12. Liliana
H e comes back the next day. At least, I think it’s the next day.
I’m lying there, half dazed, freezing cold, and starving hungry despite the meagre food I was given, when I hear the sound of his footsteps.
“…whenever I come down here, I expect you to be ready for me. I want you on your knees, back arched over, thighs spread wide open, ready to receive me…”
Those disgusting words echo in my head, but I don’t move. I refuse to. If he thinks I’m going to make this easy, then he’s got another thing coming.
When the door opens, I can see from the way his eyes meet mine that he’s ready for another fight. Another round of this twisted, fucked up little game.
I get to my feet, not in a show of respect, but because I want him to see that I’m ready for whatever shit he has planned.
His eyes linger on my body, to where the cool air is making my nipples harden. What I wouldn’t give for something to cover me. Just a T-shirt would be enough. But I know I’ll get no such thing from him.
“I should say I’m disappointed…” he says as he takes one slow step forward. “I half expected you to heed my warning, but then, where would be the fun if you had?”
“Fun?” I splutter.
The word barely leaves my mouth before he’s pouncing on me. Grabbing me.
I slam my bound fists into his side. He grunts as I make contact, but the aim is soft, weak, my strength is failing even in this short time of being here.
He slams me back into the wall and my head smashes into the concrete making stars erupt behind my eyes and a cry escapes my lips before I silence it.
“I will teach you obedience.” He growls, leaning right over me. “I will beat it into you.”
He drags me from the room. His hand is round the back of my neck, digging into my throat, and my feet stumble with every step. It’s a mark of how weak I’ve already become that such a hold has any impact. We don’t go far, just along the way, to where another room has been prepared.
I’m thrown onto my knees and as I scramble back up, I see a man in a white coat, stood, waiting for me. He looks to Magnus who simply nods and together, they manhandle me onto a gurney and force my legs into the metal stirrups.
I scream out. I lash out too, but I’m strapped down and rendered immobile almost immediately. Magnus tightens a belt like one right across my abdomen and it’s so tight I have to restrict my breathing so my stomach doesn’t expand fully.
The way my legs are bent up leaves me wide open and exposed and the significance isn’t lost as the balding man turns his back, fiddles with something, and then moves right between my thighs.
“What the fuck do you…?” My words turn to a scream as something is pushed into me and forces me even wider. It feels like my actual core is on fire and now I don’t dare move for fear that whatever he’s doing will hurt more.
I don’t know why I do it, I don’t know what stupid response this is, but I look to Magnus hoping to get some hint of what the hell is going on. He’s stood, leaning against the wall as if this is all so tedious to him. When he meets my gaze, there’s nothing, just those dark, empty pupils staring back at me.
“You’ll feel a little bit of pressure,” the man torturing my insides says.
Only, pressure is not what I feel. I gasp, my body physically locks up with the searing pain that reverberates from my core to my hips. What the fuck is he doing? What is this? My eyes water, I blink rapidly refusing to cry and then that pain just stops. Whatever is wedging me open is removed, and my body shakes with the after-effects of whatever they’ve just done.
“Finished?” Magnus asks.
“All done,” the man in white says before slipping out the door and leaving me here, still strapped down, at the mercy of this psycho.
“What the fuck did you just do to me?” I hiss.
Magnus’s lips curl as he crosses the room. “We wouldn’t want any accidents, now would we?” he replies.
Accidents? What the… his hand grabs my thigh just as it hits me what it is, what’s inside me. I should feel relieved, I should feel some sense of reprieve considering what he’s already done. He’s already raped me once and he didn’t wear a condom that time, did he ?
“You put an IUD in me.” I state. I’m not even sure if that’s how you’d word it, but my mind feels frazzled. My stomach is alternating between what feels like butterflies and mild cramps. I thought I felt like shit before, but right now, I feel like I’m teetering over a ravine and any second I’m going to fall.
“Disappointed you won’t carry my child?” he says in that taunting tone.
I spit back at him. It’s not a mature response, but I’m just so disgusted it feels like the only act of defiance I can make.
As if I’d ever want that.
As if I’d ever desire such a thing as that.
I expect him to react with violence, but instead, he runs his hand down where the saliva has hit him and he licks it up. “Delicious,” he murmurs. “I wonder if your cunt will taste as good as this?”
The thought of it, of him touching me like that, makes my insides lock up. What would he even get from such an act anyway? Everything he’s done so far has either been to humiliate me or hurt me. Eating me out would hardly fall under those parameters, and yet, it would still be violating, wouldn’t it? It would still be just as dehumanising as everything else.
I draw in a ragged breath, wishing to God I could just clamber off this damned gurney and regain a tiny bit of dignity.
Magnus squirts something over me, something cold and wet. It makes me jerk in shock and the whole gurney creaks with the movement. Then he takes a can, shakes it up and covers my labia, my thighs, my pussy in something thick and clinging. He produces a razor, one of those old fashioned, metal safety ones that men use to shave their faces and he drags it up my thigh in a manner I know is meant to taunt.
Apparently, he’s going to shave me? Does he really think I’m just going to lay still and let him run that blade over me ?
