The Dread of Damned

I opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was thick with the scent of sweat and desperation. The heavy curtains smothered all light, drowning everything in darkness—but that didn't matter. My vision cut through it effortlessly.

And there she was.

Bound. Writhing. Ruined.

She hung in the center of the room, suspended by thick iron chains that groaned as she jerked against them. The collar around her throat pulsed with faint, glowing runes—an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, designed for one singular purpose.

To make her feel everything.

Every breath. Every twitch. Every whisper of air against her sweat-slicked skin.

Her entire body was a raw, exposed nerve, pulsing with unbearable pleasure. But she could never, ever come.

Her thighs pressed together, her ruined pencil skirt dark with the evidence of her frustration. She had soaked through the fabric entirely, her panties clinging to her swollen, dripping folds. Her blouse had come undone, exposing heaving, flushed breasts, her stiffened nipples painfully hard against the air.

She was shaking. Crying.

Perfect.

I took a slow step forward, and the sound of my boots against the marble floor made her jerk, head snapping up. Her breath hitched sharply, pupils blown wide as she locked onto me—her tormentor.

She was so far gone, her body so overstimulated, that the simple sight of me was enough to send another full-body shudder through her. A strangled, helpless moan tore from her lips as her back arched violently, another shockwave of unwanted pleasure ripping through her hypersensitive nerves.

I smirked. Good.

"Looks like someone is enjoying themselves," I said smoothly.

She trembled. "N-no," she whimpered, voice wrecked, ruined. But the chains rattled as her body betrayed her, hips shifting forward in a pathetic, instinctive attempt to seek relief.

I chuckled. "Liar."

I reached out and barely brushed a knuckle against her collar.

"AHH—!"

She screamed. The reaction was instantaneous—her entire body convulsed, limbs jerking violently against her bonds as her nerves exploded with unbearable sensation. Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent, broken sob as a fresh wave of agonizing pleasure tore through her without mercy, without end, without release.

She twitched. Jolted. Every single second stretched into pure, raw suffering.

I leaned in, my lips a breath away from her ear. "How long has it been?

She sobbed, body thrashing, her wrists straining against the chains.

I trailed a single finger along her collarbone. Even the lightest touch sent her into another violent, shuddering convulsion.

"Poor thing," I mused. "So raw. So desperate. So utterly helpless."

She clenched her jaw, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Even breathing made her body spasm uncontrollably.

I slid my hand down, to the waistband of her ruined skirt. With a slow, deliberate tug, I tore it away, leaving her bare except for the drenched lace of her panties—soaking, dripping, clinging obscenely to her swollen folds.

My lips curled. Pathetic.

I pressed a single finger against the fabric—just barely.

"A—AHH—!"

She screamed again, body jerking so hard the chains shook. Her thighs twitched, her toes curling inside her heels, her swollen clit throbbing against the teasing, featherlight touch.

But she got nothing.

No friction. No relief. Just an unbearable, torturous wave of sensation, sharp as a blade, leaving her shaking and broken and begging.

"You really thought this was my weakness?" I said softly, almost conversationally. "Sex? Debauchery?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "Foolish."

Her breath hitched. A fresh tear spilled down her flushed cheek.

"You thought you had power over me once, didn't you?*" I murmured. "You thought you could seduce me. Make me your toy."

She clenched her fists, lips trembling. I loved seeing her misery the, my silver eyes gleamed with hunger. Like a predator playing with prey. 

I exhaled, amused. "You're learning now, aren't you?" I whispered, trailing a finger down her stomach. "You don't control me.

I pushed past the soaked fabric, pressing two fingers against her dripping entrance—but I didn't push in. I let them rest there, letting her feel the presence, letting her ache for it.

She shook violently, hips jerking in desperation. "P-please," she gasped, voice broken. "P-please, I—I c-can't—!"

"Beg," I ordered, pressing just a little harder.

"P-please!" she sobbed. "*Anything—anything, just—please—fuck me, touch me, let me—!"

I slid my fingers inside her.

"A-AHHH!"

She convulsed so hard the chains groaned in protest. Her walls clenched down around me, wet, scorching-hot, gripping me like a vice.

Her body twitched, spasmed—she was so close, so unbearably on the edge—

I pulled my fingers out.

And wiped them against the sheets.

Her breath caught.

For a second, she just shook, mouth opening in shock, another tear slipping down her cheek.

Then— "N-no—No—"

"I don't touch filth," I said coldly. Remembering the scene of her secret chambers. How dare she think she could add me to her collection. 

Her entire body collapsed against the chains. A sob ripped from her throat, her lips parted as she panted, wrecked, ruined.

But she still hadn't come.

She never would.

I tilted her chin up with a single finger. "But you can still be useful," I murmured. "And I enjoy breaking useful things."

Her tear-streaked face crumpled. She knew what I wanted.

"Tell me," I whispered. "Tell me what I want to know."

She shivered. For a long moment, she stayed silent. Still fighting.

I exhaled, tapping a single finger against the collar. She convulsed immediately, a fresh wail of torment ripping from her throat.

I exhaled through my nose, amused. "I can wait. You, on the other hand…" My fingers traced the collar once more, making her jerk violently, another sob escaping her throat. "You don't have that luxury."

She broke.

She whispered the answer.

I smiled.

"Good girl," I murmured. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Her body sagged against the chains, wrecked, trembling, used—but completely, utterly unfulfilled.

Tears streaked her flushed cheeks, saliva dripping from her lips. Her thighs were slick with her own frustration, legs still twitching uselessly as her body begged for what it would never get.

I turned away, walking toward the door.

"P-please," she whimpered. "*Please, please—"

I opened the door.

"You should get some rest," I said idly, without looking back. "You'll need it." Knowing that rest or relief was last thing she was ever going to get. She would suffer till she lived. 

Then I shut the door behind me.

Leaving her in darkness.

Ruined.

Begging.

Drooling.

But never, ever satisfied.