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.🥰

He looks…lethal.

That’s the only way I can think to describe him. His clean-shaven face is all hard lines and masculine features. A sharp jaw cuts across his face, framing his full lips. His brows, which are a deep, dark brown, are a little bushy and thick. His buzzcut matches the brown of his eyes and his brows, and honestly, it just makes him look fucking dangerous. The icing on top is that the tattoos on his arms don’t stop at his arms. No, even from here, I can see that they crawl up his chest and to his neck, stopping halfway up his throat.

I always knew he could easily kill me. His hand could wrap around my throat whenever he wants to, and I’d be done, just like that. But seeing his intimidating face, the tic in his jaw, and the few blemishes here and there just hammers it in that this man is a deadly psycho.

We both just stare at each other, each waiting for the other to break the silence and say something. But for once, he seems to break first.

He comes to crouch before my naked form on the floor, like he always does, and then he repeats his earlier command. “Ask nicely, little pet.”

There’s something seriously wrong with me, because without his mask, the deep vibrations of his voice combined with his intense face make my insides twist in a weird, slightly arousing way. He’s incredibly scary up close like this, but seeing his face makes him seem more…human, in a very, very strange way.

And – god help me – I can’t deny that he looks nice, too. He looks lethal and dangerous, but in the please ruin my life and rearrange my insides sort of way. That doesn’t mean I like him, or even that I’d ever want to act on my physical attraction for him. I’m just acknowledging it as fact.

He tilts his head, and I realise I’ve been quietly staring at him for the past few moments. “Can you please feed me…” I pause, swallowing. “…Master?”

He groans, somewhere deep down in his hard chest, and I swallow in fear. His hand reaches out, petting the side of my head. “Such an obedient little thing, aren’t you?”

I don’t acknowledge his demeaning comment, and thankfully, he doesn’t ask me to. Instead, he calmly reaches his hand down into his bag and pulls out a container of tomato soup – because of course.

He begins feeding me, but he doesn’t touch me for some reason. Maybe some small, fleetingly compassionate part of him knows this is a lot for me to take in. His face, calling him my Master. I don’t question him, because like always when he changes his routine, I’m too scared of reminding him of it or angering him in some way.

It's weird that I’m terrified of angering him, though. Because other than when he took me, he’s never really been explicitly violent towards me. Sure, he’s left me in here to starve for days in a row, and he’s a little rough when he fucks my mouth, but other than that, has he ever physically actually hurt me? I don’t think so.

And he’s never been angry at me in that sense, either. He’s punished me in cruel, sadistic ways, sure, and he’s sometimes been disappointed in me or firm in his commands, but angry? That’s not really the word I’d use to describe the way he acts…ever.

Still, I don’t think anyone could blame me for being scared of provoking him in some way. He’s already shown me that he doesn’t need to use anger or intimidation to punish or control me. He’s made me obedient by simply throwing me in here and demonstrating that he’ll withhold food from me for the smallest of things. It’s sick and it’s horrible, and despite him never being violent with me, the fear of a punishment like that still keeps me from acting up.

Ugh. Acting up. I shouldn’t use those words to refer to me simply wanting to exist as my own person.

When I finish my soup, my captor takes the empty container and puts it in his bag, and then he stands. He looks down at me, and for a second I think he expects me to say something, but then he speaks first.

“Come here, Hannah,” he says, extending his hand. I scoot over so I can take it, and he helps me stand, then he produces a blindfold and slips it over my eyes. As far as I know, I’m not supposed to shower today, so I don’t know why we’re going outside. But I don’t stop him.

He leads me out, and we start walking through the house. But I quickly realise we’re going somewhere new, which makes sense. Things have changed now, in more ways than one, but the fear of not knowing how is all consuming and overwhelming.

Despite the gentle way he said my name and the careful way he leads me to god knows where…he still terrifies me. It feels like I’m a lamb being led to slaughter, getting a few scratches behind my ear to soothe me so I don’t kick my owner and run off.

