3

“Mom please don’t go. Please don’t leave me” I cried and ran behind my Mom as she was being dragged away by some Men I couldn’t see thier faces but looked beastly.

“It’s about time Claire, very soon, very very soon” she whimpered and gave me a teary smile while I fell to the floor weeping and stretching my hands towards.

Instanly I was jolted by low rumble of thunder. It was then I realized I was just having a nightmare.

I sat on the bed with my heart heaving eratically. I thought about what my Mom said but I couldn’t even wrap my hands round the possible meaning of what she said.

For a moment, I can’t tell if the sound is outside or inside my head. Rain taps softly against glass, steady and rhythmic — like a pulse. My pulse.

Then I remember.

This isn’t my room. I remembered where I was and again fear and anger gripped me.

As I sat more properly on the bed, I notice my clothes.

I’m no longer in the tattered uniform from the night before. I’m wearing a clean white shirt — oversized, falling loosely off one shoulder. Someone changed me. Someone touched me while I was unconscious.

My stomach twists.

I push the blanket away and stumble toward the door. The knob doesn’t turn. I twist harder, then slam my shoulder into it, shouting, “Hey! Open the damn door!”

No answer.

I press my forehead against the wood, breathing hard. The sound of rain fills the silence again, mocking me. I feel so small. So powerless. I was tired of being locked up here. I just wanted to fucking leave!

For a long time, I just stand there, trembling — until memories I’ve tried so hard to bury start creeping in. The night my parents died. The sound of sirens. My own screams echoing against the walls.

I sink to the floor, pulling my knees close and clasped my hands tightly on my ears as though to restrict the sound and horror. It’s strange how trauma sneaks up on you — like it waits for silence, then whispers everything you’re trying to forget.

I focus on my breathing. In. Out. I’ve learned how to survive moments like this. How to build walls inside myself just to stay sane.

But tonight, the walls feel paper-thin. The only way I normally break free from this traumatic feeling is masturbation. I know it’s crazy but that’s my own way out because when I feel this way, I feel extremely horny as well.

I heave a deep sigh and closed my eyes, feeling my body tense up and my nipples hardened. My wetness dripping and flowing around my thighs.

And then — for some reason I can’t explain — his face flashes in my mind as I close my eyes to focus.

Damien.

The man with the quiet voice and dangerous calm. The man who looked at me like I was both a problem and a puzzle.

I hate him. I fucking hate everything about him.

I grit my teeth because as much as I hated him, I still wished I had his heavy body on top of me and sliding his cock inside of me. Just the thought of him being on top of me instantly made me more wet like I have never felt before.

His cock inside of me, slow and steady and the warmth it comes with. I held tightly to my tits and fondled them as little moans escaped my throat in a tremendous manner.

I slowly use my fingers to circulate around my clits and immediately my thoughts spiraled to imagining it was Damien's tongue slowly brushing my clits.

Damien lifted me off the floor and led me to the bed. His lips colliding with mine felt eccentric with his tongue plunging deeper into my mouth, his right hand grabbed my ass and squeezed aggressively and I loved every bit of it.

“Please fuck me” I moaned as I held my hips and bent my back making my dangling jubblies touch the bedspread while kneeling down.

“Oh fu….ck” I moaned as I felt the warmth of his cock fill my muff and it’s walls.

“Please don’t stop” I moaned As he started riding me slowly and then increased in pace and I could feel the top of his John Thomas brushing my wall. I clenched and bit the sheets as he banged me with his dangling balls flapping on my thighs.

“Shii fuck” my body tensed up as I orgasmed and immediately fell asleep.

When I wake again, sunlight spills across the room. My throat is dry. I looked at how I slept and how wet my bed was and a mischievous smile ran across my face as I remembered what I did.

I whizzed out of my oblivion when a knock rang on the door.

The door creaks open, and a woman walks in — middle-aged, dressed in black. She carries a tray of food but doesn’t speak.

I sit up quickly. “Please… where am I? Why am I here?”

She doesn’t even look at me. She sets the tray down on a small table, turns, and walks out.

The lock clicks behind her.

I let out a shaky breath. “Great. Of course, Fantastic hospitality,” I mutter.

Hunger eventually wins over pride. The food smells too good to resist, and I eat, trying not to think too hard about what any of this means. But every bite feels like surrender.

I can’t stay here.

So when the woman returns later that evening with another tray, I force myself to act calm. Watchful. I pay attention to how she locks the door — the angle, the sound, the slight delay before it clicks. I’ve lived alone long enough to learn little tricks.

After she leaves, I wait. Count her footsteps. Then twist the knob.

It turns.

“Voila!” I smirked.

I step into the hallway, every nerve on edge. The house is breathtaking — all marble and shadow, lined with paintings that feel like eyes watching me. My bare feet barely make a sound on the cold floor.

Freedom is close. I can feel it.

But then I see him.

Damien stands by the main entrance, dark clothes, hands in his pockets, gaze sharp as lightning. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. It’s like he’s been waiting for me.

My body freezes, my pulse screaming at me to run. I turn but he’s faster, more like he was a ghost because I have never seen anyone move so fast. His hand closes around my wrist, firm and unyielding.

“Going somewhere?” His voice was so low and terrifyingly calm.

“Let me go,” I hiss, yanking my arm, but his grip only tightens.

“I told you to stay put.”

“I never agreed to anything!”

His jaw flexes. He steps closer, and suddenly the air between us changes. It became heavy, charged. My breath catches when I look up. He’s too close. Too still. And his eyes… they burn, not with anger exactly, but something else. Something that makes my chest ache.

“Do you think this is a game?” he murmurs.

“I don’t care what it is. I’m leaving.”

I push against his chest, but it’s like shoving a wall. He doesn’t move. He only catches me by the waist, turns me — fast, precise — until my back hits the wall.

Not rough but just controlled.

I can feel his breath against my cheek, his voice a whisper that slides right under my skin. “Next time you try that, I won’t be so gentle.”

The warning should scare me. It should. But my body doesn’t listen. My heartbeat stutters, wild and uneven. His scent is warm and strange — smoke, rain, something darker.

“Why are you doing this to me? What have I done and why are you keeping me here” I whisper.

His eyes flicker, something unreadable passing through them. “Because I have no choice.”

And then silence.

He steps back, finally releasing me. But when I grab his shirt in anger, pulling him off balance, we both stumble. He lands over me, one hand braced beside my head.

For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Too close, too aware. His breath grazes my skin, and I swear the world stops moving.

Then he pushes away abruptly, standing tall again. His expression hardens, as if nothing happened. “Stay in the room,” he says quietly. “It’s safer that way.”

The door locks behind him once more.

I sink to the floor, trembling — not from fear this time, but from something far more dangerous. Because for the first time since this nightmare began…

I’m not sure if I want to escape him.