Previous Chapter (8) - Karol | First Chapter - Camila
The West District loading docks were a concrete graveyard where the city’s refuse came to be forgotten. Rain drummed a relentless, rhythmic beat on the rusted corrugated roof above Paolo "Pip" D'Angelo's head as he leaned against a grimy service door, smoking a cigarette he’d bummed off a delivery driver. He dragged on the cheap tobacco, the smoke curling into the damp, grey air, a small rebellion against the overwhelming dreariness.
Pip was bored. Boredom was a dangerous thing in his line of work, a slow poison that made men careless. He was young, barely twenty-two, wiry with a restless, frantic energy and a hairline trigger temper that had gotten him into, and out of, more scraps than he could count. He felt like he was being wasted. He should be inside, learning the trade, maybe helping Slick with the bookkeeping or watching Knuckles break someone in, learning the art of intimidation. Instead, he was stuck on perimeter watch in the rain, staring at puddles of oil and dead leaves, guarding a fortress no one sane would ever try to breach.
The hum of an expensive engine broke through the monotonous sound of the storm.
Pip straightened up instantly, flicking his half-finished cigarette butt into a drain where it hissed and died. A sleek, black sedan—unmarked, nondescript, the kind of car that disappeared in traffic—rolled into the bay. It glided to a stop with a purr that spoke of precision engineering.
The driver’s door opened. A man stepped out into the damp, grey light.
It wasn't one of the regular goons. It was Marco "Scout" Santori.
Pip knew the name more than the face. Scout was a ghost in the organization, a specialist. He didn't hang around the warehouse drinking bad coffee and playing cards with the rest of the muscle. He was out in the world, hunting. He moved in circles Pip could only dream of—high-end clubs, art galleries, private parties. He was the procurer, the one with the golden tongue and the cold heart. He only showed up when Frank Romano needed fresh inventory.
Scout moved with a fluid, terrifying grace, smoothing the lapels of his tailored coat. He bypassed Pip without so much as a glance, as if the younger man were just another piece of the loading dock's rusted machinery. He walked straight for the internal stairs that led up to the executive offices, his footsteps light and purposeful.
Pip watched him go, a mix of resentment and nervous excitement bubbling in his chest. Scout’s arrival meant change. It meant the boss was making moves. And maybe, just maybe, it meant Pip would finally get a chance to do something more interesting than watch paint peel.
He waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. He paced. He checked his phone. He kicked at a loose piece of concrete.
Finally, the heavy metal door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Scout descended, pulling on a pair of leather driving gloves with methodical precision. Behind him, looking pleased with himself, was Luis "Slick" Navarro. Slick was in his element, grinning like a shark that had just scented blood in the water.
Pip pushed himself off the wall and sauntered over, trying to intercept them casually, trying to affect the easy confidence of a made man.
"Everything good, Slick?" he asked, pitching his voice to sound professional, maybe even a little indispensable. "Boss call a meeting? Need me inside?"
Slick smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his sharkskin suit. The man always looked like he was about to sell you a used car that would explode a mile down the road. "Big changes, Pip. Big changes. Marco here was just getting his new shopping list."
Scout ignored Pip entirely, his focus already miles away, scanning the rainy street beyond the loading bay doors. "Frankie's putting one of the long-term assets up for auction," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, discussing a human being like a depreciating stock portfolio. "She's lost that fire the subscribers pay for. Too docile. Time to cash out while she's still a name."
He checked his watch, a Rolex that gleamed in the dim light. "And since nature abhors a vacuum, Frankie wants a new girl in a cage by tomorrow night. Someone fresh. Someone wild. Someone to spike the ratings for the weekend broadcast."
Slick clapped Pip on the shoulder, his grip firm, almost painful. "And you, my boy, get a promotion. You get to be the town crier."
Pip blinked, momentarily confused. "Me?"
"Go tell the ladies the good news," Slick said, his grin widening to reveal a flash of gold tooth. "Let 'em know they're getting a new playmate. Put a little fear of God into them. Scout's on the clock, and we need the cages prepped. Shake them up. Remind them that nobody is irreplaceable."
