Archive of Our Own ^beta

The cool fall air is familiar as it fills your lungs, rushing through the open windows in your old truck. The night begins to cascade over the landscape. You haven’t seen a residential street for miles. Taking off into the woods was easier than you could have ever imagined. Should’ve done it years ago.

Just to clear your head–

Absentminded thoughts drift from one end of your mind to the other as the road dims, illuminated only by the cloudy-milk moon and your yellowing headlights that have seen better days. You aren’t sure where you’re going yet, equipped only with the little cash in your wallet and a backpack full of clothes.

Optimism is cut from your flesh quickly as the truck begins to sputter. Thin smoke trails from under the hood.The little sinking key lights up on the dash, a cute dinging sound alerting you to a problem that you feel warrants a much larger noise. The gauge is flipped all the way up. You slow, killing the engine as you deliberate looking under the hood.

The sky is dark orange, streaks of purple disappearing past the horizon as the sun dips below. You slam your forehead on the steering wheel, keys falling to the floor as you yank them out of the ignition. You wouldn't know what you were looking at even if you propped the hood open.

Every ounce of freedom, fearlessness, gall you’d brought with you is stripped from your psyche. The crash after the high isn’t supposed to interrupt at the peak. You thought you'd get a few more days of ignorant bliss before realizing that life is never that simple. 

Feeling defeated, you step out of the truck, half-sure you’d see an eighteen wheeler or something come down the road soon. What other choice do you really have? The backpack feels light as you drag it out of the passenger seat, you’re left wishing you’d packed heavier.

Unpreparedness is a feather-weight on your shoulders, a pinched nerve between them sending a shock of electricity down your arm, ending in the tip of your middle and index finger. You shake the hand, toss the pins and needles on the asphalt around you.

You climb into the bed of the truck, patches of rust catching the fabric of your shorts. Goosebumps begin to prick at your knees, poky little hairs trying desperately to warm your pebbled skin against the biting wind that seems to cool by the minute. The sun is gone now, the moon hardly visible behind the short leaf pine clusters grown in behind chunks of rock. The trees are tall, the only ones unaffected by the dropping temperatures as the Earth spins on its tilted axis.

Evergreen. Something eternal and unchanging, unfathomable to you.

In the next few hours, you’ve pulled a pair of sweatpants from your bag and tugged them on over your shorts, smoked half a pack of cigarettes and pissed behind the truck, both pairs of pants pooled around your ankles as you lean your back against the cold metal for balance. Drip dry, like you’re camping.

A sigh breaks your silence as there’s no one to talk to here. Not a single car has passed, no roar of an eighteen wheeler engine has rattled the road. Nothing to do but let the mind race.

You think the truck you’ve killed on the side of the road is technically stolen–you’re mom’s. She probably wouldn’t even notice it was missing. Most drunks use hard liquor, don’t they? Burn their throats and stomach linings with the harsh ethyl alcohol, let it rot away at the gut. The term “wino” sounds cutesy. Like a 90’s sitcom. Not like anger and confusion, like a vodka alcoholic is supposed to be.

How much wine can one person drink? It has to be a ton– you muse.

And it was, you remember. The gallon glass bottles of sangria piled on the floor by the garbage that's been waiting to go out for days. 

The dream of college came and went. You’d never afford it and a scholarship was laughable. You spent most of your time working long into the night at a local diner, paying the light bill a week late so you could see where she passed out drunk next. You haven’t been gone for long, but the utilities will get shut off gradually.

Dropping out sounded fine at the time, seventeen and sick of juggling everything. A few years later and you realize how slim your options are. Running seemed the better of multiple evils. It seemed like your only chance at freedom. Still living at home in your twenties was never an option you'd like to entertain, but life is shitty that way. It was more of a last ditch effort than anything else. It’s not like you expected to run away and find a better life–the grass isn’t always greener.

The wind quiets for a moment and you wait for the pine needles to rustle again, inhaling the gust of air that rattles them. A perfect queue for another cigarette. A rumble startles you as the stick is plucked from the pack. You still raise it to your lips as you snap your head up to the road.

A truck, a person. You could sob, never realizing you’d be so grateful for a stranger being in the right place at the right time. The truck slows before you can even flag it down, surely noticing how out of place you are. You bounce happily to the vehicle, a beat down old thing, worse off than your little rust bucket. Taller, larger, though, and louder. The engine stops as the window is hand cranked down to assess you.

You smile as a burly blonde man glares down at you.

“You couldn’t give me a ride into town, could you? Or maybe you have a tow hitch?”

He's got to be almost twice your age, face lined at the corners of his deep brown eyes, the path around his mouth. His skin is textured, stubble and scarring casting a shadow over his jawbone. His cheeks are pitted with a story of poor skin as a young man, the small craters crawl up to his cheekbones, dotting the skin like freckles.

The man almost looks bewildered at your request, raking his eyes down your shivering face. You pluck the unlit smoke from your lips, folding it between two fingers. You smile harder, eyebrows pushed up to your hairline. Friendly. Your cigarette waits patiently in your fingers.

“That right?” He grumbles, looking past you to the sad sight that is your vehicle.

His response doesn’t quite match your question, but you wait for him to decide anyway.

“You’re the only person I’ve seen.” You explain tentatively. “Been out here for hours, mister.”

You figure now’s a good a time as any to try to turn on some charm. A middle aged pervert is your best bet now. He gives you the chills, though–the way he looks at you as if he’s stumbled upon a doe, freshly run over by a truck and laying on the side of the road, ripe for the taking.

He notices, snorting as he focuses his gaze back on you. Unimpressed– you think. You step closer to the truck, reaching up to rest crossed arms on the half rotted weather strips where the window sits tucked into the door. His eyes flick over you again, then to the road– back to you.

(Maybe he’d prefer more of a struggle).

“Gonna get y’rself in trouble, kid.”

Kid. What a dick.

You could scoff at him. You didn’t really care at this point, though you know you should. You’re exhausted, lost, hungry, and worst of all: almost out of cigarettes.

“Please, man.” You start exasperatedly, dragging your arms off the truck and wrapping them around yourself. “I just need to get into town, maybe to a motel or something for the night. I can’t stay out here.”

His jaw clenches, almost imperceptively. “Get in.” The answer is low, rough.

You're grateful up until the moment you slide into the seat next to him.

There’s no console, the bench seat giving you a full view of the man. He’s large. Bigger than the seat in the truck is made to accommodate, you think. He’d crush your little square body truck in an instant with his size.

His blonde hair is shorn to the scalp, hardly enough there to tell the color. His eyebrows match, they get lost on his face. He doesn’t turn to look at you as you toss your backpack in the middle seat, scooching in next to it. The scent of the cab is overwhelming. Something thick like blood, cloying like sweat. Your stomach roils quietly as you nose the air. He must hunt, you think, or fish.

You’re never supposed to trust a stranger, slip inside the dusty cab of his roaring truck, but what choice do you have?

You eke out a quiet thank you, the confidence you smeared across your face like oil makeup now streaks down your cheeks. A facade, a shield. You’re bare now, just a woman in a vehicle with a strange man old enough to be your father in the middle of nowhere.

You clear your throat when the man is silent. “So, is there a motel or something nearby? I might have passed a little town earlier, but–” You trail off, realizing that was hours ago. How far did you expect this man to drive you?

He exhales noisily, seemingly agitated with your questions.

“You ‘ave any idea where you are?” His accent is English, something unfamiliar to you.

A silent shake of your head is satisfactory.

“Far.” He chortles, turning to glance at you. Your unlit cigarette sits perched between two fingers as you stare at the road ahead.

He looks away, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. You decide not to ask too many questions. Maybe you’ll make a run for it when he stops. Maybe you’ll–

“Need a light?” Your train of thought is cut short by the man’s voice. He nods at the cigarette you’re rolling loose between your fingers.

“Uh–” You fumble, patting the pockets of your jacket. “–guess so.”

He reaches into his door, fishing out a blue lighter and handing it to you. You inhale slowly, glad for the grounding task. You crack your window, cranking the handle only a few times. You muster another thank you as you blow smoke out into the night air.

His observance of you is obvious, sharp. His eyes burn into your skin.

He slows to a crawl turning onto a driveway hidden in the trees. The hard red dirt is illuminated only by the headlights of the truck. You glance at the man as you take another drag of your smoke.

“What’s your name?” You croak out a nervous question, looking ahead once more. A cabin comes into view, little solar lights stabbed into the ground shine against the perimeter of the wood structure.

He pulls the truck up to the building, shifting into park. He kills the engine and reaches over you suddenly. The man plucks the cigarette from your lips mid-drag. Your shock is surely palpable, but you daren't say anything as he brings it to his mouth.

Mangled– you think. Crooked teeth and scarred lips wrap around the smoke as he inhales. He grimaces as he stretches backward into his seat, showing you a missing tooth (or two) behind his canines. Handing the cigarette back over to you, he clears his throat.

“Simon.”

Simon takes you inside. The cabin is small, borderline creepy, you think. The door creaks out a weak protest as he pushes it open. The place has a few rooms. A kitchen attached to the living space, a breakfast nook is squeezed in between them. A bedroom is hidden around a corner, a bathroom tucked in the door before it. 

Sparsely furnished with small, tattered blankets nailed haphazardly over the few windows. It's dark, only the dim light of the moon peeking through the holes in the makeshift curtains helping you to take in your surroundings.

Unease courses through your veins, warming your fingertips as you rock back and forth on your heels.

“I–um–” you start, causing the large man to glance over at you. “I think I need to go into town.”

He snorts, shaking his head. He unzips his jacket and tosses it absentmindedly to the arm of the couch. Simon towers above the furniture, making the doorways seem thin and pathetic. He clicks on a floor lamp, illuminating the surrounding area.

He wears a wife beater, stained with something dark, grease maybe. There's an ugliness about the strange man. His face is marred and his hulking size makes his presence so unnerving. A leather belt is undone and slid out of belt loops, tossed atop the discarded jacket.

He's all muscle, biceps large and rippling. Veins protrude from his wrists up to his forearms. He's fucking enormous, you realize.

He seems irritated now, huffing through his crooked nose like a bull. He reaches one hand down into the waistband of his jeans, scratching himself absentmindedly.

He's disgusting, you realize, shrinking into yourself only slightly.

Blinded by graciousness, you had failed to see the dirt under his fingernails, bitten down to the skin. Failed to see the grease smudged onto his unshaven cheeks, the sweat stains on his white shirt. 

The cabin walls close in on you as your head spins, racing with thought after thought. Simon watches you intently, his brutish face betraying no emotion.

Eyes like a predator, waiting to see if the prey is spooked enough to run.

“Ain't the brightest, are ya?”

His sudden question makes you jump. Your mouth opens to retort, but nothing seems to come out. Empty mouth staring at him. 

“–but pretty.” He continues, raising a hand to his jaw, looking over you thoughtfully.

Alarms are deafening in your head. He's right. So stupid for letting this man just take you to his creepy cabin in the woods. There's been a thousand movies explaining why you shouldn't trust strange men in the middle of bf nowhere.

–and the compliment, however unnerving, is not lost on you.

You straighten your shoulders, wanting desperately to regain control of your emotions. Iron on your tongue as your heart flutters, threatening to fly away. 

You're not a child. 

–but the way Simon looks at you is predatory, a man too long in the tooth for a pretty thing like you. The way he drawls out the word makes your skin crawl. He has you cornered. More than that, the brute can plainly sense your fear. His nose tips up, snuffling at the air as you stand trembling before him.

He's on you in an instant. There's a split second of blindness, a breach in your consciousness that removes the memory of the stranger closing the gap between you.

Back against the wall, head in the sand–you turn your face away from him as he leans into you. Cocks his head like a fascinated creature, examining the tears welling at your lash line.

He’s earthy as you breathe him in. Thick iron and musk that is unmistakably masculine. Something like arousal, sinister and saccarine.

Is he looking at a treat? A fancy chocolate alone on a salad plate?

What are you filled with?

“C'mon, kiddo.” He grins, looming closer to the soft skin on your neck. “Play along, yeah?”

Sudden movements may get you killed, get your throat ripped out, your blood sating the creature's thirst. He nudges into your neck.

“Look–I made a mistake. I'm sure I can find my way back to town.” Your voice shakes as you ramble and he almost looks sympathetic as he draws back from you. You regret coming here, you feel trapped, petrified–guilty.

“You’re so far from where you want t'be.” He drolls lazily. “–and you're already here.”

It's almost laughable how plain your ignorance is. A sly please, Mister won't free you now. Simon's knee works its way between your thighs, not shoving you, but slowly controlling your positioning.

He raises a hand to touch your face. You turn away out of instinct, nose wrinkled in something like disgust.

A poor choice.

Fiery anger flashes across his face for a moment before his thumb is hooked into the side of your mouth. Frozen in fear, slack-jawed and panting, you wait.

“Ungrateful bitch.” He spits, slipping the salty thumb around your bottom teeth, stroking roughly at the inside of your jaw. He rests his fingerprint along the peaks of your bottom molars, dragging your mouth open wider.

