Once he’s completed his task, he leans in close to my ear.
“If you can survive this,” he starts, “then perhaps there’s hope for us all.”
With that, I’m left alone to wonder what he means.
All I do know is that it can’t be good.
Drake
She’s been here for two weeks. She’s survived every fucking method of torture and she’s still fighting. I know he’s angry, raging that this little girl isn’t shattering for him. And soon, she will. He’ll pull out all the stops.
My gaze trails over her. There’s blood everywhere. She’s sleeping, passed out from the pain. I sit at her bedside, my fingertips tracing the scars on her back, on her ass, and down to her feet. The skin that’s the same color as porcelain, is bright red with welts. Crimson still drips from the open wounds and I wonder just how well she did in there.
The fact that she’s not dead tells me she’s a fighter.
I knew she would be. There was a blaze in her pretty gray eyes that told me she’s going to take everything thrown at her and mold it into something that will eventually allow her to fight her way out of here. The only problem is that she’ll never get out.
We’ll all die in this place.
My gaze is locked on her body, the way it lifts and drops as she breathes evenly. Her long hair is matted with something. I’m not sure if it’s blood or semen, but it’s sticky, making her dark locks knot.
I shiver when she does. Her small feet are curled under her ass, the bones of her spine are protruding against her luminescent flesh. It’s a haunting image to see a woman, well, a girl, lie there near death and even more disturbing to still want her. Still desire her.
The silence that hangs in the air is heavy with the chill that the concrete walls offer. There are no luxuries in any of the rooms. Each cell—a gray square space that only has one bucket for bodily functions and a steel bed that has a worn out mattress to offer some form of comfort for the girls.
It’s been a long while since he brought a boy back. I recall the last boy who came here; he was bought by a man who was in his early fifties.
They’re all rich. Each of them with more money than god. And darkness within their souls that no amount of prayer can expunge.
“Do you watch?” a voice comes from the bed, startling me. I shift onto my knees, leaning on the edge of the mattress with my gaze glued to the girl.
She shifts, wincing when her body falls onto her back. I want to touch her, to feel her milky skin, but I don’t dare. I know that if I do, I may not be able to stop. The thought makes me hard. My jeans are uncomfortable now.
Thinking about her pink flesh, open and wet, I cough hiding the groan that rumbles in my chest.
“You’re hurt,” I tell her, stating the obvious. I admonish myself silently. I feel almost immature beside her. I don’t know how to be around a woman. Especially one who makes me feel things without being in the dungeon where my father forced the most horrific things on me. The psychological games he plays are for his clients to benefit from. The depraved acts that the men and women who come in here to experience are far worse than anyone can imagine.
With each session he administers on the girls, he ensures they’re no longer able to fight back. That they’re just broken toys. And he made sure I’m as cold as he is, but what he doesn’t know is that I still have my heart. He may have darkened my soul, but I’m a lot stronger than he gives me credit for.
The mansion he’s owned all his life, inherited from my grandad is beautiful, decked in expensive furniture, but what people don’t know is the darkness that lurks beneath. The rooms where the girls are held, and the dungeon where the sessions happen have been hidden from plain sight. When the clients arrive, they enter through a secret door and exit from it as well.
I look at the girl once more. She offers me a small smile. It’s an honest, sweet gesture which angers me. There’s something about her that makes me weak, makes me want to kiss and hold her.
I rise to my full height, stalking toward the corner, then back again. I do so a few times, pacing. There’s an ache in my chest and I hit it with my fist. As hard as I can, I continue the attack, but it does nothing to help my desires.
“What are you doing?” she questions from behind me. I can’t look at her. I’m so fucked up, the moment I turn, I’ll hurt her. I’ll fucking break her just to hear her cry. And it’s not because I like hurting her, but it’s the only way I know how. My mind has been fragmented so many times, the only way I know how to get off is by pain, inflicting it, watching someone do it. I hear the springs of the bed creak and I’m certain she’s going to come to me.
“Don’t come near me.” My command is harsh, as cold as the room we’re in. I’m dressed in warm clothes, jeans, socks and boots, with a heavy woolen hoodie. But the girl, the pretty dolly, is only dressed in panties. They’re also bloody. I’d looked at them earlier. I’d traced my finger over them while I’d jerked my dick. I’d stroked myself in my fist while I touched her bloody cunt.
“What is your name?” she questions, but she doesn’t come near me. Her obedience is perfect, just what he’d like. The man who’s now her owner until someone comes along and pays good money for her.
“Drake.”
She’s silent when I tell her my name and I wonder if I should’ve asked for hers. What’s the point? It doesn’t matter if I know her name or not, in one week she’ll be someone else’s.
“Caia,” she says softly.
I still, turning to face her, the movement is slow, almost wary because I don’t know if she’s actually there. If she’s real. The name sparks familiarity in me, causing me to frown.