Chapter 8 Briella
Briella
ALL OF THIS FOR LITTLE OL’ ME.
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“Pretend My Pain Away”
Ihad to pause for a breath when I knocked off Jude’s mask. Aka Cheekbones. Seriously, those things are sharper than a samurai blade, and he has a patience that rivals an ancient dormant volcano waiting centuries to erupt.
The tunnels stink like iron, damp stone, and something faintly metallic, like blood. Yeah, it’s probably blood. I’m cold, I’m scared, and I know by the end of this, I’ll probably piss myself. But even now, even here, it’s still better than Easthaven.
At Easthaven, there were no tunnels, no cave walls or lanterns.
No men who could go from terrifying to strangely entertaining in seconds.
Just white walls, straitjackets, and meds that scraped my brain clean so I couldn’t fixate or dissociate.
They had fun scrambling my mind until I was barely human.
But here? Here, I get to have fun too. These boys, especially Rory, might be dangerous, but at least they don’t pretend to save me while breaking me apart. And I have to admit, they have style.
And holy demon men, they have abs! Lookers, too. Even the nice one, Seth, starts to remove his shirt, showcasing all that muscle. Muscle he used to dismember my ex. Guy’s good with his hands. Not that I should be thinking about his rugged, callused hands.
Rory might be red and crazy, but he’s also hot as hell, and his accent makes me feel all ooey and gooey inside.
Vincent is huge. Not strongman huge. But pro-wrestler huge. The kind who could bend me like a pretzel, and I’d still lick his toes. If I wanted to be bent like a pretzel by a guy who looks like the blueprint for tattoo artists.
Jude appears on my other side. Whoa! I didn’t exactly expect tall, black volcano to be naked and unashamed. Make that very tall. And sculpted. And beautiful. No shame. Never shame. Not with the dark sword hanging between his legs. He’s a shower. Definitely a shower.
Where do they make guys like these?
Before I start blushing as an obvious coping mechanism, I look around, get my bearings. The “dungeon” is insane. They’ve spent years on this place. And somehow, knowing that makes me feel… special.
All of this for little ol’ me.
I don’t have time to dwell when the voice echoes, “I have returned!”
Rory appears with a dramatic flourish. I almost choke on my laugh. He’s dressed like a damn ringmaster. Black top hat tilted at a cocky angle, polished boots shining in the dim lantern light, a sleek cane tapping rhythmically against the stone floor as if he’s counting down to some twisted finale.
“Nice costume,” I taunt, jutting my chin toward his Briella-butchered ear. “You got a little red on your neck there.”
Rory doesn’t even glance at me, fully embracing the moment. His every move is dripping with over-the-top swagger. He stops as Raphael advances, but circles me like a predator, hands folded calmly behind his back.
And then…Raphael gives Rory the smallest nod of approval.
That’s all Rory needs.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he announces, his voice booming, echoing off the cavern walls like thunder.
He spreads his arms wide, the cane sweeping in a grand arc.
There’s a glint in his eye—wild, unhinged, and a little too pleased.
“Tonight, we bid the greatest welcome to our little slice of hell’s paradise… ”
He stalks toward me, slow and deliberate, savoring the moment. “Briella…” he pauses, leaning in close, his breath warm against my ear.
I hate how it makes my skin crawl and surges a disturbing heat in my stomach.
“Didn’t quite catch your last name, Lass,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, following with a quick nip at my earlobe. I hiss, jerking against my chains as fire shoots through my veins. The grin on his face grows wider, almost feral.
“Miss. Go Fuck Yourself,” I snap, glaring up at him despite the tremble I’m trying to hide. I am impressed. How twisted is that?
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. So disappointing. This is vintage, Firecracker.” He runs a hand down his uniform.
For a moment, the room is quiet. I shiver because they’re all nude. Except for Raphael. He’s still in his perfect suit with his perfect hair with his perfect mask.
And Rory? He just laughs. Full, throaty, and wild.
“Level 3, Raph?” he says, twirling his cane theatrically as he steps back, surveying me like I’m a prize. “Best. Birthday. Ever!”
I glare at him, fists clenched tight even though the cold, damp air chills me to my bones. Because yeah, I’m terrified. But I’ll be damned if I let him—or any of them—see it.
This might be their show, but I’ll make damn sure I don’t play the part they want.
The sociopath swings his cane again, landing a strike against my left breast. A cry leaves my mouth, muffled by the leather strip Seth placed in my mouth earlier. Good sign, they want my teeth intact.
Rory slaps the cane against my other breast before rubbing the handle along my nipple.
He laughs maniacally before gripping my throat. Hard enough to choke, to bruise. “Aren’t you adorable? Such pretty pink nipples for such a pretty Lass. Look at them so hard, so stiff for me. Aye, ye’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
My back is on fire from the blows. And my ass. And my thighs. Level 3 involves bruises and welts. But I have a feeling we’re not even close to the worst. My arm muscles are numb. I might have a high pain tolerance, but it grew over years of subtle exposure vs this trial by fire.
I still prefer the fire.
“Mmm!” I screech lightly, shaking the chains. It’s the signal for Seth to temporarily remove the leather strip. I guess Raphael is okay with me talking. I could kiss his feet for that! Not that I have a foot fetish or anything.