Pip felt a surge of adrenaline, hot and sharp. This was it. A real task. A chance to exert authority over the livestock.
"Consider it done," Pip said, a cruel smile mirroring Slick's spreading across his face. He turned and headed for the heavy steel door that led to the cellblock, leaving the cold rain behind for the darker, warmer cruelty inside.
The air inside the cellblock was always different. It hit you the moment you crossed the threshold. It was heavy, stagnant, and smelled faintly of copper, unwashed bodies, and the sharp tang of industrial cleaner that never quite masked the scent underneath.
Pip swaggered down the central corridor, the metal grating clanging under his boots. He unhooked his nightstick from his belt, feeling its comforting weight, and let it slap rhythmically against his thigh. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. He wanted them to hear him coming. He wanted to see heads snap up, eyes go wide. He wanted the respect Knuckles commanded just by walking into a room, the way the air seemed to leave when the big man entered.
He stopped in the center of the walkway, spreading his arms wide like a circus ringmaster.
"Listen up, ladies!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the damp concrete walls. "Management has decided the family's getting bigger! Scout's out on a run right now, catchin' something pretty, so y'all better start making room for a new trainee!"
He waited. He postured. He expected gasps. He expected whimpers. He expected the desperate grabbing of the mesh, the pleas for mercy, the questions about who was next.
Silence.
It stretched out, heavy and suffocating.
Camila, in cell one, was slumped against the wall, staring at her own feet as if they belonged to someone else. She didn't even blink. She looked hollowed out.
Sarah, in cell two, was sitting cross-legged on her cot, methodically picking at a loose thread on her grey wool blanket. Pick. Pull. Pick. Pull. She looked right through him, her gaze vacant and distant, lost in some internal world where he didn't exist.
Priya, in cell three, flinched slightly at the noise of his voice but kept her head bowed, her lips moving in a silent, fervent prayer.
Jolene, in cell four, was curled in a tight ball at the back of her cell, rocking back and forth, mumbling a stream of nonsense to herself.
Chloe, in cell five, had her head slumped against the cold metal mesh of the cell, her eyes glazed over, staring into nothingness.
Nothing. No terror. No pleading. Just a dull, crushing apathy.
Pip’s smile faltered. Hot shame pricked at his neck, rising to his cheeks. They weren't afraid of him. They barely registered him. They looked at him—if they looked at him at all—like he was just annoying background noise.
He wasn't Knuckles, capable of breaking them with a look. He wasn't Nails, whose mere presence made the air turn cold. He was just the errand boy, the kid playing dress-up in a thug’s uniform.
And that was unacceptable.
His grip tightened on the nightstick until his knuckles turned white. He scanned the cells, looking for a victim, looking for an example. He needed to make a mark. He needed to draw blood, or at least fear. His eyes landed on the cell four. Jolene.
She was huddled in the corner, shivering. A broken mess ever since her stint in the Quiet Room. The guys said she hadn't spoken a coherent sentence in days. Perfect.
"You," Pip growled, pointing the stick at her through the diamond mesh. The authority he couldn't earn, he would take. "On your feet. Out here."
He unlocked the cell door with a loud, deliberate CLANG and swung it open, the hinges screeching.
"Now!"
Jolene scrambled up, stumbling over her own feet in her haste to obey. She practically threw herself out of the cell, her eyes wide and unfocused, her body trembling with a visible, pathetic eagerness to please. She looked like a beaten dog waiting for the next kick.
Pip grabbed her arm roughly, his fingers digging into her thin bicep, and shoved her into the center of the corridor so the other women had a clear view. He looked around at the silent cells, his sneer returning.
"See this?" he spat, gesturing to the cowering woman with his nightstick. "This is what happens when you think you're special. It took one night in the studio and two days of silence to take her faith and replace it with absolute obedience."
