22. Lola
LOLA
He has rules. No running. No fighting. No asking questions. I am simply a hole, a thing to be ruined. He wants to break me. And I let him. I am not allowed upstairs yet. He says I need to be a good girl, and if I am, then I will get rewarded.
Marcus says the same thing, but it’s different with this man. I can sense the emptiness in Marcus, there is nothing human inside of him, and that is what I truly fear. This man? He is human, I can see that. Just angry and erratic.
The basement is my world now. The only warmth comes from my own breath, fogging in the morning light that creeps through the sliver of the window, and even that feels stolen.
The cement floor bites into my knees, my shins, my hips.
I keep moving. If I stop, I might freeze solid, turn to a corpse before he’s done using me.
He has a new rule today: No food until I ask for it. And I have to ask the right way.
My stomach is twisted, knotting itself around hunger, but I refuse to beg. Until he comes. The lock clatters. Every time I hear that sound, something in me shrivels. My mind flickers through all the punishments I know, all the ones I don’t.
His boots hit the stairs. He’s carrying something. The clatter of plastic. I already know what it is before I see it.
A dog bowl. Stainless steel. He sets it on the floor and nudges it with his boot until it rings off the concrete. He crouches, so the skull mask fills my vision, all empty eyes.
“Hungry?” I say nothing. He stands, arms folded, waiting. I feel his stare, invisible through the bone-white mask. “Say it,” he says. “Tell me what you are. What you want.”
“Please…” I can barely force it out.
He tilts his head. “Please what?”
I stare at the bowl, at the slop inside. Oatmeal maybe. My pride is slowly melting. “Please, can I eat?” I whisper.
He steps closer. “Not enough. Beg. Beg like a whore. Beg like the thing you are.”
My stomach caves. I feel my cheeks flush, but I do it. “Please—I’m nothing, I’m just a hole, I’ll do anything, just let me eat, please—”
He nods, satisfied. “That’s better.”
He pushes the bowl toward me with the toe of his boot. I crawl to it. That’s the rule. No hands. Lips to metal, like an animal. My mouth fills with bitter, salty shame. The food is cold, tasteless. I eat anyway, because hunger always wins.
Cold splatters up my chin, drips down my neck. He watches in silence. I try to hate him, but there’s too much of me missing now, stripped away by days of this.
When I’m done, he tosses a bottle of water after me. It rolls, clattering, but at least he lets me use my hands for that. Small mercies that he’ll probably take back tomorrow.
He circles as if waiting for me to break again. I can feel his eyes, the heat of his body. I want to curl up, disappear, become the nothing he keeps telling me I am.
“What do you say?” he asks.
I swallow. “Thank you.”
He laughs. “Good girl. You’re learning.” The gloved hand cups my chin, tilting my face up. The mask is inches from my mouth. “You want a reward?”
The cold in his tone is familiar now. “No,” I whisper.
He laughs again. “Wrong answer.”
He’s on me before I can blink, hauling me to my feet, his grip bruising and cruel.
He drags me to the center of the room, where he left the bucket.
The reminder that I’m not even worth a toilet.
He yanks my hands behind my back, tightens thick zip-ties around my wrists.
The plastic bites deep. I freeze as he pushes me to my knees.
“Open your mouth.”
I shake my head, earning a slap. Not hard enough to knock me over, but enough to send lightning through my jaw. “Open it, whore.” I open my mouth begrudgingly. He shoves two fingers down my throat until I gag, then lets me go. “That’s better.”
He stands, looking down at me, breathing hard behind the mask. I stare at the floor, waiting, waiting. The next sound is the scrape of something metal, knife, I think, but the blade never faces me. Instead, I feel the hard, cold handle pressed to my lips.
“Show me how good you can be,” he says. “Suck it.”
The steel is freezing, making my teeth ache, but I suck the handle like it’s him, like it’s what he wants. He moves it in and out, slow. My lips burn, my tongue numbs.
“You only exist to be ruined,” he whispers. “Say it.”
My throat trembles around the metal. “I only exist to be ruined.”
