Disturbia [M/F, imprisonment, mild violence, CNC, sadomasochism play, and mentions of trauma reimagined into painplay]

note: not proofread before posting.

Part One:

“Sweetheart,” he urges me, my wrists clutched in his hands as a lock of black hair falls into his eyes. He is sweating. He is normally composed and arrogant; a jester on a cruel lord’s dance floor, eternally smirking and simpering to a crowd of self proclaimed lords and ladies ravenous for our blood. “Sweetheart,” he says again, and it ends in a whine. He is frantic. The way his nails dig half-moons into my skin excites me. “Don’t. Dont!”

The room we are in is locked. The keyring hangs heavy at his belt. I can hear the other prisoners from the ward banging on the door, inciting each other to open the damn door. This close, I can smell the sweat and fear on him like a rot. He has lost all facade of composure with the silver flint in my hand. The oil pools pungent on the walls, coating everything but the rest of the facility in slick contempt.

“Sweetheart, I can help you,” He tries again, and attempts to pull me to his chest; a familiar position. “I can show you a better way!” I see the times I spent on my knees, my arms strapped to my chest; I see the calm press of his hand on my cheek, and how I once craved to please him. I watch his ghost teach me how to watch for what isn’t being said in the same room his living form grapples with me. The prisoners from ward two are screaming. They are safe if they stay out of this room.

There is a little oil on his slacks from the hour he spent wrestling with me. I don’t have time to appreciate the poetry in vengeance. His cow-brown eyes stare at me like a living brand, begging me to understand him. This close, they look wet, like drowning. Like watching the life slowly fade from a struggling thing and watching it sink under the surface.

“You would condemn me to rot!” I shriek. I don’t recognize the high thread of my own voice. It is thickened by the drugs they have pumped into me, into us all, as they chart the way our bodies change and reject chemicals they wouldn’t serve to animals. In this place, under the warm press of his body to mine, I am a cow.

“No,” he wails. He pauses, collecting himself, and tries again in a more composed voice. Emotions are fuel to us, I hear his ghostly voice murmuring in my ear in the memory overlapping the moment. Calm kills. “No. Enough of this. Drop the lighter. If you listen to me now, I shall keep this between us. You will only be locked in your room for one night. I shall even visit you. I shall read to you. You remember– your book, I began it last week. Shall I read to you?”

He is trying to relate to me. His fingernails make me bleed. I notice that he is hard. He uses the momentary still of indecision to pull me the rest of the way into him, and digs his fingers into a pressure point in my hand. The lighter falls to the ground at the same time my adrenaline rush fails me. I crumble into his arms, depleted; and he shoves me the rest of the way onto the cold cement, his body blanketing me. He presses his weight down onto me, crushing the air from my lungs. He slams my wrist unnecessarily onto the ground, and I hear my wrist click. Pain explodes, but I barely process it. My wrist is dislocated, it might be broken. He uses his legs to kick my legs apart, sprawling me out under him like a starfish. He shoves one of his thighs between them to keep them from shutting. The door rattles threateningly, but the lock holds. The other kids won’t be able to make it behind the reinforced steel. His breathing sounds ragged in my ear. His shirt, ever tucked and streamlined against his compact form, hangs untucked. He collapses onto me, and bear hugs me to him. My wrist crunches uselessly against his hold. I feel my tension collapse into familiar helpless weakness. I am already giving up.

I don’t listen to the words, half threatening, half pleading desperate affirmations of adoration pressed into kisses against my sweat-stained hair. I press my burning cheek against the cool floor, and wish for death. I feel the pinch of a needle before the world sinks into the familiarity of his arms. I am back to the only world that will have me. The last thing I hear is how I am home, before I fall into unconsciousness.

I awaken to a cold, wet press on my forehead. My eyes barely register the muted light of a familiar hell hole. The room is small, unadorned except for a single steel-framed bed holding a thin vinyl mattress fitted with a scratchy, fire-resistant blanket that sparks when you rub a hand over it. I know this place better than my own home. I used to pass the days confined in this empty, cement-bricked room by rubbing my hand back and forth over that scratchy static wool, watching how the light flicked and sparked under my hand. There is a single camera in the upper lefthand side of the room, mostly for show. It is pointed upward, naturally.

