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The steady drip, drip, drip of the leak in the red-taped pipe forming into the cement ceilings emulates the drip, drip, drip of blood as it develops, pools, and splatters into a star-shaped puddle between your bare feet. Hovering over a masochistic workbench, a dim bulb illuminates the blood puddle - your blood puddle.
The pool looks brackish.
Old.
European seas come to mind, like back home, but those are memories, and you'll never see any seas again. Certainly not the ones off the coast of Yorkshire where happier days live.
Instead of serene pebble beaches and polaroids, you have four stained walls and that drip… drip… drip…
By now, your face tingles with numbness. Beneath that, your heart still races in your nose, sinuses, and temple.
Where the blood is flowing from, you're not entirely sure. It could be the broken nose or the cut beneath your hairline, but the taste in the back of your throat is savory, like mucus, which suggests the blood is from the knuckle punch you took half an hour ago and not something related to postnasal drip.
Drip, drip… drip...
If last night doesn't end up being the last time you ever do anything of your own free will, then you'll make a promise to never attempt hookups at a bar again, but you're not getting out of here. This is where you die. Not only is this dank basement going to be your coffin, but the worst was yet to come, and you know this because there's someone's faded blue eyeball standing in a jar of unknown liquid a few feet away on a wall shelf.
This basement is a murder hole, and you're the so-called whore meant for it. Shade is the butcher and, if the way his cheeks grew pink the last time he drew blood, there's more in store for you than garden variety torture. Despite this being the plot of a few pornos you've enjoyed, nothing but fear coats your inner thighs.
Upstairs a door shuts, and you feel your bowels clench.
Despite being firmly lodged in the ceiling, the pipes rattle.
Drip, drip, drip… drip…
The repeating sound makes your unsteady bloodletting seem amateur. The water sprinkling the floor masks his steps. When the metal door opens on the floor above, letting in warm yellow light, it's unexpected, enough so that your chair skids beneath your sudden jolt, skin raising off your bones in panic.
You'd have jolted yourself straight to the cement floor if it wasn't for the zip ties securing your bruised ankles to the metal chair legs.
Around your wrists, he's improvised something like wires to secure your arms around the back of the folding chair. It makes sure you have nowhere to go physically but mentally you couldn't be running around the walls fast enough.
A blink and he's there. Shade's bulky silhouette blots out the tall shaft of freedom; orange hallway lighting.
It's too soon for him to be back.
The first time he just slapped you around, told you to cry and beg, then left you alone for a day to 'cool off' as he put it.
Next time - thirty minutes ago - you got a hard fist in your face, and so came the blood he'd wanted from the get-go. It stood to reason, judging from his nearly sexual reaction to the iron-tang in the air, Shade wanted to let you stew longer than this. Or, at least, you had hoped he'd be gone long enough to burn off whatever vices your pain caused him.
'Abandon all hope ye who enter,' you think, staring up with a panicked expression as your kidnapper, torturer, and soon-to-be murderer descends the stairs with the lazy, knee-locking gait of a madman.
The orange light from the open door masks everything in a green pallor thanks to the bluish tinge of the cement, water stains, and gentle cold vibration down here.
You shrink back involuntary.
Shade smiles.
Even knowing the sociopathy beyond that face, his sly smile and warm, wide eyes, make your guts dance like blades of grass in a spring field during summer.
Not just any man could have made you lose your senses and follow him home, but why that man had to end up being a monster, is only your lousy luck. Charisma seems to be another weapon in his arsenal.
Even now, as his smile turns thirsty and mean, you're cheeks puff with renewed blood flow separate from the bruises and blood.
The thunk, plunk, tap of his boots on the bottom stairs changes the tempo of your heartbeat. The blood pauses then skips in your throat as a palpitation marks the beginning of strangling panic. Washes of sweat are to come as well as nausea and the uncorked dread, but before it begins - before it all comes crashing down - that wolfish grin does what it shouldn't do anymore, it makes you wet.
Strade stops once his boots hit the cement flooring, nostrils flaring a little as if to take in the fresh tang of blood, of fear and… no, not that...
Something in the air makes his toothy grin stretch and curl further. Perhaps his golden browns - so much like a canine's - can see the flustered state that's slightly offset from the pain blemishing your dermis. Possibly, an even more terrifying thought, he can smell your unwelcome arousal amidst that wet dog smell that accompanies blood and water stains.
"Looks like you're already up," his tone implies sticky glee. "That's good."
Tears and throat all dried up from yesterday's begging and sobbing, you stay quiet. A wolf smiles at your silence, but if it's in displeasure or pleasure, you can't say.
He's unpredictable.
"Tonight," you hadn't realized the time, "we make a movie."
