Delivered to the Devil

CHAPTER 13

When I wake late in the morning, Janos is still in my crimson armchair, watching me with the same unnerving intent as when I fell asleep. I wonder if he’s been there all night—if he has even closed his eyes. He surely must have because he looks wide awake and well-rested. Alert like a soldier on watch.

The silky sheets feel heavenly against my skin, but it’s difficult to appreciate them, knowing where they come from. But maybe I should indulge myself—accept them as some warped consolation prize and allow myself to enjoy the small things that are still worth enjoying.

I turn around to escape Janos’s watchful eyes, pretending I’m alone and the sheets are a gift from a good friend.

Janos lets me rest for a while longer. He’s so quiet I almost forget about him, and I startle when he gets up from the chair. The peace dissolves as I hear him rummage in his duffle bag at the dining table, and the snapping of a latex glove sends cold shivers down my spine. I have no idea what’s coming, but that sound is a bad omen. I want to turn and see what he’s doing, but I don’t dare face whatever horror comes next. Whatever it is, I know I can’t stop it, so I might as well enjoy blissful ignorance as long as it lasts.

“Get on your stomach,” Janos says as he climbs onto the bed. When I remain still, he shoves the covers aside and moves me into position. Heat seeps into my skin as he presses his bare hand against my back. I know his touch is meant to keep me in place, yet the feeling soothes me. Even knowing I shouldn’t, I soak up the sensation, taking whatever small comfort I can get.

And as I thought, I don’t get much.

The warped peace breaks as a gloved hand slides between my ass cheeks. I don’t know what’s worse, the probing touch or the impersonal barrier of the latex glove. I feel like an animal up for assessment, and when something cold drips onto my asshole, horror seizes me.

“No, what are you doing?” I squeal as I scramble to pull away, but the latex-clad hand grips my hip, holding me in place.

Not that! Anything but that!I want to scream the words, but they’re stuck in my throat.

A warm hand settles on my other hip, gentle and firm, skin on skin. “Do you want me to tie you up?” Janos asks.

It’s a genuine question, and his calm tone is so remote from the cruel act he’s about to force upon me that I go still.

Tie me up? Why the hell would I want that? It would render me even more helpless.

But maybe it would be easier—less devastating—with the ropes. I know it would have been last night. Having my hands free and still not managing any significant resistance was devastating. With the ropes, I won’t feel the helplessness as acutely.

Suddenly, I badly want him to tie me up. But I can’t bring myself to admit it—I can’t make myself ask my perpetrator to throw me even deeper at his mercy.

Janos must sense my answer because he pulls the glove off and jumps off the bed. “I’ll tie you up,” he says like it’s supposed to be a reassurance.

And it is.

Being tied up has always made me calm when I’ve played at clubs. Despite everything, the ropes have the same effect today as Janos moves about, tying each of my four limbs to a corner of the bed.

Last night, I struggled when he did the same, but I think the difference is that I’m somehow convinced Gabor won’t be here today. It’s just Janos and me. That knowledge allows me to give in for a while.

But when he settles between my legs again and squirts new lube between my ass cheeks, whatever little calm I had achieved vanishes into thin air. I start struggling, tugging at the ropes and begging.

“Nooo, pleeease,” I cry when he circles a gloved finger in the moisture and starts massaging that hole. “Don’t do this!”

“Shh, I’ll go slow,” he says, like it’s supposed to help.

But nothing helps. This is even more humiliating than Gabor invading my body and making it turn against me. It doesn’t matter that it’s only Janos. Nothing matters. The violation is horrible, no matter how much I twist and turn it in my mind.

I cry out when he breaches the opening. It’s only the tip of his finger, but it doesn’t matter how much it is. The intrusion tears through my soul with painful defeat.

I fist the sheets and clamp my eyes shut as he starts massaging. I want to draw in on myself and forget everything, but the sensation is too obtrusive and so is the softness of the sheets. They’re like a cruel joke, just like Janos’s reassurance.

My world spins like a carousel out of control, threatening to hurl me off and shatter me at any moment.

“Relax, or it will just hurt,” Janos urges. But it doesn’t work, and when I tighten my muscles around the intruding finger, a large hand comes up to rest on my lower back. “Let go,” he coaxes.

