The Sixth Language: Feitan Portor x Reader
Summary: You’ve been kidnapped and imprisoned by a mysterious man intent on ruining you with his own two hands. Slowly, over the course of many weeks he breaks down your defenses, stripping you down to your deepest desires. As you slip further under his control, you find a profound sense of belonging that rewrites your definition of devotion.
WC: 16k (im so sorry) - Read on Ao3
Tags: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, rape/non-con elements, extremely dubious consent, Yandere Feitan Portor, Reader Insert, drugging, aphrodisiac use, kidnapping, imprisonment, psychological abuse, Stockholm syndrome, mind break, bondage, sexual torture, knifeplay, bloodplay, so much fingering, forced orgasm, rough oral sex, degradation/humiliation, boot riding, breathplay, edging, impact play, hair pulling, overstimulation, light ass play, squirting, cunnilingus, rough sex, unprotected sex, choking, creampies, mutual pining (yes really), Feitan Portor is bad at feelings, oops all porn
Authors Note: First of all, this was very much inspired by An Ode To by @hhighkey so please go show them some love! Thanks to all my friends who proofread and workshopped this for literally like three months with me, it never would have gotten done without you. Thank you all so much for your patience, this is by far the longest (and freakiest) thing I've ever written. I hope you enjoy!
You wake with a start, head pounding. The dim light of a candle flickers softly in the dark, throwing long shadows across the room that distort your surroundings. You lay on a thin mattress, covered by an even thinner blanket. The chill of hard unyielding stone radiates from all directions. Your body aches.
A reflection catches your eye. A cup of water, placed with care next to your bed— if you could even call it that. You don’t stop to think, grabbing and drinking it down rapidly. You’re still parched, but exhaustion overtakes you almost immediately, dragging your bones down, down, down into the mattress, then nothing.
It's been days, or so you think. Time blurs down here, the absence of the sun removes all concepts of night and day. Someone refills your water each time you sleep, along with a few slices of stale bread. You’re starving, but alive.
You’ve been awake for a few hours now, the longest stretch yet. You’re in a cell, held within a larger room. The thin mattress and threadbare blanket are the only objects within reach, save for a bucket in the corner. You’re clad in an oversized men’s tee shirt that hits at about your mid-thigh and nothing else. It doesn’t offer you much in the way of modesty, but it’s better than nothing.
The rest of the room is a mystery. You can see shapes and shadows but nothing concrete, almost like you’re in a dream. If you squint you can see a few pieces of furniture; a few cabinets, a chair, and a table. There are other shapes too but the light isn’t strong enough to see.
All you can do is wait and sleep.
Your reprieve comes sooner than you would expect. After a few more hours of drifting in and out of consciousness, you hear something.
You draw your blanket tight around you and huddle in the corner. A door opens. You can’t see it but the light that comes pouring in is enough to blind you after so many days in near darkness.
When you finally open your eyes, you see a shape in front of you.
He’s short, shorter than most. Most of his face is covered by the collar of his long coat, leaving his expression unreadable. Dark eyes that match his dark hair glare down at you.
It’s only then that you see what he has in his hands.
Food. Real food. A steaming bowl of porridge from the looks of it.
You lurch forward, muscles screaming in agony at the sudden movement. Your fear completely forgotten, you claw at the bars of the cell.
“Please…” your voice cracks as you whisper, the only sound you can make after so many days of not speaking.
The man hums approvingly, setting down the bowl within your reach. You grab for it without thinking, wolfing it down in seconds. The soft, hot food tastes and feels better than you could have ever dreamed. It sits heavy and warm in your stomach, and you feel yourself start to relax, basking in this one small comfort.
But he doesn’t leave. Instead he pulls a chair out and sets it in front of your cell. He sits; watching, waiting. A wave of exhaustion washes over you, powerful enough to make you dizzy. You don’t want to fall asleep, not with him here, but you’re so weak. There's something unnatural about it, like a black hole, pulling you in with supernatural gravity.
You can only fight it for so long before your eyes flutter shut and you drift into unconsciousness.
Something is wrong when you wake up. It’s bright, too bright to be natural. There’s a light directly over your head, one that wasn’t there before. You move to sit up but find that you can’t. Everything is impossibly slow, your mind, your body, even the panic wells up in slow motion as you realize your predicament.
You’re on a table, presumably the one in the center of the room. Your shirt is gone, leaving you completely bare. Both wrists are held tight to the cool metal on either side of your body. You move experimentally, testing. As you thought, your ankles are bound too, spread apart in a way that makes your stomach drop. More rope winds around your body, encircling your waist and hips, keeping you pinned to the table like a butterfly specimen.
The room seems to spin as you try to make sense of it all, even though the answer is right there in front of you. You start to shift and struggle against your bindings, only to realize that every tiny movement causes impossibly painful friction.
A soft noise somewhere behind your head lets you know you’re not alone. A face swims into view — blurry and distorted, but it's the same man as before.
You blink a few times to see him more clearly. Black hair hangs in shaggy curtains that frame his face. He’s so pale he almost glows, like the moon surrounded by the inky blackness of night. The top two buttons of his coat are open now and you can see the rest of his face. A small, upturned nose and mouth, one corner quirked up into something like a smile complete his face. In your hazy state, he’s almost cute.
“Awake now. Good.” His voice is halting and sharp, grating like two rough stones being rubbed together.
“Mmph… Where am I?” You murmur, still groggy. He moves away, ignoring you.
“Who- who are you?” You struggle again, harder this time, only to cry out at the painful friction that still doesn’t make sense.
He approaches with a long strip of black fabric, held between both hands. It’s wrapped around your head; one, two, three times, completely blocking your vision.
Now blind as well as completely immobile, you become acutely aware of an uncomfortable, prickling heat growing low in your belly. It starts to spread in slow, deliberate waves across your skin, washing over you like the tide. With each rush of heat your body softens, becoming limp and pliable. Your mind softens too, relaxing despite your fear.
The heat subsides, but something deep and heavy remains, settling low in your stomach and pulling down. The familiar ache of need radiates from between your parted thighs, overtaking your senses and better judgement like a virus. The reality of your situation fades away, all that remains is how badly you need to be touched and the fear of what might happen if you don’t.
“How does it feel?” His voice is right in your ear, his breath sends a shiver of goosebumps down your neck.
A couple gasping sobs break out of you. His hands rest on your shoulders now, traveling down. You can feel the coldness of his skin, like a balm for the burning heat of your flesh. His fingers find the peaks of your breasts, pinching and rolling the sensitive buds until your eyes roll hard enough to make you see stars.
You can’t see it, but a sick grin spreads across his face. He’s waited so long for this, been so patient and now here you are, soft and pliant under his hands. It’s better than he could have ever imagined; all those months spent watching you, waiting, imagining how good you would feel but still it takes his breath away.
You hate the way he puts his hands on you like he owns every inch of your skin. You hate that he’s turned you into this. A helpless, needy, stupid thing for him to play with.
But more than anything you hate how good it feels. How his touch is the only thing that dulls the sharp edge of need. How your body responds to him, despite your protests. Your wetness has to be pooling on the table by now, like an invitation. Showing him how ready you are, how badly you crave his fingers inside you. Another wave of heat washes over you, your body reacting just to the idea.
Even so, his touch is gentle, almost reverent. Somehow that makes it worse, that the man holding you captive now caresses your body like a lover.
“W-why are you doing this?” Your voice wavers, catching as his fingers trace your ribs.
You’re met with a swift slap across the face, hard enough to bring tears to your eyes.
“Enough questions.” He says it like an order, not a request. You whimper, but nod in response. All you can do is obey and endure.
Every sense is heightened thanks to the blindfold. The damp smell of the basement, the soft gasps and whimpers you find yourself making, even the quiet, steady sound of his breathing reaches your ears. It occurs to you at some point that you must be drugged, the way your nerves light up under his touch with unnatural fervor.
He takes his time with you, running his hands across every inch of your skin, slowly and methodically making his way down. The curve of your hips and soft thighs delight him, the pillowy flesh so unlike the hard, sharp lines of his own body.
A sharp hiss of satisfaction escapes him when you gasp as he caresses your inner thighs, so close to where your arousal spills from you. You try not to react but your body thrums with need, and he’s so close to its epicenter that you can’t help the gentle sigh that works its way past your lips.
He can’t let himself indulge in you just yet. As much as your dripping slit entices him, he intends to make this last as long as possible. The tips of his fingers travel upward, gently tickling your thighs. They get so close to your cunt, and then retreat.
It’s too much to handle. Your nerves feel like frayed wires, sparking and twitching at random. Whatever drug is coursing through your veins fills your head with fog and your body with desire—no matter how much you want to resist.
Time blurs. He spends what feels like hours touching you; every inch, every curve, cataloged by his fingers. You spin out in the darkness, brought back to reality every so often by his touch; his thumbnail pressing into the arch of your foot, the sweep of his hand as it travels up your inner thigh, then pulls away. How he plays with your breasts, palming and squeezing them.
You almost don’t notice when he releases your restraints, not that you had the energy to fight back anyway. He scoops you up off the table, boneless and numb and carries you back to your cell. For someone so small, he’s surprisingly strong.
