Trigger warnings: Non-consent, abduction, forced imprisonment, drugging, brief mentions of suicide, degradation, forced BDSM, and cruel punishments (including but not limited to starvation and isolation).

Also, I want to re-emphasise the starvation and isolation parts of the trigger warnings for Parts 3 and 4. I wouldn't read this if you're sensitive to those topics💜 You've been warned!

Note: This story, including all names and people, is entirely fictional and not based on any real life experiences or events.

If you like this story and want to read more, you can find a list of all my stories here!💜 You can also find a list of the parts of this story whenever they are published.🥰

Just like I predicted, I wake up with a horribly painful back.

I let out a loud, pained groan as I stretch and try to stand. It feels like I haven’t used my muscles in years when I stand on shaky legs, like I might just collapse and die right here.

My teeth also feel disgusting. I’m a clean freak when it comes to self-care, and now that it’s been days since I last brushed my teeth, I want to just rip them out when my tongue runs over them.

I can’t go on like this. I’ve only slept in here once and I already realise I just can’t do that again. I’d rather die.

So when my captor enters my cell a short while after I wake up, that’s the first thing I ask about. “Please, I can’t sleep on the floor like that again. Can I just have a pillow?” I try starting small, only asking for a pillow, since that’s the highest priority. I look up at him with pleading eyes from where I’m sitting against the wall, hoping he’ll be kind for once.

He doesn’t acknowledge my request, instead just grabbing what must be my breakfast from his bag. Or, well, I don’t know if it’s my breakfast. It could be 4 in the afternoon for all I know.

“Can I ask what the time is, please?” I try, but he predictably doesn’t answer me, leaving me to smother a groan of frustration.

He pointedly looks and nods at my dress as he crouches in front of me, holding the chicken salad in his hands. Tears prick at my eyes as I glance away from him, shame racking my body as I start tugging off my dress.

Once it’s over my head, he places the container on the floor, then gathers several pieces of the salad with his fork. His other hand unsurprisingly goes to my breasts, and I have to desperately try to keep from crying when he feeds me the first bite.

He keeps going like this until he gets to the last piece of the salad, just one piece of chicken and a small bit of lettuce. He pauses, then, with fire in his eyes, slowly brings his hand down to between my legs.

I try to clench to keep him out, but he gives me a warning look that promises danger, so I unclench my thighs. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to spread my legs to get a look down there. He just keeps his hand there, cupping me. He doesn’t rub or try to grip me harder; he just casually violates me with his hand.

Still, the message is unmistakable. He’s patient as fuck, but he’s escalating. Going from touching my cheek, then my breasts, and now between my legs? What’s next? I don’t even want to imagine it.

He keeps his hand there until I swallow, then he slowly withdraws it. He’s so gentle and careful, like I’m a precious toy he has to be careful not to break.

He stands slowly, closing the tupperware container before looking at me and casually saying, “Everything has a price, my Hannah.”

With that terrifying promise, he leaves, and I immediately throw my dress back on.

The rest of the day goes by in a monotony of feedings and boredom.

How fucked is that? That I’m bored when he’s not here to feed and touch me? Is that part of his strategy to break me down? To force me to miss him so I’ll eventually be begging for his gentle touches?

Each time he feeds me during the day, he does the same as he did when I woke up. He starts by fondling my breasts, then grabs me between the legs when I get to the last bite. It’s torture, because it already feels like a routine is building, yet I have no way of following it.

I can’t tell the time, so how am I supposed to know when he’s coming and when I have an hour to myself? It feels like he could honestly be coming whenever he feels like, as opposed to following a set pattern, but how can I tell?

I can’t, and that’s the worst part.

When he’s not here, I spend hours thinking and humming to myself. I have to do something to break the monotony and somehow entertain myself, but this time, my thoughts wander to my family and friends.

If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve been here for three days, maybe four depending on how long the drugs kept me knocked out. I must have been reported missing by now, right? What must my family think? And my friends? I was supposed to hang out with them the morning after I was taken. Did they go to my house looking for me, only to find no trace?

