“Control,” I say, flicking the ash from my cigarette, letting the time slowly pass by. “That’s what you still had. Now, I’ve removed it.”
After I make sure she can stand on her own two feet, we head inside, walking in silence down the narrow corridor. This time, however, I don’t stop in the main building. She deserves more—an entire spectacle.
At the end of the hallway, we turn into a secondary hall—an annex most clients don’t even know exists. There are no windows here, no red lights or themed decor, just a brushed steel door and what looks like an abandoned basement.
The room is decadent in the most grotesque way: concrete walls with discolored patches where blood had been cleaned up with bleach one too many times, a grated drain in the center of the floor, and a stale smell from the lack of ventilation.
Chains as thick as my wrist wrists hang from ceiling mounts, swaying slightly in a phantom breeze, creating a demonic chant,and the hooks are at shoulder height, promising dislocated joints.
And of course, the mirrors. Bolted glass, meant to reflect every angle, every desperate flinch of their last minute alive until the subject can only beg to be killed. In the corner of the room, an industrial chair, its leather straps dark from the endless splashes of blood that have coated them.
The table beside it is already laid out: ropes, slip-joint pliers, alligator clips. Scalpels. Gags. Blindfolds. Chains. Everything I may need, ready to destroy Victoria’s existence. And set apart from the tools, one pair of chemical-resistant gloves.
The camera is already recording in the corner.
After we enter, she takes a minute to walk around it and inspect every item. There is some sort of morbid curiosity in the way she is touching the torture instruments. Given the circumstances, this is normal.
I watch her walk around the room one more time, in silence, but I don’t have all the time in the world, and we need to get started. “You can still back out.”
She doesn’t make a sound. This, however, will soon change.
I go to the table and pull the gloves on. The snap echoes in the empty room, and this finally makes her pay attention.
“What kind of place is this?” she asks, looking straight in my eyes.
“One where we test theories,” I answer vaguely.
She smirks. “It’s about time you actually work on your promise, Professor” Then moves to stand right under the chains, way too excited about what’s to come. So pathetic, thinking this is a game.
I clasp the chain tightly around her wrists and pull it until her arms are stretched high above her head and she stands on her tiptoes, skin paling at the edges where the metal cuts into her flesh. The pain would be enough to make a grown man flinch,but she just holds still and sighs, like she’s getting bored already. Let’s see how bored she will be at the end of the night.
I crouch and place a metronome on the floor a few feet in front of her. Its wooden frame is scuffed, and the brass arm is dull. But it will do its job. I wind it once, and the rhythmic sound echoes around the room.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
I take from the table a short nail and step behind her, pressing the tip right into the ridge of her shoulder blade. This move is not meant toseverelyhurt her but should be enough to numb her arms and leave her helpless. I fully expect her reaction to shatter the silence of the room, but—again—no sound leaves her mouth.
Why isn’t she crying? She should cry. She should beg me to stop. But she just looks forward, like she was fully expecting this to happen.
My jaw clenches so hard it hurts. I want to strip down the chains and push her to the ground, make her say something, anything. Break her. This silent defiance is grating, twisting my plans into a mess of unfulfilled expectations.
A deep, unsettling heat stirs in my gut; she is supposed to crumble. Instead, she just stands there, too excited about what’s coming next. Fuck.
The infuriating lack of tears, the unblinking stare—it does something to me, something both aggravating and strangely, dangerously alluring. I crave a reaction, any sign that my actions are hitting their mark, but this… this is something else entirely.
I inhale deeply, calming my unraveling nerves, refusing to show her what she does to me. I’m the one controlling her, not the other way around.
I move on to the clips, applying one to each fingertip evenly. This creates a numbing pain that destroys someone slowly. It lingers, increasing in intensity just from staying in place for too long, until the subject would rather die than experience it another second.
Once all ten clips are placed, I step back and sit on the chair, admiring my creation. The chained arms, the nail in the back, alongside the silky black dress and the high heels. This is an image I could get used to. I let time pass, one minute at a time.
Five minutes. Then ten. I want her to feel the time, to make her wonderwhen, notif.
“Are you…you know?” She gestures with her fingers, urging me to continue.