate inside my bonds.

“Bastard! Fucking a-hole! Fuck!”

The Surgeon smiles beatifically, while keeping the current coursing through me. He doesn’t stop until my curses turn to screams. As the pain ends, my muscles keep twitching. I moan in my bonds, while he scribbles something on a notepad.

“Ok, let’s try that again,” he says, looking up at me. “Operation Vicious. What do you know about it?”

I grit my teeth, I’m definitely not ready for another shock.

“I can’t…” I trail off, hoping to stall for time. But the Surgeon merely shakes his head, ruefully.

“Wrong answer.” The words precede the next shock by a millisecond. I scream, the pain is so much worse this time around. After several minutes of this, my eyes roll back in my head, and I know I’m about to faint. In that instant, the current is switched off.

“Hm. Very interesting.” The Surgeon murmurs, scribbling some more notes on the pad. I let out a moan, just to let him know I’m still here. It is a mistake.

“Ah, my little vixen!” His voice is cheerful, as he addresses me at last. “For a moment there, I thought I lost you. Now, have you decided to talk?”

I’ve decided to talk, all right. To tell him exactly what I think of him. I take a deep, shaky breath and spit out: “Go fuck yourself, you sadistic fuck.”

He laughs, like I’ve just told him a good joke. “All in good time, my dear. All in good time.”

Then the current is coursing through me again, my flesh burning wherever it passes. I feel it more intensely than before, if that’s possible, and I scream until my voice is ragged. When my eyes start rolling in my head again, the shock stops, but the pain goes on. I’m foaming at the mouth, fighting back nausea, when I feel his hand on my breast.

“What was that you said about fucking?” he asks, casually. I shake my head no, but he keeps fondling me. Pressing a button, he makes the chair move upward, tilting back at the same time. “Don’t worry, you won’t throw up and choke yourself. I had the boys pump your stomach empty when you arrived.”

He spreads my legs easily, by moving the two halves of the chair apart. As he takes up position between my legs, I groan out loud. The insides of my thighs are burnt, chafing painfully at the slightest touch. “Please, don’t.”

In response, he leans forward and takes my left nipple in his mouth. Sucking and biting hard, making me cry out. A hoarse sound, due to all the screaming. He repeats the treatment with my other nipple, before pulling something out of his pocket. I see a glimmer of metal and I jerk against the restraints, struggling. “No! No! No!”

But the Surgeon only smiles as he pinches my nipple, stretching it taut. As the metal clamp closes around it, I scream in agony. I’m still screaming while the second nipple is clamped. The pain is excruciating and he makes it worse by tugging on the chain connecting them. I never hear him unzipping his trousers over the screams, and when I feel his cock push against my pussy, I gasp.

“Please. Don’t…” My pleas fall on deaf ears. The Surgeon’s erection is massive, his expression rapturous as he drives it inside me. Strapped down tightly, I cannot resist, I can only scream and curse. “Aaaah! Nooo! Aaaarrgh! You fucking rapist!”

He slaps me, hard, but I keep screaming regardless. His cock is driving into me, drilling me methodically. Feeding my rage.

“If you keep swearing at me, I will shock you,” he tells me, as he rapes me. Spitting on my pussy to lubricate me, the sight disgusts me so that I scream again.

“Fucking sicko, you wouldn’t dare!” I’m thinking he’ll get zapped, too, until I see him pulling out.

“So be it.” He pushes the button and I convulse in agony, screaming at the top of my voice. The clamps are still on my nipples and the current races through them, driving me wild. By the time he finally stops, I’m crying openly.

“That’s better,” he says, taking up position between my thighs once more. This time, when I feel his hard cock push inside me, I say nothing. He rapes me for a long time, slowing down often, in order to postpone his climax. Pulling on the chain between my nipples, extracting more screams from my torn throat. My pussy is stretched and pounded mercilessly, until I can’t take it any more.

“Please, stop! I beg you! Please…” I feel him tensing at these words, his cock twitching inside me. A heartbeat later, he is coming, driving into me hard and fast, while pumping me full of his cum. I bite my lip to stifle my screams, the tears pouring down my face.

“Oh, you little vixen, you,” he breathes, in satisfaction. I want to spit in his face, but with my head strapped down, it is a physical impossibility. I glower at him in silence as he pulls out – with a dreadful, wet sound – and starts setting himself to rights. As soon as he’s done, he reaches over and takes hold of one of the clamps that are still on my nipples. “This may hurt a bit.”

That is an understatement. The release of pressure brings blood rushing back, a sensation as painful as having the clamp put on, in the first place. I moan loudly as my nipples are released, and then I feel him removing the electrodes. As I sigh with relief, he turns to me with a wolfish grin.

“I’m not finished with you,” he says. Pushing another button. “I need two men in here, now.”

He is already removing my straps, when the door opens and the men come inside: the same ones that brought me here. They gaze down on me with something like pity, which I hate. Wait till I’m free of these bonds, I think. But when the last of the straps is undone, I find that I can’t move. The men have to pull me out of the chair and hold me up between them. The cum dribbling out of me, I see them watching and I bow my head in shame. If only I could make my legs move.

“Where to, doc?” one of the men asks, and I hear the Surgeon say:

“Examination room three, please.”

There is an infinitesimal pause. “I’m sorry doc, did you mean room two?”

“No,” the Surgeons snaps, irritably. “I meant, room three. She has a higher pain threshold than most, so we’ll skip the niceties.”

The men don’t wait to be told again. As they drag me out of the room, my feet trail behind me, uselessly. It makes one of the men chuckle.

“Not so tough now, are you?” he asks, but I don’t answer. I’m too busy thinking about Examination room number three – and the horrors that await me there.



At the entrance to examination room number three, I panic. The room is set up like a slaughterhouse, complete with a steel table, circular saw, hooks and winches, among other things. I scream when I see it and I start to struggle. The adrenaline giving me strength, I kick at the men holding me. A split second later one of them punches me on the temple. His friend punches me again before I’ve had a chance to recover. On the verge of passing out, I hear a voice call out:

“That’s enough! I want her fully conscious, is that clear?”

After that, they don’t punch me in the head any more. They just twist my arms behind my back and pull me along, and when I next try to kick them, one of them hits me in the solar plexus. I am dragged into the examination room, doubled over and retching. The men pick me up and throw me onto the steel table, face down. Stretching me out, they tie me down with my legs spread, while I fight to get my breath back. By the time I can talk again, they’re finished. I can see the Surgeon nodding at them in approval, simultaneously dismissing them. I know it’s useless, but I plead with them as they walk away:

“Please! Don’t leave me here! For God’s sake, help me!”

There is no response and as the door closes, I rest my head on the steel surface and sob. I’m alone in a torture chamber with a madman, and I’m frightened. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been more frightened in my whole life.

“Aww, come now, hush,” the Surgeon’s voice is soft as he speaks to me, his hand gentle as it strokes my hair. “Shhh… There’s no reason to cry, little one. At least, not yet.”

I sob even harder at the words. If I could, I would beg for mercy, but I’m beyond speaking for the moment. He must realise this, because he keeps stroking my hair, smoothing it away from my face. The tender action makes me positively nauseous, especially when I hear the buzz of an electric instrument. As I lift my head to look, he pushes it back down.

“Don’t move,” he says – and then he runs the electric clippers along my scalp. He doesn’t stop until he’s shaved all my hair off, leaving me completely bald. As he’s scooping my silky locks away, I tremble.

“W-why did you do that?” I ask. Though my sobs have subsided somewhat, I can’t stop crying. Looking down on me, the Surgeon smiles coldly.

“Hair gets in the way.” He is snapping on a pair of thin latex gloves as he speaks, the action making my skin crawl.

“Please,” I say, but he doesn’t reply. He’s busy rolling a surgeon’s trolley over to the table. The rattle of the instruments is loud in my ears and this, together with the fear, keeps me from saying anything more.

That is, until I see him pick up a razor sharp scalpel and hold it up carefully.

“Oh Jesus,” I breathe, over the lump in my throat. “You can’t be serious.”

Again, there’s no reply. Instead, he leans over me. Strapped face down, I crane my neck painfully, trying to see. But he’s too quick, making the first incision with confidence, low on my back. It doesn’t feel very deep, but it stings like hell, making me cry out. “Aaaah! Fuuuck!”

I’m still swearing as the scalpel slices through my skin, for the second time: then the third and the fourth – the fifth, sixth and seventh. I soon lose count, as the skin on my back is cut, from my hip to my neck. With my blood trickling out slowly, the Surgeon leans close and speaks in my ear: “I have cut two dotted lines in your back, right over your spine. All I have to do is grip one end and pull it, and the entire strip will peel off. Would you like me to do that?”

Tears stream out of my eyes as I reply: “No! No, please!”

“Right,” he says, smugly. “Then perhaps you’d like to tell me about Operation Vicious.”

I shake my head, miserably. “Please. I don’t know anything. I swe….” I break off with a scream, as he starts to peel the skin off my back. He takes his time too, so that I’m shaking all over, by the time it’s done. But he still isn’t finished with me. Reaching to the little tray beside him, he picks up another instrument. He gives me no time to speak, but leans over and pushes something sharp into the raw, bleeding wound, high up near my neck. The pain makes my body jump, my legs jerking involuntarily.

“Aaaaah! You asshole!” I scream. The needle-like object pokes into my raw flesh again… and again… and again, while I jerk and scream in pain. Then, unexpectedly, it stops.

“You know, it has just occurred to me that we’re wasting a perfectly good opportunity here,” the Surgeon says. In the next moment, I hear his zipper coming undone. The table vibrates as he climbs on top of it, a second later his erection is nudging at my pussy. Tied down as I am, I can only shout at him in outrage.

“Fucking pig! You fucking rapist bastard!”

My shouts are cut short by the act of penetration. He pushes inside me in a single, fast movement, causing me to cry out in pain. Once inside, he stops, obviously savouring the moment. I’m about to start cussing at him again, when I feel the sharp pain on my back once more.

“Poke, poke, poke,” he says, as he pushes the needle in deep, so that soon I’m jerking again, even more violently than before. Only this time, his cock is inside me and I feel it every time I move. He’s a devious bastard, no doubt about it, and I spend some time trying to still the movement of my hips. Trying to deny him the pleasure. In response, he starts thrusting, slowly. Still poking and prodding into my flesh, he times it to match his thrusts. The combined assault makes me cry, but I manage to swear at him through the tears.

“Fucking… sicko… rapist…”

“That’s enough,” he says, and he pushes the needle deep – then pulls it toward him, ploughing a groove in the exposed flesh above my spine. The pain is excruciating, and I scream and thrash in my bonds, inadvertently making it worse. Soon, I can feel the blood squirting out of the wound, trickling down my sides, but the sight clearly doesn’t bother him because he’s still hard inside me. He thrusts his hips forward as he works, keeping me impaled, extracting maximum pleasure from my pain.

When he finally stops cutting me, I’m sobbing openly, my limbs twitching with the aftershocks. He fucks me hard for a while, but I hardly notice. The pain of the rape is like nothing compared to the throbbing, stinging sensation on my back. As if reading my mind, he stops.

“I think my little vixen is zoning out. That is not allowed.” He is pulling out as he speaks, and in the next instant I hear the rattle of the metal tray, which he has left conveniently close by the table. I have no idea what his intentions are, until I feel a solid, metallic object slide inside my ravaged pussy. A dildo? I had no idea the Surgeon used dildos on any of his victims. From what I know of him, the only objects he inserted were…

“Nooo! I beg of you!” I’m screaming in earnest, as I recall the images of the women we found, that the Surgeon had tortured. We never found evidence of sexual assault, that’s how badly their insides were sliced. And just as I’m thinking this, I feel the object start to vibrate, and the first sharp burst of pain inside me.

“Don’t worry,” he says, while I convulse in part pain, part panic. “It’s only a little nick. Just enough to make it hurt when you’re fucked, make you bleed like a virgin. Speaking of virgins, have you ever had your ass fucked?”

He rubs his cock along my ass crack as he speaks, and I shake pitifully, unable to provide a coherent answer. “Nooo! Please, noooo!” It is all I can say, through the tears. I hear him chuckling softly, a second later his cock is pushing into my anus, lubricated with nothing but spit. If he wanted to hurt me and humiliate me, he has achieved it. I can’t stop screaming as he violates me, stretching my ass while keeping the vibrating, metallic dildo in my pussy. Worse, I can’t stop begging. “Please, not my ass! Please, it hurts!”

“That’s the whole point, my dear,” he says, pushing into me brutally. When my screams die down, he warns: “Now, each time you stop screaming, I’m going to cut up your insides some more.” He reinforces the words by pressing a button and causing another burst of pain inside me. I scream in pain and he starts to pound my ass mercilessly, pulling almost all the way out, before slamming in again. I’ve never been so stretched in my whole life, so completely filled. To say nothing of the cuts in my pussy. He fucks me hard and for a long time, and I scream through every second of it. At last, I feel him speeding up, and then he is coming, shooting semen deep into my ass.

As he pulls out of me, I shudder and grow quiet, my throat sore from screaming. To my horror, he leaves the metallic dildo inside me. I can’t take it, I really can’t. “Please, Sir. Please, can you take it out.”

He places one hand on my shaved head, reminding me of my baldness. “Did you just call me Sir? Well, that’s a definite improvement. But it won’t make me change my mind. You see, I like to see a pretty girl squirm.”

Defeated, I sob before him. My tears streaming thickly down my face. He watches me in silence for a while, and then he turns away. Toward the tray with the implements, once more. “Now, where were we? Oh yes, you were going to tell me about Operation Vicious…”

A fresh scalpel in his hand, he leans over me and presses the razor sharp blade against my ass cheek. And I black out, from sheer terror.


I don’t know how long I was out for, but it feels like seconds. I’m brought back to consciousness by a horrible, stinging pain in my ass cheek: the scalpel slicing deep into my skin. Noticing me waking, the Surgeon greets me gleefully:

“Ah, my little vixen! You thought you could escape by fainting.”

He leans heavily onto my thighs to stop me from moving, and then continues to cut an S-shaped pattern into my ass cheek. Speaking to me over my screams. “But you see, there is no escape.”

Tied down on the heavy steel table, bleeding inside and out, I can only scream in reply. As I struggle and squirm, I can feel the metal dildo inside my pussy, shifting against my delicate walls. I try not to think about it, but when the metal tip rubs against the cuts in my cervix, my screams turn to wails. It makes the Surgeon chuckle.

“Enjoying your new toy? I had it made especially, imported from Germany. An engineering masterpiece, it contains 50 separate blades, all fully retractable of course.”

I want to tell him that he’s a sick fuck, but his scalpel is still in his hand, carving away at me. He’s cutting in deeper, because there’s more flesh on my ass, and the pain makes me howl, the sound reverberating around the room. I pass out twice more, before he decides to stop. Leaning down, he whispers into my ear: “Had enough yet?”

Lying before him, trembling, bloodied and sweating, I manage a single whispered word: “Please.” It is not what he wants to hear. Barely has the word passed my lips, when he starts to pour something over my wounds – it feels like acid, and smells like it, too. I’m screaming in agony, my back arching painfully, while he growls at me: “You think you’re so strong, but you’re wrong. This pain you’re feeling? It’s nothing, compared to what I have in store for you.”

He doesn’t need to tell me that. I’ve seen his victims, I know the horrific torture he has inflicted on them: broken bones, fingers and toes cut off, internal organs removed. Regardless, I can’t give in. I can’t betray the agents risking their lives out there. Compromising them means sabotaging the entire mission. My life isn’t worth it, not any more. I wait for the burning to die down somewhat, so that I may tell him what I think, through gritted teeth:

“You’re going to kill me anyway.”

Heavy silence greets this statement, stretching for an uncomfortably long time. I think that maybe, just maybe I’ve scored a point, but when I look up, blinking away tears, I find the Surgeon observing me quietly. The moment I make eye contact, he smiles.

“Yes, that is true,” he says, and a chill runs down my spine. Reaching down, he takes one of my hands in both of his, as though to comfort me. In a soft, calm voice, he continues: “But believe me, little vixen, you will tell me what I want to know. And in the end, you will beg me to kill you. Just like everyone else did, who came here before you.”

I swallow hard, listening to him. More than anything, I want to pull my hand away, but with my wrists bound tight I can only glare at him. The words springing up in my mind, as yet unspoken: fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. He can read the murder in my eyes, it seems. Picking my little finger, he bends it backward painfully and then gives it a push. There is a sickening sound as the tiny bones snap – it’s drowned out quickly by my screams. “Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaaah! Fuck you! Aaaaaah!”

I’m still screaming when I feel him take hold of my ring finger, proceeding to bend it backward in much the same way. My desperate screams of “nooo! For God’s sake noooo!” are ignored, and seconds later my second finger is broken. The Surgeon is methodical in his approach, as he continues to snap my fingers, one by one, on both of my hands. By the end of it, I’m howling like a beast, crying so hard that snot is pouring out of my nose and onto the steel surface beneath. He has to slap me hard, just to get my attention.

“Look up, now,” he orders, and after a couple more slaps I finally do so. I’m shaking all over, and it gets worse when I see what he’s holding in his hand. A pair of large, wicked looking pliers. As I watch, he takes the first of my misshapen fingers and places it between the sharp edges.

“Seeming as so your fingers are already broken, you won’t mind if I cut them off, will you?” He squeezes down on the pliers, hard enough to draw blood. Awash with pain, faced with the horror of seeing my fingers cut off, I feel something inside me snap.

“You son of a bitch!” I scream at him, spit flying from my mouth. The Surgeon simply smiles and pushes down on the handle. The blades cut my little finger clean off, and the pain of it makes me faint on the spot. When I come to, the Surgeon is holding the pliers poised over my second finger – and this, combined with the horror I’ve just lived, sends me over the edge.

“Please for theloveofGod I will tell you what you want to know!” I shout hoarsely, pausing at the end of it, in order to vomit. With my stomach empty, I produce only bile, its slippery wetness sticking to my cheek when I lower my head back down.

“Go on,” the Surgeon prompts me, calmly. I hate myself as I start speaking, but I feel I have no choice. I can’t watch him snip my fingers off, one by one… I just can’t.

“Operation Vicious, I know about it,” I tell him, in-between sobs. “It’s the biggest undercover operation currently going on. More than a hundred personnel are involved, tracking the main mafia bosses across the States. Your boss is at the top of the list, and so are you.”

I pause to spit out more bile, and I hear him say: “Tell me about the undercover operatives.”

Oh no. Please, don’t ask me that. But he did just ask me and I know better than to try and stall for time. So I do the only thing I can, I skirt the truth.

“There are at least ten of them, from what I know,” I say, avoiding his gaze. “But their identities are top secret. I don’t know…”

“You’re lying,” he says, cutting me off. My eyes bulge as I stare at him, frozen with terror. Any moment now, I expect to feel the bite of steel slicing through my finger, but instead he takes the pliers away. “However, you are about to pass out from loss of blood. Since I still have a lot of questions to ask you, I’m going to stop here and resume the questioning tomorrow.”

In disbelief, I watch him as he sets the bloodied pliers on the metal tray and picks up a piece of gauze. Working quickly and efficiently, he proceeds to dress my wound and bandage both of my hands. With my broken fingers immobilised, the pain is lessened, but I know I’ll never heal properly in this position. What’s more, I’ve lost the use of my hands, the principal means of defending myself. I’m crying quietly at the thought, when I feel his hand on my head.

“We have to clean your face a bit, so be a good girl and lift your head,” he says, his tone business-like. Dumbly, I do as he says and he wipes the steel surface clean quickly, before turning his attention to my face. His movements are brisk, but his touch is gentle, for which I’m pathetically grateful. In next to no time, he’s done and moving onto the rest of my body. I can feel him dressing my wounds, making sure they don’t fester. Then, miracle of miracles, he is pulling the vicious dildo out of my pussy.

“Th-thank you,” I stammer, but he only laughs.

“Don’t thank me yet, little vixen.” His voice has an edge of steel and a few heartbeats later, I know why. There is nothing gentle about his next move, which involves spreading my ass cheeks and pushing a large object inside my anus. I can’t help but cry out in pain, as the thickest part of it is shoved through my tight entrance, and then the entire thing is inside me, wedged securely.

“It’s just a but-plug,” the Surgeon informs me, soothingly. “Only, a rather special one. I purchased it just for you. Let it never be said I don’t have a sense of humour.”

I have no idea what he means, until I feel a brush of something soft on my back. As it moves, so does the plug in my ass, helping me to put two and two together. I almost snap my neck while trying to look behind me, confirming what I already know: my captor has given me a tail – a large, red tail like that of a fox. While I howl in humiliation, he continues to chuckle.

“Now you’re truly a vixen,” he says, advancing toward my head once more. “My little vixen, to be precise.”

My last sight for the day is of his large hands, slipping a black leather mask over my head. It fits tightly, so even though there are holes over my nose and mouth, I’m effectively gagged. Worse, I can’t see, not even a little bit. Trapped in total blackness, I listen to the Surgeon’s footsteps, as he moves around. Presently, I hear him press a buzzer and a few minutes later, there is the sound of a door opening. More footsteps echo around me, and then the Surgeon’s voice:

“Ok, lads, I’m finished with her for the day. Take her to her cell and make sure she gets some rest.”

“Yes, Sir.” A man’s voice, one I recognise from before. The sound of footsteps retreating, it must be the Surgeon departing. The men’s hands are on my wrists and ankles, untying the ropes, when my shivers start.

“Mmmm…” I moan, in distress, and they redouble their efforts, freeing me in a matter of seconds.

“Easy, now,” they croon to me, as they pull me along the table, which is slick with my blood. “You’re in shock, understand? Try and relax, there’s a good girl.”

I nod in understanding, but when I feel their hands on my naked ass and thighs, I moan again. Please don’t, I think. I’m humiliated beyond words, but the men seem oblivious to it.

“My, that tail suits you,” one of them says, tugging on it, making the plug move in my ass. The other one chuckles in agreement. “Aye, it’s almost like he wants us to rape you, the way he prepared you.”

As they pull me off the table, I mew in terror. The shock of being upright, coupled with the threat of further rape, is too much for me, but being blindfolded I don’t notice my vision going. All I know is that my legs can’t hold me when they try to stand me up. I hear the men swear – “fuck, catch her” – and then I know no more.




When I next wake up, I’m alone. At least, I think I’m alone, with the tight fitting hood over my head I’m as good as blind. I’m lying on my side on some kind of a mattress, the smell of leather in my nostrils. For the moment, it is all I know – it and the pain – tremendous, pulsing pain in my hands, the skin on my back and ass, the inside of my pussy. The thick plug is still in my ass, shifting with my every move, making me moan. There are no sounds beyond those that I make. As I curl up into a foetal position, I feel like a wounded animal, abandoned and left to die.

Then I remember that I probably look like an animal, too, with my face hidden behind the mask and the bushy tail sticking out of my ass.

Suddenly, with that image in my mind, I start to cry. It’s a stupid thing to do, because it wets the leather and makes my face itch, but I can’t help it. With one bandaged hand – the one with all its fingers still attached – I rub at my cheek through the thick material, whimpering as I do so. It isn’t long before self-pity takes over completely, causing me to cry even harder. What did I ever do to deserve a fate such as this? To end up in the hands of a monster, whose sole goal is to torture me and then kill me, after extracting what he wants. And he will extract the information he seeks, I’m sure of it. He has already forced me to tell him more than I wanted to, on the very first day.

My sobs echo around the room, as I contemplate my immediate future. I wonder what horrible things he will do to me next, what part of my body he will choose to “work” on. With all I know about the Surgeon, I conjure up a dozen answers in seconds, each more horrifying than the next. The leather covering my face is soon soaked through and still the tears keep falling. I taste some of them as I open my mouth, sucking in air through the holes, with a loud hissing sound. The mask is really tight now and it scares me, makes me feel claustrophobic. I work desperately to try and tear it from my head, but my bandaged hands are worse than paws. I’d cry for help if I could, but with the leather stretching over my lips I can’t form any words.

In the end, I resort to howling. Loud, drawn out sounds full of fear and pain. I don’t think anyone can hear me, nor do I care. There are no thoughts left in my mind, any more. Wrapped up in misery, I do not hear the door to the room open, or the heavy footsteps rushing to my side. The first I know of another person’s presence is when I feel a strong arm on my shoulder, shaking me. Scared out of my wits, I stop howling and start screaming, and he shouts at me over the noise.

“Hey there, vixen, snap out of it! Snap out of it, baby, or I’ll have to call the Surgeon!”

At the mention of the Surgeon, I fall silent abruptly, though it takes a lot of effort. “Nooo…” I beg, through the mask, trembling in abject terror. The man’s hand is on my head now, stroking me like a pet.

“There, there. Don’t fret, I only said that to calm you down.” His voice is deep and soothing, yet unfamiliar. A new person sent to guard me, while the original set are on a break. Perhaps he will take pity on me, where others wouldn’t? My shaved head is hot and sweaty under the thick leather mask, and I paw at it with both bandaged hands, signalling my distress. Then I lift my head and whimper, expectantly. Please. Help me.

In response, his hand shifts to my shoulder. Pushing me onto my front, gently but firmly. “I’m sorry, baby, but I can’t take your mask off. If the Surgeon found out...” He trails off, while I moan miserably. Saying “wease”, instead of “please”, begging in the only way I can.

“Shhh…” he says, as he runs his hand along my body, my tense muscles. “It’d be best if you didn’t try and speak, ok?” Pushing against my hips now, his other hand is still on my shoulder, helping to keep me still. All at once, as he does this, I feel a strange premonition come over me. I squirm, intending to move away from him, and immediately his hold shifts to the back of my neck. Gripping me tightly, while pushing down with great force.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move.” He growls the words and I freeze, anxious to avoid further violence against my person. Trembling helplessly, I allow him to pull my arms above my head, to spread my legs open with a kick of his knee. As he takes up position between my legs, I whimper loudly. He pushes still harder against my neck, pinning me down securely. Then he unzips his trousers and a split second later I can feel his erection pressing into my thigh. His free hand lifting my tail out of the way, I feel like a bitch when he does this.

“Mmm… I’m going to enjoy fucking you, little vixen,” he says, loudly. I whimper in reply, trying to communicate what I’m feeling. Pleading wordlessly, for mercy. But he merely holds the tail up, and starts to push inside me. With the plug already in my ass, he has to work a lot harder. To his credit he does it slowly, stretching me and filling me, without causing too much pain. All the while crooning to me: “That’s it, relax. Take it nice and deep, there’s a good girl.”

I’m wiggling my hips, helping to ease his passage, until the tip of his cock touches the open wounds in my cervix. As I cry out in fresh agony, the man fucking me leans down low and whispers: “He has cut your insides, hasn’t he? Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you. Well, as much as I can, with that giant plug in your ass.”

Before I can so much as nod in understanding, he grunts and starts to move. True to his word, he thrusts into me gently, stopping short of my cervix each time. With both of my holes filled, the pain is still there, but it’s bearable. Accordingly, I am able to keep the noise down to a minimum, moaning quietly as he fucks me, not struggling in any way.

“Good girl, that’s my good girl,” he says, out loud, time and again. I’m starting to wonder if he’s doing it to humiliate me, when all of a sudden I feel his breath on my neck. Whispering: “Listen to me very carefully. I’m a friend. I’m only doing this because I have to. This cell is under 24-hour surveillance, and I can’t afford to blow my cover. You understand that better than anyone, don’t you, Miss Patterson?”

He knows my name! I’m so shocked that I jerk under him, inadvertently impaling myself deeper. While I bite my tongue to stifle a cry of pain, he laughs out loud. “Silly girl, you can’t get away. Now lie nice and still, or this will hurt a lot more than it has to.”

In the next second, he is whispering again, resuming where he left off: “I’m so sorry, Miss Patterson. More sorry than words can say. I received word of your disappearance several hours ago, and straightaway I knew you’d been captured. I don’t understand how it happened, but I promise you this – we will get you out. Even if it means blowing the whole operation. No one deserves to die like this, least of all you.”

Listening to him, my mind spins. I want to ask him his name, to confirm his identity in some way, but it isn’t possible. It is also not wise, considering my position. While ever I’m the prisoner of the Surgeon, the less I know, the better. So I nod silently as he fucks me, and when he croons to me I whimper, feigning distress. Presently, I feel him picking up the pace and I realise he’s aroused, despite everything. Inevitably, this makes him thrust deeper, causing me to cry out loud. “Mmm! Mmm! Aaah!”

I tell myself he can’t help it. He’s a man, not a robot. Then I feel his hand on my stomach, sliding down between my legs. His breaths are hot and heavy, as he whispers in my ear: “I’m going to pleasure you, if you will allow me. I’m very good at it, but you have to relax. Can you do that for me?”

Dumbly, I nod. Thinking I’ll have to fake an orgasm, just to make him feel better. But then his fingers are on my clit, feather light, and I forget about everything. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me like that: so skilfully, so infinitesimally softly and at the same time, precisely. The mysterious agent’s fingers are playing me like a violin, drawing sounds from me that I didn’t know I was capable of – sweet, drawn out moans that rise and fall in time with his thrusts, marking each move perfectly. Miraculously, as my body tenses like a string, the pain is gone, and he knows it. He drills into me hard and fast, never ceasing the tender stroking, setting me on fire like no man before him.

“Aaah! Mmm! Aaah! Mmmm! Aaaah! Mmmm!” I moan and I cry, as pleasure washes over me, quickly building in intensity. He can feel my pussy clenching around his cock and he growls at me, even as he drives me closer to release:

“Scream for me, little vixen! I want to hear you scream!”

My legs spread wider at the words, my hips tilting sharply, allowing his hand still better access. Like a true virtuoso, he adjusts effortlessly, spearing me deep while stroking my very swollen, very wet clit lovingly. One, two, three strokes later, I feel the orgasm start – and it’s huge, a true crescendo, complete with ear splitting screams. In the moment my pussy starts to pulsate, squirting fresh wetness over his hand, he comes. I can feel his swollen cock throbbing as it shoots hot semen deep inside me, for long seconds. He stays inside me when it finishes, both of us breathing hard. Then, reluctantly, he pulls out.

“That was fun,” he says, planting a kiss on my shoulder. “I trust you’ll sleep better now.”

A great weariness washes over me, so that I can’t even nod in reply. He seems not to mind, for he leaves without another word. I drift off so fast, I don’t even hear the door close behind him.
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I'm a wicked, vile, horrible and perfect man. - the Savage, during one of his more modest moments.

"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"
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Old 04-07-2013, 09:38 AM   #2
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“Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty.”

The words are spoken loudly, intended to rouse me from sleep, but the fact is I’ve been awake for hours. Suffering in silence, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself. I’m curled up on the mattress, in a world of pain, and if they looked closely they could see my limbs trembling. But they don’t. They just grab me and pick me up between them. As they carry me briskly along, I moan. I want them to know that I’m conscious, that I’m not just some senseless package, regardless of how I may seem.

“Almost there, now,” one of them says and my heart lurches in my chest. It’s the mystery agent from last night, I’m sure of it! For a few, crazy heartbeats, I think the men are rescuing me. After all, it’s what the agent promised. But then I hear another voice, one that I know only too well, by now:

“Thank you, gentlemen. You may put her down there, by the water cooler.”

Wordlessly, the men comply, depositing me gently on the cold, concrete floor. I feel them snapping heavy, metal shackles around my ankles, the rattle of the chain loud in my ears. Then they are gone, their footsteps fading along with my hopes. For now, at least, I’m still a captive. Alone once again with the man I fear, more than death itself. When I hear his step coming toward me, I cringe, my ass clamping around the plug. If it weren’t for the shackles and the chain, I’d crawl away now. As it is, I lie there trembling, and when I feel his hand on my head, I flinch visibly.

“Come now, it’s not like I snuck up on you,” the Surgeon chides me. I whimper in reply and I try to pull away. His hand on the back of my neck stops me, a note of impatience creeping into his tone: “Keep still, if you want me to take the mask off. You do want that, don’t you?”

Yes, I think, I do. To show him just how bad I want it, I raise my head and turn it sideways. Thus giving him easy access to the zipper at the back.

“Good girl,” he says as he unzips it, in one easy move. Joking with me: “Now just imagine, if you had hair, how painful this could be.” I don’t particularly care – all I want is to have the contraption removed. As he pulls the leather casing off my head, I scrunch up my face and start scratching at it, with the backs of my hands. He lets me scratch for a while, before pulling my hands away.

“Allow me.” His voice is soft and his movements slow, as he wipes my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth and chin. By the time he’s finished the itch is almost gone. I blink up at him gratefully, and he smiles a thin smile. “Well, my little vixen, are you glad to be able to see again?”

I nod, even though what I’m seeing scares me out of my wits – namely, his face and behind it, the stark interior of the examination room. The same one I was in yesterday, I recognise it by the large steel table. Terrified, I lower my head, only to have him tilt it back up again, by the chin.

“Open your mouth,” he orders. In the next moment he is placing the neck of a plastic water bottle against my lips. I’m so thirsty that I nearly knock it out of his hand, as I latch onto it and start to drink. For a few minutes, the sound of sucking and gulping is the only sound in the room. Then he’s pulling the bottle away, spilling water down my front. “That’ll do. You may have some more later, if you’re good.”

He gives me no time to reply, but leans down and grabs the chain connecting my ankles. He uses it to drag me across the room, while I mew in terror. “No, please!” The concrete is rough on my bare skin and I twist every which way, trying to ease the friction. In the centre of the room, he stops. I hear a whirring noise and a few seconds later, I feel him attaching the chain to a hook. The steel around my ankles bites into my skin as I’m pulled up off the floor, amid more whirring noise. It doesn’t stop until I’m fully suspended, hung by my ankles like a piece of meat in a butcher’s store. He’s tying up my arms behind my back, while my heart pounds madly, blood rushing to my head. “Please, Sir. Please don’t do this. I’ll answer your questions…”

“Silence!” The Surgeon snaps, tightening the knots. “You’ll speak when you’re spoken to.”

I tremble in silence, until he starts to rip the bandages off my ass and back, exposing the wounds beneath. “Aaah! Aaah!” My cries of pain are involuntary, but he punishes me all the same. Slapping my naked ass cheek a half dozen times, right over the S-shaped wound he left there yesterday.

“I said – silence!” His tone is sharp, cold and angry. I don’t want to make him angry, so with great effort I clench my jaw shut and moan more quietly. “Mmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm!”

Obviously appeased, he strolls around me slowly. Tugging at my tail, running his fingers over the raw strip of flesh on my back, deliberately hurting me. Desperate to keep silent, I twitch and moan in front of him, without once opening my mouth. But when he sticks his fingers into my pussy, I forget myself. Shouting: “Please! Don’t!”

He responds by prodding deeper, growling at me: “Keep your mouth shut. I haven’t started to hurt you, yet.”

Tears sting my eyes as I struggle to comply. Helplessly, I wait for him to finish touching me. When he pulls his fingers out, he laughs: “Women. You’re so fucking precious about your pussies, but deep down you’re all whores.”

I want to shout at him, to tell him it isn’t so, but I think better of it. I watch in silence as he squats down next to me and waves his hand in front of my face, covered in blood and cum. “Someone had a good time, last night.”

From my upside down position, I stare at him in mute horror. Wondering how much he knows. The Surgeon stares back at me, a half smile playing on his face. “I saw everything, my little vixen. The first two guards fucked you while you were still out cold, which was fun to watch, but not nearly as fun as what came later. You put on quite a show.”

At his words, I start to shake in shock and humiliation. The idea that my body was violated while I was unconscious makes me positively nauseous, and I hiss at him: “Screw you, you sick bastard.”

His smile widens, as though I’ve just paid him a compliment. “Maybe later, right now we have work to do.” He stands up and moves off, while I swing by my ankles, awaiting my fate. I don’t have long to wait.

The Surgeon starts by wheeling the trolley with his instruments over to me. I watch his boots as he stops before me – they are black and shiny, polished to perfection. I’m thinking it might help me to focus on them, and then I feel the cold touch of steel between my thighs. I moan and twist my body, but he shoves it in quickly, all the way. The gravity keeps it in place, no matter how I struggle, or how much I clamp my buttocks, making my tail move. “No… mmm… Please, no…”

“Shhh…” he shushes me gently, at the same time pressing a button, causing the object to vibrate. “It’s for your own good, you know.”