He looked at Jolene, a dark idea forming in his mind. He needed to prove he wasn't just a guard. He needed to prove he owned them just as much as Frank Romano did. He needed to show them he knew the game.
"Kneel," Pip ordered, his voice settling into a harsh bark.
Jolene dropped to her knees instantly, the impact audible on the hard concrete. She didn't hesitate. She didn't question. The fight had been surgically, brutally removed from her.
Pip looked around the cellblock again. Camila had lifted her head slightly, a flicker of vague curiosity in her dull eyes. Sarah had stopped picking at the thread. He had their attention now.
He reached for his zipper.
The sound of the metal teeth rasping down was loud in the silence. He fished himself out—already semi-hard from the power trip—and stood over her.
"Remember the cost of hesitation," he growled, grabbing a fistful of her unwashed hair and forcing her face toward his crotch.
Jolene let out a small, pathetic whimper, but she opened her mouth. She took him in, her movements robotic and practiced, driven not by desire but by the desperate need to avoid punishment.
Pip let out a breath, his ego swelling along with his cock. But sex wasn't the point. Any of the guards could take that. Control was the point. The specific brand of torment this place was famous for. He looked at the other women, making sure they were watching this degradation.
"Hands," he commanded, his voice tight. "Behind your head. Now. Hold your elbows"
Jolene froze for a split second, the instruction confusing her rhythm. Then, realizing the order, she scrambled to obey. She kept her mouth on him, working with a frantic bobbing motion, while slowly, shakily lifting her trembling arms.
She crossed them behind her neck, her elbows flaring out wide, her fingers gripping her elbows.
The position left her completely exposed. Her simple t-shirt rode up slightly. But more importantly, her underarms—pale, soft, and defenseless—were bared to the world.
This was the test. The real demonstration of ownership. The signature of the Giggle Room.
Pip leaned in close, balancing his weight on one leg. He didn't grab her. He didn't strike her.
With a slow, sadistic deliberation, he extended his index finger. He brought it to the hollow of her right armpit.
He barely touched her. It was a feather-light caress, a ghost of a sensation, barely resting on the skin. He traced a slow, menacing circle on the sensitized flesh.
The reaction was instantaneous and violent.
Jolene’s entire body jerked as if she’d been electrocuted. Her head snapped back, dislodging him from her mouth with a wet pop.
"Nnngh-Hah!"
A choked, strangled sound erupted from her throat—half sob, half involuntary giggle. Her arms crushed against her head, trying to protect the sensitive spot, trying to close the gap, but her hands remained locked to her elbows as ordered. She writhed, her torso twisting away from his finger, but she couldn't escape.
"did I tell you to stop suckin'?" Pip asked, he kept his finger there, chasing the tickle, light and relentless, dancing over the nerves.
"Please-he-he! Ah-hah! Stop!" Jolene laughed, her mouth open, head bobbing, trying to take him back into her mouth.
He looked up at the other cells. Camila was staring, her mouth slightly open, horror dawning on her face. Sarah looked terrified, shrinking back on her cot. They saw it. They understood. He wasn't just hurting her body; he was hijacking it.
He smiled, a cruel, satisfied twist of his lips. He was one of them now. He was a master of the Giggle Room.
Finally her took him back between her lips, sucked him in, and clamped. giggling as she tried desperately to pleasure him.
Pip kept his finger there for another ten agonizing seconds, savoring every twitch, every stifled giggle that bubbled up like acid, every tear that leaked from Jolene's squeezed-shut eyes. He was playing her like an instrument, and the music was absolute, humiliating submission.
Her tongue was flicking the underside of his cock with her giggling, her throat vibrating against his head. "that's it, sweetheart, you're a natural"
He watched her struggle, watched the way her body betrayed her, twitching and convulsing under a touch that shouldn't hurt but was clearly agonizing. It was empowering. It was intoxicating.
Then, the physical reality of the situation caught up with him. He groaned, a low, guttural sound, as his balls tightened. The power trip peaked.
He grabbed the back of Jolene's head, his fingers tangled in her hair, plunging his cock down her throat.
