ADDICTED TO THE PAIN
CHAPTER ONE
“VICTIM” BY HALFLIVES
LARK
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
That fucking sound will be the death of me. Well, you know, if all the torture doesn’t kill me first. I guess there’s a real possibility of hypothermia too, given they haven’t let me wear any clothes for the past couple of weeks, so I’ve been having to make do with my birthday suit. Spoiler alert; it’s fucking colder than a priest’s bed.
Drip.
Fucking cuntish motherfucking drip. You’d think that with all the fancypants torture equipment these bastards have, they’d fix a fucking leaking tap.
Drip.
My eye twitches with the noise. I swear to god I’ve got new tics because of my stint in here. If this affects my OnlyFans income, I’m fucking suing!Assholes.
Drip.
Heaving over on the stained mattress, a pained groan leaves my dry and cracked lips. I look around, desperate to find the source of that fucking drip, and rip it out with my bare and bloodied hands.
Drip.
Another jerk of my eyelid.
I’ll never find a decent sugar daddy with a fucking eye twitch. Especially being skin and bones as I am now having been down here for who the fuck knows how long. At least I've still got my tits. Must count for something, right?
That's about the only fucking something right now. There are no windows, and I’m surrounded by concrete and only one heavy metal door. It isn't exactly the Four Seasons. Other than the bed, there’s a bucket on the floor in the corner.Fucking animals. You can tell a lot about a place by its toilets, or lack thereof, and I’m telling you now that my TripAdvisor review would read:
‘Cold, dark most of the time, given the inadequate lighting of a single bare bulb and no natural daylight. Colder than a witch’s tit, with uncomfortable sleeping arrangements lacking in any form of bedding aside from an old mattress with questionable stains. Could definitely do with a spring clean—or napalm. Appalling facilities, basically nonexistent. Zero stars.’
Drip.
The whole side of my face quivers this time, a rasping growl cracking out of my raw throat. Motherfuckers. I’m going to look like a fucking junkie if I ever leave here. Which, admittedly, is looking less and less likely the longer I’m down here.
I suppose there are regular, daily, torture sessions to break up the monotony. Silver linings and all that, I guess. Although having one’s fingernails pulled from one’s hands is not the same as a nice manicure, you know? Doesn’t have quite the same relaxing quality to it.
And all this pain for what? For information that I can't—won’t—give them. These faceless men. These heartless bastards that torture a girl just because she shares a last name with a monster far bigger and scarier than they could ever be.
Drip.
Fuck. My. Life.
I swear this is another form of torture. It’s almost as bad as the loneliness that keeps threatening to consume me until I’m a gibbering wreck, but then I remind myself of all my fans—twenty thousand subscribers, bitches!—and fight the darkness with a strength I have to dig deep for. I guess if we're really getting down to it, there's also Rook, my brother, to keep me going.
I tried to make an invisible friend to help stave off the aching emptiness of my current existence, but no one answered the ad. That’s how pathetic I’ve become. Even invisible people don’t want to know me.
The grating sound of the lock turning brings my gaze over to the door, and my head snaps up, my entire body coiling, ready for fight, flight, or hell, at this stage, even fuck if it’ll help. It swings inward with an ominous creak—they definitely need to spruce this place up a bit—and in steps…someone new.
From my vantage on the floor, my eyes travel up from his tan work boots to his fitted dark jeans, pausing on the significant bulge at the apex of his thighs that makes my kitty kat sit up and take notice, practically purring.Keep your head in the game, Lark.
His abs are etched through his tight, white T-shirt and my breath shortens to a pant at the defined pecs and broad shoulders that greet my hungry stare. I resist looking at his face, prolonging the anticipation, and deciding to trail along his strong, tattooed arms instead. After all, anticipation makes your panties grow wetter, right?And holy mother of all things hotness!His forearms are corded and thick, his massive biceps perfect for pinning you down beneath him. My dry tongue traces my chapped lips, my teeth desperate to sink into those muscles as he fucks me hard.