Five seconds later, pain rips through my insides, as the vicious blades start to cut me. As I scream in agony, my body is contorting in the air, legs jerking helplessly. Only when blood starts to flow down my front, does the cutting stop. The deadly object is once again vibrating inside me like a regular dildo, while I sob miserably. I barely notice the Surgeon’s hand on my thigh, or hear his voice when he speaks.

“Now, I want you to listen to me. Are you listening?” His voice is calm, but there’s a note of savagery in it, brought on by the sight and smell of blood. I nod as I answer, shakily: “Y-Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he says, and he picks up something from the tray beside him. Then he drops the bombshell: “I know you lied to me yesterday. There are twenty-three undercover agents working on Operation Vicious. Not ten, as you claimed.”

Before I can protest, he is slicing into my thigh, making me scream and thrash around. His nails dig into my flesh as he tightens his grip on my leg. Holding it in position while he finishes the incision. When he’s done, he continues smoothly, oblivious to my cries: “You also lied to me about your position within the organisation. Since I have it on good authority that you, little vixen, are in charge of Operation Vicious.”

As before, I want to protest, but the scalpel is on my thigh again, slicing a second incision next to the first. By the time he’s finished, I’m on the verge of passing out. I grit my teeth to stifle further screams, as he concludes his speech. “It amazes me that you were so willing to lie, even after I cut off one of your fingers. Clearly, you either thought I was stupid, or that I’d take pity on you. You’re about to learn just how wrong you were, on both counts.”

With that, he pushes another button and lowers me to the floor. I’m in such shock I can’t even plead with him, as he drags me by the feet once more, leaving a trail of blood on the floor. Back at the steel table, he picks me up and lays me on it, flat on my back. With my arms still bound behind me, my broken fingers are squashed painfully, causing me to moan and arch my back.

“Stop squirming,” the Surgeon says, pushing down against my chest. I see him reaching underneath the table and pulling out a thick, leather strap. He throws it over my waist and buckles it tight. Then he walks away, leaving me shaking, the tears streaming down my face.

Presently, he returns with the instruments. The sight of them is all I need to start talking. “S-Sir? Mr Surgeon, Sir? Please, t-tell me… W-what would you l-like to know?” It’s a stupid question, and he raises an eyebrow at me, in part mockery, part disbelief. But then he shrugs and says:

“Names.”





Names. I can’t give him names. True, I’m here because my own partner betrayed me, but that doesn’t give me the right to condemn other agents to death. Honest, courageous men and women who never did anything wrong. I teeter on the edge of indecision, while the Surgeon watches me in silence. After several minutes of this, he turns around and picks up something from the tray.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” I tell him, through the tears.

“You’re not sorry, yet,” he replies, without looking up. “But you will be.”

I want to say something more, when a new pain pierces me. Literally. I scream long and loud, as the Surgeon’s needle pierces my left nipple, pulls out… then pierces it again. Thrashing in my bonds, the leather strap over my chest creaks with the strain, but it holds me tight. The third time I’m pierced, I almost pass out. I can feel the blood running down my breast, as I beg for mercy. “Pleeeease! Stop!”

The Surgeon laughs at me. Leaving the needle inside, he leans down close and takes hold of my chin. Trembling, I gaze up at him. His look is cruel, calculating, as he outlines his plan: “I’ve pierced you with an extra large needle, in case you can’t tell. Your little nipple is nice and swollen, and soon your other nipple will be the same. Then we will play a little game. I’ll ask you a question and each time you refuse to answer, I’ll twist the needles. I can tell you from personal experience that it takes exactly five twists to rip the nipples off. You might like to think about that, while I get ready.”

Tears streaming down my face, I shake my head at him: “No… please…” But he isn’t listening. Instead, he extracts the metal object from my pussy and climbs onto the table with me. The chain connecting my ankles stops him from spreading my legs wide, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Indeed, I can see him grinning as he straddles my thighs and pulls his zipper down. His erection is huge and I squirm at the sight, the plug shifting in my ass. “Please… don’t…”

“Don’t what?” he asks, lowering his hips over mine. I sob as the tip of his cock slides between my thighs, nudging at my bleeding pussy.

“P-please, d-don’t rape me again… I’m all c-cut up, inside…” I stutter, while he watches me dispassionately.

“Silly girl,” he says, shaking his head. “Telling me what I already know. Still, it’s nice to hear you beg.” With that, he pushes inside me, in one forceful movement. There is so much pressure on my insides, I feel stretched like a drum. The cuts inside my pussy sting and burn, causing me to throw my head back and scream. It makes him thrust into me harder, from every which angle. He pauses only to pick up another needle from the tray beside the table. “Ready for your next piercing?”

Speared by his cock, fighting to keep still and so minimise the pain, I can only shake my head. No. His answering grin reminds me of a shark.

“Well, maybe one little taste,” he says and he leans down, takes my good breast in his mouth. It feels hot at first then the pain starts, as he suckles hard, biting down often with his teeth. My other nipple, pierced through with a wicked needle, throbs painfully, while I squirm and cry. He fucks me throughout, slowly and deep. Then he lifts his head, raises himself on his elbows and without any warning pierces my nipple with the second, thick needle. I scream wildly as he threads it through quickly and pushes it in, the second time. Once more he does it and by now I’m howling, my body jerking uncontrollably under his. The metal shackles and chain rattle noisily against the table, steel on steel.

Unfortunately, my suffering is causing him pleasure, which was what he was counting on. With my hips gyrating helplessly, he thrusts into me hard and fast, grunting all the while. I feel certain he is about to push the plug out of my ass, but it never happens. I’m bound tight, pierced, chained and bleeding, and I’m being raped. It takes a long time for my screams to subside. Only when I’m reduced to a quivering, sobbing mess, does he pause.

“Now, my little vixen, let’s see if you’re ready to talk.” He wipes the sweat from his brow, before taking hold of one of the needles. Tugging at it experimentally, shooting darts of pain through me. “In case you need me to refresh your memory, I want names.”

At first, I can only sob, but as he starts to twist the needle, I beg him: “No, please Sir… I don’t know their n-names… You have to b-believe me…”

In response, he twists more viciously. “That’s two turns now, little vixen. Three more turns and you won’t have a nipple.”

As the third and then fourth turn of the needle is completed, my howls grow more desperate. I’ve never known such pain. It’s not just in my nipple, but spreading all through my body, from the delicate nerve endings. But no matter how much it hurts, I can’t tell him what he wants to know. My jaw is clamped shut, the eyes rolling back in my head. Through a haze of agony, I hear him say: “One last chance.”

“Gnnhh… Hnnooo…” I squeeze the word out, through my teeth. A split second later, there is a horrible squelching sound, as my nipple is ripped from my breast. I feel blood gushing out, and I scream at the top of my voice, certain I’m about to pass out. But the Surgeon never lets me. While I’m still screaming my lungs out, he grasps the needle in my second nipple. Starts to turn it, slowly.

“Names, vixen.” His voice is raised, so as to make himself heard over the screams. His cock, meanwhile, is drilling into me, fast. Dimly I register the pain, merging with the pain from my breasts. I’m shaking so hard, the whole table shakes with me. Speaking is nigh impossible, but I manage a single word: “Stop!”

I wish for the torture to stop, so that I may speak, but the Surgeon isn’t having a bar of it. “No.” It’s all he says, before turning the needle again. I’ve lost count of how many that makes. All I know is, I’m about to lose my second nipple, and I can’t imagine enduring that. I unlock my jaw and scream out a name. One name, that is all.

“Betty Carrigan! Betty! Carrigan!” Then I’m screaming again, as the pain intensifies. I don’t understand this, until I hear the Surgeon say:

“More.”

Oh God, oh God, oh God. Don’t ask me for more, please don’t ask me. He must sense my inner turmoil, because he pauses everything, in order to cradle my head in one hand. His other hand keeps holding the needle, twisted viciously tight. I’m already sobbing when I feel his hand on my shaved scalp. Lifting my head off the table, he issues a single, terse order: “Open your eyes.”

His tone brooks no refusal. Opening my eyes, I am frightened half to death by the sight of his face, covered in blood. He seems utterly un-phased by it, as he calmly issues his next order: “Now, look at your chest. Do it.”

I don’t want to, I really don’t want to, but I can’t help it. As my eyes fall on the bloodied mess, with a gaping hole where my nipple used to be, I scream. And scream, and scream. Until a sharp slap from the Surgeon brings me around. “Names, Vixen. I want more names.” He twists the needle in my remaining nipple, again.

“Aaaah! Martha! Martha Lake!” The second name is out before I know it, and still the twisting continues, as does the fucking. There is so much blood, between my thighs, my ass cheeks, all over my chest. The image of the last one swims up in my mind, pushing me over the edge once again. I scream out two more names: “Martin Blake! Steve Morrell!” Suddenly, there is that squelching sound again, and I know he is ripping off my second nipple. This time, the pain is too much. I feel the fresh fountain of blood squirt up and with that, I sink into oblivion.

The Surgeon brings me back some minutes later, by pouring a bucket of water over me. I splutter and cough, while he leans over me with another needle. “Try to keep still,” he instructs me. “I have to suture your wounds and I can’t do it if you squirm.”

I can only moan weakly, in response. Mercifully, he is incredibly quick about it, stitching the gaping wounds in less than a minute. He applies gauze and sticky bandages, before looking up in satisfaction. “There, now they won’t fester on you and ruin our next session.”

He is examining me between my legs, humming a merry tune, when I finally gather the strength to speak. “Why did you do that?” I ask, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I gave you… the names.”

Without turning around, he replies smugly: “You gave me four names. A fraction of the total. If you had another nipple, I would’ve torn it off, too.” He inserts something inside my bleeding pussy, pulls it out again. “Hm. I may have overdone it when I fucked you. Entirely your fault, you are so sexy when you scream… my little vixen.”

I can’t help but start crying again. I keep crying while he unbuckles the strap around my waist, rolls me over onto my front and unties my wrists. The bandages on my hands are soaked in blood and he spends some time changing them. He then cleans the raw wounds on my back and ass, and covers them up. I know his work is meticulous, I have seen this on his previous victims. But the fact is, it doesn’t make me feel any better. On the contrary, it scares the living daylight out of me. As he wipes my face clean, I gaze up at him pleadingly:

“Please, Sir, don’t do this. I can give you the names, just please… don’t kill me.”

The Surgeon’s blood smeared face breaks into a smile, at this. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. But don’t worry… you won’t die yet. You’re special to me, so sexy and brave. I’m going to take my time with you.”

The words of one of the men come back to me in a flash: believe me, you don’t want him to take his time with you. I’m shaking my head in mute horror, while the Surgeon slips the mask on my face, crooning: “Don’t cry, little vixen, remember how itchy it made you last time.”

I swallow down tears, but the horror remains. As before, I lie on the bloodied table, waiting for the men to come and collect me. Listening to the Surgeon’s orders: “She’ll need a sponge bath and an enema, you may fuck her ass but not her pussy. Is that clear? Good. I have to go and wash up, but I’ll be around later to check on her.”

The men’s voices are subdued, as they take my shackles off and slide me off the table. I can’t see their faces, but their limited commentary tells me what they’re thinking.

“He fucked her up good, this time.”




“Hey! Vixen! Wake up!” The words are shouted at me, in-between slaps to my face. Blinking slowly, it takes me some time to remember where I am, which is basically in a nightmare. As I open my eyes – oddly enough, I’m not wearing the mask any more – I see the men in charge of me gazing at me in evident relief. “Fuck, Vixen, don’t scare us like that any more!”

I have no idea what they’re talking about and I say so: or rather, I whisper it. I really don’t have the strength to speak, any more. If it wasn’t for the pain coursing through my body, I’d fall asleep again, straightaway. Come to think of it, I might just do that…

“Vixen!” The slap to my face is sharper this time, causing me to curse out loud. I struggle to keep my eyes open, while they lean over me worriedly. “Look at me, Vixen, can you look at me? You must stay awake, ok?” I nod, though I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. Then I hear one of them say to the other: “Go get the Surgeon. Tell him she’s bleeding out on us. Hurry!”

Even after I hear this, I remain strangely detached. Looking around me, I see I’m lying on the floor in a large bathroom, tiled white. The brightness is pleasing after the stark concrete of the torture chamber, until I remember what I’m here for. I turn my gaze back on the man guarding me. “Have you… Have you done the enema, yet?”

He seems bothered by the question, his brow knitting together in a frown. “Just relax, ok? Don’t talk.” From somewhere behind him, he produces a cool, wet cloth and starts wiping my face with it. Keeping me awake, the cruel bastard.

“Please,” I whisper, staring him in the eye. “Let me die.”

Before he can reply, there comes the sound of footsteps. Heavy boots tapping against the tiles. “What’s going on? Why did you take her mask off?”

“Sir, she had some kind of seizure… and afterward, she kept passing out on us. We didn’t know what else to do…” The men’s explanation is cut off mid-sentence. “Enough! Next time, call me at the first sign of trouble, but do not take off the mask. Is that clear?”

I look up at the Surgeon as he leans over me. He is freshly shaven and dressed immaculately, in a clean white shirt and black trousers. I’ve never seen him look so smart and it makes me wonder what his plans are for tonight. “Going some place special?”

Ignoring my whispered question, he produces a small torch and shines it in my eyes, one by one. Frowning, he checks my pulse next, pressing down firmly over the artery in my neck. Then he straightens and starts to unbutton his shirt, issuing orders at the same time: “Mick, go to my office and get me the medical kit, the large one with all the drugs in it. Also, get some blood from the cool room. Type A+. Svenston, call my assistant and ask her to cancel my meeting this evening. She’ll know what to say, she’s very creative that way.”

“Sir, yes Sir.” The men exit the room at a jog, leaving me alone with my torturer. I’m not tied up in any way and he is unarmed. A mere twenty-four hours ago, I would have leapt at the chance to fight him, and I probably would have won. Now, I simply lie here, on the cool, tiled floor, watching him as he strips off his shirt. He folds it neatly and sets it down on a nearby cabinet, and then he takes off his undershirt. Finally, he turns to me. He has well defined muscles in his arms and abdomen, and I watch them flex as he leans down and grabs hold of my ankles. Lifting my legs up, he rests them on the edge of the bath.

“It’s to keep the blood flowing to your head, while we wait.” He informs me, in his usual, calm tone. Smiling his thin, cruel smile. “You’re not getting away from me that easy, little vixen.”

Fuck you, I think, but I don’t say it. He’d have no compunction about slapping me extra hard, regardless of my state – a state that he put me in. I gaze at him in silence as he bends over and picks up something from the floor. When he squats down next to me, I see it’s my mask. Oh fuck, I think, and I close my eyes. “Please.”

“Shhh…” he says, soothingly. “I’m not about to put it on now. Not until you’re out of danger, anyway.” He pauses to brush my cheek. The touch is enough to make me open my eyes wide, which pleases him. “That’s it, keep them open,” he murmurs. “I know you’ll keep them open for me, even if you wouldn’t for the others. Am I right?”

I nod weakly, mesmerised by his stare. How well he knows me, I think. Then I remember that he’s tortured many men and women, before me. More than likely, they all respond to him the same way. As though reading my mind, he leans down closer and says: “You’re not like the others, little vixen. You’re way smarter, cunning like a true fox. That’s why I don’t want you talking to any of my men… why you have to wear the mask, whenever I’m not around.”

I’m tempted to argue about this – at the risk of incurring his wrath – when I hear the men returning. Their voices are loud compared to the conversation I’ve been having, and it startles me. At once, the Surgeon’s hand is on my shoulder, settling me down. “It’s all right now, just keep still.” He takes my arm next, pulls it out at an angle. I feel him wrapping the rubber above my elbow, tapping the crook of my elbow for a vein. The needle goes in so smoothly I can hardly feel it. With the transfusion set up, he turns his attention elsewhere. Working right there, on the floor, he gets the men to spread my legs open, to lift my hips onto some towels.

“This will hurt a bit,” he tells me, and then he pushes something deep inside me, gauze it feels like. There is a strong burning sensation, probably some kind of antiseptic, that causes me to arch my back and moan. The men hold me down without being told, while the Surgeon continues his work. He doesn’t stop until he’s filled me completely, the gauze packed in tight. Announcing in a satisfied tone: “There, that should stop the bleeding.”

I moan in discomfort, as he pulls an oversized nappy on me, “to hold everything in place, dear.” Then my legs are brought together and bound tight, from hip to ankle. It’s to stop me from moving, apparently, because moving could make me bleed too much. I’m desperately confused, particularly when I see the Surgeon injecting me with something. “If you were going to drug me anyway, why tie me down?”

The men’s sniggers reverberate around the bathroom, until the Surgeon’s voice cuts them off. “You mean this?” He points to the syringe he’s just emptied into me. “This is just an antibiotic. Surely, you didn’t think I’d give you a painkiller? I thought you knew me better, by now.”

More sniggers, while I groan in humiliation and despair. I’m still groaning, when I see the Surgeon leaning over me, with the mask. “You seem to be embarrassed, my little vixen,” he says, smugly. “Allow me to put you out of your misery.”

With that, he pulls the black leather over my head and zips it up tight. Caressing me like a pet, he instructs the men firmly: “No one is to take her mask off in my absence, is that clear? I’ll be staying in tonight, so if there are any problems, call me.”

I mew at him like a cat, a pleading that he ignores. Presently, he stops petting me and stands up. I hear his voice from higher up, issuing further orders: “Take her to her cell and tie her to a pole, make sure to secure it to a wall. I want her completely immobilised, and the transfusion to keep running. Any questions?”

There are none. I listen to him walking away, and then I feel the men’s hands on me, lifting me up and carrying me away. A few minutes later, they are laying me on the mattress, on my side. My arms are pulled above my head and tied to a thick, metal pole. Then my legs and waist are likewise secured, strapping me in tightly. I squirm ineffectually against the ropes, before banging my head against the pole, in sheer desperation. The men sigh in annoyance. “Better tie her head down, as well. Here, pass me your belt.”

I want to scream at them as they do it, but I’m still too weak for such antics. An angry “Mmmm!” is all I can manage, as they gently press my head against the pole and wrap the belt around both, several times. This accomplished, they stand back and watch me, a fact that I ascertain by their excited breaths. I’m tied to a pole, naked except for the bandages, and quite obviously in great pain. Yet the men pant around me, like a pair of dogs. It takes me a while to realise they are jerking off.

“Mmmm! Mmmm!” I squeal at them through the tight leather covering my mouth, and I squirm against the pole desperately. In response, they pant more loudly. Then, they are groaning, squirting cum all over me: my breasts, my back, as high up as my neck. For once, I’m grateful for the mask covering my face. I shake against the pole, as they rub their sticky mess over my skin.

“Sweet dreams, princess.”

I sob for a long time, after they are gone. Covered in cum, my pussy stretched with gauze, tied to a metal pole, I’m about as miserable as a woman can be. Hours pass by, with me drifting in and out of consciousness. And then I hear his voice.

“Oh God… Miss Patterson, what have they done to you?”

It’s the mystery agent. Here to save me from my horrible fate. In the moment I feel his hand on me – he’s touching my shoulder, the only spot not covered in dried cum – I start to cry. I don’t know if he can help me, any more. Unless he’s here to kill me, that is.




“I’m going to get you out of here, right now.”

The words cause me to fall silent, choking back sobs that until a moment ago were unstoppable. Trembling, I wait for the agent to undo the belt around my head and pull off my mask. The moment he does so, I whisper at him, urgently: “It’s too late, I’ve already told him some of the names. Save yourself, while you still c…”

I trail off, as I catch sight of his face. Even in the darkness, I can see well enough to recognise him – and yet, I don’t. The man leaning over me is a stranger to me. What’s more, he is young, dark-haired and incredibly handsome. Not the kind of face I could forget in a hurry. “Who. Are you?” I try to keep the tremble out of my voice, but he picks up on it instantly. Flashing me a smile that could melt a woman’s heart, he replies readily:

“Secret services, special taskforce unit. We’ve been keeping tabs on you since the start of the operation.”

He works as he speaks, undoing the ropes that bind me. But I’m still doubtful and I tell him so. “What’s the secret service doing, interfering with our operation? Are you here to spy on us?”

The agent is silent for a moment. “You know as well as I do, I can’t tell you that.” He pulls the last of the knots, freeing my wrists. “However, I’d like to remind you that it was one of your own agents that betrayed you.”

He is right, of course. Rolling away from the pole, I’m about to ask him what his plan is, when he puts his finger to his lips, warning me to be quiet. A second later, I can hear voices, quickly getting closer. I hold my breath, praying they’ll move on. But then the door starts to squeak on its hinges. In a flash, the agent is on top of me, straddling my shoulders.

“Do exactly as I tell you,” he whispers, “or we’re both dead.” So saying, he leans back and slaps me. Hard. As I cry out in shock, he growls at me, loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear: “I’ll ask you one more time, open your fucking mouth.”

He unzips his trousers as he speaks, pulling out his cock. I can’t help but notice that he has an erection. I wonder when that happened. Unfortunately, I miss my cue while staring at it and he slaps me again, to remind me. “Your mouth. Open it. Now.”

As soon as I do so, he feeds his cock into my mouth, deep enough to make me gag. So it is that the other men find us, when they walk into the room.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” They sound surprised, and more than a little upset. “The Surgeon said not to take her mask off, no matter what!”

The agent glares at them irritably. “Well, no one told me. Anyway, can’t you let me have some fun, first? I promise to put it back on when I’m finished with her.” He thrusts in and out of my mouth a few times, grunting with pleasure. It’s enough to convince the other men to back off.

“All right, but we get to watch.” They chuckle at their own cleverness, which isn’t cleverness at all, but plain rudeness. I’m certain the agent will tell them to clear out, but then I hear him say: “Sure, I don’t care.”

I start to wish I never let him shove his cock into my mouth, in the first place. It’s too late now, however. My jaw is already stretched open, with his sizeable appendage shoved deep down my throat. As he face fucks me slowly, he tilts my head back more, which gives him even better access. I can’t fight him, not without exposing him, and so I let him do it. The darkness is soon penetrated by the sounds of gagging and gurgling, as well as the occasional moan. It goes on for a long time, until my jaw starts to ache. Then, it gets worse, as the agent’s movements grow faster, approaching climax. In response to the distressed sounds I make, he snaps at me: “Shut up, bitch, and get ready to swallow.”

“Gggnn… Gggnnn…” The sounds my throat makes are enough to push him over the edge, just as I begin to choke. I feel hot semen squirting down the back of my throat and I do my best to gulp it down, but with my mouth still open it’s difficult. He seems to realise this, because he pulls out and pushes my jaw shut.

“Swallow now, there’s a good girl.” His other hand rubs my neck, helping me comply. I swallow once, twice, three times, before he finally releases me. “There you go, that was a nice little protein shake for you.”

I look up at him through a curtain of tears, thinking how great an actor he is. The men in the room with us are certainly distracted by the performance, their erections straining their trousers. “Hey, maybe we should give her some, too. Goodness knows, the Surgeon isn’t likely to feed her, any time soon.” They edge closer, rubbing at their crotches, but the agent stops them.

“Sorry, fellas, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Stroking my face, he makes me close my eyes. “I think I’ve worn her out.”

The men disagree. “She’ll come around, just give her a few slaps.” Once more, the agent deters them, saying: “Didn’t you just tell me that she’s not supposed to have her mask off? Imagine if the Surgeon walked in right now.”

I almost lose it when I feel him slipping the leather contraption back over my head. However, under threat of two more violations, I manage to restrain myself. Lying docilely as the hood is zipped tight, as my body is rolled on its side against the pole, once more. “Help me tie her back up,” the agent says and the men jump to do his bidding. I cry silent tears as I feel their hands on me, securing me as before. But then, I hear the agent say: “I’ll be back.” And hope blossoms inside me, in spite of everything.

Hours later, I doze off. I didn’t think sleep was possible, in the position I was in, but my body must have needed it. When I wake up, it’s morning. I can tell it’s morning, because the men are back and they are untying me from the pole. They pull the needle out of my arm, while leaving my legs bound together. As they lift me up and carry me out of my cell, they joke about it, referring to me as a mermaid. I try not to cry out whenever their arms and hands touch my wounds. My breasts especially, are hurting, the areas where my nipples used to be throbbing painfully.

Then I hear the Surgeon’s voice, and I forget about everything else.

“Lie her down over there, I need to check her vitals, first.”

I am laid out on the cold, steel table, and held down by my arms. I can feel the Surgeon lifting my head up, unzipping the mask. A second later, I’m looking up at his face, blinking. He seems pleased to find me conscious, but he doesn’t speak to me. Examining me in silence, he checks my pupils and then my pulse. Seemingly satisfied, he turns to the men, once more. “Pass me the scissors.” He uses them to cut off the bandages around my legs, and then the nappy. When I try to move my legs experimentally, he orders: “Tie her ankles apart, spread her nice and wide.”

While the men do so, he takes hold of my wrists and binds them together, above my head. My pulse quickens as the ropes tighten, for I’ve come to associate bondage with pain. On this occasion, though, I’m someway off. The Surgeon’s sole intention is to remove the gauze from my pussy. He uses forceps to do so, extracting each piece with care. There is some pain as the last of it is peeled away from my bleeding insides, and then it is over. I watch the Surgeon as he leans over me, grinning. “Well, little vixen, it looks like you’ll live, for now. That being the case, are you ready for your next session?”

I shake my head, weakly. I’m quite certain that I will not survive another session with the Surgeon and after some hesitation, I tell him so. It makes him laugh, a deep, throaty sound devoid of humour or warmth, of any kind: “You will die when I decide, not before.”

Having reassured me after this fact, he turns to his men once more. “Put her in a harness and hook her up to the winch, over there.”

“No!” I protest, as the men strap me into a tight, leather harness and carry me bodily across the room. There, they attach me to a strong, steel cable and leave me dangling, like a marionette. The Surgeon wastes no time snapping the heavy shackles and chain around my ankles, the same ones he used yesterday. This done, he pulls my arms behind my back roughly, binding them elbow to elbow. The strain it puts on my shoulders is tremendous, and I have to grit my teeth to stop myself from screaming.

“Don’t worry, if I wanted to dislocate your shoulders, I would’ve used a different method,” the Surgeon tells me, on noticing it. I’m in too much pain to reply, watching in silence as he moves around the room, fetching the items he will need. Among them are several thick canes and a vicious looking, iron poker. Just looking at it makes me shake in fear, the chains rattling between my ankles. Luckily, he is too preoccupied to notice, issuing last minute instructions to the men: “Clean up this mess, then leave us. Come back in an hour, like we discussed. If there’s a problem, let me know, but I doubt there will be. I examined each of them personally, this morning.”

“Yes, Sir.” The men reply, with their usual brevity, before walking away, closing the door firmly behind them. I’m alone with the Surgeon again, and I’m more vulnerable than I’ve ever been. Weakened, in pain, with multiple open wounds that could be used to torture me so easily. Having extracted vital information from me the day before, I have no doubt he’ll do so again today. The knowledge makes me nauseous, and I can’t help but grimace as I watch him approach.

“Awww… is my little vixen scared?” He says, smirking. Coming up to me slowly, he takes hold of my chin in one hand and stares me in the eye, until I’m forced to look away. Only then does he release me, with a chuckle: “You’re weakening, my dear. But don’t feel bad about it. I’ve broken stronger people than you, in less time than we’ve had.”

I don’t have it in me to look at him again, and so I don’t see the object in his hand as he lifts it up. As he wraps the leather collar around my neck, however, I flinch visibly. He has to press his body against mine, to steady me. “It’s just a collar, little vixen. A nice, wide collar to choke you with.”

He does up the buckle, while I mew in humiliation and in fear. Pleading with him: “Please, Sir. I will give you more names… Just please, don’t hurt me any more.”

“Tut, tut,” the Surgeon chides me, sliding another piece of rope through a ring in my collar. “You think you’re saying the right words, but you’re wrong.” Attaching the rope to another hook above me, he pulls on it and I feel the leather bite into my neck. Choking me ever so slightly, I paddle slightly with my feet, but I’m suspended clean off the floor and can find no purchase – no way to alleviate the pressure. I have to swallow hard, before trying again.

“Sir? Please, I don’t… I don’t understand.” I mean what I say. What more could he want, besides those names?

The Surgeon’s gaze is cold as he faces me, his hand on my breast, pinching and squeezing, causing blood to seep from my wound. “No, I suppose you don’t, as yet. But you will, and soon. I promise.”

As he turns away to take up the first of the canes, my whole body starts to tremble violently. “Please! Please, Sir!”

And before he truly starts to hurt me, I wet myself in fear. The piss running down my thighs is a source of amusement for him. Growling at me:

“At last, you’re learning to fear me properly.”

With that, he swings the cane.
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I'm a wicked, vile, horrible and perfect man. - the Savage, during one of his more modest moments.

"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"
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Old 04-07-2013, 09:39 AM   #3
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For the next hour, the Surgeon does nothing but cane me. He doesn’t ask me any questions, no. He just canes me and he canes me hard, all over my buttocks and thighs, my mutilated breasts. The scalpel wounds he gave me are soon bleeding liberally, split open by the powerful strikes of the cane. The bandages shredded in the process. I scream at the top of my voice, each time he strikes me. The pain from the cane is like nothing I’ve experienced. I feel each hit as a horrible, debilitating pain, and I continue to feel it as it spreads through my muscles, for long seconds after. Before the pain has receded, the cane is whooshing through the air again, giving me no time to recover.

Thwack! Across my buttocks, causing the flesh to jiggle. Screaming as the second strike descends. Thwack! Across the same spot again, doubling the pain. Screaming, screaming at the top of my voice. Thwack! Across the back of my thighs, I arch my back as I scream, as my body swings forward through the air. Thwack! Over the breasts this time, pushing me the other way, the blood pours down my front while I scream still louder, longer, more desperately.

The punishment is severe, probably the most severe the Surgeon has yet dished out to me, but though I expect to faint at any moment, I don’t. He has timed the strokes too well, delivering the maximum amount of pain, while keeping me teetering on the very edge of consciousness. As time goes on and the torture continues, my emotional equilibrium is affected. I’m swinging to and fro in the harness, choking and screaming, my legs jerking helplessly. Suddenly, the pain and the terror take over me, causing me to snap. Dimly, I’m aware of the Surgeon stepping back, so as to avoid squirting blood, while I howl and convulse before him. He lets me suffer through the worst of it, before swinging the cane again.

“Nooo!” I howl at him, but it’s too late. As he strikes the raw, bleeding flesh of my buttocks, I start howling in earnest. “Nooo! Pleeeasee! I’ll tell you anything! Anything you want to know! Oh God, oh God, please just stoop! Pleeeasee!”

The Surgeon drops the cane to the floor, with a noisy clutter. “About bloody time.”

While I sob uncontrollably, he steps behind me and unbuckles his belt. Grabbing my bound arms, he keeps me still, as he rubs his cock between my ass cheeks. It hurts like hell, and that’s before he pushes inside my ass. He slides in easily enough, lubricated by my blood, grunting with pleasure. I sob and shake while my ass is stretched, and when he starts to thrust I kick out with my legs, rattling the chains.

“Start talking.” It is all he says, as he fucks me. Sodomizing me brutally, he knows it won’t stop me, and he’s right.

“D-danny M-morris, P-peter Green, N-nora Ph-philips, Ma-ary R-rogers…” I rattle off the names, all 24 of them. He never interrupts me, but keeps fucking my ass, deep thrusts that keep me focused on him. When I’ve finished with the list, I keep talking, detailing the history of the operation, the criminals we are targeting, the phones we have tapped… In other words, everything I can think of. Then I fall silent, surrendering to pain and grief, sobbing openly, my ass twitching around his cock.

For several minutes he keeps fucking me, his arm wrapped around my hips pulling me close. I sob pitifully as he comes inside me, with a loud grunt. His cock throbs in my ass, filling me with his cum, completing the violation that his cane had begun. At last, he pulls out. He takes his time cleaning himself up, while I hang suspended, awaiting his pleasure. Crying, expecting him to kill me now. Once again, he seems to be reading my mind.

“Well now, little vixen, I suppose you think I should kill you now.” His voice is calm and infinitely smug, as he adds: “Considering you’ve spilled all the information to me, in such wonderful detail.”

I nod, dumbly. The snot pouring down my face makes it difficult to talk, and still I can’t stop crying. If there’s one thing I’m still afraid of, it is dying. Then I hear the Surgeon say:

“I can’t blame you for thinking that, my dear vixen. After all, I have you ready to hang, don’t I?”

At that, he pulls on the rope attached to my collar, choking me. My eyes bulge as I stare at him, open mouthed and gurgling. If I could, I’d beg him for my life, but the leather biting into my neck prevents me. He stares back at me as he chokes me, and I can see the excitement on his face. A press of a button and the hook to which my harness is attached goes down, placing even more strain on my neck. With my air supply cut off completely, I twitch and tremble before him, while he chuckles evilly.

“How does it feel to get hanged? To know that these are your last moments on Earth? Interesting, how the legs keep kicking, when there’s nothing for you to stand on. That’s instinct for you, it stays with us till the end.” Walking up to me, right up close, he runs his hand across my jerking body. Saying: “Come on, let me see that tongue stick out. It’s what they all do, just before they croak. Stick it out for me, vixen, you know you want to.”

I’m kicking out more violently, but it’s all in vain. He’s hung me by the neck and is watching me die. My vision blurs as I struggle, and then I feel my tongue poking out. Terror washes over me in waves, as I sense that death is near. Choking quietly, I’m about to pass out, forever… when all of a sudden the pressure is removed from my neck, completely. A second after that, the winch whirrs noisily and I’m lowered to the floor. Collapsing in a heap, I cough and retch weakly. When at last I look up, I find the Surgeon standing over me. Smiling that thin, cruel smile of his.

“Forgive me, little vixen, I couldn’t resist having some fun with you.” Picking up the cane from the floor beside me, I see it’s covered in blood. He turns around and wipes it clean, before sliding it back in its place. Speaking to me as he does so: “As I’m sure you’ll recall, I promised you that you’d beg me for death. And since you haven’t done so yet, I feel disinclined to let you go.”

With exaggerated care, he squats next to me and starts to wipe my face with a wet cloth. I tremble at his touch, while my mind spins. “Hnnh…” I croak, trying to clear my throat. I want to ask him what he intends to do with me, though I have a fair idea. After all, I’m not just another agent. I’m the leader of the team and potentially a valuable hostage. He notices my struggle and puts a finger to my lips:

“Shhh… don’t try and speak. You’ll get your voice back in a few hours. We can have another chat then.”

I watch in something like relief, as he finishes the task. He is wiping the last of the snot from my nose, when there comes a knock at the door. “Ah! Our visitors are here.” He exclaims, merrily. Strolling over quickly, he flings the door open: “Come, we’ve been expecting you.”

Puzzled, I stare at the doorway, not knowing what to expect. Then I see the guards walking through, dragging a person between them. It takes me a while to recognise the naked, bound woman as Betty Carrigan. One of my best woman agents and the first name I screamed to the Surgeon under torture. I can’t call out to her, but the agony is surely etched on my face, because she screams upon seeing me.

“Miss Patterson! Oh God!” There is no rebuke in her tone, no judgment being passed. Yet I feel the guilt weighing on me, heavily. Tears slide down my face, as I watch my colleague and friend being brought into the room.

“Tie her to the table,” the Surgeon says, calmly. While the men do so, he steps briskly toward me, so that he may whisper in my ear: “I want you to watch this, little vixen. I want you to see how quickly she breaks, compared to you. Consider it a present from me. A parting gift, before I hand you over to your new master.”

His words echo in my mind. My new master? What is he talking about? He gives me no time to dwell on it, though. Before my horrified gaze, he moves over to Betty and picks up the electric clippers. “Hair gets in the way.”

Her screams soon drown out all thought, and the worst thing is, I can’t bring myself to look away.





The Surgeon was right: Betty did break a lot more quickly than I did. He didn’t even have to cut off any of her fingers. The moment he started peeling strips of skin off her back, she started talking. She told him everything, everything he already knew. He did not tell her that he knew, until the very end. Poor Betty kept saying sorry to me, thinking she was letting the team down. I would have told her the truth, but with my throat still tight from the hanging, I could only stare at her. In the end, it fell to the Surgeon to tell her. He did it while inserting the special dildo into her pussy.