I can’t. Panic flares through my whole body, constricting my lungs until it’s like breathing through a straw. Nothing will override this horrible feeling of having a stranger’s finger pushing into my ass.

“Breathe,” Janos says as he stops massaging. “It will be much easier if you just focus on taking deep breaths.”

“No!” I wail.

Lowering his voice to a scary command, he repeats, “Breathe.”

The deep resonance of his voice is like a slap to the face. My world stops spinning, and I drag in a sharp breath that finally reaches my lungs.

Janos moves his hand in circles on my back. The tenderness is cruel. It’s only there to bend me to his will, but I’m so starved I’ll take any kind of comfort. So I give in. I soak up the soothing feeling of his hand and release the strain in my muscles, one fiber at a time.

“Good girl,” he praises. “Keep going just like that. I promise this won’t hurt.”

His words hit into some fundamental part of me, spreading heat throughout my cold body. When the finger moves another notch in, I let it.

Janos takes up the slow massage again, gradually working his way in. Every time he pushes deeper, I let out an anguished whimper and tense up. But then I feel the warm caresses on my back and go slack, sinking deeper into that submissive mindset where I crave his praise. And I get it every time. The good girls are like honey to my ears, melting my insides along with my resistance.

Finally, his finger is all the way in, seated deep inside me.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulls out, and I’m shocked to hear the plaintive moan that slips past my lips. I’m no longer in control. Just like last night, my body betrays me. It takes all I have not to beg him to continue.

But when a piece of smooth metal prods at my ass, a new surge of panic drowns out my need. It’s too big. Much bigger than Janos’s finger. I cry out, clenching my muscles in protest. And then the whole process starts over until the butt plug slides into place, a constant reminder of my helplessness.

When he’s done and leaves me on the bed, I lie completely still. I’m not sure if it’s defeat or some strange kind of submission that has left me dull and heavy, but I can’t seem to move a finger or conjure a thought.

Janos disappears into the kitchen and returns five minutes later, placing something on the nightstand. I don’t turn my head to see what it is. I can’t face him like this, spread out and humiliated. And I’m not sure I could even if I wanted.

But it doesn’t matter what I want. Janos simply lifts my head and turns it to face him. My only consolation is that he doesn’t force me to look him in the eyes. Instead, I stare at a huge plate of breakfast on the nightstand. There’s bread, croissants, sausages, cheese, and fresh fruit.

Janos grabs a chair and sits in front of me, breaking off a piece of the bread. “Eat,” he orders, prodding it at my lips.

Not having any fight left, I open my mouth even though my stomach churns at the mere thought of food.

“That’s it,” he says as I chew, stroking my cheek like he’s trying to ease the queasy feeling that makes it hard to swallow. And damn him, it helps.

Closing my eyes, I forget about the butt plug and focus on his warm hand. He keeps stroking, up and down my cheek, pushing my hair behind my ear and brushing crumbs off my lips. He makes it terrifyingly easy to forget everything and sink into the sensation.

I end up consuming the entire plate with ravenous hunger, then gulp down a large glass of orange juice when Janos holds a straw to my mouth. It’s the most I’ve eaten in an entire day for at least a week. It’s a relief, really, to be rid of the empty pit in my stomach.

But apparently, I’m not done yet. After a quick trip to the kitchen, Janos returns with a tub of Ben Jerry’s ice cream.

“No, I’ve just eaten all that food,” I say, aiming for outrage but not quite succeeding. When he takes the chair beside the bed, I stare straight at him for the first time since he turned me around, giving him my best glare.

His lips twitch—with amusement, I think. “Gabor is right. You’re like a little kitten when angry.”

His words infuriate the hell out of me. “I’m not eating that,” I say, and this time I actually sound as outraged as I feel.

“I promised you I’d fix this, didn’t I?” he says, gesturing the spoon at my body.

“You can’t just fatten me up like some pig.”

Janos huffs as he digs the spoon into the ice cream. “Do you think I’d waste this stuff on a pig?”

“I don’t care; I’m not eating any more.”