The last thing you remember before you black out is your shirt being draped over your naked form with great care.
The days blur together, much like before. Sleep, wake, eat, think, sleep, repeat. You get more food now, two slices of bread instead of one, sometimes an apple. Privileges for good behavior you suppose.
The man hasn’t returned yet, but you know he will. He confounds you. Surely if he wanted to fuck you he would have done so by force on that very first night, so what does he want? You’re not important enough to ransom and you don’t have any particular skills or information.
He clearly takes great pleasure in your body; touching you gently, watching your reactions, then filing them away for later. His touch is harsh, but not cruel. Tender, but not kind.
Nothing about this makes sense. There’s something more sinister beneath it all though, something that cuts deep. You don’t want to think about it, let alone admit it. It has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with you.
The tension in your body is pulled tight like a bow string. The drugs may have faded but the need remains, hot and heavy and dark. It eats at the edges of your mind, breaking off little pieces of your sanity. You don’t know how much longer you can wait until it consumes you whole.
Finally, you hear the creak of the door.
He reappears, placing a bowl of steaming soup in front of your cell. Hungry as you are, you resist the urge to wolf it down immediately, knowing what it contains. You want to hold on to what little control you can. Instead you pick it up carefully, watching as he drags a chair over.
You take a sip of the broth while he watches. To your surprise it tastes good, and not just because you’re starving; it’s homemade, the product of hours in the kitchen. “This is good, did you make it?”
He freezes in his chair. Were it not for the dim lighting of the basement, you would have seen his cheeks flush. He’s silent for a long while, enough time for you to take a few more sips.
“...yes,” comes the hesitant reply, finally.
“It tastes good, thank you.” He doesn’t reply this time, instead staring at his shoes. It’s almost endearing, how shy he is.
You finish the soup eagerly, feeling comfortable and a bit drowsy, the telltale sign of the drugs he’s given you taking effect.
“Can I ask you a question?” you mumble, thoughts moving as slow and sticky as molasses. It feels like you’re fighting sleep; all the tension in your body releases, and you struggle to even stay upright.
“What do you want from me?”
He stares, unblinking. You close your eyes, unable to fight it any longer. Finally, his voice filters through the fog, soft and halting.
“Want to touch. Want to see you. Crying for me, begging. Want to hear you scream. Been waiting so long, need to make you mine.” The sharp edge of possession creeps into his voice. A deep, violent urge stirs in his heart, the desire to claim you, to ruin you for anyone else.
You hear the scrape of metal on stone, vaguely aware that he’s opened your cell. He yanks you to your feet roughly and pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it to the ground before he picks you up.
He talks to himself when he ties you down to the table. Muttering fragments of words under his breath but nothing you can pick out. The knots are tighter this time, the rough texture of the rope feels like sandpaper against your oversensitive skin. Even through your haze, his intensity is palatable.
His face fills your vision, covering the light above your head like an eclipse. His eyes are sharp and cold, boring deep into yours.
It wasn’t that you weren’t afraid of him before, but this was different. Before, it felt like he was holding himself back from hurting you, like that was his way of showing you he cared. But now that restraint is gone and there’s nothing behind his eyes but malice.
Even worse is the familiar flickering heat all over your body, softening your muscles and turning your bones to liquid. You turn your head to the side, trying to escape his gaze.
It’s only then that you see the knife.
Your blood runs ice cold, despite the drug coursing through your veins. You try to struggle but your body doesn’t listen; what should be a violent kick comes out as a tiny twitch.
He grins, watching you struggle helplessly against the effects of the drug. Tears well in your eyes, threatening to spill over onto your cheeks. So beautiful, he thinks.
“Please…” you whimper. “I’m sorry. Just- don’t kill me.”
His brow furrows. “Why would I? Haven’t even fucked you yet.”
Ah, so that’s what he’s after. But still…
“Then just do it and get it over with!” The cool metal of the blade touches the sensitive skin under your chin and you freeze.
"No." He stares you down, a flicker of amusement hiding in his dark purple eyes. "Not until you want me." He drags the knife across your skin and down your neck, enough to make you whimper but not enough to break the skin. Years of experience in the fine art of torture tell him exactly how hard to press. After all, he doesn’t actually want to hurt you too badly, but the way you shake and cry like this is just too good for him to pass up.
Suddenly, the blade presses down on your collar bone, piercing the flesh just a few millimeters. You scream as he pulls the knife along your skin, making a cut a few inches long. He removes the knife, watching as your blood seeps out of the superficial cut, swelling into a single round droplet until the tension breaks and it flows freely down your neck. His eyes are blown wide, drinking in every detail, and for the first time you see desire, painted across his face clear as day.
Your blood collects on the flat of his blade, pressed against your neck before he brings it to his lips. His tongue darts out, lapping up the crimson liquid with the reverence and ceremony of a priest taking communion. It stains his lips, turning them ruby red for a moment while he closes his eyes, savoring your taste.
The thought strikes out of nowhere, sending you reeling. You can’t explain this away, or justify it somehow, you know it’s the truth.
Before you can think about it any further, he opens his eyes with a quiet sigh. They fix immediately on the ribbons of bright crimson liquid decorating your skin.
He moves without thinking, driven by the pure desire that overwhelms and shatters any inhibitions. Hot breath fans across your skin before you feel the heat of his mouth on you. You taste so sweet, so perfect he can hardly think straight. His lips close over the wound, his tongue lapping at your skin, drinking you in.
A shaky gasp escapes you, one you can't even try to hold back. Your skin is ablaze, waves of goosebumps radiate from where his mouth meets your skin. The act is so intimate, a far cry from the treatment you’ve been given so far.
You're drugged. You remind yourself, even as heat coils in your stomach. It's just the drug.
He pulls back, still close to you. For the first time you breathe in his scent; surprisingly clean and sweet, but musky, like rotting fruit. You stare at each other for a moment, each drinking the other in. Something unspoken passes between you, something you couldn't name even if you tried.
He breaks the silence first.
"Won't fuck you. Not until you want me like I want you." This isn’t a threat like before, it’s a confession, one that makes your heart skip a beat.
How could you want him after all this? He kidnapped you, imprisoned you, and starved you. Not just food, he starved you of affection, of comfort, even the light of the sun he took away from you.
But there’s something you can’t deny, deep down. You can blame it on the drug if you want, but you know it's something more, something darker. You can feel it growing, infecting your mind like a parasite and feeding on your desires.
The thought makes your stomach twist, so you swallow and shake your head. “No, please don’t…” You whisper, clinging to your last scraps of dignity.
He pulls away but your heart still beats wildly in your chest. The knowledge that he won't force himself on you is only a small comfort, instead, you're consumed with fear thinking about how he plans to make you submit.
Perhaps mercifully, whatever drug he's given you fully invades your mind now, slowing down all but your basest desires. Your body softens, easier this time— a gentle surrender rather than a forceful one, but a surrender nonetheless.
He goes without the blindfold this time, and now you can see him, really see him. The shaky exhale, the hesitation before he lays his hands on you, how his eyes dart up to your face every couple seconds.
It dawns on you suddenly; he’s nervous.
The realization sends you into a tailspin. He’s still your captor, tormentor, and in some fucked up way, your lover. But now you see another side of him, the human side. It’s not as easy to just brush him off anymore, instead you’re forced to consider the possibility that he’s just as scared as you are.
You still don’t understand him, and it frightens you, but a tiny piece of the puzzle falls into place as his hands touch your bare skin. The worry on his face melts away, replaced with intensity, a quiet concentration on his features as he files away every twitch and sigh that comes out of you. The second time is even better than the first, he knows where you’re sensitive, the undersides of your breasts, your ribs, your hipbones.
His fingers brush across your already peaked nipples and you can't help the involuntary arch of your back, pressing yourself up into his hands. His breath catches, stunned by your wanton reaction. Desire overtakes fear as his last bit of his restraint crumbles away and suddenly he can’t get enough.
Before you can blink, his hand darts down— fast, like he can’t wait any longer. Suddenly you’re painfully aware of how exposed you are. He has your legs spread wide, leaving you no room to hide how his touch affects you.
He lingers for a moment, tracing his fingertips over the crease of your thighs. He’s so close to your core you can hardly breathe. It’s dizzying, trying to reason with your body that screams to be touched, and your mind that knows how wrong it is.
His fingers find your clit, finally, wrenching a shuddering gasp from your chest. They slide up and down, collecting your slick then gliding over the sensitive bud again and again. You arch into his touch, inhibitions forgotten, operating on pure need.
He smirks. “I thought you didn't want me.”
“I- I don’t…” You fight to keep your composure, eyes rolling as his fingers move faster, pulling a wrecked moan from you. He zeros in on your clit with unnatural focus, making those few millimeters feel like the center of the universe. The sensation is overwhelming and you can feel your body betraying you, building an orgasm already.
“St-stop, please— I can’t.” You sob, but your pleas fall on deaf ears.
He’s obsessed, every ounce of his attention focused on you; how your breathing gets shallow as you creep closer to release, the high pitched desperate whines coming from you while you try to resist, how your hips buck up towards him with every tiny circle of his fingers. He’s struck by the overwhelming urge to break you, to make you come apart in his hands, over and over again.
