English is not my native tongue, so bear with me if some sentences sound a bit strange because of translation. Sorry in advance!
CW: Blood, unhealthy attachment to the tormentor, detailed descriptions of violence, detailed description of eroticism, 18+
part 3
***
He pulled your hips to his in one swift motion. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance. Hot pre-ejaculate mingled with your own wetness, and the smooth, slick skin of his penis rubbed slowly against your folds, brushing your clitoris. So hot and slippery. All rational thoughts trying to reach you evaporated instantly from the sensation. His penetration inside was searing, almost sizzling. Beastskin body temperature ran several degrees higher than a human's, and you were feeling it in every sense now.
With a low groan, he thrust to the hilt, pressing flush against you. Your insides clenched the foreign organ so tightly it felt sealed to it, sending a tremor through your thighs with every movement. That friction was burning, melting you, and you were only glad. A mad part of you wanted to be torn apart by him, subjugated and needed. His fluffy tail inadvertently pressed against your leg, as if wanting to hug it. You, too, tried to be closer, wrapping your arms around his neck and gently stroking his vertebrae. This would be better.
Meanwhile, Fox's hands moved from the mattress to under your shoulder blades, creating an almost inescapable hold. From the outside, it might have looked like the passionate embrace of a loving couple. But only you felt the sharp claws puncturing your flesh, how his thrusts against your hips were already forming bruises. Yet, a powerful surge of adrenaline smothered the pain. Inside, everything responded to the pressure on your front wall, and a wave of bliss spread through your body.
With every second of this madness, a piece of your mind died. You shouldn't wrap your legs around a man's hips like this, increasing the closeness, shouldn't whisper frantic pleas and his name. Your voice no longer seemed to belong to you, sounding alien so pathetic and tortured. But the wild gleam in the maniac's eyes showed how he reveled in the sight before him. You are utterly dependent, needy.
"Mmm. How adorable you are right now, taking and squeezing so perfectly. Be a good girl and don't pass out until the very end. After all... We'll be spending time like this often now." Fox rasped with a laugh and kissed your earlobe.
A tear involuntarily began to seep from your one healthy eye. You weren't exactly uncomfortable right now, but something squeezed your chest so tight, as if the hysteria long wanting to break free had manifested as this sudden bout of suffocation. This won't end. There will never be freedom again. Days, weeks, months, and perhaps years, until you die. Or rather, until Fox allows it. Suicide was now also an unattainable luxury.
Moans echoed loudly from your lips, intermingled with Fox's satisfied growls. The wet slap of two bodies was almost inaudible in this cacophony of sounds, yet felt intensely enough to see stars. Sharp and deep, sending tremors and rhythmic pleasure through your body. The man's warm breath tickled your ear and neck. It was driving you mad.
Another flash of ecstasy from the penetration was cut short by the touch of jaws against your skin. An impulse of fear couldn't reach your nervous system due to the suddenness. A second later, you realized you were screaming loudly as the beastman's fangs pierced your body. This time, his fancy had settled on your shoulder. The saliva-coated fangs tore roughly into your flesh, sinking deeper. For a moment, it even seemed like he intended to reach the bone with them. The pain was as if chunks of flesh were being ripped from you while salt water was simultaneously poured into the wound.
The pain was as if chunks of flesh were being ripped from you while salt water was simultaneously poured into the wound. Sharp, breaking, spreading further down your arm. Your entire limb seized with a cramp until, finally, with a wet sound, Fox tore away from your flesh. A round mark, encompassing the acromion and the rest of the protruding shoulder, now adorned your body like an exquisite piece of jewelry. In the "nests" left by the teeth, dark beads of blood glistened.
You didn't understand whether he intended to tear you to pieces like a wild beast or was expressing his distorted form of love. You wanted to believe the latter far more intensely, and so, instead of trying to break free or feeling anger over the maiming, you gently kissed the corner of his lips. Fox almost purred with pleasure and pressed your body harder beneath his.