“Sittin’ on the side of the road, talkin’ t'me like some desperate slut.”

You feel a tear fall, heart racing as your breath struggles to keep up.

“Out here f'r hours, mister.” He sneers, leaning into your face.

A sob finally wracks your chest, your grimace forcing your jaw to shut around the intruding thumb Simon keeps pressed to your teeth that never gave you much wisdom.

Your attacker's face softens in a cruel way. Satisfied. He clicks his tongue, a quiet tsk tsk tsk snaking its way past his snarl.

“Oh, that's it, girl.” He coos, the sudden change in tone not fooling you for an instant. (Though there is a strange comfort in it.)

Your lips close around the digit as you cry softly. He slides his thumb off your ridged teeth and to the middle of your tongue, saliva thick with emotion.

Smart to propitiate a threat.

–but the act of compliance: so submissive.

You suckle at the thumb he offers, force-feeds you. Wet eyes raise to meet his. There's nothing. Empty caverns where an iris should be. Devoid of color, affect. He’s inhuman as he coddles you.

Four fingers cradle your chin as he strokes your hair with his other hand, both hands around your face, a feigned consolation. And you respond, to his delight, so well, humming around his intrusion. You're placated for now, and you despise it.

Awful man, to handle you like this. So vile, to force your hand.

His skin is bitter. Cigarette ash and the blood from a hangnail chewed off. Granular and gamey, a rotten cut of meat dropped in the dirt.

Your chest throbs with something like discomfort as you settle. A satisfaction that you don't have the heart to fight off. 

He still croons down at you, stroking a strand of hair behind your ear. His smile is vicious, all knowing.

“That all ya needed?” your captor hums. “–sommit t'suck on?”

Like a bird in a cage, plucked straight from the sky and imprisoned, but fed.

Naked but safe.

Solace is accidental, unexpected. A brain in overdrive will shut down, self soothe.

You blink up at him; your eyes are wet, glassy.

“Atta girl, huh?” He licks his teeth.

Your body betrays you, reaching for your assailant when he pulls away, the digit pulled reluctantly from your suckling lips. You settle back on your feet, the truss of muscle and bone pulled away.

Yanked from the teat, you feel what it's like to wean. What else does he have to offer you?

Pleading eyes of a neglected child, finally given the gift of physical affection. You stutter. Before you can say much else, his hands are on you again. The brute grasps either shoulder and spins you around, pressing your chest to the door.

A cough escapes your throat, the wind forced from your lungs. His scent is strong as he forces himself into your back. 

“Nun’ but a little tease, yeah?”

Something hard at his hip grinds its way into your lower back. A meek please is barely squeaked out as you dig your nails into the splintering wood of the door. 

He laughs, snuffling in your ear. His fervor grows, rutting into you firmly.

“Who taught you t'suck like tha’.?

His question is rhetorical (you thought), and it burns your cheeks, the inside of your ear with his breath. He paws at your sides, reaching your chest and groping you clumsily. The scent of his arousal rises in your throat, clouding your vision.

“Mm?” He presses, snarling in your ear. “Was it your uncle? Maybe a mean old step daddy?” He feigns a coo of sympathy.

Your knees buckle underneath you as he yanks you to face him once more.

“I know, kiddo.” He chuckles darkly, eyes fixed on yours. “Was a man just like me, yeah? Too old and beat up for a pretty pet like you anymore.”

“Please, Simon.” Your begging is broken apart by sobs, tears streaming down your face. “Please let me go.”

“How’d he touch you, stupid girl? What’d he do t’make ya so easy for me?”

You ignore his tormenting, weakly writhing against his grip. 

But that's all the fight you have, really. He knows this, stroking your face roughly. Looking down at you, he makes a face of feigned sympathy. A mocking pout as you sniffle, looking away. A rough hand reaches up under your chin, thumbing at a stream of tears there. He jerks your face up while his other hand undoes the button on his jeans.

You can see the length of him already, laying fat against one thigh. You choke out a protest when he reaches in to pull himself out, which only earns you a vile chuckle from Simon.

Fat and swollen, so heavy it hangs over the split zipper of his jeans. Clear bubbles of a sickening fluid, evidence of his perversion, pool at the reddened tip. All you can do is stare, snapping your jaw shut as soon as you realize it’s hanging open.

“You ain’t scared.” Simon suddenly barks, fisting a hand in your hair, dragging your nose to the base. Musk and sweat, acrid and stomach-churning. Gun powder and motor oil. Curly blonde wisps of hair reach up your nose as he shoves you into his need. “What’d ya expect, huh?” His face is red, quickly approaching spitting mad.

“All I did was pick me up the pretty little whore on the corner, didn’t I?”

His voice is cruel, forcing another wave of sobs to wrack your chest. Before you get the chance to breathe them out, though, your hair is yanked again.

“Open up.”

You try to look away, wiggle back from him as he drags your parted lips to the tip of him, unsatisfied with your effort. Proven then, by a sudden slap to your cheek that leaves your ears ringing. He’s quick to straighten you back up when your body tries to tumble to the floor.

You decide to find comfort in the mechanical act of taking him in your mouth, suckling as if he deals a precious life force for you to feed from. You allow him to take his length in hand, feeding it to you while his other hand holds you steady by your hair.

You choke on the initial taste of him, overwhelmed by the sharp, stale scent of musky skin as he forces more into your mouth. He’s pleased when he hits the back of your throat, going slowly at first, letting your tongue relax and loll around the veins underneath.

You hum, glancing up at your aggressor. He wears his permanent snarl while he uses you, crooked teeth gnashing. 

Everything is a blur, Simon’s voice echoes in your ears as he punches the back of your throat. He keeps a steady grip on your hair, forcing your eyes to meet his, watering through the assault. Your hands flail at your sides before finding the fabric of your assailant’s jeans, fingernails digging into the woven threads, searching for skin and muscle underneath. He allows you to grasp him for comfort, stability.

His words rain down on you, in and out of consciousness.

Tha’s right, kid. Keep chokin’ for me now. Love those eyes, girl, fuck.

Spit bubbles from the sides of your mouth where your lips are stretched thin around the widest part of him, tongue protecting his sensitive skin from your sharp teeth. A kindness you gift to him for no reason at all. You’d like to call it self preservation, but it really may just be in your nature.

Knew you’d love suckin’ my cock, huh? Just need sommit f’that mouth to do, kiddo.

You suckle him when he slows, letting you breathe. You keep your wide eyes fixed up on him as you hollow your cheeks to nurse at his comfort, a sickening thing. And you can’t explain it, wouldn’t want to. It’s shameful to feel the release in this humiliation; this stranger drawing arousal from you in his assault, it’s revolting.

–but Simon’s voice soothes you once he picks up the pace again, bruising the back of your throat, stealing the air from your lungs. His thrusts wrack your entire body, completely filling you with himself. No longer inert, your sense of self, you move with him, becoming one with the man who attacks you from the inside out.

You're limp under his touch.

It’s beautiful, unmaking in some sick sort of way. You hate it, hate him. A cry escapes from around his cock.

Hush, baby. He strokes your hair sweetly, eliciting another sob. He snarls, rams his cock as far into your throat as it will go. Shut it–shut the fuck up. Take what I fucking give you, bitch. Ungrateful slut.

You obey, swallowing every inch he deals you until you feel his hips stutter, his thrusts becoming irregular. You see light, a whiting out as you near the end of your chore. You mourn it before it’s over, grieve the loss of his soothing fill, his painful dig into your throat. You hum around him, communicating your willingness, blindness.

Fuck, kid. Gonna cum down your neck, yeah? Gonna feed it to you, girl.

The earth shakes beneath you as Simon grips you tight with both hands, keeping your mouth sealed around him as he shoots rope after rope into your exhausted mouth. Your jaw screams at you, at him. Silent complaints fall on deaf ears as he fills you to the brim. He claws at the back of your head, surely ripping a few strands of hair from their birthplace.

Ah–fuck. That’s right, kiddo. Take it, take it–fucking take it.

Before he pulls out, he pinches your nose shut, shaking his head. “Don’t you dare swallow it.”

Confused, you have no choice but to obey. His chest heaves above you, one hand still a threat in your hair. He releases your nose, letting you suck in a desperate breath. His voice is clear now, soothing and sibylline. He pulls his softening cock from your mouth, wincing at the sensitivity. Your lips are a perfect seal around him until he parts from you. You gaze up at him expectantly, a disgusted look painted on your face.

“Let me see, babydoll.” His tone is soft, sweet, only slightly condescending. “Show me all you got.”

Your mouth falls open, careful not to spill. As he leans down to inspect the contents of your mouth, a gag rolls through your body, then another. Your face reddened, you fight to keep his spend where he has lovingly placed it. Your eyes water as you wretch, face bright pink and wet.

He laughs, tossing his head back briefly before retraining his gaze on your struggling frame. A hacking sound in his throat, then a spitting. Mixing with the load you carry in your mouth, he looks satisfied now as the vile mixture of his affection begins to overflow, leaking over your chin as you continue to heave.

“Alright, kiddo. Go on and swallow f’me. That’s it, all of it–getwhat you spilled.”

Sweet relief as you swallow, choking down the fluid. Simon tucks himself back into his jeans, face dark, a certain curiosity glowing behind his eyes. He looks over you, tracing your facial features with his eyes.

“You’d call that rape, yeah? Raped your pretty mouth?”

His question catches you off guard, you’re not sure how to respond. He’s right, of course, but the way you are able to cope, find comfort in his oral insertion–Fingers, thumb, cock, what else?

–It’s disgusting, wrong of you. Guilty by association. What could you call that?

You clear your throat, nodding up at him, beginning to rise to your feet. “I think so.” He smiles sweetly. “Rape.” You repeat.

“Okay, kid.” He starts, watching you plant your unsteady feet on the wood floor. “Remember.”

Confused, you nod curtly. He aims to make himself clear, though, as he puts his hands roughly on either side of your shoulders, spinning you to the left and walking you to what looks like a small dining room table.

He cant fuck you now, what the fuck is he doing?

“Lets see, yeah?” he coos down at you, your face pressed into the wood. “Bet ya like suckin’ cock kid.”

You weakly wriggle in his grasp, but a large hand presses firmly between your shoulder blades. He tugs your sweatpants down, chuffing in disapproval when he finds your jean shorts underneath. He growls as he reaches around to tear the button, you hear the metal of it clank on the floor pitifully.

You whimper, realizing what he aims to prove.

He tears them down, too, letting both pool at your ankles. You shiver in the cold air of the poorly insulated cabin, legs trembling from fear. He sucks in a breath, quickly reaching a hand between your legs, shoving two fingers between your folds over your panties. You hear his lips schlick over his teeth.

The brute keeps his hold on your back, pathetic strains against his weight doing nothing to free you.

“Look here.” He chuckles before exposing your bare ass, letting the panties fall atop your pile of clothes at your ankles.

“Could fuckin’ smell ya, kid.”

He reaches his hand back between your legs, letting his thumb slip between your folds, finding your leaking hole immediately. “–and you got a pretty coat on ‘er.” He laughs as shame burns your cheeks.

You begin to sob again. “I–I didn’t–” You sputter. “–I don’t know why.”

He laughs, throwing his head back as he draws a stripe from your entrance to your clit and back again. You twitch involuntarily under his touch. He pulls back from your slit to stroke his fingers through the curly hair blanketing your lips.

“I know why.” He murmurs, now engrossed in the act of stroking you, admiring his work. The wetness he forced out of you.

You’re sure it’s some kind of defense mechanism, right? Something to keep the rape from hurting too badly. Your stomach churns with doubt as he speaks again.

“Ya must be used to bein’ treated like a slag, kiddo.” He chuckles. “Look ‘ow wet she is from chokin’ on my cock, yeah?”

He keeps stroking through your wetness, relishing in the first moan he draws from you. God, you try to fight it. Instinctual, you tell yourself. You feel your clit swell with each stripe pulled across it. Body betrayal of the highest degree.

“Tell me you like your pretty mouth bein’ raped.” He urges, excitement thick in his words, almost shaky with the weight of it.

“Fuck you.” You stutter, earning a scoff from Simon, who is quick to shove two thick fingers into your cunt.

You squeal, immediately full of your attacker.

“That right?” He draws them out of you, punching back in again.

Your hips shake as he presses on the soft spot at the roof of your cunt. Your moans grow louder as he fucks into you.

“You love it, don’t you? You're a sick fuck, kid. Love the way my fingers rape this little cunt, too, yeah?” He laughs, suddenly still, waiting.

And you give him exactly what he wants, you turn your head over your shoulder to see why he’s stopped. The tears in your eyes fall from pleasure now. You hate yourself for it, hate Simon more.

He raises an eyebrow, scissoring his fingers apart, unmoving inside you.

“C’mon, kid.” He nods his head at his fingers. “Go and fuck yourself back on ‘em, if you want it so bad.”