You watch, past terrified - now numb - as he opens a locker on the right wall. There's a soft sound that accompanies his movements, beneath the screech of grease-starved metal and heavy army boots. It's quiet at first - the music - and then Strade turns with a tripod in hand.
He's whistling.
That's not good. It would only be worse if he had a knife in his other hand, but you've got that sixth sense feeling that sees your future self getting entirely acquainted with Strade's knife. The thought makes you miss his fists already.
Strade snaps open the tripod with a loud gunshot sound that makes you throttle in your chair. The shock on your face causes his cheeks to redden - blood pooling under his skin all the way to the open collar on his blue shirt.
"W-what sorta movie?" It's dumb to ask, but there's staying silent, which is hell and talking, which slightly muffles hell.
"Special kind."
The implication is in the air, unlike the dripping water above your heads and the yellow irises that fall over your lap like there's a six-course meal you can't see.
Golden orbs trail up your stomach, chest, and when they settle on your own tear-slathered eyes, you swallow down something sharp and acidic; waiting.
The sounds of Strade setting up the scene rattle your eardrums. Panic bubbles up like boiled blood in your ventricles, forcing your heart to flip flop in rhythm before hammering away at the sudden chuckle that warms the air.
Strade stands, arm resting over a camcorder with a speared grin. His canines are too sharp to call normal. His eyes too happy amidst the rotting blood of past victims. He's too sadistic for your brain to comprehend.
"Showtime."
A shadow-hidden stage light flips on, and while your blinded and blinking, he attacks.
His fists bruise your collarbones as he grabs your shirt collar. The action is violent and abrupt; tipping your chair on two legs. Your heart leaps into your throat. His eyes press to yours, and the hot waft of his breath tastes like death.
Sweat beads across your face from his heaving exhales. Just when you think the heavy shadowed mask of his manic face will be the last thing you see, he yanks you back on four chair legs and licks across your mouth.
Saliva skims your teeth, pulling old tears and dried snot from beneath your nostrils. It makes you cringe, cry, and struggle anew, but each little jerk and spurted tear makes your captor moan.
When his hands squeeze your shoulders like most men would grip a pair of breasts, your stomach drops.
"Wait! Wait!" More raw panic as his mouth opens on your jawline, "Please, wait!!"
"More…" he groans, bites and pulls his tongue up across your cheek to your giant, terror-stricken eyeball. His tongue barely scrapes the orb before pulling back behind a ghastly grin of sharp teeth and moistened lips; lighted in sharp contrast against the stagelight.
Perverse, drooling possession takes over the motions of his hands begin furiously tearing at the fabric across your chest.
Behind his heaving shoulders and the scrub of his tangled hair, you find the camera lens - the button on the side blinking red - and beg for him to let you go. It's nothing you haven't said before, but it's all your brain can comprehend.
With each chilly touch of air on your freshly shorn skin, spit leaks out the edges of his mouth.
"More. More. Scream!"
You scream.
His lips pull wide in a smile of pure menace and glee.
Blotchy patches of red stains his cheeks, splattering over the sharp, high slope of his nose like a burn. You've never seen a human being look so much like a caricature of sinful epicureanism nor have you considered the ramifications of playing into his games.
It's not like he'll lower his guard or set you loose.
Your screaming dies as the realization finally, really… actually hits you…
Animal-like eyes - bright yellow and blazing - stare down his nose at the juncture of your thighs. A thick, pink tongue slides between his lips to lick away the spittle, adding to the shine on his lower lip and the panic rocking between your lungs.
Thick, calloused fingers flick open the clasp of his cargo pants; wrinkling the crisp fabric with plans unforeseen but clear.
Belatedly, you sob, "I'll do anything… just let me go…" knowing full well what 'anything' pertains to.
Opening your mouth is your undoing, because before you can close it, Strade shoves a hunting knife between your teeth, over the flat of your tongue where old and new blood mingles and drip feeds off the swollen edge of your lip.
"Anything?! Haha'haaa…"
You bite down instinctively before he twists the knife to pry your teeth back open or shred the innards of your mouth like a flank steak. Either option, of all the endless outcomes, make your blood go cold.
From your throat, you affirm his question, "... eeeeessss."
"Hmm…"
His grin, devilish and wet, lowers; ponderous. It's the end of his games now, no matter what hope grows in the filth of your gut. He's going to rape your throat with his knife or dig your teeth out with the blade or cut your tongue out, but all he does is push the flat of his blade against the side of your mouth, stretching your right cheek and lips wide open.
When he stands to his full height - steel cutting into your lower lip and skin stretching obscenely tight - you know, or assume, what he has planned.
Saying not a word, you watch him one-hand his pants down each hip bone, pulling down his boxers just enough to expose one of the many natural weapons he owns.
