by Sam West
Turning his back on the newcomer to compose himself, he mentally prepared for his role of torturer and executioner.
“Walk down the stairs and do exactly as I say,” he said without turning round. “You belong to me, and to this room. You will not leave this room until I deem you ready for the next stage of your life.”
He said the words, but he didn’t mean them. Had he ever meant them? Perhaps. Once. But not anymore, not even close.
“Rohan?” said the female in a scared little voice from the top of the stairs. “Is that you?”
He never told any of the girls his name when he found them, and he spun round like he had been slapped. That voice…
And there she was. Her. It was impossible, yet there she stood, as naked as the day she was born. All he could do was stare up at her in wide-eyed disbelief, too shocked to move. Having her in the dungeon was the most perfect gift, yet the most terrible curse all at the same time, he thought his brain might explode with the magnitude of the situation he found himself in.
Mine, to do what I want with.
No. Mine to set free.
For endless seconds their eyes locked until at last Rohan broke the spell. “Come down the stairs.”
Usually, they were sobbing by now but Hope Hill was dry-eyed, and staring right at him. She looked as confused and scared as he felt. His heart was tripping like a teenager as a hazy plan hatched in his mind.
Try as he might, it was difficult to keep his eyes off her body as she descended the stairs. Her tits were big and luscious, heavy on her slim frame.
No plastic there, he thought, imagining how soft they would feel in his hands, how they would yield and dent to the tune of numerous torture devices.
A clear image of the blueish purple they would turn if a tourniquet was applied to them leapt into his mind. He pushed away the thought. It was in bad taste.
What was this newfound emotion he was experiencing? Could it be respect? He almost smiled at that; wonders would never cease.
As she neared him he gazed into the deep blue of her eyes. She was trembling, whether from fear or cold, he didn’t know.
“I’m going to help you, but we have to act together, as a team. We’re going to get out of here. Here,” he said, pulling the blue, non-descript jumper over his head, revealing a plain black t-shirt. “Put this on.”
When she pulled on the jumper he instantly mourned the loss of the sight of her tits and almost snatched it back. She wasn’t much shorter than him so the bottom of her arse cheeks and vagina poked out beneath. Her bald pussy, framed by the hem of the jumper was in danger of muddying his thoughts.
No, you’re going to rescue her, remember?
“Why are you helping me?” she asked.
He wrenched his gaze upwards. “Let’s just say you came along at just the right time. This is no life, and I’ve had enough. I said there was hope for yet, Hope Hill. We’re going to get out of here, tonight.”
“Why tonight? Why can’t we just go now?”
“Because the place is busy right now. Clients are in and out, picking girls. Girls are up there, being trained. Mick is there. Normally, I would torture you all day, then either sleep down here with you or crash in one of the bedrooms upstairs. I never leave the basement when a girl is first delivered to me.”
“This is your job? You torture people? But you look so…”
“Sweet? Innocent? Boyish? Mick gets off on that. The guys upstairs, the heavies, they have the best look for the snuff films. And they double up as bouncers too, if there’s any trouble on the shopfront, so to speak. But me looking the way I do, being the person I am, I can really get inside a girl’s head and mess her up. I can change her perception of the world, of everything she thought she knew. Give me any girl, and I can break her…”
I’m gabbling, he thought, shutting his mouth.
“What about me?”
“We have to go through the motions. Someone comes down every hour or so and checks up on us. I have to pretend to torture you.”
It suddenly occurred to him that far from providing comfort, he was scaring the shit out of her. She was edging away from him, her eyes impossibly large in the face drained of colour. This wasn’t going according to plan at all. Normally, if a girl backed away from him he would have given her a good poke with a cattle-prod before shackling her up, usually to the X-frame for starters. But he didn’t want to do that, not to her.
“Come on, Hope, don’t fuck this up for us. We have to work together, you have to trust me.”
“No.”
A flash of frustrated anger twisted in his guts. He had hurt a lot of girls in the past, and he had done so willingly. Just because he loved this one, it didn’t mean that the beast inside him was fully dead.
Love her? Do I? Could I?
In that moment, he realised with utmost certainty that he was in love. As crazy as it was, he was madly, passionately in love with this beautiful woman. He would die for her if need be. But first, he had to get her to cooperate and they didn’t have time to piss around. He had only given her the jumper as a temporary loan, as a gesture of goodwill on his part but now it was time to take it back.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she said, taking another step backwards.
“I am not going to hurt you, not if you give me back my jumper and get yourself over to the X-frame.”
She stopped edging backwards, her eyes darting nervously from side to side.
“What’s an X-frame?”
Sighing with relief at her decision to comply, he flicked his head over to the apparatus against the wall of the dungeon. Her gaze settled on it, and there was no mistaking the way her entire body stiffened in terror.
He appraised the thing with fresh eyes, in an empathetic way that was totally alien to him. He supposed it would look terrifying to someone who had never seen one before. It was a large metal cross, around eight foot in height and four foot across, nailed in place to the stone wall. There were movable handcuffs attached to points high up and low down on the ‘X’. A leather strap at the centre was designed to hold the victim in place at the waist so they didn’t buck when they were being whipped, torqued, or worse.