You cry out, knowing your choices at this point are naught. “Fuck you.” You repeat.

He doesn’t respond at first, only waits.

“Feel ‘er clutch me, pet–know she want some lovin.’” His voice is soft, almost consoling.

You’re disgusted by him, by his dirty fingers inside you. You turn away, looking ahead as you feel his hand loosen up on your back. Your queue to move. And you take it, pushing your ass back against the stranger’s hand, letting his fingers sink deep into you.

A strangled moan is ripped from your chest, painful sounding, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. Before you can help yourself, your body moves on its own, betraying you once more. You rock back and forth, feeling your wetness grow. His thumb catches on your clit every time you push back into him, a reward for your malleability.

He croons down at you, petting your lower back, your ass as he forces you to fuck yourself on his assaulting hand. You’re complicit. How can you say you don’t want it now?

His unfulfilled request rings in your ears. Say you like being raped, say you’re wet because I raped your fuckin’ mouth.

–and you’d love to give him a convincing retort, but you decide to say nothing as you grind your ass back into him, force his fingers to the spongy spot in your cunt that makes your knees weak.

Simon pulls away suddenly, obviously laughing at you. He backs up, allowing you to turn to look at him. He waves a hand at you dismissively.

“Get fuckin’ dressed.” He scoffs. “Christ.”

You don’t wait for him to tell you twice. Some part of you is glad the assault is over for now, but you can’t quell the need he left seated deep in your gut. Your sex throbs with need as you dress quickly, letting your wetness pool in the gusset of your panties. You toss the jean shorts to the side, useless without their button.

“S’pose you’ll be wantin’ supper here soon.” He wipes your shame away on the leg of his jeans.

Is he not done with you by now?

You chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean, I figured that was it, right?”

He looks almost offended, glancing around you to the door. “It?” He questions.

You can’t help but scoff, is he stupid? Playing dumb to keep you in his weird little trap? Your throat does stop up, though, fear reaching up like entrails to rest heavy and iron-laden in your mouth.

“No.” He waves dismissively. “You’ll eat.”

It doesn’t seem like it’d do much good to argue, so you don’t. His presence still makes you tremble in fear, humiliation. You’re more than ready to make a break for it, wondering how far you’d get in the unfamiliar wilderness surrounding the cabin. It’s dark, cold. Simon smiles at you cruelly and you hear his thoughts: why try?

Your captor offers you a cigarette from his own pack. They're–well, shitty. Red Eagle 20s that you're grateful for nonetheless. He lights the cigarette in his own mouth, handing it to you.

Rather than allowing you to take it in your own two fingers, he raises it directly to your lips, watching intently as you take it, adjusting it with your teeth before taking a drag.

The cabin is small and fills with smoke quickly, so Simon swings open the front door. You see a chance to run. He doesn't look away from you, surely aware of your train of thought.

Cool night air billows in through the doorway, making you shiver. You nurse your cigarette, willing it to last a little longer, little longer. You toss it out the door when it's beginning to taste like the filter and Simon follows suit. Your arms are wrapped around yourself as he shuts the door and you see your opportunity slip away.

He's not by your side anymore, heavy footsteps echoing through the sparse cabin.

He calls to you, having already made his way to the small kitchen while you stand, still and awkward where he left you.

“C’mere, kid.” A bark, an order.

You follow his voice and present yourself before him once more, awaiting instruction.

–and it humiliates you.

He does look pleased, though, giving you a pat to the rear when you approach. “Wash off them potatoes, cut ‘em up for me.”

You follow his outstretched hand to the sink where small red potatoes, still covered in dirt, wait for you to process them. You just nod, tending to your task in silence while Simon steps out the back door.

When they’re clean, laid to dry on a dish towel, Simon looms over you from behind. He startles you, ripping your attention from your current engagement. He smells like raw meat, still wet and cold against his skin that gradually warms it. A cologne, a signature fragrance that develops only after it has had the chance to heat up against a pulse point.

“I’ve had plenty of women here before, birdie. None so sweet as you. They all kick and holler and don’t want to stay for supper. You’ve done your share of bitchin’, but haven’t got bit by ya yet. I took care of them biters, kiddo.”

His lengthy confession shocks you and you stiffen against him. Is it jealousy that you feel? How strange, disgusting to be envious of his other victims.

Took care of?

Your question is silent, but he understands, soaking in the panic he places in your breast, heart fluttering wildly like a bird in a cage.

Who taught you that, huh? Taught you not to bite the hand that feeds ya with that wet little mouth? Who taught ya to suckle on a cock like your life depends on it? Makes a man want to keep ya, yeah? How can I send a good pup back out into the world just like that?

You don’t know if he’s still speaking to you or if you’ve created a narrative where he doesn’t have to rid himself of the burden that is inevitably you. His touch shakes you back into reality.

He slips you a large chef’s knife, sliding it under your hand that rests on the counter top. The blade scrapes against your palm, reminding you of its purpose before the hilt slips into place. He holds it there for a moment until you move to grasp it. His breath flits in your ear, hips pushing into your lower back, sinking down a few inches to fit his growing erection in the cleft of your ass.

“Careful, girl.”

You inhale sharply, the scent of him overwhelming even as he peels himself from your backside. Knife in hand, you look at the potatoes, waiting to be butchered.

You want to escape? A little voice in the back of your head makes you stand up straight.

How easy would it be now, with a little help?

You see the back of Simon’s head, his impossibly broad shoulders rippling under the strain of his task. He’s just outside, you can barely see him in the dark, but the light from inside shines over him from the window.

The large man hacks away at some meat, supposedly cutting it into smaller pieces. He rips at something with one hand and you get a stabbing pain at the back of your head where he manhandled you by your hair onto his cock over and over. Your heartbeat travels to your cunt.

You shake your head, gripping the knife impossibly tight in your fist, watching him swing the butcher knife down again. You decide to follow him outside, tiptoeing out the back door through the kitchen, watching him from the back step. He has a newly lit cigarette between his lips, not removing it to puff, only blowing the smoke out around it.

Are you a bitch that bites? How will he rid of you?

He doesn’t seem to hear you, too engrossed in his task. You take a few steps forward, a leaf crunching underfoot. He still doesn’t turn. It’s not until you’re inches from his back, knife poised to pierce his kidney that he speaks.

Without turning, he lowers his knife, setting it down across the slabs of steak he was processing. “Gonna hurt me, kid?” He chuckles.

The weapon shakes in your clenched fist. You don’t know–you don’t fucking know.

“You raped me, Simon.” You start, trembling as you push the knife closer, just barely poking the muscle along one side of his lower back. “–and now what? Y-you want me to eat dinner with you?”

He breathes slowly, his large frame completely unmoving save for the rise and fall of his shoulders, the tobacco smoke that swells around him.

“I told y’to remember, didn’t I?”

You stutter, letting the knife leave his body before quickly pushing it back in, giving pressure to the threat, feeling the tip sink into the flesh.

 (–a little pop, just like pigskin–measuring the depth of fat.)

 Simon doesn’t move, but you hear something like a purr emanate from his chest.

“Remember how wet that pretty cunt was after I raped your mouth, yeah?”

Shame fills your ears with cotton, underwater static that deafens you as he speaks, leaning into the blade that has pierced his skin. A small patch of blood begins to form against the white of his wife beater.

“–and I kept raping you with my fingers.” He continues. “Until you fucked yourself back on me, didn’t you, kiddo?”

Tears well up in your eyes and you stumble backward. Simon turns to face you and your pathetic expression. The butt jumps in his lips as he speaks.

“You’d hurt me for making ya wet?”

He snatches your wrist, knife still clenched in your fist. You can only stare up at him hopelessly as he raises the weapon to his chest. Wispy blonde hairs peek out over the low neckline of the shirt. With the knife in your grasp, he holds the hilt around your fist, drawing the blade over his own pectoral muscle as you watch in abject horror.

“Simon–” You stammer.

“Kill me for making ya feel good? Ain’t even done with you yet, pup.”

That fake pout again, as if you’d hurt his tender feelings. He doesn't grimace as he slices into his own chest. The blood wells up to the surface and he unhands your wrist, your hand now slack enough to let the knife fall to the dirt.

He bleeds for you into the fabric of his dirty shirt.

“What do I do with bitches that bite?”

He shakes his head when you only stare at him wide eyed. He reaches a hand up to stroke your hair, the other wrapping around your shoulders, a shush playing on his lips as if he’s disregarded his last statement. Hush, babydoll–

–couldn’t do that to ya, now could I?

He draws your head to his chest, forcing you up on the tips of your toes. Your hips press against him first before your chest is flush to his abdomen. He looks down on you lovingly as he drags your face to the bleeding gash in his sweat-slicked flesh.

“Always need sommit t’suck on, kiddo. I’ll make sure–make sure you got it.” He murmurs thoughtfully around the cigarette.

He’s insane, he’s fucking demented. You think, but your body doesn’t pull away, doesn’t fight the looming suggestion he places before you. The more he tightens his grip on you, the less optional it seems.

Your lips part before your brain can catch up. He puffs on the diminishing length of the cigarette, blowing the smoke away from you as your tongue lolls from your mouth.

Should’ve killed him, should’ve pushed the blade in.

–but you didn’t and now your mouth is full of him once more. His blood is so warm, warmer than the dead meat that rests on his palms that he’s now smeared into your hair, against your shoulder blade–and it smells the same, sticks against the back of your bruised throat.

“Atta girl.” He consoles, still stroking the back of your head, soothing the wound he placed there only a short while ago. He hums, shushes you like a child as you nurse his weeping flesh.

You latch onto him, letting your teeth sink into the skin around the small wound. The brute even moans as you leech his lifeblood through a self-inflicted wound. His blood is thick, iron and smoke–disgusting–but the warmth of it, of his body heat, floods through your senses. Against your will, you breathe a contented sigh from your nose.

You can feel his heartbeat, thrumming steadily, both of you bonding over the broken flesh. Blood relation–you think, thicker than water and it will bind you to your captor.

You had a chance. Should’ve taken it.

After a moment, he wrenches you off, a stern look crossing his face. He plucks the cigarette from his mouth, tosses it away.

“I’ll spoil ya, if I’m not careful.” He glares down at you, his blood smeared over your mouth, caught thickly in your teeth.

The wound no longer weeps, your eyes are wet with tears. You suck at your canines, swallowing evidence of his endearment.

He pushes you away lightly, nodding to the ground at your feet. The knife lays there, used and abandoned. You envy it.

You quickly bend to pick it up and are caught off guard as you do. Your captor’s cock is rock hard under his jeans, twitching against one thigh. A quick glance up at him is a mistake. Your knuckles are pushed into the ground before you can get ahold of the knife as Simon grabs the hair he so lovingly stroked and presses your nose roughly to his need.

Blood is smeared across his clothed crotch as your nose is shoved in it, like a misbehaved dog.

“See what you've done, kid?” He snarls. “Get the fuck inside and do what I told ya to.”

Without another word, you snatch the knife out of the dirt and stumble to your feet, spinning on your heels as soon as you’re upright. You catch Simon palm at his crotch as you turn, scurrying back inside through the back door.

The knife is bloody, dirt caked. You wash it in the sink and try to forget your failed assassination attempt as you cut the potatoes into nice, even pieces. His lifeblood is your appetizer.

Simon smells like arousal, the bloody need of him is cloying, sticking in your nose and choking you from the moment he steps back in the cabin. He is silent as he lights the gas on the stove, nudging a large pot into your hands.

This is how you learned to cook anyway, being abused in between courses.

You fill the pot, setting it on the stove next to his scorching cast iron. When the water boils, he wraps a hand around your waist, wordlessly guiding you to throw the potatoes in. The steaks in the hot butter are the loudest thing in the cabin at the moment.

How domestic you can be with a belly full of cum, lips painted with blood.

 You're exhausted after dinner, feeling sated but confused.

 What now?

Simon picks his teeth with a fingernail, leaning back in his seat. He reaches for the cigarette pack behind him, stretching his long body out, twisting his torso around to snatch it off the counter. You can’t take your eyes off him, watching intently as he pulls a smoke, then another from their pack, lighting them both in tandem. His eyebrows furrow in concentration as he plucks one from between his lips, offering it to you.

You want to thank him, and prostrate yourself before him, beneath him. He’s placed a need so deep and disgusting within you, you feel as though you could burst, scattering into tiny fragments of who you used to be around the room.

You do thank him, letting one hand fall out to meet his, accepting his offering. He closes his eyes, again settling into his seat, puffing steadily. 

“G’na have t’do sommit ‘bout you, kiddo.”

His words send ice through your veins. You choke on your lungful of smoke as you sit up to look at him. The beast hasn’t moved an inch, eyes still closed. A basking lion, splayed out, proud, on his favorite rock.

He feels your tension, your overwhelming unease. He is motionless save for the cigarette brought to and from his gnarled mouth. His tongue runs loudly over his front teeth.

“Save all tha’ for tomorrow, yeah?”

You just nod and finish your cigarette with trembling fingers and hair that smells of raw meat.