I jerk as it gets close to my most sensitive part and there’s a tiny hit of pain, a nick that lingers on after the metal is removed.
Magnus tuts with irritation. “Do you want me to cut your clit off, is that it?” he asks.
I shake my head quickly. No, I don’t want that. Of all the awful things he’s done to me, I would do absolutely anything to ensure he does not mutilate me in such a manner.
“Well then,” he continues, planting one finger on either side of my entrance and spreading me wider still. “Quit moving or your pretty cunt will end up sliced to pieces.”
Quit moving. Simple words. Simple damned instructions. I curse him under my breath. I whisper those hateful words because I’m half-convinced he will do it; he will make me bleed just for the fun of it.
When he’s finally done, he washes me down, dries me, and then runs his fingertips up between my lower lips, tracing every humiliating inch of me. “So smooth,” he comments, clearly admiring his handiwork. “I think this pussy deserves a little reward, don’t you?”
I glare back. He’s acting like we’re playing some sort of scene, like we’re two consenting adults and he’s not simply taking what he wants.
“No?” He muses, leaning closer between my thighs. “You want to be punished instead, is that it? You want to be used like a dirty little slut, instead of rewarded like a good girl?”
I don’t know how to respond. Whatever I say feels wrong. He’s tricking me, I know that much, forcing me to play whatever this twisted game is. Maybe I should goad him, maybe I should piss him off so much that he pulls out his gun and in a moment of anger he ends it for both of us.
“Get the fuck off me.” I hiss.
His hand lashes out, striking me right on my clit. A jolt of pain makes me gasp and then my stomach immediately starts cramping again. Only, that clearly isn’t enough for Magnus. He hits me again, harder this time. I try to close my legs, I try to move but the leather straps hold me so tightly.
Tears start streaming down my face. I bite my lip, silencing the sound that tries to escape. No way will I give in. No way will I cry, or make a sound, or in any way beg that bastard to stop as he continues to abuse me.
My pussy is throbbing, just breathing makes me wince with pain. By the time he’s done, I know I’m more than just bruised.
And then he does the unthinkable.
He lowers his face, gripping my thighs as if they’re not strapped down and he drags his tongue right up my centre.
My breath catches. I glare at him, half in shock, half in pure hatred. Is he seriously considering what I think he is?
“She’s all pretty and pained, and ready for me now,” he murmurs.
My adrenaline spikes. I buck my hips trying to throw him off, but I have such little movement it means nothing. Within in seconds, he buries his face at my core and starts devouring me.
I scream. I curse. I curl my fists into the tightest balls I can manage, impaling my ragged nails into my palms.
After the beating he gave me, now that he’s lapping at me, it feels almost soothing, but I refuse to acknowledge that thought. I refuse to admit that there’s any pleasure to be had. He spears one finger and then another, twisting them against the tears he made from raping me only yesterday.
Perhaps he’s admiring his handiwork, perhaps that’s what this is, him feeling the physical results of what his body inflicted on mine.
And then his lips clamp around my clit.
I jolt.
My whole body locks up.
I will not come for him. I will not give him this .
I shut my eyes tight, reminding myself over and over of who this is, who is touching me, that I don’t want this. That I’m not enjoying this. He can force himself onto me as many times as he likes, but I will not give him this piece of me. I will not give him this satisfaction.
Perhaps he senses it.
Perhaps he can tell where my head is at.
He withdraws his fingers, sliding them out tauntingly slowly, and then he hauls me off the gurney like he hates me just as much as I hate him.
My legs are shaking so badly I can’t hold myself up, and I collapse onto the concrete floor.
I hear the sound of something clicking on.
“You’re filthy,” he states. “Disgusting. And you stink of shit.”
Like I’ve had a chance to wash over the last God knows how many days they’ve had me, or even before for that matter.
I look up just as the first wave of water drenches my face. It’s freezing cold. Ice cold. He hoses me down like a dog that’s puked over themselves. I huddle up, throw my arms over my head and curl up, but he merely kicks me over, forcing that jet over every inch of my body.
It feels like a mercy when it finally ends. I can’t breathe, I can’t stop shaking. It feels like I’ve endured hours and hours of torture though in truth, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes at best.
He grabs me by my arm, dragging me out. My legs refuse to cooperate. My feet are so cold they’re more like solid blocks rather than individual toes.
And then he throws me back into my cell, tosses me onto the floor like discarded trash before he slams the door shut and pitches me back into the darkness once more.
I’m still soaking wet .
I can feel the last of the water trickling down and with my hands I try to sweep it off while a voice in my head says there’s little point bothering. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get pneumonia and die. How ironic that would be, to simply slip away in my sleep after everything this man has done to capture me.
The lack of smell that tells me my bucket has been emptied. I crawl over, glancing in to confirm that fact and figure that he must have sent a servant or someone to do it while he was abusing me in the other room.
And right next to it is a bowl of water and some meagre looking soup.
For a moment, I briefly consider not eating it. I briefly consider starving myself, but my thirst gets the better of me and I lap it up, barely tasting the soup as I gulp it down.