ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

16: The Emerald Lace

RITA

A radical Sadist.

I hear the harsh whipping sounds from downstairs. It takes me a while to understand what the noise might be — something that sounds like pure torture unfolding below.

The feminine screams rising from downstairs tell me how she is made to help us.

He whips her — I hear the flogging lashes.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Mortification engulfs me, and I seek solace in my nettle plant, pressing into its presence, though I still feel disturbed by the chaos downstairs.

I don't know whether I should feel relieved or cautious when silence finally greets me. What in Mother Nature's name happened? Is she alive?

My appetite had vanished the moment his so called fun began.

The answers linger on the tongue of the sadist as he enters the room. His eyes lock with mine, and I shrink, feeling small beneath his gaze.

"You haven't eaten..." he mutters, his glance drifting from me to the still-closed box beside me.

"How do you expect me to enjoy food when you're tormenting your poor bitch downstairs?" I bite back, shaken, yet confronting him over what he has done.

He lets out a chuckle, amused, and moves closer. Opening the box, he takes a slice and bites into it casually.

"My poor bitch enjoyed every second of it. Now eat..."

He offers me a slice, but I shake my head, narrowing my eyes. "I doubt she did. The sound of her screams was so traumatizing my stomach shrank to the size of a pint. I am not hungry. Not anymore..."

"Are you going to eat when I show you she is all right?" he asks with a sigh.

After a moment of hesitation, I nod. He uncuffs me. Pot in hand, I follow him down the hall until we stop before barn doors carved with Asmodeus.

I hesitate. The room feels ominous.

"Come on," he urges, tilting his head toward the red-lit chamber. "Didn't you want to see her?"

Gathering what little courage I have, I step inside. The walls glint with an array of tools, each one promising pain. The female crumpled on the bed catches my attention — horrified, I rush forward, placing my pot on the black bedside table.

"You rotten sadist... what have you done?" My voice trembles as I pull away what looks like a muzzle.

"What is this?"

"It's called a gag," he says with a smirk.

"Careful. The bed's dirty." He pulls me down, placing me beside my nettle.

"What have you done to her? You really are a satanic man..." I mumble, my eyes filled with worry, afraid she's too hurt.

"She is fine," he huffs, giving her a sharp smack on her butt. Her body jolts, but she smiles faintly. "Jo, tell her you enjoyed it."

"Yes... yes," she murmurs with a lazy smile, followed by a moan. "I enjoyed getting dicked... it was good dick..."

The realization crashes over me — no torment. Blushing crimson, I grab my pot and retreat, my shame growing every step as I leave the room.

I walk back upstairs and plant my butt on his bed. Opening the box, I take a slice and start eating, trying to forget the scene I mistook for torment.

When he returns, I avoid his gaze. "I'm sorry for calling you satanic. I didn't know you were... boning," I mutter, cheeks burning. "Though I still don't quite comprehend how this convinces her..."