“You sick bastard!” Betty screamed at him, when she found out. “Why did you torture me? Why?”

Having spent three days with the Surgeon, I could have told her why. I cringed as I heard him answer, with brutal honesty: “I like to hurt people. More to the point, I like to hurt them till they die.”

Then he pushed a button and I saw Betty’s hips start to jerk, up and down, on the table. Her screams were horrible and lasted forever. She kept on screaming and twitching, long after the machine was switched off. The Surgeon watched her impassively, before declaring he was bored. “You’re so weak, Betty Boop.” Snapping his fingers at the two men standing by: “Tie her arms behind her back and hook her up. I’m going to finish her off.”

That was how we got to this point: with Betty’s naked body swinging gently over the stainless steel table, strung up by her ankles. She knows she’s about to die, but to her credit she isn’t begging. I’m impressed by her lack of fear, until I hear the Surgeon laugh. “Pass me the bucket over there. The stupid bitch has fainted.”

The hapless Betty is revived with a splash of water, whereupon she starts screaming. “Nooo! Pleeease! Oh Jesus, oh God, please have mercy on my soul!” The religious reference seems to irritate the Surgeon no end. Pushing a rubber gag in her mouth, he growls at her in evident disappointment:

“I was looking forward to your screams, but you had to ruin it. I’ll have to gut you extra slowly now, to punish you.”

As he holds up a large, long bladed hunting knife, I look away for the first time. I can’t block out the sounds, though – Betty’s muffled screams carry easily across the room, in spite of the gag. They are the screams of a dying person and perversely, it makes me look up – in time to see her guts spilling, all over the table. She is still alive, though, her body jerking in a fountain of blood, while the Surgeon watches from the sideline. At my choked scream, he turns toward me and inclines his head gracefully.

“One down, twenty three to go.” His expression is grim and I do not doubt the truth of his words. Even though I only revealed most of the names to him less than an hour ago, I imagine he will catch every one of them within hours. I tremble on the cold, concrete floor, feeling suddenly nauseous. Surely he won’t make me watch, as he kills them all?

Then I remember how he wanted me to beg for death. Perhaps this is his way of forcing me? I watch the men lower Betty’s lifeless body onto the table and I squeeze my eyes shut, not wishing to see the next part. It is the Surgeon’s custom to cut off the hands and feet of his victims, and to sew up the corpse – minus its organs. There’s no way I’m going to watch him do that to my dead friend. Lost in my own misery, I don’t hear the footsteps approaching until they draw close. Even then, I refuse to lift my head from where it’s cradled between my arms. That is, until I hear a familiar voice saying:

“Hey there, Miss Patterson. Don’t cry.”

No, it can’t be! In disbelief, I raise my head and stare at him, while he smiles that seductive smile of his. “I told you I’d come back for you.”

For long seconds, I simply gaze up at him, open mouthed. Relief mixes with doubt, as I wait for him to say something more. But he never does. Instead, he starts undoing my harness, removing the shackles from my legs. Finally, I can’t hold back any longer. In a hoarse whisper, I ask him the question burning in my mind: “Who are you?”

He shakes his head, ruefully, and cups my face with both hands. Staring me straight in the eye, he replies softly: “I’m the devil, Miss Patterson. And I’ve come to claim you.”

The words are too much for my frail state. I stare at the man before me, and I see black wings sprout from his back: enveloping me completely, blocking out all light. I tell myself I’m only imagining it, but it’s too late. My eyes are already closed, the image seared in my mind. Moaning, shaking in fear, I hear another voice, from a distance:

“Damien, what did I tell you about scaring your victims to death?”

I want to tell the voice to shut up, don’t talk to the devil that way, but I can’t form the words. As I slip away, the last thing I know is the touch of his hand, wiping the tears from my eyes.






When I next come to, I’m lying on a bed – a large iron four-poster, it has chains hanging from its sides instead of curtains. At each corner, a curved piece of iron extends outward, holding up a thick candle. Four candles in all, their flickering light illuminates the immediate surrounds and nothing more. Peering into the darkness beyond, I see no walls, no windows or doors. I hear no sounds, aside from my own breathing. It’s a surreal scene: were it not for the pain wracking my body, I would think I am dead. As it is, I lie quietly, feeling my tortured flesh throb hotly against the sheets. At last, I can take it no more. I must roll onto my front, or my side, anything to take the pressure off my ass and thighs.

The sheet sticks to me when I move, which tells me two things. One, I am bleeding, in multiple places where the cane has struck me, splitting the skin. Two, I’ve been lying here for some time. As I shift on the smooth cotton – the sheets are black, I now see – I notice something else, something deeply disturbing. I am chained to the bed. Alerted by the metallic rattle, I reach up with one bandaged hand and touch the collar around my neck. It’s a wide, metal collar and it’s locked with a padlock at the back. Sighing, I let my arm fall. So, I’m still a prisoner, after all. I stare into the dark, expecting to hear the Surgeon’s footsteps, echoing off the stone. Any. Moment now. But they never come.

Some time later, I doze off. When I wake up, I’m surrounded by pitch black. The candles have either burnt down, or someone has extinguished them while I slept. I feel the darkness pressing in on me, from all sides. Though I hear nothing, I imagine the Surgeon in the room with me, standing right beside me. The feeling is so strong that I actually whimper. “Please, don’t hurt me.” My voice is a whisper, at first. A gentle probe that goes unanswered. Fighting a rising sense of panic, I try again, more loudly this time: “I know you’re out there. Stop toying with me, please.”

Silence. Complete, total silence. A slight rattle of the chain has me jumping out of my skin, until I realise it’s just my body shaking. I don’t know how much time passes this way. All I know is, I’m in pain and my fear is spiking. It’s only a matter of time before it all caves in on me. When it happens, I scream. Shattering the silence with my ruined voice, I shout at him to “leave me alone, just leave me alone you bastard!”

Suddenly, a door slams, off to my right. I sit up despite the pain it causes me, staring into the dark. Listening to the sound of footsteps, and then a match striking a matchbox. I trace the tiny spark of light as it travels to the candle and lights it. Before I can get a good look, he is moving again, lighting the remaining candles. As he steps into the circle of light at long last, I gasp in surprise. “You!”

The handsome face of the mystery agent – aka “the devil” – creases in a smile. “Who did you expect?” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he reaches over to me. The movement isn’t threatening, but I flinch all the same. At once, he pauses, gazes at me calmly. “Shhhh… I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m your friend, remember?”

I tremble, but I stay put. Allowing him to take my arm and pull me toward him, I lock my gaze with his. “You said you would rescue me.” My lower lip trembles, as I level the accusation at him. If he is perturbed by it, he doesn’t show it, his dark eyes watching me calmly.

“I said I would get you out of the place you were in,” he says, without a trace of guile. “This I have done. As anyone who knows me can tell you, I always keep my word.”

I’m rendered speechless for a moment and he uses the opportunity to push me down and roll me onto my front. When he runs his hand over my welts, I whimper.

“It hurts, I know.” His voice is like poison, deep and melodious, not at all like the voice of an enemy. But if I listen carefully, I can hear the undercurrent of cruelty in his words. Describing my injuries to me he sounds detached, instead of concerned: “You’ve been caned bloody, you realise. You’re covered in welts and you’re bleeding between your legs. People have died from such injuries.”

If he wanted to frighten me, he has succeeded. At the same time, he hasn’t a hope in hell of changing the subject. “Is that why you didn’t rescue me? Because I’m going to die, anyway?” I tremble as I ask this, already dreading the answer.

He sighs loudly, before explaining, in a pained voice: “But I did rescue you, don’t you see? If it weren’t for me, you’d be dying a slow, agonising death on my father’s floor…”

“Wait,” I snap, interrupting him. “What are you saying? That the Surgeon is your… your…” I struggle to complete the sentence, but he has no such qualms.

“Father? Yes, as a matter of fact, he is.” He pushes firmly on my back to hold me down, obviously expecting a reaction. He gets one.

“You lying bastard!” I turn my head, so I can glare at him, while I squirm. “You let me think you were one of us! You gave me hope, then you took it away. Have you any idea how cruel that is?”

In response, he places his free hand on the back of my neck – underneath the metal collar – and pins me down. “Mhm, I most certainly do.” Running his hand over my ass and thighs again, making me cry out in pain. “It’s what they call mental torture. My specialty.”

The betrayal stings me more than any of the welts on my skin. Although I know it must give him pleasure, I can’t help but recount what he did, with the benefit of hindsight: “So, that first night when you fucked me… You said you had to do it, because of the cameras…”

“No, no, the part about the cameras was true,” he chuckles, in amusement. “And I really did have to fuck you. With that fox tail in your ass, you were positively irresistible.”

My cheeks – on my face, this time – are burning with shame, at the memory. Yet I plough on, masochistically: “And the time when you took my hood off and the guards came… I suppose that was all a set up, too?”

He laughs out loud, unable to contain his mirth. Leaning down close, he whispers in my ear: “How else could I make you suck my cock, and let me shoot my cum down your throat?”

Lying on the bed before him, naked, chained and covered in welts, I feel beyond humiliated. Soon, I’m crying, my shoulders shaking with my sobs. As before, he wipes my tears away, while talking to me softly, soothingly: “There, there. Don’t cry, baby. I promise I won’t lie to you any more. Ok?”

He stays with me while I cry, just like a loving friend would. The crazy thing is, I appreciate it, despite everything. I crave his company, his gentle touch. Inside the violent world I’m trapped in, he is my only safe haven. That is why, when he pulls me up and folds me into an embrace, I don’t resist. Crying in his arms, until I can’t cry any more. He strokes me as I settle down, on my shaved scalp, my arms and shoulders. “Better?”

I pull back a little and nod. “W-what is your name?”

The smile he gives me almost takes my breath away. “Damien,” he says and I know he’s telling the truth. I remember hearing that name, back in the examination room. Right before I fainted.

As he gets up to leave, a choked sound escapes me. “Damien?” I ask, urgently. “Can you – can you please give me something for the pain?”

Instead of replying, he smiles again. Leaning down, he cups my chin in his hand. “Sure thing, baby.” Before I can protest, he’s kissing me. His lips are soft and warm and moist, as they press against mine. Then he is pulling away, turning to leave once more.

I say nothing, this time. My mind is spinning so much I think I might faint. As his footsteps recede, I stretch out on my front – and straightaway, I fall asleep.







“Wake up, vixen. Wake up, little one.”

The voice, together with the light slaps against my cheek, brings me back to the waking world: back to the four-poster bed, with its curtains of chains and the candles burning at each corner. I groan when I see it, drawing an instant chuckle from the man leaning over me. “That’s just what my wife used to sound like, every time the alarm went off.”

What wife? I think, and then I recognise the Surgeon’s voice. As I look up at him in shock, he shines a small torch in my eyes.

“Hmm… pupils slightly dilated, but otherwise normal. Let’s check your pulse.” He takes hold of my wrist, above the bandage, presses his fingertips over it and looks at his watch. Presently, he exhales loudly: “One hundred over sixty. Just as I thought.”

He moves to my legs next, spreading my thighs with a gentle hand. I tense up when I feel his gloved fingers probing my vagina, but he doesn’t notice. He is muttering about the “damn candlelight” and “proper lighting for an examination”, when my cry of pain pierces the air.

“Please, Sir, it hurts,” I plead with him breathlessly, fully expecting him to ignore me. To my surprise and relief, he stops. Removing his gloves with a noisy pop, he steps to the head of the bed once more.

“That’s ok, my little vixen, I’ve finished examining you, anyway.” Standing there, he lets the silence stretch between us, as though waiting for me to say something more. When I fail to do so, he snaps irritably: “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

Taken aback, I blurt out: “You’re here to kill me.”

It makes him laugh. “Not exactly.” Pulling a syringe out of his lab coat pocket, he continues smoothly: “Actually, I’m here at my son’s request. I trust you have finally been introduced, properly?”

“Yes, we’ve met,” I say, distractedly. I can’t take my eyes off the syringe, complete with a large needle. At the moment, the needle is capped, but I don’t like the way the Surgeon’s hand keeps caressing it. Like he might take it off, any second.


He clears his throat, to get my attention. “My dear vixen, listen to me very carefully.” Transferring the syringe from one hand to the other, playing with it as he speaks. “I’m here to give you a choice.”

“What kind of choice?” I ask, suspiciously.

“The kind of choice others in your position would kill for,” the Surgeon says. His tone is serious, his eyes glowing darkly as he stares at me. I think of Betty, strung up by her ankles, being gutted alive. Yup, I think, most people would kill to avoid such a fate, including me. I stare back at him silently, waiting to hear more. Satisfied at last that he has my attention, he lays it all out for me:

“My son informs me that he wishes to keep you, as his slave. If you accept, I will do everything in my power to treat your injuries and bring you back to health. I must warn you – there are no guarantees I’ll succeed. You could end up bleeding to death, in a few weeks. However, if you choose this option, you’ll at least have a chance. Alternatively, you may opt out. Literally.”

He pauses, staring at me expectantly. I’m suddenly so nervous I can hardly speak. “You… you mean, now? I must choose right now?” He nods, explaining:

“If I don’t start treatment on you soon, you’ll die for sure.”

Oh God, oh God, this can’t be happening. I don’t want to be a slave, damn it! At the same time, I’m pretty certain I don’t want to die, either. I lick my suddenly dry lips, before asking in a shaky voice: “M-may I ask… how would I die?”

The Surgeon smiles, lifting up the syringe. “The little devil has convinced me to extend you mercy. I have here an ampule-full of morphine. The full dosage will send you to eternal sleep, within seconds. You won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

I knew it. I bloody knew it. Unconsciously, I shrink away from him as I ask my next question. “And if I agree to be his… slave,” choking at the word, the very idea, “what then?”

“Then, my little vixen,” he says, lifting the syringe again and eyeing it off, “I will give you only half of this dosage, to take away the pain. Once you are out, I will call my assistants and we will take you into an operating room, where we will attempt to fix the worst of the internal bleeding and…”

At this point, I feel I must cut in. “Please, Sir! Stop!” He glowers at me, obviously annoyed at the interruption, and I hasten to apologise: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that… that’s not what I meant. I wanted to know… need to know… what will your son do to me?”

“Oh, that,” he says and pauses. There is a long moment of silence, while he seems to ponder his answer. My heart races in anticipation, but when he next speaks it’s a total anti-climax. That’s because all he says is: “You’ll have to ask him that, when you next see him. If you decide to see him, that is.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re in this together, aren’t you?” Watching, as he raises an eyebrow at me, in amusement. I dare to ask one final question: “What happens if I change my mind?”

The Surgeon’s brow furrows. “I’m not sure I can answer that one, either. To the best of my knowledge, slaves don’t get to make decisions of their own. But I suppose if you can convince him to let you go…”

From somewhere inside me, there comes a spasm of pain. A second later, I feel a fresh trickle of blood between my thighs. And just like that, I make my decision.

“I accept the offer,” I say, formally. Telling myself it probably doesn’t matter what I say, that I’ll probably expire on the operating table. The Surgeon, meanwhile, is all smiles.

“That’s what he told me you’d say.” Kneeling beside the bed, he takes my arm and pulls it toward him. Taps the crook of the elbow, until he finds a vein. He’s still smiling as he inserts the needle. “The devil, he sure knows how to pick them.”

I watch him press the plunger on the syringe. One second, two seconds… and I’m out.





I don’t know how long I was out for, but when I wake up I’m back in the four-poster bed. The candlelight dances and flickers before my eyes, as I try to focus. It’s hard, in the quiet surrounds. I slip back into sleep several more times, before finally coming awake. The first thing I notice is the lack of pain, a feeling so wonderful it almost makes me weep. Unfortunately, the second thing I notice is that I’m tied down. I can feel the wide leather straps when I try to move, and it makes me panic a little. Looking down, I see that I’m attached to a drip, my body covered in a thin blanket. The smell of antiseptic is strong in the air, otherwise the room is as before: shrouded in darkness, beyond the immediate circle of the bed. I stare into it for a few seconds, before slumping back down.

About an hour after I wake, the pain starts – and it’s everywhere. In my lower abdomen, my back, my fingers and hands. The skin on my back, ass and thighs is stinging, despite the bandages that have been wrapped over them. As time passes, I become aware of another sensation, not as painful but just as uncomfortable: namely, the urge to pee. I squirm uncomfortably, trying to hold it in. Suddenly, I lose control. But instead of wetting myself, I feel a sharp burning in my urinary opening, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into a metal bowl. Realising I’m wearing a catheter, I close my eyes in humiliation, even though I’m alone in the room. I bet the Surgeon enjoyed putting it in, I think to myself.

Just then, I hear the door opening. I turn my head in time to see the sliver of light disappear. The footsteps echo at me from the dark and my heart races at the sound. With utmost effort, I manage not to call out, waiting silently as my visitor approaches. When I see who it is, I start to tremble.

“Hello, darling. It’s good to see you awake.” Damien’s handsome features are arranged into a pleasant smile, as he greets me cordially, like an old friend. It doesn’t fool me, though, not this time. I watch him without returning the greeting, waiting for him to state his purpose for being here.

Far from being offended by my silence, he leans down and plants a kiss on my forehead. Saying: “There’s no need to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” I reply, indignantly. “I’m in pain, that’s all.”

He gives me a knowing grin, while I curse inwardly: so much for giving him the silent treatment. Then I curse again, as he notes conversationally: “I can give you something for that. But first, let’s change your catheter.”

At the mention of the catheter, I tense up. My sharp intake of breath is audible in the quiet surrounds, but he seems to notice neither of these things, pulling the blanket off me in a single movement. Strapped down, naked, I can only observe anxiously as he places his hand between my wide-open legs and tugs at the tubing protruding from my urethral opening. The tube is long and the extraction process is a painful one. My hips jerk almost continually, while he works.

“Almost there,” he says, and a second later it is out. I sigh with relief, but he isn’t finished. “This may sting a little.” Spreading my labia with the fingers of one hand, he wipes me with a cotton bud soaked in iodine, from my clit to just below it and back. There is indeed a slight sting, but it’s gone quickly, replaced by a pleasant sensation. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the insertion of the new catheter – only, it doesn’t happen. Instead, he keeps his hand between my legs, stroking me ever so gently. I want to plead with him to stop, but when I raise my head off the pillow, he gives me a look of such smouldering intensity that the words die in my throat.

Embarrassed, I look away. I keep looking away while he continues to stimulate me for long, tortuous minutes. He’s very, very patient about it, and slowly but surely, as his fingers work their magic, I begin to feel aroused. For a while, I focus on my breathing, trying to resist the waves of pleasure coursing through me, using nothing but will power. It’s a waste of effort, akin to trying to hold back the tide. Soon, I find myself slipping further, twitching and moaning helplessly, under his hand. The humiliation is almost unbearable.

“Why?” I breathe, my voice atremble. “Why are you doing this?”

He slides a finger along my swollen clit, as he answers: “Because you like it.” Pausing to roll his fingertip over the sensitive bud, he adds innocently: “I can stop, if you want me to. Is that what you want?”

A few minutes ago, I’d have said yes, but the moment has passed. “Yes! No! I don’t know,” I shout, hoarsely, flinging my head left to right. His quiet chuckle is quickly drowned out by my moans, which grow correspondingly with my arousal. A few seconds later I’m at the point of climax, arching my back off the bed and thrusting my hips toward him. He waits until I’m actually coming – and in that exact moment, he inserts the new catheter inside me.

“Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaah! Oh Goood! You b-baastaaard!” Screaming, cursing at him, as he feeds the tube deeper. Inflates it inside me with a few squeezes of the pump. The mixture of pain and pleasure causes me to squirt all over his hand, which makes him particularly happy.

“Well, now, I was aiming for a simple orgasm, but this is so much better.” He keeps his fingers over my pulsing clit, riding out the wave with me, all the way to the end. Then, while I tremble in post-orgasmic bliss, he threads the tube into the metal bowl beside my bed and picks up a small bucket of water. “Time for your sponge bath.”

I watch him through half-closed eyelids, as he undoes my straps. In the soft light of the candle, his already handsome features appear even more flawless, his teeth flashing white as he smiles at me. “My father says you’re doing well, that there is a high chance you’ll pull through,” he tells me, cheerfully. “I look forward to the day you are healed. Don’t you?”

God, he is beautiful, I think. The most beautiful psychopath I’ve ever seen. And because he is beautiful and he is a psychopath, as well, I struggle with my answer. Settling, in the end, on a simple: “That depends.”

His movements slow imperceptibly as he turns his dark gaze on me. “You’re worried about becoming my slave.” He makes it a statement, one that I can’t deny. Taking my silence as affirmation, he continues, slowly: “Perhaps it will help you if I tell you that you already are a slave. You see, while you were on the operating table, I had my father implant you with a special transmitter. Don’t worry – it’s totally safe. It’s buried deep, impossible to extract without surgical procedure. What it means is that wherever you go, I can track you. It’s mostly for your own protection, of course. But it will also let me retrieve my property, should you go astray.”

By the time he finishes speaking, I am trembling with rage. Hissing at him, snake-like: “You bastard! How dare you…”

His hand blurs, slapping me hard across the cheek. With the effects of the drugs mostly worn off, I feel the full extent of the sting. I cry out then hang my head, while he lectures me: “I will not tolerate my slave swearing at me. I let it slide earlier, because you weren’t in full possession of your faculties, but that is where it ends. Do you understand?”

Afraid to utter another word, I nod silently. He waits a few seconds more and then he says: “Apologise.”

The instruction seems easy enough. “I’m sorry, Damien,” I mutter, dutifully. At once, he corrects me:

“I’m not Damien to you, remember? Try again.”

I know what he wants me to say, of course I know. The only trouble is – I can’t bring myself to say it. “Please,” I lift my gaze to his, so that he may see the misery in my eyes. “I can’t say that. Please don’t make me say it.”

His eyes bore into mine, while his body goes suddenly very still. “Can’t – or won’t? I warn you, there will be consequences if you refuse this simple thing I ask you. Dire consequences.”

Never one to respond kindly to threats, I decide to call his bluff: “What? What more could you possibly do to me? Kill me?”

I’ve barely finished speaking when he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a personal communications unit. The kind secret services use. Still staring at me, he presses a button and calls to one of the guards. After receiving a response, he issues the following instructions: “That FBI girl we have, waiting to see my father in the morning? Bring her to me.”

Just hearing those words makes my blood freeze in my veins. I gape at him open-mouthed, as he picks up the sponge and resumes wiping me. His calmness is maddening, particularly when he starts to whistle softly to himself. I want to swear at him, if for no other reason than to shut him up, but swearing is what started all this. I’m trying to compose myself, so that I may tell him what he wants to hear, when the agent is brought into the room. She is bound, gagged and blindfolded, but I recognise her at a glance, as soon as she enters the circle of light: Martha Lake, our youngest agent by far. No wonder Damien referred to her as a girl. As she is made to kneel next to the bed, I finally lose my composure that I have worked so hard to regain.

“Please, Damien!” Pushing myself onto my elbows, trying to sit up, my gaze flitters from him to Martha Lake and back again. “I’ll say it, I’ll say it right now, just please – let her go!”

I almost weep with relief when he gives me the nod. “Let’s hear it.”

The words – the right words, this time – pour out of me: “I’m sorry, m-master. I’m sorry for swearing at you. Please forgive me, master. Please.”

With nothing else to say, I fall silent once more, while he nods in approval. “Good girl. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He strokes my shaved head, before pushing me back down, gently. As he straps me back in, I look over at Martha Lake, who is still on her knees and trembling violently.

“You will let her go now, won’t you?” I ask, feeling certain I know the answer. He gives me a strange look, tightening the last of the straps, and then he glances over his shoulder at the guards.

“Cut off one of her fingers.” He gives the order quietly, almost casually, while I strain against the straps, in horrified outrage.

“Nooo! You can’t!” I shout at him, but it’s too late. As the men move to carry out the order, it is difficult to tell who is struggling more desperately – me, or the unfortunate Martha. Either way, over the next few minutes the air is rendered by our screams – and then, inevitably, the sound of pliers snapping shut. I hear Martha scream one last time into her gag, before slumping over in a faint. The gruesome deed done, the guards pick her up and depart, with Damien calling after them:

“Make sure to come back and clean up the mess.”

When he turns to me once more, I shut my eyes, refusing to look at him. But even with my eyes closed the tears keep coming, rolling down my cheeks in two fast flowing streams. He wipes them away gently as he explains: “I know what you’re thinking, darling, but you really mustn’t think like that. Remember, you had the chance to do the right thing and you didn’t take it. Even though I told you there would be consequences. That’s why I had to go through with it, so you wouldn’t make the same mistake next time.”

None of what he says makes me feel any better. If anything, it makes me feel worse. As he’s pulling the blanket over me, tucking me in, I stammer brokenly: “My fault… it was all my fault… I wish you’d have hurt me, instead… it would be better than this… so much better…”

He sighs loudly, causing me to open my eyes and look at him. “Next time, if you must punish someone, punish me,” I tell him, through tears. In response, he shakes his head, ruefully.

“The drugs must be messing with your memory, because I clearly remember telling you,” he says, adding: “Mental torture, I said, is my specialty.”

While I mouth at him silently, he extracts a syringe from his coat pocket and attaches it to my drip line. I watch him press the plunger. Seconds later, my body relaxes, the pain vanishing as though by magic. Leaning close to me once more, he strokes my cheek softly, lovingly. “But please, don’t think of it as torture, in your case. Think of it as… training.”
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I'm a wicked, vile, horrible and perfect man. - the Savage, during one of his more modest moments.

"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"
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Old 04-07-2013, 09:39 AM   #4
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Time passes differently when you’re tied down to a bed, in a dark room. With no natural light to mark the transition from night to day, no bedside clock or radio, I sleep when the need takes me. I wake up when my body tells me, or when he comes in to take care of me. Damien, my master, is the only one who visits me while I recover. He nurses me with evident pleasure and I can’t fault his care. Yet I also can’t forget that awful day that he refers to as my first day of “training.”

I think about that day a lot, agonising over it. While it did occur to me that poor Martha was going to be tortured and killed anyway, I still feel guilty about what happened. More than that: the idea of an innocent woman being punished for my mistake is so horrifying I never wish for it to happen again. In other words, Damien’s cruel “training” method has worked. It has worked so well, I never think about refusing him any more. When he asks me to do something, I obey him without question. I call him “master”, though it makes me cringe inside. I eat the broth he feeds me and I drink the hydrate solution from the bottle he holds to my lips. When I’m done I say: “thank you, master” and I wait for him to take his pleasure with me. This he does at almost every visit. Due to my injuries, he is forced to use my mouth. He lays me down and face fucks me until I’m blue in the face, and he makes me swallow every time. At the end, I thank him.

He likes to be thanked, often.

Another thing he likes is asking questions. He has this in common with his father, the master interrogator. While I am still in recovery, he asks me a hundred questions per day, sometimes more. He wants to know everything, from my childhood to adulthood, my first sexual experience, how many boyfriends I’ve had… and of course, how I came to be an FBI agent, tracking dangerous criminals for a living. A lot of his questions make me uncomfortable, but knowing him as I do, I answer truthfully – or as truthfully as I can. My mind may be fuzzy from drugs, but I haven’t forgotten whom I’m talking to. I don’t want to give away any more secrets than I already have, about my organisation or its agents. Naturally, he notices when I’m being evasive, but he doesn’t say anything. After a while, I begin to believe he doesn’t care, that he isn’t interested in learning more about my agency, or its operatives.

Finally, the day arrives – or night, I can’t be sure – when my bandages are ready to come off. I have lost track of time completely by this stage, so I rely on him to tell me how long it’s been.

“Five weeks,” he says, straight-faced. “You’ve been locked away for five weeks.”

For some reason, I’m greatly disturbed by this revelation. Also, there’s something about the way he says it, something I can’t put my finger on. I stare at him in silence for a while, and then I breathe, incredulously: “Five weeks? Five weeks? I don’t believe it!”

He pauses with one hand on my bandage, arching an elegant eyebrow at me. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Faced with his impenetrable stare, I shake my head hurriedly. “No, master.” He gives me a curt nod and continues:

“As I was saying, you’ve been locked away for five weeks. Let me be the first to tell you that your agency is no longer looking for you. Quite justifiably, they believe you are dead, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

I’m suddenly so choked up, I have trouble breathing. My lower lip trembles when at last I gather the courage to ask: “W-what about my f-family? My f-friends?”

A single shake of his head provides the answer before he tells it to me. “Obviously, the FBI has informed your family. To preserve secrecy, your family were told that you died in a terrible car accident, in which your body was incinerated completely.” He pulls the last of the bandages and with it, the splints, off my hand. Starts to massage my fingers, while adding: “Needless to say, they were devastated. So were your friends, when they found out. But you’ll be pleased to know that the service was beautiful. I almost cried myself, when I heard your mother’s speech.”

His calm demeanour as he drops this bombshell, is sickening. Fighting back the urge to vomit, I stammer weakly: “You… You’ve been to my funeral? But you’re a c-criminal! You’re the one who’s keeping me here!”

He looks at me pityingly. “Yes, darling, but they don’t know that.” Picking up my other hand, he starts to unwind the bandages, humming happily. My free hand curls into a fist as I watch him.

“I find that very hard to believe,” I say, a little shakily. “First of all, my friends and family don’t know you. And secondly, no one is stupid enough to parade themselves in front of the enemy. There would have been plenty of FBI agents at my funeral.”

I glare at him openly, expecting him to lash out at me. Instead, he only chuckles.

“Ah, my poor baby.” Gazing at me with even more pity, if that is possible, he starts to drop the second bombshell: “I’m afraid I owe you an apology. You see, all this time I kept meaning to tell you and I kept forgetting…”

“Tell me what?” I ask, my breath catching in my throat. I know he’s about to reveal something shocking because he doesn’t chastise me for interrupting him, like he normally does. Then I hear him say:

“I’m a secret services agent, darling. That’s one thing I didn’t lie about.”

What? I think, but I don’t say it. I am speechless, staring at him in confusion and disbelief. He stares back at me calmly for a second, before continuing where he left off:

“I went to your funeral with the rest of the FBI agents you used to work with. Great bunch of people, I must say. When I told them I was your secret lover, they insisted on taking me out for a drink and pumping me for information. Typical, isn’t it? A man is grieving and all they can think about is satisfying their own curiosity. And the questions they asked me… why, it would make any decent person blush.”

“Liar!” The word is out and this time, I have no intention of apologising. Enraged, I pull back my hand and sneer at him, openly. “You’re lying, you made it all up just to torture me. Well, I’m not falling for it. For starters, there’s no way you are with the secret services. That is the toughest place to get into. You’d have to have an impeccable history, with no criminal record, and you’d have to pass all their tests…” I trail off, when I see him reaching inside his jacket.

“But of course, I have no criminal record. That’s why you never found out about me, during your investigation.” Pulling out a security pass, he holds it up for me to see. “And I’m proud to say, I passed the tests with flying colours. Five years ago, now.”

There is a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I’m sinking and spinning, all at the same time. After taking a moment to steady myself, I reach for the small square of plastic with a trembling hand. Checking its authenticity, I soon confirm that it’s real. I sway again and he steadies me, with his hand on my shoulder.

“Darling, you look a little pale. Would you like to lie down?” There is no laughter in his voice, yet I feel he’s mocking me. Looking at his handsome face, I have a sudden urge to smash it, to gouge out those dark eyes and extinguish the light inside them, forever. But I can’t, because I know if I do, he’ll find someone else to mutilate as retribution – and he’ll make me watch.

“You bastard.” I hiss at him, instead. In response, he reaches behind me and picks up my collar from where it hangs on the bedhead. Wordlessly, he unlocks it and places it around my neck. Locks it again with a soft click. The heavy chain is welded onto it and I flinch as he pulls it between my breasts, allowing it to settle against my bare skin.

“I love the sight of a woman in chains.” His voice is ominously quiet, causing me to tense up involuntarily. “Especially when she’s shooting daggers out of her eyes, as you are right now.”

Gently, he takes my hand once more and continues to unwrap the bandages. The brazen way he is handling me makes my blood boil. I’m almost angry enough to lunge at him, when all of a sudden he looks at me and says: “If I were you, I’d think very carefully before attacking me. First of all, you’re still weak – you haven’t a chance in hell of actually hurting me. Secondly, whether you believe it or not, I’ve met your family and most of your friends. They trust me, just like your fellow agents trust me. Who knows what I might do to them, if you anger me? And do you really want to find out?”

Listening to him delivering the threat so calmly, I feel my anger melting away. I know only too well what he is capable of. After gazing at him for a few heartbeats longer, I shake my head slowly. “No. Please don’t hurt them. Please.”

His look is icy cold as he corrects me: “Please, what?”

“Please, master,” I say, watching as his expression softens.

“That’s my girl.” Having pulled the last of the bandages off, he reaches into his coat pocket and extracts a folded piece of paper. “Here, I brought you the newspaper clipping with your eulogy. Thought you might like to read it.”

No, I don’t. I really don’t want to read it. Except when he unfolds it and holds it out to me, I somehow end up taking it from his hand. It’s a short, but poignant piece and I can feel my parents’ grief in every line. Their pain is my pain, and it isn’t long before my tears start to fall. As always, Damien is there to wipe them away.

“Shhh… Poor baby, come here… it’s ok to cry…” He croons to me as he holds me and I haven’t the strength to push him away. Nor can I resist when he grabs hold of my chain and pushes me down. His body on top of mine is hard and heavy, his strength overwhelming. At first, as he takes me, I sob harder, struggling against him. But then, with his hard cock gliding in and out of me slowly, and his hands caressing me, I start to relax. I feel him kissing my neck, my jaw line, my eyes and cheeks… and by the time he comes to my lips, he has me right where he wants me. I cry like a lost soul as I kiss him back, for I feel I am kissing the devil himself.

Yet right now, I need this. I need to lose myself in the sexual pleasure, to forget about the terrible grief, if only for a while. He must realise this, because he truly takes his time. Fucking me softly and then more roughly, in every position imaginable. He doesn’t stop at fucking my recently healed pussy, either. Flipping me onto my stomach, he spreads my ass cheeks and pushes into my ass hole, making me scream for the first time.

“Relax,” he says, while pumping me slowly, relentlessly. I shake beneath him, but I do as he says and after a while the pain lessens. Morphs into pleasure, so intense that it makes me scream in a whole different way, this time. Immediately afterward, I feel his cock throbbing, filling my bowels with his spunk. I am shocked to feel myself climaxing, inside my ass. Then, as our shudders of pleasure subside, I’m shocked anew at what I’ve done.

When he pulls out and stretches out beside me, I try to turn away from him, but he stops me. “Don’t move. I want to watch you as you fall asleep.” I’m forced to lie on my back and gaze at him, while he wipes the sweat off my body. His face, flushed from recent exertions, has never seemed more handsome – or cruel. In a horrible, twisted way, he really is my lover, I think to myself. If my friends asked him questions, he’d know just what to say. The realisation makes me groan.

“You… really are the devil.” I tell him and he smiles. The flash of his white teeth is the last thing I see before my eyelids close.






The room is pitch black when I next open my eyes, silent except for the sound of my breath and the quiet rustling of the sheets as I move. For a few seconds I feel strangely contented, notwithstanding the slight soreness between my thighs and the heavy metal collar around my neck. But then, as I wake up, memories come flooding back – and with them, a gut-wrenching sorrow.

I am dead. I am dead. This thought keeps reverberating in my head, driving me slowly but steadily mad. Even though technically, I am still alive, chained to a bed in my dark and dreary dungeon, in the eyes of the world I am dead. Gone and soon to be forgotten by all except those closest to me: my parents, my brother and sister, my friends. I will never see them again, this I know beyond a shadow of doubt. What’s more, when I die – actually, really die – they won’t know. The Surgeon and his team will make sure of that. They’ll probably cut me up and dissolve me in acid, or cremate me in one of their crematoriums. The mafia owns several of them, conveniently enough. They are nothing if not organised, a smoothly oiled machine fuelled by fear and greed in equal measure.

I honestly thought I knew all there was to know about organised crime, but Damien’s latest revelation showed me just how wrong I was about that. Thinking about it now, I shiver. If the Surgeon’s son could infiltrate the secret services, then who’s to say others won’t be able to, also? For that matter, there could be other agents working there already. I already know there are traitors within the FBI, one of whom betrayed me. It really seems like there is no end to corruption, no layer of society that it can’t penetrate. This would make me angry, if I wasn’t dead. Chained, naked in the dark, I no longer exist in the true sense of the word. I am dead. I am dead. Repeating the thought in my head.

