The Torture Room

“Just get it over with,” she gritted her teeth, her voice ragged, barely more than breath. The cold table beneath her back bit into her spine, slick with the sweat that clung to her like a second skin. Pain pulsed through her limbs—steady, measured, almost rhythmic now. She had stopped fighting long ago. There was no strength left to waste. For the good of the people. For the new world. The words repeated in her mind like a mantra. “My dear, you are in no position to make demands” Cawfield’s vampire glacially replied. He rolled his tongue around her perked n****e, his eyes fixed on her face as he bit hard, causing the woman to gasp aloud. His thrust grew deeper, faster and unrelenting. Grunting like a wild beast, savoring his first meal after years of starvation. His tongue caresses the length of her neck, his breath raging, warm and humid. His sharp nose then traced under her earlobe, a long inhale, breathing her in. “Beg me” he murmured, lips against her ear, “I might consider being gentler” He spoke with the calm of someone who had seen countless forms of resistance—all of them eventually crumbling under his dominance. “Filthy monarchist” she spat. What use would it be if they trampled us regardless? He chuckles, low and dark. Suddenly, his teeth pressed into her collarbone and a cry escapes her. He sucks at her skin and continues rolling his wet tongue where he left a mark. She closed her eyes. For the good of the people. For the new world. She needed to remind herself. For the good of the people. For the new world. Was he always a monster? Or could it be? She was his creator. If things had occurred differently back at Darlinghurst Beach, could things have turned out otherwise?