His touch turns mean, harsh strokes of his fingers on your clit that drive you towards the edge with ruthless determination. You try to resist, grabbing on to any scrap of sanity you can find, but it's no use. You succumb to him with a cry, letting go of logic and reason and allowing blissful pleasure to take its place.
The expression on your face when you come for him is something he’ll never forget. Finally, you let go. Finally, you take what he’s given you. His cock throbs while he watches, mesmerized, as the aftershocks ripple through your body. A thin sheen of sweat covers your skin and he has to resist the urge to lick it off.
You come back into your body quietly, shamefully. Pleasure still simmers between your thighs, forcing you to reckon with what just occurred. Your thoughts move slowly, the truth coming together piece by piece.
"So pretty, coming for me." The soft murmur of his voice makes you finally open your eyes. He looks down at you, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. All of a sudden, you're struck by his looks; purple eyes blown wide, cheeks and lips tinted pink. The overhead light illuminates him from behind, giving him a halo of sorts. In your drugged state, you can't help but smile back.
"Again. Want to feel inside this time." The choice of words is intentional, and he's delighted to see the shadow of fear fall over your face.
"Wait, wait- no! You said—" You cut yourself off with a gasp as you feel his fingers push inside you. Long and slender, they slide in easily, like they were meant to be there. A stuttering, quiet moan slips out of you involuntarily.
He starts to fuck you with his two fingers, slow and steady. You want to fight, to resist, but it just feels so good. You finally have something to hold onto, something inside you, stretching you out, filling you up. Your eyes roll, breathless gasps filter through your lips with every thrust.
“How does it feel? Good?” A thread of mockery weaves between his words.
You can only shake your head and moan in response to his taunt. He presses deeper, curling his fingers up into that sweet spot that makes you see stars.
“Want me yet?” He teases.
“N- no, ah! Please don’t…” is all you can manage, but your voice cracks at the edges.
He laughs, looking down at you— shaking and crying while you try in vain to resist the inevitable. What a perfect little plaything you are, trying so hard to hold on to your dignity even when you’re so clearly enjoying yourself. He wants nothing more than to take you right here and now, to throw away his promise and make you his. But the wait makes it so much sweeter, and breaking you completely will be worth it. He curls his fingers faster, thrusting in and out with ruthless precision.
You feel yourself start to spiral, the world spinning around you as you’re dragged towards the cliff’s edge. You struggle, holding on with the last vestiges of your resolve.
“Don’t… please— don’t stop!”
The words come out of your mouth before you even realize what you’re saying. There’s no taking it back, no denying the truth that they hold. Your mind fractures, what you think and what you feel no longer align and it sends you reeling.
This is what he’s been waiting for. For you to give in to the pleasure, to enjoy it, to crave it. He knows how good he can make you feel, what you can enjoy together. He rewards you with his other hand on your clit, moving in tandem with his fingers that curl in earnest.
Your body doesn’t obey you anymore, it obeys him—and worse than that, you let it happen. He plays you like an instrument; fingers curling, pressing, dragging against your sensitive flesh. It feels like heaven, finally letting go of reality and giving in to the feeling.
You come for him embarrassingly easily. Now that you’re no longer fighting it, your orgasm washes over you in a perfect wave, whiting out your vision. You sob through it, gasping breaths that become whiny moans filling the room.
He looks down at you, the way your eyes roll and your lashes flutter as you come down from your high. You look beautiful, lost in pleasure like this, but he wants to make sure you never find your way home.
Your head jerks up when his fingers start to move faster, your eyes pleading with him, but you couldn’t stop him even if you tried. He gives you a look that’s all sin and sickness, and a smile that says, “I’m going to break you and leave you begging for more.”
You choke out a scream before your second orgasm hits like the crack of a whip; sharp and violent. Your back bows viciously, twisting into some impossible geometry as you strain against the ropes now digging into your skin.
His arm aches but he can’t stop there, not with you unraveling in the palm of his hand so beautifully.
It’s too much, but he’s ruthless, hardly giving you a second to catch your breath before his fingers begin their tortuous dance for the third time. The pleasure being wrung out of you verges on painful, your clit is almost rubbed raw and his skilled fingers are devastatingly precise.
Suddenly he changes the angle, just a touch, but it’s everything.
“Ngh- oh, fuck- ah!” Your voice dissolves into a broken whine.
He massages that soft spot deep inside your cunt, the one that makes you forget how to breathe. In the blink of an eye you’re right on the edge, already starting to break. The tension in your core snaps like a cable, white hot pleasure burning up your spine and then you’re gone, spinning into oblivion.
Finally, your breathing slows, the room coming back together in pieces. You whimper when his fingers slip out of you, long strands of your slick still dripping off of them. He puts them in his mouth, tasting your release on his tongue like it's something sacred.
Bone deep exhaustion hits you suddenly, everything catching up to you at once. Your nerves twitch and shudder, aftershocks washing over you while he releases your bindings. You feel a sharp sting near your shoulder, the smell of disinfectant tickling your nose— He’s cleaning your wound, you realize. He scoops you up in his arms, carefully carrying you back to your cell with surprising tenderness.
Little fragments of speech filter through the air;
It sounds so far away, like a dream. It must be, he would never lavish you with praise like that. But still, it sinks in, this sliver of affection and for the first time since you arrived, you don’t feel so cold when sleep takes you.
You spend the next few days lost in thought, turning the same ideas over and over in your mind until they’re worn smooth.
He kidnapped you, took you from the little life you had made for yourself, and locked you in this cell. He starved you, deprived you of the most basic comforts, and systematically stripped away your dignity. He hurt you, slapped your face, and cut your flesh.
It hurts, and you hate him for it. But it doesn’t add up. There’s something else there too. Beneath it all, there’s an undeniable tenderness.
He doesn’t have to feed you hot food, but he does. He could easily keep you shackled to the wall, cold and naked, but he doesn’t. You have a mattress, a blanket, and clothing. When he touches you, it’s gentle, almost reverent. Even when he hurts you, he takes care of you afterward, not to dull any pain, no he clearly relishes in it but rather to protect from lasting damage. And from what you’ve just experienced, he clearly wants you to feel good. So much so that he refuses to force himself on you, even though he could.
It feels like trying to divide by zero, reckoning with these truths. Every time you try to understand you come up empty, just a blank space where the answer should be.
Then there’s your own betrayal. He made you come, but you let it happen. You could try to blame it on the drugs, on exhaustion. But the truth burns deep, a smoldering ember that just won’t go out.
It felt good. So, so good.
His fingers taking you to the brink, touching you so deeply, filling you perfectly. He was an expert, nobody else had ever shattered you so completely. It made you want more somehow. More of his hands touching you everywhere, in your hair, wrapped around your throat, knuckle deep in your cunt.
But there’s more to it than that. Beyond the pleasure, he gives you something you’ve never had before.
His obsession, no matter how unhealthy or toxic it may be, makes you feel special. Nobody else had ever paid this much attention to you or made you feel as wanted as he did. It was intoxicating, knowing how important you were to someone.
Nobody in your life had ever cared enough to stay. Family, friends, lovers: they all left you eventually. You’d stopped trying years ago, simply accepted that you were destined to be alone and left it at that. The ache in your heart never went away, it just became part of the scenery. And now here he is, reopening your old wounds and pouring salt in.
Part of you was angry at him for toying with you like this, giving you pleasure and attention like you’d never had before and then leaving you alone in the dark for days on end. It was exhausting, being put through this roller coaster of emotions over and over again and for what? His own amusement?
The longer you think, the more frustrated and exhausted you become. You fall into a restless sleep that night, plagued by questions and haunted by answers that never come.
You wake up slowly the next morning, body aching with cold and fatigue. It must be weeks now since you’ve felt rested. You roll over stiffly, only to sit bolt upright when you see him.
He’s already there, sitting in the chair in front of your cell for who knows how long, watching you intently. He hums, amused at your shocked face. The telltale crease of his eyes betrays the smile hidden by the collar of his coat.
For the first time it makes you angry, how he looks at you like some kind of exotic pet. You’re tired of waiting for answers that never come, and determined to make him talk. “What do you want?” You snap.
His eyebrows raise, and he clicks his tongue with distaste. “Funny girl. You know what I want.”
You can’t stand it, these cryptic answers that remind you that he has all the power. “I don’t want to play your stupid mind games anymore!” You explode, tears already welling in your eyes. “Tell me why! Why me? Why do you have to make me feel like this?”
He tilts his head, considering you for a moment. This defiance comes as a surprise, but not an unwelcome one.
“I want you to want me. Will break you until you do.”
“Fine! I want you, there— are you happy now?” Tears stream down your face, exhaustion and anger and desperation all in one.
In the blink of an eye he’s up against the bars of your cell, eyes cold and voice deadly calm. “You are lying.” He says, like it's a fact. Even the idea that telling him what he wants to hear would be enough to make him give in makes him burn with rage.
“So what if I am?” You spit back. “It doesn’t matter either way.”
He’s in your cell before you even realize, pulling a length of rope from one of his pockets. How dare you lie to him about something so important?