His movements grew wider in amplitude, making it seem as if even your internal organs were shifting with your body, bumping against your ribs before sliding downward to press against your uterus. You were choking on your own saliva and gasps. Enduring what was happening was becoming more and more difficult.
For a brief moment, he pulled back, planting his palms on the mattress on either side of your torso once more. Baring his teeth in a sadistic grin, he leaned back, forcing you to shift your hips toward him. The lamp behind him backlit his lean, sinewy body looming over you, a network of whitened scars of varying sizes covering his skin. You didn't have time to process how disturbingly beautiful the sight was before the touch of his thumb to your clitoris distracted you. Your mouth fell open involuntarily in a loud, plaintive moan.
With circular motions, he rubbed the sensitive bundle of nerves, his finger gliding perfectly due to how wet everything was in that area. Because of the recent closeness of your bodies, only now did the full picture of what was happening below your pelvis become clear. Blood still slowly trickled from scratches on the inner sides of your thighs and mingled with the whitish slickness that gleamed on your pubic mound and upper thighs.
It felt like an electric shock jolted through your body when the claw of his thumb grazed the little nub.
"No, don't!" You flinched in fear, trying to scramble away.
Everything inside you clenched, bracing for staggering agony, but it didn't come. Fox let out a sharp, barking laugh and simply carefully pushed back the clitoral hood, exposing more of it. With torturous care, the pad of his finger settled back onto the hypersensitive flesh.
You were about to exhale in relief when you began to shake uncontrollably with his every movement: down, then up, then in circles again, varying the pressure. To this, the resumed thrusting inside your vagina was added. This onslaught of involuntary muscle contractions from excessive stimulation was finally finished off by a sharply crashing orgasm.
Your back arched severely, and your fingers desperately clutched the edge of the mattress. You moaned loudly, almost choking on rapid gasps. It seemed your lungs were tearing from the influx of oxygen, so your ribs expanded widely, stretching the skin and revealing all their contours. The spasm in your lower abdomen finally released, and you trembled blissfully, looking up at Fox with an uncomprehending gaze. He was squinting with satisfaction.
A doomed sob escaped your lips as the thrusts inside your vagina started again, now with greater speed. Your body, as if filled with lead, merely obediently accepted all of Fox's movements. He certainly had no intention of leaving himself unfinished.
***
The wave of orgasm seemed to short-circuit your last attempts to make sense of what was happening. Physically, it felt good now, so why not be glad? The Master had provided everything you needed - that was enough for happiness. The pain and pleasure he bestowed — that was the only thing that would exist in life from now on, and you needed to accept this reality faster.
Your chest was still heaving heavily, and his hand resting on it regularly appeared in the corner of your vision. Below, Fox had covered your exposed pelvis with his tail. How thoughtful of him, wasn't it? A nervous giggle escaped your lips, and a chill ran from your feet to your shoulders. The grating feeling in your chest was hardly concerning anymore, and the strength to fight against the tempting surrender and acceptance of the situation, its soothing effect, had completely left you.
Your consciousness began to drift slowly, and bitterness coated your tongue again. You didn't have the strength to turn your gaze to the man now burying his face in the curve of your neck, so you simply stared at the lamp. In the silence, that nasty crackling sound became distinguishable again. A wave of fatigue washed over your body.
English is not my native tongue, so bear with me if some sentences sound a bit strange because of translation. Sorry in advance!
CW: Blood, unhealthy attachment to the tormentor, detailed descriptions of violence, detailed description of eroticism, 18+
part 2
***
The vertical pupils studied the irregularities of the skin, while irritating reasoning raced through his head. Fox hated to think about the influence that fateful confinement in someone else's house had had. He tried to forget. He was rather good at it, having chosen the position for himself: he had surpassed it, and therefore, no traces of that man remained in his life. Fox was certain that his victims screams were louder, and his claws had rent through flesh with far greater ferocity. Moreover, the streamer possessed a perverse knack for eliciting sympathy. Despite the sheer terror he wrought, many found themselves inexplicably drawn to him. Strade could claim no such power. The only soul to ever fall into a true dependency on him was… Fox himself.
