Chapter 4 Marie
I’m alone. Somehow, this is worse. When will he return, and what does he have planned for me? I take in my surroundings—the bones, the smell of death—all of it adds another layer to my fear, and not in a good way.
If I awoke in my room, I could convince myself that the monster was a figment of my imagination, but here, I know this isn’t a dream.
The damp chill permeates my skin, and I curse myself for not going to bed in warmer clothes.
Of course, no one imagines being taken from their bed and jumping into a portal.
Perhaps this scenario has happened in my darkest fantasies, but still, I never thought it would happen.
He woke me, yanking my hair, roaring, and rattling my cage before slinking out of the opening across the dark cave. I barely got a good look at him, but there’s no mistaking that he’s the monster from my room.
I might be an autassassinophiliac, but that doesn’t mean I’ll go idly to my death. Once the shock lets loose of my functions, I examine the cave around me—really examine it. There must be a way out of here. I can’t give up yet.
My cage is made of bones. I could wish for animal remains, but I’m no idiot. I see the size of a femur in the top corner and know the truth. Will pieces of me be added to this prison if I can’t escape? I can’t think like that right now.
The only source of light comes from strange plants growing on the walls—algae, almost. They emit a persistent, neon green glow that barely illuminates the rocky space.
A pile of what appears to be random items is next to my cage.
On the floor, on the other side of the bone bars, are two protein bars and a coconut shell-looking cup of what seems to be water.
He’s feeding me and giving me water? The gesture terrifies me further.
What is he keeping me alive for? I nearly cry when an ache reaches my core.
This isn’t the time. Absolutely not. I stuff the disturbing feelings away and focus.
Perhaps I could find a weapon in the pile next to me.
I just have to get out of my cage. I shake the bones, listening for a creak or break, but before I can examine my prison further, thunderous steps sound from the entrance.
My eyes and mouth grow wide as I take him in.
He stalks closer to me, his gaze murderous, and I back up with each step he takes.
It’s stupid. There’s nowhere to go, at least not now. Not before I find a way out.
He’s only mere inches away, and I scream.
He hums, as if enjoying it. I let the screams die in my throat, pushing away my panic.
The dim green light isn’t much more than the moon outside my bedroom in terms of illumination, but I can finally take in his features.
He’s as terrifying as I remembered—impossibly tall, his body covered in a thick fur, patterned with darker patches.
He’s built, as if every inch of him is composed of muscle or the same substance that makes up the walls of his cavern.
Two ivory horns fold in at the side of his head.
His fangs jut out from his lower lip, and his eyes glow golden.
I’ve watched a million horror movies, and yet I’ve never seen a monster like him.
He’s engineered to break, to cause terror, to destroy.
There’s no way to look at him and see anything else.
As I’ve been watching him, he’s been watching me.
My heart hammers out of my chest, waiting for his next move.
Finally, his arm swings in front of him.
How did I not notice it before? Between his legs stands a massive cock.
At least it looks like a cock, but it's also completely different. It’s the color of his darkest patches and must be the size of my forearm.
It juts straight out from him, and the tip glistens, leaking a substance that drips down his shaft.
He palms himself, lathering his hand in the gleam before stroking his complete length.
I’m mesmerized and horrified by the sight.
He’s without shame as he strokes himself.
But of course he is. I’m his prisoner—his prey—and soon I won’t exist.
His eyes droop, shading the gold as he continues his strokes.
I’m taking in all of him, lips parted and breath heavy, confused, scared, and unfortunately a little turned on, because yes, I’m a sick fuck.
I gasp once I notice the base of his cock.
Long, skinny appendages reach out, roaming wildly in the air.
They almost look like a plant or mushrooms, but it’s hard to make out from a distance.
One by one, the pieces of him take hold of his hand, burrowing under his fur and attaching to him, but he doesn’t slow.
If anything, his speed increases as he pulls against the thin pieces of flesh.
I can’t help it; my mind wanders. Oh my god.
Are those used to keep what he’s fucking in place?
I shudder with fear, which of course turns into a quaking cunt.