The hand is back, pressing the cool cloth again to my head. When I try to sit up, my arms are held fast to myself, confining me. My legs are tethered open to the bed. He must have upped my security threat level to code red. My body still feels heavy. My head is still foggy. I couldn’t run or fight even if I was free. I know without seeing him that it is him. I recognize the warm, tobacco on his clothes he can’t hide, and the lingering aroma of pressed tea and liquor I have seen him dump liberally in his morning drink. He replaces cloth soon enough with his cold touch. I can’t fight my body’s instilled response to him. I arch into his touch, made more impulsive by the heavy sedation still holding me under the water. His breath hitches, and leans down, stretching himself along the bed, pressing against me.

He leans over me so that I can see his face. I see the place where I had managed to scratch him as we were tussling. I am delighted to see the points where it opens into a blood wound. His lip is swollen and his cheek is beginning to purple. He licks his lips, and stares down at me, his mouth trembling slightly. “Oh sweetheart,” he croons, bending close so that his mouth brushes lightly against the edge of my own. “Why must you make me punish you like this? Why won’t you–” He slides his mouth over mine, teasing the tip of his tongue to my clenched shut lips, licking once, before looking disappointed in me. “–just listen to me. I know you best. I know what is good for you. I can spare you this hurt.”

He trails his fingers down my throat to my chest, and stops with his hand just over the curve of my breast. He touches the hardening tip of one nipple with the edge of his finger, and watches with rapt adoration as I arch up. I tell myself I can’t help it. I hate the involuntary safety and sexuality my body finds in his presence. I hate the warm torment that is knowing he is doing what part of me wants, despite what my words claim. He circles lightly, then taps. I tighten my jaw and barely keep my body from leaning towards him again. He trails his fingers down until he gets to the hem of my cotton sweatpants. He plays there for a moment, his eyes assessing, before moving to the v between my sprawled open legs. I’m sure that if I were able to move off this bed, I could see exactly how my body is betraying me. The light fabric is probably darkening. He cups me slightly in the heel of his palm. He doesn’t move his fingers; he just rests there, allowing me to feel the heavy controlling weight of him. When he leans down this time for another kiss, a levy a giant spitwad in the back of my throat and hock it at him. It lands with satisfying accuracy on his face. He doesn’t try to wipe it away. He lets it drip slightly down his cheek as he looks somehow more pitying. His hand cups me more tenderly.

“You know I’m going to have to discipline you again,” he says. And it is like he talking about the shifting weather rather than the my own confinement. He rubs a regretful thumb over the material on my clit, and I choke down a plead. He knows what he is doing to me. He unhooks one of my legs and flips me over onto my stomach. I go easily, like a half-dead thing; like a puppet, as weak as a kitten. I squirm when I feel him pull my pants and underwear down, exposing me to the heavy air within the cell. He takes a moment as he always does to admire his brand upon my cheeks. I hear his inhale of excitement, and remember times past when he would get a little too drunk and brag about the people he’d paid to make me his. ‘Just a reminder,’ he would say. ‘You are mine forever, even when you are not. Forged through fire.’

This time, he says nothing. Instead there is a pause, a single solitary second where it is just me and my face pressed down onto the blanket, my cheek rubbing static in the air, and then. CRACK. Pain blossoms against my skin, and I shudder. He slaps me again. The cold air is making it hurt worse. He brings his hand down harder, and then again harder. I clench my eyes shut and will my body to fight. The drugs aren’t wearing off for a little pain, however, so the next crack of his hand and the twenty more after that bring misery. I am unable to move away from the punishing hand, and each hit goes harder than the one before until he is slamming down onto me without remorse. I break under the thirtieth spanking. Tears fall hot and humiliating as I find enough of my own voice to beg him to stop. This seems to excite him, because ten more fall in executive displays of hurt before he takes a break to catch his breath. My skin throbs. I can’t breathe around the hyperventilating sobs spilling out of my throat. I don’t recognize the apologies I babble into the fabric. I don’t recognize the wet heat throbbing. I know I am begging.