“C’mon, I even got you one of the good flavors.” He turns the tub to show me that it’s the one with chunks of caramel. My favorite. The realization knocks my anger back momentarily, but I manage to press my lips together in firm rejection as he presses the spoon to my mouth. I get a drop of ice cream into my mouth, and the milky cream teases me with the delicious taste of caramel and chocolate. I realize I could easily gobble up the whole scoop despite having eaten a meal for two. But I’ve already chosen the road of refusal, so I can’t give in.

“Open up. I know you want to.” He pulls the spoon back, then moves it toward my mouth with a wobbly motion like you would with a child—sans the vroom of an airplane. It’s kind of funny, this tough man trying to entice me to eat a spoonful of ice cream, and a smile pulls at my lips. When he repeats the motion and adds the vroom-sound, a huge grin splits over my face, my chest shaking with repressed laughter.

But I still refuse to open.

Janos glances down at my tightly sealed lips and cocks a brow. “Do you really think that is going to help?” Leaning in, he pinches my nose, cutting off my only source of oxygen as he holds the spoon to my lips. I try to hold my breath, hoping he will tire and give up. But of course, I can’t hold that long. It barely takes a minute before I’m desperate to fill my lungs. The moment I snap my mouth open to pull in a huge breath, he shoves the spoon right in.

I choke on air and ice cream as I heave to catch my breath. Ice cream drips down my chin and onto the linen. It’s all so silly that I can’t help but laugh, and more ice cream drips from my mouth. If I had my hands free, I’d cover my ice cream-filled grin. But I’m stuck in this hopeless situation, unable to hide anything, so I’ll just have to live with him seeing this silly spectacle. Because I can’t contain my laugh. I desperately need it. It feels good to have this permanent weight on my chest easing up, even if just for a moment.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, if he finds me gross. I don’t need to charm him. In fact, revolting him might work to my advantage.

But when I look into his eyes, he neither seems disgusted nor irritated. He’s almost laughing—well, as much as this controlled man can muster. It’s no more than a smattering of crinkles around his eyes and a small pull at his lips. But it’s there!

Warmth fills the gray orbs, making the color come alive with a myriad of different nuances. I never knew the color gray could look so warm, but on Janos, it does. It’s like a glimpse of the sun on a dark winter’s day.

“Good girl,” he whispers and swipes the pad of his thumb over my chin, wiping off ice cream. I gape at him, frozen in a huge grin as he lifts his thumb to his mouth and licks it clean.

Then he scoops up another spoonful of ice cream and takes it in his own mouth, eyes glittering with some kind of humor that seems wholly misplaced in his hard features. It’s the most charming thing I’ve ever seen. I crack up, laughing and laughing until my eyes water and my stomach hurts.

***

After feeding me ice cream, Janos removes the butt plug, unties me, and leaves.

I feel strangely restless after he’s gone. It’s not the kind of crushing restlessness I’d expect after what he just did to me. It’s more of a nagging feeling like I’m missing something.

Himmaybe.

I shut down the thought immediately. But it keeps rearing its head, refusing to leave me in blissful denial.

An hour before I leave for work, there’s a knock on the door. I freeze like a petrified animal before I tiptoe to the hallway to put my eye to the peephole.

A young man wearing a jacket and cap with a delivery company logo waits outside my door. He looks harmless. He probably just has the wrong apartment, but rationale can’t squash the churning anxiety in my stomach.

“I haven’t ordered any food,” I call out. He probably thinks I’m some paranoid recluse, but I don’t care.

He reads my name and address from a piece of paper and adds, “On behalf of Istvan Gabor.”

“I haven’t ordered anything,” I repeat.

“I’ve been instructed to leave the food outside your door if you don’t open, so I’ll just place the bag here.”

He disappears from view as he bows down to place the bag, then leaves. I wait several minutes, alternating between pressing my ear to the door and my eye to the peephole.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I rip the door open, snatch the bag, and slam the door shut. With trembling hands, I turn the lock and secure the chain, then fall back against the door, panting.

I slide down to the floor with the white plastic bag in my arms. Almost expecting to find a bomb, I carefully peel it open and peer into it. There’s no bomb. Just food—a plastic container that emits a warm scent of spices, a brown paper bag with bread, and a card with a teddy hugging a heart.