Simon stands and you watch him like a prey animal caught in a trap. You snuff your cigarette out on the ashtray in the center of the table.

“Clean up, girl.” He snaps, gesturing to the table. “Then y’need a washin’.”

Directions are so easy to follow now. He’s placed pieces of him, fed them directly into your waiting mouth. You’ve nursed at the breast of the beast–what does that make you?

When you’ve cleaned the dishes–so obedient, you loathe, you wander into the living room, looking around the corners for your captor.

He takes your breath when he appears and you’re not sure if it’s fear, attraction or excitement. They’re all the same to you now. You’ve been broken, like a wild horse, but you never had the energy to buck a large man off your back, so you bow your head.

Simon is fully nude, unfathomably large in the doorway to the bathroom. A shower runs steadily behind him. His chest is broad, toned with the fresh cut on his left pectoral muscle, just under his collarbone–over his heart. A layer of fat coats his abdomen, thick blonde hair blanketing his entire torso, trailing down to his mons where a thick patch of darker, unkempt hair frames a heavy hanging cock.

Your jaw clenches shut, grinding your teeth together at the sight of him. Your throat burns with the abuse he dealt it only hours ago. His body is scarred, thick white marks adorn his pale skin. You can finally see the power this creature has been asserting over you, the muscle–and mass it takes to completely control another person.

Your eyes are drawn to his manhood once more, unable to meter your reaction. Tears well up in your eyes, you shrink into yourself as he laughs harshly. The lines of age show thickly on his face.

“C’mere, kiddo.”

You tremble as you pace toward the beast who has one massive arm stretched up to grasp the doorframe. The sight of you must be pitiful, because Simon gives you one of those pretend looks of sympathy, like he’s sorry that you’re scared.

You know better, though, you watch his cock swell with blood as you tenderly approach him. Just a couple feet in front of the towering man, he stops you with a click of his tongue.

“Strip.” He states simply, almost looking bored.

You immediately switch to pleading now. It’s pathetically instinctual at this point–usless.

“Please, Simon.” You choke out. “P-please.”

“Quit your damn sniffling, girl.” He snaps, making you jump, sob harder. “Get ‘em off.”

He's scary when he's content, and fucking terrifying when he's angry. The world should shake as he breathes hot breath through flared nostrils.

You finally obey, catching glimpses of an agitated Simon as you reach your arms around your torso to lift your shirt over your head. He watches you intently, nodding as if to encourage you.

The way he sucks his teeth as if he can taste your every move is unnerving–demoralizing–you’re a piece of meat.

Yet you continue, cutting all the undesirable gristly bits from the pretty red flesh. Your sweatpants fall around your ankles and you kick your shoes off. Once you toss your socks to the side, you finally stand before him in just your bra and panties.

Your captor is unamused, impatient with your stalling. He scoffs at your piss-poor effort and you feel a twinge of shame.

I’m sorry. I’ll do better: here.

You drop your panties, looking at him expectantly, eyebrows high, a pitiful hopeful expression bleeding through to your eager movements. Your bra comes off easily, you stand nude before him.

He looks pleased–for now. His eyes rake up and down your exploited frame, soft curves there for him to gawk at and tear apart.

“Atta girl.” He chides, calling you over. “C'mere now, come on.” His words are patronizing, making your face blush pink in shame.

When you approach him, he towers over you, an automatic threat. The brute reaches down to you, stroking a rough hand over your side, letting his fingers lead to the curve of your hip.

He's threatening you.

You reach out to touch him, you're unable to stop yourself. Like stroking the fur of a tiger, you wrap your hand around the fat above his hip, feeling around to his back. You trail your curious fingers up until you feel the shallow knife wound you dealt him.

You suck your lips into your mouth, chewing at it nervously. He only chuffs.

He turns without a word–the loss of his touch is chilling, painful–and enters the bathroom. He pulls back the shower curtain and steps inside.

Steam fills the small room, fogging up an already blurry mirror. You follow him into the room, making your way to the toilet.

Simon clicks his tongue at you, stopping you in your tracks.

“Have to pee, Simon.” You stammer quietly.

He just shakes his head. You could scream, but you know better than to disobey now. You grab his outstretched hand and step into the hot shower.

The water doesn't help your need, and you shift your weight from foot to foot as Simon simply strokes your sides quietly.

“Simon, I have to pee. Please.”

He shrugs. “M'not stopping ya, sweet'art.”

He reaches around you for a bar of soap, beginning to run it over your shoulders. He pulls you into his chest, your ass pressed to his groin. His cock throbs lazily into your skin as he rubs the bar of soap over your belly, lathering it in his hands to run over your tits. He puts the bar back.

His hands dip lower, reaching the curly strands that pelt your sex. He massages soap there, pressing his free hand to your lower belly. 

You squeal, sure he will punish you if you piss yourself. To your surprise, though, he hums in your ear, only pressing harder over your bladder. The hand massaging your pussy rinses you, repositioning to spread your lips with two fingers.

Shame cascades over you. “Simon–what?”

“It's okay, kiddo.” He soothes, rutting his hardening cock into your behind.

His switching personality gives you whiplash. He could become violent at any moment, but he's so gentle now. Your confusion must be loud to him because he begins to nuzzle harder into the side of your head.

“Now.” He growls. 

A request that makes you want to burst into tears. The humiliation is palpable and you know you can't hold it for much longer.

Simon uses both hands to handle your cunt now, spreading you apart as you begin to lose control.

Warm liquid relief begins to trickle, before it's fully streaming from you. You sob, knees attempting to buckle as he hums delightedly into your ear.

He moves one hand to caress your belly, the other rubs circles your clit as you coat his hand in your desperation.

“That's it, kid.” He consoles. “Feels better, yeah? Pissing into my hands?”

You tuck your face down, squeeze your eyes shut.

Shameful arousal is heavy on your mind as you finish, kicking your hips into the perverse attacker's hand. He pulls away, leaving you panting and bright red.

He washes himself now, scrubbing shampoo through his short hair. You follow suit, not a word to be said as you try to scrub yourself of your sins.

He wraps you in a towel afterwards, shuffling you into the bedroom across the hall. Your body is thrumming with a need for release.

“Simon, please.” It seems like the only words in your vocabulary are those used to beg your captor.

He sits in the bed, eyeing you intently, wrapped in your towel. He raises an eyebrow.

“I need–I mean–shit.” you stumble over your words. “I need something.”

He looks you up and down before bursting into a roaring laughter.

Bold of you to assume something is all you'll get. 

“Poor thing, yeah?” He chuckles, waving you over. “Still wet over gettin’ your mouth raped? Or was it just embarrassing enough to wet yourself while I played with your pussy?”

You're silent as you approach him, head down, beginning to cry once more.

“Oh, kid.” He teases. “Can't help yourself can you? Pussy tells you what you need, don't she?”

Tears stream down your cheeks as you nod, humiliated and needy. How awful, to present yourself to your assailant and ask for more.

Simon pulls the towel off your shivering frame, immediately slipping a finger between your lips. You gasp, involuntarily bucking your hips into his touch.

He grins cruelly. “Poor, poor pet.” He soothes. “Need to cum so badly, yeah?”

You nod feverishly, rutting your hips into your rapist's hand like your life depends on it.

“Tell me, then.”

You raise your face to meet his, smug and vile as he rubs pretty circles over your clit.

“Ah–need it. Fuck.” You stammer, squeezing your eyes shut.” “Wanna cum, Simon.”

He shakes his head, withdrawing his hand, watching you plead silently with him, body trembling with need.

“Not what I wanna hear, kid.”

You're confused, but only for a moment. 

“Need you to rape me.” The words feel foreign and sickly in your mouth. Tastes like bile and shame. You hardly hear your own voice. 

And he basks in it, grinning like a madman, your swear his chest almost puffs out in pride. You hate yourself in this moment, wishing you'd never left home, wishing at least that you'd not been so naive.

“Think you deserve t'cum?” Your blood runs cold. “If I didn't know better, I'd've thought you were tryin’ t'kill me.”

More hot tears threaten to fall over your lashline as your chest is wracked with dry sobs. You hate what he's made of you.

“Please, mister.” You shake your head, out of body. It's like you’re watching yourself from above, completely detached.

“–wanna cum–so bad–” Your voice trembles. “–want you to rape me–please.”

The beast places both hands on either side of your hips, drawing you closer to him with a click of his tongue. Your resting place is between his knee and thigh, straddling your captor's leg.

You sniffle, hiccuping out your waning sobs as he settles you down against his skin.

The relief of the pressure is immediate and you hold yourself back from rocking your hips against him already.

He nods his head, removing his hands from your body. He eyes you carefully.

“G'na rut y'rself into me, girl.” A low, condescending hm? punctuates his order.

You nod furiously, beginning to grind yourself down into his damp skin, whimpering as your clit brushes against him.

He laughs, and the sound is so far away, so inconsequential.

“That's it now.” He rumbles under his breath before reaching one hand up under your tucked chin. “–go on, give ‘er what she needs.”

Your wetness seeps out over his leg, the sound of your desperation echoing in the small room, ringing your ears. You whine into the space between you.

And the dreaded orgasm approaches much quicker than you'd care to admit. How shameful, begging your rapist to make you cum, throwing your hips back and forth over an unmoving knee.

Before you get the chance, though, he kicks you off, smiling crookedly as you stare at him, mouth agape. He stands, looming over your trembling nude frame. Without a word, his hands circle your waist and spins you around, shoving you roughly onto the bed.

Your hips roll into nothing instinctively at the sight of him, powerful and experienced–

(–aroused and deranged).

His cock is half hard, hanging heavy between muscular thighs coated in soft blonde hair.

The large man flicks two fingers at you, encouraging you to scoot toward the headboard. You comply, cocking an eyebrow at him as your heart races in your chest. 

Then, the beast crawls to you. Stalking, ready to pounce and rip the sweet tendons from your throat. He chuffs like an animal, practically foaming at the mouth. His eyes are crazed–dull and hollow.

You whimper, attempting to scramble back, stomach roiling as the predator closes in on you. He grabs you, though, like you knew he would, wrapping both paws around your thighs and dragging your core to his mouth.

You exhale a sigh of relief when he blows that heated breath on your swollen clit, digging his fingertips harshly into the fat of your thighs.

You kick your hips up once more, silently begging him to give you what you need.

(–a sample, mister? It's free, just the one–)

He snarls, laying flat against the bed as he noses into your cunt.

“Smell s'good, pet.” He reaches one hand down to spread you open. “Look'it how bad she need me.”

He snorts like a wild animal as he inspects you, inhaling the scent of your arousal, your acrid fear.

Your shame is behind you now, desperation boiling over as he tortures you. “Simon–fuck–c’mon.” You beg, regretting your demand as soon as it escapes your psyche.

He snaps his head up. “Careful.” A warning, and a shrewd one at that. He softens his gaze when you stick your lips together, promising him your silence for now.

Your captor laps at the wetness collected in your hair, relishing at the way you squirm under his grasp. 

“Hm? Wan’ me t’eat this furry little cunt, kiddo?”

There goes the blood rushing to your face, the tips of your ears (and your clit). He loves the way his jeering makes you writhe, makes your breath catch in your throat in a quiet indignation. He knows you’ll only nod, though, grinding your teeth together with impatience.

You do, nod that is, as you offer him your hips again, slick folds on display. You know exactly what he wants by now, more than willing to give in to his twisted appetite. Your voice is soft, shaky, caught behind a clenched jaw. “Rape me, Simon.” He grins from ear to ear, a Glasgow smile that freezes the very core of your being. His teeth are sharp, threatening next to your most sensitive skin. “Rape me with your mouth.”

(–teeth, tongue, anything else you have–).

Your captor groans, slow and deep with such pure satisfaction as you fulfill his wish, not a single coin plucked from his lint-lined pockets.

His tongue falls, unrolls like a fantastical beast from his slobbering maw as he licks you. So slow and torturous in the beginning, taking his time to taste the liquid hopelessness that pours from you.

And you cry, tears of relief and bloodguilt as he holds eye contact with you. His tongue, long and wet cards through your folds again and again. Your hips are drawn to his face mechanically, fingers seeking a hold in his buzzed hair. You don’t find it, but you shroud his skull in your shaking hands, pulling him in–in–

To your surprise, he doesn’t bat the urging hands away, only follows them, giving you the illusion of control. He rapes you lovingly, gliding his tongue in and out of your clenching hole, trailing up to flick and suck as your clit. You writhe in gratification beneath his touch.

That’s it, girl. C’mon, let me take care of you, grind ‘er into me.

You feel loved in this moment, in some sort of sick way. Simon's mouth caresses you between jagged teeth as he violates you.

One calloused hand detaches itself from your twitching thigh, sinking two fingers into your core without warning. The digits stretch you, fill you full of your aggressor in an instant. His left hand presses on the small of your belly, holding you still as your back arches off the mattress, fingernails digging into his scalp.

