22. Magnus
S he collapses. Her body slumps and all that beautiful resistance, all that euphoria at my victory, is suddenly gone in an instant.
I could keep going, could keep fucking her lifeless body, but without her reaction there’s no point to any of it.
With an angry snarl, I pull out, wiping my bloodied cock on her back, down her spine.
But as I get to my feet and start barking orders, I notice the foam at her mouth. I bend down, taking a sniff, and know exactly what it is, what the smell tells me. What went on right under my nose.
Someone drugged her.
My eyes narrow, I turn my gaze on the chained-up wretches huddled back in their corner.
“Which one?” I ask.
A few look confused. One looks so fucking high I could be saying anything and he wouldn’t have a clue.
“Which one of you pieces of shit drugged my whore?” I bellow, feeling my rage grow and grow.
A hand raises, a woman who looks old enough to be my mother gets to her feet.
“Me,” she says in defiance, as if she doesn’t understand the ramifications of who she is coming up against.
I curl my finger, beckoning her to me and the chain that hangs down from her collar drags on the floor, accompanying every step she takes like a little singsong.
“You did it? Why?” I ask.
Her lips stretch into a crackled, broken smile. “You’re going to kill us anyway. Why wouldn’t I want to cheapen your victory if I could?”
My hands wrap around her neck, it’d be so easy to snap it, to twist my hands at a ninety-degree angle and end her just like I did the Turner girl. But where would be the fun in that? No, far better to feel her life escaping her, far better to feel her struggle and resist as I squeeze every last bit of air from her lungs.
And struggle she does.
She kicks out. She digs her broken, clawlike nails into my hands and her eyes bulge, turning red as the blood vessels begin to pop.
Her tongue sticks out, fat and swollen, she gasps, choking on the last of her oxygen and I shake her pathetic body like a rag doll, forcing her head back and forwards before letting her drop at my feet.
Only, it does ease the anger. It doesn’t appease me in the slightest. Today was meant to be about teaching a lesson, about proving to that bitch that she’s just like the rest of us. She may look down her superior, holier than thou nose, but when it comes down to it, she’s nothing more than a whore.
Except, that’s not how this played out. Oh, she may have come around my cock, she may have given in, but it doesn’t count if she wasn’t in full control.
No, I wanted her to feel every ounce of her shame.
I wanted her to know what a filthy little whore she really is as she submitted.
It wasn’t just about degrading her, it was about fucking with her head, leaving her with the knowledge that her pathetic body has given in to me.
And I didn’t get that. I didn’t even come close.
I snarl, kicking at the body of the woman responsible, slamming the heel of my boot into her face. She destroyed my pleasure, so I’ll destroy what’s left of her in return.
It takes a good few stamps before her skull caves in, before those bug eyes of her pop out of their sockets and her features turn to mush. I pull out my cock, taking it in my hand, and let out a long satisfying piss to finish.
When I’m done, I stalk back over to where my pet is still lying unconscious.
Like a princess, I scoop her up and carry her from the room. I don’t need to give instructions. I don’t need to explain what should be done in my absence. My men know what to do. The bodies need to be disposed of, they’ll be ground up for meat and used as another form of torture for those unfortunate enough to have a life sentence.
As for those who survived, well, they’ll be returned back where they came from, and no doubt they’ll wish they’d been the ones being carried out on a cart.
She’s tossed in the back. It’s not like I want her bleeding all over my suit.
I can hear the soft moans as we take a corner too quickly and her body collides with the side. If I were a caring man I’d react to that, but I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, she’s gotten off lightly.
I slam my fist into the dashboard, my fury still there at how I was cheated.
“Should I have the doctor meet us?” one of the men asks.
I shake my head because there’s no need. I know what she had, GHB, it’s why she reacted the way she did, why she started to enjoy it, why she came. It tricked her body into thinking she wanted it, and it took away all of the shame I wanted her to feel in the process.
Give her a few hours and she’ll come around, confused, and alone back in her cell.
But perhaps I need to try this a different way.
Stop jabbing at her pride, and go for something more personal. My lips curl as I realise how easy this could be.
And while she’s licking her wounds, unknowingly recovering enough for our next session, I can focus on something as equally satisfying—revenge.