“Think this doesn't matter?” He seethes, wrapping his hand around your throat. “Think you can taunt me?” He works quickly, binding your arms behind your back from elbow to wrist, forcing your shoulders together painfully. The same black cloth from before is wrapped around your head, secured with a tight knot.
There are no drugs this time. Nothing to dull the pain or distract from the shame as he hauls you to your feet and drags you out the door. He pushes you—hard, and you fall, barely catching yourself before your head hits the concrete. His hands grab the collar of your shirt and pull hard, tearing it in two like it’s made of tissue paper.
You know what you did was stupid—and that you’re about to be punished for it, but you can’t help but feel a small sense of victory. In his anger, he showed you his hand. This was deeper than just a source of amusement for him, he genuinely cared about how you felt.
He grabs you by the hair, maneuvering you into position on your knees facing him. Finally, he releases you, stepping back to enjoy the view. Your shirt, torn open from collar to hem, hangs limp from your shoulders. His rough handling reopens the cut on your collarbone, a thin trickle of blood snakes between your exposed breasts. Your whole body trembles with fear.
Even through the blinding anger, he feels a surge of affection for you. You're adorable when you're helpless, and beautiful when you're afraid. He's seen it all before, every reaction to his cruelty; disgust, fear, shock, concern. It doesn't bother him like it used to, he is who he is. But dishonesty is another thing, one he intends to punish you for.
He crouches down, grabbing your face with such force that you let out a little squeak. “This is not game to me.” He murmurs, voice low. “Will wait as long as it takes. I will never let you go, not until you give me what I want.”
It's like all the air gets sucked out of the room. You know he means it as a threat but still, your heart soars. How could he know? How did he find those words, buried in the deepest corner of your heart? The confession sends you reeling, taking everything you knew, or thought you knew about him, and turning it upside down.
His hand is back in your hair in an instant, pulling hard enough to make your eyes water. You hear a clink and a rustle of fabric from somewhere directly in front of you. Before you really have the chance to understand, something warm presses against your lips.
You can't see him, but you don't have to, you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Open your mouth."
You obey instinctually, even though you know what's coming. The taste of salt and skin flood your senses as he forces his cock in your mouth. It's bigger than you expected, but not unmanageable. Still, you gag when the thick head tickles the back of your throat.
He holds you there, savoring the heat of your mouth. This must be heaven; feeling you twitch and whine while you struggle to breathe around him. He has all the control, all the power, and he intends to use it to punish your little outburst. You're pulled off at the last second, coughing and choking. You're able to get one good breath in before he forces you down again.
This isn't like before, when you were tied to the table. That was almost pleasant, but this… this is closer to torture than pleasure. He uses you mercilessly, fucking your throat hard while he holds you down. You're completely helpless; blind, arms tied, pinned between the stone wall of the basement and your captor.
There’s no point in fighting it. You can’t trick him, you can’t overpower him, you can’t charm him, so you just give up. Give up and let him use your mouth however he wants.
It’s then that something in you breaks. Maybe it’s your heart, maybe it’s your spirit, but you don’t care. Slowly, the tension in your body starts to unwind. You sit back on your heels, relaxing your shoulders as much as you can. Your throat relaxes too, letting you take him much easier.
There’s one last bastion of sanity in your mind, holding out against the tide of madness that screams at you.
What are you doing?! Why are you letting this happen?? Don’t you hate him for what he’s doing to you?
The rush of blood in your ears and the lewd wet sounds of your throat drown it out, not that you were listening anyway.
This feels right somehow. You were always meant for this, meant for him. Sickeningly sweet pleasure coils deep in your stomach. Would he fuck you this hard? Make you take him over and over just like this? The thought alone makes you moan around his cock.
He hisses with satisfaction, snapping his hips forward faster now. The way your body relaxes, succumbs to his rough treatment lights a fire in his cold heart. Submission, trust, devotion. What he’s been craving all along starts to materialize in front of him. It’s all too much, too sudden, and his control starts to splinter.
His breath hitches and you feel his hips stutter, then you hear it; a completely unguarded sound of pure pleasure wells out of him and goes straight to your tightly wound core. You can’t believe he’s being this vulnerable, especially in front of you.
You want it, you want to be the reason he loses control. Seeing him come undone like this would be the ultimate reward, one you don’t deserve. So you settle for hearing it instead, drinking in every shuttering gasp and whine that slips from him before he finally tips over the edge, emptying every last drop down your throat.
You’re both motionless, frozen together in this moment of vulnerability. It thaws a second later and he pulls his still twitching cock from your mouth carefully. You swallow immediately, much to his surprise and delight.
He looks down at you, still bound and blind on the floor and once again he’s struck with a rush of affection, and for the first time, a twinge of guilt. His eyes travel down your body; surveying the tangled mess of your hair, red, swollen lips, your chest heaving, taking in as much air as you can. The thin trickle of blood from your collarbone leads him further down, down and—
Whatever ideas he had about how to proceed are gone in an instant when he sees the glisten of telltale wetness between your thighs. He nudges your knees further apart to get a closer look, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. How are you this wet when he hasn’t even touched you? This was intended to be a punishment, but now…
You flinch when something brushes against your slick folds. The edge of it catches on your clit, making you gasp. Whatever it is rubs back and forth, sending shivers up your spine.
“All this for me?” Comes the voice from above you, too far above for this to be his fingers. Suddenly it clicks; the smooth, rounded surface that you’re now practically grinding on is the toe of his boot.
You should be ashamed, mortified, disgusted with yourself for getting off like this. You’re not even drugged, there’s nothing you can blame this on but your own selfish desires.
“Y—yes,” your voice cracks, throat still raw and tender. “For you, all of it.”
He hums, considering you for a moment, watching your hips stutter and twitch. He can feel the warmth of your body through his boot, seeping into his skin.
“Pathetic little slut.” He murmurs, but despite his harsh words, there’s an undeniable tenderness behind them. His hand winds itself in your hair again, keeping you steady.
You whimper, rutting faster against the leather, inhibitions completely shattered. All that matters is him, this basement, this moment. He flexes his foot just so, giving you a slight ridge that catches your clit with every circle of your hips and suddenly it’s inevitable.
“Please…” you whine, breath shallow and fast as you near release.
“Go on.” He whispers, and that’s all it takes.
Your whole body convulses, blinding light exploding behind your eyes. He holds you through it, letting you ride out the shockwaves of your orgasm.
He releases your hair and you collapse, tipping forward. He catches you, swiftly unraveling the bindings that criss-cross your arms. At some point your blindfold is removed too, along with the remnants of your shirt.
Exhaustion catches up with you as adrenaline fades. Everything aches; your arms, your shoulders, your jaw, your knees. He deposits you gently on your mattress, then frowns.
“Stay.” He orders, and leaves without another word. You’re vaguely aware that he hasn’t locked the door to your cell, not that you had the energy to run at this point. You breathe slowly, sleep already starting to take you.
You’re barely conscious when he returns, your eyes fluttering open just enough to see him cover you with a thick, warm blanket. The heat is a balm on your aching body and you fall into sleep before you realize that he hasn’t left.
He watches you. For a long time he stands there motionless, watching the lumpy blanket rise and fall with your breath. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. You look so peaceful in your sleep, beautiful and pure, like an angel.
He can defile and hurt you all he wants, humiliate you to tears again and again, but you always come back to this, just as perfect and innocent as the day he took you weeks ago. But it felt good to hurt you, like a breath of fresh air. Finally getting to express how he felt using his own special language of violence. It's the only way that the intensity of his emotions make sense to him; they claw at his heart, wild and desperate to be set free. He needed to make you feel the same, he needed you to understand.
But he couldn’t do that, not to you. Tenderness doesn’t come naturally to him, but for some reason he needed to do this right. From the moment he saw you months ago, you had captured his heart in a way he’d never felt before. The small handful of others he’d slept with before turned to ash in an instant. You were the only thing that existed in his world now, the center of his universe.
For the first time, he actually cared about the aftermath. He didn’t want you to run like the others had once they realized what kind of a monster he was. The cruelty, the sadism, it all had to be pushed aside and introduced to you gradually, like a poison you would soon be immune to.
There’s something deeper, a heavier truth at the bottom of it all. Maybe, if he does this right, you’ll choose him in the end. He was never planning on letting you go, that much was true but if you give yourself to him of your own free will, maybe you’ll want to stay.
When the time comes—soon, he hopes—you would make the choice yourself.
You think you might be losing your mind.
It's been over a week since you last saw him, days and days of solitude with nothing to do but be alone with your thoughts.
His words echo in your head over and over; “I will never let you go…”
You’d assumed he was just playing games when he said he would wait for you to want him like he wanted you, but now… It’s like he could read your mind, see the truth of your deepest fears and desires. What if he was who you had been waiting for your whole life?
Someone who would stay, finally.
Something changed the last time. For one you weren’t drugged, yet somehow you found submission easier than ever. It felt right to be on your knees for him, like you belonged there. The irony isn’t lost on you, the fact that the first place you felt like you really belonged was under the thumb of your kidnapper-turned-lover.
But was it really so bad?
You knew he cared, in that sick strange way of his. The way he touched you, like you were something precious. He made you feel so good, so special, like no one ever had before.