To confirm his thoughts, Fox rose slightly and brushed your lips with a swift kiss, reading your reaction. You blinked in surprise, slowly processing what had happened. The kiss on the lips was something new and felt surreally romantic. Your first physical impulse was to push him away and scramble back — it felt too intimate, like something that would finally break you inside, turning you into shattered, crumbling dust. Even when he entered you so deeply your legs buckled and he gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, it never felt this wrong.
Yet, the second wave of feeling was an all-consuming sense of need, as if his hot lips and sharp fangs were what you lacked to feel complete. A gentle little voice in your head whispered that if you pretended this was how things should be, the weight in your chest would ease, and maybe, eventually, breathing would become easier. Along with that, any sane sense of yourself as a person, as a human, would leave you.
Your nervous system was sounding alarms so desperately that you began to tremble. Your body, unlike your mind, remembered the terrible moments perfectly: the tools, the pain, the tears, the waiting for death. The source of it all was the man before you, and that made a scream catch in your throat.
Fox frowned with displeasure, noticing how violently you were shaking and how your pupils had dilated with terror. His beast-like ears flattened against his head, and his fangs showed beneath his thin lips, like a restrained snarl. "Have I been conditioning her poorly?" he wondered, the thought clearly readable on his face.
Pulling yourself together, you convince yourself that for the sake of survival, you will take any step. Although sometimes you asked yourself that very frightening question: "But why do I want such a life?" Yet, as always, you tried to avoid the answer, for it called everything into doubt. Struggling against the paralyzing fear, your flesh pressed against him: your arms slowly wrapped around his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his "military" tunic* more than leaning on him for support, and your lips cautiously touched his scarred cheek.
"Sorry, I'm just...shy." You excused your hesitation without waiting for the question.
His tail gave a faint, pleased wag at your words. The lie was, in fact, so transparent it almost made him chuckle, but your effort to correct your behavior and adapt was inspiring. In time, you wouldn't even notice when you began to feel the things you were lying about. The psyche can't endure constant stress-it's exhausting -so, whether you want it or not, this life will become your normal.
"Ah, right, I'd forgotten what a shy little thing you are." Fox laughed, a sharp, barking sound, before his fingers began a deliberate, possessive ascent up your body, slowly creeping under your t-shirt.
Your heart began to hammer double-time, setting off a drumming thunder in your ears. The hot pads of his fingers moved agonizingly slowly, raising goosebumps and drawing involuntary shudders. His hand paused over your heart, pressing down first with sharp claws before slowly relaxing into a palm. Finally, he took your breast in an iron grip. At first, it was even pleasant, but with each passing second, the pressure grew more painful. The torture continued until you gave in and let out a soft gasp, lifting a plaintive gaze to him. Simultaneously, his vertical pupils dilated and his eyelids lowered slightly-a good sign. Of course, you really ought to remember that Fox couldn't stand a lack of reaction either.
With a loud, grating sound, his claws began to tear through the inside of your t-shirt. Your limbs went cold with irrational dread: over three shows, your subconscious had learned all too well to associate the tearing of fabric with the pain that followed. Like butter under a knife, the fabric parted instantly, laying your defenseless body bare. Now you could see your heaving chest and the already scabbed-over, healed heart-shaped brand; an identical, larger one was burned into your back. A lump formed in your throat at the vivid memory of screaming yourself raw as that mark was seared into your skin.
"I still admire this piece of my work." Fox purred, noting your pale expression.
First sniffing at your skin like an animal, he bent to your breast. One didn't need to be a detective to understand how powerfully your scent whetted his appetite. His mouth watered every time he "casually" buried his nose in the curve of your neck or your hair during a broadcast.