With a frown, I open the card to find two words in neat, cursive penmanship at the exact center of the paper.

Eat up!

I fling the card aside like it’s poison and study the rest of the contents with suspicion. I’m not sure why Gabor would want to poison me, but I wouldn’t put it past him.

Maybe I should throw out the food. I don’t see how he would find out.

Peering into the bag again, I notice a white styrofoam box tucked into the corner. Carefully, I open the lid, and a smile twitches at the sides of my mouth when I see the contents. It’s a Ben Jerry’s mini cup with caramel and chocolate. The same flavor Janos fed me this morning.

The card may have Gabor’s twisted brand of sweetness written all over it, but it’s not from him. Not really. He has just signed the card and delivered the order.

This is from Janos. He has spent time here at my place, waiting for me, feeding me, taking care of me. He’s been watching me at the restaurant and God knows in what other ways. He’s the one who knows I’m so afraid of my own shadow I don’t dare open the door for a simple delivery guy, and he’s the one who’d know I used to stock my freezer with this exact flavor before I spent all my money on useless safety precautions.

I’m not sure what the ice cream means, but I know it means something. A reminder of our shared moment of intimacy? A way of telling me the food is from him—to reassure me it’s safe to eat?

I shake my head at the thought. It’s ridiculous. Knowing it’s from him shouldn’t reassure me. And why would he want to reassure me in the first place?

It doesn’t make sense, but as I keep staring at the small container, I become more and more convinced that I’m right. This is meant as reassurance.

Emotions swirl inside me. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and… desire. Impulse has me slipping off the lid and grabbing the spoon in the bag.

Within a few minutes, the cup is empty. Then I open the plastic container to find steaming hot Goulash soup, which I consume with equal gusto.

Half an hour later, when I’m headed for work, I actually feel somewhat okay. It shouldn’t be possible, and I hate myself a little for it. But instead of fighting it and making myself feel miserable, I decide to keep my focus on work. It’s monotonous and dull, but these days, I find a certain calmness in walking around in my own world, going about these mindless tasks. Especially now that Izsák has stopped harassing me and barely speaks to me—I suspect the beating he received was also a present from Janos.

Work has become my safe space. Here, with the view of the water and the castle, I’m able to keep the violent images at bay. Here, I don’t hear the echo of my own screams or remember the devastating feeling of fighting with everything I have to no avail.

***

In the following days, Janos pays me a visit each morning. He usually comes before the sun has cast its first rays. He’ll saunter through my apartment so soundlessly that I sometimes don’t even wake, and then he’ll sit in my armchair, watching me like a hawk until the sun filters brightly through the curtains.

Some days, I’m barely sentient when he ties ropes around my ankles and wrists, spreading me out in an X. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him. He doesn’t need me awake to go to work on my ass, stretching my narrow hole slowly and inexorably.

I realize this must be what Gabor meant about Janos training me because the butt plugs slowly get bigger, and I’m all too aware of where this will end.

Some days, I can’t muster the will to resist, but other days, I need the struggle like I need air—to feel that this is not my own choice.

Instead of subduing me immediately, Janos will trap me in his arms and let me kick and scream for quite a while before throwing me onto the mattress and pinning me with a knee on my back. At first, I think he allows me to fight because he feeds on my helplessness. I often feel the hard bulge of his cock straining against my back. But one day, I realize there’s more to it.

“Get it all out,” he rasps into my ear when I deflate after a few minutes of struggling. When I only whimper, he gives me a good shake. “In a moment, I’ll have my finger inside your tight little ass, preparing you to become a good little ass slut.”

He’s provoking me. And it works. I start struggling again with even more force, screaming into his massive palm until my throat feels like sandpaper. When I wrest an arm free and scratch him, he throws me onto my stomach, trapping my arms beneath me and pinning me with his weight.

“I hate you,” I whimper as I jerk feebly. “I hate you so fucking much.”

“But you love when I train your ass.” All mockery from before is gone. His voice is almost soothing, and so is his touch when he smooths my hair away from my forehead. “Now be a good girl and lie still for me.”