Will my case end up on a true crime podcast in a year? The famous case of Hannah Addison, who disappeared overnight in her bed, never to be seen again? I almost laugh, because maybe I’ll even get to listen to it someday. That’d be something.

But that’s assuming I’m still alive in a year, which isn’t a guarantee.

I just hope I’m found. The police must be looking for me, but I don’t know what leads they have to go on. All I know is I was snatched from my bed in the middle of the night. I don’t know where I am or how I got here, and I don’t even know how he got into my house.

So even if he did leave behind clues, it can’t bring me any comfort, since I have no idea what those clues are or how good they would be. All I have to go on is blind hope that he fucked up and left a trail, leading right to this cell.

But hope is such a fleeting thing, and even though I’ve only been here for a few days, I can already feel it slipping away from me.

Since my captor was, in fact, not kind enough to bring me a blanket and a pillow, I have to sleep on the floor again. As I lay down, I think about what he said earlier today.

Everything has a price.

Is that a hint? Is that his way of saying I have to blow him to be allowed a fucking pillow? Even though I’d rather die than sleep on the floor like this again, I’d also rather shove barbed wire into my mouth than his dick.

The next day is the same. And the next. And the next. It’s a monotonous cycle, but he’s not escalating anymore. Is this a test, somehow? Does he want me to escalate instead? Because that’s not fucking happening. I’d rather he force himself on me than that.

But on the next day, I wake up to the sight of him leaning against the wall with a plastic container in his grip. So, no chicken salad today, which is honestly a blessing. By now, it tastes as stale and monotonous as this damn cell looks.

That’s why the sight of something new makes my mouth water. I immediately stand, silently pleading with my eyes for the food in his hands.

He doesn’t approach me, instead just stays leaned against the wall. Does he want me to strip, is that it?

I haven’t taken off my dress before without him crouched before me against the wall, so I feel extremely exposed and awkward as I pull the dress of my body, leaving me standing in the middle of the cell, completely bare.

His eyes go up and down my body several times as an appreciative groan escapes him, but he doesn’t move.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, voice trembling with desperation. “I don’t know what you want. Please just tell me…” Just like usual, begging fills me with so much dread and humiliation that I have to fight hard to keep my tears at bay.

His eyes soften, just a little, and then he says, “Get on the floor.”

I hate the way I immediately do as he says, kneeling on the floor like a damn pet. He’s several feet away from me, but it feels like he’s right in front of me when he looks down at me.

After a beat, he continues. “Crawl to me, Hannah.”

“What?” I ask, dumfounded.

He doesn’t respond. He just waits for me to humiliate myself for him, the fucking dickhead. But how can he expect me to physically crawl for him? All while I’m naked and imprisoned?

But the food…fuck. I hate this so much, having to humiliate myself just to meet my basic needs. I’m hungry as fuck, and it smells so damn good.

I try. I really do try to extend my arms and crawl, but I can’t. I just fucking can’t.

“Please,” I beg. “It’s too much. I can’t do it…” I feel pathetic, explaining why crawling for him is too much for me. I don’t want to negotiate with this bastard, yet that’s exactly what he’s reduced me to.

It doesn’t surprise me when he starts walking towards the door with a shrug. What does surprise me is how I immediately yell out, “Wait! Please! I’ll do it, I’m sorry!”

Apologising to him feels so wrong. Yet another stab wound to my shrinking sanity.

He pauses, then turns and leans against the wall again, waiting.

I slowly begin extending a hand, this time making sure I actually do crawl. He watches as I get on all fours, so I break my gaze and look at the floor. I can’t look at him while I do this, that’s just too fucking much for me.

Still, I feel his eyes on me like a brand as I make my way across the cold floor. I’m incredibly self-conscious of the way my breasts hang between my arms, and the way my ass is high in the air. There’s a camera right behind me too, which I just know he’ll be looking at later.

