Addicted (Dead Soldiers vs Tailors Duet)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“VICTIM” BY HALFLIVES

LARK

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

That fucking sound will be the death of me.

Well, you know, if all the torture doesn’t kill me first. I guess there’s a real possibility of hypothermia too, given they haven’t let me wear any clothes for the past couple of weeks, so I’ve been having to make do with my birthday suit.

Spoiler alert; it’s fucking colder than a priest’s bed.

Drip.

Fucking cuntish motherfucking drip. You’d think that with all the fancypants torture equipment these bastards have, they’d fix a fucking leaking tap.

Drip.

My eye twitches with the noise. I swear to god I’ve got new tics because of my stint in here. If this affects my OnlyFans income, I’m fucking suing! Assholes.

Drip.

Heaving over on the stained mattress, a pained groan leaves my dry and cracked lips. I look around, desperate to find the source of that fucking drip, and rip it out with my bare and bloodied hands.

Drip.

Another jerk of my eyelid.

I’ll never find a decent sugar daddy with a fucking eye twitch. Especially being skin and bones as I am now having been down here for who the fuck knows how long. At least I've still got my tits. Must count for something, right?

That's about the only fucking something right now. There are no windows, and I’m surrounded by concrete and only one heavy metal door.

It isn't exactly the Four Seasons. Other than the bed, there’s a bucket on the floor in the corner.

Fucking animals. You can tell a lot about a place by its toilets, or lack thereof, and I’m telling you now that my TripAdvisor review would read:

‘Cold, dark most of the time, given the inadequate lighting of a single bare bulb and no natural daylight. Colder than a witch’s tit, with uncomfortable sleeping arrangements lacking in any form of bedding aside from an old mattress with questionable stains.

Could definitely do with a spring clean—or napalm.

Appalling facilities, basically nonexistent. Zero stars.’

Drip.

The whole side of my face quivers this time, a rasping growl cracking out of my raw throat. Motherfuckers. I’m going to look like a fucking junkie if I ever leave here. Which, admittedly, is looking less and less likely the longer I’m down here.

I suppose there are regular, daily, torture sessions to break up the monotony. Silver linings and all that, I guess. Although having one’s fingernails pulled from one’s hands is not the same as a nice manicure, you know? Doesn’t have quite the same relaxing quality to it.

And all this pain for what? For information that I can't—won’t—give them. These faceless men. These heartless bastards that torture a girl just because she shares a last name with a monster far bigger and scarier than they could ever be.

Drip.

Fuck. My. Life.

I swear this is another form of torture.

It’s almost as bad as the loneliness that keeps threatening to consume me until I’m a gibbering wreck, but then I remind myself of all my fans—twenty thousand subscribers, bitches!

—and fight the darkness with a strength I have to dig deep for.

I guess if we're really getting down to it, there's also Rook, my brother, to keep me going.

I tried to make an invisible friend to help stave off the aching emptiness of my current existence, but no one answered the ad. That’s how pathetic I’ve become. Even invisible people don’t want to know me.

The grating sound of the lock turning brings my gaze over to the door, and my head snaps up, my entire body coiling, ready for fight, flight, or hell, at this stage, even fuck if it’ll help.

It swings inward with an ominous creak—they definitely need to spruce this place up a bit—and in steps… someone new.

From my vantage on the floor, my eyes travel up from his tan work boots to his fitted dark jeans, pausing on the significant bulge at the apex of his thighs that makes my kitty kat sit up and take notice, practically purring. Keep your head in the game, Lark.

His abs are etched through his tight, white T-shirt and my breath shortens to a pant at the defined pecs and broad shoulders that greet my hungry stare.

I resist looking at his face, prolonging the anticipation, and deciding to trail along his strong, tattooed arms instead.

After all, anticipation makes your panties grow wetter, right?

And holy mother of all things hotness! His forearms are corded and thick, his massive biceps perfect for pinning you down beneath him.

My dry tongue traces my chapped lips, my teeth desperate to sink into those muscles as he fucks me hard.

“You keep looking at me like that, Little Bird, and I’m gonna forget what I came here to do.” The deep timbre of his voice caresses my sore and broken body, swirling around my sex and making me ache in delicious ways that, over the past few years, I have almost forgotten.