I’m not sure if it’s his touch, the good girl, or the for me part that gets me. But when he releases me, I don’t move a muscle. I close my eyes and give in to his intoxicating power as he ties me down.

Janos takes his time, getting the plug in. Once the invasive thing is seated inside me, he removes the ropes and ties me up in a new position, on my knees with my hands tied behind me.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say as he tightens the final knot. “I won’t fight you.” I’ve been through this enough times to know he’s just going to feed me now, then remove the plug and leave.

“No, you won’t fight me,” he says and disappears into the kitchen.

I don’t get his reply. Who else would I fight? Myself?

As I sit there, contemplating his words, it begins to make sense. Like when he asked if I wanted him to tie me up. He knows the ropes help me. Without them, my mind hurls self-deprecating accusations at me for submitting to this man. It doesn’t matter how little choice I have, as long as I have my limbs free to put up a fight, my mind will taunt me if I don’t do it.

“Can I at least get one hand free to eat?” I ask when he returns with a huge breakfast platter. He’s been feeding me every morning since he started this training thing.

He shakes his head and presses a piece of sweet melon to my lips.

“Why not?” I ask, the words becoming garbled as he shoves the fruit inside.

“I like to do it,” he simply says, popping a piece of pineapple into his own mouth.

I stare at him, trying to figure him out. I’m about to ask another question when he grabs my thighs and jerks me from side to side a few times, making the plug move inside me. I cry out when my ass touches the heel of my foot, sinking the plug even deeper.

“No!” Heat spreads through my lower body. I try to push my ass back up, but Janos keeps one hand pressed to my thigh as he reaches for another piece of fruit.

He doesn’t say another word as he alternates between feeding me and wriggling me to make the plug stir. Pleasure keeps building within me, deepening my breaths and reddening my cheeks. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Needing to hide, I try to lower my head several times, but Janos won’t have it. With a firm grip on my jaw, he jerks my head back into place, raking his gaze over my features to take in every nuance of my lust—reveling in the power of making me succumb.

Once the plate is empty, he presses both hands to my thighs and leans in. So close his breath tickles my lips as he speaks in a husky voice. “You’re going to be such a good little anal whore.”

The words are horrible, but I can’t help the tiny moan that slips past my lips. When he slides a finger between my folds, I’m mortified to realize I’m soaked.

Shame stirs in my mind, seeping through my thoughts to infect every corner. I lower my gaze, feeling awfully wrong.

“Don’t.” Janos grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. It’s sharp and dangerous. So forceful it shoves the self-hatred straight back. There’s no room for anything when he watches me like this.

He flicks a finger between my slick lips a few times. I pant hard against his face, wanting him to dip it inside—wanting to beg him to do it.

His eyes narrow as he studies my face, roaming over my features as he hovers so close his hot breath mixes with mine. I know he sees the plea in my eyes, but he doesn’t act upon it. He just keeps flicking, teasing like it’s a cruel game. Yet there’s no cruelty to find in his expression. Rather, desire seems to flicker in his eyes as they fall to my lips.

Please. My lips form the word, and just before I can give voice to it, he shoves me down on my side, cuts the ropes, and grabs the plug. He wriggles it a few times before he pulls, slowly dragging it past my tight rim of muscle.

I whimper like a lost child when it pops free, leaving me hollow and desperate. He presses a finger to my tight opening, and my breath stops as I wait, hoping with all my heart that he’ll press inside. His other hand flexes around my waist like he’s struggling to control himself, and his heavy breaths seem to reflect the same struggle.

His finger twitches, and I think he’s going to push in. But then he steps back, leaving me aching and alone on the bed.

I remain frozen in place, tears sliding down my cheeks as he moves around the apartment, packing up his things and cleaning up the breakfast. When the slam of the front door leaves the place buried in a harrowing silence, I push my fingers inside my dripping pussy. It only takes me a minute to drive myself to the peak, and I cry and moan as a shameful orgasm shudders through me.

It’s not the last time Janos leaves me like this. The teasing and almost driving me to orgasm becomes an almost daily occurrence. But Janos always stops just before I can reach the peak. I want to ask why he does it, but deep down, I already know.