It’s as my tears start to fall that I hear his voice.

“Shhh… baby, don’t cry.”

He is somewhere close and the realisation makes me tense, more from shock than anything else. With my heart beating a loud beat in my chest, I wait for him to light the candles, as usual. Except he doesn’t do so, nor does he speak again. The silence is deafening and he lets it stretch forever. In my fragile state, it is more than I can take. Curling up into a ball, I try to still my trembling limbs, simultaneously calling out to him: “P-please, Damien, d-don’t… p-play games with me…”

Right then, I hear a soft click, followed by a flash of light so bright, it blinds me. I feel my retinas burning as I screw my eyes shut and pull the sheets over my head. He gives me no respite, however, but pulls them straight off me and grabs me by the wrist. “The next time you address me by my first name, I swear I’ll hand you straight back to my father. Even the dumbest of animals would have learned to call me ‘Master’ by now, so why can’t you?” His voice is calm, but there’s a distinct edge to it, evincing anger, as well as disappointment. Listening to him, the words “sorry, master” hover on my lips. Which is why I am so surprised when I hear myself say:

“Fuck you, Damien. I’m not your dog. I’m a federal ag…”

His grip on my wrist tightens painfully, as he cuts me off. His voice is quiet, too quiet in fact, as he tells me: “No. You’re not my dog. But the idea has merit.”

Disconcerted by the comment, I open my eyes, to see him setting down his torch. With both his hands thus freed, he pulls my arm toward one of the chains hanging from the solid metal frame that makes up my bed. There is a leather cuff attached to it and he straps it around my wrist in five seconds flat. I watch wide-eyed as he steps to the other side of the bed. Then, when he reaches for my free hand, I twist my body around. My intention, which is to kick at him with my legs, backfires badly. He doesn’t even pause, but grabs hold of my ankle in mid-air and yanks it toward him with such force, it makes my tendon crack. Before I know what’s happening, he has my ankle strapped to another chain hanging from the bed frame.

Partially suspended, I can only squirm ineffectually as he takes hold of my remaining wrist and straps it in, before repeating the process with my other ankle. Defeated, I curse at him, and he slaps me hard. Once, twice, three times, until finally I fall silent. Glaring at him through my tears, I let him see the hatred in my eyes. Ignoring it completely, he sits down beside me and slowly, gently, wipes the moisture from my burning cheeks. “I stayed with you today, because I wanted to be here when you woke up,” he says, sighing. “Contrary to what you may think, I care about you and I’m here to help you. I understand that you may not see it that way right now, but in time I feel certain that will change.”

“No fucking way,” I growl, earning myself another hard slap. While I cry in pain, he goes back to caressing my face, calm as can be.

“Speech is a luxury, not a right, my slave,” he informs me, coolly. “You will learn this, after today. I promise you that.”

With that, he gets up and pulls on one of the chains, with a noisy rattle. He doesn’t stop until my shoulders are lifted off the bed, only then does he lock it in place. Stepping around the bed, he adjusts the second chain in the same way, before doing the same with my legs. By the time he’s finished I am fully suspended, my arms and legs trembling with the strain placed upon them. My head, meanwhile, hangs back helplessly, weighed down by the heavy collar and chain. From this intensely uncomfortable position, I watch Damien leaning over me, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Hmm…” he murmurs, mostly to himself, “I forgot how heavy that chain is. Still, it’s easily fixed.” So saying, he takes a key out of his pocket and unlocks the chain from the bedhead. Flinging it over a metal beam above me, he pulls on it until the weight is lifted from my neck. Then he slips a padlock through two of the links and locks it. “There. That should do until I come back.”

I stare at him panic-stricken, thinking “you can’t leave me like this!” Already, my arms and legs are hurting, the thick leather biting into the skin on my wrists and ankles. Damien, however, is unconcerned. Pretending not to hear my strangled plea of “please, don’t leave me”, he picks up his flashlight and strolls away quickly. The sound of the door slamming behind him sends me into an outright panic. I’m alone, sealed away in the darkness – and I’m in pain. Naked and stretched out between the chains, I struggle in mid-air, until the pain becomes too much. Then, I open my mouth and scream. My body vibrates with the sound, causing the chains above me to rattle. When the scream runs out, I switch to sobbing. No one can hear me, anyway. I learned that during my time here.

In the state I am in, I don’t hear the door opening again, or the sound of his footsteps on the stone floor. His voice, when he speaks, is a source of shock and relief, both. “Hey, baby, you can stop crying now.”

But I can’t stop crying, even as I beg him: “Please let me down… p-please let me down… please…”

“In a second,” he says, his tone placating. “But first, you have to be a good girl and open your mouth.” There is no sense in arguing and I know it. With a last shaky “please”, I open my mouth and let him push a large, rubber gag inside it. He tightens the straps around my head with evident satisfaction. Muttering: “At last, some peace. Now, you don’t need to think about what to say, or worry about offending me. Isn’t that nice?”

I can’t reply, not even by a nod. So I just hang there and wait, while he takes his time organising his tools. At long last, he leans over me and I sob with gratitude, expecting to be released. To my horror, it doesn’t happen. Instead, he starts wrapping a chain around my torso, all the way from my hips to my chest. When he’s done, he takes a couple more chains hanging from the bed frame and hooks them onto me – effectively suspending me from my torso. Although this does take some of the pressure off my arms and legs, it’s far from comfortable. I scream through the gag, while he pats my head with a serene smile. Saying:

“You’re going to love this, baby… or should I say, pet? See, you’ve really inspired me today. You’ll be whining like a bitch on heat, by the time I’m finished with you. Then, after you’ve spent some time being my bitch… let’s say, a week or two, perhaps you’ll appreciate being promoted back to slave.”

I’m crying so hard, listening to him, I can hardly see. With a gentle hand, he wipes the snot pouring out of my nose, before turning to the task at hand. I have no idea what he intends to do, until I feel him spreading open my labia. As I start to jerk inside the chains, he warns me in a raised voice: “Please, try and keep still. If I botch this up, I’ll have to pull it out and start all over again.”

Pull what out? I think, but of course I can’t ask him. I can’t do anything, besides bite down on the ball when instructed. The pain, when it comes, is so intense I almost pass out. I feel the blood running from my clit, where he has pierced it. My hips and thighs spasm involuntarily, causing him to pull back for a moment. “Come on, my pet, relax. Just relax. We’re almost done.” The words do nothing to relieve my suffering, but I am so desperate to get it over with, I manage to still my twitching after a few moments.

“Good girl,” he says, leaning over me once more. This time, I feel him pushing a something inside the piercing, fiddling with it briefly. I twitch again while he rinses the area with a saline solution, and then it is done. My entire pubic region feels like it’s on flames, but Damien’s handsome face looks extremely pleased as he gazes down on me. “Right, my pet, you’ve just been fitted with a very special piece of jewellery. A vertical hood piercing, in case you’ve never heard of it, is used to increase pleasure for women all over the world. I’ve taken it a step further and once you’ve recovered, you will truly appreciate it. Speaking of which...”

He trails of and starts to rummage in his bag, while I shake in exquisite agony: exquisite, because even with all the pain, I can feel the smooth, hard object rubbing against my clit, stimulating the nerve endings there. I moan in relief when he places a cool compress over it. Apparently, it’s to help stop the bleeding. I’m just grateful for the numbness. As I close my eyes wearily, I hear him say: “Ok, my pet, I have to go to work now. I’ll be gone for a while, but don’t worry. I’ll get my father’s men to stay with you. They will be under strict instructions not to touch you, except in an emergency. When they take off your gag and offer you a drink, be sure to take it. Otherwise, you’ll get really dehydrated.”

I’m so upset by the idea of being ogled by the guards, that I don’t even want to look at him. The touch of his hand startles me, however, so that I end up staring at him, regardless. Reading the emotions on my face, he smiles at me indulgently. “It’s for your own good, my pet. Believe me, I’d stay and look after you myself, if I could. Alas, duty calls… Ever since your murder, undercover agents have been disappearing at a rapid rate. Naturally, secret services have been asked to help find the mole. Devilishly hard work, if I do say so myself… I look forward to playing with you when I return.”

The chink-chink of chains is loud in my ears, as I hang helplessly before him, trembling with rage. If looks could kill, he’d be dead now. Instead, he is leaning down and kissing my forehead, with his perfect lips. Then he is smoothing his coat and walking away, without a backward glance. When I hear him instructing the guards, I groan into the gag. Thinking, “fuck this shit.” But the anger doesn’t last. With my clit throbbing painfully and every muscle in my body aching, I watch the guards walking over to me, and once more I start to cry.




It is a horrible feeling to be so painfully restrained, for any length of time: wrapped up in chains, suspended from a metal frame and with my arms and legs stretched apart, the most I can do is tremble and twitch. This I do almost continually, while the two guards observe me with undisguised lust in their eyes. They are especially intrigued by the piercing over my clit, and keep lifting the bandage for a closer look. Being gagged, I can’t tell them to fuck off, I can only close my eyes and try to shut them out. As soon as they notice it, though, they warn me against it. Apparently, they have specific instructions in this regard. I am not allowed to “check out”, but must suffer through the day, minute by painful minute.

So the hours pass, with me strung up naked and the two men ogling me. Every so often, I see them rubbing their crotches and I tremble, expecting them to break their orders not to touch me. But they are well trained and true to their master – my master, too, as it happens. The thought makes me shudder with what I think is fear. At the same time, though, I feel a strange tightness in my groin and my clit pulses hotly. In disbelief, I try to deny what my body is telling me, but it’s a futile exercise. I can hardly think of Damien, without remembering the last time he fucked me, the way he brought me to climax over and over again. Curse it, if he hasn’t trained my body to like him, despite everything.

Lost in thought, I don’t register the sound of the guard’s voice, at first. I tune in when I see him leaning over me: “If you try to talk, the gag goes right back in.” I’m irked by the words, but I keep silent as the gag is removed. When the second guard comes over and tilts a water bottle over my face, I drink as much as I can. Then I let them push the rubber ball back into my mouth, without so much as a whimper. They tell me what a good girl I am, before settling back down to wait. Time passes excruciatingly slowly and with each passing minute my discomfort grows. The thick chain wrapped around my torso is rubbing against my skin, digging into my back and sides. My wrists and ankles are so sore that I can barely feel them – contrary to my clit, which burns and throbs painfully.

After several hours of this, I simply can’t take it any more. As I scream into the gag, I hear them arguing. “Should we take her gag out?” – “No, let’s wait. Maybe she’s faking it.” - “Ok man, but if we get in trouble I’m blaming you.”

My eyes roll and I scream into the gag again. The drool is pouring down my chin in a thick stream, my head is shaking and I’m having trouble breathing. It’s not just the physical pain, either. The mental torture is what is getting to me: the feeling of being trapped like a fly in a web, unable to move a muscle, not knowing when I might be released. After fighting to remain calm for hours, I’m finally losing it. The feeling is akin to a full-blown attack of claustrophobia: I swear, if I spend another second in these chains, I’ll die.

I’m half way through another panicked, muffled scream, when I hear a sound that snaps me to attention in an instant.

“Hey baby, I’m back.”

Damien’s voice is calm as he greets me, yet my entire body trembles at the sound of it. Watching him approach, I note the half-smile playing on his lips. Although he must have witnessed my panic attack, he is clearly not concerned by it. On the contrary, he sounds pleased as he addresses the guards: “Thanks for looking after her. I’ll take it from here.”

He waits for them to exit the room, before turning to me once more. “Miss me?” he asks and I moan in reply, staring at him through the tears. For once, he doesn’t wipe them away, but gazes at me coolly. “You want me to release you, right? Then be a good pet and whine for me.”

I pretend I don’t understand what he means, at first. I moan again, watching as his eyes narrow in response. “I said whine, like a bitch. Do it, or you’ll be hanging here for a very long time,” he says. Seeing that he is serious, I swallow my pride and whine. It’s a distinctly dog-like whine and it pleases him immensely. “Good girl.” He pats me on the head and I whine again, more plaintively. Surely, he will release me now. I’ve done everything he asked.

Except, he doesn’t. Stepping toward my hips, he removes the bandage from my pussy. “Let’s see how the piercing is doing.” His fingers tweak the metal piercing my hood, causing a sharp burst of pain. But when the pain dies down, it’s replaced by pleasure – and, chained and stretched out as I am, I can’t fight it. I can’t close my legs, or twist away, as his fingers start their skilful stroking. Like so many times before, I find myself getting aroused against my will. The difference is that it happens a lot quicker, this time. Watching me twitch and jerk inside the chains, he teases me mercilessly:

“Yeah, that’s my pet… my horny little bitch… you love it when I make you come, don’t you? Show me how much you like it… whine for me some more… dirty little thing, you don’t even care that you’re all chained up…”

I can’t help it: I whine until the point of climax, and then I switch to moaning into the gag. “Mmmm! Hwwmmmp! Mmmhhmm!” Suddenly, above the sound of my moans, I hear the rattle of the chains being unwound. As my still jerking body is lowered to the bed, I weep with relief. Damien, however, is not pleased.

“I thought I told you to whine, bitch.” His voice is stern, as is his expression when he leans over me. “That means whining during orgasm, as well. Let’s try that again, shall we?”

I shake my head no, but his hand is already moving, flicking at the metal at my clit ever so lightly. The expert way he does it causes my body to respond almost immediately, in spite of the “release” it has just received. I’m soon back where I was, at the point of climax, whining and trembling under his hand. As he pushes me over the edge, he remarks helpfully: “Keep whining, there’s a good bitch.”

I hate myself for it, but I do as he orders, a second later I am wracked by an orgasm even more intense than the first. He lets me rest for as long as it takes to unwrap the chains from my body. I keep whining as he works. Then, when he flips me onto my stomach, I start to whimper. The reason being, I can’t move my arms and legs, even though I’m not chained any more. He strokes my trembling limbs tenderly, saying: “Awww… poor little pet is worn out from being chained all day. Let me see if I can make it better.”

I whine into the gag, when I feel a familiar vibration against my clit. It takes me a while to realise that he hasn’t moved. In other words, he isn’t using his hand, any more. Looking up at him in horrified confusion, I see him smirking in satisfaction. “How do you like that, my pet? I told you I’ve taken the hood piercing to a whole new level. See, all it takes is a press of a button,” here, he holds up his hand and points to his watch, “and your piercing begins to vibrate. Giving you all this pleasure, exactly when I want you to feel it. But wait, there’s more…”

No, please! I scream in my mind, while my body convulses uncontrollably. The orgasms are coming closer together now, and the feeling is far from pleasant. I’m so over-stimulated that I don’t feel him stroking my naked ass, spreading my ass cheeks. Only when he pushes the butt plug inside my tight anus, do I react. Screaming into the gag, I earn his displeasure, as well as a dozen sharp slaps to my buttocks. “I – slap – told you – slap – keep whining!” Somehow, I manage to produce a scream that resembles a whine – then another and another. As the pain in my rectum subsides, I go back to proper whining, of the kind he likes. He rewards me by switching off the vibrator / piercing.

“See what happens when you’re being a good girl?” he asks, while I lie there sweating and trembling. My clit is so thoroughly overstimulated that I can scarcely move without setting it off again. This is why I lie perfectly still when he begins to dress me. It’s some kind of jump suit, I think, and then I see him pulling on the sleeves. There are no slits for my hands – instead the fabric encases them completely. By the time I notice the little paws it’s too late. He chuckles as he zips me up. “Good pet, wag your tail for me.”

I feel the butt plug move inside my ass, as he threads the tail through an opening in the suit. I whimper desperately the whole while, then whimper some more when I see him leaning down with the final piece. It’s a proper dog mask, with ears and everything. As he pulls it on, he excitedly tells me about its special feature: “The muzzle is detachable, see? That way, you can eat and drink without having to take the rest of it off… and you can do other things with your mouth, besides that…”

He winks at me and I let out a loud whine, which only deepens my humiliation. In so many ways, this is worse than what his father did, when he made me wear a fox’s tail. It’s torture of the mental kind, Damien’s specialty. Thinking this, I feel a wave of anger sweep over me. Curse you, you sick bastard! I’ve whined my last whine for you…

And right as I’m thinking this, I feel the piercing in my clit begin to vibrate once more. Damien’s voice is steely cold as he instructs me:

“Let’s hear that whine again, bitch. And try to look a bit more lively… beg for my cock, there’s a good pet.”

Lying on my stomach, with my clit being vibrated inside the suit, it’s all I can do not to orgasm on the spot. The first whine is ripped from my throat before I can stop it. He pats me as I’m pushing myself onto all fours, trying to relieve the pressure. To my horror, there is no difference. The piercing fits snugly under my clitoral hood, delivering the vibrations to my swollen clit, regardless of the position. I am so crushed, so utterly demoralised by this, that I let out a series of whines and whimpers, without thinking.

“That’s great, now show me where you want my cock,” he says, in a voice thick with desire. Dumbly, I remind myself that I don’t want to do this, that I must resist. But he has his finger on the little device that acts as his watch, keeping the stimulation coming. With my pussy dripping wet and aching to be filled, I have no choice but to turn around and present. And when his hand touches me between my thighs, I whimper.

“Oh darling, I’ve never seen you so wet,” he murmurs, unzipping his pants.

As he rams his cock inside me, simultaneously rubbing at the plug in my ass, I almost pass out from the pleasure. It takes only seconds for the orgasm to explode through me, causing me to leap and buck helplessly, while he holds me in a grip of steel. Pressing his hips into mine, he keeps me impaled on his cock for long minutes, the time that it takes for my struggles to cease. Only then does he let go. Gripping my hips lightly, he starts to fuck me. His strokes are fast and deep and evidence his own excitement, better than his grunts of pleasure.

“Oh, my pet, your pussy is so tight… such a good little bitch you are… ah fuck!”

Ah fuck, fuck, fuck – I think as he comes inside me, filling me with his hot spunk. I don’t get to think much else, however. I’m just. Too. Fucked.






When I next wake up, I’m curled up on my side in the bed, tucked in as usual. There is no gag in my mouth and no mask on my head. For a moment, I think the whole bitch thing is over, and I sigh in relief. But when I move, I realise that I’m still wearing the suit and that the plug is still in my ass. Leaping up in alarm, I paw at myself, hoping to tug the suit off me. It fits snugly, however, and my “paws” slide along the shiny black fur without shifting it. I keep trying for a while longer, rolling on the bed this way and that, like a mad woman. On one of the rolls, I get too close to the edge and slip off. As my ass hits the floor with a loud thump, I feel the collar bite into my neck, choking me. I’m scrambling to my feet in a panic, when I hear the door slam behind me.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down little pet,” Damien’s voice calling out to me causes me to struggle harder, tugging at the chain with fresh urgency. Seeing it, he rushes to my side and without ceremony, picks me up and throws me on the bed. “Silly thing, just what did you think you were doing?” Then, as I open my mouth to answer: “No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to hear a word from you, until I can be sure that you’ve learned your lesson. Judging by the looks of you, we’re a long way from that point.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to disobey, but reaches into his pocket and pulls out the rubber gag. “Open,” he barks at me and tremblingly, I obey. Once he has me gagged, he relaxes visibly. “Let’s take a look at your piercing. I cleaned it while you slept, but you can never be too careful.” Pushing me onto my back, he spreads my legs with a firm hand, before running his fingers over my mound – the only part of my body not covered by the suit. When he comes to my clit, I feel no pain, but I moan softly all the same. Thinking, please don’t touch me there. Please, oh please, oh please.

His finger slips inside me unexpectedly, jolting me out of my stupor. “Wow, little bitch, you’re wet already… I guess you need to be fucked again.” Before I can shake my head or moan into the gag, he is flipping me onto my stomach and taking up position behind me. In vain I swat at him with my paws, for it only makes him laugh. “Now, remember to whine for me, like you did yesterday. I want to hear you whining like a bitch on heat… because that’s what you are. A bitch. On heat.” His meaty cock slams into me with the last of his words, making the plug move in my ass.

“Mmmmwwwwhh…” I whine, while my hips jerk up and down helplessly. After such a long time with a plug in my ass, my bowels are cramping uncomfortably, but it doesn’t stop my pussy from gripping him. The damn piercing is doing its work again, getting me aroused against my will. Knowing it, he roots me hard and fast, extracting the maximum amount of pleasure for himself.

“Take that, you little bitch. You’re just a bitch to me right now. Remember that and keep whining, or I’ll chain you up again and leave you hanging… And this time, I’ll let the guards plug your pussy…” At the growled threat, I increase my efforts, whining loudly into the gag. Simultaneously with this action, my pussy contracts then starts to spasm, milking his thick cock for all its worth. He throws himself on top of me to stop me from thrashing around too much, seconds later he is coming, too. I feel his cock throbbing for what seems like forever, and I squirm under him, defeated and ashamed.

When he pulls out, he slaps me playfully on the ass. “Damn, that was a nice little fuck. You make a great bitch, I might just keep you like this, indefinitely.”

Lying there in the horrid dog suit, with his cum dribbling out of my pussy, I feel as though my heart would break. His words are beyond frightening, the dark threat all too real. I can’t be his toy, I won’t be his toy… but I am his toy: his to fuck whenever he likes, his to chain up, to treat like a dog. As I think this, I sense his eyes on me, watching me calmly. Unable to bear the scrutiny of his gaze, I do the only thing I can to avoid it: I bury my head in the pillow and sob.

His hand on my shoulder is gentle, his tone soothing when he next speaks: “Awww… don’t cry, baby. This is all for your own good, you know. I mean… I had to do something to take your mind off things. You took it pretty hard when I told you about your funeral. Now look at you – I bet you’ve all but forgotten about it.”

The bastard is right: I had forgotten about it, until now. I sob even harder at being reminded, and he sighs loudly. “Here, let me take that plug out of your ass. I think you can go without a tail for a while.” He wipes me clean then stretches out beside me on the big four-poster. Pulls me against him, so that I can feel his burgeoning erection pressing into my back. At that moment, I know he’s going to fuck my ass, that this is the real reason he removed the plug. But he doesn’t do it straight away, no. Instead, he holds me and caresses my head, wiping the tears away. Slowly but surely, I find myself relaxing, the tension draining out of my body. I’m like a trusting victim, vulnerable and ripe for the taking.

“Good girl, beautiful girl,” he croons – and then, he shoves his cock up my ass.
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I'm a wicked, vile, horrible and perfect man. - the Savage, during one of his more modest moments.

"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"
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Old 04-07-2013, 09:40 AM   #5
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Damien keeps me in the dog suit for days, not even taking it off to wash me. After a while, I realise he must be giving me sponge baths while I sleep. I’d like to be awake when he does it, but I’m always too exhausted from the relentless fucking. And it is relentless, in the true sense of the word. He fucks me several times per visit and he visits often. Sometimes, he wakes me up in order to fuck me, other times I’m waiting for him, gagging for cock. This is by far the worst thing about my current predicament – and the most evil part of his plan. With my clit piercing fully healed, it’s easy to keep me in a constant state of arousal. All he has to do is strap me to the bed, face down. No matter how much I try to keep still, the metal bar rubs against my clit, exciting me. Making me ready for him. I spend a lot of time being tied down in this way and I dread it, more than the fucking.

Needless to say, I’m wet all the time now, but he is never satisfied. When he visits, the first thing he does is to press the button on his watch – really a remote control – causing the piercing to vibrate and my whole body to shake. He likes to see me shaking helplessly, likes to hear me whimper and whine into the gag. I hate being gagged, almost as much as I hate wearing the suit, but my wishes are irrelevant. Only Damien’s wishes count. I’m allowed to use my mouth to eat, drink and suck him off. If I even try to speak, I’m punished severely. The last time it happened, he tied me down and shoved a bottle up my pussy. It hurt so bad, I passed out. He left me like that, stretched and in pain, for I don’t know how long. When he came back and pulled the bottle out, I wept like a child. But I didn’t speak and I haven’t spoken since.

Locked up in the dungeon, in perpetual darkness, I have no concept of time. I know only that I have been his bitch for many days, maybe weeks. Perhaps this is why it no longer feels odd to relieve myself in the little pot he has left for me, or to let him wash me. My food, likewise, is served on the floor, in a little dish with the words “pet” written on it. He has to unchain me from the bed to eat, but he keeps me on a tight leash. As though expecting me to rebel against him at any moment. He is giving me far more credit than I deserve, because the simple fact is there’s no fight left in me, any more. No thought, beyond that of pleasing him. My only hope is to earn the right to be his slave again. To be allowed to walk upright and to speak, with his permission of course.

I haven’t even considered what I will do, if this doesn’t happen. In the back of my mind, the Surgeon’s words shimmer: “I won’t kill you until you beg for it.” Well, there is always that option.

I’m interrupted in my gloomy thoughts by the sound of a door opening, followed by footsteps. I know they are Damien’s footsteps, for I’ve learned to recognise them: like his father, he wears boots most of the time and it makes for a very distinct sound against the stone floor. The room is dark and I’m tied face down, as usual. Therefore, I don’t bother lifting my head and looking at him, but lie quietly, ignoring the twitching in my pussy.

“Hey, little pet, are you ready to be fucked?” He teases, though he knows the answer full well. I feel his hand on my wet lips and I whine eagerly, just as he has taught me. Suddenly, he leans down and starts undoing the straps keeping my gag in place, saying: “I believe I can trust you to be a good bitch now. What do you think?”

To my surprise, I whine in reply. The response is so automatic I don’t even have to worry about slipping up and speaking. He rewards me by mounting me, doggie-style, pumping into me slowly. I’m so turned on that it takes me only seconds to climax, which causes him to speed up his thrusts. Without the gag in my mouth, I whine and howl at the top of my voice, as he violates first my pussy and then my ass. After pumping my bowels full of his cum, he withdraws at last, wipes his cock on my fur. “I guess it’s time to take off that suit.”

This time, I am truly speechless. Fucked senseless, my limbs atremble, I wait for him to untie me and then unzip the suit. As he pulls it off me, I turn my head and gaze at him with tears in my eyes. He pauses what he’s doing long enough to flash me a sexy smile. “Do you wish to thank me, little pet?” I nod, mutely, still waiting for permission to speak. He has other ideas. Tugging the suit off me, he unlocks the chain from the bedhead and drags me off the bed. “Kiss my feet, then.”

Such is my gratitude that I don’t think twice about obeying. He still has his boots on and I kiss each one several times, before he stops me. “That’s enough. Now, kneel for me.” Did I hear him right? He wants me to kneel, not grovel on all fours? In a state of shock, I lie at his feet, until I feel him tugging at my chain. “I said, kneel, slave.”

Finally, I understand. Shakily, I draw myself up, so that I am kneeling before him with my head bowed. When I feel his hand on my head, I almost burst into tears.

“Shhh… it’s okay now,” he says, adding: “You may speak now, if you wish. I’m sure you have a lot you’d like to say to me.”

I nod, but words don’t come easily after my protracted silence. Worried about offending him, I manage to squeeze out: “Th-thank you, master.”

“You’re welcome.” His reply is formal, but the tenderness in his tone is unmistakeable. I can’t stop myself from glancing upward, whereupon I see him smiling down on me. “You’ve been a very good girl,” he tells me. Leaning down, he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Come, I have a surprise for you.”

All at once, I feel nervous. Not to mention, dizzy. I haven’t stood on my own two feet in weeks. Damien supports me as I sway, with one arm around my waist. “Lean on me, darling, don’t be scared. I can carry you quite easily, but I’d prefer it if you walked. We don’t have far to go and you could use the exercise.”

Leaning on him as instructed, I cringe inwardly. He is dressed impeccably, in a dark blue suit and tie, while I am naked and covered in sweat. The smell of it is strong in my nostrils, alongside the smell of cum. In a moment of paranoia, I even think I can smell my recently sodomised ass, though I know my bowels are clean. Noticing my distress, he stops. “Something the matter?”

“No, m-master… It’s just that… I’m so d-dirty.” I stutter with nervousness, but he merely chuckles at me.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” His hand tilts my chin up, so that he may look me in the eye. “Darling, dirty is how I like you.” Without further ado, he leads me to the door. The two guards are waiting for us there, with a change of clothes for me – a short, black leather skirt and a matching top. Damien dresses me himself, while the guards watch on in silence. The simple task completed, he faces me squarely. “A word of warning: what you are about to see may shock you. Whatever happens, try not to over-react, it tends to upset the patients.”

My heart leaps in my chest as I listen. I’m about to leave the dungeon for the first time, but I can hardly appreciate it, in light of his strange warning. Swallowing hard, I nod at him: “Y-yes, master.”

As we step outside and into the darkened hallway, I notice that I’m not wearing any shoes. I wonder why that is, it’s not like I can run. He has me collared and chained, for crying out loud. And right as I think this, I feel him turning the collar, adjusting it so that the chain hangs discreetly along my back.

“From now on, we hold hands,” he says, winking at me. “It looks more natural.”

Curiouser and curiouser. I let him take my hand and tug me down the hallway. Its walls and floor are made of concrete, looks like an underground passage of some kind. Presently, my suspicions are confirmed, as we come to a brightly lit square, containing a set of gleaming elevator doors. Reading the dial, I see there are no less than ten floors above us. My knees are suddenly shaky at the thought of where I’ve spent the past several months. The worst shock, however, is still to come. It happens as the lift doors open. In one of its mirrors, I see a thin, pale figure dressed all in black, with huge frightened eyes and the shortest, black hair. It takes me a while to recognise myself in that figure and when I do, I quail. Shaking and moaning, I stand rooted to the spot, unable to take another step.

Immediately, Damien is in front of me, shielding me from the image with his broad torso. “Darling, look at me. I said, look at me! Don’t make me slap you…” With effort, I raise my head and meet his gaze, tears streaming down my face. He wipes them away with his thumbs, as he sooths me: “Ok, I know you didn’t like seeing yourself in the mirror there, but darling… no one can go through what you did and come out unscathed. Besides, I happen to think you look great, and my opinion is the only one that matters. Right?”

I clasp my hands together miserably, feeling the stump of my missing finger. It’s not the only thing I’m missing, either. My lower lip trembles as I answer: “M-master, how can you s-say that? I’m so u-u-ugly.” I mean what I say. I almost wish he would put me back in the dog suit, so I wouldn’t have to look at my scarred body.

Slap! His hand blurs as he slaps my cheek, hard. “Snap out of it,” he says, brutally. “Your inner strength is what attracted me to you in the first place. Not your looks. However, when I say you look great… I mean it.” He pauses for effect, and then continues: “There’s nothing more attractive to me than a woman covered in scars. I look at you and I see beauty without vanity, courage to match the bravest of men and a spirit that endures. I look at you and I see a survivor. I know this might be hard for you darling… but from now on this is how I want you to see yourself. Do I make myself clear?”

My mouth hangs open as I stare at him, dumbfounded. What he just told me is by far the most amazing, beautiful, wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me. It’s heart warming and inspirational and so romantic it makes me weak in the knees. For a few rapid heartbeats, as I gaze into his dark eyes, I almost forget myself. I have to look away, just to keep from throwing myself into his arms. Not surprisingly, my voice is husky and filled with emotion as I finally answer: “Yes, master. Thank you… thank you so much.”

He flashes me a grin that would make any woman melt. “Don’t mention it.”

With that, he presses the elevator button again. This time, when the door opens, I step inside with him, my head held high. And it’s as though a veil has been lifted. In the mirror, the thin woman looks miraculously transformed, gazing at me calmly. Beside her, Damien’s handsome face is likewise calm, though a slight smile still plays on his lips. Catching me looking at him, he squeezes my hand. “We make such a great couple, don’t you think?”





Ding. The elevator stops and the doors start to slide open. I squint against the bright light, as Damien leads me outside. “Remember what I told you,” he says, repeating his earlier warning. “Stay calm, no matter what.”

I still don’t know what he’s talking about. Gazing around the brightly lit space, I see nothing to be concerned about. At least, not at first glance. As we start to walk across the room, I admire the polished floors, tall ceilings and ornate window frames. The whole area is bathed in sunlight and it feels glorious on my pale skin. Honestly, I’d love to curl up and go to sleep here, if only I could find a sofa or a lounge chair. That’s when it hits me. There’s no furniture in the huge room, no decorations on the walls either. Frowning, I look to the floor for any kind of marks left by furniture, and that’s when I notice the stripes. Hastily, I raise my head and scan the windows – sure enough, there are bars on each of them, painted white for camouflage.

What is this place? I want to ask, but he’s trained me too well. Never speak unless spoken to, or without his permission. Ok, let me think about this. What kind of a place has bars on the windows and no furniture? A hospital? Except this doesn’t feel like any hospital I’ve ever been in. For starters, it doesn’t smell like one. There are no doctors and nurses milling about, no patients shuffling down the wide hallways. In fact, it’s eerily quiet, now that I think about it.

“Come on darling, keep up.” Damien’s words cut through my thoughts unexpectedly, at the same time as we enter one of the hallways. Here, at last, I see a row of doors, painted the same cream colour as the walls. As we walk past the first one, I spot a small square window at eye level. I crane my neck trying to see inside, but we’re walking too quickly and all I see are stark walls. I reach the end of the hallway, feeling none the wiser, which frustrates me.

But then, we enter the next large room – and my frustration evaporates, in an instant. I have to clasp a hand over my mouth to suppress a cry of shock, as I take it all in: the TV and lounge set, a few plants, dining table and chairs. In amongst it, there are men and women, dressed in thin white gowns, most of them strapped to their chairs. There are two nurses walking amongst them, distributing pills. The vacant look on the patients’ faces completes the picture, telling me all I really need to know. I’m in a mad house, an asylum for the insane. So, the crime ring I’ve been tracking owns an asylum? The implications are tremendous and my mind is busy trying to work out exactly where I am. Looking out the window, I see only treetops and blue sky. Damn it, it’s too high!

For the second time, Damien’s voice interrupts my thoughts: “Ok, as you’ve probably guessed this is the patients’ common room. Luckily, they’ve just been doped. Sometimes, it can get pretty wild in here… Well done for staying calm, by the way.”

I nod at him weakly, trying to hide my nervousness. Now that I know what this place is, I can’t help but worry. Wondering why he has brought me here. Does he plan to strap me to a chair and dope me up? He feels my hand shaking and gives it a squeeze.

“Come, your surprise is over in the next wing.” There is no nastiness in his tone, nothing to suggest that something sinister is afoot. Yet I have just such a premonition, as I follow him through the common room and into the next hallway. The feeling is so strong that I am tempted to pull my hand away and run. The only reason I don’t is because I know he would catch me, drag me back to the dungeon and punish me. As we stop in front of one of the doors, I’m painfully aware of the heavy chain dangling from my collar. Damien must be reading my mind, because he takes hold of it at that exact moment.

“Ready?” His other hand is on the door latch, unlocking it. Whoever is inside that room, they are a prisoner, as surely as I am. I nod, obediently. Thinking, please just get it over with.

He pushes the door open and waits for me to step inside. I hear him walking in behind me, shutting the door quietly. At the same time, my eyes scan the room, empty except for the bed in one corner. A man is lying on it, his wrists and ankles strapped down tight. Like the rest of the patients, he is stripped of his clothes and dressed only in a light gown. I can see his chest moving under the thin fabric, his breaths are shallow and fast. He is afraid, but of what? Whom? I stare at his face more closely and notice him staring back at me with wide eyes. He seems familiar somehow, though it’s hard to tell with all his hair shaved off. I force myself to take a step closer, still thinking. As I do so, he calls out my name: “Miss Patterson!”

His voice is shaky, as though he has seen a ghost. But if the man on the bed is shocked, he isn’t the only one. Because the sound of his voice is the last piece of the puzzle, the thing that lets me recognise him instantly. For a second I just stand there, thunderstruck. Then I blurt out: “Jones, is that you?”

I regret it instantly. Not only is it a stupid question, I’ve just broken the rule against speaking. Turning my head, I see Damien shaking his head at me. “It’s ok, darling. I want you to speak. Go ahead… tell him exactly what you think of him.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. Jones was my partner, the one who betrayed me. Sure, he doesn’t look too comfortable right now, but that doesn’t alter what he did. It sure as hell doesn’t exonerate him. Taking another step closer, I sum up what I think of him in a single word:

“Traitor.”