We walk in silence the entire way, which feels like just a few minutes, and when we stop, I hear him open a door. It doesn’t sound like a normal door, though, which makes me frown. Honestly, it kind of sounds like the door to my cell?

And when he closes it behind him, the lock sounds the same, too. But I don’t get a chance to think about that much before my blindfold is ripped off my face.

I blink, adjusting to the soft, yellow lighting in the room. It’s quite large, and it looks like a master bedroom of some kind. The king-sized bed takes up most of the space, sitting in the middle, up against a wall. A dresser drawer sits on the end of it, each of the drawers decorated with beautiful golden edges and patterns. There are two bedside tables, one on each side of the bed, and on each sits a small table lamp.

There are a few candles lining the walls, each hanging in intricate, golden wall sconces. The walls and the floor are all made of a deep, brown oak – which normally wouldn’t be worth remarking upon, but, well, I haven’t seen a room like this in weeks.

I also notice a few cameras in the corners of the room, again leaving no blind spots. I can never get my privacy back, I guess.

There are a few other pieces of furniture littering the space. Two armchairs, an ottoman, even a bookshelf, which I immediately notice is full of more of my own books. But my eyes widen with sheer awe when I notice something on the upper side of the wall opposite the door.

A window.

Barely a flicker of shame passes through me at being so overjoyed over a damn window, but how can’t I be? I haven’t seen daylight in so long, and for some reason, my captor has decided to show it to me. I can see the beautiful blue sky above, the sun illuminating the parts of the room that the window lets it see. It’s not a particularly large window, and I also notice that there’s iron bars on both the inside and the outside of it, but it’s still a window. That’s insane, right?

When my awe over the damn window passes, I notice that on the wall between the window and the door, opposite the bed, there’s another door, currently open. I manage a small peek inside, immediately seeing that it’s a small bathroom, attached to the master bedroom. It’s not the same one he’s been leading me to this entire time, yet even from here I can still see that it has a lot of the same items. I also notice yet another camera, which is, of course, staring right at the shower in the corner.

After a minute of looking around, I finally find my voice again. “What…what is this?” I ask, dumbfounded.

If he noticed that I didn’t call him Master, he doesn’t say. “This is our room,” he says instead, and I turn to face him.

“What?”

“Remember your manners, little girl,” he reprimands, and I pale.

My heart climbs into my throat as a stutter a panicked and awkward “I’m…I’m sorry…Master.” The humiliation and anger I get from not only apologising to him, but also calling him that stupid fucking title is still overwhelming.

He gives a small smile, and I can’t tell if it’s a condescending or amused. Probably both, honestly.

He takes my hand, leading me to the bed, and it’s only now that I notice that this isn’t a normal bed. As I sit down on the large mattress, I see it has…restraints. There are soft looking silk restraints in each corner of the bed, as well as metal restraints attached to the headboard. My heart starts beating uncontrollably fast at all the terrifying scenarios running through my head.

When I look up at my captor again, standing right in front of me, his lips are tugged up in a small smile, and this one is definitely amused and condescending. By the look he gives me, I can tell he knows what I’m thinking about, and I hate him for it. He’s getting off on my fear, and despite already knowing he has a thing for that, the reminder of it still puts a damper on the coziness of this room.

He walks impossibly closer to me, so close that my cheek presses against the hard planes of his stomach. His hand comes to beneath my head, gripping under my chin to tilt my head so I look up at him. I’m used to seeing him from this angle – where I’m beneath him and have to crane my neck to see his eyes – but now, without his mask and with the intense look he gives me, I feel my skin prickle with nerves.

“This is where you will stay from now on,” he explains. “You will sleep in that bed, together with me, and you will stay here whenever I leave.”

The relief that floods my senses is immense. He’s giving me a bed. I’ve been sleeping on the floor for the past few weeks, and even with the blanket and the pillow, it still feels horrible. Even if I have to sleep next to the monster that took me, it’s infinitely better than the stone floor of my cell.

But… “What’s the price?” I ask. He gives me a pointed look, making my hands wring in my lap. “Master…” I sigh.