I’m Gabor’s toy, and Janos is not allowed to play with me.

I always feel utterly broken when he leaves me hovering. I lie in bed, masturbating and crying while thinking about Janos. One orgasm is rarely enough, and I sometimes lie there, rubbing my clit for an hour, shame building with each orgasm.

When I finally stop, I feel sick to my stomach and vow never to do it again. But then it happens again the next day.

It only takes a little over a week for Janos to get me back to my normal weight, yet he keeps feeding me ice cream. The food deliveries keep coming each day too. They always have the same generic, saccharine card with the message ‘Eat up,’ but there’s also always some small token from Janos. A box of my favorite mint tea, a white orchid flower like the ones on my windowsill, a small bottle of the rose shampoo I love—the one Janos massages into my hair when Gabor has used me. There’s even a small pink butt plug in the bag one day that has me shuddering even as a wistful feeling blossoms in my chest.

These items always bring a smile to my lips, and I grow more convinced by the day that this is Janos trying to reassure me. And it works. The daily meal on my hallway floor soon becomes a small sanctuary in my day—a brief moment of peace that allows me to breathe freely.

Usually, the items hold some kind of meaning or reference, but one day, I get an item I can’t figure out. It’s a small teddy bear with huge green, glittering eyes. I don’t have any teddy bears, nor do I have anything green and glittery, and I refuse to believe the token is random.

I pace through my apartment with the teddy in my hands, studying my surroundings, studying the bear. But I’m no closer to an explanation when I leave for work. So I stuff it into my bag and continue pondering as I walk around the restaurant, clearing tables and doing dishes.

It’s only when I catch a glimpse of myself in the tall mirror near the entrance that I have my answer. The setting sun reflects through the mirror to cast a warm light into my eyes, making them sparkle. They are large and green, just like the teddy’s, and my face is framed by the same dark brown hair as its fur.

I’m stunned. How can he compare me to a teddy? People often say I look sweet and innocent with my wide eyes and round cheeks. At least they used to. But the strain marring my features and the shadows in my eyes have sullied whatever innocence I exuded. And how can Janos see anything pure in me after having witnessed me being stripped of all dignity so many times?

Even so, I can’t let go of the idea that he might see something untainted in me, and the teddy ends up on my nightstand where it can watch over me when Janos isn’t there to do it.

Despite being the one causing me the most harm, I’ve come to think of Janos as my protector. When I wake to find him in my chair, a calm feeling settles over me—even knowing what he’s going to do. But when he enters my apartment with the scrawny henchman at night, I’m terrified.

There’s never any commotion when they come. They just let themselves in with the key they must have bribed someone to make. The silence is terrifying, really. Suddenly, they just stand there like two apparitions.

It’s awful never knowing when they come. Several days can pass between their “visits,” or they may come two nights in a row. Sometimes, they’re already here when I get back from work, and sometimes, they come several hours later.

My reaction is just as inconsistent. Despite knowing how futile it is, I often use up all my energy fighting them. Other nights, I accept defeat from the start and break into an endless stream of tears.

The only consistency is that they always come at night and start by stripping me naked.

From there on, there’s no telling what they’ll do. Blindfold and gag me, push toys inside me, tie me up—to a chair, to the bed, on my stomach, on my knees. Some nights, they’ll even forgo the ropes and Janos will climb into bed behind me, restraining me in his arms until Gabor comes. Those are the nights I cry the most.

There’s no rhyme or reason. I think they’re acting upon Gabor’s whims, fulfilling his orders. And when the devil himself shows up, the unpredictability continues. The nights with Gabor span from rough quickies to endless hours of sexual torture and humiliation. He still hasn’t touched my ass, but he has plenty of other ways of making me feel small and worthless and turning my body against me. Spitting, calling me names, depriving me of orgasms, giving me too many, rubbing my lust in my face—literally and verbally.

It’s horrible to live with the knowledge that I’m soon going to be abused and can’t do anything about it. The uncertainty alone is harrowing, and unless I’m so depleted I can’t stand on my own two legs, I barely get any sleep at night. Only two things will allow me any rest. The sun filtering through my curtains or Janos sitting in my chair, watching over me.