Jones flinches as though I’ve struck him. When he starts talking, it’s in a continuous stream – veritable verbal diarrhoea: “Please, Jane, it’s not what it seems like, I didn’t betray you of my own free will, honest I didn’t. You’ve seen what they’re like, I can see it on your face. You know they can make a person do anything…”

I cut him off icily: “I don’t see any marks on you Jones. The Surgeon always leaves marks on those he tortures. And as far as I know, you have no family, no loved ones to worry about. So please… do tell – how did they make you betray me?”

The man who used to be my trusted colleague stares at me in silence. When his mouth next opens, no sound comes out. I’m so disgusted I can’t stand looking at him, any more. So I take a step back and I turn my back on him. It’s a mistake, because it lets him see the chain. There is a sharp intake of breath from the bed, followed by a “holy fuck”. I try not to let it get to me, but I can feel my face turning red all the same. My shame intensifies when Damien tugs on the chain, making me stumble. He isn’t doing it to embarrass me, however. Instead, he brings me close and helps me regain my balance by wrapping an arm around my waist affectionately.

“Pay no attention to our patient,” he murmurs in my ear. “He’s a dead man, anyway.”

Pulled against his firm body, inhaling his familiar scent, I shiver delicately. As always, I’m grateful for his presence, though I do have one more question to ask. “Master?” I make it a whisper, because I don’t want Jones to hear me addressing any man in this way. “Forgive me for asking… but the Surgeon said my partner was long gone. I don’t understand what he is doing here.”

Damien’s hold on me tightens imperceptibly, as he answers: “He was gone, darling. It took a lot of work to track him down and bring him here, alive. Particularly as I had to keep it a secret from my father.”

At this, I raise my head and stare at him, searchingly. “You mean…?” I trail off, not knowing what it is I’m asking. His dark eyes gaze back at me, sparkling with excitement.

“That’s right, my darling slave,” he says, seriously. “I got him back, just for you. Now, tell me… how would you like him to die?”

For a long time, I don’t know what to say. On the inside, I am a cauldron of emotion, but on the outside I am frozen. Thinking about agent Jones, tied down to that bed, helpless. He’s a traitor and a coward, and he deserves to die. On the other hand, killing him won’t take back what he did. It will simply remove him from the reach of the law. Thus thinking, I shake my head slowly. “I… I’m not sure I want you to kill him.”

Now it’s Damien’s turn to look surprised. “But darling, that makes no sense.” His brow furrows then grows smooth again, as a look of steel comes over his features. “Besides, I didn’t ask if you wanted him dead. I asked how you wanted him to die. As for me killing him, that’s something you don’t have to worry about. Since I have no intention of stealing the honour from you.”

The blood drains from my face, as I process these words. Apparently, Jones has heard it, too, because I can hear him struggling in his bonds, whimpering: “Please don’t kill me… please have mercy…”

“Mercy is for the weak,” Damien tells me, fixing me with his dark gaze. “You’ll be doing the world a favour by killing him. And you’ll be making me proud.”

Still, I hesitate. “What if I refuse?” I quake as I ask this, but he merely smiles at me. Without releasing me from the embrace, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Polaroid picture. Wordlessly, he hands it to me. As I take it from his hand, I note the date in the corner. It’s from a month ago, well after I was captured. Then I see the people in it, a man and a woman – and my hand starts to shake.

“That’s my sister,” I say, breathlessly. My sweet, innocent sister, who has dated a total of three men in her young life, is in the photo. Naked, tied to a bed, with a man on top of her. It’s not a large picture, but I would know that profile anywhere.

The man in the photo is Jones.

As I lift my gaze, my jaw is set. “Who took this photo?” Not that it matters much, but I still have to know. Damien shrugs nonchalantly.

“One of my colleagues. It was sheer dumb luck. I don’t even know why I asked for the surveillance, I already knew enough about your family.”

I’m not sure I believe him, but I have no desire to question him further. For one, I doubt he would be inclined to answer. Two, Jones has worked out what is happening and is making a ruckus.

“Jane, no! Don’t listen to him! I was framed, I was set up! I swear to God, I didn’t know she was your sister! She was out of it, she must’ve been drugged…” He starts sobbing, in genuine distress. Strange, how he thinks this will make any difference.

I look at Damien and he looks at me. A silent yet perfect communication takes place, at the end of which he pulls out a knife. Hands it to me while stepping away. “Take your time darling. I’ll be right outside.”

Yes, master. I think, and then I turn toward the bed. “Say your prayers, asshole. I’m all out of mercy.”






I have never thought of myself as a violent person. As anyone that has ever worked with me could testify, I am always in control of myself: or was, until today. Walking up to Jones, strapped to the bed before me, I don’t think of myself as an agent. I don’t even think of myself as a woman, because a woman would have some control left – whereas I have none. The only thing I have is rage. Blind, uncontrollable rage such as I have never experienced before. I can feel it building up inside me, with each step that I take. With each step, Jones’ pleas grow louder, though I can hardly hear them now. It’s as if the volume has been turned down, which is just as well because I don’t want to hear anything he has to say.

All I want is to hear him scream.

Leaning over the bed, I grab the thin cotton gown and rip it off his foul body. He screams something at me, in a high-pitched voice. The words I can’t process, the fear I can. He reeks of it, in fact. I wonder if he stank like this while he raped my sister. Snap.

“Fucking asshole, fucking coward rapist piece of shit fucking cunt!” I don’t realise I’m screaming, until the last curse is out. His mouth is a silent ‘O’ of terror and that is as it should be. Since this is the moment of reckoning. The fate that in his arrogance he thought he could avoid. Growling loudly, I reach between his legs and grab his limp cock. Stretching it taut, I feel his hot piss running down my hand. No mercy, I feel no mercy. Only hatred. “No one hurts my baby sister.” Snap.

Screaming, glorious screaming fills my ears. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sweeter sound. Blood sprays all around me as I lean down once more. The knife is sharp and his balls are small. They come off easily, too easily in fact. My hand keeps squeezing, though he can’t feel it any more. Fucking asshole, he’s not getting away with it that easily. A red haze falls over me. No, not red: alizarin crimson. That is the colour of blood, in artists’ terms. I grin down at the piece of shit that hurt my sister. “We need more paint.” Snap.

His screams are growing quiet, despite everything I’m doing to keep them coming. So weak, he’s so weak. Why, I remember poor Betty lasted at least ten minutes after the Surgeon gutted her. Tugging at the mass protruding from his stomach, I string it out around his neck – loosely, so as not to choke him. “You deserve a slow death.” His body convulses, his eyes staring at me glassily. There’s no remorse in them and there never will be. In a final burst of anger, I slam the knife through his throat, all the way to the hilt. “Rot in hell, where you came from.”

Snap. The rage is gone, extinguished along with Jones’ life, in its place a dull stupor. I gaze around me slowly, as though seeing it all for the first time: the mutilated body, the blood-spattered walls, the sheets stained red and dripping bloody droplets on the floor. My agent’s brain duly informs me that this is the scene of the crime. Ipso facto, I am the criminal. It is a chilling thought and hard to accept, at first. But as I lift my hands before my face and stare at them, I see the hands of a murderer: grotesque and bloodied, with one finger missing and the rest curled like claws. All of a sudden, I feel sick. Sinking to my knees, I try to wipe the blood off on my clothes, but they too are sticky wet. The smell of death is everywhere, permeating my skin, my nostrils – my very soul.

Inexplicably, I find myself rocking back and forth, with my eyes closed. Thinking: “Oh God, what have I become?”

Right then, I hear a familiar sound, a heavy footstep echoing off the tiles. Still, I keep rocking, unable to stop. A few seconds later, his arms are wrapping around me, tightly. It’s just as well, because the moment he does it I go berserk. Screaming and thrashing around, I let it all out: all the horror and the pain, the fear and self-loathing that I feel. In response, he tightens his hold until he’s practically crushing me, encircling me in a grip of steel. It’s an awesome display of power and it leaves me breathless, in more ways than one. I keep struggling for a while longer, feeling his hard body against mine. When at last I cease, I am spent, my head hanging low. He loosens his hold at once and kisses my neck, shooting darts of pleasure down my spine. As I swoon in his arms, I feel his hot breath in my ear, whispering:

“Well done, baby. Even my father would be proud of you. Just one thing… Next time, when you’re going through hell, remember to call my name.”

I can’t say anything to that, because I’m too worn out. However, I can’t help but wonder what he means by “next time”. What other hell is he planning to put me through? He interrupts my thoughts, saying: “You’re a bit of a mess, darling. Let’s get you cleaned up and then we can go back to your room, yes?”

There’s nothing I can do but nod. From my position on the floor, I watch him extract the knife from Jones’ throat and wipe it on the edge of the bed, before sheathing it. Belatedly, it occurs to me that I just missed the perfect opportunity to take him on and win. He left me untied and armed with a deadly weapon. If only I had kept my wits about me… but it’s too late to think about that now. Besides, chances are I wouldn’t have escaped, even if I won. That’s the thing about insane asylums. They’re just like prisons, easy to get into and near impossible to get out of.




Inside one of the large bathrooms, Damien is all business. “Strip.” He orders me, as he sets me down. I want to collapse and curl up into a ball, but he doesn’t let me. “I said strip.” Repeating the command calmly, he steps back and picks up a shower hose off the wall. As distraught as I am, I manage to obey him. Swaying weakly, I unzip my skirt and let it fall. Then I peel off my top, grimacing as it slides over my face.

“Good girl,” he says and he turns on the tap. I shriek as the cold water hits me, in a powerful stream. The tiles beneath my feet are dyed red, as Damien plays the jet over my head and body, both. Once the water is running clear, he stops. Picking up a brush and a bar of soap, he walks over to me. He scrubs my hands first, paying particular attention to the fingernails. Then he turns me around and starts to soap me up, all over. When I feel his hand between my legs, I gasp. His finger slides over the metal piercing, rubbing against my clit. “Patience, baby.”

The second hosing off is a lot quicker than the first, but no less thorough. He disposes of my clothes and his own blood-smeared top, as well, shoving them in a nearby bin. After that, he rinses the entire bathroom. By the time he’s done, there isn’t a drop of blood to be seen. This fact alone makes me feel better. I stand there shivering, waiting for him to bring me a towel. But he merely strolls over to me and grabs hold of my chain. Yanks on it so hard, he almost pulls me off my feet. Growling: “Turn around and place your hands against the wall.”

I hesitate for only a second and he uses it as an excuse to shock me. That is, he pushes a button on his fake watch and activates my piercing. The effect is instantaneous. As my clit starts to vibrate, I twitch and shake, struggling to stay upright. He “helps” me by tugging on the chain and spinning me around. I have to put up my hands as I’m shoved against the wall, to stop my face from smashing into it. Mewling in fear, I feel him taking up position behind me, kicking my legs open. I don’t understand why he’s treating me so roughly, after what I’ve just been through. Also, I worry about someone walking in on us. The bathroom has no lock on its door and there are nurses walking around outside. What if…

And at that exact moment, a woman’s voice exclaims, from behind us: “Hey! What’s going on here?”

On hearing it, I want to run away and hide. I’m painfully aware of the tiny vibrator buzzing at my clit, my naked body with its legs spread, the collar and chain around my neck. Damien, however, is un-phased. After snapping at me – “don’t move, bitch” – he turns his head and calls out: “It’s ok, Susie. This one isn’t a patient. She’s my slave.”

My face burns at his words. I’ve never been more humiliated and I tremble, expecting a shocked reaction from the nurse. Instead, I hear her sighing with relief. “Oh, Sir, it’s you. I beg your pardon, I didn’t recognise you at first.” She turns to leave.

“Wait a second, Susie.” He calls her back, at the same time pulling out his cock and sliding it between my thighs. I have to work extra hard to suppress a moan, as the smooth head rubs against my throbbing, pulsing clit. The effort causes my legs to shake, while he talks to her calmly. “Now Susie, don’t panic, but there’s a bit of a mess in one of the cells, number 17. I’m going to get my men to clean it up later. In the meantime, if you could make sure no one goes in there, I would be most grateful.”

“Sir, yes Sir,” nurse Susie recites, politely. “Would that be all?”

He doesn’t reply right away, but grabs my hips and impales me on his cock in one smooth move. This time, I can’t help the moan that escapes me, a low, guttural sound that echoes loudly in the tiled space. I shut it off quickly, but the damage is done. Helplessly, I listen to the nurse chuckling, while my master fucks me. He thrusts into me slowly, making my hips jerk. One, two, three thrusts – and to my horror, I can feel the orgasm starting. I grit my teeth for several thrusts more, fighting the inevitable. But my clit is too well stimulated, the hard cock sliding in and out of me with metronomic precision. As I first groan then begin to moan, he speeds up the tempo, pushing me relentlessly on. And then, he gives the order: “Now, bitch, stick out your tongue and whine for me.”

With my upper body pressed against the cool tiles and my pussy pounded from behind, I have no choice but to do as he says. It happens without me thinking about it, the way it has happened a hundred times before. The instant I stick my tongue out, my orgasm starts. I whine as I climax, the sound bouncing off the walls, on and on. When it is over, I hang my head in shame. He is far from finished himself, of course, and he keeps me impaled on his cock as he answers the nurse at long last.

“Sorry, Susie, I got a bit carried away there. She’s like a bitch on heat, as you can see.” Stroking my bare bottom with one hand, he concludes: “Anyway, I don’t need anything else, thank you. You may go now.”

I’m not sure why, but as soon as the nurse is gone I start to cry. Damien fucks me slowly for a few moments, seemingly uncaring. But then, he stops. “Darling, what’s the matter?” He’s using the kind voice again and it makes me cry harder. How can I explain the devastation that I feel? After some more coaxing, though, I tell him.

“I… I… I was so… hu-hu-humiliated,” I stammer, between sobs. He laughs loudly at that, like I just told him a great joke.

“You thought that was humiliating?” he asks and straight away, I start to get a bad feeling. It’s too late to take my words back, however. He is already pulling out of me. Grabbing me by the elbow, he spins me around and marches me toward the door. Nearly ripping it off its hinges, he flings it open and barks at me: “Get down on all fours.”

I make the mistake of resisting. “Please, master, I’m sorry.” In response, he kicks me in the backs of my knees, helping me to comply instantly. Then he is strolling forward, tugging at my chain.

“I don’t want to hear any more words out of your mouth,” he says, his tone cold. “You are to remain silent, until otherwise instructed. Anything you say can and will be used against you…” He chuckles at his own dark humour, while I reel in shock. It was bad enough being treated like a dog, in the private space of his dungeon – but to be paraded through the halls of an insane asylum, on all fours? Words cannot describe the degradation that I feel, at being treated thus. For the first few steps, the urge to get up and fight is great. The odds, however, are stacked against me – and the consequences of failure don’t bear thinking about.

So, I shuffle along on all fours, doing my best to keep up. To my horror, Damien heads straight for the common room. Finding it empty, he wastes no time in summoning an audience. As the staff pile into the room, I notice they are mostly male. Evidently, there are a lot of male nurses at this asylum. They grin as they stare at me, as though they see nothing wrong with a woman being chained and made to crawl. I’m so humiliated I can’t stop crying, but the worst is yet to come.

“Thank you all for coming,” Damien’s voice booms, above me. “I know how you all appreciate a good show, so I decided to give you one. Please, sit back and relax, while I teach my slave a lesson she will never forget. At least, I hope she won’t forget it…”

Amid much raucous laughter, he unbuckles his belt and slides it off his trousers. This done, he sits down in one of the chairs and pats his knee. “Come lie across my lap, bitch.”

Tremblingly, I do as he says. He helps adjust my position, before taking hold of my collar. “Now, baby, remember how I said mental torture was my specialty? Well, sometimes, just sometimes, it’s not enough. Today is one such time. What I’m trying to say, baby, is – I’m going to hurt you now.”

Lying across his lap, with my bare bottom sticking up in the air, I whimper softly. Between my legs, the piercing is still vibrating, because he never bothered to switch it off. Dimly, I wonder if this was intentional, but I don’t get to wonder for long. With the first loud “swish” of leather through the air, a hush falls over the room. He takes a few experimental swings, making me jump nervously. Then, when I least expect it, he strikes.

“Aaaah!” I cry out, as I feel the sting of leather on my soft cheek. He never pauses, but strikes me again, on the other cheek this time. The pain is not too bad, to begin with, but with each strike it intensifies. Soon, I’m crying and whimpering in earnest, my buttocks clenching and shaking. “Aaah! Mmm! Aaah! Mmmm! Aaah! Mmm!”

He belts me for a long time, long enough to make me scream. Only then does he stop, lets me fall to the floor. By now, my buttocks are on fire and I sob loudly as I curl up at his feet. But he still isn’t finished with me. Dropping the belt he was holding, he kneels behind me and pulls me up by the hips. “That’s the punishment over. Here comes your reward.” With that, he pulls my throbbing cheeks apart and spits on my ass hole. I whimper pathetically as I feel him lining up his cock with my tight opening. Please, no. Please, oh please.

“Aaah!” Another scream escapes me, as he rams into me, in a single thrust. His cock is rock hard, stretching me mercilessly, over and over. Having been sodomised many times in the past month or so, I should be able to bear it well, except for one problem. Each time his hips press against my cheeks, it re-ignites the sting of the belting. This makes me cry and tremble, adding to the humiliation of the rape. Not even another climax – brought on by the stimulation of my clit – helps to dull the pain. My suffering seems endless, so that I almost can’t believe it when it ends.

“Mmm… I enjoyed that,” he says, while pulling out slowly. The gathered men clap and cheer, obviously impressed by the performance. I keep my eyes shut tight, until I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Kneel, slave. I want you to clean me up.”

A shudder runs through me at these words. He can’t be serious, he just can’t be. But he is serious and when I don’t respond immediately, he jerks on my chain. “I gave you an order. Do not make me tell you twice.”

There is nothing for it but to do as he says. Shaking visibly, I pull myself to my knees. As I take his cock in my mouth, I hear someone whisper: “Fuck, that’s hot. I’ve got to get me a girl like that.” You fucking bastards, I think, but with my mouth full of cock I can’t speak. Mewing quietly so as to tune the voices out, I close my eyes and focus on my task. Suddenly, it’s as though the others in the room don’t exist. I’m aware of their presence, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is pleasing my master.

Damien notices the change in me at once. “Good girl,” he says, stroking my head. “That will do, now. I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

I look up at him and nod. “Yes, master. I have.”






After the adrenaline-laced afternoon I’ve just had, I feel surprisingly relaxed. So relaxed, I have trouble staying upright during the short trip back to the dungeon. Damien refuses to carry me out of principle, saying it wouldn’t look right in front of the nurses and the guards. Once we’re inside the room, however, he sweeps me off my feet and carries me quickly to the bed. Laying me on it gently, he padlocks the chain to the frame, before reaching for the blankets. As he’s tucking me in, I gaze up at him plaintively. Don’t go. Please, don’t go. He reads my expression and smiles.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’m not going anywhere.” Without taking his pants off, he lies down beside me and cradles me in his arms. “Close your eyes. Don’t think about anything. You’re with me now… my little slave.”

There is something terribly wrong with this scene and deep down I know it. I just can’t be bothered to work out what it is, right now. My eyes are already closing, and my body is snuggled up comfortably against his. True, my buttocks still throb from the belting he gave me, but it doesn’t bother me. He didn’t hurt me bad, just enough to teach me a lesson. Wrapped in the protective circle of his arms, I sigh gratefully. Within moments I’m drifting off. I don’t think about anything upsetting, since he told me not to. It really is that simple.

I’m not sure how long I slept for, but when I wake up he is gone. For some reason, this upsets me, makes me feel abandoned. I realise that the feeling isn’t rational. After all, I’ve been waking up alone for weeks now. Nevertheless, I can’t shake it. Lying silently in the dark, I ponder on it for a while. Gradually, it dawns on me that I’ve become dependent on him, emotionally as well as physically. He alone provides me with food, drink, companionship… and of course, sex. I blush as I think this, while between my legs my pierced clit throbs. The feel of him is imprinted on my body, so that my mind no longer has control over it. In a true sense of the word, my body belongs to him – and now, it seems, he is stealing my heart, my very soul.

As this thought is formed, alarm bells go off in my head. Don’t let him, Jane! Remember he’s the devil. He may be beautiful, sexy and charming, but he’s still a killer. He’s the enemy – don’t ever forget that.

It’s a moment of clarity and it makes me mumble out loud. “Ok, ok. I remember. I’m Jane Patterson, the FBI agent. He’s a dangerous criminal, trying to scramble my mind.”

On cue, a deep, masculine voice replies: “Now, that’s not a very nice thing to say.”

Damien. Apparently, he’s been hiding in the darkness, waiting for me to wake up. It’s not the first time he’s done that, either. Why didn’t I think of that, before I opened my big mouth? It’s too late now, however. His footsteps are slow and deliberate as he strolls up to the bed, in pitch black. I think he must be wearing night vision goggles, because I sure as hell can’t see him. But when he lights the first candle, his dark eyes are fixed on me, unobscured by goggles of any kind. His expression is grim and seeing it, I cringe. “I’m sorry, master, I was just…”

“I don’t remember giving you permission to speak,” he says, icily. The way he says it makes me freeze, even as my heart starts to race. While I cower down in silence, he strolls away and lights the second candle – then the third and the fourth. His movements are unhurried, which adds to my anxiety, but of course that is his intention. By the time he’s finished I am trembling, a fact that he notices immediately. “I suppose you’re expecting a beating?” he says, smirking. His handsome face looms over me, as he leans in close and whispers: “You should be so lucky.”

Before I can react, he’s kissing me, his lips smooth and warm against mine. I can’t help the moan that escapes me when he runs his tongue over my teeth, and he takes advantage, pushing it into my open mouth. He explores me expertly, taking my breath away – literally. As he pulls out, his teeth graze my lower lip, biting first gently and then more forcefully. By now, I’m moaning in earnest. Excited by the pain come pleasure, I reach out to him, wanting to pull him close.

At that precise moment, he stops. Taking hold of my wrist, he rips my hand away from him. Grabs my other wrist and slams them both down, over my head. “No. You don’t get to touch me. I’m the enemy, remember?”

Is it my imagination, or is there pain in his voice? I want to tell him I’m sorry, yet again, but remembering his earlier rebuke I keep silent. He stares into my eyes for a few seconds longer, as though unable to tear his gaze away. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, he releases me. As he turns to leave, he delivers the parting shot: “Yesterday, I watched you kill a man… you butchered him like a piece of meat, yet you call me a criminal. Think about that, while you wait for me to come see you again. By the way, it might be a while.”

“No, please!” I cry, but he ignores me. He doesn’t even reprimand me for speaking, walking away without a backward glance. The devastation this makes me feel is indescribable. I’m alone with my thoughts and they aren’t pretty: gruesome images of agent Jones on the bed, his entrails spilling out of his abdomen. The photo of my sister, tied up on the bed, as he rapes her. Is she ok now? I forgot to ask Damien. I could have asked Jones, before I started cutting him, but I didn’t. I was out of control, as dangerous as the criminals that have captured me. Oh God, maybe it’s just as well that I’m locked up down here, chained to the bed.

Assailed by these dark and dreary thoughts, I curl up into a ball and wrap my arms around my sides. Then, predictably, I start to cry. I may be an FBI agent, but I’m first and foremost a woman – and right at this moment, I need someone to hold me. The only man who could help me is gone. For how long, I don’t know. Knowing him, it could be days. What better way to punish me?

The windowless room echoes with my cries for a long time.

Some hours later, I wake up in time to see the last of the candles flicker and die. I must have cried myself to sleep, though I did not intend for it to happen. Now, I’m doomed to spend my waking hours in total darkness, as well as isolation. Gingerly, I slide my legs off the bed and feel around for the bedpan. After relieving myself, I slide it away, so I wouldn’t have to inhale the smell of urine. As I drag myself back on the bed, I hold onto the chain. It helps to pull myself up, and it sooths me, too. Quite why this is, I couldn’t say. All I know is: the collar and chain help to keep me sane. By restricting my movement, they stop me from pacing anxiously, ensuring that I stay put. And that’s exactly as my master wishes.

No sooner do I think this, than a light goes off inside my head. He’s doing it again! He’s in my mind, messing with it… and he’s not even here. Oh God, oh God, what does it mean? Have I gone entirely, certifiably insane? A wry voice in my head tells me not to worry – I’m already in an insane asylum. I actually guffaw at my own joke, before dissolving into sobs once more. When my tears dry up, the darkness presses in on me, from all sides – silent, devoid of life of any kind. I’m so desperate for some kind of stimulus that I decide to touch myself. Reaching under the sheets, I run my hands along my naked body, from my mutilated breasts to my scarred thighs. It seems only natural to move to my mound, next. Gently, I finger the piercing over my clit, as a familiar calm settles over me. This time, I don’t berate myself for thinking about Damien. On the contrary, I recall the memories on purpose.

Thinking about him is what makes me come.
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I'm a wicked, vile, horrible and perfect man. - the Savage, during one of his more modest moments.

"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"
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Old 04-07-2013, 09:41 AM   #6
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It doesn’t take long for my isolation to get to me. Big time. It’s not just the darkness, which I have kind of gotten used to in my time here. No, it’s the total lack of human contact that makes me lose it. I start by talking to myself. Calmly, at first, I tell myself it will be all right. They have to bring me food and water, right? Wrong. As the hours tick by, no one comes. No Damien, no guards, no one. No sounds to be heard except those that I make. In other words, frightened whimpers and the rattle of the chain. I gave up screaming long ago, it only made me scared to hear it. So I talk… and talk, and talk. Eventually, I get angry with myself. Hissing things like “shut up, you crazy bitch” and “you’re never getting out of here, d’you hear? Never!”

Sleep comes and goes, until I lose track of time completely. The only way to tell is by how thirsty I am. Hunger I don’t feel so much. Damien was always careful to feed me small amounts, because it helped to keep my bowels clean. Thus, when hunger pangs come, they don’t last. But the fact that I got hungry in the first place is ominous. It tells me just how long I’ve been locked away for: more than a day, maybe two. The realisation adds to my misery, the fear spiking to a new high. I push it down for as long as I can, before finally succumbing. I hug my knees and rock back and forth, and when this fails to calm me I collapse into a foetal position. Seconds later, the tears start to fall.

It’s while I’m thus curled up, crying, that help finally arrives. Only, it’s not exactly help. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

I fall silent as soon as I hear it: the sound of heavy footsteps, the heels of the boots echoing off the stone. I recognise them in a flash, or I think I do. That is why I’m so shocked, when he speaks.

“Well, well, well. What have we here…” the Surgeon’s voice rumbles, from the side of the bed. He plays the light of the torch over me, while I blink painfully. I don’t say anything, partly because I’ve been taught to keep quiet and partly because I’m scared out of my wits. Clearly aware of both these things, he leans down and takes hold of my chin in one gloved hand. “Hey there, little vixen. We meet again. I see you’re still afraid of me… That is good. Still, I wonder if it’ll help us… You see, the last girl my son owned ended up in the insane asylum. It’s what he does, I’m afraid. I just hope he hasn’t done it to you, yet.”

If before I was scared, now I’m petrified. What does he mean, ‘the last girl his son owned’? How many have there been, exactly? Also, why does he care if I’m crazy or not? Why is he even here? I fire off the questions in my mind, at the same time whimpering softly. The way I’ve been trained. On hearing it, the Surgeon sighs. “It seems I’m too late. Mike, Gus, take this poor woman and…”

“N-no!” I meant for it to be a shout, but it comes out as a hoarse cry. Regardless, he heard me. For now, that’s all that matters.

“Why, little vixen! Could it be you’re still with us?” He leans in closer and pulls my eyelids open, examining me. “If so, please tell me your name, occupation and date of birth.”

My whole body shakes as I look up at him, squinting against the bright light. “J-Jane P-Patterson. I… I’m an FB-I a-agent. D-date of b-birth…” I pause, so as to take a deep breath. Slightly more steadily, I add: “None of your b-business…”

He chuckles delightedly. “Still as cheeky as always. But I’ll let it slide, just this once. You’re about to earn your keep, oh yes you are.” Grabbing hold of my chain, he calls out over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose either of you have the key? Didn’t think so. Just as well I brought the bolt cutters.”

I’m surprised and more than a little shocked to hear this. If the Surgeon doesn’t have the key to my padlock, then he’s here without his son’s knowledge – or approval. As the men are cutting through a link in my chain, I gather the courage to ask: “Sir? W-where’s my m-master?”

Slap! His hand catches me across one half of my face, hard enough to turn my head. While I cry in shock, he calmly informs me: “Damien is gone. He’s not coming back any time soon, so you may as well stop calling him master.” He pauses in order to pull me up by the collar. Staring me straight in the eye, he continues to chastise me. “Honestly, vixen, I expected more from you. My son is an exceptional man, but to hear you referring to him as a master... it’s so… disappointing.”

The word is like a trigger, flicking a switch deep inside me. In a sudden burst of rage-fuelled energy, I scream at him: “Fuck you! Fuck both of you! You and your sick games! I can’t take it any more, I fucking can’t! Just kill me now and get it over with!”

The moment the words are out, I regret it. Well do I remember the Surgeon’s dark promise: that he would kill me if I begged for it. Having just said the magic words, I expect him to fulfil that promise more or less instantly. Hence, when he shoves me onto my back and climbs on top of me, I dissolve into sobs. “P-p-please… m-make it q-q-quick…” In response, he pushes my legs open with his knees.

“I will do no such thing,” he says, sternly. Speaking to his men, next: “Hold her down, please. As weak as she is, she’s likely to put up a struggle.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about, until I feel his cock between my legs. At some point during our conversation, he has developed a raging erection and now, he intends to slake his lust with me. In other words, rape me. Damn right I will struggle. I don’t want him inside me, after his son has fucked me, made me into his slave. It’s sick, and I tell him so, a second before he rams his cock into me.

“Mmmm!” He groans with pleasure, ignoring my howls of outrage. “You’re right, my little vixen. We are sick, but not for the reasons you think. After all, there’s nothing wrong with sharing…” He trails off and starts to drill me, slowly, methodically. My struggles are in vain, especially since I’m starved and exhausted, unable to put up a real fight. Forced to endure the humiliation of the rape, I resort to sobbing again, keeping my eyes shut so as to block out the faces of the men holding me. Alas, with the piercing in my clit I can’t stop my body from becoming aroused, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed very long.

“Mhm, it seems my son has trained you well,” the Surgeon says, between grunts. “I must give him credit for that, if nothing else.”

I want to tell him to “shut up, shut the fuck up”, but I’m too far gone for that. To my horror and shame, I end up whining instead, making him laugh. At the same time, his thrusts get faster, his balls slapping against my ass cheeks with each one. Quite unintentionally, I catch myself comparing him to his son and I whine louder, in distress. Then I am coming, since that is what he trained me to do and since I haven’t been fucked in a few days. Curse you, Damien, for turning me into such an insatiable, willing slut. A bitch on heat, a sex toy, a… a…

“Aaah! Aaah! Ooh yes!” the Surgeon’s shouts of pleasure push their way into my thoughts, at the same time as his throbbing member pumps me full of cum. There is so much of it that when he pulls out at long last, the warm liquid dribbles out between my cheeks. Meanwhile, the men are letting go of me, saying: “Please Sir, let us have her. Just tell us how much you want for her.”

“Sorry, fellas,” the Surgeon replies, breathlessly. “I need her for a while longer.”

I’m so disgusted by what just happened that I roll over and start retching. Bent over the edge of the bed, I don’t notice the men walking up to me. As they grab my arms and legs and lift me up, I start struggling again, but of course they are stronger. Between them, they carry me swiftly out of the room and down the hallway. Minutes later, we arrive at our destination – and my blood freezes in my veins. Examination room number three is exactly as I remember it, only cleaner. The blood from the last victim hosed away, the surgical instruments arranged neatly on their metal tray. Most imposing of all is the stainless steel table, gleaming in the centre of the space. The men head over to it without a pause, while I plead with them tearfully. “Please, no… for God’s sake, have mercy on me…”

“Shhh… Don’t make a fuss, little vixen, you know it won’t help,” the Surgeon’s voice is soft, almost soothing, as he watches me being strapped down. Stretched out on the cold surface, I tremble violently.

“What… w-what do you want from me?” I ask the question, though I’m certain I already know the answer. He brought me here to kill me. The rape was just a distraction.

The Surgeon’s face, however, lights up in a smile. “Ah. I’m so glad you asked me that.” Picking up a scalpel, he runs it slowly over my abdomen. It’s so sharp that I don’t realise he has cut me, until I feel the blood trickling out. “That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. After I hurt you, of course.”






The next hour turns out to be one of the most painful hours of my life.

In truth, I thought I was too worn out to scream, but once the Surgeon starts slicing me I find out just how wrong I was. The screams that come out of my throat are so high pitched and long, they rival the best opera singers. Far from being distracted by it, he frowns in concentration, carving line after wavy line in my stomach, breasts, arms and legs. There seems to be no pattern to it, no purpose beyond that of hurting me. What’s more, it doesn’t end there. When he has covered most of my front with bleeding cuts, he snaps his fingers at the men standing by. “Flip her over onto her front. Tie her nice and tight. Good lads.”

The moment he makes the first incision, high on the back of my thigh, I start convulsing. Froth comes out of my mouth when I try to speak, so that he only takes one look before pausing what he’s doing.

“Easy, girl. Easy.” His hand is gentle as he lifts my head and wipes the spit from my face. “Here, bite down on this.” He pushes a piece of leather between my teeth, waits for me to do as instructed. With exaggerated care, he then lowers my head back onto the stainless steel table and steps away. He’s out of my field of vision, but I don’t need to see him to know what’s about to happen. I moan and whimper at him, while my muscles tense up, making my entire body vibrate.

Inexplicably, he chooses this moment to reassure me: “Just a little bit longer, that’s my good girl.”

“Mmmppff!” I moan, in pain and bewilderment, both. He gives me no time to wonder about it, but starts cutting me again, humming a merry tune the whole while. The sound of his voice mixes with my muffled screams and later, sobs. My back is soon as cut up as my front, the blood trickling down my sides and pooling on the smooth surface below. It seems to me that there isn’t an inch of skin left intact, that he could pull the shreds and skin me alive right now, if he so chose. The idea is sickening, the more so because I know he’s fully capable of it. This is why, when he sets the scalpel down and leans over me, I pass out.

I come back to the sound of smacking. It takes me a few seconds to work out that it’s the Surgeon’s large hand slapping my cheek. As usual, he’s slapping me hard, so that I cry out before opening my eyes. He stops as soon as he sees I’m awake, and pushes something in my mouth. “Suck on this.”

Too weak to resist, I do as he says, expecting a gag or something vile. Instead, I find myself sucking on a pleasant tasting, icy pole. “A hydrolytes stick,” he says, explaining. “You’re severely dehydrated, you need it to replace the electrolytes in your system.”

He holds it for me until I finish. It makes some of the terrible nausea go away, but I’m still in considerable pain and I have trouble focusing, when he next starts to talk. So, he slaps me again. “Pay attention, vixen! What I have to say is important, not only to your life, but that of your family.”

At the mention of my family, I snap to instantly. “No! Please, I told you what you wanted to know…” My voice trails off, as I fight the pain washing over me. By now, I’m beginning to understand that everything is not as it should be. Something has happened since the Surgeon last interrogated me, something that requires my co-operation again. I stare at him plaintively, willing him to tell me and fast. The suspense is killing me.

“Have I got your attention?” His pale eyes bore into mine, as though expecting me to space out again. Satisfied, he continues in a business-like tone:

“Good. I’ll come straight to the point. Our effort to capture all of the undercover agents has failed. Six of them have disappeared off our radar, which is a real problem, because they know too much. To make things worse, our gang leader was arrested today. His lawyer informs me that the situation is dire. The public prosecutor has live witnesses and is pushing for an expedited trial. Obviously, we can’t allow that to happen.”

Obviously, I want to say, but I think better of it. He frowns at my expression alone. “Yes, little vixen, I know how you must feel right now. Regardless of which, you’re going to help us find the agents and terminate them.”