He sprayed ropes of cum, his body convulsing with the release. Jolene, trained to obey, didn't gag. Her mouth and tongue worked overtime, swallowing every drop, cleaning him with a desperate, frantic efficiency, terrified of spilling a single drop and incurring further wrath.
Finally, satisfied that the point had been made and his needs met, he pulled back.
Jolene slumped forward onto her hands and knees, gasping for breath, coughing slightly. She hugged her sides, shivering as phantom sensations continued to fire across her overwrought nerves.
Pip zipped his pants, tucking himself away with a casual, dismissive gesture. He looked down at the shivering woman as if she were a piece of trash he’d stepped in.
"Get up," he snapped. "Back in your hole."
He grabbed her arm and shoved her roughly toward the open cell door. Jolene didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled inside on all fours, retreating to the furthest corner of her cot, curling into a tight, protective ball, making herself as small as possible.
Pip slammed the cell door shut.
CLANG.
The sound reverberated through the block, final and absolute.
He turned slowly, pivoting on his heel to face the rest of the block. He met Camila's gaze, then Sarah's, then Priya's, and finally Chloe's. He held each of their eyes for a long beat, letting the silence stretch, letting the terror settle into their bones. He wanted them to remember this. He wanted them to remember him.
"The next one of you who looks at me like I'm not in charge," he said, his voice low and dripping with menace, "will be the one I personally 'train' next. And trust me… I have a lot of ideas."
He adjusted his belt, a genuine, terrifying swagger in his step now. He didn't need to yell. He didn't need to brandish the stick. He had proven his lethality. He had proven he belonged.
He turned and walked toward the exit, his boots echoing loudly on the concrete. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped out, leaving the cold, terrorized silence of the cellblock behind him.
Inside the cages, no one moved. No one spoke. They just listened to the fading sound of his footsteps, knowing that a new monster had just been added to their nightmare roster, one who was young, hungry, and desperate to prove just how cruel he could be.
Next Chapter (10) - Connor
The West District loading docks were a concrete graveyard where the city’s refuse came to be forgotten. Rain drummed a relentless, rhythmic beat on the rusted corrugated roof above Paolo "Pip" D'Angelo's head as he leaned against a grimy service door, smoking a cigarette he’d bummed off a delivery driver. He dragged on the cheap tobacco, the smoke curling into the damp, grey air, a small rebellion against the overwhelming dreariness.
Pip was bored. Boredom was a dangerous thing in his line of work, a slow poison that made men careless. He was young, barely twenty-two, wiry with a restless, frantic energy and a hairline trigger temper that had gotten him into, and out of, more scraps than he could count. He felt like he was being wasted. He should be inside, learning the trade, maybe helping Slick with the bookkeeping or watching Knuckles break someone in, learning the art of intimidation. Instead, he was stuck on perimeter watch in the rain, staring at puddles of oil and dead leaves, guarding a fortress no one sane would ever try to breach.
The hum of an expensive engine broke through the monotonous sound of the storm.
Pip straightened up instantly, flicking his half-finished cigarette butt into a drain where it hissed and died. A sleek, black sedan—unmarked, nondescript, the kind of car that disappeared in traffic—rolled into the bay. It glided to a stop with a purr that spoke of precision engineering.
The driver’s door opened. A man stepped out into the damp, grey light.
It wasn't one of the regular goons. It was Marco "Scout" Santori.
Pip knew the name more than the face. Scout was a ghost in the organization, a specialist. He didn't hang around the warehouse drinking bad coffee and playing cards with the rest of the muscle. He was out in the world, hunting. He moved in circles Pip could only dream of—high-end clubs, art galleries, private parties. He was the procurer, the one with the golden tongue and the cold heart. He only showed up when Frank Romano needed fresh inventory.
Scout moved with a fluid, terrifying grace, smoothing the lapels of his tailored coat. He bypassed Pip without so much as a glance, as if the younger man were just another piece of the loading dock's rusted machinery. He walked straight for the internal stairs that led up to the executive offices, his footsteps light and purposeful.
