“This,” I say, leaning closer so he can hear me over his muffled gasps, “is for waterboarding Margaux’s laptop. Tit for tat, Timmy. It’s only fair.”
His entire body thrashes as the first drops of water hit the cloth, soaking it. His feet kick uselessly against the table’s edge, and his hands jerk in their restraints. The water seeps through the fabric, cutting off his air supply in terrifying increments. His body convulses, his instincts screaming at him to breathe, but every attempt is met with the suffocating weight of water.
His muffled screams turn into wet, gurgling noises, his chest bucking upward in a futile attempt to fill his lungs with air. The disorientation in his eyes is raw, animalistic—pure survival. His head jerks violently from side to side, trying to escape the torrent, but there’s nowhere to go.
And me? I feel... steady.Toosteady.
There’s no rush of satisfaction, no sense of justice being served. Only a cold, calculated focus. Every time I pour, I watch him struggle, his body betraying him as panic overtakes him. He sputters, chokes, convulses. It’s a grotesque display, and part of me thinks it should feel wrong, should feel like it’s too much.
But then I think of Margaux. I think of her sitting in her hotel room, tears streaming down her face as she picked up the shattered pieces of her life and her laptop. How she sobbed over the years of work he destroyed, knowing he’d done it just to hurt her.
And I pour again.
“You thinkthisfeels bad, Timmy?” I say, my voice low, deliberate. “Imagine every tear Margaux cried over what you did to her. Every ounce of pain you caused her. Multiply it by a thousand, and you might begin to understand.”
His body slows, exhaustion setting in. His movements become jerky, weaker, but the terror in his eyes remains. He’s drenched, his skin pale and clammy now, his breaths coming inshallow, ragged gasps whenever I pause long enough to let him recover.
A toaster oven dings in the corner. “Ah, I guess we’re onto the next stage,” I say. “Shame, I was enjoying that.” I pull the cloth off his face, letting him cough and sputter, his chest heaving like bellows. His eyes dart wildly, filled with both terror and the faint, fragile hope that it’s over.
But it’s nowhere near over.
“Look at me, Timmy,” I command, gripping his chin and forcing his gaze to mine. “This? This is mercy. Because if I wanted to, I could keep this up until you stop breathing entirely.”
His lips tremble, and his body shivers uncontrollably. He’s broken, reduced to a quivering, gasping mess on the table.
And me? I feel nothing but cold determination.
“You’ll never touch her again,” I tell him, my voice sharp as steel. “You’ll never hurt anyone again.”
I untie Timmy and move him, as he struggles, back to the chair where I restrain him once more.
Then I walk to the toaster oven and remove two piping hot pop tarts.
The sugary glaze bubbles and sizzles, a sticky, molten layer over the pastry’s jagged edges. My hands feel the heat even through the dish towel, and I can only imagine what this is going to feel like for Timmy.
I carry them over to where he’s strapped to the chair, his eyes darting nervously. “Hungry?” I ask, holding them up with exaggerated cheerfulness.
For a moment, his expression flickers—hope? Confusion? But then he sees the glint in my eye, the barely contained fury behind my forced smile, and his face collapses back into abject terror.
“Wait—what are you doing? Don’t—please—” he stammers, his voice trembling.
Without a word, I yank down his board shorts, exposing his limp, pale dick. He flinches, trying to curl away, but the restraints hold him firm. His breathing quickens, shallow and panicked, as I press one steaming pop tart against the tender underside of his cock and nestle it between his shaft and his vulnerable scrotum.
The instant the scalding pastry touches his sensitive skin, he lets out a guttural scream, thrashing against the chair. “Oh god—stop! It burns!” he howls, his voice cracking under the intensity of his pain.
The sugary glaze sticks to his flesh like molten lava, burning deeper into his skin as the intense heat spreads. His balls contract reflexively, trying to retreat from the searing contact, but there’s nowhere to go. The delicate skin of his scrotum flushes an angry, mottled red, quickly giving way to blistering patches. The underside of his dick isn’t spared—angry welts rise almost instantly, the skin shiny and raw from the heat and the syrupy coating.
The sweet smell of toasted pastry mingles with the sharp, acrid scent of burning flesh, creating a nauseating combination that makes me wrinkle my nose.
Timmy’s body spasms uncontrollably as he tries to twist away, his cries growing hoarse. "Please—please stop! It hurts! Oh god, it hurts!"
I step back, watching the pop tart adhere to his skin, the edges still steaming. His eyes are wide and glassy, filled with terror and disbelief as he struggles to process the blinding, unrelenting pain. Tears stream down his face, mixing with the sweat pouring off him.
“Burns, doesn’t it?” I say coldly, crossing my arms. “A fitting punishment for all the pain you’ve caused.”
I lean in close, letting my voice drop to a whisper. “But don’t worry, Timmy. We’re still in early stages. There’s plenty more to come.”
I take a bite of the other pop tart, and swipe the crumbs from my face. “Hmm,” I nod. “Not bad.”