Here he pauses, lets me absorb the statement. I’m so angry right now that I can’t wait for him to continue. “Let me guess, if I refuse the mafia will kill my entire family.” I have to stop, while my stretched out body is racked by another spasm of pain. For a while, the only sounds that can be heard are my tortured groans and the squeaking of the leather bonds around my wrists and ankles. I’m nothing if not stubborn, though, forcing the next sentence out through my teeth: “It’s… a stupid plan. They’ll f-f-figure it out… they’ll know I’ve been c-compromised.”

I don’t bother pointing out that he has cut me up pretty bad. Even if I were to accept, I don’t see how I could help him in my present state. As I think this, I see him watching me. His face is expressionless, as is his voice when he speaks:

“Do you really think so? Hm… In that case, perhaps I should hurt you some more. After all, we want your injuries to be convincing…”

I almost faint when I see him picking up the bolt cutters – the same ones that he used to cut through my chain, not so long ago. “No, please! Please Sir, don’t cut off more of my fingers,” I beg him, urgently. In a shaky voice, I add: “Sir, what I meant to say was… if you kidnap my family they’ll know you are blackmailing me.”

The Surgeon stops, gives me a surprised look. “Who said anything about kidnapping?”

“Then how…?” I gaze at him stupefied, while keeping one eye on the tool in his hands. Please God don’t let him mutilate me any more than he already has.

“Do I really have to spell it out for you, vixen?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I must say, I thought you were smarter than that. But perhaps being my son’s slave has dulled your brain, hm?”

All of a sudden, the dark brilliance of his plan is made clear to me. No, not his plan: their plan. Why resort to kidnapping, when they have a mafia member who’s already a friend of the family? A friend, that also happens to be a secret services agent. By God, it’s hard to imagine a more perfect cover. As the full implications of the realisation hit me, my body starts to shake. “It’s him, oh God… Damien…”

The Surgeon nods, sagely. “That’s right. Damien will be your contact outside. He will provide you with a weapon, which you will carry concealed on your person, straight into the safe house. And of course, while you’re there he will take care of your family. He’s been visiting them daily, as a matter of fact. It seems they are quite fond of him.”

I never knew I could feel such pain. I could not have imagined it, if I tried. Now I know, all I want is for it to end… even if it means ending my life. Gazing at my captor through a veil of tears, I can only whisper: “Please, I beg you… kill me. Torture me if you like, but kill me here and now. Please, don’t ask me to go through with it… Please…”

He shakes his head, with genuine regret. “My dear vixen. If it were up to me, you’d have died two months ago, in this very room. Now, sadly, the decision is no longer mine to make.” Leaning down, he cups my face in one hand and plants a kiss on my forehead. Murmuring:

“Consider it a kiss of death. To be redeemed at a later date.”




Prior to letting me out of his clutches, the Surgeon outlines what’s about to happen. “It’s very simple. You’ll be transported to a different location, an abandoned warehouse outside the city. It’s been set up to look like one of my examination chambers, complete with all the necessary tools. There, you will be chained up and left alone. Once my men are in the clear, they will contact the police. All you have to do is look distressed, when they arrive. Scream if you can, it’ll help them find you. Any questions?”

I squirm and pull against the leather that binds me. Underneath me, the stainless steel surface is slick with blood, which squelches as I move. It’s a sickening feeling and it makes me shudder as I ask, shakily: “W-what about my wounds? Su-surely they will put me into h-h-hospital… Not a s-safe house…”

“You mean these?” He runs his fingers over my back, making me twitch and cry in pain. “These are nothing. They’re deep enough to make you bleed, but that is all. You won’t even have any scars, when they’re healed. Ok, maybe a few… I did cut deeper in some places.” He pauses in order to press down on a long cut in my thigh, while I groan and grit my teeth. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought: “Anyway, the hospital isn’t a safe place to put an important witness like yourself. As I’m sure the FBI is aware of.”

I say nothing to that, which he takes as a sign that the conversation is over. At the snap of his fingers, his men undo my straps and slide me off the table. I almost pass out when I see all the blood, but they are used to worse things. On the floor beside the table is a black plastic sheet, laid out and waiting. Gently, they lower me onto it and start to wrap me up, the way they would a dead body. They follow up with gaffer tape, lots of it. When they are done, I’m wrapped up so tightly that I can hardly move a muscle. All over my body, my cuts sting and burn, so that I can’t help but whimper as they lift me up.

“Hold her there, for a second,” the Surgeon says. While the men hold me suspended, he cradles my head in one gloved hand. “Now, little vixen, there’s one more thing I must mention. All the training that my son has put you through… Forget it. If you slip up and call him ‘Master’ in front of your fellow agents, or otherwise act scared around him, the game is up. And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what the consequences will be, if that happens. You may think of Damien as the less violent of the two of us, but I urge you not to underestimate him. He is, after all, my son. He will have no compunction about eliminating your entire family, as well as you, should the circumstances demand it. If he does spare anyone, it will be to replace you, as his slave. Need I say more?”

For a few breathless moments, I’m speechless. A part of me refuses to believe what I’ve just been told. Another part is already conjuring images of my sister, chained to the bed in a dark and dreary dungeon. There can be no doubt that she is the one he would choose to replace me. Not only is she the only other female in my family – besides my mother, who is approaching seventy – she is also young, pretty and extremely malleable. In short, she is the perfect pet for a man like Damien. I mew in terror, as I think about it. Pleading with the Surgeon: “Please Sir, call him off… I swear to God, I’ll do anything you say. Please, I beg you…”

“Shhhh…” Still cradling my head, he strokes my cheek with his thumb. “Don’t fret, it was only a warning. Relax now… You’re about to go on a journey, remember?”

As if I could forget. Broken in body and in mind, I tremble before him, sobbing silently. This whole day has been a nightmare, and I want nothing more than to be released from it. The Surgeon, it seems, is reading my mind.

“Close your eyes, that’s my good girl.” The instant I do as he says, he plunges the needle into my neck – and my world goes black.

I don’t know how long I was out for, but when I next come to I’m no longer in the examination room. Instead, I’m in a large, disused warehouse, chained to a pole with my arms stretched high above my head. The way I’ve been strung up, my feet can’t touch the floor, except for my toes – and that, only with considerable effort on my part. With my wrists bearing most of my weight, the metal shackles are digging into them, making them bleed. A matching pair of shackles keeps my ankles together, a short chain connecting them to the pole. It’s a painful position for any person to be in, let alone a woman as exhausted and cut up, as I am. For several minutes I struggle, without making any sounds. But then, as the drugs wear off and time passes with no sign of help, I start to cry. What if this was all some kind of a sick joke? What if I’ve been left here to die?

When the sound first reaches my ears, I’m not sure I heard it. Then, it comes again, louder this time – the sound of voices. I work to stifle my sobs and presently, I can make out the words: “Miss Patterson! Can you hear me? Miss Patterson!”

My heart leaps in my chest then starts racing, as I remember the Surgeon telling me to scream, if I can. Thanks to the painful position they’ve left me in, screaming is no problem. “Heeelp! Down here! Heeeelp!” I almost can’t believe it when I hear the voices replying. Telling me to stay where I am, that they’re “coming for me.” I have to shake my head, when I hear that. Yeah, like I can really go anywhere, shackled to a pole. But the police officers coming to my aid don’t know that. Per chance, they think I have broken free and are worried about me hurting myself by moving. Whatever the case, they don’t take long to find me. Bursting into the main space, they run toward the sound of my screams, calling out to each other: “Clear! Clear! All clear!”

When they finally get to me, they freeze, to a man. Standing rooted to the spot, they stare at me in horror.

“Ho-ly fuck,” one of them says, softly. Another adds: “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Then, they fall silent again. I watch their guns being lowered and think to myself that this would be the perfect time for someone to ambush them. Lucky for them, there’s no one here besides me. Personally, I would find that suspicious, but the policemen standing before me are clearly preoccupied. It takes several minutes for the first of them move. As I watch him approach, I’m painfully aware of my nakedness, the heavy collar around my neck with a length of chain still attached, and my vulnerable position. Instinctively, I hang my head, and he lets out a concerned cry: “Wait! Don’t faint on us, now!”

I lift my head and gaze at him, wearily. “N-not. Going. To. Promise.” He sighs with relief and takes a step closer.

“Are you Miss Patterson? Jane Patterson, the FBI agent who disappeared several months ago?” There is a note of incredulity in his voice, which irritates me even in my battered, desperately weakened state.

“Yes,” I tell him, and straight away I add: “For fuck’s sake, get me out of here.”

The policeman standing before me waves a hand at his men. “Josh, Gus, see if you can unlock these chains! The rest of you, check the perimeter of this building, I want no stone left unturned! Somebody call an ambulance, now!” While the men jump to do his bidding, he turns to face me once more. “Don’t worry, Miss Patterson, we’ll have you out of here in no time. I’m Sergeant Blake, by the way. It’s an honour to meet you. I’ve heard many great things about you…”

I have to hang my head again, listening to him. Oh, sergeant Blake, if only you knew the truth. If only you knew…





From the moment I am rescued, everything is a blur. I remember being placed on a stretcher, strapped down and wheeled into an ambulance. The paramedic’s words ringing in my ears: “Miss? Miss! Shit, she’s not responding.”

On arrival at the hospital, I am examined thoroughly. Someone asks me if I’ve been raped, but I don’t answer. I feel them opening my legs and probing me, taking swabs. Then they are wheeling to my room, where I’m hooked onto a drip and left alone at long last. I fall asleep instantly. Thank you, pain killers.

Waking up some twelve hours later, I feel confused and disoriented, but at least some of the terrible weariness is gone. When one of the doctors comes in and asks me how I’m feeling, I reply that I’m better.

“Are you well enough to answer some questions?” he asks, adding by way of explanation: “The FBI are here to see you. Actually, they’ve been guarding your room ever since you arrived. As your doctor, I can stop them from harassing you while you recover…”

“That’s ok, doctor,” I say, interrupting him. “You can let them in.”

What follows is an hour or more of torture, as I am forced to lie and evade questions from my former colleagues. No, I don’t know who betrayed me to begin with. No, I did not tell them anything, that’s why they were still torturing me. Yes, I met the infamous Surgeon, but I didn’t find out his name. No, he has no one working with him, no right hand that I know of. I have no idea who placed the anonymous call that saved my life. No, I can’t think of anything further that might be helpful.

Toward the end, I feel so nauseated by my own duplicity that I fake a fainting spell. When I cautiously open my eyes again, my section chief and the two agents he brought with him – Mike and Josh, both good friends of mine – are leaning over me with concern.

“Listen Jane, you’re obviously in a bad shape. Let’s continue this some other time.” Their honest gazes fill me with guilt, so that I can only nod in reply. But then, as they are turning to leave, I remember the most important thing of all.

“Excuse me, chief?” I call out, anxiously. “When do I get to see my family?”

Chief Johnson is a big bear of a man. An ex-army officer, he is not known for his soft side. Yet there is a definite note of sadness in his voice, as he replies:

“I’m truly sorry Jane, but I’m afraid that’s impossible. You see, when you disappeared under such suspicious circumstances, we had to assume the worst. A month or so after your disappearance, we told your family you were killed in a car accident. It isn’t standard procedure, but your mission was top secret and we couldn’t risk too many questions being asked.”

I have the presence of mind to put on a shocked expression, before I start to protest. “With all due respect Sir, I don’t understand. I’m clearly not dead. My family have the right to know…”

He actually frowns at this, as though I’m making his life difficult. “As your friend, Jane, I agree with you. As the chief of the section, it’s my duty to inform you that the FBI has decided to keep your survival secret. At least, until the conclusion of the trial, at which we hope you can be a witness.”

“But that could be years!” I say, my voice rising. “You can’t condemn my loved ones to so much suffering, for the sake of a trial!”

The chief shakes his head, ruefully. “I understand how you feel, but there’s nothing I can do. You know yourself how it works… The way decisions are made at the bureau, the red tape involved. My hands are tied, literally.” He clasps his hands before him while he speaks, as though to emphasise his point.

It is at this point that I start to lose it. Forgetting my Oscar-wining performance of a short while ago, I let out a string of expletives to put the worst of street thugs to shame. Screaming at him:

“Fuck you and fuck your red tape! You have no right to do this to me, after everything I’ve done, all the sacrifices I’ve made! Who the fuck do you think you are, screwing with people’s lives like this? Fucking motherfuckers, I fucking demand that you let me see them, or I’ll fucking kill myself right now! Yeah, you sons of bitches, then at least it’ll be fucking true!”

At the end of my tirade, Johnson replies sternly: “You will do no such thing. I know you, Jane. You’re a fighter, one of the strongest people I know, male or female. It’s what makes you such a great agent.”

I’m about to tell him where he can stick his compliment, when there comes a loud knock at the door. The chief gives me a warning glance, before calling out: “Come in!”

Expecting it to be a doctor or a nurse, I don’t bother to look up as the door opens. But then, I hear a familiar, deep voice saying: “I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

My heart somersaults in my chest then starts racing, as I lift my gaze and drink him in. Even under the fluorescent light of the hospital room, Damien appears devastatingly handsome, exuding confidence and power with every move. His dark blue suit, perfectly tailored to his athletic body, instantly makes the other men in the room look tardy by comparison. In spite of this, they welcome him with evident pleasure. Rushing to shake his hand, they smile warmly and complain about not having seen him in a while. He answers politely, but his attention is elsewhere and they know it. After just a few minutes of pleasantries, the chief announces their departure.

“Ok, well, I know you didn’t come here to see us… anyway, we were just on our way out, weren’t we boys?” For the second time that evening, they turn to leave. Damien gives me a smouldering stare, before turning to follow.

“Oh chief Johnson, I almost forgot,” he says, silkily. I’ve heard him use that tone before and I know something is up. The chief, however, is clueless. Pausing with one hand on the door handle, he smiles expectantly. A second later, the smile is wiped off his face, as Damien informs him: “I brought Jane’s family with me, to visit. They are waiting outside the door. I hope you don’t mind. Since you probably wanted to give them the joyous news yourself.”

In a perfect imitation of a fish gasping for air, chief Johnson’s mouth opens and closes several times in quick succession. Finally, he pulls himself together, enough to splutter: “But… but… we’re not supposed to tell them… whoever told you about Jane, must have told you this…”

“You know as well as I do that rules are meant to be broken,” Damien replies, smoothly. “I remember hearing you say that, on at least two separate occasions.”

The chief has no answer to this, beyond more silent mouthing. After waiting patiently for a few seconds, Damien walks up to him and claps his hand on the man’s broad shoulder. “I tell you what – since this is obviously a concern for you, why don’t you forget you ever saw them? That way, you won’t be blamed if anything goes wrong.”

From my place on the bed, I can see Mike and Josh nodding. “That’s a good idea, chief.” The three of them pile out quickly, once the decision is made. As the door closes behind them, Damien turns to me.

“Alone, at last.” In a couple of long strides, he is beside me, leaning down and planting a kiss on my forehead. “My darling, forgive me for saying this, but you look terrible.”

He doesn’t need to tell me. Courtesy of his father’s efforts, I’m covered in bandages, besides which I’m incredibly weak. Perhaps if he had not left me to starve… I bite back a harsh reply, afraid that someone else might hear it. “I feel terrible,” I say instead, averting my gaze. He gets it back immediately, by sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking hold of my chin.

“Hey, don’t look away,” he says, softly. His thumb presses briefly on my jaw line, tilting my head toward him. “Don’t ever look away while I’m talking to you.”

The last sentence is a murmur, a soft whisper against my lips. Then, he’s kissing me, so tenderly that it makes me want to weep. Inside me a voice is screaming: stop, he’s the devil! But he doesn’t let me pull away. He just kisses me harder – caressing my face with one hand, while squeezing the back of my neck with the other. Held in his firm yet gentle grip, I feel my insides melting. Slowly but surely, he is kissing the resistance out of me, forcing me to open up to him. I know I’ve lost when I hear myself moaning, straight into his mouth. He kisses me for a while longer, his tongue probing expertly. When at last he stops I can feel my heart racing, even faster than before.

“I’ve missed you, darling,” he says, fixing me with his dark gaze. It’s the final blow, the thing that causes me to fall apart.

“Oh, Damien. I… I’ve missed you, too,” I stammer, realising with a jolt that I’m telling the truth. Then I am crying, holding onto him despite the pain it causes me, no longer caring whether it’s right or wrong. He holds me carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking me. Whispering soothing things all the while:

“Shhh… don’t cry, baby. It’s ok, now. You’re with me, you’re safe.”

For some reason unknown to myself, I believe him. Call it women’s intuition, or gut instinct. I cry in his arms, letting it all out. When I’m done, I apologise. “I’m sorry Damien, I think I stained your suit.”

“I don’t care about the suit, darling,” he says crossly. Pulling me against him once more, he whispers into my ear: “You have to stop that, right now. You’re my lover… remember? Lovers don’t apologise to each other for silly things like that. Now please, try and focus. I’m about to bring in your family, we can’t afford any mistakes in front of them.”

I nod, dumbly. Thinking, how could I have been so stupid? He kisses me again, to reassure me, before settling me back on the pillows. “Ok, darling, are you ready? Oh, and please forget what I said earlier. You look as beautiful as always.”

Watching him stroll to the door, my trepidation grows. What will my family think, when they see me? Will my appearance shock them? For a second, I almost want to call him back, to postpone the meeting. But it’s too late now. He’s already at the door, ushering them in. My mother is first to appear, clutching her handbag before her, like a shield. On seeing me, her face crumples. “Oh, my poor baby!”

It takes real effort not to burst into tears again, as I watch her shuffling over to me, with her arms open wide. Fortunately, my father and brother are close behind, rushing to support her. “It’s ok, Mom, it’s not as bad as it looks. Isn’t that right, Janey?” I nod hastily.

“That’s right. The doctor said I won’t have too many scars…” I trail off, mid-sentence, when I see my sister at the door, staring at me with a stricken expression on her beautiful, doll-like face. Beside her, Damien is curiously still, watching her. Something about his posture bothers me, though I can’t say what, exactly.

I’m still trying to figure it out, when unexpectedly my sister turns and flings herself against him. “Oh my God, Damien! I can’t look! I just can’t!” Her shoulders shake with her sobs, while he wraps one arm around her. With the other, he strokes her shiny, blonde hair.

“Shhh… little pet, don’t cry. You know how it makes me sad.” He says it in the same soft voice that he uses on me, when he’s trying to soothe me. She responds by burrowing closer into him, and he kisses the top of her head, the way a father would. Only, there is nothing fatherly about this gesture, the way their bodies are pressed together. As I watch in growing horror, Damien lifts his dark gaze and fixes it on me. Staring at me from across the room, like the devil that he is.





The family visit doesn’t last very long. Twenty minutes, perhaps, but it’s time enough for my suspicions to be confirmed. There is definitely something going on between Damien and my baby sister. Her attraction to him is obvious, the way she keeps touching him, hanging onto his every word. He, in turn, encourages her with subtle signals and gestures. For some reason, no one notices this except me. It makes me want to scream.

“Laura! Laura, are you listening to me?” I practically shout at her, as I see her gazing into his eyes once more. Everyone is taken aback – everyone except Damien, of course. Before anyone else can respond, he is getting up, pulling my sister with him.

“I think Jane is getting tired,” he says, diplomatically. “We should let her rest and maybe come back tomorrow. Don’t you think?”

My family are quick to agree, even my mother, who gives me an apologetic look. As I watch them walking away, I vow to myself that I would tell them the truth, before long. The mafia may think they have me over a barrel, but where there’s a will there’s a way. All I need is one person I can trust, to help me. Just one.

By the time Damien returns, my expression is set, and he notices at once.

“Is there something bothering you, darling? You look awfully tense.” The way he says that, so nonchalantly, grates on me. It grates on me so much, in fact, that I can’t stop myself from blurting out:

“Did you sleep with my sister? Tell me the truth.”

His step never falters, but he gives me a strange look, somewhere between disappointment and anger. In a quiet, perfectly steady voice, he says: “Are you sure you want me to answer that? You’ve already had an exciting day.”

I have to grit my teeth to hold back a scream of rage. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything, in my entire life.”

He nods, but doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes his time making himself comfortable. Only when he is settled down on the edge of the bed, does he speak – announcing with maddening calm: “Yes, I had sex with your sister.”

His honesty is brutal, rendering me speechless for long moments. As I sit there, thinking about him taking her, my chest constricts with pain. I don’t realise I’m crying until he reaches over and wipes the tears from my cheeks. “Poor darling. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

There is something mesmerising in his tone, his gentle touch – something that prevents me from exploding in anger. With his hand on my face and his words in my ears, I can only whisper: “Why? Why did you do it?” I’m ashamed to hear the tremble in my voice, ashamed of my own weakness. He seems to understand this, because he answers honestly and without a trace of mockery:

“She was lonely and grieving after her sister. She needed comforting, so I gave it to her.”

Suddenly, I don’t want to hear more. I don’t want to know if she enjoyed it, or if he made her whine like a bitch. And I definitely, definitely don’t want him to compare us, to tell me which one of us was better. So thinking, I drop my gaze into my lap. “Please leave. I’d like to be alone now.”

No response, no movement either. I know he heard me, so I really don’t understand why he’s still here. That is until I look up and see him watching me. The lust in his eyes is unmistakeable and he confirms it when he next speaks.

“You’re upset, darling.” His right hand moves to his wrist, to the little device that poses as a wristwatch. “It seems to me you need some comforting.”

I open my mouth to stop him, but it’s too late. The tiny vibrator nestled against my clit is buzzing away, making me twitch and moan. “Nohh… nhh…” I gasp helplessly, a weak protest at best. Within seconds, I can feel the start of an orgasm and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Meanwhile, Damien is sliding a hand under the sheets. His fingers find my moist core unerringly, pushing inside me at the exact moment the first wave of pleasure washes over me. My body tenses then starts to vibrate, my back arched, my head thrown back. As I climax, I whine, a fact that pleases him no end.

“Mmm… my little bitch, you must have missed me.” Pushing more fingers inside me, he presses up against my G-spot, bringing on another wave of pleasure and causing my hips to lift off the bed. But then, when my whines become too loud, he clamps a hand over my mouth. “Shhh… not so loud, little bitch. Remember there are guards outside the door.”

I know he’s right, but I just don’t care. I wouldn’t care if they came in, hell I’d let them fuck me if he asked it of me. My pussy constricts at the thought, squirting fresh wetness all over his hand. In response, he flashes me a broad grin of sheer delight. There is no smugness in his expression, yet I imagine he feels very smug indeed, as he proceeds to reduce me from a thinking feeling being to a quivering mess. Damn you, Damien, this isn’t fair! I whine into his hand, in protest. Predictably, it only makes him grin wider. Such a good little bitch I am, making these wonderful sounds.

Over the next twenty minutes or so, he makes me come at least a half dozen times, before finally pulling out his hand and switching off the tiny vibrator at my clit. “I’m sorry, baby, that will have to do, for now.” Spoken while wiping his hand on my bed sheets. “If I’m not mistaken, the nurse is due to come in any moment now, with your lunch…”

Lying before him, twitching and moaning, I shake my head mutely. If I could, I’d tell him that it’s never bothered him, before. I’d also tell him to go to hell. Unfortunately, I can’t speak right now. I’m so relaxed I can hardly keep my eyes open. I watch through drooping eyelids as he straightens his suit and tie, setting himself to rights. Then he is leaning down, a slight smile playing on his lips. “Sleep well, my darling. I’ll see you again, soon. I promise.”

Fuck you, you evil bastard. Just wait until I’m out of this bed… Partway through the thought, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, it’s late afternoon – long past lunchtime. Looking around, I soon locate a plate of food next to my bed, arranged on a plastic tray. Next to the plate, tucked under my knife and fork, is a note from the nurse. It reads:

“Tell your boyfriend no hanky-panky during visiting hours. I will let him off this time, but only because he’s so handsome. Nurse Lauren.”

I lose my appetite, after that. How am I supposed to convince people of the truth, when so many of them already believe the lie?




It takes several days before I see either my family or Damien again. I actually don’t mind, because I need some time alone. To think, as well as recover. My family needs me, whether they realise it or not. Yet I can’t help them, while I’m stuck here in a hospital bed. So I do my best to get better, fast. I eat the food that’s provided and I take the medications. I drink a lot of water, sleeping as often as I can. The remainder of the time I think. Trying to come up with a solution, a way out of the hole I am in. The trouble is, nothing comes to mind. I can’t trust anyone within my own agency, or any of the doctors and nurses. Without outside help, I have no way to break free of the task the mafia has burdened me with.

On the morning of the third day, I wake up filled with foreboding. My time is running out, with most of my bandages removed. Any minute now, the doctors will notify the FBI that I’m ready to be moved. When that happens, it will all be over. I’ll be forced to take the weapon Damien brings me and kill six people that I know and care about. The worst thing is, the mafia will probably murder my family anyway, in the end. I clutch at my short hair in despair. To my mind, the mafia have already won.

I am roused from my misery by the sound of the door opening. Lifting my head out of my hands, I see Damien, marching into my room with an angry look on his face. “Damien! What…” I trail off, realising he is not listening. Striding over to the bed, he gives me the most perfunctory of hellos, before leaning over me – an arm on either side of my shoulders – and hissing:

“Just what the hell are you playing at?”

For a moment, I’m too stunned to reply. Sinking deeper into the pillows, I stammer uncertainly: “I… I don’t know what you mean. Honest.”

He glares at me even more fiercely, if that were possible. “Don’t play coy with me, darling. It won’t work.” His dark eyes bore into mine, as though to dig the truth out of me. The only problem is, there is nothing to dig up. I really don’t know what he’s talking about and if he strung me up and tortured me, he’d get the same reply. I shudder at the thought.

“I mean it, Damien,” I say, careful to keep my voice low. “Please, tell me what you’re so angry about.”

His dark eyes narrow in suspicion, while I speak. This doesn’t bode well for me, at all. Whatever it is that has him so upset, it’s no minor thing. I can only hope he tells me, before dragging me off to his father. I pray to every deity I know, while he stares at me intently and for the longest time. Just as I’m about to protest my innocence again, he makes his next move. Leaning back, he reaches into his jacket and extracts a piece of paper folded in two. He thrusts it at me without bothering to unfold it.

“Explain this, then,” he says, darkly. My hand shakes as I take the page from his hand. Upon opening it, I see it is a facsimile, dated today. Eight o’clock in the morning, to be exact. The message comprises two lines of text, printed in small capital letters:

THE AGENT KNOWN AS ‘THE VIXEN’ HAS BEEN COMPROMISED. IF YOU WANT TO KEEP THE WITNESSES ALIVE, DO NOT SEND HER TO THE SAFE HOUSE.

Holy crap! Someone knows about me – someone other than Damien and his mafia friends. I swallow hard as I scan the page for further details. Sure enough, the fax was sent to the FBI headquarters where I once worked. I don’t recognise the number that it was sent from, however, and there is no signature to be seen. I gaze up at Damien questioningly. “Who sent this?”

“You mean, you really don’t know?” His expression is grim, as he asks this. I shake my head slowly. I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this, even worse than before. He hesitates a moment longer, before growling at me: “I find that hard to believe, and I’ll tell you why. The number that the fax was sent from… It belongs to this hospital. Yes, darling, you heard right. Now, are you still going to deny it was you who sent it?”

Oh shit. He has a point, there. Nonetheless, the conclusion he has drawn is wrong. I gaze at him steadily, as I tell him this. “The only way I could have sent that fax is in my sleep. I swear it’s the truth. If there was any way to prove it…”

He waves a hand, cutting me off. “Oh, there is. Believe me.” He lets me squirm in discomfort for a moment, as I imagine the means he might use. Then he adds: “But not now. Your chief of section and another agent are on their way over here, at this very moment. They’ll want to ask you a few questions, vis-à-vis this allegation. If I were you, I’d come clean and admit that you sent the fax, in order to stay here, close to your family.”

“B-but… but…” I stutter, my throat constricting with fear. “I’m telling the truth. You must know this. Deep down, you must know.” I don’t know why, but it’s suddenly really important that he believes me. The only problem is, he doesn’t seem to care. After silencing me with a stony stare, he declares:

“You can protest your innocence later, darling. Right now, you must do as I say. Do I make myself clear?”

I have to swallow a lump in my throat, before replying shakily: “Y-yes.”

Then I jump, as I hear a knock at the door. Damien snatches the paper from my hand, at the same time pressing his lips against my forehead. “Good luck, darling.” A split second later, the door opens and my section chief strolls into the room.

“Ah, Damien. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave. I have some important business to discuss with agent Patterson.” His tone is formal, his look stern. Damien wastes no time arguing.

“Of course, chief. Is it all right if I wait outside?” He smiles disarmingly, while the chief nods.

“Sure,” he says, pulling up a chair. “Hopefully, this won’t take long.”

I watch the door close with a mixture of hope and despair. Hope, because maybe, just maybe I could tell the chief the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me… and right then, before the first question is even asked, I feel my clit start to vibrate. Immediately, my body tenses, my legs jerking helplessly.

“Jane? Is everything all right?” the chief asks, frowning at me. I have to clutch the sheets and focus on my breathing, before I can reply.

“Mmm… Yes…” It’s all I can say, while the wicked apparatus is switched on, turning my insides to mush. Mercifully, the vibrations don’t last long, but as I open my mouth to answer the first question, it happens again. The chief is patient, at first.

“Jane, please try and focus. Were you compromised during your latest mission, or no? It’s a simple question.” His tone suggests that I may be faking the attacks, in order to avoid answering. Nothing could be further from the truth.

“No, chief, I’m s…” I never get to finish the sentence, as the device springs to life once more. After several minutes of this, it dawns on me that my torturer can hear what is being said. In order to test this theory, I squeeze out: “It was me, ok? I sent the fax.”

At once, the vibrations stop. The chief and the agent he brought with him exchange a look of surprise. “You did?”

I nod, pretending to look defeated – it’s not far from the truth, though for different reasons than they think. “Yes, I did. How else would I know about it?”

“That’s true,” the chief says, thoughtfully. “I guess you’re really keen on avoiding that trial?”

“Yeah.” My eyes fill with tears, as I gaze at him imploringly. “Please chief… I just wanna go home.” It’s my last chance to avoid being sent to the safe house, but the chief blows it away with a single shake of his head.

“I’m sorry, Jane. Like I said to you before, there’s nothing I can do.” He pushes back his chair and stands, getting ready to leave. “You should be grateful that you got to see your family.”

No thanks to you, asshole. I think, as I watch him walking away.
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I'm a wicked, vile, horrible and perfect man. - the Savage, during one of his more modest moments.

"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"
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Old 04-07-2013, 09:42 AM   #7
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After the chief is gone, a strange thing happens. For the first time since my ordeal started, I get mad. Mad enough to make me growl out loud, my hands bunching into fists by my sides. I’ve survived rape and torture, unbearable pain, mutilation and humiliation, and for what? To be used as a marionette by the villains, while the men I expected to help me stand by like a bunch of imbeciles! Not to mention, my baby sister has been raped and is presently being groomed as a pet, by the man that likes to call himself my master. Master, my ass! Fuck him and fuck this corrupt system where the criminals rule and decent people like me get screwed over! In more ways than one, I might add. I growl again, just thinking about it.

It’s been a long time in coming, but now that it’s here my rage is unstoppable – and, as the next person to enter the room, Damien is the first to experience it.

Apparently oblivious of my murderous expression, he strides up to me with a smug little smile. “So, how did it go?” His tone is relaxed, totally at ease. Evidently he expects me to take his crap lying down.

“You sonofabitch.” I say, and then I launch myself at him. There is a loud crash as my IV line snags the metal stand by the bed, sending it crashing to the floor. I rip the needle out of my hand with a snarl – and I stab it straight into his arm. “Oh. I’m sorry, I was aiming for your eye.” I sneer at him derisively, while he curses out loud.

“Fucking hell! Baby, what’s gotten into you?” He is backing away as he says it, which is just as well, because I’m not pulling any punches. Every one of my moves is designed to incapacitate him, some of them permanently.

“Don’t. Call me. Baby.” I enunciate each syllable separately, as I pause to circle him. “I’m nobody’s baby, least of all yours.” My next move has him backed into a corner, with his hands raised defensively.

“Darling, you must stop this nonsense, now,” he says, plaintively. “You shouldn’t even be out of bed, in your condition.”

Telling me what I should and shouldn’t be doing, while using yet another term of endearment. Talk about a red flag to a bull. “I may be out of shape, darling,” I say, emphasising the ‘darling’ part for added sarcasm, “but I can still kick your ass.” I’m pretty sure I’m right about that. After all, jujitsu doesn’t require a lot of muscular strength. I advance quickly, intent on inflicting maximum damage in the shortest amount of time. That is, before anyone comes in.

In precisely the moment that I think this, the door slams open behind me. Two things happen simultaneously: one, I turn my head to look – and two, Damien pounces. He moves so fast that he never gives me a chance. Grabbing my wrist he spins me around and places me in a hold, with one arm bent painfully behind my back. His other arm is wrapped around my neck, choking me. Through tears of impotent rage, I see the two agents staring at us, open mouthed. “What’s happening? Sir?”

Oh sure, ask him. Don’t ask me, I’m just a dumb woman that everyone uses as their pawn.

“It’s fine, agents. Please don’t worry.” Damien replies. He sounds calm and in control, though I can hear him grunting with effort as he tightens his hold on me, twisting my arm so viciously that it makes me wince in pain.

The agents look dubious. “Are you sure about that, Sir? She looks quite upset.” As they edge forward cautiously, Damien lets out an exasperated sigh.

“I’m telling you, she’s fine. Just a little upset after the meeting with the chief.” He pushes me toward the bed and straight past the agents. “Although it might be a good idea to call a doctor. She might need a sedative.”

I want to scream at the agents that it’s all a lie, but his forearm is still pressed firmly against my throat, preventing me from making a sound.

“Sounds like a good idea,” one of the agents says. With a polite nod at my captor, they take their leave, while I stare after them in dismay. The instant they are gone, Damien’s entire demeanour changes. He starts by pulling me backward, away from the bed. There is a small bathroom attached to the room and he drags me into it, sliding the door shut with his foot.

“Now, you and I are gonna have a little talk,” he growls in my ear, in a tone simmering with rage. Moving swiftly, he releases his hold around my neck and kicks my legs out from under me. As my knees hit the hard tiles, my arm is almost wrenched out of its socket, making me cry out. “Shut the fuck up,” he snaps. Without another word, he grabs the back of my neck and shoves me face first into the toilet. I struggle violently, but he has me in a grip of steel. When my cheek touches the side of the bowl, I start to plead with him.

“Urgh… wait… I’m sorry… Please let me go…” I’m saying the right words, but I’m still angry and he knows it. So he merely laughs at me, while squeezing my neck harder, pushing my face deeper into the bowl.

“You’re not sorry yet, but you will be,” he says, sounding just like his father. “Now hold nice and still, unless you want me to flush that toilet.”

So saying, he lets go of my arm and pushes my knees apart. It doesn’t take long to work out what he’s up to, especially when I hear him unbuckling his belt. I flail with my arms trying to strike at him and when that doesn’t work, I grip the edge of the bowl. Pushing against it with all my might, I pant desperately. “Please, don’t. You can fuck me, but not like this. Please.”

Instead of replying, he spreads my ass cheeks and spits on me. I have time for one last “no, please”, and then he is ramming his cock into my asshole, in a single brutal move. It hurts like hell and makes me scream into the bowl, the sound bouncing back at me, magnified tenfold. It’s the only sound I get to make before his hand clamps over my mouth.

“Quiet, bitch. You will take this in silence, so that you may focus on the pain I’m dishing out to you. Every. Single. Second.” He pumps into me hard and fast, causing my body to rock back and forth. My head, meanwhile, bounces up and down in the toilet bowl, snot and tears dripping from my face. It is by far the most brutal treatment he has ever afforded me, as far as fucking is concerned. What’s more, he doesn’t finish quickly, like I thought he would. When a doctor knocks on the door, he sends him away, pausing long enough to say: “Sorry, doctor, she’s a little bit nauseous, but I have it under control. I’ll let one of the nurses know if we need any help.”

With the doctor disposed of, he resumes the pounding, at an even faster pace than before. He sodomises me until my ass bleeds, until every muscle in my body is aching and my whimpers of pain become no more than gurgles. Only then does he allow himself to finish, ejaculating deep in my bowels with a low groan. His cock throbs inside me for long, tortuous seconds, while I tremble and twitch, on the verge of passing out. Then at last, it’s over. I feel him pulling out of me, and a second later his arm is around my waist, lowering me gently to the floor.

