Chapter 13
AZRAEL
Ididn’t touch her. Not physically, but my eyes lingered over her, and I couldn’t stop when I wanted to because seeing her was…pure perfection. This damn word I seem to use way too often with her.
I sat in that chair watching her come apart, collapsing under her own orgasm, pretending it didn’t affect me when all I wanted to do was close that fucking distance and fuck her properly. Every sound she made, every tremor, was more tempting than the previous one.
I’m surprised I even managed to control myself. I was so close, so damn close. And I would have gladly thrown that control right out the window if the consequences of my actions would not be so devastating. She is just a project. I cannot let the subject control me.
But then again, if that’s the case, why do I keep replaying the image of her pussy on a loop?
I left as soon as the soft sound of her heavy breathing stopped filling the room. I’d needed to get out of that place as soon as possible, without looking back, because if I had, I’d still be there. Inside her, wrapped around her, probably destroying her in a way she’d like.
Now I’m back in my office, trying to make sense of what just happened.
She left in pieces after the meeting and went home. Good, that worked as anticipated. But sometime last night, she was revived, stronger now knowing she got me. And how did I even cum just looking at her?
I could lie to myself and say it was carnal lust, but that would imply fucking, and that hadn’t happened.
She was right there for me to touch, yet I hadn’t dared to move any closer when she told me to stop.
Since when do I take orders from the subjects?
I could have walked away, but I seem to lose my senses whenever she’s around, like a fucking disease is affecting my brain.
Virus Victoria. A fire with no off switch.
I open her file and go through the notes, pretending that reviewing her information will give me some sort of clue.
“Case file: Victoria Hale. The subject is…” Playing with my brain. “Showing symptoms of behavioral mirroring. Emotional dissociation…” Didn’t look dissociated to me at all “…The next step of the experiment…” Fuck her, bend her, spank her…Stop! I’m officially fucked.
Here’s the truth: she’s chaos, a goddamn weapon with a pulse. There’s rot in me now. It’s not lust—it’s a viral kind of need. She made me want to kneel before her, just to get a taste, even if that would have condemned me to hell. I’m infected, contaminated, and I need to fix it soon.
I walk to the bathroom. I have the forethought to not turn on the light, not really wanting to see in the mirror what I’ve become.
I pin my hands to the edge of the sink, forcing myself to calm down. Looking down, I see my cock betraying me. Just one thought of her naked body is enough to get me hard again. Fucking woman.
That performance wasn’t meant to please me.
It was just a test, like the one I performed on her, and I failed just as miserably.
She put a leash on me and dared me not to pull, and God knows I didn’t.
Because I liked the leash. I liked my collar.
All that was missing was her asking me to bark, and I would have done that as well.
I splash cold water on my face, but it doesn’t help.
I don’t want her, I tell myself, but I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince now. My sanity is slipping away, replaced by thoughts of her.
That’s the problem with subjects that don’t follow the plan—they corrupt the test. She made fun of my experiment by removing her clothes. Just like I did? Perhaps, but it had a different meaning. Did it really? Yes.
And the worst part? She didn’t even try to win. Just sat there—back arched, head thrown, mouth parted—and unraveled me with no effort at all. She’s too sharp, too self-aware of her effect on me. Too… uncontrollable.
If I go to her now, forcing her to lose something again, I’ll break the experiment and myself. I want her too much, her body and her submission, and I’m not sure how I’d react if she doesn’t comply. A gesture that would cost her nothing and could cost me everything.
I can’t let that happen. Next time, I’ll make her suffer in such torturous ways, the devil himself will take notes.
Until then, I need something I can break. Something close enough to scratch the itch. Something I can dissect without losing pieces of myself.
A counterfeit will do.
I can’t hurt Victoria tonight, so I’ll find a knockoff to destroy before I ruin the original.
Azrael: I’ll be there in 15 min. Have a line ready. I need to choose.
Vincent: Ready when you are. Something special?
The last thing I need is for a subject to know how badly I’m craving pain today.