A shiver racked your body as his heavy breathing, followed by a wet tongue, slid across your skin. First teasingly circling the peak of your nipple, then enveloping it completely in his hot captivity. Startled, you gasped, gripping his shoulders tighter-whether trying to escape or press closer was unclear. The proximity of such a sensitive point to his teeth twisted your stomach with a thrill, and a familiar, pulling sensation of arousal pooled in your lower abdomen. His fangs agonizingly grazed the skin of your areola, occasionally applying slight pressure to the nipple itself. Your body trembled with arousal, mixed with primal terror; it remembered well what those jaws were capable of.
At the same time, his hands slid lower and roughly squeezed the insides of your thighs. Claws dug into flesh, and bloody trails appeared where wounds from the last time had only just healed. Yet the stinging pain couldn't distract you from the lips traveling across your chest from one nipple to the other, pausing now and then on the heart-shaped scar.
For better or worse, this time everything was happening much more slowly. On one hand, you were being torn apart inside by anticipation of what would come next and the unpredictability of the situation. On the other, you were grateful that this time, there was a foreplay.
When, with that now-familiar tearing sound, Fox ripped away the last of your clothing, you felt your body reflexively tense. A sharp claw from his index finger traced a faintly reddening line from your knee to the top of your thigh, wrenching another ragged gasp from you. Thankfully, he didn't scratch deeper and moved toward a more interesting point. Like a knife blade, the claw danced over the skin of your pubis, tracing patterns before casually plunging between your labia.
"Oh, this time you are very eager for more." Fox declared loudly, leaning his torso to the side to give your a clear view of what was happening between your legs.
With a wet, smacking sound, his finger withdrew from your flesh and was demonstratively held up to the light. Its phalanx was coated in a whitish, semi-transparent fluid that gathered in droplets near the base of the inhuman nail. It looked utterly lewd and wrong. Your face flushed, and you shyly pressed your thighs together, as if that could help regain control of the situation. The man merely clicked his tongue in irritation and, with his other hand, helped himself to spread your legs apart again. Now two of his fingers rested on your perineum, teasing the sensitive folds with a moist sound. To your great disgust, your breath caught at the sight of his hand caressing between your thighs.
The contrast of warm skin and cold, sharp claws evoked even more intense sensations, and you couldn't help but focus on them. Like tiny electric discharges, they raced across your flesh and pierced deep inside, creating intense heat and tension. Up and down. From the blood-engorged tip of your clitoris to the very entrance, slick with moisture. You felt that scorching wave of pleasure from these simple movements, but it wasn't enough. A soft whimper and plaintive moans began to escape your lips, at which Fox twitched an ear. His hand, which had been holding your leg, now rested on the zipper's pull and stroked the aroused bulge in his pants. He was delighted by what was happening.
"Fox, could you... please." You felt nauseated by how your voice trembled and sounded timid. Yellow eyes with vertical pupils studied your emotions with interest before narrowing predatorily with pleasure.
"Of course I can, but what exactly do you want, my little star?"
The undisguised mockery in his tone sent another wave of embarrassment and a sense of wrongness through you. The low, half-purring timbre made your hair stand on end and goosebumps prickle your skin.
"Inside." Your voice sounded really pathetic.
The man gave an approving grunt and pulled back. When all stimulation ceased, a wave of nausea rose in your throat. Through the lust-clouded mind, a painful ringing of thoughts began to surface. Do you really want this? Or did you decide this because he said so?
Even sensory perception was muddled. Everything down to your fingertips was tense, your vision grew hazy, and your palms turned cold and sweaty, yet at the same time, a sweet ache of arousal tugged low in your belly, and your breathing was ragged. It frightened you that you couldn't understand yourself, as if someone had tangled the threads connecting physical reactions and emotions.