“Mmmpff…” I mumble, for his hand is still over my mouth, though it’s no longer needed. I’m bleeding and in pain, too weak to lift my head off the floor let alone scream and fight. Lying before him brokenly, I shake and I cry, while he runs his hand over me in satisfaction.

“That’s more like it. Good girl, brave girl… I know it hurt to have your ass raped like that, but it had to be done. You understand that, don’t you?” He waits for me to nod, before continuing: “Great. Now, here’s what I want you to know. If you ever, ever pull that kind of crap on me again, you’re dead. I will murder you with my own two hands, if I have to… and believe me when I say – I’ll be doing you a favour. Nod if you understand.”

I nod slowly. “Mmmpfff…”

“Do you want to tell me something?” he asks, softly. At another nod from me, he lifts his hand from my face. “Ok, but keep your voice down. You’ve drawn enough attention to us, already.”

He need not have worried. My voice is both quiet and shaky, when I finally manage to speak. “You lied to me. You said you were my friend, but all you’ve done is hurt me… and now…” I gaze up at him tearfully, unable to complete the sentence. When he doesn’t respond, I conclude with bitterness: “Your father was right. You are his son. My family and I don’t mean anything to you.”

A shadow comes over his handsome features, at these words. “My father doesn’t know me,” he says it with such sadness that my heart goes out to him, despite everything. Before I can say a word, however, he goes on. “But he’s right about one thing. You can’t escape the mafia. No one can. It’s bigger than any of us, darling.” His hand caresses my cheek, wiping away my tears, as he states with finality:

“Remember that, if you want to live.”







Having knocked the fight out of me, Damien spends some time cleaning me up, with his usual tender care. It reminds me of the time he nursed me back to health, following three days of torture. Not much has changed, it seems. I was his prisoner then, I’m his prisoner now. The only thing different is the location. The thought is enough to start me crying again, the tears rolling silently down my face. He notices at once, and lets out a loud sigh.

“Come on, darling, don’t fall apart on me now,” he says, under his breath. “You’re stronger than that, I know you are.”

I shake my head, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t feel strong… just tired and afraid. It’s like nothing matters, any more.” It’s a heartfelt statement and he responds to it in kind. He starts by grabbing me by the shoulders and giving me a shake.

“Snap out of it, Jane. You must snap out of it.” His voice is still quiet, yet the tone is urgent, commanding my attention. When, reluctantly I lift my gaze, I find him frowning at me with concern. “Why do you say nothing matters, any more? Have you decided you can’t go through with it?”

Hearing him say that, it makes me want to scream. “What difference does it make?” My lower lip trembles as I throw the question at him. “It doesn’t matter what I do… they’ll kill me and my family, too. Except for my poor s-s-sister… your new s-slave…”

As I dissolve into great, heaving sobs, I hear him cursing out loud.

“Jesus, Jane, is that what you think? No wonder you’ve been acting so strange.” He lets out a couple more swear words and then he pulls out his phone. “Hello, pet, how are you? Good, that’s good. Listen, I need you to come to the hospital, as soon as you can. Aha. Yes, I know what I said, but things have changed. I don’t have time to explain right now, just come over and we’ll talk then. Thanks, pet, I knew I could count on you.”

There is a quiet bleep, followed by a polite clearing of the throat. Then he is speaking to me again, more calmly than before. “All right, darling, I’ve arranged for your sister to visit. There’s something you should know, but you have to hear it from her. As for the other thing worrying you…” He pauses, in order to tilt my chin up with the finger of one hand. His eyes gaze into mine searchingly, as he tells me: “I’ve been too hard on you. I see that now. But darling, it was for your own good. If you don’t do what they want, they’ll kill you for sure… and then, I won’t be able to help you, or your family. Understand?”

I hiccup a few times, while staring at him in confusion. “Yes… No… I don’t know.” None of what he’s saying makes any sense. What’s more, I have no reason to trust him. It all boils down to a couple of questions: “Why can’t you help me, now? You’re a secret services agent, right?”

He gives me a strange look, somewhere between pride and regret. “A fair question, I suppose, but not one I can answer. Let’s just say, it’s complicated.”

Yeah, I bet. It can’t be easy, maintaining the façade of a secret services agent, while knowing that your father is the Surgeon, the mafia’s most feared torturer. Still, if he wanted to choose a different life for himself, he could. I believe this very firmly and because I believe this, I can’t help scowling at him. “Sounds like an excuse, and a pretty bad one, at that.”

To my intense disappointment, he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he merely shrugs his shoulders, saying: “You can think what you like. I have neither the time nor the inclination to argue with you. Mark my words, though, the force you are up against is far more powerful than you realise. And when I say powerful, I mean real power, not guns and men…”

He stops abruptly, as though worried he has said too much. Before I can question him about it, he is opening the door and pulling me out of the bathroom. “Let’s get you to bed, your visitor will be here any moment now.”

I stumble after him on shaky legs. My ass may be clean, but it still hurts, courtesy of the lengthy sodomizing he gave me. For this reason, when I finally reach the bed I’m reluctant to sit down on it. Damien helps me by pushing me down and onto my side, smiling unapologetically the entire time. “You have to admit, it took the focus off your anger. Though I must give you credit for your fighting skills. You had some nice moves there.”

“That’s not funny,” I tell him, indignantly. “And I’ll have you know, if those agents hadn’t come in when they did, you would’ve been toast.”

He laughs at that, in evident amusement. “Let’s not get carried away, ok? You’re good… but you’re not that good.” Leaning down, he pats me on the head, while adding in a stage whisper: “Don’t forget your place, baby. You’re my bitch, not the other way around.”

A frisson of excitement runs through me at these words, so that I can’t speak for a few moments. I’m still thinking of a suitable reply, when I hear the sound of the door opening, followed by my sister’s timid voice: “Hello? Am I late?”

By contrast, Damien’s voice is booming, as he straightens up and turns to her in greeting. “Ah, my pet! No, no. You’re just in time. Come, give me a hug.”

She runs across the room and throws herself into his arms with such carefree innocence that I have to avert my gaze, to stop myself from bursting into tears. But then, I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Darling? Are you all right?”

I look up at the handsome face of my lover, master and enemy, and nod. “Yes, of course.” Just to prove it, I turn to my sister and force a smile: “Hi, Laura. It’s great to see you again.”

Laura’s answering smile is small and tight – it seems I’m not the only one feeling uncomfortable here. Damien looks from me to her and back again, as though gauging our moods. Then he leans down and gives me a peck on the cheek. “Ok, I’m going to leave you two alone, now. Call me if you need me.” Without another word, he strolls out of the room, leaving me gazing after him open-mouthed. I mean – I never expected I’d have the opportunity to confide in one of my family members, and here he has just handed it to me, on a platter.

I’m still staring at the door in shock, when a chuckle from my sister brings me back. “Wow, Jane, you’re really in love with him, aren’t you?”

Oh Gods. Please, give me strength. With exaggerated slowness, I turn to her. “No, I’m not. Here, why don’t you sit down? I have something to tell you.”

But Laura doesn’t budge. “I have something to tell you, too,” she says, softly. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go first. It’s kind of important.”

I sigh. I really don’t have time for this. Taking a deep breath, I stare at her and say: “I know you slept with Damien. Ok? And it’s fine. I mean… I don’t care.”

Not surprisingly, her expression is thunderstruck. “Wow. I had no idea he told you that.” She clasps her hands before her, the way she does when she’s nervous. I’m about to start talking again, when she beats me to it, saying: “But that’s not it, actually. Well, a part of it…”

She trails off and lowers her gaze to the floor. Gradually, it dawns on me that my sister is about to cry. It changes everything, of course. I never could stand to see her sad. “Please Laura, tell me what’s wrong,” I say, sitting up tensely. At once, she puts up a restraining hand.

“No, Jane! Don’t touch me now, or I’ll never get it out.” Her hand shakes and she sounds strained, which makes me want to go to her all the more. I grit my teeth as I reply, evenly:

“All right. Start talking, then. I can’t take this much longer.”

I see her nod and then, unexpectedly, she is pulling up a chair. “I think I need to sit down, after all,” she says, with a weak smile. The anguish on her pretty face is almost unbearable to watch, but I force myself to look at her, not wanting to miss a thing. My sister gazes at me in turn, her blue eyes glistening as she pours out her story:

“When you disappeared, Jane, we all went crazy. Not knowing what happened, fearing the worst… You can’t imagine how hard it was, for all of us. Then, one day, they came and told us you were dead. I refused to believe it, you know. Even after the funeral, I had this feeling… everyone thought I was in denial, they sent me to counselling and prescribed medication. But it didn’t work. I still felt the same and the more time passed, the worse I became. And then, one day, a man came to our house.”

She looks away, clearly discomfited at the memory. Presently, she continues: “He was an agent with the FBI, he said he used to work with you. He told me you were dead and that it was his fault. He said he was sorry. The crazy thing was, I believed him.”

Listening to her, I’m having trouble breathing. A hundred and one thoughts are running through my mind, including that I was wrong about Jones. That is until I hear Laura say:

“I was so stupid, Jane. I should have kicked him out and called the police. But I didn’t, I just screamed at him and called him a liar. He really lost it, then. We fought and he wrestled me to the floor. Called me a dumb slut, said I deserved to be taught a lesson. I realised that I was in trouble, and I begged him to let me go, but he wouldn’t. He dragged me to the bedroom and tied me down… and then… and then…”

As she starts to cry, I can’t take it any longer. Until now, I had believed that my sister had been drugged during the rape, just like Jones said. That she couldn’t remember it. Now that I know the truth, I feel doubly betrayed. If I could I’d go back and murder Jones again. So thinking, I jump out of bed and fold her into an embrace, desperate to take away her pain. Instead, I end up crying with her, rocking back and forth. Crooning to her: “Shhh… it’s okay, baby, you’re safe now. You’re with me…”

“How strange,” she mumbles, into my shoulder. “That’s just what Damien said, when he found me.”

The choked sound that escapes me causes her to pull back, in alarm. Her blue eyes are wide and swimming with tears, as she explains:

“Oh Jane. Don’t you see? After I was raped, I wanted to kill myself. But Damien told me I had to be strong, and then he made love to me… He saved my life, Jane… It only happened the one time, when we both thought you were dead. Please, forgive me, sister. Forgive him. Please?”

Actually, he knew I was still alive, but what the fuck. Sometimes, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I hug my sister again, even more fiercely.

“I love you, Laura.”




There isn’t much point confiding in Laura, any more. Even if I told her the truth, she wouldn’t believe it. Try telling Louis Lane that Superman is actually evil, deep down – you’d have more of a chance than I have, at this moment. Yes, there’s no doubt about it: Damien’s one clever bastard. From the day I met him, he has been manipulating me, getting me to do things and feel things I have no desire to do or to feel. Now, it seems he has been doing the same with my family. Gazing into my sister’s innocent blue eyes, I struggle to find the right words to say, at what is probably my last chance to warn her.

“Listen, Laura,” I begin, nervously. “If something should happen to me…”

She cuts me off before I can complete the sentence. “Shut up, Jane, just shut up!” Her voice is raised, testifying to her distress. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you… you’re going to a safe house, get it? Safe. House. You’ll be safe there until this horrible trial finishes, and then you’ll come home and everything will be back to normal, ok?”

I open my mouth to argue then close it again just as fast. Laura’s eyes are swimming with tears, and so full of pain that it makes me wonder if she actually believes what she just said. It breaks my heart to see her like this and it frightens me, too. Suddenly, I know the words to say. It isn’t the truth, but it’s what she needs to hear. I make sure to hug her first, so she can’t see the sorrow in my eyes, as I tell her: “You’re right, of course. I’ll be back before you know it. So you better look after yourself, or you’ll make me very mad. You don’t want to make me mad, do you?”

She gives a half-hearted little giggle that ends up as a choked sob. Once again, I’m left with the impression that she knows, somehow. I dare not ask her about it and so I simply hold her, until I hear a familiar footstep. Damien, my torturer, has returned. Lifting my head, I stare at him across the small space, shooting daggers from my eyes. As usual, he is unperturbed.

“My girls,” he croons, “it’s so good to see you together like this.” Strolling up to us, he reaches down to pat both our heads, at once. There is nothing sexual about the gesture, yet I experience it as such – and so does Laura, if her quiet sigh is anything to go by. As soon as I realise this, I pull away.

“Stop it,” I say, looking down and away. In response, he slides his hand to the back of my neck and gives it a gentle squeeze. It’s only a gentle squeeze at first, but I know it won’t stay that way for long. “Please,” I add, hastily. He laughs and resumes the stroking.

“Why do all the girls say stop, when they mean the opposite?” he says, jokingly. Before either of us can reply, he is leaning down and kissing us each in turn. Again, it’s not a sexual gesture and again, I experience it as such. I actually feel myself blush as his lips brush my forehead, while beside me Laura is sighing, for the second time. Mercifully, this is where it ends. I feel my sister’s arms around me, as she hugs me goodbye.

“Bye, Jane. I’ll see you soon, ok?” She sounds calmer than before, whereas I have turned into a mess. Instead of replying, I can only nod. I’m painfully aware of Damien watching us – watching and waiting. In my mind’s eye he is the devil, come to claim me, just as he did at his father’s torture chamber. For this reason, more than any other, I sigh with relief as I watch Laura walking away. The moment the door is closed behind her, I turn to him.

“Promise me…” I trail off as he leans over me, pushing me onto my back on the bed. His handsome face is only inches from mine as he fixes me with his dark stare and says:

“Promise you what? That I’ll never fuck her again… or, that I’ll keep fucking her, for as long as she needs it? Because let me tell you, she holds no interest to me. I’ve had women like her before, none of them lasted more than a month.”

I gaze into his eyes, while my insides melt. He smells so divine, a combination of expensive cologne and his own, unique odour, the distinct male smell that I know so well. It is distracting to say the least, causing me to stammer in reply. “I… I… that’s n-not what I m-meant.” I pause, in order to catch my breath. His lips are so close to mine I can practically feel them. With great effort, I finish the thought: “What I meant was… please don’t make her fall in love with you.”

The look of triumph on his face is unmistakeable. His dark eyes aglow, he tilts his head slightly, a perfect angle for a kiss. “Why?” he asks, softly, knowingly. “Because you know how devastating it feels, from your own experience?” He doesn’t let me answer, but lowers his lips onto mine, kissing me slowly, languidly and with such skill that my whole body relaxes under his. Soon, however, there comes a hot pulsing between my legs, causing me to squirm. When this happens, he breaks the kiss and pulls back.

“Methinks I should stop now, before I get us both in trouble.” His hand cups my face as he speaks, while I moan in frustration.

“No… please…” I say the words without thinking and it makes him chuckle. But then, just as quickly, his expression grows serious once more.

“Pay attention, darling, I’m about to give you some instructions.” The way he says it makes my blood run cold. No, please. This time, I plead inside my mind only, for I know that there’s nothing I can do to stop the chain of events that’s already in motion. He gazes at me in silence for a few seconds and then he whispers:

“In a minute or two, a nurse will bring you a compact suitcase. In it, you will find some clothes, make-up, toiletries and a towel. Everything you need for your stay at the safe house. The suitcase has a secret compartment in the base. Inside it is a gun, already loaded and with a silencer attached. There are enough bullets in it to shoot each of the witnesses twice. I strongly recommend you do this, to make sure there are no survivors. Also, try and do it at night, as the place will probably have security cameras and you can’t afford to be caught until the job is done. Nod if you understand.”

With my heart in my throat, I nod. I want to ask him a question, too, but he continues before I can do so: “In case you didn’t know, you are being transferred today. You have one week from now, to execute the task. If you don’t, your entire family will be executed, instead. Do you understand?”

I nod, dumbly. It’s hard to believe that just moments ago, I was squirming in his arms, begging him to fuck me. Yet a small part of me refuses to believe it was all a lie – and if it wasn’t a lie, then he must care for me. On some level, he must care. Thus thinking, I look him in the eye and say: “I would never forgive you, if you let that happen. Never.”

He doesn’t answer. He only gazes at me in silence, with something akin to pity in his fathomless, dark eyes. At the last, I feel compelled to issue an instruction, an echo of his own words: “Nod if you understand.”

I’m expecting him to tell me off, for that. He is, after all, the one who gives the orders around here. To my surprise, he does nothing of a sort. He merely inclines his head graciously, giving me a curt nod. Then he gets up and walks away, without another word.

Gazing after him, I feel a wrenching in my heart, a sort of desolation I haven’t felt before. Well, not since he left me chained up in his dungeon… I moan as I think this, a terrible suspicion coming over me. I push it down, even as the tears start to fall.

I’m not in love. I’m not in love. I’m not…




“Hello, Jane.” The agent’s voice snaps me from my thoughts, bringing me back to earth. There are two of them, both strangers to me, both looking at me like I’m some kind of freak. I don’t understand this, until I hear one of them say: “You know, you could try and look a bit more cheerful. We’re here to help you, not execute you.”

At the mention of an execution, I almost lose it. “How the fuck am I supposed to know who you are,” I tell them. They frown at me, but they don’t say anything. Good. I’m not in a talkative mood, anyway. After refusing the clothes they brought me – a standard issue FBI uniform – I demand that they wait outside. Then I flip open the elegant, compact suitcase Damien sent me. Ruffling through a stack of clothing inside it, I select a pair of skin-tight black jeans and a royal blue sweater. There are no shoes or runners, only a pair of knee-high, black leather boots. How typical. Still, I can’t complain. Everything fits me perfectly and when I look in the mirror, I have to admit it suits me.

I apply make up for the hell of it, taking my time and making the agents wait for as long as possible. Only then do I stroll outside, suitcase in tow. The men turn toward me as one, obviously angry at the delay. A split second later, I watch their expressions change, from annoyed to amazed. “What?” I ask, testily.

“Oh, nothing,” one of them says, while his friend clears his throat. Walking up to me, he extends his hand with a smile. “What he means is, you scrub up real nice. Hi… I’m Drake and this shy guy here is our new agent, Marco. Sorry we were a bit rude to you, earlier.”

Feeling dumbfounded and a little guilty, I take his hand and shake it. “Err… thank you, I think. I guess I was a bit nasty to you, too.”

They both laugh at that. “Don’t worry about it, we’re used to worse treatment from the chief.”

“You don’t say?” I reply, laughing. “I bet you’re glad to be out of the office, then.”

In one voice, they answer: “You have no idea.” Amidst more laughter, Marco leans down and takes the suitcase from me. “Here, let me take that.”

As I hand over the suitcase, the laughter dies in my throat. Try as I might, I can’t keep a smile on my face, while thinking about the weapon hidden inside. Luckily, the agents don’t notice. Walking in front of me, they continue to joke with each other, glancing behind them only occasionally, to check that I’m following. In this fashion, they escort me out of the building. A black sedan is waiting outside, its heavily tinted windows hiding the interior completely. Crossing toward it along the pavement, my step falters. The agents, ever alert, turn around in unison. “Jane? Are you all right?”

I nod at them, forcing a smile. “Mhm. Just a little bit dizzy, that’s all.”

As they jump to take my elbows, I stare down at my feet. Of course, that’s why my footsteps sound like Damien’s – I’m wearing the new, leather boots he bought me. The sound of their hard heels striking the pavement is an eerie reminder of another place, another time. Back then I was an innocent victim, staring at my captor’s shiny, black boots. Now, I’m the one wearing them… and I’m carrying a gun with the intent of eliminating key witnesses in a trial. I, Jane Patterson, one of FBI’s top agents, am about to become an assassin for the mafia.

All of a sudden, my shiny black boots don’t seem so shiny, any more.

It takes five hours to drive to the safe house. Since we set off late in the day, it isn’t long before it gets dark. Accustomed to the hospital’s strict regime, I sleep through most of the journey. The agents have to wake me on arrival. They help me out of the car and up to the house, which is shrouded in darkness. But then, as we approach, a powerful beam of light comes on, illuminating everything around us. I blink groggily, while they explain.

“This safe house is state of the art,” Drake says, in a hushed tone. “It’s in a remote location, so there’s little chance of anyone stumbling across it by accident. For everyone else, the sensors are set to pick up any movement, which triggers the lights. No less than two agents are always on guard, watching everything from the control room. If they see anything that looks suspicious, they sound the alarm. There is a shelter underneath the house, where you can all hide until help arrives. Truly a fool proof system.”

Oh, sure. It’s fool proof, now, but wait till I get inside… I have to bite my lower lip, to keep from groaning out loud. As we ascend the last few steps to the porch, I can’t help but ask: “Suppose, just suppose that someone made it inside, before everyone could reach the second shelter. What happens then?”

They both start to speak, at once. Eventually, it’s Drake that answers: “Really, Jane, that’s such a remote possibility, it isn’t worth worrying about. But if you must know, there are cameras all over the house. Even if the guards couldn’t defend you, reinforcements would be here within minutes. Now come on, you must be tired.”

I nod wearily. I can’t deny the tiredness I feel, nor do I have any further questions to ask them. They lead me inside and show me to my room, a small but pleasant space decorated tastefully. Next to the single bed, there is a bedside table with a lamp and a book: Jack London’s “Call of the Wild”. I smile when I see it. “Wow, what a coincidence. That’s a favourite classic of mine.”

The agents nod. “Yeah, we know.” At my puzzled look, they add, laughing: “Your lover gave it to us, days ago. As a matter of fact, he chose the decorations for your room, too. It’s not normally allowed, but Damien is good friends with the chief.”

Somehow, I manage to keep the smile on my face, though my heart is racing in my chest. “Oh, he is, is he?” I ask, trying not to look surprised. But when the door closes and I’m left alone in the room, I sit down heavily. Dimly, I recall all the questions Damien asked me, while he cared for me. He wasn’t simply passing time – he was gathering information. Learning everything about me, so that he could fool everyone into believing what he wanted. I have to hand it to him: he’s done a marvellous job. I’m almost ready to believe it myself, but it doesn’t make my task any easier. In fact, it is quite the opposite.

I mean, how am I going to convince a jury that he is the criminal mastermind responsible for the shooting, when he has most of the FBI ready to testify to the contrary?

Needless to say, I don’t sleep well on that first night, or any other night, thereafter. The six other people in the house with me – two men and four women – are old colleagues of mine, yet I treat them coldly, keeping my distance. I do it for two reasons. One, I can’t afford to get emotionally attached, any more than I already am. Two, I’m hoping they will become annoyed and ask for me to be transferred. Unfortunately, this latter wish does not come true. I suppose they are each too wrapped up in their own worries, to waste time on me. So the days pass, in quiet contemplation, with me in one part of the house and the rest of the group in the other, chatting and relaxing.

If they knew about my deadline, they would not be so calm.

As the week draws to an end, I realise I can’t put it off any longer. In the early morning of the sixth day, I empty my suitcase and force open the base. Sure enough, the gun is there, a big black thing with a long, thick cylinder attached – the silencer I will need to carry out the deed. Damien suggested I do it in the dead of night, but I doubt this will help me. The house is never completely dark and the cameras operate twenty-four hours per day. Really, the only way to execute the task without being interrupted is to catch all the witnesses in the same room together. That’s why I plan to do it, not at night, but after dinner. It won’t be hard to smuggle the gun to the dining table, tucked into the back of my jeans. No one will be checking me. I am, after all, one of the witnesses.

That night, as I descend the stairs to the dining room, I feel like Judas. The six men and women that I’m about to execute are already there, talking quietly amongst themselves. When they see me, they fall silent briefly, before resuming the conversation. They are not being rude, or ignoring me. They are merely giving me what I want. I try not to listen to them, but I catch snippets anyway. Talk of what they will do when the trial is over, how much they miss their families. Listening to it, the knot in my stomach grows. These are real people I’m about to murder, with wives, husbands and children. What’s more, they are my colleagues. They trust me… and I’m about to betray that trust. As I think this, something snaps inside me. I was betrayed, once. Do I really want to become one of the traitors?

Fuck, Jane, do it now or you’ll lose your nerve. Think of your own family! A voice inside my head says. I obey blindly, pulling the gun from my jeans. Without getting up, I point the barrel at the person next to me. “I’m sorry.”

“No, please…” she whispers, her eyes growing wide. “I’m your friend, Jane… don’t you remember?”

Fuck! Of course I remember, you stupid bitch. Stop trying to distract me! But though I keep the gun trained on her, I can’t pull the trigger. When others try to move, to interfere, I swing the barrel around, shouting at them: “Stay exactly as you are, or I shoot!”

As I point the gun at the woman beside me once more, I notice my hand shaking. By now, the guards are on their way, yet I feel it necessary to apologise for the second time. “I’m really sorry. I don’t want to do this, you understand.” I gaze into her eyes, willing her to believe me. Instead, she shakes her head.

“Then don’t do it, please. Have mercy, for the love of…” the last of it is lost in a gurgle, which baffles me – until I see the red stain spreading across her chest. What the hell? I think and then I hear the others shouting: “Get down!”

I shove the now dead body off me and push my chair back. Across the table from me, two other agents are slumping over, smashing plates and glasses in the process. I don’t need to see the blood soaking into the tablecloth, to know what is happening. Spinning around, I see them: three masked men, advancing on us at speed, shooting at everything that moves. Everything except me, that is. I’m so stunned that I let them get right up close, before remembering that I’m holding a gun. “Mother fuckers,” I growl, as I raise it and point it at them. This time, I have no trouble pulling the trigger. In the moment my target collapses on the tiled floor, there comes an almighty shout:

“No, don’t shoot her!”

The sound of that voice causes me to freeze. It’s only a momentary distraction, but it’s enough to allow him to approach me. I stare into the familiar, dark eyes gazing at me from the mask. “Damien?”

“I’m sorry, darling,” he says – and then he pushes the taser into my side and shoots 2,000 volts of electricity through me.
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"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"
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Old 04-07-2013, 09:43 AM   #8
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Being tasered is an extremely painful experience. Basically, it’s like getting electrocuted, only it’s not lethal. Although people have died from being stunned with a taser, the odds of that happening are small. I tell myself this while I writhe on the floor in agony, my legs kicking and jerking helplessly. As luck would have it, I have fallen onto my front, thus I can’t see the man standing above me. I know he is still there, however, watching me. He is always watching me.

Some minutes later, I hear him stepping up to me, squatting down beside me. I’m still twitching as he lifts my head off the ground and turns it gently, so that I am facing him. I stare at the black ski mask, struggling to speak. “D-d-dam-en. W-wot d f-fuck.” The words come out slurred, the drool pouring down my chin. Without batting an eyelid, he fetches a napkin from the table and wipes it off, saying:

“Shhh… don’t speak, baby. Let it wear off first. I hope I didn’t hurt you too much, by the way. I used the lowest setting, honest.”

I sigh in frustration, spraying more spit on the napkin. “H-huck you.” I breathe, unable to form the “F” word. He guesses it anyway and gives me a light slap.

“I said, don’t speak. That includes swearing, in case you didn’t realise.” His tone is stern, but not angry. Considering that I just shot one of his men, I find it strange. That’s not the only thing that’s strange, either. As he scoops me up and starts toward the exit, I see the second man falling in line behind us, re-loading his gun.

“Ricky didn’t make it,” he says, angrily. “I say we shoot this bitch and be done with it. The Surgeon won’t let her live when he finds out, anyway.”

Damien pauses mid-step. “You know, you have a point,” he says, simultaneously lowering me to the ground. I’m too weak to stand and when he pulls out a gun and aims it at me, I can only moan in terror. But then, I see him swing his arm, quite nonchalantly, to one side. There is a series of quiet “pfts”, followed by a loud thud. I gape at my rescuer open-mouthed, while he winks at me from behind the mask. “We can’t let my father find out, now can we?”

It is about twenty minutes later, as we are speeding along the freeway, that I finally regain the use of my limbs, together with the ability to speak. The first thing I say is: “Curse you, Damien, tell me what’s happening. You owe me that much, after everything you put me through.”

Despite the speed we are doing, he replies calmly: “Isn’t it obvious, darling? We set you up. We were supposed to leave you there, to take the fall, but after you shot Ricky I had no choice but to take you with me.”

I’m thinking so hard that my brain hurts. Yet I can’t make sense of what he is saying. “Wait a second. How did you find the safe house, in the first place? Did the chief let you in on it, because you’re such good mates?”

He frowns at me in confusion. “Jane, darling, you’re not making any sense. I know they told you I chose the decorations for your room, but I never set foot in the safe house until today.”

“Then how?” I ask, irritably. Truly, do I have to drag every detail out of him? Sensing my frustration, he answers readily:

“That’s easy. We tracked you by satellite. You are carrying inside you the best transmitter available, you know.”

“I am?” I sound incredulous, which is exactly how I feel. Then it hits me: back when I first became his slave, he told me that I had been implanted with a transmitter, so that he could retrieve his property wherever it went. I did not believe him then, but I’m starting to believe now. “So that story about the transmitter was true?” I ask and he frowns again, more fiercely.

“Of course it was true. What do you take me for, a liar?” He falls silent after that, weaving in and out of traffic, causing many an angry beep. When we are back on the empty straight again, he continues:

“Look, it’s really simple. We were meant to shoot everyone except you, leaving you with a smoking gun. That way, you would be arrested and my father’s lawyers would get you off on an insanity plea. Guess where insane people go? That’s right. Insane asylums. So, you see, you were going to end up back with me, and after you’d served your nominal term, you’d be free. It was a good plan, if I do say so myself.”

No, I don’t think so. “How can you say that?” I ask, my voice rising in anger. “To condemn me to fifteen or more years in a nut house, my career ruined… and for what? So that you could live out your dirty fantasies?”

He gives me a sidelong glance, before returning his attention to the road. “Darling, you’re not thinking straight.” He says, so calmly that it makes me want to reach over and shake him. “The moment you were captured, your life as you know it, was over. No one runs from the mafia and lives, everyone knows this. Convincing people you were insane was the only way to eliminate you as a threat, without killing you. But now…” He trails off, while I squirm in my seat.

“Now what? Don’t tell me I have to spend the rest of my life in some stinking cell. I’d rather kill myself, right here and now.” I mean what I say and he must know it, because he reacts explosively.

“Don’t talk like that, Jane!” He shouts, accelerating violently and almost slamming into the car in front. His jaw works angrily as he works to compose himself. In a slightly calmer voice, he adds: “I never want to hear you talk like that again. Do I make myself clear?”

I nod, though his eyes are on the road. “Yes, Damien. I’m sorry. I just feel so angry and out of control… It’s like the whole world has gone mad.” It really feels that way, to me. All my life, I’ve been a law-abiding citizen, an enforcer of justice. One would think that I could be afforded justice, in return. Yet I know that Damien is right. Even if I managed to clear my name with the law, I can’t run from the mafia – and neither can he. As the realisation hits me, I gasp.

“Oh God.” I stare at him while I speak, the better to gauge his reaction. “You’re as much of a prisoner as I am… aren’t you?”

To my disappointment, he neither confirms nor denies the suggestion. “Perhaps,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “But it really doesn’t matter now. What matters is, working out a way to solve this. Now, I can lie about what happened at the safe house, but that won’t get you off the hook with the big boss. With what you know, you’re a dead woman walking.”

I know where this is going, or at least I think I do. “Unless…” I prompt, hoping for a better solution than the one I’ve already heard. I should be so lucky.

“Unless we turn around and deposit you near the scene of the crime,” he says, firmly. “Once they find you wondering the woods, naked, they won’t have much trouble declaring you insane. If you’re lucky, they won’t even pin the murders on you. There are two dead men inside who can take the fall for you.”

Listening to him, I have to admit it sounds like a plausible plan, apart from one little detail. I clear my throat nervously, as I ask him: “What makes you think I’ll be wondering the woods naked?”

For the first time since we left the safe house, he laughs. “Did you really think I’d let you go without having some fun with you, first?”




The safe house is located deep in the forest, some hundred miles from the nearest township. It is accessible by a good, gravel road, but Damien doesn’t use it to get back. Instead, when we are some ten miles from the house, he turns off the main road and starts to wind his way up a narrow dirt track. At first, it seems like an easy route to take, but as we turn a corner we find ourselves on a narrow side cut, with an almost vertical slope on the downhill side. Looking out my window, I can see tree crowns and through their branches, glimpses of the darkening evening sky. What I can’t see is the ground.

“I hope you have four-wheel drive training,” I say, nervously. “I mean… One slip of the wheel and we are as good as dead.”

Without taking his eyes off the road, he chuckles at me. “Look on the bright side, darling. At least we’ll be together. Like Romeo and Juliet.”

I fail to see how a criminal and his hostage compare to the most romantic couple in the world, but I hold my peace. Best to shut up and let him drive, until we get past the difficult section. To my dismay, however, the further we travel along the disused track, the worse things get. Soon, the strip of dirt masquerading as a road becomes even narrower, with both the uphill and downhill sides showing signs of erosion. Damien appears outwardly calm as he shifts into low-range, but his silence is telling. After fifteen minutes or so, I’m about to jump out of my skin with the tension, when he suddenly turns and barks at me: “Hold on, here comes the tricky part.”

Now comes the tricky part? Then what the hell do you call the nerve-wrecking section we just travelled? But I don’t get to ask him this, or anything else for that matter, because my eye is on the road ahead: an impossibly long, steep climb, it doesn’t seem to be traversable on foot, let alone by car. I cry out and grab at the nearest handle as the car tilts dangerously, leaving me gazing at the sky. Damien, however, merely laughs. “Don’t fret darling, this baby can do it, no problem.”

Sure enough, the sturdy four-wheel drive climbs steadily, with Damien doing no more than keeping the revs constant. At the top, he shifts gears again, while I breathe a sigh of relief. “Please tell me there are no more scary parts.”

“There are no more scary parts,” he says, solemnly. At a suspicious glance from me, he adds: “Trust me, I know this track. We used it to get to the safe house, see? It took us a few days to get it cleared, but it was well worth it.”

I shake my head in disbelief. The lengths the mafia will go to, so as to eliminate witnesses, are really quite astounding. Then another thought occurs to me. “So, other people know about this track?” As I ask that question, an odd feeling comes over me. It seems Damien can feel it too, because he takes a while to reply.

“Yes, but it shouldn’t concern you,” he says, at last. “No one is likely to come this way, so soon after the shooting.”

He’s right, of course he is. Only, I can’t shake the bad feeling. Seconds later, to our mutual consternation, my premonition is proven correct. Being the driver and the more focused of the two of us, Damien is the first to spot it – a four wheel drive wagon almost identical to ours, approaching slowly from the opposite direction. At his loud curse, I duck instinctively, but he tells me not to bother.

“They’ve already seen you… and besides, they wouldn’t dare harm you, in front of me.” He sounds confident as he says it, yet I am far from reassured. From what I know about the mafia, it is a world of shifting allegiances, ruled by greed, selfishness and fear. Not one of their members can really be trusted, so why should these men be any different? I watch with trepidation as the car stops and the men pile out – four big and bulky fellows that I’ve never seen before. Their expressions are grim and I think I know why.

“If they’ve been to the safe house and they found the bodies…” I trail off, at a stern glance from Damien.

“We disabled the cameras, right after killing the guards,” he informs me, matter-of-factly. “Apart from the two of us, there are no witnesses as to what happened. Now be quiet and let me do the talking.”

With my heart in my throat, I have no trouble obeying the command. Together, we wait for the men to walk up to the car. As the first of them raises his hand to knock on the driver’s side window, it slides opens with a soft whir. “Steve, Joe, Carl, Bobby,” Damien says, nodding at each of them in turn. “What a lovely surprise. May I be so bold as to inquire what you are doing here?”

Steve, who is closest to him, answers gruffly: “I could ask you the same question. Specially since you’re with her, and heading in the wrong direction. What happened to your team, anyway?”

As four pairs of eyes fix on me, I struggle to keep still, so as to give the appearance of calm. On the inside, though, I am screaming. Shoot them, for God’s sake, shoot them now! Damien, however, is un-phased. Placing one hand on my thigh, he squeezes it gently, saying:

“Gentlemen, let us not play games here. You’ve been to the safe house – you know Ricky and Bill are dead. They were shot by one of the victims, before I put a bullet through his brain. In case you’re wondering, Miss Patterson here tried to do her job, but they fought back and took the gun off her. The boys and I walked in at the wrong time. That is all.”