Pip watched him go, a mix of resentment and nervous excitement bubbling in his chest. Scout’s arrival meant change. It meant the boss was making moves. And maybe, just maybe, it meant Pip would finally get a chance to do something more interesting than watch paint peel.
He waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. He paced. He checked his phone. He kicked at a loose piece of concrete.
Finally, the heavy metal door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Scout descended, pulling on a pair of leather driving gloves with methodical precision. Behind him, looking pleased with himself, was Luis "Slick" Navarro. Slick was in his element, grinning like a shark that had just scented blood in the water.
Pip pushed himself off the wall and sauntered over, trying to intercept them casually, trying to affect the easy confidence of a made man.
"Everything good, Slick?" he asked, pitching his voice to sound professional, maybe even a little indispensable. "Boss call a meeting? Need me inside?"
Slick smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his sharkskin suit. The man always looked like he was about to sell you a used car that would explode a mile down the road. "Big changes, Pip. Big changes. Marco here was just getting his new shopping list."
Scout ignored Pip entirely, his focus already miles away, scanning the rainy street beyond the loading bay doors. "Frankie's putting one of the long-term assets up for auction," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, discussing a human being like a depreciating stock portfolio. "She's lost that fire the subscribers pay for. Too docile. Time to cash out while she's still a name."
He checked his watch, a Rolex that gleamed in the dim light. "And since nature abhors a vacuum, Frankie wants a new girl in a cage by tomorrow night. Someone fresh. Someone wild. Someone to spike the ratings for the weekend broadcast."
Slick clapped Pip on the shoulder, his grip firm, almost painful. "And you, my boy, get a promotion. You get to be the town crier."
Pip blinked, momentarily confused. "Me?"
"Go tell the ladies the good news," Slick said, his grin widening to reveal a flash of gold tooth. "Let 'em know they're getting a new playmate. Put a little fear of God into them. Scout's on the clock, and we need the cages prepped. Shake them up. Remind them that nobody is irreplaceable."
Pip felt a surge of adrenaline, hot and sharp. This was it. A real task. A chance to exert authority over the livestock.
"Consider it done," Pip said, a cruel smile mirroring Slick's spreading across his face. He turned and headed for the heavy steel door that led to the cellblock, leaving the cold rain behind for the darker, warmer cruelty inside.
The air inside the cellblock was always different. It hit you the moment you crossed the threshold. It was heavy, stagnant, and smelled faintly of copper, unwashed bodies, and the sharp tang of industrial cleaner that never quite masked the scent underneath.
Pip swaggered down the central corridor, the metal grating clanging under his boots. He unhooked his nightstick from his belt, feeling its comforting weight, and let it slap rhythmically against his thigh. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. He wanted them to hear him coming. He wanted to see heads snap up, eyes go wide. He wanted the respect Knuckles commanded just by walking into a room, the way the air seemed to leave when the big man entered.
He stopped in the center of the walkway, spreading his arms wide like a circus ringmaster.
"Listen up, ladies!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the damp concrete walls. "Management has decided the family's getting bigger! Scout's out on a run right now, catchin' something pretty, so y'all better start making room for a new trainee!"
He waited. He postured. He expected gasps. He expected whimpers. He expected the desperate grabbing of the mesh, the pleas for mercy, the questions about who was next.
Silence.
It stretched out, heavy and suffocating.
Camila, in cell one, was slumped against the wall, staring at her own feet as if they belonged to someone else. She didn't even blink. She looked hollowed out.
Sarah, in cell two, was sitting cross-legged on her cot, methodically picking at a loose thread on her grey wool blanket. Pick. Pull. Pick. Pull. She looked right through him, her gaze vacant and distant, lost in some internal world where he didn't exist.
Priya, in cell three, flinched slightly at the noise of his voice but kept her head bowed, her lips moving in a silent, fervent prayer.