Once the gag is off, I gasp and deadpan with Rory. “No, but I’m worried about you, Red. All that cane-swinging.” I smile boldly even as he matches it, but with a grin. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt that hand. I imagine you’ll need it for other activities later.”
He chuckles darkly, eyes gleaming. “Aye, fisting is a fun activity.”
My stomach pitches. He’s not joking.
“My hand is about to get a lot busier, Firecracker,” Rory warns before rounding the one side of my body.
Seth shrugs and places the gag back in my mouth. Kisses my cheek again. If he weren’t so genuine, I’d find it patronizing.
I forget all about the kiss when the sharp, burning pain licks at my back. Something wet drips down my torn skin.
“Ahh, look at how pretty she bleeds from my whip.” Rory’s voice is theatrical, like he’s narrating for me.
I wish I could float outside my body like an omniscient narrator and escape the pain. I’ve never been able to. Not at Easthaven. Not here. For some reason, I hold onto the pain, grip it like it’s my life preserver to keep me from drifting away, from going under.
The whip cracks again. More fiery tongues scald my back until I swear there is more blood than flesh. Sweat coats my skin. Tears drown my eyes. And then, I feel a hot stream of liquid running down my leg.
“Pay up,” Jude says to Rory, still naked on the other side of me. “I told you she’d last until you whipped her before pissing herself.”
Rory grumbles something, stomps over to Jude, and shoves a hundred-dollar bill in his hand.
Something in me should feel rage about them gambling over my bodily fluids.
But it helps distract me from the pain flaring all over my back.
Or at least, it gives me some sick and twisted humor.
I’m gasping through the gag, and I expect to pass out at any moment…
Until Rory grips my hair, yanking my head back and licking along the curve of my ear. When his naked chest rubs against my bruised and reddened breasts, I realize he’s shed his costume. I blink, then flick my eyes down, desperate to look at anything, focus on anything but the burning on my back.
Unholy fucking devil dick!
Seth and Vincent are decently sizable. Jude is long. But Rory? That thing is a foot-long, thick beast designed for one purpose: to split cunts and assholes alike. It’s too big to even rise.
“That’s right, Firecracker. Take a good, long look.” He showcases himself before grinding that beast against my pussy, rasping his beard against my cheek. I flinch, clenching my wet eyes shut.
I’ve heard of guys like him. Porn-worthy guys who make girls cry and scream an S.O.S with every thrust. Those screams echo in my mind, threatening to drag me under five-year-old memories—until Rory grips my jaw, forcing my mouth open. Bless his sick sociopathic soul.
“Are you my pretty Lass? Aye, smile nice and big for Red.”
I’m shuddering, my vision blurring from the excruciating agony.
But his commands keep me in the moment. So, I do.
I smile like the goddamn Joker himself right before I snap at him.
He jerks his hand away. My teeth don’t connect.
But the lurch cost me, and my feet slip on the blood on the floor, causing the collar to restrict my air flow.
“Shit,” Rory barks before snapping his fingers to Seth, who retrieves an instrument from a nearby table.
“NO!” I shriek. “NO—NOOO—N— ” On my fourth “no”, Rory forces the ring gag to stretch my mouth wide, securing it to the back of my head.
What’s worse are the little chains dangling with clamps he tightens to each nipple.
The collar conspires horrifically with the gag and the chains, tugging on the buds. Tiny bells line the chains.
Rory laughs deeply and slaps at one breast, then the other, enjoying the twisted tune of the tingling bells. I hope they aren’t playing the song of my doom.
For the first time in several minutes, I glance at the others. Jude stands tall, hugging his muscled arms. Vincent still leans against the wall, his eyes observing the whole scene. And Seth wanders around the room, fingers skimming each instrument like he’s envisioning me, associating me with them.
And Raphael? He hasn’t moved a muscle. Hands at his sides. Dark eyes assessing everything. Judging.
I choke on the thick fingers plunging into my throat, and I turn back to the socio. He tugs on the chains, and I moan from the pinching of my nipples. Lowering his head, he licks at the tip of each clamped nipple before working his way down, tonguing every bruise from his cane.
When he touches his lips to the sparse, thin curls on my mons, I writhe, bucking. I knew it was inevitable, but I’m still rebelling as he trails a finger along my pussy.
He chuckles darkly, sliding the digit in deeper. “Pay up, Jude.” He jerks his chin to the side. “She’s wet. Bloody Christ, she’s fucking soaked.”
Endorphins will do that to you. And Stockholm Syndrome.
It’s the first time Raphael moves. So subtle, if I hadn’t been looking in his direction, I’d have missed the muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Damn,” Jude mutters before returning the hundred-dollar bill. Rory drops it onto the pool of his clothing on the floor.
I’m too focused on Raphael, I don’t know what’s happening until the suction cup is on my vulva. Rory rises, grins, and holds up a small device, signaling he is about to push the button. I’m gasping, panting, crying. Saliva drops from the sides of my mouth.
“Time to get that pretty pussy as red as your back, mi’Lass.”
My eyes widen. He pushes the button. And I scream from the blinding pressure.
The others step a little closer, their cocks growing harder from the sight of my swollen pussy, my clit, and labia pulled into the suction cup.
Another press of the button, and the pressure increases, pumping and engorging the hypersensitive flesh.
The pain is too much. The pressure is too much. I’m going to pass out.
I lock eyes with Raphael as the darkness swirls in. His eyes narrow. He takes one step forward.
And I’m gone.