“Good girl,” he mutters. He lets me go, then crouches, coming down to eyelevel with me. I don’t dare break his gaze. “You live to serve me, Hannah,” he says more clearly. “I will do whatever I want with you, and you will be a good little girl and obey my every command. And if you follow every one of my rules, I will feed you and take care of you, and you will be allowed to stay here.” He pauses, placing his hands on my naked thighs and gripping me so tight that I wince in pain. “But if you break my rules, you’re going back to your cell. Do you understand me?”

It always feels like I’m drowning whenever he reminds me of my place beneath him in any way. It doesn’t matter how he does it, or what he says, it always just floods me with dread and disgust. It’s worse when he expects me to acknowledge it, like any part of me wants this.

But I don’t have a choice. What he’s given me here, in this room, is the best I could’ve asked for, other than my freedom. So, after a beat, I give a small, reluctant nod, whispering, “Yes.”

His eyes narrow, and I’d groan with frustration and fear if I didn’t already know it’d anger him. “Yes, Master,” I mutter. “I understand.”

“Such a good little pet,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. The softness of his gesture is, as always, a horrific contrast to the situation we’re in.

Something changes in the air, and it’s so sudden I have to smother a gasp. His jaw tics slightly, and his eyes darken as he looks down at my body. And then his hand comes out, his long, thick fingers wrapping around my throat.

I can’t smother my next gasp as it fights to escape the tight grip he has on my throat. He stands at the same time as he pushes me down onto the bed, and I’d weep with joy at the feel of the soft bed at my back if it wasn’t for the way he immediately leans over my body. He’s so intimidating that my pulse becomes so quick that I feel it in my entire body, and, shamefully, I notice it between my legs, too.

He comes impossible closer, his knee lodging itself between my thighs, and his t shirt grazing my breasts with every breath I take. His lips fuse together with mine, and his tongue pries them apart, forcing me to taste him. He groans as he takes my mouth, and despite every part of me wanting to kick him between the legs right now, a small gasp of pleasure escapes me, one so small that at first I don’t think he heard it. But when he pulls away, his knowing smirk tells me he definitely heard it.

“Please,” I beg. “What are you going to do to me?”

He kisses me again, his grip on my throat tightening. “I’m going to fucking ruin you, Hannah.”

I whimper (with fear? With arousal? Who knows?), and he begins adjusting our bodies until I’m laying in the middle of the bed with him over me. He presses his body closer to mine, and I feel his hard arousal through his jeans, grinding against my core.

His free hand palms my breast for a while, and the friction of his calloused palm against my hardened nipple sends shivers through my body. “Master?” I ask, hoping that using his preferred name will earn me a little bit of leniency with my following question.

He pulls away, a flicker of surprise passing through his features before he masks it. “Yes, baby?”

“Are you…” I swallow. “Are you going to hurt me?”

He gives me a terrifying, sadistic smirk. “Of course I am,” he says, like it’s obvious, and all the blood drains from my face.

I feel nerves prickling my skin, dread crashing over me in waves. “Please don’t. I can’t…I don’t want it.”

“Shh, my beautiful girl,” he coos, and I do my best to keep my tears at bay. “Relax for me.”

I nod, trying my best to do as he says. He still has a tight grip of my throat, like he needs to remind me of my place while he gives soothing, reassuring words. His other hand trails down my body, leaving goosebumps in its wake, as it passes over my ribs, my belly button, my abdomen, and it finally reaches the apex of my thighs.

I stir at the feeling of his rough fingers on my clit. He starts rubbing slow, torturous circles, all while his intense eyes suck me in, making it impossible to look away. I bite the inside of my lip when I feel hints of pleasure low in my abdomen, part of me wanting to chase that feeling away from me and the other desperately wanting to grip it tight.

He keeps rubbing as his lips come back down to mine, kissing me deep, and fuck, I can’t help but feel some pleasure at the way his soft lips feel against mine. His kiss is deep, but not hard or punishing. He’s consuming and taking me, but not ruining or hurting me.