–and the way he looks is jarring–a giant between your thighs, one shoulder propped up as his hand is raised to hold you in place. His weight is heavy on you, grounding. Those frenzied eyes–

Simon sucks brutally at your clit, dragging you to the edge of heaven, holding you over and showing you the pits of hell that smolder beneath. You squeeze your eyes shut, still seeing his scarred face, gnarled teeth suckling at your cunt like his life depends on it.

(Don’t tempt a starving man–)

Your mind goes blank as hellfire rises up to grab you, your orgasm ripping through you like red-hot iron. You pull the brute into you, grinding your pulsating sex into his mouth, his crooked nose. His fingers dig around inside of you knowingly, pressing at the sweetest spot you have over and over.

He lets you ride it out, cumming over his cruel face. You’d like to catch your breath, to shove the man away from your oversensitive clit now that he’s completed his task. You should have known better.

The suction of his mouth only lets up for him to spit condescending commands up at you. You cry, real tears streaming down your flushed cheeks once more as he lets his fingers fall from you, using both large hands to hold you down–hold you to his assaulting teeth.

Rape– you think again.

“I ain't stoppin’ just ‘cause you cum, pup. Gonna eat ya till it hurts.”

His growling words fly by your ears in an instant, barely giving you time to decipher them before his mouth is on you once more, his tongue agonizing against your still-swollen clit.

“It hurts, Simon.” Your voice breaks before it reaches him. “It already hurts.”

He ignores you, closing his eyes for a moment to bask in your pain.

You think this is for you, bitch?

–his eyes chastise you as soon as he opens them again, the amber glowing almost red against the milkwhite of his sclera.

He sucks at you mercilessly, earning himself wail after wail from your ever-parted lips. Your hands fly off his head now, no longer drawing him into you–and he smiles at this, a satisfied sneer pushed deep into your overworked sex. You feel raw–broken apart under his touch.

A moment of relief, a sinful pop as Simon releases your aching clit from the confines of his mouth. He moves to work a finger back inside you once more, soft coos that he surely believes bring you comfort.

Truth is, you’re not sure what the meaning of comfort is anymore. Do you find comfort in his rape?

“Y’know how to squirt, kid?” You writhe, only giving him a pitiful whimper-response as he forces two fingers in. “I can show you, let me fit my fingers inside ya.” His words are soft, they pet at the worn down amygdala that rests, lonely in your head. A hush now, hush baby barely audible as he attaches his afflicting lips to you once more.

He ignores your cyclical pleas of please, stop–I’ll do anything because he knows that you’ll do as you’re told anyway. He’s free to do as he pleases.

–and while you writhe, your body reluctantly allows another orgasm to rise from your core as Simon licks, bullying his thick fingers into that spot that ought to have a neon sign on it–his experience shines during his assault. Your head is blank with overstimulation and desire as your need presents itself thickly to your aggressor.

Hush now while I suck on your little clit. I know it hurts baby, you have to let me do it.

You can’t tell if he’s speaking to you, or if his lips moving against your sex spell out his cruel words. Need climbing, you replace your hands over the prickly blonde hair spread over his skull, pulling him to you once more. He laughs into you, an ugly, knowing sound.

An orgasm, or something like it threatens to spill over. Your body screams at you for release as Simon tirelessly fucks his fingers into your trembling cunt.

“Simon–” A whisper-yell that forces his pretty amber eyes up to meet yours. Your hands shake around his head, thrusting your hips up with an incredulous look across your face as you grind against him. “Gonna cum–again, Simon.”

His name is a chant, involuntary incantation as he bares his teeth between your folds once more, grinning wickedly.

Eyes rolled back in your head, chin to your chest, you squirt as he pistons his fingers in and out of your sex, pulsating with orgasm. You soak the comforter beneath you, coating your rapist in your fluids as he laps at you greedily, his fountain of youth.

You sputter, face burning in shame as you come down, body exhausted as your hips twitch mechanically. Soaked in something like your lifeforce, the beast sucks at his fangs, licks at his lips.

He’s not done, he’s never done with your endless torment. His teeth nip at your clit, earning him a pitiful squeal from you–a mournful wail that ought to echo through the trees around the cabin.

Good girl, feel my teeth on ‘er, yeah? Look ‘ow wet, bet she could take a right beatin’ now, huh?

“Simon!” You grab at him, paw at his face and rake your nails over his eyebrows. He doesn’t budge, holding you down with both hands, forcing his way in between your legs. Your claw marks over his pale cheeks don’t phase him, though they mottle and raise, giving the brute an even more menacing appearance.

A few thin streaks of blood form now from where you try to fight off your attacker, the man soaked in your juices. You scream, thrashing in his grip now, pleasure so far away.

“Shut up–” He barks, giving you a moment’s reprieve. “Shut the fuck up, you ungrateful bitch.” His appearance shocks you as his eyes catch yours, completely hollow, void. Your rapist bears the marks of a resisting victim, bleeding down into his own eyes, he blinks red pain-tears away. His voice is cold, cruel and dazed as he buries his face back in your cunt. He’s inhuman, heartless as he rapes you.

Victim, victim–rape. The words swirl in your mind as your vision fades to black.

You asked for this–you want my lovin’ or not?

Simon uses both cruel hands to shove your knees to your chest, suckling viciously at your battered clit, showing you the true meaning of full control. 

–and he does–he’s able to when you feel another orgasm swell in your breast, clawing its way down, forcing its way into his mouth.

He holds you open, spreads you out while you howl, bearing your soul.

“Please, Simon.” You cry. “I can’t–”

You’re cut off by your orgasm ripping through your brittle body, hands flying to clutch at your attacker, grinding your swollen cunt into his face one more time. The contractions within your walls slow, then cease as Simon licks you gently now through it.

Terrified, you sob loudly, attempting to lower your legs, shut your knees, keep yourself protected and safe. The same hands that pulled his bleeding face into you now shove him away. He chuckles good naturedly, lovingly. “Please–” You repeat, body overcome with sobs as your palms lay flush against his forehead. Sinful ejaculate from your unwilling body mix with the droplets of blood forming at Simon’s wounds.

Two fluids drawn through coercion, born through force.

–a deadly cocktail.

He kisses your sex gently, pressing his reddened lips against your shame, rising to his feet. The brute looks down at you, admiring his work, wiping his face with the back of one calloused hand. 

He looks you over, still sprawled on your back, panting, shrinking away from the large man. He clicks his tongue. “S’pose y’ll quit all that beggin’ for now.”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. Your constant beeseeching is like a lifeforce to him, though he denies it. He will draw it out of you again, letting your pleas fill his cock with blood.

–but you’ll pay the price, taking whatever he deals you.

Don’t be ungrateful. This is what you asked for.

Simon motions for you to stand, and you rise slowly, knees quivering like a filly.

“Pathetic.” He spits simply, tearing the comforter from the mattress and tossing it next to the bed. You’re silent, waiting for further instruction. He tosses a pillow onto the wood floor, adding it to the pile.

“C’mon pet.” He motions to the makeshift palette on the floor, just beneath where he will sleep on the bed.

You stand there with your mouth agape for a moment, staring. That’s where he means for you to sleep? 

He snarls, motioning again to the place he’s so graciously carved out for you. “Bad dogs don’t sleep in the bed.” His jaw is tight, clenching around his anger.

Bitches that bite.

“–and messy girls get the wet side of the blanket.”

You hang your head, slow tears seeping from your wounded ego, steadily dissipating with each minute you spend under Simon’s thumb.

You curl up on the floor, the frigid air sinking into your bones as you nuzzle into the pillow. Simon lays in his own spot, too, assuredly warm under the thick blanket. He reaches one thick hand down to stroke your side. The comforter is beginning to chill in the cool air, doing nothing to warm your exhausted body.

He hums down at you sweetly, petting you. Loyal dog, you are. You hear him snoring within minutes, the rise and fall of one shoulder barely visible to you as you peer up at the bed. You’re exceptionally uncomfortable between the cold, hard floor beneath you and the sticky indignity that you haven’t cleaned up.

You wonder if you can sneak away while he’s asleep. How would he notice if you’re not even in bed with him? Your heart begins to race with your idea, still stealing glances of the sleeping beast, trying to gather the courage to move.

You decide to go to the bathroom, if he doesn’t notice you gone then, you can slip out the door. It’s not foolproof, and you know the consequences could be dire. Should you fear for your life?

A tentative foot wiggles out from under the blanket, and a hand is planted flat to the floor as leverage. You swing the blanket off slowly, listening to Simon breathe. His limp hand slips off your side as you rise, making your breath catch in your throat. Your confidence soars when you’re standing up on both feet. Carefully, you begin to pad toward the hallway, peeking over your shoulder.

The monster doesn’t move. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

You make it to the bathroom and clean yourself up, rinse your face in the sink. You hardly recognize yourself in the mirror. A shadow of who you once were. How can one person break another down so completely?

You don’t peek into the bedroom on your way to the living room, but you can hear him snoring, still fast asleep. Your clothes and shoes still sit in a pile in the middle of the living room, evidence of the show you gave to Simon. Quiet as you can, everything in the pile is pulled back onto your shivering frame.

You unlock the deadbolt on the front door, the small lock on the knob.

You step outside and pull the door shut carefully behind you. The air is frigid, wind biting against your ears and nose. You wrap your arms around yourself and begin to walk down the long, dirt driveway.

Halfway down, your heartbeat begins to steady. You don't really know where to go, but anywhere has got to be better than here. Easy–you laugh to yourself.

Dry leaves crunch underfoot as you tread along and you’re far enough away to be completely oblivious to the front door creaking open.

The sound of the gunshot doesn’t even register before you see the dirt fly up just to the right of your walking path. You stop dead in your tracks, collapsing to the ground, chest heaving.

Another shot, the bullet whizzes all the way up to you until it lands to the left of you this time. Your whole body is shaking and you wish you had the urge to run. How far could you get?

Would he really kill you? Shoot you down in the middle of the driveway?

Another shot, your ears ring with it, but you don’t hear any footsteps. You stand, trying to steady your foalish legs. One step, two, before you take off into some kind of pitiful, trembling run. A half-jog as you feel the heavy weight of a choking sob rise in your throat. Deep, primal fear bubbles up to the surface of your skin, seeping through every pore in your body. You’re sure Simon can smell it on you from the porch.

One last bullet. It sings as it grazes your calf, shooting pain causing you to lose your footing and collapse into the dirt.

Overcome by your moving temple, overcome by this holiest of altars.

You cry out, an animal wounded in your escape of the predator that you truly never stood a chance against. The heavy footsteps do come now, Simon trudging his heavy body out into the cold fall air. The wind whistles, a response to the rifle’s swan song.

So pure, so rare, to witness such an earthly goddess–

You clasp one hand to your right calf, the outer edge of it is bleeding moderately. If he was able to hit you just well enough to bring you down without causing serious injury, he surely could have killed you.

–that I’ve lost my self control.

Though it’s a surface wound, the pain is intense, almost blinding. When Simon approaches, you instinctively cower, tucking your body close to the ground, wind kicking red dirt into your eyes.

“What happened, kiddo?” The beast’s voice is icily patronizing.

He kneels down to you, one scarred knee digging into the hard ground. He reaches for you and you say nothing, do nothing. Thick fingers that reek of gunpowder even from where your face is lowered lift your pant leg, inspecting your wound.

He tsk tsks, shaking his head. You notice then that he’s still completely nude, the way he fell asleep. His flaccid cock hangs heavy as he kneels, swinging as he adjusts your injured limb to see his work better.

The beast’s face is lined with defensive wounds, the sharp work of your fighting hands as he forced himself on you. If anything, the marks only dehumanize him more. He's more creature than man with blood dried to his face.

–you should see the other guy.

“Poor girl.” He starts. “C’mon, I’ll get ya cleaned up.”

The tears flow freely once more and you have a rush of energetic fear. Quickly lifting yourself, you wrench your leg from his grasp and scramble upright. You only make it a few feet before crashing to the ground again.

You didn’t hear him rise to follow you, a stealthy predator, your captor. Simon tackles you, knocking the air from your lungs. You’re left gasping as he presses his body weight against your frail body. Red clay in your teeth, he sneers in your ear.

“Askin’ for trouble, bitch.” His touch is possessive, without the guise of being loving. He’s rough and cruel as he manhandles you upright. He smells like blood.

You gasp for air, tears streaking your dirt-caked face. Simon heaves you over his shoulder in a jagged motion. He huffs with effort as he begins the trek back up the driveway. You drip your lifeblood out onto his bare skin.

Consciousness is not something that makes sense to you anymore, your vision fades to black periodically as you watch the end of the driveway fade from view.

The rifle lays on the small concrete porch where Simon threw it down and he steps over it as he brings you back inside, mumbling angrily under his breath. He tosses you, just as carelessly onto the bed, the bedroom light switched on.

Your leg throbs in pain and you writhe in a piteous fashion, unable to look at your aggressor. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping this is all some sort of sick nightmare.