Then you focused your attention on your tormentor. He had paused, having already unfastened his belt, and was hesitantly stroking the top button of his "military" tunic. On one hand, his hunger for touch was clearly reflected, but on the other... You aren't under any drugs now, so you'll get a good look at the dozens of scars that pockmark his flesh like flea bites — and you'll remember them. His yellow eyes scanned your face, as if calculating whether you could pose any threat at all. It was almost amusing, like a dangerous wild animal sniffing at a human's outstretched hand. Fox himself noted the absurdity of his own discomfort and smirked. His movements were so fast you didn't even have time to react before the black "military" tunic flew into a corner and he proudly squared his shoulders. You were just a his toy, and what's more, you belonged to him. React the wrong way, and he'd break you. So he shouldn't worry that you'd try to strike at his wounds if you saw them.
----------------------------------
*— I thought for a long time about what to call this part of his clothing, in the end I decided that this is the most suitable
English is not my native tongue, so bear with me if some sentences sound a bit strange because of translation. Sorry in advance!
CW: Blood, unhealthy attachment to the tormentor, detailed descriptions of violence, 18+
part 1
***
The days stretched into a formless sludge, clinging to each other and losing all individuality. Restless sleep filled with nightmares, bland food, the doctor's examinations, and Fox's rare visits. Only the latter left a bright, ginger-colored trace in your mind. You lived from one fleeting encounter to the next. It made you sick, for now the man truly was the center of your world, even if against your will. Melancholy and loneliness pushed aside the horror of the shows, and at some point, the thought came that it was better with him than without him.
As you lay on the hard mattress, all bandaged up, with a multitude of stitches and calloused scars, Fox truly didn't do anything cruel. Usually, his beast-like pupils just lazily watched you toss and turn under the blanket, and his pointed ears twitched at your pained sighs from the healing process. Often, he would simply lie down beside you and idly run his claws over your ribs through your clothes, as if reminiscing about the time when he could freely squeeze your bones until they cracked, tear your flesh. You stopped feeling fear by his third visit, simply because you got used to it and memorized the sequence of events. Besides, he praised you for your obedience.
A pleased chuckle escaped his lips when you, sleepy, nudged his palm with your nose. It reminded him of a kitten seeking affection. And, of course, he was generously ready to provide it. His dry lips chaste against your forehead, his hands embracing you gently, lulling you. Such actions clouded your mind even more than the drugs.
You began to doubt your own memory. How could a sadist be so tender? What if all the torture was a dream, or you hurt yourself? On top of it all, Fox actively fueled the latter assumption. He would recount with feigned bitterness how you drove the knife so deep into yourself, how you cut your thighs before that, how you starved yourself. Well, he knew how to persuade, he was a announcer, after all.
Self-doubt is the worst. It distorts your perception of the world and hands the strings of control to others. And now it was happening most actively. It got to the point where you doubted your own recent actions, not understanding what emotions you had truly felt. Did you really want to listen to all his stories about past streams? Did you truly wish to grab the edge of his black uniform, asking him to stay a little longer? Your rational part convinced you that pleasing your tormentor was the best survival strategy, but everything else inside you seemed to genuinely beg for Fox's attention.
"Oh, you're so energetic today, my dear!" Said Fox, swinging the cell door open. A spark lit in his pupils as soon as he noticed your attempts to rise from the mattress. His tail wagged cheerfully, and his ears stood straight up — a clear sign of an excited state. It seemed the man had been watching you through the tablet connected to the camera before entering. "If you're feeling better, I'll take care of you myself."
"But..."
Without further preamble, the man abruptly pushed you back onto the stiff fabric and revealed a small case with medical instruments. The anxiety, slightly forgotten during the weeks of rest, began ticking in the background like clockwork. The sight of syringes, scalpels, and forceps caused a twisting sensation in your stomach, as if your guts were squeezed by a cold hand. Fox, with a fanged smile, lifted your T-shirt up to your chest. Under the cold lamps, the seam with black threads looked like a centipede digging its legs into your skin. You swallowed.