It’s like he knows what will get me going and is torturing me in the most fucked up way by making me enjoy the way he’s violating me. I hate it, but my body isn’t getting the memo, and I’m soon buzzing with pleasure everywhere he’s touching me.

A gasp tears from my throat when he inserts a finger inside me. I can feel his hard length pressing into my leg, right by where my body is begging for him to enter me, but he’s denying me. The rational part of me is happy for it, whereas the part of me that just feels a hot, scary man above me is pleading for him to ruin me, like he promised he would.

This keeps going for several long minutes, and I can do nothing to resist, so perhaps it’s inevitable that after a while, I give in. I unclench my thighs, relaxing into the bed, and my mouth softens beneath his kiss. He groans, likely having just felt what I did, and his kiss turns impossibly deeper.

After a minute, he pulls away, looking straight into my eyes while he fingers me and drives me closer to the climax it’s becoming harder and harder to fight. “Do you wanna come?” he asks, and I shake my head, gasping as he drives even deeper inside me. He hums low in his chest. “Don’t lie to me,” he demands, firmly, and my eyes turn glassy with unshed tears.

I don’t think I’m lying, but the fact that I’m even unsure makes me feel shame unlike any other. I can’t stand this, that he wants me to humiliate myself by admitting that part of me desperately wants to come. It’s degrading and sickening, yet when his fingers bottom out and his thumb presses into my clit, just as his fingers tighten around my neck, I can’t stop the “Please” that escapes me on a gasp.

“Please what?” he demands.

“Please make me come,” I whisper, ashamed.

He smiles, likely knowing how much I hated saying that. He doesn’t reprimand me for forgetting his title, and I wish I knew why. Instead, he simply says, “Come for me, my pet,” and kisses me deeply.

I come apart on his fingers moments later, moans and gasps of pleasure escaping my mouth and landing in his. He doesn’t let up, just keeps torturing me as I cry out with pleasure and shame, all mixed together in a horrific display beneath him. His fingers curl at the tail-end of my climax, driving yet another pleasured moan out of me that I immediately wish I could take back. Only when the last of my orgasm dies away does he pull out, but unlike all the other times he’s violated me, he doesn’t bring his fingers to his lips.

He brings them to mine.

I purse my lips, desperate to avoid tasting myself. It’s not that I haven’t done it before, but part of me is still in denial about how good he just made me feel. Having me literally taste the evidence of it…it’d be the most humiliating part of all this.

Which is why his grip on my throat tightens even more, all the way until I can’t help but open my mouth on a soundless gasp, and he shoves his fingers inside.

He places them on my tongue, flooding me with the taste of my own sick pleasure. Part of me wants to bite him, but I somehow keep that part at bay, and I let him coat my tongue and the inside of my mouth with my juices.

He keeps his fingers there, then his lips come down to my ear. He bites it, earning a surprised gasp from me. “You taste that, Hannah?” he asks. “That’s the taste of you loving being my little pet. You want to be my good little girl, despite how much you deny it. You want nothing more than to serve me and obey me, letting me use your body for my own pleasure, and you want that sweet reward at the end of it.” I desperately shake my head, denying his horrific accusations. “Shh,” he coos. “I know you think you don’t want it, but you do. Soon enough, you’ll be begging for the taste of your own come.”

He pulls his fingers out, but before I can even react or give a futile retort, his fingers move down to his jeans.

This is it, then. The moment he proves to me that he truly can do whatever he wants with me, and there’s nothing I can do to resist. There’s no going back after this. No matter what happens, I will live with the memory of him inside me until the day I die. It was always going to come to this, but now that it’s here, I feel just like I did on my first day here. Terrified. Confused. Disoriented. Desperate.

But that desperation is for so much more than just my freedom. I feel desperate for my pulse to not quicken when he unbuckles his belt. I feel desperate to not get impossibly more wet as he unzips and unbuttons his jeans. And I feel desperate to deny – to myself and to him – just how much I’m desperate to feel his thick length inside me.

His cock springs free, and the sight of it, framed by his trimmed hair, muscular thighs, and hard stomach, is so overwhelmingly masculine and intimidating that it sends shivers through my entire body. He lines himself up with my entrance, and before I can even ready myself, he pushes himself inside.