But for what, I cannot say. He hits me another ten more times, before he finally. Finally. Rolls me onto my back as tender as a lover, crooning soothingly as I cry when my hot swollen skin brushes against the fabric. He grabs a spare pillow from under my head and positions it under my hips so my thighs don’t brush against the bed. I notice that my spit has dried in a streak of crusted saliva on his face. He looks flushed and satisfied as he lays back down beside me. His hardened cock presses heavy against my hip.

He rubs a finger mockingly against the tears on my cheek. I brings one to his lips and licks his fingers, then smiles at me as if we are sharing a private joke. I am still crying. The sedation doesn’t help the heavy, painful, broken open bits of me. I feel like I am spilling out of myself in brazen sobs. I am still begging. I don’t know if I want to be free or I want to held, or I want to be hurt. My body is at odds with my pleasure censors. He watches calmly as I work myself through a panic attack, saying nothing, offering no comfort. He is dispassionate in the face of my agony. My hips buck up, and he pushes them back down, his face twisting cruelly under the dim lighting. The shadows play tricks on my eyes, because to me it appears as if the darkness distorts his features. I don’t know what to do with myself. I beg him to release me. He eases one of his hands back between my thighs, and hums thoughtfully at the saturated fabric. The other hand finds my aching backside and presses at the same time he starts stroking my clit gently through the material. Pain and pleasure war with my mind, entrapping me in a swirling maelstrom. He kisses my temple as he plays with my body. I am alight with how his thumb brushes slowly up and down, back and forth against my swollen hood while his nails bite into me elsewhere.

“Cry, my sweet baby,” he murmurs, pressing more kisses to my head. His thumb taps condescendingly, and he coldly pushes my hips back down into forced stillness when I try to rub against it. I oblige, letting my choked down sobs turn into wails of anguish. There is nobody here to hear me scream but him so I do. I let the pain and helplessness explode out of me in primal heartbreak as he watches me expressionlessly, still except for the gently rhythm of his thumb. Tears and snot pour down my face. My skin is sticky and hot. The room is too small. I can’t move. He is so close, but miles away. I want up. I want out. I want to run into his arms, and sit astride him, having him comfort me like a lover, like a father, like a broken secret. I want to run so far away from him and here, that he never finds me again. His rhythm quickens. He’s stopped pressing into my tortured flesh. I can’t help it, the next stroke draws out a reluctant, “please, daddy, I need you.”

At once the cool facade fades from his face, crumbling like a mask between us. The jealousy and contempt soften, and he blankets himself over me so that his cock presses down instead upon my pussy. He has me pinned down against that mattress with the threatening arousal between us, and all I want in that moment is to fade back inside of him and cease to be a singular person. I don’t want to know anything else but him. He isn’t close enough. I weakly struggle against his weight and the straps restraining me, trying to claw uselessly at his slacks and belts. It’s like he knows I’m not trying to escape but get closer, because he fumbles between us, all composure gone as he takes out his cock and shows himself to me. He is thick, with a dewy-flushed tip, uncircumcised, average. The place he intimidates me is his girth. His skin is a paler tan than the rest of him, ending in a faded rose. He has beauty marks at the base of him. His cock is already drooling when he pumps his hand unceremoniously up and down himself. His own fingers can’t quite wrap around himself.

He inhales, shakily; his fingers pump himself over me. “Just this, “he whispers. “You are still too tight to take me. Just this.” Saying so, he pulls down my pants and underwear, exposing me to his hungry gaze. He pulls my hood down, revealing my tender clit. “Let us see how friendly we can be to each other.” He tweaks me with his fingers, and I jump at the overstimulation. It hurts too much without the thin layer of skin protecting me. He licks his lips and keeps it exposed, rubbing a cruel finger over and over, each touch feeling like raw electricity straight to my clit. He lines up his cock head with me, and trades fingers for him. Each little yelp off overstimulation makes him drool harder, helping slick me enough for pleasure to quickly trade places with pain. He slips and slides himself between my legs, avoiding sinking into me. I pretend I am holding him tightly to me like a lover as the pleasure crescendos, reluctant and tight between us. I am on edge, standing on a precipice controlled by him, and he is whispering for me to lose myself to him. My whole body trembles the closer I get to jumping. His sweat drips down onto my face, trading fluid for fluid. I can’t brush it off. I am surrounded by him, spread upon under him, controlled and exposed. I haven’t stopped crying. He humps against me harder. His weighty balls slap against my abused flesh, and in the pain, I find peace. I am almost at my limit. I am begging him to tame me. I am begging him to own him, or hold me, or tell me he loves me like I am his own,