Tears fall freely down your cheeks at the sight of it. Never has a man's cock seemed so obscene until now, but it's that ripe obscenity that wets you with an inkling that isn't based on animal fear.
Strade slides a boot forward, and that thick cock practically bounces like a weighty steel rod with the shift. The smooth head waves at eye level, making you cross-eyed as you follow it like it’s a spitting snake. Drool leaks out the corner of your knife-stuffed mouth.
"Hold still for me. I wouldn't want to cut too deep."
Not until he's finished, you think numbly; sweating heavily in frozen terror. Nothing like a knife in your mouth to keep you still as a doll.
His voice purrs is that same honeycomb-fire it was at the bar, but it's not gesturing to how good you look with well-honed praise or humming with sweet suggestions, at least not the ones you had in mind. This sound is a tremble of atmospheric pressure in the distance - of death on the horizon.
You swallow, uncross your eyes from the tip of his erection and look up the trunk of bare pelvis and rumpled cotton to the wolfish grin feasting upon the scene he created. Reflective dimples of gold peer beneath the shaggy hair and shadows; indulging via the picture you paint.
Knife-gorged lips and slobber - tears and fear.
His wrist trembles.
Strade's smile stretches unnaturally as he walks the warm, soft head of his cock through your half-carved mouth to bathe your twitching tongue in diluted salt and light sweat: the essence of man.
A sharp glance to the camera lens fills the meter on your blush. Embarrassment, humiliation and a weird, bastard sense of excitement chokes you quicker than his cock.
This is all being recorded, maybe streamed live. You’re defilement and death will be forever stained on camera.
"Smile," he snarls happily, ripping your gaze from the red recording light to his shark-like glee.
You smile and hate him less than you should.
His cock fucks the first two inches of your mouth, leaving behind a soggy, sticky patch of precum on the back of your tongue. The taste is as organic as old rain on a warm day.
The mingled taste of coppery blood and salty seminal fluid makes your eyes burn. Itchy pain - sharp grooves dug against gum and lip and scraping against teeth. The knife is a direct opposite of Shade's slow thrusting cock, even as it begins to reach your uvula.
"I just knew you'd be this warm… haaaaa'ah - so warm. So easy."
Shade's lips open - grin spreading - cheeks pounding as your’s pound but for such different reasons. He thrusts too deep and you gag, wretch on instinct, and jerk away when the action makes the knife slice into flesh.
You scream; clogged by cock and blade. Pain ignites.
Warm blood floods into your mouth and down your chin, adding to the mess that's already inside. It runs down your throat and into the ruined frays of your shirt. The pain feels razor hot - so hot, you bite down on the blade only to howl and sob even harder.
Shade grumbles and pulls the last inch of his cock free.
Drip… drip… drip...
Mercy is false. Free oxygen doesn't last. Too soon, he's dragging the knife out your mouth, between two teeth that bow and ache terribly as the bridge of gum between splits open. Despite the pain, the second your mouth is free, you open your throat and belt a scream loud enough to make the tools on his walls shiver.
You scream and yell and shout and scream louder, begging for someone to hear you as blood bubbles and leaks between your bottom teeth. Laughter swells underneath your pleas for some sort of help. And, as your voice breaks and the pain becomes a gag, Strade's giggles erupt in stomach-clenching howls; glee spreading his wet lips into a werewolf grin.
A smack to the temple by the butt of the knife silences you. The world melts as equilibrium is lost. You struggle against the haunting, quiet pounding in your ears and spinning floor.
"Were ah' yoo…" you mumble; confused and forgetful, "Ie 'as… 'eed 'oo finish, 'ight?"
"Shhh," he hushes, standing in a blurry haze ahead of you. Something soft yet firm skims your cheekbone. The gentle touch is welcome despite how much the swollen, wrecked mess that is your mouth throbs when you twitch against the sensation. "Hush now. Just whimper."
You do so, not because he asks, but because his knuckles skim your bottom lip; thumb peeling it away from your lower teeth to expose the torn gum to tepid air.
"Yeah. Oh, yeah. Just like that," Strade snorts breaths of pleasure and lays his thumb beside the swollen flesh, pushing in until your vision ebbs into darkness then violent light. Pain turns you on like a dying toy; his thumb pressing some odd amalgamation of inflamed, butchered nerves and…
You sag over the chair, into his hand. His fingers coil around your chin as you swallow blood.
When Strade starts sawing through the hem of your shorts, there's nothing but a wheeze of protest out your throat. One hack pokes through skin, slipping upwards through the soft fat of your inner thigh, but all you can manage is a whimper as drool and blood flows down his thumb; tapping against your bottom teeth.
"Hold still and blink twice if this hurts."
