Chapter 2 #4
Aris is a goddamn animal, his hands no longer clinical but clawing at my hips, leaving red, angry crescents in my skin. He’s bottoming out with every thrust, his cock hitting my cervix with a dull, heavy thud that makes my vision flicker.
The chemical irritant has turned my pussy into a furnace, and every time he slides out, the air hits the raw skin like a thousand tiny needles, only for him to plunge back in and drown the pain in a surge of thick, pulsing heat.
“Look at you,” he gasps, his face a distorted mask of sweat and obsession. “You’re fucking shivering. You’re falling apart.”
He’s right. I’m vibrating. My muscles are wound so tight they’re screaming, my toes curled into the mattress as the pressure builds in my lower belly—a dark, pressurised weight that’s about to blow.
He feels it too. He feels the way my internal walls are starting to spasm, the way I’m clamping around his cock like a vice, trying to swallow him whole.
He leans forward, his teeth baring as he grips my hair and yanks my head back, baring my throat. He reaches down with his free hand, his thumb and forefinger finding my clit and squeezing it with a brutal, rhythmic pressure that matches the frantic pace of his hips.
“Now,” he growls into my ear, his breath a scorching heat. “Break for me, Hallow. Give me everything.”
The world doesn’t just end; it disintegrates.
I let out a raw, guttural howl that sounds like something being torn out of the earth.
The orgasm hits me with the force of a high-speed collision, a violent, jagged explosion of white light and agonising pleasure.
My pussy clenches in a series of massive, uncontrollable contractions, milking his cock so hard I hear him groan in actual pain.
I cum in a hot, frantic rush, the fluid spraying out around him, soaking the sheets and his groin in a desperate, soaking flood.
I’m so wet, so utterly ruined, that every time he gives one last, deep shove, the squelching sound is the only thing I can hear over the blood rushing in my ears.
My back arches, my chest heaving as I fight for air that won’t come.
I’m trapped in the peak, the waves of the climax rolling over me again and again, each one more violent than the last because of the chemicals he poured into me.
I’m sobbing, my body jerking against the leather restraints, my eyes rolled back so far there’s nothing but white.
Aris lets out a low, predatory sound, his own climax hitting him as he buries his face in the crook of my neck.
He thrusts one last time, deep and heavy, and I feel him fill me—a hot, pulsing surge of his cum hitting the back of my throat, or so it feels, as he pours himself into the wreck he’s created.
He stays there, heavy and panting, his cock still buried to the hilt, twitching inside me as the room slowly stops spinning. The predatory white light is still humming, but the air feels different now. Stagnant. Final.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with a terrifying, permanent kind of possession. He reaches out, his thumb wiping a smudge of blood and sweat from my cheek, his touch almost… tender.
“I think I’ve changed my mind about the incinerator,” he whispers, his voice smooth and cold as ice.
“A specimen this reactive… it would be a tragedy to let you go. I think I’ll keep you, Hallow.
I’ll keep you right here, in this room, until there’s nothing left of your mind but the way you feel under me. ”
He smiles, a thin, sharp line of teeth. “You’re not a patient anymore. You’re my private little apocalypse.”
The heat of his cum cooling inside me feels like a slow-drying cement, a heavy, sticky reminder that I am no longer a person. I am a container. I am a hollowed-out vessel for the filth of men who hide behind degrees and badges.
Aris pulls out of me with a wet, dragging sound that makes my stomach turn. He stands up, adjusted his clothes with that same terrifying, clinical precision, as if he hadn’t just spent the last twenty minutes trying to erase my soul.
He looks down at me, his eyes full of a dark, satisfied glint—the look of a collector who just found a rare, broken butterfly.
“Rest now, Hallow,” he murmurs, his voice a silk noose. “We have so much more to explore tomorrow.”
The steel door clicks shut. The slide-bolt slams home.
Then, the silence arrives. It’s not a quiet silence; it’s a screaming, heavy void that rushes in to fill the space where my dignity used to be.
I lie there, my legs still splayed wide by the memory of the weight, my pussy throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache that feels like a mourning bell. I can feel the mixture of his cum and my own frantic, shamed wetness trickling down my thigh, soaking into the thin, scratchy mattress.
I don’t sob. I don’t have the strength left for noise.
Instead, the tears come silently—hot, salt-heavy tracks that burn through the dried blood and the chemical irritant on my cheeks. They pool in my ears, cold and invasive.
I am not here, I tell myself, the thought a flickering candle in a hurricane. I am in the burning city. I am standing in the violet neon. I am waiting for the man with the cards.
But the candle goes out.
Because the man with the cards isn’t real. He’s a drug-induced ghost I built to keep the dark from swallowing me. He’s a punchline to a joke I’m not allowed to hear.
The reality is this: the white walls, the smell of industrial peppermint, the taste of copper, and the fact that I just cum for a monster who wants to keep me in a jar.
The heartbreak is a physical thing. It’s a slow, grinding pressure in my chest, like my heart is being crushed by a pair of invisible, weighted clamps. I think about the girl I was before the chains—the girl who thought she was untouchable, the girl who thought her fire could never be put out.
She’s dead. Miller killed a piece of her, and Aris took the rest and fed it to his ego.
I look at the leather straps on my wrists.
They’re dark with my blood. I look at the sterile, humming light above me and realise I’m praying for it to fall.
I’m praying for the ceiling to collapse, for the earth to open up, for anything to end the unbearable weight of being alive and aware of what has been done to me.
Please, I think, my mind a fractured, weeping mess. Please, let me be empty. Don’t make me keep Hallow. Don’t make me remember the way he looked at me. Just let the dark take the rest.
I close my eyes, and for a second, I feel a phantom hand on my cheek—not rough, not clinical, but a ghost of a promise. But when I reach for it in the dark of my mind, there’s nothing but ash.
I’m alone. I’m ruined. And the doctor is coming back tomorrow.