He pushes back onto his heels, removing his tip from clit, leaving my pussy trembling and clenching at nothing. He rubs his fist faster over himself a few times then crawls hastily over my face. He hooks his fingers into my mouth, prying my jaw open and replacing them with his cock—all salty, heavy, animosity. I can’t fit him. I can’t breathe. I can’t bite down, I won’t bite down. I take each mercilessly inch of him in me. He pulls out just enough to for his fat cock head to fill my mouth and comes in my mouth. It feels like it goes on for hours, but surely it can only be a moment. My mouth fills up fast with hot, bitterness, a little spilling out. He hastily scoops it back into my mouth. He slaps me hard, just once, across my face when I try to spit it out.

“Hold it,” he warns darkly. “Don’t spill or swallow any of it unless you want a repeat of earlier.

He watches sternly as I close my mouth, my cheeks slightly bulging with the quickly cooling release. I hump uselessly against the air, still on edge. The abrupt change did nothing to quell my own hunger for him. In fact, it enflames me more—knowing I am unsatisfied and spread upon to his controlling gaze, my mouth filled with his satisfaction while he holds my own in his hands.

Once he is satisfied that I will obey him, he looks down at my pussy. He takes in the glisten of my own slick on my thighs, and how my hips haven’t stopped squirming. I feel a trickle down my throat and try not to swallow reflexively. He cleans himself off on my shirt, brushing against my nipple as he does so. I whimper and almost choke. He tucks himself back into his pants, neatly re-tucking in his shirt and buckling his belt. The ring of keys jingles as he does so. He fixes his hair. When he is done, he looks pitying again. He stares down at my rumpled, degraded form as if I am some stray cat begging him for food. He ignores my frantic whines as he pulls up my underwear and pants, all clinical cold competence now. He refastens my once freed leg back to its restraint and checks my arm restraints to make sure I am still held. I rub restlessly against him as he does this, trying to get myself off using any odd bit of him I can catch while he’s fixing me up. He slaps me on my groin once, and warns me to behave. He takes the now mostly-dried cloth from earlier and wipes the tears and sweat off of my face until he is satisfied that I am presentable.

When all of this is done, he pries my mouth open. He stares in satisfaction at his own probably congealing come before settling back in beside me on the bed. I whine, high-pitched and urgent as he makes it clear he has no intention of finishing what he started. He finally allows me to swallow, but the taste of him sits heavy upon my tongue even after I have done so; reminding me of his presence.

“Please,” I say, “I want….” I trail off, too embarrassed to ask for what I want. What I need. It is only these restraints that keep me from crawling onto him, and grinding myself against him until I am satiated in his arms.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he croons, his tone of voice cruel and teasing. “Do you think bad little girls get good girl rewards?” He pets me once between my legs but it goes no further. He sighs in mock disappointment at my trembling hips as if my denied pleasure pains him too. I know he delights in this.

He kisses away my frustrated tears, and pulls out a copy of The Secret Garden. The rest of the nights fades into passages of literature, and the soft kisses he presses occasionally between my thighs, the gentle tweaking of my nipples; he punishes me with the promise of nothing. When the time comes for a changing of the guards, I am sopping, aching mess, drooling tears and empty promises and apologies into his arms. Before the door opens to reveal the newest guard, I beg him not to let anyone else see me like this. I tremble in terror at the thought of anyone else taking me apart like he does.

“I would destroy this place brick my brick, guard by guard, prisoner by prisoner if anyone but I touches you.” He says before the new guard comes in. And with that, the door shuts behind like a coffin lid clanging down upon me.

I believe him.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/vavduk/disturbia_mf_imprisonment_mild_violence_cnc