Unable to resist any longer, my eyes swing up to his firm chin, covered in a light stubble of dark brown. My lips tingle as I trace his full mouth, which is pulled up in a sexy as fuck half smile. Moving on, I take in his ever-so-slightly crooked nose until I reach his eyes and stop dead.

Bright hazel orbs stare back at me, full of a raging heat that burns me in the best way.

Not like when those other pigs actually burned me.

That sucked big, hairy, donkey balls. The slowly healing blisters on my lower back twinge, the scent of burning flesh filling my nose for a moment.

Shaking the memory from my head, I move past his captivating eyes to see a dirty-blond mop of hair.

It's styled to look like he just rolled out of bed, shaved close on the sides and long on the top. It’s also long enough to enable a good grip whilst I fuck his face.

Maybe this could work in my favor after all. Perhaps help me out of here and give my south mouth something yummy to feast on...

“Shit,” he curses, and I go back to look into his eyes again, the lines around them suggesting that he's older than I am, maybe in his early thirties–hello Daddy. I give him my best sultry bedroom smile. I'm glad that yesterday was a waterboarding day so I’m sort of fresh.

“Oh, I’m not into poo play I’m afraid, but I’d let you do pretty much anything else to me, Big Daddy,” I tell him, my voice all kinds of croaky from all the screaming that I’ve been doing the past couple of weeks, but I’m thinking it adds a new sexiness to it.

Fuck, it’d make a fortune on the phones.

I smirk when his nostrils flare and his fists clench at his sides as his delicious body thrums with tension. He’s younger than the others who usually come to get me, and he’s fine as fuck, a tall glass of water in a dry as a nun’s cunt desert.

“Are you playing with me today, big boy?” I ask, using the wall to pull myself up to standing.

I wince when my nailless fingers scrape on the rough surface, the pain making my jaw clench.

That shit does not heal fast, I can tell you.

My legs threaten to give out as I’ve not eaten in a while, and when they give me food, it’s mostly scraps and vegetable peelings.

On wobbling legs, I make my way towards him, feeling the scabs on my back split open and warm blood dripping down my bare back.

That whipping was not fun. He stands stock-still, watching my naked form with hunger in his gaze.

I learnt from an early age how to use my body on men to my advantage, so I sway my hips as much as my wounds allow.

He doesn't move when I reach him, my hand darting out as a wave of dizziness washes over me, the dark room tilting.

“Steady now, Little Bird. They did a number on you, huh?” he asks in that pussy-clenching voice of his before wrapping powerful hands around my own tiny biceps to help hold me up.

It’s strange, but the way he asks, I could swear there’s a slight inflection of anger in his tone.

I must be imagining it. He is with them, after all.

No mind, they'll all pay, eventually.

His face swims back into view, and there are slight lines around his eyes, the heat gone, replaced with something that looks almost like concern.

That's bullshit, Lark. These psychos don't feel normal emotions.

“Not a fan of their work?” I question, leaning into him just because he smells so good.

Like a cat does with catnip, I want to roll around in his scent of cloves and petrol and get drunk off it.

“Personally, I think it lacks finesse and imagination, you know, that je ne sais quoi that sets it above normal, boring torture. No originality.”

A deep laugh rocks his chest and my body follows the movement as I’m now practically draped over him.

“They didn’t tell us you were so funny, Little Bird,” he murmurs in my ear, not protesting as my head drops to that space between his neck and shoulder and I take a deep sniff like the weirdo I am. What? I've got to get my kicks somewhere in this hellhole.

“They just don’t understand me, Daddy, not like you do,” I tell him in a sensual, fractured whisper as I nuzzle closer to him.

It's like my body has taken over, my arms lifting to wrap around his thick neck.

I hiss as more scabs splinter open on my back, blood dripping down and tickling the healing wounds.

“Fuck, baby. They tore you up good,” he growls, again that thread of anger lacing his tone when he glances over my shoulder at my back. He's taller than my five-foot-six frame by almost another foot, if I had to guess.

A moan escapes my lips when his fingers ghost over my torn-up back, and I push closer into him, groaning again when I feel something hard press into my pelvis.

Dammit, he’s too tall for me to get that hardness where I really want it.

I go up on tiptoes, just managing to rub my clit on his jeans-clad length, eliciting a deep sexual sound from his throat that caresses my naked skin.