I eventually, painfully slowly, make it to his feet. I pause there, kneeling demurely and hoping he’ll just give me the damn food.

But then he says, “Kiss my feet.”

Tears roll down my cheeks as I look up at him. “Please,” I beg. “I can’t…I’m so hungry, I can’t wait any longer.”

His eyes narrow in anger. “Kiss. My. Feet.” His tone is final, leaving no room for questions.

I look down at his feet. He’s wearing leather shoes, so it could be worse, but I still feel my heart painfully squeeze as I lean down to give his right foot a kiss.

I try to keep it chaste, then I do the same to his left. Once done, I glance up at him while I’m still braced at his feet on my elbows.

“You can do better than that, my Hannah.”

Fuck my life, is all I can think as I lean down to kiss his feet again. I pepper them with chaste kisses, trying to do as he asks as best I can.

But in the middle of degrading myself, he says, “Use your tongue.”

I wince, looking up at him with a pleading look, but he just narrows his eyes, and I realise I have no choice but to obey. I stick my tongue out, cringing at the taste of leather hitting me. The only thing keeping me here is the knowledge that the taste of leather will soon be replaced by whatever he has in his hands. I do a damn good job, honestly. I shine those shoes with my tongue like a I’m a dog, hating every second of it. But I do it, all for a little bit of food.

Eventually he gently kicks me away, so I kneel at his feet again. I look up at him, my eyes hopeful. “Go kneel in the corner,” he says, pointing to the corner furthest away from us.

I do as he says, walking over to the corner then kneeling there, waiting.

But then he moves to the door. My heart stops, and I panic, standing and running towards him. “Wait! Where are you going!?”

He swiftly shuts the door behind him, and I slam my palm into it, yelling, “Come back! Please!”

He doesn’t come back. Eventually, that desperation transforms into anger. He just fucking left me here with no food. “You can’t leave me in here! You can’t fucking do this to people! Let me go, you god damn psycho!” I keep yelling, keep slamming on the door like that’ll make him come back.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t come back.

A desperate cry escapes me in defeat, and I go sit in the corner. I bring my knees to my chest, sobbing hard at the way he just left me like that. My growling stomach is like a cherry on top, reminding me that my life is no longer my own.

I eventually cry myself to sleep, and when I wake up, I see a water bottle in front of me.

I really must be a deep sleeper since he keeps coming in here while I’m asleep.

I grab the water, thankful that I have something to take the edge off. I’m absolutely fucking starving. My stomach feels like it’s eating itself, which by this point it must be, since there’s no other source of nutrition.

But when I take a swig of the water, I notice a piece of paper that was laying under it. I close the cap on the bottle, then gently set it down as I pick up the paper. It’s written in a beautiful cursive, yet my stomach drops when I read it.

Rule number one: You will obey me at all times. You will not hesitate or question me. You will simply do as I command.

Okay, so that answers that. This is a punishment for disobeying him.

At least now I know why he didn’t feed me. That’s something, right? I mean, considering just how little I know about my current existence, I might as well cling onto any little piece of information I get.

So, that’s cool. Disobeying him means I don’t get my dinner. Actually, that’s not very cool. At least my angry stomach doesn’t think it is.

And it really does piss me off. Does he really expect me to be some mindless zombie, following his every command like it’s the most natural thing in the world? How can he expect that of me? Fuck that.

The anger of the “rule” combines with my anger at my situation. How fucking dare he steal a woman from her bed in the middle of the night and stick her in a concrete box? How dare he use food as a reward and as a punishment, like I’m no better than a misbehaving dog? How dare he force me to strip and grope me, like he has any right to my body?

The anger builds and builds until all I see is red. I almost throw the water bottle against the wall in defiance, but I stop myself, realising how idiotic that would be.

Instead, I grip the stupid piece of paper in my hand until it crumples in my grip. Then, I walk to the toilet.

And with my eyes looking straight into the camera, I flush his stupid rule down the toilet.

Thank you so much for reading!💜