This isn’t who I am. Or maybe it is. Maybe this is the only part of me that’s ever been honest and not suppressed by the mask I wear constantly.
This version of me doesn’t need a reason to make someone bleed, just an opportunity, and she gave me one.
I drive in silence, my thoughts still too loud to shut them out.
The place isn’t far—just far enough out of the way to go unspoken so random people don’t find it. No address, no cameras, no records.
The Place That Doesn’t Exist. Something between a sex club and an underground torture arena.
This is where you go for the things that are too wrong to name but too real to deny you want them. A place that operates on rules older than legality and where reputation is stronger than morality.
Vincent’s waiting outside, a cigarette between his fingers. His nod is not just a simple greeting, it’s his way of accepting you inside—not that he would ever dare refuse me. I built this place.
He is one of the sixteen fuckers that escaped five years ago. Contrary to the others, he understood the power I gave him, and used it to his advantage. He is also the one that keeps me updated when the other subjects are getting too close.
“It’s been a while, Doctor.” His voice cuts the silence, but I don’t answer. He already knows why I’m here—to free the monster in my head.
We step into the building in silence, me leading the way and Vincent following behind.
The air gets heavier the deeper you go, a warning the place, itself, is giving to you.
Too much blood has soaked this floor for anyone to walk it without feeling it.
If the truth behind these doors ever gets out, half the government would have to take the fall.
But that won’t happen. Outsiders don’t make it this far.
The people here already know who belongs inside.
The corridor opens into a long room lit with blinding white lights.
The ambiance is never a problem, you are not coming here for that type of pleasure, you’re coming for…
products. A row of girls, each curated to satisfy the most sadistic fantasies.
Scrubbed clean of identity or any emotion, just a shell of what they used to be.
Each one is strapped upright against the far wall, heads bowed, wrists bound in silk and chains. Cruel theater. Some are crying because they finally realize what they’ve gotten themselves into. Some are too used to it to care anymore.
They sell their bodies for what feels like a lot of money. But what amount is high enough when the price is losing yourself piece by piece? Once they figure that out, it’s always too late.
Some stay because of money, others because they like pain, but most of them remain in this club because it’s all they know.
Contrary to what people believe, money is a good enough reason to sell your life.
The girls here have the option to leave any time they want—in the end, they are nothing more than mere contractors.
They almost never choose that option. Why?
Because with no qualifications, any job outside of this place would feel like a punishment to them, monotonous and poorly compensated. Here, at least, they get rich.
The ones today are mostly new, my favorite type of toys. You can sense the tension in the room: excitement and fear blending into a delicious mix.
Vincent leans in. “The line has been newly conditioned. This is their test drive.”
Conditioned. He says it like he’s talking about the weather. This is why he’ll never surpass the level of a subject, he doesn’t understand the power of an untrained mind.
My eyes move down the row. Blonde. Too soft. Brunette. Too afraid. Redhead. Too dead.
Then—her.
Third from the end. Not identical but close enough to satisfy the purpose. Black hair like ink, slim enough to let the collarbones cut sharply through the skin. And that mouth—bitten raw and slightly parted.
I step toward her, and she doesn’t look up. Perfect.
I grab her chin with my index finger and tilt her head up.
The glossy eyes prove she’s already lost in her own world, infected by the drugs she willingly asks for.
At my touch, she flinches but doesn’t pull away.
Her gaze flicks to mine. There’s still some fight in them.
And desire. She will be hard enough to destroy, but not like my little ember. She’s not Victoria. She’ll lose.
“Her,” I say.
Vincent’s grin covers half of his face. “She gets off on pain.”
“She will not get the chance tonight.”
The room smells like bleach and copper, the effect of too many sessions in this place.
Most people come here for a quick session—or as long as their old dicks allow them to fuck—with much younger girls, others come because this place has no rules when it comes to pleasure.
As long as both the product and the client agree, there are no boundaries.
A far too small portion comes here for what this place is really designed for—deprivation.