I cross my legs and feel my new arousal coating the inside of my silk sleep shorts.
He sniffs the air, groaning with a low vibration as he increases the speed of his pumps.
Can he smell me? Does he know how turned on I am right now?
This is not good. This is everything I feared would happen if I revealed my perverse desires to a human boyfriend, except he’s no human.
He’s a monster—a monster that clearly kills people.
I gulp, clenching my eyes shut. I try to think of peaceful images—sunflowers, meadows, little white bunny rabbits—but the monster roars and stomps closer to me.
I open my eyes as he meets my cage, grasping a bone bar with one hand and with the other continues to pleasure himself.
He wants me to watch him, probably demands I do.
I’m too afraid to close my eyes again. At first, I try to keep my gaze on his eyes, but his stare eats away at me.
He wants to consume me, his stare reveals as much.
My fear is too great, making me uncomfortably hot.
I trail down his body, his large pectorals pushed against the bars, his defined furry abdomen, and finally his ungodly enormous cock.
I can see it more clearly now. It looks as if it’s been doused with lube.
The thin, slick pieces of skin attached from the base of him to his hand strain as he pulls harder and faster.
His balls barely hang, tight against his body.
I moan, the sight oddly erotic. I can’t help imagining what it would feel like for him to slip inside of me.
Of course, he’d have to force his way in, make entirely new space, break me into something new.
He’d attach to me, holding me in place as he fucked me into delirium.
It would hurt, maybe kill me. My useless survival skills don’t even stir.
It’s like I want to be slaughtered, be ripped in half.
Tears cloud my vision. I hate myself. I hate the prison of my body and mind, and I hate that I have nowhere to look but in the face of my perversion.
I gasp as large globs erupt from his tip.
He roars, the sound nearly piercing my eardrums and shaking the bones surrounding me.
His seed spurts onto my prison floor, wetting my feet.
It’s so much, enough to drown someone if you forced their face into it.
I hate that my brain imagines dying that way.
I can’t look away, even as the need inside me rises in temperature and wetness covers my shorts. I whimper, the torment too much.
I notice something new—growing in size with each spurt from his cock.
Another bulge rests above his testicles, not as nearly as pronounced but firm and expanding.
I don’t need an explanation. I’ve read enough werewolf smut to know what that is.
It’s a knot. He has a fucking knot. It all makes sense, the tentacles, the performance before me—he’s built for breeding.
The question is, does he mate with his kind, or am I a prisoner he can fill with his offspring until they burst through my uterus?
I’m not the first human he’s captured. It’s clear from the remains.
If my theory is correct, mothers don’t last long in this place.
The tentacle-like attachments, release his hand as if sated.
They rest at the side of his cock, hidden by his fur.
He lets go of himself, barely shrinking.
His member almost nuzzles into his fur, making only the enlarged knot visible.
No wonder I didn’t notice it when I first woke up.
Not that I had much time to examine him.
I return to his eyes, remembering that I should not be so fascinated by the workings of his sexual organs, regardless of what my traitor body craves.
His eyes track every inch of me, and his large nostrils flare with angry breaths.
Even with my newfound theory, why did he just jerk off in front of me?
What’s the point of drawing this out? He could have taken me, driving himself inside of me until I ripped, choking on my screams. I try not to imagine it, try to stop the moan clawing at the back of my throat in anticipation.
It doesn’t make sense, and the uncertainty of what will happen next is a slow and cruel torment.
He pushes himself away from my bars, stumbling across the cave and slipping out the opening again.
Maybe his plans require the torture, the fear slowly cooking my organs until they’re tender and boiling out through my pores.
The air lightens now that he’s gone, and the insistent need between my legs lessens. I exhale, so goddamn thankful he didn’t make me reveal how much I want the brutality. If he knew, he’d ruin me, and I’d allow it. I at least want to die with some dignity.
I don’t know when he’ll return, but I need to get the fuck out of here before he comes back. If I don’t, I’ll likely come just from the sight of his razor-sharp fangs before they rip out my throat.