And worse still, you believe him. In those fleeting moments of connection— even under the most depraved circumstances, you can feel his devotion.
It feels like gravity, the way he pulls you in, like you’re a tiny planet orbiting his star. You know if you get too close you’ll burn up but you can’t help it. He’s everything, the center of your universe.
You know the answer, the clarity of it washes over you like a balm. For the first time in weeks you’re sure of yourself. You know it’s wrong, but it doesn’t scare you anymore. Instead you feel anticipation, even joy as you wait for him to return.
You may have lost your mind, but you found him.
He’s in your dreams now. Not that you sleep much anyway, even though your body begs for it. It’s like the longer you go without him, the faster you deteriorate.
Time begins to lose meaning, turning day and night into time spent awake or asleep. For a while now your few unconscious hours have been full of him. His touch haunts you, it follows you into sleep and then back again. You woke from hazy dreams full of nothing but him; his touch, his face, his voice. You can never remember much, but the wetness between your thighs tells you everything you need to know.
You wake from yet another restless dream, feeling your bones ache with fatigue. This was different though, because when you opened your eyes, you remembered.
It was the kind of fantasy that could only exist in a dream. His hands were everywhere all at once—in your hair, between your legs, on your tits. Scenes overlapped one another, bleeding together like ink in water. In one moment he was standing over you, filling your ears with filth that you couldn’t quite hear, in the next he was knelt between your spread thighs, the heat of his mouth descending on your cunt.
Your vision blurs at the recollection, sending a fresh wave of arousal down your body. It’s maddening, in your precious hours of sleep he fuels your fantasies that bleed into your mind when you’re awake, leaving you on edge and unable to rest. You could take care of it yourself, you’d certainly thought about it but something held you back before.
Weeks ago you’d have recoiled at the idea of masturbating to dreams of your captor. Even now the idea turns your stomach a little, but you were getting desperate for some kind of relief, something to take the edge off.
You hesitate, but only briefly before your hand dips between your legs. Your fingers find your clit, already swollen and slick with need. You rub tight circles, just the way he had all those weeks ago. When your eyes flutter closed, your dream returns, settling on one fantasy in particular that continues to haunt you.
You’re bound and gagged; arms crossed behind your back, knees tucked under you, legs held apart. The position you’re in makes you feel so deliciously vulnerable, tied up and spread open like you’re on display. His fingers break you apart methodically, dragging against your walls with exacting pressure that makes your mind go blank, waves of pleasure washing over you like the tide. All the while his voice murmuring in your ear;
“Filthy desperate thing. Not even there anymore, are you? Pathetic.”
Your breath hitches as you rub faster, losing yourself in the fantasy. You imagine him wrapping his hand around your throat, squeezing hard enough that you see stars. Impulsively, your own hand reaches up to your neck, trying to replicate the feeling.
You jump like you’ve been shocked, inhaling so fast you dissolve into a coughing fit before you can even scream. While you’re wheezing and trying to catch your breath, you hear the squeak of your cell door.
You sniffle, wiping away your watery eyes as he approaches. Your heart sings seeing him again, like a huge weight has been lifted off your chest, despite your exhaustion. You scramble to your feet, wrapping the blanket around your body instinctively.
His warm expression sours. “No. Let me see.”
Quickly, you let the blanket drop, baring yourself to him. He hums in appreciation, letting his eyes roam over your form that trembles with fatigue.
Suddenly, you’re self conscious. It’s not that he hasn’t already seen every inch of you, it’s that weeks in captivity have taken its toll. Your hair hangs in strings, greasy and disheveled. Rivulets of dried blood, sweat, and tears snake down your body, cutting a path through the dirt and intersecting with your many bruises.
His nose wrinkles and he huffs with irritation. “Wait.” He says, before turning and plodding up the stairs. His head spins while he gathers supplies. It was no coincidence that he appeared when he did, the camera in the corner of your cell captured everything; each gasp and sigh, every restless hour of your day. Even in sleep, you yearned for him, murmuring words and phrases that made his heart sing. You wanted him, even if you weren’t ready to admit it.
You shiver while you wait, but don't dare to pick up your blanket and cover yourself, lest he punish you. The cool stone wall at your back grounds you and without even thinking, your eyes flutter closed, head spinning with so many half-baked feelings and thoughts that it makes you dizzy.
The strange mixture of fatigue, excitement, arousal, and fear has you nearly dead on your feet. You’re so excited to see him again that your heart leaps out of your chest but your bone deep weariness keeps you from getting very far. The remnants of your dream still linger in the back of your mind; fanning the still hot coals of desire. And the ever present fear that follows him wherever he goes, leaving you on edge no matter what keeps you from the sweet release of sleep.
You hear a splash of water and your eyes snap open—did you really doze off just now? He enters your cell, smirking at your confusion, and takes your hands in his own. You look at him for a moment, this time letting your eyes linger.
For once he doesn’t have his long black coat on, instead he’s clad in loose black pants that narrow where they meet the top of his boots, and a short sleeved fitted black shirt. The fabric hugs his arms and slim waist, clinging to the outlines of muscle. He digs around in his pocket and retrieves a length of rope and begins binding your wrists, the corded muscle of his forearms flexing as he works. You smile, noticing the light dusting of pink across his cheeks getting darker by the second.
His sharp eyes meet yours, as if daring you to say something, before he scowls down at your hands, finishing off the knot with a sharp tug that makes you stumble forward. He leads you to the center of the room, affixing your hands to a chain that dangles from the central beam above your head.
This may not be the most degrading or uncomfortable position he’s put you in but it might be the most vulnerable. He steps back and circles you slowly, letting you feel his gaze.
You stare back at him blankly, what the hell was he talking about? A smile plays at the corners of his lips as he methodically unbuckles his belt. Once removed, he taps the black leather strap against his palm, making sure you know exactly what he plans to do with it.
Your head spins. What was it this time? You didn’t think you’d done anything wrong, you hadn’t lied, hadn’t tried to hurt yourself or him so why was he punishing you? You wanted to be good for him so badly, there was no use denying it anymore. His approval and affection was like a drug and after so many days of solitude you were suffering from withdrawals.
“Were you enjoying yourself?” His voice comes from somewhere behind you.
“N—no, I was just-” You choke on air mid-sentence as the belt connects with the back of your thighs. The sharp sound of the impact and your gasps for air are like music to his ears.
“Lying again?” he seethes, landing another strike on your ass that brings tears to your eyes. “Thought you knew better.”
“No, please-ahH!” You scream as white-hot pain explodes from your backside, strike after strike of his belt connecting with your skin. You take it so well, even as the tears fall he sees the acceptance and submission in your eyes.
Suddenly he’s in front of you with a wicked grin. “Can’t hide from me. Cameras everywhere.” He steps closer, just a breath away. “I saw you, touching what is mine.”
His hand slips between your legs, finding you still slick and wanting. Your knees buckle at his touch, pleasure blooming almost immediately. He slides a finger into your heat and your vision blurs, relief washing over you like a balm.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please.” You gasp, still shaking, but from pain or pleasure you couldn’t tell.
He steps back and you whine at the sudden emptiness. “Try again. Were you enjoying yourself?”
He hums approvingly and begins to circle you once more. “What were you thinking about?”
You hesitate for just a second too long. You hear the impact of the belt before you feel it—pain that sears into you like a brand.
“YOU! You-fuck,” you gasp. “I was thinking about you.” A couple light taps on your butt prompts you to continue. “I—I was tied up, and you were touching me.” Your words tumble out one on top of the other in a rush.
“Like this?” He’s inches away all of a sudden, his breath fans across your jaw as his hand returns to your cunt.
“Ngh—y-yes.” Your eyes roll hard as pleasure replaces pain. His two fingers curl inside you, putting pressure on that spot that makes you moan aloud.
You can hardly think straight. The way his fingers feel inside you, zeroing in on the soft and tender flesh that makes your head spin and how the heel of his palm grinds against your clit have you racing towards release faster than you expected.
“Oh fuck—y-you were choking me, I—oh my god.” His hand closes around your throat, before you can finish your thought.
His grin is positively feral, watching your eyes glaze over with pleasure as he squeezes the sides of your throat. Your pussy clamps down around his fingers in tandem with his hand on your neck, fluttering and clenching as your orgasm approaches.
“Hah—oh! Fuck, I’m—please, I need to-please!” Your voice is ragged from being choked, every sound that leaks out of you gets higher and higher in pitch until you’re whining and crying, barely a second from your release—
His fingers leave you; empty, aching, needy. You’re full on sobbing, thrashing against the rope that holds you fast. Not fair. Not fair, not fair, not fair. The words pound in your head in time with the beat of your heart. You come down slowly, hiccuping sobs that melt into shaky breaths.
He stands in front of you, arms crossed like a teacher about to give a lecture. “Done with tantrum?” He asks, amused.
You don’t even have the energy for anger, just a defeated nod and a sniffle.
“Good.” He turns away and you only have a second to register the sound of water before it's being poured over your head.