Simon returns to the bedroom, (you were unaware he had stepped out) and sits on the bed beside your limp body. He hooks a few fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants and yanks them down. You catch a glimpse of his face, seething with anger, a thick vein protruding from his forehead, breath heavy and shallow in his suprasternal notch. His eyelashes are matted with blood.

He has a first aid kit and a wet rag. He uses the cloth to clear the drying blood from around the wound before roughly dragging it through the gash. He snaps his head up when you whine.

“Shut the fuck up.” His voice is different now, there is no underlying affection. His anger may be terrifying, but this is something else entirely. Your blood is ice in your veins, frozen on the rag he scrapes the dirt from your wound with.

He gives you some sick kind of mercy by finishing with the rag, applying an antiseptic that burns like fire. He studies the injury for a moment, leaning in to inspect it.

“Shouldn’t need no stitches, kid.” His voice is low, unfeeling.

Upon reaching that conclusion, a thin pad of gauze is placed over it, still slowly seeping blood. He uses medical tape to adhere it to your leg, lifting the limb to wrap around your calf.

He pats it cruelly when he’s finished, causing you to yelp, pulling away from him. He stands, setting his first aid kit on the dresser behind him. He looms over you, glaring.

You have no energy to fight, no fuel to protest. You let him stare.

Without warning, he reaches to yank your panties down, ripping them off your ankles, pulling off your shoes that they catch on. He lifts you by your armpits as you gasp. He throws you around as he pleases, yanking your shirt over your head and ripping your bra down the middle.

Naked and shaking, he walks you to the side of the bed he doesn’t sleep on. He pulls the blanket down wordlessly and sits you down with a bruising grip on your shoulders. You sit, peering up at the cruel man. Watery eyes seem to have little effect on him now, for he just glares down at your pitiful display.

You lay down without instruction and Simon snorts in a half-pleased manner. He tugs the cover up to your chin and pads over to his side of the bed, climbing in next to you.

You shiver with cold and fear as he clicks the lamp off on his bedside table. Turning over to you, he motions for you to roll over. Your captor wraps a muscular arm around your midsection, pulling you into his warmth. He nuzzles into your hair once your body is fit against him. You stare at the wall, out the gap in the shitty curtain out the window.

His cock is flaccid and warm against the cleft of your ass, the coat of hair across his abdomen, beating chest, gently scratches the tender skin on your back.

You only shiver from fear now.

 You sleep fitfully, and wake up distraught. Your leg throbs painfully and your whole body is sore, feeling bruised and worn. Simon isn’t in bed and you hear him rustle around in another room. When you stand, you see there is a large T-shirt laid flat on his side of the bed, next to a pair of women’s athletic shorts.

You put them on, confused but happy to not trek out into the living room any more vulnerable than you have to.

Why does he have these?

You pad into the bathroom from the hallway, taking a quick piss. Grateful for the moment of privacy, you hold your breath as you peek around the corner into the living room. You see Simon behind the counter in the kitchen, his back to you as he places something in a sizzling pan.

 A sickening feeling of guilt and affection rises in your chest, forces blood to your cheeks. You limp into the room, approaching him tentatively.

“Simon?” You call to him, watching his hulking figure turn to meet your gaze. His face is clean, the scratches healing slowly. You continue to the threshold of the kitchen and dining area. He looks you up and down, only stood in a pair of ratty sweatpants. They hang low on his hips, catching your eye quicker than you’d like to admit.

You’ve become sick, infected with something awful.

–and he smiles at you, all mangled teeth and crow's feet.

Your captor looks you up and down approvingly before noticing how you favor your left leg. He hums.

“Let’s see that leg, kid.”

You’re silent as he leads you to the table, sitting you in a chair while he hikes your leg up to rest on his lap. The first aid kit is already sat in the middle of the table and he reaches for it while pulling the bandage off with his other hand.

“How’d ya do something like this, huh?” You snap your head up in bewilderment. “Gotta be more careful, pup.”

You don’t voice the shock, anger even that crashes into you like a truck.

He’s fucking insane.

You wince, biting your tongue against the dull pain. He shushes you without looking up as he applies more antiseptic and redresses the wound. You dip your head back down, completely drained.

He smiles again as he sets your leg down, standing to tend to what he has on the stove.

He serves you sausages and eggs, petting your ratty hair before sitting beside you and shoveling the food into his mouth. You eat tentatively. You’re starving and void of emotion, but completely out of body, occasionally glancing around the room just to ground yourself.

“Finish.” He orders, nodding at your slowly diminishing breakfast.

When the plates are clean, Simon takes them, not having you clean up this morning. He ushers you to the couch, sitting down and pulling you swiftly into his lap.

You straddle the large man, instinctively wrapping your arms around his torso, burying your face in his chest. His scent reminds you of the abuse.

(It draws a faint heartbeat to your sex).

“Oh, poor kid.” He soothes, stroking a hand down your back. “Had a rough night, didn’t ya?” 

Before you can stop it, you’re crying again. You think you should be out of tears by now, but they are dragged up from the depths of your very being, presented to your aggressor like a gift.

He shushes you, trailing his calloused hands up the back of your shirt.

You’re confused, hurting and lonely. Your abuser is your only source of comfort–and you take it.

“Sorry, Simon.” You sob into his chest, digging your face as far as you can into the coat of hair there, inhaling his scent. “Sorry.”

The beast smells like sweat and earth, red clay still surely pressed into the craquelure of his fair skin.

You hear him smile over his crooked teeth, a sick grin, abominable satisfaction.

“I know babydoll.” He soothes, fitting both large hands over either of your asscheeks, giving them a few gentle pats. “Stupid thing, ain’t ya?”

You nod blindly into him, unsure of yourself, insecure in your thoughts.

“Y'know why I had to shoot ya, right?”

You nod blankly into him, internally shrugging.

“Don't wanna have t'put ya down, pup.”

You raise your eyebrows, thinking of the strange shorts you're wearing. You lean up, look at him in the face, legs tightly wrapped around his hips. Your hands stroke absentmindedly through his chest hair. 

“You put somebody down before?” The question sits like ash in your mouth, coats your tongue in a bitter film. You look away.

He leans back, urging you back into his chest. “Don't worry about that, kiddo.”

Only bad dogs that bite and don't eat their supper.

–but you're good, you think.

Malleable.

As if to prove it to you, Simon grinds his hips up into you. You reciprocate without thought, receiving his affection effortlessly. The beast noses his way into your neck, sharp teeth nipping at the soft skin there, coaxing the blood to the surface. 

You moan as he gropes you, rutting your hips down into his growing need. He licks a stripe up to your ear, fingers bruising against the fat of your ass.

“Simon.” His wretched name on your lips is so sweet, so telling.

He hushes you, pulling you down onto him again and again. He lets you lean up to raise your shirt. Pert nipples call for his touch and he complies.

A fat tongue rolls over one, then the other before he takes your breast in his maw and sucks harshly, eliciting a squeal from you. His cock is swollen with blood and your heartbeat throbs in your sex pressed to him. The beast purrs in satisfaction as he suckles at your breast, fluttering blonde lashes falling over his eyes.

“Wet for me.” He states, sure of your pliability.

–and he's right. 

A nipple still caught between his crooked teeth, Simon reaches down to release his leaking manhood from his sweatpants before tugging the stretchy shorts to the side.

The initial feel of his swollen cockhead slipping through your slit forces your head back. Pure electrical need makes every nerve in your body stand on end.

You hate that he’s right.

You whine as he drags himself through your folds, chuffing, pleased, at your physical reaction to him.

“Too big, Simon.” You barely hear yourself.

He chides you with a growling hush and shakes his head.

“Only gonna hold ‘im in here, yeah?” He begins to press his cockhead to your entrance. “Don't gotta fuck, just sit here and be full, kiddo.”

You squirm, nodding reluctantly. 

The head of him slides in with a little pop–

(–sticking a pig, measuring the fat).

You cry out, feeling your rapist pet you gently, large hands on your hips now, spearing you slowly on his cock.

Simon opens you up, makes room for a cock that just shouldn't fit. 

Tears prick at your lashline as the thicker part of him stings your entrance and fills your walls to their capacity. Your breathing is erratic as you struggle to take what he deals you.

The monster groans in pleasure, grabbing hold of your ass, spreading you open to take it, kid. Keep–fuckin’ hell–takin’ it.

He jabs at your cervix when he's fully seated, you're uncomfortably full of your rapist when he leans back, admiring his work. He runs a thumb along your taut entrance, stretched to its limit around his cock.

“You're tight, babydoll.” He groans at the sight of you.

Desperation hits you like a train, the need to move is overwhelming. You begin to grind down against him, forcing his manhood as far as it can go, squealing in pleasure.

He clicks his tongue, tightening his grip on you. “No, pup.” You stare down at him incredulously, stilling your hips. “Runnin’ bitches don't get to use my cock.”

A visceral reaction, a deep throaty complaint as if you've been re-wounded. You try to move again, disregarding Simon's orders, snapping your teeth at him. A mistake, you quickly realize when he snarls, fitting his tongue in the space between his gums and canine teeth, and reels one arm back to slap your face.

He feels your cunt pulse as he strikes you, body attuned to the abuse by now. He holds you still, letting you cradle your poor face, swollen and teary. 

“Still.” He barks and you finally nod, settling for throbbing around him steadily.

He nods, grabbing the shorts once more to get a better look at your cunt. He grins, using his free hand to run a rough thumb over your clit. 

“Look ‘ow hard and pretty this little thing is f'me, yeah?” He strokes you again and you whine, fighting to keep still. You let your hands drop to his shoulders.

“And this coat of fur y'got–” The brute continues, drawing little squeals of pleasure and frustration from your lips. “–keep your girl warm and safe don't ya, kiddo?”

Shame fills you with exponentially more need as he mocks you, still circling your swollen clit while you squirm. 

He looks up at you, inhaling sharply at the sight you are before him, panting and red-cheeked. 

“Oh, sweet'art.” He croons. “–bet you can cum for me like this, can't you?”

His cock is unmoving inside you, save for the heartbeat you can feel pulsate within your walls. Simon quickens his pace, forcing an orgasm to bubble to the surface.

He has complete control, something you never really doubted since you met him. You came to him broken and he never glued your pieces back together right, instead rearranging you until he was satisfied. A perfect toy he’s crafted for himself, a dislocated limb set haphazardly.

“Gonna cum bein’ my good little cocksleeve, yeah?”

You nod furiously, balling your fists up into his flesh, nails digging into his biceps. You try to move again, but his grip on you is tight.

Just before you fall over the edge, he stops, removing his gentle touch from your clit. You cry out, questioning him with pleading eyes. He only wraps each hand around your thighs and stares at you intently, holding you down. 

–and, fuck, you're cumming anyways.

Your cunt contracts around him rhythmically as you fall over the edge, or rather, stumble over it. You cry, whine helpless as your orgasm is ruined around the painful stretch of your rapist. He doesn’t kick his hips up into you, doesn’t replace his hand on your clit. He watches you squirm in frustration as he holds you still, speared on his cock.

You paw at this chest, the desperate motion quickly turning into anger, fingernails scratching down his already scarred flesh. The monster doesn’t move, eyes blank as you claw down his chest, his neck. Your fighting is weaker now, you don't even break his skin.

He doesn’t loosen his grip until he’s sure your orgasm is over, setting you free only for you to immediately collapse a sobbing wreck atop his chest.

He doesn’t react, doesn’t move quite yet. The only thing he does is chuff, satisfied with your torture. Tears well up, falling over your lashline quickly as you lean into him, taking the chance to wiggle your hips down into your aggressor.

He’s silent as he lifts you effortlessly off his cock, letting you roll off him and onto the seat beside him. Simon stands, looming over your trembling figure before leaning down to yank the shorts down to your ankles, tossing them across the arm of the couch.

He fists his cock at the sight of you, crying and sputtering, gives it a rough shake.

“On your back, pull your knees up.” He barks a command that you follow without thought, watching him keenly.

He grins, driving his hips into his fist. You’re spread for him, sitting pretty like a good toy. Your cum leaks from your stretched open sex slowly, clear, sticky fluid coating your hair, the inside of your thighs. (Pink tinged from a stretch you weren’t supposed to take).

Simon grunts, nodding his head to you once more. “Use your hands, kid. Spread ‘er out for me.”

Once more, you obey, using trembling fingers to part your sticky lips for him to use. You sniffle, watching as he pulls himself closer and closer to the edge. He leans over you.

“That’s right, girl.” The veins in his neck bulge. “Gonna cover that little cunt of yours.”

–and Simon is nothing if not a man who keeps his word. He cums with a howl, tucking his chin to his chest as hot ropes of his spend land heavily over your throbbing sex.

You keep yourself spread, glancing down to see the mess he’s made of you. The heat of him is pleasing, you realize with horror. He squeezes the last drops out of his softening cock before straightening, keening down at you.

“Look at tha’.” He relishes. “Dirty slag.”