"Right, today we're removing the stitches! Ready, little star?" The beast-man pronounced almost in a sing-song voice, deftly twirling a scalpel in his hand. Something about this felt familiar.
"Mmm, maybe the doctor should do it?" An imprudent question fluttered from your lips as he loomed over you, and you flinched back.
Trying to wriggle out of offered help was extremely ungrateful behavior, and your master did not like the ungrateful. His fingers roughly gripped your thighs and pulled you forcefully towards him. Red marks were left on your skin instantly, and droplets of blood welled up under the claws on his thumbs.
"No, sweetie," he said firmly, narrowing his eyes. "Lie still and don't move."
The skin stretched taut as the cold forceps grasped the first knot. Pain and tension spread from the wound through your insides like an electric current and danced in your throat. Like a scientist conducting a fascinating experiment, Fox slowly repeated the motions. You were certain stitches were definitely not supposed to be removed this way, or at least, not this agonizingly. Savoring every moment, he playfully ran the scalpel along the entire wound before starting to cut the cursed thread. Your lips pressed tightly together in an attempt to stifle the sob fighting to escape. A searing agony burned the lower part of your abdomen as his clawed fingers accidentally yanked the thread out of your body too sharply. Warm blood began to seep slowly from the wound, soaking the seam.
You couldn't suppress a pitiful whimper.
Even now, your consciousness tried to justify the man's actions. As if he simply didn't know any other way to handle victims. And so you endured, trying to lie still and obedient, not noticing his overly interested gaze and the way he licked his lips. Your frightened face and muffled little voice excited him. He liked forcing you to vacillate between disappointment and hope. After all, he'd been through it himself once... But now the tormentor was him.
Having completely removed the stitches, Fox leaned back with a satisfied look.
"See, how well it all turned out." He whispered, breathing heavily.
You recognized that tone: his voice had sounded the same during the last stream when his jaws had closed on your neck and his tongue had slid over the wound. Reflexively, your fingers touched that spot—a large bandage covered the area from your collarbone to your larynx. Noticing this, his vertical pupils dilated, and his Adam's apple twitched with a suppressed growl. The beast-man approached you again, but this time more cautiously and slowly, as if stalking. On a primal level, your torso sensed danger, but you dared not crawl away. Without a word, Fox leaned down, then ran his nose between your ribs, descending towards the wound. Goosebumps immediately ran across your skin from the warm breath and ticklish touches.
"Oh, seems your hide turned out more fragile than I expected." The man uttered with feigned surprise.
The pads of his fingers stroked the edges of the healing incision almost tenderly. He was diligently pretending he'd only just noticed the damage. Rationality whispered that it was impossible not to have seen the blood while removing the stitches, meaning this was just good acting.
"Want me to clean it? Otherwise, infection could set in." He added in a purring tone, looking into your eyes.
"Yes..." You had learned your lesson and decided to agree to the offered help immediately.
"I don't think I heard anything. Ask more nicely." Fox pricked up his ears, and a sly smile spread across his face. This was his favorite part of the games.
You hesitated, feeling a blush beginning to prickle your cheeks.
"Beg," his voice took on metallic notes. He was now ordering.
"Please... Help me, Fox."
He let out a loud exhale, as if your words had given him physical pleasure. His masculine lips brushed against your wound several times in weightless kisses. These tender actions were terribly awkward. You had never before seen anyone kiss a bleeding scar with such rapture, as if it were a work of art. Your thoughts wanted to focus on pondering the maniac's perverted sense of beauty, but the burning sensation distracted you.