He pulls the knife back, dragging it down my neck. I flinch away, and he laughs cruelly. “You’re afraid. You should be.”
He steps behind me, one hand twisting in my hair, forcing my head back.
With the other, he presses the cold handle against my cunt, through the thin cotton of my pants first, then inside, tearing the cloth aside.
The hardness splits me, frigid, merciless.
I whimper. My body tries to close, but he holds me wide, the zip-ties cutting my wrists behind my back.
“Look at you. Nothing but a hole.” He fucks me with the knife handle, slow, twisting, spreading me open.
Each thrust is cold and brutal. “Not until you beg like a whore,” he says.
“Beg for more. Tell me you want it.” Tears burn down my cheeks.
I shake my head, but he twists my nipple, pinching until I gasp. “Say it.”
“Please, more. I want it. I want to be ruined.”
He keeps going, faster now, the cold searing into my core, the shame drowning me. I can’t tell where pain ends and need begins. I hate myself for the heat that pools between my legs. I hate him for knowing. It burns, but in a way that makes me crave more.
Am I deranged like him?
He stops, suddenly. My body clenches around nothing.
He kneels in front of me. “You want to come?” I bite my lip as he grips my jaw, forcing my eyes to his.
“Say it. Beg. Promise you’ll touch yourself for me, exactly how I say.
Or I’ll leave you down here, wet and shaking, until you forget your own name. ”
I nod, desperate, broken. “Please. Please let me. I’ll do anything. I’ll touch myself, I’ll be your whore, I’ll do whatever you want—”
He unzips my pants and pulls them down. My hands are still bound behind me. I can barely move, but he positions me, legs spread, knees pointed out. He cuts the ties. Freedom, but it comes with a price.
“Show me,” he says, voice rough. “But only when I say. Only how I say.” I reach between my thighs, fingers trembling.
I’m soaked, humiliated. He palms himself through his pants, the outline hard, thick.
He strokes himself, slow, as he watches me.
“Just two fingers. Small circles. Slow. Pretend you hate it.”
I obey, sliding two fingers over my clit, slow, trembling circles. The pleasure is laced with shame, with the memory of the cold knife. He watches every twitch, every gasp.
“Look at me,” he orders. I meet the empty eye sockets of the mask. He unzips, pulls his cock out. It’s huge, leaking already as he strokes himself in time with my movements. “Faster,” he says. “But don’t come. Not yet.”
I speed up, breath going ragged. My body betrays me, hips moving, thighs shaking.
He kneels, strokes faster, eyes devouring me. “You’re so fucking filthy. Say it. Say you’re nothing but a hole.”
“I’m nothing but a hole,” I whisper.
“Now beg me. Beg me to let you come.”
“Please. Please, I’ll be good, I’m your whore, I’ll do anything, just let me come—”
He groans. “Do it. Now.”
I rub harder, and the orgasm tears through me, all the pain and terror washing out in one blinding wave. I sob, my body convulsing, legs quaking. He strokes himself, faster, rougher. His hand is a blur, the mask inches from my face.
“Open your mouth,” he commands.
I do. He presses his cock to my lips and jerks, hot, bitter cum pouring into my mouth, over my tongue, dripping down my chin. He keeps going, filling me, smearing it over my cheeks, my nose, my lips.
“Lick it,” he says. “Clean it up like a good girl.”
I lick his cock, my own tears and his cum mixing, choking me. He holds my head, guiding me, making sure I don’t miss a drop. When he’s finished, he tucks himself away, standing over me as I kneel, ruined, cum smeared across my face, my body shaking.
He bends and wipes a thumb over my cheek, pressing it into my mouth. “Swallow.”
I obey.
He steps back. “Good girl. You’re learning.” He kicks the bucket toward me. “Go ahead. That’s where you piss. Remind yourself. That’s all you are. Mine.”
I crawl to the bucket, humiliated, every inch of my skin burning with shame and used-up pleasure.
He leaves, boots echoing up the stairs, the lock sliding. I am alone again, shaking, sticky, filthy. I curl up, knees to chest, the taste of him in my mouth.
The cold creeps in, but I can’t feel it. All I feel is him.