He spits the insult down at you and chuckles knowingly when you only smile back up at him, eyes tired and pussy still spread open. Simon snatches the shorts from behind you and begins to work them up your legs, allowing you to remove your hands. You stand, letting him yank the garment up, forcing his spend to sit nestled against your cunt, becoming overwhelmed.

“Simon, this is gross.” You complain softly, shifting your weight from side to side, feeling your fluids slide between your folds, stick against your thighs.

He hushes you. “Nothin’ gross about it, sweet’art.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “–got a lot to learn.” 

Every pet name makes you feel like mush inside, you’re content like this, with a reminder of his rape before heading out for the day. 

(He’s sure you know better than to run now).

–and you do, stacking wood against the side of the cabin with his seed between your thighs. Simon said he’d be going into town, to expect him home around sunset.

Home.

The word sits heavy in your skull as you roll it around, a dirty marble scraping against grey matter. You shake it loose when it sticks.

He makes some money doing odd jobs, small construction work or hauling wood in his old truck, but mostly he works as a mechanic in town. That’s what he tells you anyway.

In town, in town.

You had no real idea where the town was, the name of it, how far from the cabin. Truly, you were too scared to ask. You just nod sweetly when he says he'll be back.

When you've stacked the cut wood outside, you come in through the back door, straight to the kitchen. The rug on the floor is crooked, so you take the chance to bend down and roll it up. When you’re done shaking it out, you bring it back and before you can lay it back down, what looks like a hatch door catches your eye.

A basement?

Curiosity gets the better of you, knowing you’ll regret it if Simon finds out you’ve been snooping around the house.

Curiosity killed the bad dog.

The door is heavy and pretty flush to the floor, hardly visible. A shallow handle carved into the wood is really the only clue. Your heart races as you tug it open, holding it open with a prop rod attached to the joint mechanism.

It’s dark and you hope there’s some kind of light as you begin your descent down the  stairs. Feeling along the walls, there is a lightswitch as you near the base of the stairs. You flick it on and an old lightbulb sputters to life, bathing the small room in a sickly yellow glow.

There’s almost nothing down here, and your confusion only grows when a lone deep freezer sits tucked against one wall near a long table, like a butcher’s block. You don’t see a butcher’s knife, or any other knives for that matter, you’ve seen them all displayed on the wall in the kitchen–seen Simon pick one out to hack up a chunk of meat in the backyard.

He’s a hunter. You tell yourself, already knowing he processes his own meat, but some growing sickness aches in you.

Don't wanna have t'put ya down, pup.

Simon’s threat rings in your ears, the shorts you wear burn your skin now. You know you’re going to open it from the moment you see it, but you try so hard to fight the urge. It’s only natural to root around the home you’re captive in, to learn about your aggressor, what makes him tick, tick, tick–

There’s a clock on the wall opposite the butcher’s block. It’s all you can hear as your silent feet drag you reluctantly to the freezer. It’s about six feet long, laying longways with a lid that opens down the whole length of it. There’s a latch, but no lock.

Before you can stop yourself, you unlatch it, feeling Simon’s warning between your thighs, still dripping down your legs. The lid isn’t too heavy, you’re able to pull it up easily once you break the seal against the gasket.

Portions of ground meat, labelled “1 lb”, “2lb” lay stacked along one end, their ends are tied up with a metal staple, tops flared out like a candy wrapper.

It’s like your brain decides not to process it as your eyes see what you’re looking at.

A leg, hip joint all the way to ankle joint. There’s no foot, a clean cut through where it ought to be. The cut by the hip however, is a little rougher. You picture Simon hanging a deer to bleed, or a lean pig, using a machete to hack off the limb at the joint.

A deer, you tell yourself as you laugh wryly. The biggest deer you’d ever seen.

It’s skinned, only muscle to look at. You look deeper, beneath the leg. Two racks of ribs, vacuum sealed in large bags. Pork belly with the skin still attached, waiting to be crisped up in its own fat. Your mouth waters and you’re not sure if it’s nausea or hunger.

It’s also vacuum sealed, marbled like thick bacon. The skin is pale, dead, with a few prickly hairs toward one end of the slab, below a hole in the flesh. Suddenly sweating, nervy in the damp basement, you slam the lid of the freezer shut, latching it clumsily.

You flip the light switch off before you tear up the stairs, happy to slam the door to the strange room shut and throw the decorative rug back over the hinges.

Your heart is racing–inconclusive evidence–you tell yourself. Hands shaking, you decide to have a cigarette on the front porch, plucking one from the half-empty pack on the counter top.

The front door creaks as you step out, again as you close it behind you. The lighter is cold, sat out in the frigid air all night, all day. You warm it in your hands tenderly until it produces a flame for you.

The cigarette does calm you and your thoughts are easily pushed to the back of your mind, Simon’s made sure of that. 

Simon pulls up well before dark and you feel nothing short of lucky that he didn’t catch you in the act. You puff on your cigarette as his truck rumbles up the driveway. His radio blares, a bird flies away.

So dark, so dark in the moonlight.

Your stomach churns with guilt and fear.

Naked we worship the night sky.

He smiles at you as he approaches, leaning back in his seat, finishing his own cigarette.

No man can hold what the darkness can sow.

Your hands shiver, hardly from the cold. You study his face as he closes his eyes, enjoying his smoke. Are you a bad dog?

You’re gonna leave an ugly skull when you go.

Simon kills the engine, tossing the keys in the passenger seat, not bothering to click down the locks on the doors as he exits, looking worn.

Excitement roils in your belly at the sight of him, how sick. You toss your cigarette as he approaches.

A simple “Hi, Simon” suffices before he greets you with his tongue.

“Such a good pup, ain’t she?” He praises when he’s certain what the inside of your teeth taste like, looking you over. “You clean yourself up?”

You shake your head, still shifting uncomfortably. You’ve had to piss for hours, pitifully waiting for Simon to come home and allow you. He grins down at you, nudging you aside to walk inside. He sniffs the air like an animal as soon as he enters and your heart drops.

He says nothing, though, tossing his jacket onto the back of a dining room chair, kicking off his boots. “Know where the liquor is, girl?”

You shake your head and he gestures to a locked cabinet you’d just assumed was a hutch with glassware, fancy plates. The key is plunged in the lock already and you turn it and swing one door open.

“A scotch, kiddo.” He calls over his shoulder, settling in at the dining room table.

You were right, there are glasses in there, too. You grab a short whiskey glass and a bottle of cheap scotch. You were familiar, always thinking the expensive liquors were more for status than flavor.

Locking the cabinet back up, you tug open the freezer door and drop two ice cubes in the glass, hearing them crack inside the warm liquid. Simon reaches out before you approach him, waiting for the drink to be placed in his hand.

He takes a sip, leaning back in his seat. “Take them shorts off.” He pats the chair next to him after dragging it closer to him with his free hand. You follow his order, stiff as your bare ass hits the cold wood of the chair.

Simon takes a long drink. “Get your legs open, kid. Let me get a look at you.” Once again, you obey without hesitation.

You’re a mess of his fluid, pearly pink and still stuck in your wispy hair. Shame washes over you as you hook your legs over the arms of the chair, presenting yourself for inspection. 

Your captor reaches out to you, tipping the last of the liquid into his mouth before setting the glass down on the table. Two rough fingers stroke through your sticky slit, making your breath catch in your chest. He turns to face you in his own seat, spreading his legs and dragging your chair as close to him as he can.

“Disgusting.” He coos lovingly.

You’re silent and red-faced with your bottom lip sucked up into your mouth as you wait for his next instruction. You feel like you’ve never had to piss so bad in your life, clenching your pussy as tight as you can.

“Relax, babydoll.” He coos, suddenly fitting a finger inside you. You gasp with the sudden intrusion.

“Can’t–” You stutter. “Have to pee, Simon.” Your voice is small, soft and shaky.

The brute curls his finger, reaching for the soft spot at the roof of your cunt. He grins crookedly when he finds it, thrusting another finger in beside the first.

“Tha’ right?”

He must live for humiliating you, getting his kicks from your unending shame. He remembers what makes you squirm the most, employing the tactic that works over and over until you're desensitized.

You nod meekly, unable to stop small moans from leaving your lips as he pushes his thick fingers in and out of you slowly, letting his thumb bump over your clit. You’re squeezing the life out of his fingers, trying desperately to hold your bladder.

“What’d I tell ya before, kid?”

You’re confused, your mouth opening but nothing coming out, still focused on keeping your dignity as intact as you can. Simon drives his fingers into you harder, punching your insides cruelly. You just shake your head.

He grunts, using his other hand to stroke up and down your swelling clit. Both hands all over you, you’re overwhelmed, desperation growing.

“Been such a good pup–” He starts. “–holding onto my cum all day.”

You can only whine in response, pussy fluttering around his assaulting fingers. You’re going to lose control whether you like it or not as his fingers bully into you mercilessly.

“S’embarassing, Simon.” You whimper, looking down at yourself. “Please–”

He scoffs, clicking his tongue as he nods down to his erection. He’s rock hard as you debase yourself–all this for his entertainment.

Without another retort, a stream of piss squirts out into his hand. He laughs, not ceasing his assault, but removing his hand from your clit. His breathing quickens as your pussy relaxes around him, letting the liquid you’ve been holding all day flow out onto the chair, the floor, his hand.

You sob quietly, watching as you piss yourself for the enjoyment of your rapist. Moaning still, as he draws you closer and closer to an orgasm. His gaze is fixed on your leaking core intently, using his free hand to briefly palm his swollen cock.

“That’s it, girl.” He praises. “Had t’go bad, huh?”

Still releasing a steady stream of shame, you nod, sniffling and kicking your hips into his hand. You’re really a mess now, covered in his spend, your own piss and juices. Your relief is punctuated by a desperate need of a different nature when he replaces his hand on your clit, stroking lightly while his fingers piston in and out of you.

“Ah–gonna cum, Simon.” You cry, tears streaming down your face.

“Aw, little thing.” He croons harshly. “Let’s see.”

You fall over the edge then, digging your nails into your own thighs as you scream your throat raw with your orgasm. Your sex contracts around him and your eyes are wide open, looking right at the man breaking you down piece by piece.

Shame burns your face, looking down at your mess.

Simon only laughs, shaking his head. Feeling kind, you suppose. He shoos you away–go clean yourself up, kid–so you start the shower.

Your shower is brief and refreshing. The hot water attempts to cleanse you of your most recent sins. You exit the steamy bathroom with a towel wrapped around your body. Simon is standing at the entrance to the hall.

“You’ve been in the cellar.” He states darkly, standing stoic and threatening. “Shoulda made you lick up your fuckin’ mess.”

Your blood turns to stone in your veins. His glare is threatening, more angry than you've seen him. His jaw is clenched tight when he lunges at you.

You don't have time to react before he grabs you, letting your towel fall to the floor. You're cold, shivering and exposed as the shoves you against the wall, pressing your cheek harshly against the plaster. Your jaw aches from the pressure, teeth threatening to pop out of your gums.

“Can't leave you for a few hours, bitch?” He spits, breath fiery as you begin to weep. “Gotta lock you in a kennel while I work?"

You sputter something incoherent, babbling about it was an accident and I'll never tell anyone. 

He grins cruelly, forcing his entire body weight against your small frame.

“–and what d'ya think you saw, girl?” He snarls.

“A pig!” You sob. “–a leg and–and a rack of ribs.” Tears stick your face to the wall, biting your cheek with the force he uses against you.

“Tha’ right, kid?”

You nod, best you can while you feel him hold back the urge to slam your frail body into the wall over and over again.

“Let's go see.”

Your eyes go wide, feet scrambling beneath you as he starts to drag you away, one hand in your hair. You can't break away from him, screaming as he pulls you to the hatchdoor in the kitchen.

“Please, Simon.” You cry. “I’m sorry, I’ll never go down there again.”

He snarls, throwing you to the floor, sending the rug flying, exposing the door. You collapse, sobbing into your hands as he looms over you.

“You will, stupid mutt.” He spits, drawing his boot back to kick you in the ribs. You keel into the pain, one hand flying to give pressure to the bruising injury. “Open it.”

With trembling hands, you have no choice but to do as he says, you crawl over to the handle, trying to lift it as you raise up on your knees. You’re weak, sobs wracking your body. Tired of your efforts, Simon smacks you out of the way, grabbing the handle himself and wrenching the door open.

It’s as dark as it was when you first discovered it, he pulls you to your feet by your bicep, surely bruising the flesh there. Your vision is blurred by tears, throat sore with screaming sobs. He leads you down the stairs, stopping briefly by the lightswitch, waiting for you to flip it on.

Damning evidence, you think.

You think he’ll release you, tossing you onto the floor when you get downstairs, but he doesn’t. You look around frantically, trying to make sense of your situation. Instead, the brute keeps pulling you along, blunt fingernails digging into your broken skin where he holds you.

He finally frees you for a moment, throwing you onto the freezer, bending you in half over it. You squeal in pain, your ribs throbbing from the kick, your head pounding with the whiplash of being thrown around.

Does he feel betrayed?