“Come on,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I’ll be as gentle as possible…”
She took his hand, closing the gap between them. Sudden pain exploded in his groin and he doubled over, winded. His vision dimmed, flecked with shooting stars.
Bitch fucking kneed me, he thought incredulously.
Dimly, he was aware of her continued presence at his side, of her hands groping his waist.
His senses sharpened. She’s going for the gun...
He acted at the speed of light, suddenly righting himself and grabbing her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back in the most basic of Judo moves. She squealed and arched her back.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” he asked, ignoring the vicious, throbbing ache in his balls. “I’m trying to help you.”
He marched her over to the X-frame, his heart temporarily hardened to her pleas for mercy. Roughly, he shoved her face first against the stone wall above the middle of the X.
“Stupid, stupid girl,” he hissed into her ear, his hand pinning her down by the scruff of her neck. Are you going to behave yourself now, or what?”
Y..y..yes,” she sobbed.
He relinquished his grip slightly. “Good.”
Roughly, he turned her round and slammed her back against the X, hard enough to wind her.
“I didn’t want to hurt you, don’t make me do it.”
If you didn’t want to hurt her, then why did that feel so good?
He shoved aside the all-too-true thought and yanked the jumper off her body. She might have been naked when she came in, but it was still satisfying to disrobe her. With practiced ease he quickly snapped her wrists into the restraints while she was still winded and pliant. That done, he kicked her ankles apart and cuffed those too.
He stood back and admired his efforts.
This was always his favourite part, where he stood back and assessed the girl, deciding what to do next within the parameter of his instructions.
Just break her, Mick had said. No lasting damage, not physically. Fuck with her mind, leave her body intact. A little internal bruising is alright, no permanent stretching, no lacerations. Just rough her up a little, give her a small whipping and a big scare. Have some fun with the tourniquet…
God, she was so beautiful. A goddess.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just want this nightmare to stop…”
Her voice trailed off, but she had stopped sobbing, which Rohan was thankful for. It really pissed him off when they cried when he hadn’t even started on them yet.
You’re going to save her, remember?
“You have to trust me, Hope, I want to help you. We’re going to escape, together. You do trust me, don’t you?”
She nodded, but she still looked terrified. The chances were she was just trying to appease him, that she didn’t mean it. Another flash of irritation made his heart beat faster and his stomach somersault.
“They’ll be down soon, to check on us. We’re going to have to make this look good.”
His reached for the whip hanging up next to the X-frame, and smiled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hope was terrified. Her head reeled with the situation she found herself in, held captive by a madman who claimed he was going to help her. She didn’t believe him, but he was all she had. What had she been thinking, attempting a runner? If she fucked this up, then her brother was dead.
But I can’t let myself be raped and mutilated in a fucking torture chamber…
The tears continued to well behind her eyes but she forced them back. She had to be strong, she had to think. No matter what, Mick seemed to want her alive – alive and whipped, albeit.
The torture chamber made her feel dizzy if her gaze settled on any one apparatus or instrument for more than a few seconds. It was beyond her realms of comprehension. She had heard of places like this, even seen the occasional picture but the reality was quite something else. Thick, clunky chains hung from the walls and high ceiling, screwed into the uneven stone surface. The equipment down here looked so strange, it put her in mind of a cross between a medieval torture chamber and her old school gym. The racks and stocks she recognised for what they were. As for the other iron and wood instruments of varying size, she didn’t have a clue. All she knew was that the sight of them disturbed her beyond words.
The far end of the basement looked like some kind of fucked up operating area, complete with an operating table on wheels. A gurney, she thought, suddenly placing what it was called. She averted her eyes from the terrifying surgical tools on the shelves that comprised the entire back wall.
Smaller objects were displayed amongst the funny looking equipment; objects that could only be described as instruments of torture. Things with sharp teeth, vices, iron claws. Things that reminded her of bear traps and old fashioned gardening tools.
She took all of this in in a matter of seconds, but now Rohan had her full attention once more. In his hand he held a whip with flayed ends, and he was standing before her with his legs apart. His smile was far from friendly, and she suddenly understood why he was known as ‘The Breaker’; the fact alone that he had such a sweet face and he was capable of inflicting such pain and misery was enough to sour everything she thought she knew about the world.
“Did you know that you are a natural sub?”
His words didn’t make sense, she was concentrating on keeping her breathing regular and not hyperventilating. She made a concerted effort to concentrate on what he was saying.
“What’s that?”
His grin widened.
He’s so pretty, how can he be so evil, came the unbidden thought.
“A submissive. Doms and subs? Sadomasochism? BDSM? As in bondage, dominance, sadism and masochism? Have you never read Fifty Shades?”
She shook her head, even though she now grasped what he was getting at. “Please don’t hurt me.”
He took a step towards her and his breath was hot and minty on her face. “I think you want me to hurt you.”