Mercifully, it's not freezing, but the shock makes you yelp anyway. Adrenaline races through your veins for a split second, and then stops just as abruptly as it started; crashing into the wall of exhaustion that had been building for days. The whiplash of energy only serves to fray your nerves even further.
You try to open your eyes but are immediately met with the sting of soap that forces them closed.
“Ugh–what was that for?” you exclaim, eyes still shut tight. You hear the scrape of wood on stone as he drags something—the chair, probably—behind you.
He scoffs. “Won’t fuck a dirty whore,” comes the reply. His voice resonates from somewhere behind and above you and suddenly it clicks. With his less than impressive stature, he has to stand on a chair for whatever he has planned.
“What-” but all your thoughts evaporate in an instant as his hands touch your head.
This is nothing like before, when your hair was just a handle for him to move you around with. He’s shockingly gentle, carefully finger combing the soapy water through your locks, working at each knot with the utmost care. His fingers massage your scalp and you can’t hold back a little moan, earning you a chuckle.
“Can you…get the soap out of my eyes? Please?” You ask timidly once he’s finished.
His heart stops. Something about the shy simplicity of your request makes him want to take back every cruel word he’d ever thrown at you. Almost in a trance, he pulls a clean cloth from his pocket and wets it with his own tongue.
You flinch when he touches you, but he remains gentle, wiping away the soapy water as well as the dirt and grime. Your eyes blink open, lashes still dewy and then everything stops.
Because as soon as you open your eyes, he’s kissing you.
Just for a heartbeat, his lips press against yours, shy and sweet. His hand cups your cheek, trembling with uncertainty. Before you have the sense to lean in, he pulls away, hovering barely an inch from your face.
You stare at one another, speechless. It surprises him almost as much as it surprises you, but neither of you regret it. There are so many things you could say right now, so many truths that long to break free. But when you open your mouth, what comes out is,
You’ve never seen him so affected. He inhales sharply as your words land, piercing his heart like something akin to Cupid’s arrow. His purple eyes bore into yours, lips still parted from your kiss. The honorific sounds so perfect, so natural coming from you. It takes every ounce of his self control to step away, to stop himself from leaning forward and kissing you until he can’t breathe.
His head spins as he picks up the sponge once more. He feels overcome with tenderness, maybe even affection, rather than violence. For the first time, he wants to care for you instead of hurt you. He keeps scrubbing in silence, cheeks burning red, with an obvious tent in his pants.
You could almost start laughing, not really at him, but about him. He’s so endearingly strange; clearly enamored with you but unable to tell you directly so instead he treats you with the utmost cruelty as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You start drifting, lulled into a stupor by the feeling of his hands on you. Who would have thought he could make you feel so relaxed? You have every reason to fear him, and you do, but along with fear comes desire. Maybe it’s a learned response at this point— but you can’t help the shiver of arousal you get when he fixes those deadly eyes on you.
You wouldn’t want it any other way.
While your mind wanders, he washes your arms and shoulders, then your back and chest. He lingers on your breasts, delighted by how soft and slippery they feel covered in soapy water. A simple twist of his fingers on your nipples jerks you back to reality with a gasp. He smirks, having leveled the playing field once again.
His hands move down your body, mirroring how he touched you the very first time. He avoids the apex of your thighs just like before, denying you that delicious friction. Your whole body stiffens when he moves to your backside, giving your ass a few appreciative spanks that make you jump. He doesn’t stop there, grabbing a clean rag and scrubbing between your cheeks vigorously. It’s humiliating—the whole thing, but especially this. Some small part of you feels like a child, stripped of agency under the guise of tenderness and care, expected to be grateful for the treatment you’re given.
But then he moves to the back of your legs, where the bruises from his belt still burn and ache. You cry out when he touches them, the rough texture of the rag feels like sandpaper against your tender flesh. To your horror, he only scrubs harder, snaking an arm around your waist to hold you steady.
Being whipped was one kind of pain; harsh, biting strikes that made you scream, but this is different. It feels like you’ve been branded, searing pain that doubles back on itself, over and over until you can only breathe in short, shallow gasps. But the longer his touch lingers, the more that pain starts to bleed into pleasure. The line blurs until it becomes invisible, each stroke of his hands on your bruised flesh translates directly to your cunt, still desperate for relief.
Your breath becomes ragged with exhaustion and sensation. Your orgasm from earlier that he had so cruelly denied comes to the forefront, reminding you how close you had been to release, and how badly you needed it.
Suddenly it all stops—the pain, the pleasure, everything; only to immediately be replaced with an icy chill as another bucket of water is dumped over your head. Still the raw, empty, ache of need rears its ugly head, surprising you by bringing tears to your eyes. You’re exhausted, nearly driven mad with desire, chasing release and rest in equal measure, both continuing to evade you. You speak without thinking, fat tears rolling down your cheeks,
“Will you…touch me again, please?”
He’s in the middle of cleaning up when your trembling voice reaches his ears. He turns slowly, surprised at your bold request and intending to punish you for it, but it all evaporates when he sees your face. You look so sad and pathetic, desperation written all over your face and leaking down your inner thighs. He smirks and walks over, tracing his fingertips over your ribs, watching the goosebumps spread with idle amusement.
“Brave girl, making a request. Think you deserve it?” But even as he taunts, his hand moves lower, grazing your hipbone.
You lean into his touch like a lifeline, desperate for anything he’s willing to give. “P—please, I’ll do anything!” You wail between sobs.
“Even admit you want me?” He asks, still teasing but there's an undercurrent of gravity to it.
You know the answer. You’ve known for some time now, deep in your heart. Your own foolish ideas about right and wrong mean nothing now, all that matters is him.
“Yes.” you breathe, “Yes, I want you, please. Touch me, fuck me, I don’t care! I just—oh!”
His heart soars; “Yes.” Finally you said the words he’s been longing to hear for weeks on end. His fingertips brush whisper soft across your swollen clit, rubbing microscopic circles against the tender bud. He knows how oversensitive you are, how easy you’ll come undone but still, he wants to make this last, both for you and for him.
You cry out with relief when he plunges two fingers into your heat, on the precipice of orgasm already. He moves so slow, carefully dragging his fingers against your walls, curling them just so. You’re completely gone, moaning loud and unashamed as you lose yourself in the pleasure.
Beautiful, he thinks. Emboldened, he shifts to the side, reaching his other hand around to find your second entrance.
“Ngh—Oh! Oh my…” your voice dissolves into a series of whimpers as he traces around your tight rim with one hand, the other still buried deep in your cunt.
“Want me here too?” He asks, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck.
You nod vigorously. “Yes! Yes—fuck—anything you want, just please, please let me come.”
His hand moves to your lower back, keeping you in place while the fingers in your pussy start to work faster. You feel yourself racing towards the edge, on the precipice of an orgasm that threatens to tear you apart.
His lips brush the shell of your ear, “Then come for me.”
You do, you have no other choice. Your vision whites out as it rips through you, mean and endless and perfect. He fingers you though it, keeping you right there until you both feel a rush of wetness spill down your legs. You barely notice, the roar of blood in your ears gets louder and louder, until you hear nothing at all.
The next thing you know, you’re in his arms. He must have untied you, but you can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. You’re being placed down on something soft and comfortable.
Sleep takes you immediately, and everything goes quiet at last.
It's been hours. Hours of watching you sleep. Hours of pacing around the room. He’d been waiting for so long, and now that you were finally ready, you were asleep. This should be the easiest part, so why did he feel like he was going to be sick?
He knew that what he was doing was wrong, but it was the only way. It wasn’t ideal, the drugging and kidnapping, not that he was morally opposed—in fact he got off on it, but at least this way he could get a taste of what it felt like to be desired.
For some reason he feels this inexplicable need to care for you, to protect you from anyone but himself. He wants to be the reason you laugh and the reason you cry; he wants you to put yourself at his mercy, willingly, happily. He wants to see you happy, almost as much as he wants to see you afraid.
He doesn’t know how to balance it all. It was so easy before, when he knew he didn’t deserve you. He still doesn't, he probably never will, but the idea of you with anyone else makes him burn with deadly rage—the kind that obliterates everything in sight.
So in spite of his cruel nature, he cares for you in his own clumsy way. All your meals are cooked from scratch, even if he burns it four or five times first. He gave you a fresh blanket even if you didn’t deserve it. He even has a meal prepared for you, kept warm in the oven for when you wake up.
You would be his, it was just a matter of time. He would try his best to make you happy, because after you woke up he was never ever letting you go.
You stir with a soft sigh, still half asleep. You haven’t been this well rested in weeks. Between that, the vague memories you had of being carried upstairs, and the faintly masculine smell of the sheets, you figured you were in his bed.
Slowly, your eyes blink open. Sure enough, there he is, sitting a few feet away in an armchair, his dark eyes fixed on you intently. He’s dressed in his long black cloak and bandana, tied loosely around his neck. Your heart starts to race just seeing him again.
“Sleep well?” He asks as you sit up. You nod and stretch, making a high pitched sigh that turns him on probably more than it should. He tries to force it down but it's no use, his head fills with every delicious sound you’ve made, polluting the air of quiet calm that he’s been working so hard to maintain.
“How long have I been asleep?” You ask, pulling back the covers. To your surprise you find yourself clad in luxurious black satin pajamas.