A tear, hotter than the blood beginning to coagulate around your mouth, slips down your face.
Instead of the touch of his knife between your legs, you get the offensive play of his fingers. Your fleshy folds make a sticky wet sound, and for a second, you think the blood has reached there, but it hasn't. You’re drenched, and two fingers slide in as smooth as greased, polished steel. Calloused fingers stretch and thrust, awakening nerves in direct opposition to the bundle beneath his thumb while it continues rubbing your broken gums into bloody agony.
Strade bends his knees, popping a third finger in as his other hand dents your chin. He steers your drooping gaze to his where those golden eyes of animal lust stare wildly into yours. You cry silently, pulling air in through your throat and then…
“Ah, yes. I found it this time.”
… you gasp.
His other thumb, wetted by your cunt, prods your clit. Strade's fingers twist and curl up, scratching a padding of saturated nerves while rubbing brilliant chaos into your teeth.
This time, you think with nausea and pleasure.
You moan and tremble and lean into his hands, knowing this is all a formula to break you, but not caring. Anything is better than the horrid pain in your mouth. You don’t focus on the reasons why or how, pretending nothing bothers you as long as his fingers are playing you like this.
The stage lights cast him in enough darkness that all you really see is his eyes. With another whimper, you blink twice, spilling more tears and pretend he’s someone else.
Strade's smile stretches until all his teeth appear serrated and stark. He fingers you and pries your mouth open against resistance that's barely self-preservation at this point. Another psychopath ten times worse than Strade could show up with a mallet, and you don't think you'd be able to look away from those yellow orbs.
"Open wide."
You open your mouth until your jaw pops, almost welcoming the way he slowly stands, locking his knees; cock aimed and swollen cherry-red at your face.
His fingers slip away but the heat remains. Sweet tension lingers like a disease - an infection. Your heart races in a bridal fashion of fear and anticipation - excitement.
The feeling - the flavor of blood and his cock and the vibration his groan makes against your eardrums - turns the pain he fucks into your mouth, something of an orgy.
Sensations lose their names and backstory. It's all just a symbiosis of feeling and experience as Strade stuffs his cock down your throat, rubbing your torn lip and flattening your tongue out. He thrusts, and you gag - taking it. He grunts, and you swallow around the fat, soggy head.
Your neck aches as your spine straightens against his jostling motions. Every muscle is tight, bracing against the onslaught until his fingers - covered in dried blood, fluids, and old filth - thread through your hair, maneuvering your head with violent pleasure into his bucking hips. To think, if you hadn't let his charm get under your skin, you'd be home now, flipping through takeout menus.
This time he doesn't stop until he's finished, ready to fill that hollow rumble in your stomach.
The only warning is a half-uttered snarl, abruptly cut off by a surging in the swollen bottom-vein of his cock; beating against your tongue like fluttering insect wings. A shot of cum scorches your tattered esophagus, nearly blocking off the fragile tube of air you've been filling through your snotty nose.
"Haaaah’hahaaaa," he bites.
Your blurry gaze flicks from his tight abdomen to his red cheeks and vicious, dope-stricken grin.
Strade bucks his hips, choking you with another spurt of hot semen and sighs, "Swallow it," will all the casual, serenity that comes with an orgasm, no matter how psychotic the one having it is. And you do as your told, letting the sudden tremor of your throat muscles snap you out of whatever haze all these warring sensations have put you in.
Clarity comes with the final, painful swallow of cum.
The little red recording light from his camera in the corner watches with thousands of eyes. The stage lights, his softening cock, and you're fucked up and roughly fucked mouth set the stage.
"I think I'll keep you a little longer." A honey-comb voice slurs above you; staring with equally sweet eyes at your wrecked face. His cock slowly slips from your mouth, and though you sputter like a drowning victim, a wave of relief cools the sweat across your naked skin.
Once more the pipes go drip… drip… drip… faster than the tiny amount of thin drool and cum that drips off your chin.
You’ve got another day to think now. More time.
Time, you think, tasting cum and blood on the back of your tongue like a rancid smoothie. You've got time now - time to bide and plan and figure out a way out of-
Something metallic and substantial unlatches. The camera clicks off.
You pull your head up, trying to search for the culprit of such a dreadful sound, only to move perfectly into the open mouth of a thick steel collar. It snaps like teeth around your throat; cold and unpleasant.
Right against the tip of your nose, Strade presses his warm lips and smiles, "Now you'll be mine... forever…"
No, you tell yourself even as his hands start tracing your shoulders, breasts, and shackles. Forever is only as long as he lives, and he won't be living much longer. You smile in mock appreciation as he pets your body in ways that'll make you moan soon, and begin figuring out how best to kill this animal.