“Can open the freezer, can’t you?” His voice doesn’t soften, keeping its cruel edge as he steps back, waiting.

You nod slowly, sobbing hysterically before reaching one hand to the latch, releasing it.

All the meat is still there as it was before. The leg, the stacks of ground meat, sausage you guess, the pork belly with the prickly hairs at the bottom. It’s all the same, but now, you’re nauseous at their implication.

Simon grabs you roughly by the nape of your neck, shoving your face down into the icy box. You squeal in discomfort, losing the will to struggle. He leans over you, body pressed to yours as his heated breath rings like a threat in your ear.

–and a threat it is, the snarling beast lording over you.

“What d’ya see in there, kiddo?”

There’s a sickening lilt to his voice, something that sends a shard of hope through your heart, something akin to comfort.

Your voice cracks as you squeeze your eyes shut, sputtering something incoherent. Simon shakes you, digging his fingers into your nape, shoving you further down into the freezer, shaking with rage.

He spits as he hollers at you, your knees buckle under the weight of your fear.

“Answer me, bitch.” The feigned comfort is gone now from his words, replaced by the hatred that you knew was there all along.

He nips at your ear then, causing you to shriek in pain. You only realize you’re bleeding when he drags his lips across your cheek, waiting for your reply.

“M-meat.” You murmur. “Bunch of meat–pork, deer.” 

Simon howls with laughter, raising you upright and pressing your back into his chest, grinding a swelling cock into your ass. His hand drops from your nape to wrap around your midsection, pulling you impossibly close to him while the other reaches up to your face, wedging a thumb in between your teeth. Your jaw is slack, letting the calloused digit run over your molars, ribs throbbing.

“Wrong.” He laughs, hooking the thumb in your cheek, stretching your lips apart.

You’re confused. What is he playing at?

Your thoughts are hardly coherent, unable to keep up with the mind games, but you know one thing: you love him. You love the way he touches you, even though it disgusts you to your core, your find comfort being pressed to him, your blood on his lips.

“That’s the bad dogs.” Simon drawls, rutting his hips into you as you soak in his words.

I’ve had plenty of women here before–I took care of them biters, kiddo.

Took care of them, you think, looking down into the freezer, Simon’s hand manipulating your cheeks, your lips. “You killed ‘em.” You whisper, wishing you were more shocked at the revelation.

He chuckles, almost a giddy laugh. “You knew that, babydoll.” The sweet name makes your heart flip, even now, sick as it may be. “–you didn’t give a shit before, cummin’ all over my fingers.”

Rape me, rape me.

You clear your throat, sickness and arousal one in the same, both rising in your throat with the bile that the taste of your captor’s fingers draw up.

“–and the meat–dinner–” Your sentence is broken, hardly intelligible even before you let the words trail off into nothing. Simon laughs lovingly, knowingly as he unhands your face, wrapping both arms around you, pulling you tight to his warm body. The freezer burns your nipples with the cold.

“–that leg, it looks like a pig, right? It could be a pig?” You’re hysterical, mind racing and turning, unable to keep track of the events unfolding in front of you.

“About as much as that belly is.” He snickers.

You stare blankly at it, at the prickly black hairs under the–what you now recognize as a belly button–the marbling in the pretty red flesh.

You ache where you were fed in utero, a stabbing pain as you think of your umbilical cord.

You clear your throat. “How long is a pig, really?”

It’s an odd question, mostly rhetorical. Maybe it’s only uttered as a way to stall, you’re not sure anymore.

Simon croons softly in your ear, nibbling at the wound he created once more, fitting his cock in the space between your thighs. You hadn't noticed he'd pulled himself out. Cold air forces its way into your lungs.

“Not quite as long as you, kiddo.” His breath is hot in your ear. “Not nearly as lean.”

“And that pig didn’t have this pretty coat of fur you got.” He reaches a hand down to cup your sex. “–didn't like ‘er as much.”

You whine under his grasp, weakly trying to wiggle free. Simon holds you still, however. He kicks your feet apart, fitting both of your wrists in one hand in a familiarly cruel fashion.

No–he can’t.

With hardly a second’s warning, he lines his throbbing cockhead up with your entrance, pushing in roughly. You squeal under him, writhing like mad to try and free yourself. He snarls as he fists his free hand in your hair, wrenching your head back.

You’re wholly unsuccessful and the pain is searing. He rips you apart, pushing deeper and deeper, opening you to make room. His manhood scrapes along your insides as he thrusts deeper. You cry out, trying to claw at his wrist that binds you, his belly that slaps against your ass with each cruel thrust inside.

“Simon, please.” You sob, feeling his cock fully sheathed in you, prodding at your cervix. Your pussy flutters around him, but not from pleasure. The ripping pain throbs like a bruise inside you and he loves it.

Ignoring your pleas, the brute begins to fuck into you wholeheartedly, tearing you apart piece by piece. He’s too big, your body too broken, too unwilling. He unmakes you in the worst way.

“It hurts–you're hurting me.” You cry.

The beast only laughs, flashing his sharpest teeth, you're sure. Another man would stop, pet your hair and sputter I'm sorry, so sorry, but not Simon.

–and you don't expect him to. He's predictable when he huffs, deep, throaty laughter grating against your eardrums as he asks simply: “Do you like it?”

He doesn't expect you to answer. He releases your wrists only to fit his fingers into either side of your mouth, yanking your head back like he wants to rip you in half.

–and he is, he does.

Your sex is abused while your tits swing, scraping against the open lip of the freezer. Your lips split and bleed, stinging like fire as he rips them open. The meat stares up at you, taunting. It lays in your bed.

Slowly, the friction is eased by a wave of mechanical slick released around his manhood. You cry out, feeling blood pool in your swelling clit as he continues to assault you.

Simon releases your mouth and your head drops in shame, a broken cry falling from between your lips. He laughs cruelly, spreading your ass as he slows his thrusts.

“Tryin’ t'rape ya, kid.” He sneers, watching his cock slide with ease in and out of your clenching pussy. “–can't call it that if you're soakin’ me like tha'.”

You cry in shame, though you're relieved for the lubrication. Grateful, even, as he fucks you slowly, relishing in your chagrin.

“You ever gonna tell me who broke you in?”

It's still rape, you think as he picks up the pace, drawing a squeal from you.

Still rape, you tell yourself as you feel your pussy clutch at him, begging for more.

You stare down at the meat in the freezer, the bad dogs. Not like you, you're sure.

He drives his cock as hard as he can into you when you ignore his question once more, shoving your limp body into the edge of the freezer, knocking the wind from your lungs and surely bruising where you've been bent in half.

The brute fists a hand in your hair, almost a relief as he peels your frozen skin from the freezer, drawing you upright into his warm body, his sweat sticking your skin together, a tongue to a frozen light pole.

One hand in your hair, the other wrapped around your throat. He's unkind as he squeezes, listening intently to your chokes and gasps as he bullies into your poor cunt.

–but she eases his way, dripping arousal out around him, making noises that feel like suction as you keep pulling him back in. You can't breathe–can’t swallow, your vision black and fuzzy around the edges.

Simon noses your ear, beastial stertor a threat with every thrust he deals you, forcing you up and your toes to accommodate him.

“Tell me now, babydoll.” He urges, resting his sweat-slicked forehead against the side of your face, loosening his grip only slightly on your throat. “You owe me.”

Your brain is fried, mind elsewhere when he speaks to you. You're lost in the deep, biting pleasure your captor deals you. The way he fills you up is unlike any man you’ve experienced. You squeal each time he rams into you, bruises your cervix.

“Hey!” He whispers in your ear, making your body tense up, your eyes fly open as you come back to reality.

You whimper, mumbling incoherently. “Simon–” You moan. “–Simon.”

He clicks his tongue in your ear, hip stuttering as he fucks into you. “Tell me ‘ow much you like it, kid.” He pants. “Tell me you love bein’ fuckin’ raped by me.”

And you do, sick as it may be. You squeeze around his cock as he defiles you (–defines you), quickly approaching your own orgasm without even realizing.

How can you deny something so pure, so base? It's instinctual for you to show your belly to the beast, ease his way into your womb. You cry out as he jabs into you harder, growling viciously. The male will breed the female when he scents her heat.

“Love being raped, Simon.” You whimper, body slack in his grip again.

He drives into you, panting like a rabid beast into your ear, holding you tight.

“Say, ‘I love when you rape my pussy, mister.’” He sneers, thrusts jagged, nearing his orgasm. He relaxes his body into yours, fitting his massive frame against you.

You sob, body shaking with the effort as you try to spit out the words he wants to hear. You're going to cum, you flutter around him, urging him to fill you–sucking him dry.

“I–ah–” you gasp, almost falling over the edge. “–love when you rape my pussy, mister–love your cock, Simon.” Your words are slurred, broken into shards of what they ought to be.

–and he loves it.

Digging his nails into your tender flesh, your captor fucks into you as hard as he can, using your body to milk the orgasm out of his cock. He cums in you then, filling you with his unholy seed. He forces it into your poor, tortured sex as he snarls into your neck, drawing blood with his gnarled teeth.

–and unfortunately, you respond so well to his abuse. Your pussy bites down on him, shaking with an orgasm that rips through your body, unmakes you before him. You howl, digging your nails into the forearms that press you against the beast. Each wave of pleasure-pain is stronger as he bullies his spend into you, claiming you.

Something shared between you, a release. Blood magick as he plants a seed that will never grow.

You whine and pant, body trembling as you come down from your high, your lowest low. Simon withdraws from you, letting his spend fall onto the concrete floor, pearly pink. The steady hum of the freezer lulls you as you collapse to the ground, completely spent, destroyed. You hear bells toll dully in your ears.

The tick, tick, tick of the wall clock echoes in your head as Simon lifts you off the floor. You wrap your legs around him instinctually, your slick and his load smearing across his front as he carries you, matting in the hair blanketing his abdomen.

He carries your dead weight only a few feet, laying you across the large butcher block before tucking his softening cock back into his jeans.

God has entered my body, like a body perfect sized.

He steps away to close the lid to the freezer, quickly returning to attend to you. You stare at your captor blankly, trusting. He strokes a hand over your belly, feeling your shallow breaths.

He chuckles. “I ‘ave t’drug some of the girls.” A sharp remark that he speaks so lightly as he inspects you, reaching above your head.

You don’t respond, can’t. Your mind is fragmented, more damaged than your bleeding body, bruised bones. You keep your eyes on his, blinking slowly.

“–but not you, kiddo.” He croons lovingly. “You’ll taste sweeter, too.”

A knife comes into view, a little thing in Simon’s massive hand. It’s sharp, thin, and curved slightly. One hand strokes through your hair as the other rests the blade across your throat.

“It’s fear–” He starts, examining the skin of your neck. “–ruins the meat.”

Instinctively, your breath hitches, but your body doesn’t move. Your vision is blurry.

“I’ll bleed ya out first, babydoll.” His hand is comforting across the crown of your head and you moan contentedly. “I’ll cut here–” He lets the blade poke into the soft skin of your throat. (You feel the shallow wound you’d dealt him, then, a little puncture to the side). “–and I’ll hang ya over there.” He points to the middle of the ceiling, where you can see a large hook out of the corner of your eyes.

You bat watery eyes up at him. 

Won’t he keep you?

The brute shushes you gently, caressing your damp hair. He knows what you’re asking, knows you’re all out of fight.

“Can’t keep no pets, kid.” He laments. “I’m no good with ‘em.”

You’ve failed, you realize. Not trustworthy.

He leans down to kiss your forehead, salt touched with his affection already. You whine into his warmth, one arm twitching in an attempt to reciprocate.

“You ready? Take good care of ya, sweet’art.” He nods down to you, not really expecting an answer from behind your glassy eyes. You stare at him vacantly, as much consent as he ever needed. “Atta girl.”

The blade stings at first. The initial cut feels slow, like he’s savoring it. The pain is so far, though, more prevalent is the hot thickness of the blood that begins to fall, pulse out of your neck with each beat of your heart.

You choke, a panic beginning to rise in you. Flight, flight. Flight.

Does it take death?

It does take death, the quiet, gurgling bleeding out that you do on his table, for your captor to truly love you. One of many, you know.

The pain is obvious now, the loss of breath. You drown in your lifeblood as your worse half watches on. Writhing is sufficient, there's nothing more you can do. You've been waiting for the other boot to fall. It bleeds from you, the wound, from the torn open lips that Simon admires.

–and it does fall, heavy on your heart as you die before him.

Simon hums a song you don’t recognize as the edges of your vision fade to black. You’ve begun to thrash weakly, you realize, when you feel a strong palm across your hip, pressing you to the wood. The other hand still strokes your hair worshipfully. Your arms flail, but he makes no move to restrain them, the power in the grasp of your fingers dies out quickly.

Blackness is all consuming. How did you end up like this? Would you rather anything else?

Your last thought is that you’ll feed your rapist for many months to come, keeping him alive and warm with your unwilling oblation. How honorable, to be a sacrificial pig for the man you love.