A hot tongue slowly traced the seeping holes on your stomach, and his fangs caught the scab at the bottom of the injury. Like hot sparks, pain scattered across your abs, and you let out a muffled hiss. The licking was both unpleasant and ticklish, so much so that you wanted to tear your skin off. Yet you endured until Fox's lips were covered with flakes of your congealed blood. With a wet smacking sound, he tore himself away from the process and pulled a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the case, quickly unscrewing it over the scar. Your body tensed, bracing for the worst, but nothing happened. Fortunately, he just dabbed some peroxide on a cotton pad instead of pouring the entire bottle's contents into your wound. With business-like care, and not forgetting to blow on the sore spot, Fox cleaned it.
"You're so adorable, little star. Truly the perfect and unique co-star," His voice crawled under your skin and burned like a heated blade. It was both pleasurable and painful.
The realization of your own exclusivity in this crippled mind brought a satisfaction that felt like the highest reward, yet it was equally shattering. Had you heard such words before the auction, you would have felt only fear and disgust. To be the best among the willless toys, to be loved by him—this was a punishment. Contradicting this, the corners of your lips twitched weakly upward, forming a weary smile.
For a second, the beast-man's breath hitched, and his hands stilled, gripping the cotton tighter. He hadn't seen such an expression on your face in so long, it was as if memory had scorched that episode away. He gave a soft chuckle and kissed the wound on your stomach once more, an approving seal.
English is not my native tongue, so bear with me if some sentences sound a bit strange because of translation. Sorry in advance!
CW: Blood, unhealthy attachment to the tormentor, detailed descriptions of violence, 18+
***
A bitter taste filled your mouth. As if blood had mixed with acid and was now eating away at the sensitive palate and tongue. But that was just your own saliva. Fear had sharpened every sensation to its limit, and you hated it. It hurt too much. Your body was like one giant exposed wire; when claws plunged into it, agony sparked across your skin. And it was impossible to get used to. You had tried everything: biting your tongue to replace one pain with another, trying to think of something else, screaming and raging, sobbing. But of course, when skillful male fingers plucked the next "instrument" from the deep box, all the mental walls you'd built crumbled. Only horror remained, choking you, making you tremble. And the involuntary muscle contractions only heightened the sensitivity.
You were far from the first he had tortured, yet still, with feigned interest, he would ask, "Does it hurt? How does it feel?" So your greatest desire was to shed all emotions — anything, just not to feel your flesh being cut by a scalpel or a knife.
By the third show, your hands had come loose; there was no restraining mechanism left. The world spun and blurred, your heart was leaping from your chest, and no wound concerned you anymore. It was terrifying to imagine what dose of the drug they had administered while you slept, yet it... was saving you? Your body was burning, but it wasn't unpleasant; rather the opposite. You felt a perverse pleasure. Only your subconscious sounded the alarm, trying to remind you — this wasn't normal. You shouldn't be letting out languid sighs from nails driven into your hands, or feeling your lower abdomen stir from the heat of a blowtorch. Something important inside was breaking.
Your brain seemed to begin melting, gradually flowing out of you along with the blood and tears. You felt suffocated to the point of nausea, but your limbs were so heavy that moving seemed a greater torture than the shots from the air pistol. The cable around your neck was the only thing keeping you upright, not slumped on the floor. And it, too, was slowly severing your thread of life with every exhale.
"Enough. I'm losing my mind. This is my death, isn't it? I don't understand anything. I just... want it to stop." Thoughts, in a drug-induced delirium, bounced in your head like rabbits, tangling into each other.
And then, abruptly, it all ended. Your body collapsed onto the floor. The world went dark, as if all the capillaries in your single eye had burst and you'd gone blind. Finally, it was quiet and calm. No heartbeat, no loudly whirring computer, no shots, and no gentle voice — the very cause of all the suffering.
***
A crackling, like grasshopper legs rubbing together. Something soft and silken brushed against your feet. Grass? Your eyelids were heavy, making it impossible to be sure. The situation reminded you of resting under a tree in summer, as if you had simply fallen asleep long ago. The slightly hard but cool earth soothed your flesh, and a warm breeze caressed your neck. All the madness was just a strange dream, and you were safe.