I already knew he was thick, but this is so much. The way he stretches my walls, forcing me to accommodate him as he pushes himself deeper and deeper. The way he fills me to the brim as he bottoms out, pushing a slightly pained groan out of me. It’s too much, yet it’s also not enough. I want him to pull out of me more than I want my next breath, yet part of me wants him to push back inside right after.

“So fucking tight,” he groans. He’s not moving, just staying inside me like the monster he is, forcing me to feel every thick inch of him.

It hurts, but my body soon gets used to the feeling of him inside me. The orgasm he just gave me helped loosen me up, and I’d thank him for making me ready like that if he wasn’t, you know, him.

After a minute of just staying there, he begins slowly thrusting in and out of me. He’s slow, almost like he’s savouring the feel of me while he’s taking me. His hand is still wrapped around my throat, which it has been since he pushed me down onto the bed, and his other hand is palming my breast. His mouth comes down to my other breast, sucking the stiff peak into his warm mouth, and I feel everything, everywhere, all at once. It’s too much, yet my body is begging for more, for the feel of his hard body against me and the feel of his tongue on my nipple.

He flicks it, then sucks it into his mouth like he’s starved for it. It hurts, yet the shivers that shoot down my body all gather at where we’re joined. His other hand holds onto my other breast in such a soft way, the only part of this that is in any way soft or careful. Because despite the way his cock is only slowly moving in and out of me, it still feels like it’s splitting me apart with its sheer size and hardness.

“Such a good fucking girl,” he says, and despite everything, hearing his praise still does something good to me. “Taking me so well, aren’t you? Like you were fucking made for me.”

A moan escapes me before I have the chance to stop it, and my legs wrap around his waist before I have the chance to stop them. This creates a new angle, letting him go so much deeper, but it’s no longer so overwhelming that it hurts. It’s instead become so overwhelming that it feels fucking good, and I hate it.

I can’t get over what he’s doing to me. It’d be one thing if he assaulted me on day one and just kept me in the cell, only coming in to fuck me when he felt like it. But no, he has to make sure it feels good for me to, like some sick, twisted part of him wants me to enjoy the feeling of him violating me.

And god help me, despite how much I wish it wasn’t the case, I fucking love the way he feels inside me.

I’m lost in a haze of pleasure and conflicted feelings, yet I can already tell what I’ll be telling myself in an hour.

I can’t be blamed for finding some pleasure in this horrifying situation.

He forced me to come, it’s not my fault.

I haven’t had an orgasm in weeks, so of course my body would react like this.

But they all just feel like excuses, because they are. Yet I still hold onto those excuses like lifelines to the remaining parts of my sanity, like I can tug on them to pull me back to shore to keep from drowning in him and the way he pushes me past the vague hazy pleasure I had and into a world of depravity I can’t pull back from.

His thrusts quicken, like he felt what I just felt. Me giving in. Me not fighting it anymore.

And I can’t help but relish in it when he pulls his mouth back up to mine and the hand that travels a slow path from my breast down to my clit, rubbing in slow, almost soothing circles. His thrusts, his tongue, his fingers, they all combine to push me over the edge before I can catch myself, and I realise in that moment, that I’m truly, utterly fucked.

I cry out into his mouth as he rips me apart. His thrusts turn violent, yet by now, I’m wet and loose enough to where it doesn’t hurt. It only feels good, giving me more and more pleasure as I ride out my orgasm. His tongue swirls with mine in the most delicious way as his fingers pinch my clit, making me scream out in desperation.

My scream unleashes him, and he plunges all the way into me, releasing deep inside me as he moans my name.

And I realise, when he stills inside me, that he’s ruined me, just like he said he would. Because he’s dragged me beneath the waves and to the bottom of an ocean of despair and ecstasy with him.

And because for a fleeting, horrific second, I don’t even want to come back up for air anymore.

Thank you so much for reading!💜 I really hope you enjoyed this one, it was such a joy to write😍