A couple of the men are nodding at this, but Steve, the leader, is still not satisfied. “That sounds like a load of crap,” he declares, and spits to one side. After sweeping a contemptuous gaze over me, he goes on: “Wanna know what I think happened? I think agent Patterson didn’t have the guts to go through with it, but she did have the guts to shoot one of our men. How she managed to shoot both of them, without getting hit herself is a mystery to me.”

I could easily come up with an explanation, but as I open my mouth to speak Damien’s grip on my thigh tightens. While I wince in pain, he replies calmly: “How long have you known me, Steve? Twenty, twenty-five years? How about you, Carl? Joey? Are you seriously suggesting that I stood by and let my men get shot, without lifting a finger to help?”

The men shuffle their feet. “Well, you have to admit, it looks awfully suspicious.”

Instead of replying, Damien pulls my shirt up, exposing the raw flesh beneath where the taser has burnt me. The men have obviously seen marks like it before, because they smile in sudden comprehension. “So, you were trying to keep her alive, as per the original plan?” one of them asks, slowly.

“Damn right,” Damien says, nodding. “I only brought her out here to make it look like she’d been running. I was about to mess her up a little and release her, when you came along.”

“Sorry to have doubted you, Sir,” Steve says, addressing him with due respect at last, “but when we saw you out here with her still alive, we had to assume the worst.” The rest of the men nod their agreement, but they don’t move away and it makes me edgy. Once again, Damien squeezes my thigh, warning me to stay silent. To the men, he says:

“Well, gentlemen, now that we’ve cleared that up, I must be on my way. It’s getting dark and we don’t want to make it too hard for the police to find their main suspect.”

They smile at that, as though enjoying some private joke. “Oh, that won’t be necessary, Sir,” Steve tells him, smugly. “You see, there’s been a change of plan. Our wise leader doesn’t want the vixen on the witness stand, period. That’s why we’re here. We’re to fetch her, dead or alive. Well, preferably alive, since your father asked to do the honour.”

For several heart stopping moments, nobody speaks. I can almost hear the wheels in Damien’s head turning, as he sits beside me, unnaturally still. There are four of them and two of us. They are heavily armed and their car is blocking our path. It is not possible to turn around, or reverse down the treacherous track, without risking a serious accident, resulting in death. The only way out of this is to play along. That is to say, it’s a way out for one of us.

For me, the game is well and truly over.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Damien says, avoiding my gaze. In all the time I have known him, he has never done that. Filled with foreboding, I watch him open his door and step outside. “If we’re going on a long drive, I need to take a leak. Watch her for me, would you?”

Taking my cue from him, I start to squirm in my seat. “Please. I need to go, too.” It’s a simple request and the men have no reason to refuse. As they let me out of the car, they look me up and down suggestively. Leering at me:

“Maybe we have time for a quickie, what do you say?”

I say nothing. I just turn my back on them and walk a few steps away. They won’t let me out of their sight, so there’s no point asking. Next to the rear bumper, I pretend to squat. Then, when they least expect it, I push myself to my feet and sprint away, through the trees. It’s almost dark by now and it’s hard to see, but I’m running for my life and I’m running fast, in reckless disregard for my immediate safety. The men’s shouts of anger – “catch her, she’s getting away!” – together with the bullets whizzing through the air, spur me on, causing me to pick up speed despite the danger. Pumped up on adrenaline, I put a fair bit of distance between us quickly. I’m almost convinced I’ve managed to get away, when disaster strikes.

It starts off as a punch to my shoulder, which throws me off balance completely. As I hit the ground with a muffled cry, a searing heat spreads from my shoulder through to my arm, and by this I know I’ve just been shot. I have to suppress a shout of “agent down!” – since there’s no one out here to back me. Rolling around in agony, I moan as quietly as I can. It isn’t quiet enough. Within minutes of being hit, I can hear voices. They’re approaching fast, drawn by the sounds I make. In a last ditch effort to save myself, I stumble to my knees and this is how they find me. The light of the torch hits me a split second before the exclamation. “Here, fellas, I found her!” I lurch forward, but he kicks me in the side, sending me sprawling.

“Oh no, you’re not going anywhere.” He’s out of breath and angry, and spends the next few minutes roughing me up. By the time the others arrive I’m barely conscious, my face covered in blood.

“Jesus, man, what did you do that for?” I hear someone say. They lift me up, while the first man justifies his actions. “She deserves it and more… the filthy whore.”

“No one’s arguing that,” comes the reply. “But we want to bring her back alive, or the Surgeon will be disappointed.”

“Fuck the Surgeon,” my attacker growls. “Better yet, fuck her.”

The men’s blood is up. At their friend’s suggestion, they first laugh and then, they throw me face down on the ground. Through a haze of pain, I feel them tugging at my jeans, pulling them off me. I’m too beat up to resist and can only cry softly as they spread my legs open. “Nohh… pwease…” my plea for mercy is brief, the blood in my mouth making it difficult to speak. As I spit it out on the rich smelling soil, the first of the men is taking up position between my thighs. I can feel his weight on top of me, and then he is taking me, ramming his cock into me in a series of jerking motions. He rapes me brutally, panting all the while, and within a few minutes he is coming. His cock throbs as it fills me with hot sperm, while I sob in pain and humiliation. The moment he pulls out, the second man takes his place.

“God, that feels good,” he groans, as his hard cock encounters the still warm sperm of its predecessor. My hips jerk in protest, but the men have hold of my ankles, keeping me spread apart. For the second time, I am raped on the cold, forest floor, wetting the soil with my blood and tears. I am quite certain that I will die here, as well, once the gang rape is over. There’s no one to rescue me, this time: no one at all.

It’s right as I think this, that I hear his voice. A familiar, deep rumble, ominously low and quiet: “What the fuck is going on here?”

A second after that, all hell breaks loose. Listening to the men screaming, feeling the ground shaking beneath me, I think to myself how lucky I am that my saviour is the devil. After all, hell is his natural habitat.




“Talk to me, Jane. How badly are you hurt?” The words are in my ear, while the last of the screams is still ringing through the air. Thinking that the fighting is not yet over, I answer tersely:

“Fine, I’m fine. Just… save yourself.”

He rolls me onto my back gently, before scooping me up. “Look around you, Jane. There’s no one left to save, except you.”

In direct disobedience to the command, I gaze at him instead. The forest is dark and one of my eyes is swollen half-shut, but I can see him well enough in the glow of the torch. Apart from a small cut on the brow, he seems unharmed, his handsome face looking down on me with concern. I swallow hard, a mixture of saliva and blood. “You should leave me. The police will find me soon.”

But he merely shakes his head and starts strolling forward. When I try to voice my protest, he snaps at me: “Shut up, darling. That’s an order.”

I’ve heard that tone before and I know there’s no sense arguing. Relaxing in his arms, his body warm against mine, I think to myself: fuck Damien, you’re so stupid. Then, I pass out.

When I come to, I’m lying in the back of the car, being jostled about. Every bump sends jolts of pain through my injured shoulder, so that I can’t help but whine: “Sloow down… it hu-urts…”

He must be a sadist deep down, because he picks up speed after that. “Almost there,” he says, while I moan and whimper in agony. I don’t believe him, of course, since I know just how long it took to get here. To my bewilderment, he soon proves me wrong.

“We’re here,” he declares and a few seconds later, the interior of the cabin is bathed in light. Flickering red and blue light, to be precise. I’ve been to plenty of crime scenes and I know what it means. Sure enough, as he jumps out of the driver’s seat and opens the back door, I see them – at least a dozen police cars, four ambulances and a couple of fire trucks, to boot. The effect is dazzling to my dark-accustomed eyes, but I don’t need to see, to know where we are.

“Damien, what,” I pause, my jaw clenching in pain, while he pulls me off the seat, a little too hurriedly, “the hell are you doing?”

It’s clear to me now, how we came to exit the forest so fast. Rather than go back the way we came, Damien has taken the car the men were driving and raced toward the safe house: a sensible decision, apart from one small detail. Returning to the scene of the crime, carrying a murder weapon, not to mention a half-naked, bleeding woman, is asking for trouble. Despite this, he doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned. Lifting me into his arms with a set expression on his face, all he says is:

“I’m saving your life.”

The simple statement renders me speechless. With a resigned sigh, I rest my head on his shoulder, while he strides toward one of the waiting ambulances, purposefully. Incredibly, there’s no one around to stop him and in next to no time he has me on a stretcher, covered with a blanket. As he straps me in, I want to joke about the different kind of bondage, but I’m suddenly too tired. Also, I am cold. I tell him this as he’s wheeling me into the back.

“Stay with me, darling, just a little longer,” he says, and then he starts shouting: “Help! I need help here!”

Within seconds, a young, male voice answers. “I’m a medic, what… oh my God…”

While the paramedic rushes inside and starts pulling out bandages and other paraphernalia, I tilt my head toward Damien. “Do I look that bad?”

In lieu of a reply, he strokes my head gently. “Can you give her something for the pain? Preferably something strong,” he asks the paramedic, who replies readily:

“Of course. I’ll just take her pulse first.”

Annoyed at being ignored, I hiss at them: “I don’t need no damn painkillers.” It isn’t true, exactly, but the fact is I don’t want to miss anything. The medic looks from Damien to me, and back again. At a silent nod from Damien, he picks up the syringe and snaps open an ampule. In order to save my energy, I wait until the needle is poised above my arm, to growl out a warning.

“Don’t you dare stick that in me.” I give him my most authoritative glare and for a moment it works. He stops, shrugs his shoulders, goes to put the needle away.

A split second later, there is a loud click that I recognise instantly as a gun’s safety switch being released.

“Do it, or I blow your fucking head off,” Damien orders, calmly.

The paramedic’s hand shakes as he inserts the needle into the crook of my elbow. “Sorry, lady… he wins.”

While I moan miserably, my guardian angel grins at me. “I always win. Isn’t that right, darling?”

With the drugs already at work, I can only gaze at him in silence. Soon, even this luxury is taken away from me. As I sink into oblivion, I hear the doors to the ambulance slam shut and his voice announcing, gruffly: “I’ll drive. You just stay here and take care of her.”

After that, I neither hear nor see any more.

I wake up many hours later, to the sound of music blaring over the radio. I know it’s many hours later, because it’s daylight. Turning my head to one side, I see the young paramedic slumped over, asleep. Neither the music nor the noise of the engine is enough to keep him awake. It makes me wonder how long we’ve been driving, without stopping. Right as I think this, the ambulance sways and slows down, before coming to a shuddering stop.

“Ok, Jason,” Damien’s voice, from the front, “this is where we part company.” He pauses and I can hear him yawning. Then he is moving, crossing into the back with us. Finding the young man asleep, he shakes him lightly. “Jason? Wake up buddy. Come on, we don’t have all day.”

I wait for a few seconds more and then I say: “Hey.”

It comes out as a whisper, but he turns to me at once, in obvious relief. “Darling, you’re awake. How do you feel?” As he leans over me, I notice how tired he looks. He mustn’t have slept at all, probably driving all night long. The thought makes me shake my head.

“You. Rest. Not safe to drive… like this,” I mumble, weakly. In response, he takes my hand and presses his fingers over the pulse in my wrist.

“Jason!” Shouting now, to get the young man’s attention. “Wake up, dammit!”

Stirred from sleep at last, the hapless Jason sits up and rubs his eyes. “Where am I? Whas going on?”

Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know. I stare at Damien as he answers, wearily: “We’re home. At least, I am. You have to help me get her out of the ambulance, Jason, and then you must leave. That is, unless you have a death wish. It’s up to you, really.”

The paramedic doesn’t need to be told twice. Wide-eyed with fear, he helps unload the stretcher, staring around him the whole time. At the end, though, he can’t help himself.

“Is that an insane asylum?” he asks, quietly.

Oh, fuck. Please, don’t tell me this is where we are. Over the panicked thoughts in my head, I hear Damien saying: “Drive away and don’t look back. Remember, if you tell anyone, you’re dead.”

As the ambulance speeds away with a screech of the tyres, I gaze up at him wordlessly, too terrified to make a sound. Noticing it, he leans down, placing a hand on my forehead. “Darling, what’s the matter? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. How can I explain to him the terrible thing he has done, by bringing me here? The last time I saw the Surgeon he gave me a kiss of death… promising to kill me, at first available opportunity. Now, Damien has delivered me straight into his hands. Looking at him, I know he doesn’t understand this. He probably thinks he can simply talk his father out of it, but I know better.

The Surgeon never lets his victims live. Never.
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I'm a wicked, vile, horrible and perfect man. - the Savage, during one of his more modest moments.

"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"

Last edited by Sasha Girl; 04-12-2013 at 11:43 PM.
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Old 04-07-2013, 09:44 AM   #9
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Ok, I have started the final chapter, so it shouldn't be too long.
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Old 04-10-2013, 01:10 PM   #10
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I'm happy to see you are posting the new story parts here. Thanks Sasha!
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I want love to
walk right up and bite me
grab a hold of me and fight me
leave me dying on the ground.
And I want love to
split my mouth wide open and
cover up my ears,
and never let me hear a sound.
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Old 04-12-2013, 11:44 PM   #11
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Thank you. Apologies for the wait in getting the last chapter out, I'm doing it now. Also, apologies for an error I just corrected - there was a section missing out of the last post. Thankfully, I found a backup of a backup file (I always make multiple back ups) and retrieved the missing chapter. The last post should now make a lot more sense.
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Old 04-14-2013, 03:16 AM   #12
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Inside the asylum, we run into a pair of nurses. Seeing them staring at us, Damien wastes no time pressing them into service. “You! Go get the Surgeon! Tell him to meet me at the operating room. And you… help me get this damn gurney into the elevator!”

Once we are alone in the elevator, I break free of my emotional paralysis long enough to warn him. “Damien… there’s something you should know. The last time I saw your father, I begged him to kill me.”

“So?” he asks, frowning. “Everyone he lays his hands on ends up begging for it. Not everyone gets their wish, though.”

It’s not the answer I expected and it causes me to frown, in turn. “Really? Name one example.”

He glances at me sharply. “I understand you’re nervous, but this is my father we’re talking about. I think I know him well enough. Certainly better than you.”

After that I cease arguing, and it’s not until we exit the elevator that I remember what he told me a week ago at the hospital. “My father doesn’t know me,” he had said and I believed him. I close my eyes and try not to think about whether that means the reverse is also true.

The operating room is at the end of the corridor and it is fully equipped with everything a surgeon might need. Large and brightly lit, it looks and feels just like an operating room at a major hospital. I find it oddly comforting, even though I’ve never liked hospitals. Lying on the stretcher, I’m about to drift into a light sleep when I hear a sound that makes my blood run cold: familiar heavy footsteps echoing from the hallway. As I turn my gaze on the door, it swings open to admit the tall figure of the Surgeon. Even this early in the morning he is dressed in a suit and tie, and as he strides toward us briskly I feel my heart racing. Beside me, Damien tenses noticeably.

“Hello, father,” he says, politely. “Thank you for coming.”

The Surgeon raises his hand. “Don’t thank me yet, boy.” Ignoring a sharp intake of breath from his son, he steps up to the stretcher and looks down on me. “Well, well, little vixen. You’ve found your way back to me, at last. No doubt you wish me to make good on my promise?”

I open my mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. In desperation, I shake my head left to right. No. Please. He gives me a cold smile, simultaneously tugging the blanket off my shoulders.

“You’ve managed to get yourself shot, I see,” he says, irritably. “Tell me – how did that happen?”

At once, Damien tries to intervene. “It was an accident, that’s all. Nothing to concern yourself…”

“Silence!” the Surgeon cuts him off, icily. Without taking his eyes off me, he adds: “I want her to answer. Now, vixen… be a good girl and tell me the truth. Who shot you, where and why? Remember, you can’t lie.”

The naked threat in his tone is unmistakeable. Lying there, wounded and vulnerable, I can’t help but feel afraid. Not even Damien’s presence can reassure me, in this moment. Clearly, his father is the one in charge here – and, having been tortured by him twice before, I have no desire to be tortured some more. I run my tongue over my lips to moisten them and then, I tell him what he wants to know. As I relay the events of the past twenty-four hours – down to the last, painful detail – I can hear Damien groaning quietly.

“Damn it, Jane,” he says, under his breath. “Why did you tell him that?”

Still with his gaze fixed on me, the Surgeon snaps at him: “A better question to ask would be, why didn’t you? I must say I’m disappointed in you, Damien. My own son, lying to me… I never thought I’d see the day.”

Damien, however, is unrepentant. Leaning forward slightly, he stares his father squarely in the eye as he replies: “Sure, I lied. Like you say, I’m your son, not one of your interrogation victims. And don’t even try preaching to me about the moral obligations of a son to his father. You’re in no position to lecture me on the subject, given your history.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the Surgeon asks, adding quickly: “No, don’t bother answering that. Just tell me one thing – why did you lie?”

There is an infinitesimal moment of silence, during which they both struggle to maintain composure. I look from one to the other, noticing how alike they are in appearance and posture, their pride of bearing. For a while it looks like a stand off, with neither of them likely to back down. At last, though, Damien lets out a loud sigh. In a soft, yet clear voice he says:

“It’s simple, father dear. You always said it’s ok to bend the rules, to get what I want. Well, I want her.”

I have to bite my lip, to stop myself from crying. This is despite the fact that I knew the answer, all along. I mean – it’s one thing to know something and quite another to hear it spoken out loud. But while I work to control my emotions, the Surgeon explodes in anger.

“A woman?” he shouts, incredulous. “You’re telling me this is all about a woman? That you put both our lives in danger for a piece of ass? If so, I should lock you up in the asylum, because you’ve clearly lost your mind!”

It’s a frightening display and I fully expect Damien to respond in kind. Instead, he merely laughs.

“Oh please,” he says, sneering. “You risked your life more than once to save my mother, and you barely knew her. At least I’ve taken the time to get to know my lover, before making the decision.”

Clearly, he has scored a point, because the Surgeon glowers at him in silence. Emboldened, Damien starts to outline his plan:

“Also, your life is not at risk. No one knows we’re here, yet. We have plenty of time to…”

This is as far as he gets, before he is rudely interrupted. “Enough!” The Surgeon’s voice resounds around the room, cold and authoritative, like the man himself. With Damien staring at him in surprise, he continues angrily:

“I won’t listen to any more of this nonsense! Your mother was a totally different proposition, Damien. For one, she was a refugee, with no passport and no official record in this country. Two, the mafia were not really after her. They only wanted her money. This here, however…”

He pauses, in order to gesture toward me briefly. “This is the vixen,” he says, emphasising ‘the vixen’ part. “She is one of FBI’s top agents and a wanted person, all around. The FBI wants her as a witness and the mafia want her dead, for crying out loud. I can’t blame them and neither can you, my son. She knows too much.”

It is difficult to argue with the facts and after a brief pause Damien is forced to agree. He does so grudgingly and without relinquishing his position. “I know… and I don’t care. I want to save her, and I think I have the way. But I need your help. It’s the last time I will ever ask for it, I swear.”

My fate hangs in the balance while father and son stare at each other. The suspense is almost too much to bear, with the seconds dragging by slowly. Then, just as I think I can’t take any more, I hear the Surgeon say:

“No.”

He says it quietly and with absolute finality, extracting a cry of horror from both Damien and me. Being wounded and strapped down, I can’t do more than this, but Damien is not so restrained. With an unearthly yell, he pushes me out of the way and lunges at his father. As my stretcher rolls away, I raise my head and watch them struggle. It appears Damien wasn’t joking when he said I could never beat him in a fight. In five seconds flat, he has the Surgeon on the ground, with one arm twisted behind his back. After securing the hold, he growls menacingly:

“I’m sorry to do this to you, father, but I can’t accept that answer. Now, either you will help us, or I’ll break every Goddamn bone in your body, until you change your fucking mind. What’s it gonna be?”

His father doesn’t answer at once, but cranes his neck and stares at his son in silence, his face a mask of rage. I have to admire him for it. I know from personal experience just how painful that position can be – and if Damien’s expression is anything to go by, the Surgeon’s arm is about to be ripped from its shoulder. The pain must be excruciating, yet the Surgeon gives no sign of it, besides a slight tremor in his voice, as he says:

“My poor, deluded boy… you don’t stand a chance. If you can’t see that, you must really be in love. But no matter – my men should be here any second. They’ll help you to see reason, I’m sure.”

They are ominous words and they have the desired effect. “You’re lying!” Damien hisses, simultaneously glancing over his shoulder at the door. “You had no reason to ask your men down here, until now.”

In that very moment, the door swings open. The two men that enter are the same ones that assisted the Surgeon when I was first captured. They may not be the brightest tools in the shed, but they surmise the situation quickly, nonetheless. As they pull out their guns, the Surgeon shouts at them:

“Don’t shoot! That’s an order!”

The men exchange a look of disbelief. As I watch them advancing slowly, my heart sinks. There goes my last chance to get out of this alive. Damien, it seems, is thinking the same thing.

“Jane was right… You just wanted her dead,” he says, accusingly. “That’s why you called the guards, to help you dispose of the body.”

“Damn right,” the Surgeon says, flatly. “And you’ll thank me for it, some day.”

By the time he’s finished speaking, the men are upon them, pulling them apart with brute force. There is a brief struggle, at the end of which Damien is pinned to the ground, face down.

“Tie him up and take him to my quarters,” the Surgeon says, his voice cold. “I’ll deal with him later.”

While the men do his bidding, he turns toward me. His footsteps echo off the concrete floor, striking terror into my heart.

“Please, Sir.” The remainder of the plea stays stuck in my throat, as he leans over me and places his hand on my forehead.

“Shhh… It’s ok, little vixen. It’ll all be over, soon.” His tone is soothing, yet his words make me tremble. Mewing in terror, I strain against the straps, and he reaches down and tightens them, automatically.

“Be still now, my dear. You don’t want to upset Damien, do you? This is hard enough for him, as it is.” His hand strokes my forehead, wiping the sweat off it. I tremble more violently, wondering why he doesn’t simply finish me off. Then I realise he is waiting for Damien to be taken away. Evidently, he doesn’t want his son to witness the killing.

“Please, Sir,” I beg him, in a small, trembling voice. “I don’t want to die.”

From the other end of the room, there comes a heart wrenching cry: “For God’s sake, father, don’t do this to me! I love her! I love her!”

The Surgeon’s brow furrows, a pained look coming over his face. “Take him away, now!” he yells, without turning around. From my position on the stretcher, I can see the men dragging Damien to the exit, bound up tight. His shouts ripple through the air, long after he’s gone. Then, abruptly, they are cut off.

“Alone, at last,” the Surgeon says, and pulls out the syringe. I can’t help it – as soon as I see it, I wet myself in fear. Then, I am crying, my eyes squeezed shut, my body shaking violently, all over.

“Come now,” he chides me, while pressing his fingers over a vein in my neck. “It’s just a little prick… You won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

I shake my head left to right, with such force that he has to pull his hand away, in order to slap me. Slap! Slap! Slap! Hard, heavy-handed slaps, designed to stun me into submission. I’m so distressed that I keep thrashing regardless, until a particularly heavy slap robs me of consciousness. As I slip away, I hear the Surgeon scream. I tell myself it’s just my ears ringing, and then I know no more.



*************************

One more chapter coming after this.
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I'm a wicked, vile, horrible and perfect man. - the Savage, during one of his more modest moments.

"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"

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Old 04-17-2013, 09:36 AM   #13
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When I next come to, my ears are still ringing. I can’t have been out for long, but then it doesn’t take long to inject a lethal dose of whatever drug the Surgeon was using. Convinced that all hope is lost, I let out a loud whimper – whereupon a deep, distinctly male voice says:

“Hey everyone, she’s coming around!”

My hearing may be slightly impaired at the moment, but there’s one thing I am sure of: the speaker is a stranger. Cautiously, I open my eyes, to find myself looking at a handsome young man with short-cropped blonde hair and the most striking green pupils I’ve ever seen. While I stare at him in surprise, he flashes me a smile, saying:

“Agent Patterson, I presume? Don’t worry – you’re safe now. Though I really should apologise for taking so long to get here. Another minute and we would’ve been too late.”

As he speaks, he reaches across his chest and pulls a large semi-automatic from his shoulder. Tracking the movement with wide eyes, I notice for the first time that we’re not alone. Behind the stranger are a dozen men just like him – in other words, tall, muscly and dressed all in black. They are all heavily armed and at first I think they are with the FBI or the secret services. But then I see there are no bold, white letters on their vests, no insignia of any kind. Baffled, I watch them gathering around me, not unlike a pack of wolves. When they pull out their long hunting knives and start slicing through my straps, I can take it no longer.

“Who are you guys?” I ask, shakily. Some of the men smirk at this, which makes me nervous as hell. I turn my gaze on the blonde man that first spoke to me. “You’re their leader, right? Please, tell me what’s going on.”

The young man fixes me with his green gaze, his expression serious. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, right now. As you’re no doubt aware, this entire building is bugged… and so are you, unfortunately.” So saying, he pulls the blanket off me.

“Please, don’t,” I cry, but it’s too late. As my naked, heavily scarred body is revealed, there is a series of soft whistles from the men. It’s the only commentary they make, but it’s enough. Blushing with embarrassment, I hasten to cover my breasts, using my one good arm. “Please, can I have the covers back?”

They frown at me as though offended. Otherwise, they ignore me.

“You’re wounded,” the young man says, pointing out the obvious. Leaning in close, he lifts the gauze from my shoulder and examines it briefly. Presently, he declares: “The bullet’s still inside. Someone pass me a scalpel and some forceps.”

All of a sudden, I feel nauseous. But when I close my eyes, he snaps at me: “Stay with me, Jane. Keep your eyes peeled.”

I don’t really want to, but I do as he says. He smiles at me reassuringly and I smile back. I am far from satisfied, however, and he knows it. After a short pause to gather my thoughts, I decide to try again.

“Please, at least tell me your name.” I gaze at him imploringly, and it makes him smile again, even while he shakes his head.

“If I tell you, do you promise to stop asking questions?” His green eyes sparkle as he asks this, reinforcing the feeling of camaraderie that has been growing inside me for several minutes now. I nod slowly and watch his smile widen. Then he is leaning forward, taking my hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I’m Wolfgang,” he says, softly. “Pleased to meet you.”

There is something irresistibly charming about him in this moment, so that I have trouble replying straight away. Before I can recover, the men are back with the instruments he asked for. One of them pushes something between my teeth – a piece of leather, as it turns out – saying: “Bite down on this.”

I obey instantly, for I can already see the scalpel in Wolfgang’s hand, descending toward the wound. I try to steel myself for what is coming, but when the metal slices into my flesh I cry out in pain, my body jerking violently.

“Hold her down!” he shouts and four pairs of hands grab me simultaneously, around my legs and arms both. They are incredibly strong, immobilising me most effectively despite the pain. In next to no time, the cut is finished and the forceps are digging inside the wound, searching for the piece of metal embedded there. I moan and cry throughout the procedure, until finally I hear Wolfgang say: “Got it!”

Thank fuck for that, I think – and then, I pass out.


***********************

(slow progress this week due to having to attend lectures, but I'm getting there)
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"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"

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Old 04-17-2013, 09:49 PM   #14
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Ah I love cross overs!
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I want love to
walk right up and bite me
grab a hold of me and fight me
leave me dying on the ground.
And I want love to
split my mouth wide open and
cover up my ears,
and never let me hear a sound.
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Old 04-17-2013, 10:13 PM   #15
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I needed them to,save the day.
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Old 04-20-2013, 05:47 AM   #16
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I come back to consciousness with a start. Feeling multiple hands on me, I cry out “no, please” and immediately begin to thrash around. It takes the men holding me quite a bit of effort to restrain me, without the use of force. That is, until Wolfgang’s deep, friendly voice snaps me out of it.

“It’s ok, honey. It’s ok. We’re here to help you, remember?”

His tone is soft and soothing, transferring his calm to me as though by magic. Freed of my panic I gaze around me in a daze, feeling at once relieved and ashamed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” I stammer, tearfully.

The powerful, black-clad men stare at me in silence, before exchanging meaningful glances. Confused, I turn to Wolfgang. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, honey,” he says, quietly. There, he pauses and I watch a muscle in his jaw working tensely. At last, he lets out a loud sigh. “You’ve been through a lot,” he says, with feeling. “It will take you some time to recover, I’m afraid. One thing I can guarantee, though – no one will ever hurt you again.”

He sounds so self-assured that I almost believe him. The only problem is, I don’t think he knows whom we’re dealing with.

“The Surgeon…” I begin, but he cuts me off with a shake of his head.

“Dead,” he says, adding casually: “As are all the others, that tried to stop us.”

Obviously thinking the conversation over, he turns around and gestures at one of the men. “We need some fresh bandages, stat!”

It’s a good thing he can’t see the expression on my face, right then. The reason being, I’m in shock – thinking about Damien, wondering whether he is still alive. If he was in the hallway when the squad came sweeping past… My chest constricts painfully at the thought.

“Hey, are you ok?” someone asks, startling me. I nod my head hurriedly, hoping that will suffice. I’m in no condition to answer any questions, especially in regards to the Surgeon’s son. Unfortunately, this particular hope is soon dashed, when I hear Wolfgang say: “By the way, your lover will be here shortly. Just as soon as Gabriel has finished with him.”

I gape at him, open-mouthed. “What… what do you mean?” Several of the men smirk at this, as if to say “please”. Blushing furiously, I try to change the subject, by asking: “Who is Gabriel?”

This last question is met with broad grins, all around. As before, it is Wolfgang who answers.

“He’s our leader,” he informs me, and there’s no mistaking the quiet pride in his tone. In response to my stunned expression, he adds: “I guess I should’ve corrected you earlier. But it didn’t seem important… Besides, you weren’t far off. I’m his second in command.”

I ask no more questions after that, allowing him to bandage my wound in silence. He does so quickly and skilfully, just like a professional nurse. As he tucks the last of the bandage into place, I feel compelled to compliment him: “You’ve done this before.”

It’s an innocent enough remark, but it’s open to innuendo and he takes merciless advantage. “That’s what all the girls say,” he replies, winking mischievously.

My indignant response is cut short by the arrival of the rest of the party, with Damien in tow. The moment I see him my heart skips a beat, and I have a hard time stopping myself from calling out his name. He, on the other hand, has no such qualms. Lurching forward violently, almost pulling his captors off their feet, he shouts at me from across the room: “Jane! Thank God you’re alive!”

Gazing at his rapturous expression, I can’t help but smile. It is a private moment in an otherwise crowded room, during which I have eyes for him and him alone. Accordingly, I fail to notice the rest of the men observing me carefully. I am finally brought back to earth when I hear someone say: “Well, that settles it… You owe me twenty bucks.”

I tear my gaze away from Damien and frown at the men around me. “What’s going on? What’s settled?”

They grin at me sheepishly, as they explain: “We had bets on whether you were really in love with him, or just a victim of blackmail.”

Before I can reply, so as to either confirm or deny the allegation, a deep, authoritative voice declares: “It doesn’t matter what she feels. Either way, she’s been compromised.”

Without a doubt, it is the leader speaking. I didn’t pay much attention to him earlier, but now my gaze is drawn to him like a magnet. Tall, dark haired and undeniably handsome, he glides toward me on silent feet, oozing confidence and strength – and power. I’ve met some important men during my illustrious career, but none of them can truly compare. The leader of the mysterious squad wears his power like a second skin, commanding the attention of everyone around him, without conscious effort on his part. This is why, when he comes up to me, I make the point of being the first to speak.

“You must be Gabriel,” I say, keeping my voice level. He arches an elegant eyebrow in my direction, simultaneously fixing me with his pale, blue-grey gaze, so like a wolf’s that it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I’m forced to swallow the rest of the greeting in order to hide my nervousness, but as the silence stretches between us, it becomes more and more apparent. Still, it’s difficult to remain calm when you’re as vulnerable as I am, at this moment: naked, sitting up on a stretcher and surrounded by heavily armed men.

Finally, I can take it no longer. Wrapping my one good arm around my waist, I look down and away for just a moment – which turns out to be two, and three, and four… I’m still counting the seconds, curling into myself, when I feel his hand on my neck. Startled, I flinch and go to pull away, but his other hand on my shoulder stops me.

“Relax, little girl, just relax,” he instructs me, in that same authoritative tone I heard him use earlier. I tremble violently as I let him lay me down, partly from the cold and partly from anxiety. Then, there is the humiliation of having him handle me, his eyes roving all over my tortured body. I know he is looking me over, because I keep stealing glances every few seconds. Each time I do so, his focus is on a different part of my anatomy – at one point I even see him leaning down for a closer look. I’m on the verge of tears, silently praying for him to stop, when I feel his fingers on my thigh, tracing the long red mark that the Surgeon left there.

“Mmm… nice scars,” he says, softly. As my eyes fly open in surprise, I see that he means it. There is not a trace of ridicule on his face, only a dark excitement. I tremble when I see it, for it’s not the first time a man has looked at me like that.

On cue, I hear Damien growling in warning: “Take your hands off her, right now, or I swear I’ll kill you.”

From my particular vantage point, I can see Gabriel’s wolf eyes glowing, while he replies. “Calm down, Romeo. I may be a sadist, but I’m nothing like your late father, I assure you.” He lets these words sink in, before adding: “Besides, I have to touch her. Now tell me, where exactly did you implant the transmitter?”

It takes Damien several seconds to compose himself, in order to answer. When he speaks, the strain in his voice is clear: “My late father, as you so kindly put it, implanted it inside her… deep inside her. It would take a surgeon…”

“Just answer the question,” Gabriel interrupts him, coldly. After some hesitation, Damien does so.

“It’s in her womb,” he says, sighing. “Please, let me try and…”

Once again, Gabriel cuts in. “Out of the question,” he says, in a tone that brokers no resistance. “It just so happens I have some surgical skills, whereas you have next to none… although I do admire the lovely piercing you did on her clitoral hood.” Very deliberately, he reaches down and starts caressing my pubic mound, provoking a stream of curses from Damien -

“You son of a bitch! You mother fucker, miserable coward, you’ll pay for that! Fucking bastard…”

It hurts to listen to him, and I do my best to swat Gabriel’s hand away. In response, he leans down and whispers in my ear:

“It’s okay, little girl, I’m only doing it to test him. See, a man will say almost anything to save his neck, so when he told me he loved you I naturally didn’t believe him. I’m starting to believe it now, though.”

Oh great, just great. I’m being used as a pawn again, am I? Exasperated, I close my eyes. “Just get it over with,” I tell him, hoping that he doesn’t misinterpret my words. Since there is another way to “test” Damien’s feelings, which involves a lot more than gentle caressing of my privates.

To my relief, I hear Gabriel chuckle. “Don’t worry, we’re kind of in a hurry as it is.”

But then, as they spread my legs open and push the metal speculum inside my tight sheath, I can’t stop the cry that escapes me: “Slow down! Please!”

The response is instant and perfectly synchronised. The words “hold her down” are barely past Gabriel’s lips, and already I can feel the men’s hold on me tightening. Then, he is donning a surgeon’s mask, muttering: “Hurry up, slow down. Typical woman, always changing her mind.”

As I open my mouth to curse at him, I feel someone push a piece of leather between my teeth. “Bite down on this,” Wolfgang says, calmly. “And count yourself lucky, vixen. Remember how he said you’d been compromised? Well, if he really thought you’d sided with the mafia, you’d be dead now.”

I stare at him mutely, wondering why his words sound so familiar. Then it hits me. The fax, sent from the hospital where I was staying, said the same thing. “The agent known as the vixen has been compromised.” In the same moment that I think this, I hear Damien exclaim:

“It was you! You sent that fax to the FBI, not her! Jesus Christ, how did you manage that? I mean – how the fuck did you work it out?”

My eyes are still open at this point, and I can clearly see Wolfgang’s face light up in a smile.

“Ah, my friend,” he says, smugly. “If I told you that, we’d have to kill you.”
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I'm a wicked, vile, horrible and perfect man. - the Savage, during one of his more modest moments.

"I'm a sex addict - it's my cross to bear." - from "The Blades of Glory"

Last edited by Sasha Girl; 04-20-2013 at 05:49 AM.
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Old 04-24-2013, 03:29 PM   #17
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You never let me down.
__________________
I want love to
walk right up and bite me
grab a hold of me and fight me
leave me dying on the ground.
And I want love to
split my mouth wide open and
cover up my ears,
and never let me hear a sound.
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