“Hm. Half day.” He answers, then his eyebrows wrinkle and he adds, “Maybe a little more.”
For a moment you just look at each other, both a little unsure where you stand in this new dynamic. He hadn’t thought this far ahead, how he was supposed to stay calm and respectful when all he wanted was to ruin you?
He clears his throat. “Are you hungry?”
“Oh, yes of course, please.” You’re surprised to say the least. Even though his intentions are clear, you’re still a little wary of him; like he might pull the rug out from under you at any moment.
“Come.” With a jerk of his head he moves towards the door, then waits for you to follow him down the hall.
The house is modest, a single story bungalow surrounded by trees that you can see out the windows. By the way the sunlight filters through the leaves, it seems to be late afternoon. In an instant, you’re plastered to the window, nearly weeping with joy. Trees! Leaves! Sunlight! You never thought you would see them again, and now you can’t stop drinking in the beauty and color.
He watches you from the doorway while you sink into the closest chair, eyes fixed on the outdoors. Prickling irritation gnaws at the corners of his mind, wearing his patience thin. He’s been waiting for so long he can hardly stand it and you’re wasting time looking at trees?
His scowl deepens as he moves about the kitchen, ladling soup into a bowl with unnecessary force. He can’t stop picturing you; your body underneath his, eyes pleading. It invades his thoughts, consuming him whole. Suddenly, he senses your eyes on him.
“What?” He spits, more aggressive than he should.
“I—I just realized I don’t know your name.” You smile a bit sheepishly, then laugh. You’re so beautiful it hurts, twisting his heart in his chest until he can’t breathe.
“It’s Feitan.” He replies. He could have you on your knees, mouth ready and waiting.
“Feitan…” you repeat back, testing out how it felt in your mouth. “I like it.” You decide.
“Tch.” Feitan rolls his eyes and turns away so you can’t see the look on his face. You sounded so perfect saying his name, but he wants to hear you scream it.
He seems so much more human now that you know his name. It suits him, oddly enough. You follow him with your eyes every time he turns away, flicking them back to the window when he looks at you. Seeing him in this domestic setting feels so strange, finally doing something ‘normal’ yet he’s never looked more out of place.
He’s unnaturally quiet, which is saying something. His shoulders are tense, his eyes dark as they keep darting over to you.
Both of you know where this will end, so he should be excited, right? You wouldn't be surprised if he was downright lecherous, considering that he was finally about to bed you at last. But this anger and irritation doesn’t make sense.
Of all the times you’ve pushed him away, why is he doing the same now, when you’re finally ready to let him in?
A heavy thunk interrupts your thoughts as Feitan sets a bowl down in front of you. You recognize it instantly as the soup you had complimented him on so many weeks ago.
“You remembered,” you say, touched by the gesture. “Thank you.”
“Hm.” He sits across from you, brow furrowed. You, wrapped delicately in rope, spread open and on display.
You go to take the first sip, but hesitate. “Are there… drugs in this?”
“Not this time.” He answers cryptically. His hand at your throat, feeling you clench around him, desperate for air.
You roll your eyes and start eating. You don’t have to be a psychic to see what’s going on here. The meal is a courtesy, his halfhearted attempt at romance. It’s quite sweet actually, his way of showing you that he cares, that he’s capable of thinking about more than just sex and violence.
But right now that’s not the case. You steal glances at him between bites, noticing the way his foot taps with impatience while he looks at you like he wants to eat you alive.
His nails dig into the table as he counts down the seconds. You, bent over for a spanking. You, crying out when he uses your ass for the first time. You, screaming his name. You, coming for him again and again. Images, fantasies, ideas, all of them flood his mind, clouding his judgement.
The second you set your spoon down, he’s at your side, his hand wrapped around your upper arm. You can practically feel the tension in his body, coiled like a tightly wound spring.
You look up at him, unable to resist a little smile. “Can I have seconds?”
Feitan’s eyes narrow and his grip on your arm tightens. Even if you are being sincere, it doesn’t matter. He has one singular goal in mind, and he’s tired of waiting.
In a flash, he’s pulling you away from the table and down the hall. Adrenaline roars in your veins and you break into a breathless grin as he opens the door to the bedroom, quickly locking it behind him.
There are no barriers anymore, no questions. The air feels heavy, thick with potential energy as he approaches. It pushes you backwards until the backs of your knees touch the soft blanket on the end of the bed.
Feitan advances, pressing his body flush against yours, encircling your waist with one arm while the other holds your jaw firmly. You can feel him trembling with restraint, the heat of his hardened length pressing into your hip urgently. His eyes bore into yours, pupils blown so wide that you can barely see the ring of purple around them.
“I will not be gentle.” He says softly, like a warning.
You hold his gaze steady, “I don’t want gentle.”
His last bit of restraint evaporates in the air between you as your mouths crash together. It’s not like before, no hesitation or uncertainty. This is all tongue and teeth and heat.
He kisses you like he’s starving; biting your lip, slipping his tongue in your mouth. He tastes sweet, and bitter at the same time; like the kind of candy you would have hated as a kid.
Feitan can hardly think straight. Every particle of his being is overwhelmed with the need to possess you, to claim you, keeping you like a jewel for no one but himself. He hadn’t intended to be this rough with you, especially after all you’d endured over the past month or so, but he can’t help it.
He moves down your neck, biting and sucking dark marks into your flesh that will bruise for days to come. You can feel everything; the sharp bite of his teeth, the warmth of his breath, even the soft tendrils of his hair tickle your skin and make you shiver.
The buttons on your pajama top quickly come undone under his nimble fingers, the soft satin garment falling from your shoulders like water. His hands roam everywhere across your exposed flesh, like he’s trying to memorize your curves with touch alone.
Not enough; closer, closer—his brain screams at him. His fingernails dig into the soft flesh of your hips as his kisses grow mean and hungry. You whine when one hand travels up your back to weave through your hair and pull. His lips brush your ear as you work at the buttons on his coat.
“On your knees.” Feitan murmurs.
You hold eye contact as you sink down, trying to memorize that look of profound intensity that makes your heart race. He shrugs his coat off, letting it pool on the floor before reaching for his bandana.
The outline of his hard cock strains against the soft fabric of his pants, begging to be set free. Your hands move to his waistband, eager to help him undress. In the blink of an eye his hands are wrapped around your wrists, squeezing hard.
He looks down at you coldly. “Did not say you could touch.” The edge of his voice cuts deep, making it clear now that regardless of consent, he doesn’t intend to go easy on you.
Using his black and purple bandana, he expertly binds your wrists. The feeling of restraints of any kind immediately fills you with a sense of peace and anticipation in equal measure. You sit back on your heels, letting your bound hands fall in your lap, waiting patiently.
He smirks at you before pushing down on his waistband. His cock springs free and you almost drool. It’s the perfect size for him, and deliciously thick in a way that makes your thighs clench. The blushy pink tip glistens with precum and you find yourself leaning forward and whining, so eager to get it in your mouth.
The sight of you on your knees fills Feitan with a rush of pride and desire, especially now that he can see your beautiful eyes, staring up at him with profound devotion. His hand finds your hair again as you take his cock into your mouth. You lavish him with your tongue, eagerly working your way down to the base. The thick head pushes at the back of your throat, making your eyes water as he presses you down just that much further.
He groans, his hold on you tightening. The sound goes straight to your core and you moan around him, relaxing your jaw so he can take control. You let him fuck your mouth, his hips snapping forward, testing your gag reflex a little more each time. The feeling of being used like this, like a toy, satisfies something dark and shameful inside your heart. It never fails to surprise you, the peace that comes from submission, but it feels so good and so right that you would be a fool to question it.
Soft, strangled sounds start to slip out of him; delicate whines and moans that renew your enthusiasm before he cuts your enjoyment short. You pout when he pulls you off, looking up at him with wide eyes and slick, swollen lips. For once he looks almost disheveled; his inky black hair tousled from running his hands through it, the pink blush decorating his cheeks, how his tight black shirt rides up, exposing the pale creamy skin of his lower stomach.
He helps you off the ground before immediately pushing you backwards onto the bed, stripping your pajama bottoms off as soon as you hit the mattress. He steps out of his pants before moving to crawl over you. You’re dizzy with desire, suddenly painfully aware of how much you ache to be touched, how your core throbs and clenches around nothing.
“F- Feitan…” You whine. “Touch me, please.”
He grins, eager for the opportunity to tease. As impatient as he is to be inside you, hearing you say his name like that—pleading and desperate, could make him do almost anything.
“So impatient.” He murmurs as his hands travel up your thighs. He spreads them apart, drinking in the sight of your dripping cunt laid bare for him. You tremble with need, your chest heaving with shallow breaths, hands still tied above your head.
“Beautiful.” He thinks. “Mine.”
An impulsive thought strikes Feitan, and he acts on it before he can think. His mouth descends on you, licking a long stripe up from your entrance before his lips wrap around your clit. Your back arches obscenely, a broken cry of pleasure wrenched from you before his arm wraps around your waist, forcing you back down.