Jolene, in cell four, was curled in a tight ball at the back of her cell, rocking back and forth, mumbling a stream of nonsense to herself.
Chloe, in cell five, had her head slumped against the cold metal mesh of the cell, her eyes glazed over, staring into nothingness.
Nothing. No terror. No pleading. Just a dull, crushing apathy.
Pip’s smile faltered. Hot shame pricked at his neck, rising to his cheeks. They weren't afraid of him. They barely registered him. They looked at him—if they looked at him at all—like he was just annoying background noise.
He wasn't Knuckles, capable of breaking them with a look. He wasn't Nails, whose mere presence made the air turn cold. He was just the errand boy, the kid playing dress-up in a thug’s uniform.
And that was unacceptable.
His grip tightened on the nightstick until his knuckles turned white. He scanned the cells, looking for a victim, looking for an example. He needed to make a mark. He needed to draw blood, or at least fear. His eyes landed on the cell four. Jolene.
She was huddled in the corner, shivering. A broken mess ever since her stint in the Quiet Room. The guys said she hadn't spoken a coherent sentence in days. Perfect.
"You," Pip growled, pointing the stick at her through the diamond mesh. The authority he couldn't earn, he would take. "On your feet. Out here."
He unlocked the cell door with a loud, deliberate CLANG and swung it open, the hinges screeching.
"Now!"
Jolene scrambled up, stumbling over her own feet in her haste to obey. She practically threw herself out of the cell, her eyes wide and unfocused, her body trembling with a visible, pathetic eagerness to please. She looked like a beaten dog waiting for the next kick.
Pip grabbed her arm roughly, his fingers digging into her thin bicep, and shoved her into the center of the corridor so the other women had a clear view. He looked around at the silent cells, his sneer returning.
"See this?" he spat, gesturing to the cowering woman with his nightstick. "This is what happens when you think you're special. It took one night in the studio and two days of silence to take her faith and replace it with absolute obedience."
He looked at Jolene, a dark idea forming in his mind. He needed to prove he wasn't just a guard. He needed to prove he owned them just as much as Frank Romano did. He needed to show them he knew the game.
"Kneel," Pip ordered, his voice settling into a harsh bark.
Jolene dropped to her knees instantly, the impact audible on the hard concrete. She didn't hesitate. She didn't question. The fight had been surgically, brutally removed from her.
Pip looked around the cellblock again. Camila had lifted her head slightly, a flicker of vague curiosity in her dull eyes. Sarah had stopped picking at the thread. He had their attention now.
He reached for his zipper.
The sound of the metal teeth rasping down was loud in the silence. He fished himself out—already semi-hard from the power trip—and stood over her.
"Remember the cost of hesitation," he growled, grabbing a fistful of her unwashed hair and forcing her face toward his crotch.
Jolene let out a small, pathetic whimper, but she opened her mouth. She took him in, her movements robotic and practiced, driven not by desire but by the desperate need to avoid punishment.
Pip let out a breath, his ego swelling along with his cock. But sex wasn't the point. Any of the guards could take that. Control was the point. The specific brand of torment this place was famous for. He looked at the other women, making sure they were watching this degradation.
"Hands," he commanded, his voice tight. "Behind your head. Now. Hold your elbows"
Jolene froze for a split second, the instruction confusing her rhythm. Then, realizing the order, she scrambled to obey. She kept her mouth on him, working with a frantic bobbing motion, while slowly, shakily lifting her trembling arms.
She crossed them behind her neck, her elbows flaring out wide, her fingers gripping her elbows.
The position left her completely exposed. Her simple t-shirt rode up slightly. But more importantly, her underarms—pale, soft, and defenseless—were bared to the world.
This was the test. The real demonstration of ownership. The signature of the Giggle Room.
Pip leaned in close, balancing his weight on one leg. He didn't grab her. He didn't strike her.
With a slow, sadistic deliberation, he extended his index finger. He brought it to the hollow of her right armpit.
He barely touched her. It was a feather-light caress, a ghost of a sensation, barely resting on the skin. He traced a slow, menacing circle on the sensitized flesh.
