Torture Twists Novels & Stories

Torture wasn’t just an act of revenge; it was an art. A conversation where pain replaced words, and the body spoke truths the mouth refused to utter. The bastard held out for longer than expected. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body shaking with every movement. I have to say, he was a resilient one. But everyone has something that makes them crack, they always do. "I like how stubborn you're, I love the stubborn ones best." "They create more time for me to enjoy torture, and trust me I have new methods to try out."

He bit his tongue, the sharp sting a desperate attempt to stay awake, to endure. He had never known such terror, such utter helplessness. To think that he had glimpsed the possibility of love, only to have it twisted into a grotesque nightmare. He clung to his story, the only defence he had against the escalating horror. Twister, his smile now a chilling mask, twirled a large, gleaming tweezer in his hand, a macabre ballet of cruelty. He seemed to relish the fear in Harin's eyes, the desperate pleas for mercy.

It’s a ridiculous sight, pitiful really. It would be so easy to just drive his life force out of him and replace it with the kind of agony he relishes in inflicting. He is a twisted fuck, when we had him in our custody after he took Liberty, I took my time making him feel what he had put her through and he only seemed to enjoy it. How messed up does the wiring inside someone’s head have to be for them to get off on torture.

“No, too recent. Basically after I was deemed unsellable, I became his pet. Even so far as sitting on my knees during his meetings like a dog. Most of the time I’d take notes for him. He involved me in every aspect of the mafia to use me one way or another. Most of these scars are from the torture sessions.” I took a deep breath. “He would take me down when he needed to torture someone. Usually for information but not always. It always ended up with that person dying either from their wounds or a bullet, no matter the promises he made. After he was done, he would take me and sit me in the same chair. Blood, urine, shit still on or around me. He would tell me I could never break like them. Th

Werewolves have this amazing ability to attract all the attention around them when they wanted it, and the older, more experienced ones could blend in like they were invisible if they needed to too. He took my hand and led me over to one of the few couches where we sat and talked for a while. The talking quickly turned into flirting and when he finished his beer, we went to the dance floor again. He definitely knew how to dance. He was sweet and irresistible. I never wanted to take my hands off of him. He was playing his cards right to take me home tonight and we both knew it.

His thrusts grеw morе еrratic, morе frеnziеd, еach onе a sеaring brand lashing across hеr sеnsеs. Sarah tееtеrеd on thе еdgе of thе abyss, еvеry fibеr of hеr bеing coilеd taut in brеathlеss anticipation of thе rеlеasе that dancеd maddеningly just out of rеach. Shе nееdеd it, cravеd it with a hungеr so primal it dеfiеd rationality.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and makes a call. The world recedes as I stand staring down at my abuser's bleeding face. He lies on the ground, eyes staring at nothing. He's not dead—I watch his chest rise and fall—but he looks so weak, so small, crumpled up like that at my feet. All this time, I was so afraid of this man. This lump of meat. This worthless nothing. Christopher was my torturer. He was the monster that came for me in the night. Now, he's nothing.

"Isabella, I'm here; please, can we talk? There was no sound heard from the room. It appeared Sharon was just talking to herself. But she persisted and knew she had to be patient because of the problem she had caused. So Sharon crushed her forehead to the doorframe, held onto the doorknob tightly, and called out again. "Isabella, I know you're upset. I know I have hurt you. I cannot let things end this way. Please let the door open." After a few moments of silence, finally the door opened slightly. Isabella stood in front of the door with her hands crossed on her chest. Her eyes swollen from crying, her face was pale, but her gaze clearly showed wrath.

I was anxious but there was no way that I was going to let him know that he terrified me. “What was that?” He growled. “What was what?” I frowned at him. I was genuinely confused. “Back at breakfast. The fact you think you can flirt with another man in my presence is beyond me” he spat. His face was few inches from mine and I got a clear view of the tattoo that was intricated across his neck. It was an interesting one. “Look at me when I'm talking to you” he growled again.

I smiled, guzzling down the rest of my drink before opening another bottle. I could feel the alcohol slowly take control of my body as the atmosphere felt hot. I didn’t know if I should regret drinking, but as long as it helped me forget that I had murdered two people—where the cops could probably be searching for me soon—I just wanted to forget it. His eyes seemed particularly calm, and I hated how he looked intrigued yet glanced at me with an expression I quickly assumed to be pity. Tobias blinked, letting out a deep breath, probably traumatized by my story. If I actually documented the events of my life, I’d have to add a severe content warning for each chapter. That’s how messed up it wa