"Little Star? Hmm, I thought you moved." A man's voice, raspy, sounded right beside you, and your left ear was washed with intense heat.
The crackling grew louder. It now resembled the crunching of bones. With every second, more vivid tactile sensations returned to every cell of your body. The grass warmed your ankles with a suspicious intensity, and the ground's surface now felt more like stiff fabric. You needed to wake up.
A familiar ceiling, gray, scarred with cracks in places. Flickering lights that eventually made you see flashing dots before your eye. This was your cell. Simultaneous with this realization, a wave of pain from dozens of wounds of varying depths surged through your body. Your head was so heavy, as if instead of thoughts and memories, there was a pile of stones inside, forcibly pulling it toward the pillow. You would have painfully curled into a whimpering ball, but something heavy prevented you from moving the left side of your torso.
"Oh, so you really are awake!" Someone on the left side shifted, relieving your body of the weight.
The satisfied face of a man appeared before your eyes, his amber irises glinting in the dim lamp light. Fox. Yes, you would never forget his eyes, and now he gazed with calm satisfaction. As if he had finally received something long-awaited.
Fear, like a bubbling siren, echoed through your head and trembled through your body as a shiver. Nothing was over. You were still in slavery, a powerless doll. And if the master was here, nothing good could be expected.
"Easy now, easy. Otherwise, the stitches will split. Paying for another operation would be such a pity," Fox drawled, masking the threat in a honeyed tone. He had immediately noticed the panic in your gaze and the quickening breath preceding a hysterical fit. His fingers, tipped with beast-like claws, rested on your exposed stomach. A long seam split the skin from your pelvis to your navel. Such things last a lifetime.
"H-how did I survive? I remember s-slitting my stomach with the knife..." Your lips struggled to exhale the words. Voicing aloud the madness that had occurred was far heavier than thinking about it.
It seemed your sanity had finally deserted you at the moment the nails 'came alive' under your skin, yet your consciousness had, with devilish precision, engraved what happened next. A lump of sobs rose faster and faster in your throat the more vividly the scene played in your head—your own hands raising the knife. It was as frightening as the physical torture.
"Did you know that for enough money, doctors are willing to perform any miracle? Though your luck played a part too. How do they say it... 'born under a lucky star,' right?"
His barking laugh echoed through the room, as if you'd asked something utterly foolish.
"But why?"
"I..." Fox paused slightly, clearly choosing his words. "Decided you don't belong to the chat, and we'll play the games I want. So now, instead of streams, we'll be spending time together."
Something in that last phrase made you flinch. Deep down, a hope had smoldered that the hell was over. But you had seen his smile, seen his heavy breathing as tears streamed down your face, seen how meticulously he chose lewd lingerie for you to stream in. This creature was a sadist to the marrow of his bones, and a good ending was impossible.
Yet now, instead of fear, a strange serenity spread through your body. Perhaps it was the resignation to utter helplessness, or perhaps the drugs hadn't fully released you. With each new 'show,' an idea had been embroidered in red thread in your mind: it wasn't the tormentor's fault. The chat devised the punishments; he was merely their executor. Pathetic, wasn't it? Your imagination played a cruel trick, searching for care and tenderness where there was none, seeking solace. Unfortunately, the mind is built to choose the easy path, not the right one. It was easier to think he was just a broken person who, like you, had no choice. You wanted to humanize him. Everyone survives as they can, and you were no exception. If believing this made the scars ache less, then you had to use that opportunity.
"Oh, looks like business won't wait. Sweetheart, don't miss me too much," his fingers burrowed into your hair and massaged your scalp with a tenderness as if you were an obedient puppy.
When Fox stood up, it instantly grew much colder. Something warm and ticklish slid off your feet. It turned out that what you'd deliriously mistaken for grass was his tail.
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