The reaction was instantaneous and violent.
Jolene’s entire body jerked as if she’d been electrocuted. Her head snapped back, dislodging him from her mouth with a wet pop.
"Nnngh-Hah!"
A choked, strangled sound erupted from her throat—half sob, half involuntary giggle. Her arms crushed against her head, trying to protect the sensitive spot, trying to close the gap, but her hands remained locked to her elbows as ordered. She writhed, her torso twisting away from his finger, but she couldn't escape.
"did I tell you to stop suckin'?" Pip asked, he kept his finger there, chasing the tickle, light and relentless, dancing over the nerves.
"Please-he-he! Ah-hah! Stop!" Jolene laughed, her mouth open, head bobbing, trying to take him back into her mouth.
He looked up at the other cells. Camila was staring, her mouth slightly open, horror dawning on her face. Sarah looked terrified, shrinking back on her cot. They saw it. They understood. He wasn't just hurting her body; he was hijacking it.
He smiled, a cruel, satisfied twist of his lips. He was one of them now. He was a master of the Giggle Room.
Finally her took him back between her lips, sucked him in, and clamped. giggling as she tried desperately to pleasure him.
Pip kept his finger there for another ten agonizing seconds, savoring every twitch, every stifled giggle that bubbled up like acid, every tear that leaked from Jolene's squeezed-shut eyes. He was playing her like an instrument, and the music was absolute, humiliating submission.
Her tongue was flicking the underside of his cock with her giggling, her throat vibrating against his head. "that's it, sweetheart, you're a natural"
He watched her struggle, watched the way her body betrayed her, twitching and convulsing under a touch that shouldn't hurt but was clearly agonizing. It was empowering. It was intoxicating.
Then, the physical reality of the situation caught up with him. He groaned, a low, guttural sound, as his balls tightened. The power trip peaked.
He grabbed the back of Jolene's head, his fingers tangled in her hair, plunging his cock down her throat.
He sprayed ropes of cum, his body convulsing with the release. Jolene, trained to obey, didn't gag. Her mouth and tongue worked overtime, swallowing every drop, cleaning him with a desperate, frantic efficiency, terrified of spilling a single drop and incurring further wrath.
Finally, satisfied that the point had been made and his needs met, he pulled back.
Jolene slumped forward onto her hands and knees, gasping for breath, coughing slightly. She hugged her sides, shivering as phantom sensations continued to fire across her overwrought nerves.
Pip zipped his pants, tucking himself away with a casual, dismissive gesture. He looked down at the shivering woman as if she were a piece of trash he’d stepped in.
"Get up," he snapped. "Back in your hole."
He grabbed her arm and shoved her roughly toward the open cell door. Jolene didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled inside on all fours, retreating to the furthest corner of her cot, curling into a tight, protective ball, making herself as small as possible.
Pip slammed the cell door shut.
CLANG.
The sound reverberated through the block, final and absolute.
He turned slowly, pivoting on his heel to face the rest of the block. He met Camila's gaze, then Sarah's, then Priya's, and finally Chloe's. He held each of their eyes for a long beat, letting the silence stretch, letting the terror settle into their bones. He wanted them to remember this. He wanted them to remember him.
"The next one of you who looks at me like I'm not in charge," he said, his voice low and dripping with menace, "will be the one I personally 'train' next. And trust me… I have a lot of ideas."
He adjusted his belt, a genuine, terrifying swagger in his step now. He didn't need to yell. He didn't need to brandish the stick. He had proven his lethality. He had proven he belonged.
He turned and walked toward the exit, his boots echoing loudly on the concrete. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped out, leaving the cold, terrorized silence of the cellblock behind him.
Inside the cages, no one moved. No one spoke. They just listened to the fading sound of his footsteps, knowing that a new monster had just been added to their nightmare roster, one who was young, hungry, and desperate to prove just how cruel he could be.
Next Chapter (10) - Connor
Attachments
Last edited:
