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).

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.🥰

Another week and a half pass of this weird pattern.

He feeds me. He gropes me. And every few days he lets me shower, change my clothes, and brush my teeth. Sometimes he fucks my mouth, sometimes he doesn’t. It’s torture, obviously, but it’s sort of nice to have a pattern. He actually gave me a proper blanket a few days ago, which I asked if I had to pay for, but he just shook his head.

Does it make sense? No, not at all, but at least he’s not escalating.

But does that mean the ball is in my court? Is he waiting for me to escalate, maybe in desperation to end this horrible cycle? I can’t do that.

But by the end of the week, I’ve got another problem. I’m normally a pretty horny girl, but obviously, my libido has been at an all time low these past few weeks. But with us entering a sort-of pattern, I feel a bit more…comfortable? I hate that word so much, but I can’t find another.

And since I feel more comfortable here, my libido has begun creeping back. But it’s more than that, at least I hope so. I feel so fucking bored most of the time, since he only comes in here to feed me a couple times a day.

Rubbing one out would definitely help with the boredom.

But still, I hate the idea of masturbating on camera. I mean, he’s seen every inch of my body, but for some reason, rubbing one out is just so much worse.

But when he leaves after feeding me, I can’t take it anymore. I throw my dress back on to give me just a bit of privacy, and then I get to it.

I begin by drawing slow, careful circles around my clit. I haven’t had an orgasm in weeks, so the pleasure that shoots through my body is immense. I feel needy and desperate for it, so when I give my clit a few careful pinches, I can’t help but gasp.

I use my other hand to play with my breasts for a few minutes, then I trail it down my body and stick two fingers inside me. The sensation of touching my clit and filling myself up feels divine.

I think of how good it is to finally just feel something. I think of the last guy I hooked up with a few weeks ago, and how I rode him until I came all over him. I think of how much I miss my damn vibrator.

But then my thoughts wander elsewhere. Without my permission, I begin thinking of the monster who’s keeping me here. I think of his thick, inked arms, and his intense brown eyes, keeping me under his control. The way his broad chest flexes under his tight shirts, and the way that mask covers his face, like he could be anyone. The way his mouth tastes, and the way he fucks my mouth…

I come on my fingers, crying out with need. I ride the orgasm with my fingers, rubbing my clit the entire time to get as much pleasure as possible.

But my cries of pleasure quickly turn into cries of shame when I come back down. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, masturbating to thoughts of him and coming harder than I have in months. I didn’t even have to use my vibrator…fuck.

I am so fucked in the head.

And when I look into the camera in the corner, more tears roll down my cheeks.

I spend a good part of the day crying, but I somehow manage to calm myself down by rationalising what I just did.

I haven’t seen another human being in weeks. And the only one I have seen is the one who’s taking care of me. I mean he’s forcing me to accept his caretaking, but still. And he honestly does look really fucking hot, even if it’s something that I’ve managed to block out for a while.

If I read about this in an article then I wouldn’t blame myself for getting a tiny bit of pleasure, right? I mean, who would? Finding a little bit of joy in a terrible situation is reasonable, I think.

I’m terrified that my captor will read too much into this, though. What if he takes this as a sign that I like him? That I want more? What if he uses this as an excuse to finally fuck me?

The thoughts running through my mind just make me cry harder, honestly. I’ve been pushing it away for a while now, but I’m still so fucking scared. He’s hurt me, so fucking much, and he’s going to keep doing so. I feel like I’m constantly walking on glass, desperate to avoid angering him but also desperate to find any comfort with my stay here.

The pillow, the blanket, and the shower are really all I’ve gotten. Masturbation, although making me feel like shit afterwards, is just another comfort I’ve taken for myself. Who can blame me for that?

The day slowly ticks by, and eventually I get confused. I obviously have no way of telling the time, but it feels like it’s been way too long since I’ve been fed. My stomach hurts as the hours pass by, and eventually, I look into the camera and say, “Am I being fed?”

I cringe at the demureness and desperation in my voice. It’s been a while since I was taken, but I still can’t believe I’ve already been reduced to this.

I wait for several long minutes, but no one comes. I keep waiting for what feels like almost an hour, and no one comes.

Fuck. No, no, no, no.

Is he punishing me again? What the fuck for? What did I do wrong this time?

As more and more hours pass, and I get more and more tired, I also get more and more desperate. I want to scream and cry, but instead, I ask the camera, as calmly as I can, “Did I do something wrong?”

There’s no response. And eventually, I figure I just have to accept that I’m not being fed today, so I fall asleep instead.

When I wake up, I unsurprisingly find a water bottle.

The sight of it makes my heart sink, because just like last time, he’s making it clear that I’m not being fed, just to fucking punish me. But it’s not until I see the paper under the water bottle that I finally get some answers.

Rule number three: You may not touch yourself without my permission. Your body is no longer your own, and only your owner will decide when you touch yourself and when you come.

I suspected this, but the confirmation still makes my heart ache. I throw my head back and take a few deep breaths to keep the tears at bay. Once I’m calm, I stand in the middle of the room, hands wringing together in nervousness, and look at one of the cameras.

“I didn’t know that was a rule,” I say, voice surprisingly steady. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have touched myself if I knew.” I take a breath, willing myself to keep my shameful tears at bay. Part of me feels like shit for begging for forgiveness for something so small…But some small part of me also feels bad for breaking his rule, for making him disappointed.

I push that part of me deep, deep down.

“I won’t do it again, I promise. Can I please just have something small to eat? I’m so hungry,” I beg, voice breaking on a sob at the last word. It never gets better, begging for food like this, and I suspect it will always feel this dirty and humiliating.

I go back to my corner and wait. I wait for several minutes, but I give up hope when I count to a thousand in my head and he still doesn’t come.

Several hours later, the door swings open just as I’ve finished using the toilet.

I gasp, hand at my heart, when I see my captor entering the room. He’s carrying a plastic bag of some kind, and even from here I can smell that it’s full of food.

Is my punishment over, then? Is this him showing some small compassion after I begged for it? Last time was over three days, but that was also after I flushed his order down the toilet. This time, I just gently placed it on the floor. Maybe my punishment last time was extended because I flushed it down the toilet, but I don’t think I’ll ever truly know.

I immediately ditch my dress, just like usual, and my nudity doesn’t even phase me anymore. He places the bag on the floor, then turns to face me. His arms fold over his chest, and his ankles cross, as he leans casually against the wall right by the door.

Ohhhhkay, it’s another riddle.

Does he want me to kiss and lick his feet again, like last time? But why? Last time, I thought it was because I was being punished partly for disobeying his order to kiss his feet. There might be a pattern if he wants me to kiss his feet now, but it’s very loose, isn’t it?

So, I just kneel on the floor and ask, “What do you want me to do?”

He huffs a laugh, like any part of this situation is humorous to him. “Spread your legs.”

I immediately want to say no, or maybe even ask what he means, but I just barely manage to stop myself. But with the way his eyes narrow, I don’t think he misses the reluctance in my expression.

Panicked, I immediately sit on my ass and spread my legs on the floor, leaning back on my hands to keep myself steady. The open air hitting me between my legs makes me shiver, reminding me of how fucking exposed I am right now.

He picks up a container from his bag, slowly walking over, then crouches between my spread legs. His hand cups me, but this time, he sticks a finger inside.

I’m not very wet, so the friction hurts a bit, but he doesn’t care. He just keeps it inside me, then he uses his thumb to touch my clit. His other hand goes to the container, which he swiftly opens. I look over, curious what he’s brought me, and I could weep when I see he’s brought me tomato soup.

It's my favourite dish. He must know this, right? What are the chances he just brought it and didn’t know?

My stomach is growling loudly at the sight of it. I think it’s been at least a day and a half since I ate, but that’s just a guess, so the sight of the soup has my mouth watering.

But I obediently wait for him to feed me like the good pet he wants me to be. He keeps fingering me slowly, all while rubbing my clit, and eventually, it starts to feel good.

He doesn’t acknowledge the food, he just keeps pleasuring me in a way that shouldn’t feel this fucking good. It’s uncomfortable and invasive, but more than that, it just feels nice. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but lean into that pleasure and let it consume me.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually, I feel an orgasm building. It builds and builds, and a moan escapes my lips while I chase it with abandon. Another few minutes, and it’s so close I could reach out and touch it. I’m almost at the edge, that beautiful edge of hazy, mind-numbing pleasure, and then I reach out to touch it.

But it fades. It dissipates before my eyes, like ashes tossed into the ocean. And when my eyes open, I see my captor’s hand has been removed and he’s calmly dipping a spoon into the soup.

Disappointment and anger mix low in my abdomen. The fucker did that on purpose. He could tell I was close, and he stopped just as I would’ve reached the peak.

I glare at him as he brings the spoon close to my mouth, but when he sees my glare, he stops halfway. “No!” I panic. “Please, I’m sorry. That was disrespectful. It won’t happen again.”

He nods his understanding, and I hate how his approval and silent forgiveness sends a bit of warmth through my cold body.

He feeds me just like normal, and the warm, comforting soup running down my throat feels even better than the orgasm I was chasing would’ve felt. You really do appreciate food in a different way when you go without it for a couple days, I guess.

I eat it all in silence, too scared of angering him again, and when I finish, he calmly closes the container and begins walking away.

He places it in the plastic bag, then turns to face me. “That beautiful little pussy belongs to me, Hannah,” he explains, looking straight at it. My cheeks heat with anger and humiliation. “Learn to be a good girl for me, and I’ll let you come. And if you touch yourself in any way without my permission again, I’ll keep you in here without food for a lot longer than a day.”

With that harsh scolding, he leaves, and I let myself shed a few tears when I clench my thighs and feel how wet I am between my legs.

Thank you for reading!💜