Looking down, I see that the tops of my toes are barely brushing the floor. That is when I glimpse the multiple drains in the floor, coated in a nasty, rust-colored substance that matchesthe splotches on the walls. There are no windows, and the walls appear to be deteriorated concrete, suggesting that this place has been here for a while, something you would see if you stripped away a building to the studs.
Sheer panic consumes me when I look over and see a leather apron hanging with rubber boots alongside it and a table of assorted tools, pliers of all sizes, a hammer, axes, a chainsaw, and other tools I do not know the name of. All are spread out in a neat line with sharp or jagged edges.
At least my torturer is organized. Wow, what a relief. The tools are clean.
My arms feel as if they are going to rip out of their sockets. I must have been out for a while. Suddenly, it all floods back to me in a jumbled mess—leaving the warehouse, meeting Martin, going into his house, eating dessert, and touring the home.
It was all a setup to catch me off guard and believe his façade. But why? Why show any type of kindness and then inevitably hold me in a place I knew was a possibility?
It is all part of his ruse.
The heavy footsteps outside the concrete door grow louder as they approach. One by one, the assortment of locks is unlocked, and Martin strolls in, whistling to himself.
“Hello, my dear Cassidy,” he croons in a calm but terrifying voice.
I swallow a lump in my throat as sweat beads and slips down between my breasts.
He walks over to me and yanks on the rope, pulling my arms from my body further, and a loud cry is wrenched from my lips from the shock of the pain. My skin is crawling from the evil aura he gives off.
“You can give me the silent treatment now, but you’ll be really talkative here soon when we begin, pleading for me tostop.” There’s a danger lurking in his eyes, accompanied by a twisted grin.
“Begin what?” I startle, my voice cracking.
Martin pats me on the head before grabbing my face harshly between his hands, possessively growling, “You are mine. I own every inch, every crevice of you. You are breathing because I allow it.”
He turns his head, eyes focused on the table of tools, and gestures to them with a sick smile on his face; silence ensues as he studies me, waiting for a reaction.
“You can’t expect me to think you’re going to use those on me,” I whisper, shaking in disbelief, uneasiness spreading through my stomach.
“Cassidy, how many times do I have to remind you? You are my property, and I will do whatever I damn well please to you.” He brushes his hand up and down over the tools, savoring my anticipation and fear.
I release a shaky breath as his eyes roam over me.
Martin selects a long wrench and comes back over to me. While standing in front of me, he drags it lightly from my wrists and over my nose and mouth, pausing on my right breast.
Cupping underneath my breast and yanking it toward him, he latches on, sucking and biting down on my nipple. Fighting every instinct not to cry out, I squirm, trying to get away from him. At last, the burn wins out, and I let out a guttural scream as he bites even harder until his teeth are under my skin and blood oozes out.
Tears drip down my cheeks, completely at his mercy, wiggling relentlessly, wanting to block this out or, at the very least, focus on the other pain in my arms.
Martin laps at the blood pouring from my nipple, erotically licking, sucking, and pulling on my entire breast.
“As I was saying, I own every piece of you. You are nothing more than the plot of land I bought yesterday.” He leans back and continues dragging the wrench down my navel, stopping at my pussy. He takes the wrench and drags it between my legs, lifting it to his nose and smelling it. My core pulses as I brace my body for the inevitable torture.
“Ahh, just what I thought. What a sweet smell.” He then licks the wrench, tasting my juices.
“You taste divine,” he purrs in my ear.
My blood runs cold as my head spins. Resuming the mental torment, he carries on stroking the wrench down my body until he gets to my toes, tapping every toe on both of my feet as I am paralyzed with dread.
“Why are you doing this?” I bravely blurt out.
“The question you should be asking is, why not? When you are a man like me who has the world at his fingertips, I want what others cannot have, cannot even fathom. Human flesh. The total power over another person, knowing that at any moment I could take your life if I so wish it.”
Reeling at what he just said, my stomach coils, and I ask, “So there have been others you have done this to?”
He throws his head back and laughs heartily. “Oh, my dear girl, there have been many, many others. Men, women, children. Specifically, whatever I am craving at any given moment. My appetite knows no bounds, and it is insatiable,” he taunts.
“All of this is some kind of sick game to you from the moment I met you?”