The sight of him knelt before you like this, face buried in your pussy is like a dream come true. You start to lose yourself in the feeling, his soft lips and tongue dancing across your swollen center. His teeth graze your clit, using just enough pressure to make you yelp. He smiles into your heat, bringing his other hand up from your thigh and sliding two fingers into you.
He never does this, the act itself is too intimate, too gentle for his tastes. But it’s different with you, you’re special to him. He wants to make you come like this, crying and panting and spilling into his mouth. His tongue works faster, flicking across your clit in earnest while his fingers curl gently, sending shudders up your spine. Your eyes start to roll, your breath coming in short gasps now as you reach your breaking point.
“Ngh-Fei—please I’m—” you don’t get a chance to finish your plea before your vision whites out, blinding pleasure tearing through you as his mouth moves in tandem with his fingers. You come for him beautifully, you always do. The delicate arch of your back, the mewling cries that spill from your lips; he could watch it forever. But there would be time for that later.
You’ve barely taken a full breath before he’s knelt over you, stripping off his shirt and tossing it aside. Despite his smaller frame, he’s lean and muscular; strong shoulders and clearly defined abs that lead down to the trail of dark hair that makes your mouth water.
Strong hands catch the backs of your thighs and press forward, spreading your legs even further and leaving you utterly exposed. Feitan leans over you, his bare skin against yours at last. You can feel the thick head of his cock bump against your thighs, leaving a trail of wetness in its wake. His lips find your neck, then collarbone, tracing over the fresh pink scar from his blade.
“Belong to me now,” he murmurs, as he lines himself up. “Mine.”
He sinks in slowly, but deliberately, filling you with one slow roll of his hips. Your breath catches in your chest as you’re forced to accommodate him. The intrusion leaves you gasping, but it's so perfect, giving you the kind of pain-laced pleasure that you’ve come to expect from him. You feel full to bursting as he bottoms out, grinding the head of his cock just that much deeper until it kisses your cervix.
Your eyes meet, both of you slack jawed and hazy with pleasure. You look like an angel, with your rosy cheeks and gentle, pleading eyes. His hair falls into his face, obscuring his piercing gaze, but not the slow, sadistic smile that forms on his lips. As much as he loves your soft sighs and shaky breaths, that's not what he’s here for. He intends to stake his claim, make sure you never forget who you belong to.
A dark, possessive shadow washes over Feitan, one that’s been lurking in the deepest corners of his mind for weeks now. Impulsively, he snaps his hips forward once, and then twice, finally giving in to his most primal desires.
Each thrust steals your breath away, sending your eyes rolling back as sickeningly sweet pleasure builds in your gut.
His hand closes over your throat like a collar, squeezing steadily until your vision blurs. Your cunt tightens around his cock like a vice and he groans, fucking into you harder—
And then it hits him out of nowhere, far too soon.
His hips stutter and then he’s buried to the hilt, coming deep inside you. You can feel it, every twitch and shudder that wracks his body as pleasure overtakes him. For the first time you get to see him as he comes undone; how his eyebrows knit together and his eyes squeeze shut, the low, guttural moan that escapes him as he fills you.
Finally his eyes open, glassy and dark through the tendrils of his hair. His neck and chest are flushed and shimmering with a thin sheen of sweat. You smile up at him, feeling dazed and happy in the afterglow.
It’s funny, you find yourself thinking about the very first time he touched you all those weeks ago. You’d been so scared of him, of what he could do to you and how he could make you feel. Being forced to submit was one thing but being forced to enjoy? That was shameful, humiliating even.
But then you broke, and everything fell into place. Instead of shame, submission made you feel peace; a deep sense of belonging that you didn’t know was possible. You had him to thank for that, for showing you the joy and fulfillment that existed under his control.
Your body jerks, snapping you back to reality. As your eyes refocus, you see Feitan’s narrow, looking at you with cruel pity.
He’s far from finished. After waiting so long to have you, he won’t be satisfied until he hears you scream his name. His cock twitches, still hard and aching as he pulls out. In one fluid motion, his arms hook under your hips and he flips you effortlessly.
The sudden disruption of gravity throws you off balance and it takes a moment for your brain to catch up.
“What are y—” and then your body goes still. Feitan’s long fingers run down your spine, his nails as sharp as a blade. The sensation makes you shudder, goosebumps racing across your skin as you arch instinctively. Looking back over your shoulder, you see him grinning.
“Good girl.” He praises mockingly, before nudging the head of his cock between your folds and sinking in.
To your surprise he takes it slow, letting you adjust to the new angle. He slides in and out leisurely, watching the way your walls cling to his cock when he pulls back. It feels like heaven; even though he’s going slow each thrust is drawn out and purposeful, making sure you feel owned by every inch.
This position is everything; he can fuck you even deeper and harder now, filling you in places you didn’t know existed. The feeling sparks a fire low in your belly, pleasure twisting deliciously. You moan, thrusting back to meet his hips as if to encourage him to fuck you harder.
He doesn’t waste a second, setting a brutal pace that has your vision turning fuzzy at the edges. Broken fragments of words get knocked out of your lungs with every thrust.
Please—more—yes—harder—You know you sound like a cheap whore but you don’t care one bit.
His hand grabs a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head back and holding you in place while he rails you mercilessly. Suddenly his cock is slamming into your g-spot, the head grinding into the spongy flesh over and over. The words tumbling out of your mouth turn into screams as pleasure builds.
Feitan leans forward to speak in your ear. “How does it feel?” He teases, just like he’d done the first time he touched you all those weeks ago. The sounds coming out of you go straight to his head, like adding gasoline to a fire. His own release isn’t important anymore, he wants to make you forget your own name.
“S’good… so—fuck! N-need to—” You cry, trying desperately to wiggle out of his grasp.
He laughs heartlessly. “Not yet.” Reaching down, his fingers find your clit and begin to rub harsh circles around the sensitive bud. “Beg for it.”
Your vision blurs. The drag of his fingertips against your clit is like a match striking—burning you alive. You twist and squirm, trying to get away from the overwhelming pleasure but he has you held fast. Fat tears well in your eyes, threatening to spill down your cheeks.
“Hah— Feitan please! Please, I’m so close please let me cum please pleasepleaseplease—“
You don’t wait for permission; his steady, punishing pace speaks for him. A wrecked sob in the shape of his name rips through you as you shatter. The orgasm hits you like a strike of lightning, bursting white behind your eyes.
He fucks you through it, never faltering as the aftershocks wash over you. Finally, he lets go of your hair, letting your torso drop onto the bed. You crumple, barely catching yourself on your bound arms before they too collapse under you.
He chases, using his body weight to keep you pinned. Feitan drives into you just that much harder, using the hand that had been in your hair to press the side of your head down into the mattress.
You feel used, completely helpless to do anything other than lie there and take it. You hear him, mumbling something under his breath as his hips start to shudder while he reaches his peak;
“Mine. Mine, mine, mine…” over and over again, until they dissolve into a series of broken groans as he finds his release, digging his fingers into your hip to pull you tight against him.
The haze of the moment covers the both of you like a blanket. The edges of the world go soft and blurry as Feitan collapses on top of you, still buried deep. He unties your hands, tossing the bandana into a corner before shifting carefully, pulling your back flush against his chest while his arms snake around your waist.
His breath is warm on the back of your neck, fanning across the delicate skin as your heartbeats slow in perfect rhythm. He holds you tight, like he’s trying to press your bodies together as though you could get closer than you are now. You could fall asleep like this; your legs tangled with his as you feel him breathe, the gentle circles he idly traces on your stomach feel like the most tender lullaby.
“No sleep yet.” Feitan murmurs softly, his voice weary at the seams. “Bath first.”
You whine and roll over to face him. His hair falls to the side like spilled ink bleeding into the bedsheets. For the first time, his eyes are gentle and open, drinking in the sight of you in his bed.
“Can I stay here tonight? With you?” you ask quietly.
“Yes, always. Our room now. Don’t have to go back to the basement.”
Your heart leaps in your chest, filled with a rush of affection for him. He truly wanted you in his life, not just as a toy, but as someone to care for, to love.
“Okay, thank you.” A pause. “Can I go back home? For my things, I mean. If I’m going to live here, I need my clothes, and my books and things.” You ramble, eager to explain yourself before he can say no. “Not that I don’t like the pajamas I just—”
He cuts you off, bringing a hand to the side of your face. “You…want to stay?” It's absurd. Sure, he was never going to let you go in the first place, but the idea that you would actually want to stay with him, even live with him is something he can’t comprehend.
You smile at him, this strange and endearing man that quite literally captured your heart. “Of course I want to stay. Feitan… I feel safe with you. I know I shouldn’t, I know it doesn’t make sense but I feel like I belong here, with you.”
If you only knew how much those words mean to him. How everyone else runs, afraid of him; the sadist, the torturer, the monster. He’d accepted it long ago; he would always be alone. But still, in the deepest crevices of his heart, was the desire to be loved. He doesn’t know the words to describe how he feels, they might not even exist. But he has to try.
“I am sorry for hurting you.” Feitan whispers, quietly, shamefully.
“Look who’s lying now, hmm?” You laugh, eyes sparkling. “Besides, where’s the fun in that?”
This work was made without the use of AI. Please do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own.
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