“No,” she gasped, trying to twist her exposed body away from him, but she was locked in place, as helpless as a fish on a hook.
“They said you completed the task last night, that you actually came. Do you know how many girls manage to orgasm on demand on the first night here? Maybe one in a hundred at most.”
Tears tricked down her face at the hot wave of shame that flooded her body.
“In fact, I’m willing to bet that you’re wet right now.”
She gasped when his fingers probed between her legs, and from the way his fingertips glided, his prognosis was indeed true.
“Please,” she gasped, hating herself in that moment with every fibre of her being.
“What are you saying please for? To stop? To make you come? To hurt you?”
She was at a loss for words and stared into his boyish face. He was close now, his features blurred. Then he closed the gap completely and his soft mouth pressed down on hers. Her head swam with violently conflicting emotions; hatred, fear, and finally, despite everything, the unmistakable heat of lust.
When finally he broke off the heated kiss, he cupped her face with the hand that held the whip and continued to expertly massage her swollen clitoris with the other. Her pleasure was building at breakneck speed and she bit her lower lip to stop herself from crying out in need and disgust.
“I can see why Mick wants you for himself, an innocent, closet, hardcore sub. You are a rare breed indeed.”
The truth of his words were not lost on her, as painful as it was to hear. What a fucking time to find out I’m a fucking sub, she thought through her miserable, squalid desire.
Her eyelids fluttered and her eyes rolled as the pleasure intensified. Her insides felt coiled tight with pleasure that was closer to pain in its intensity.
Then his fingers were no longer between her legs and the unreleased pleasure see-sawed into the territory of throbbing pain.
“Please,” she whimpered.
The horrible realisation that she was pleading not for him to let her go but for sexual release, left her feeling sick.
“We have to play the game, Hope.”
She watched him walk to the side of her, where there was a horizontal pole around a metre in length screwed into the stone wall. From it hung instruments she did not recognise but which could only be used for one purpose – to inflict pain. Some of them looked like weird, oversized kitchen utensils; a spatula, a whisk, and a wooden spoon with holes in. The whips and belts hanging there however, were easily recognisable. After a moment’s hesitation, Rohan hung the whip he had been holding back up, and picked out a pair of leather belts.
Hope thought he was going to give her a lashing and her body tensed in preparation. To her surprise, he grabbed her breasts instead.
“This, dear Hope, is what we call in the trade a titty tourniquet.”
She yelped in shock when he lashed the belt around one breast and pulled the strap tight. It felt awful and she pushed down the rise of panic.
Oh sweet Jesus, he’s going to torque my boob clean off…
He did the same to the other one and she stared up at the stone-ceiling, praying to a God that she didn’t believe in for this nightmare to end. Her breasts were beginning to ache in a cold, frightening way. They felt tight at the point they joined her chest, freezing cold and alarmingly numb around the nipples. When she glanced down at herself, she saw that her big breasts stuck obscenely outwards and were rapidly turning a scary shade of purple.
He retrieved the whip with the flayed end he had just hung up and drew it lovingly through his fingers. She stared more closely in stark terror at the thing. The handle of it was wooden and the whip itself was rope, putting her in mind of a skipping rope. But this ‘skipping rope’ ended in multiple tails, each one fin
ished in a knot.
“This is my favourite kind of whip,” Rohan said softly, his eyes glazed like he was getting into the stride of his usual role. “It is the cat o’ nine tails. So simple, yet such an effective torture device.” Thoughtfully he fingered the knots at the end of the strands. “The claws on this are capable of inflicting hugely vicious parallel wounds. The strands can be tipped with metal spikes, glass, or any manner of sharp objects to add further injury, if one wishes. But of course, I don’t wish to do that. I’ll only use it to tenderise the flesh, it will make your skin fee alive and tingling.”
Yeah, with pain, she thought.
“Please, I don’t want to be whipped.”
“We have to be doing something when they come down to check on us. Besides, don’t knock it until you try it. I have no intention of breaking the sound barrier with it on your delicate, virgin skin. Are you aware that the whip is the first man-made object to break the sound barrier? A lash of the whip can travel over seven hundred and sixty miles per hour. That equates to three hundred and forty miles per second. The crack of a whip is actually a small sonic boom.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” she said, gritting her teeth against the odd sensation deep in her breast tissue. It wasn’t unpleasant, exactly, and that worried her more than any pain she was in.
“You may be assured that a good whipping is quite excruciating.”
She shivered when he trailed the cat over her torqued breasts. It tickled her skin, and her nipples puckered further into rock-hard pebbles. The tickling sensation was akin to being plunged in a bath of ice water, it warned of unknown pain to come and she trembled before him.
Then he began to whip her and she cried out in nervous anticipation.
“This doesn’t hurt, Hope, just relax and go with it.”
As much as she was loath to admit it, he was right. It didn’t hurt. He smacked the flayed ends over and over the front of her body at speed, paying particular attention to her breasts. Her flesh tingled hot and cold, like she had pins and needles. He certainly wasn’t doing it hard enough to hurt.