Fragmentation by Rachel Haimowitz

Author:Rachel Haimowitz [Haimowitz, Heidi Belleau;Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Published: 2014-09-11T16:00:00+00:00

Dougie didn’t see anyone for a long time. He napped, mostly. There was nothing to do in the tiny room but mentally go over all the horrible things that had been done to him, or to actively suffer through the horrible thing being done to him right now—and God the plug was horrible, buzzing and pressing and buzzing and buzzing and buzzing, so bad his teeth had started chattering with need—so he slept. Ten minutes, twenty, an hour, six, there was no way of knowing, and really, what did it matter, because every time he woke up it was to the same thing. Loneliness. The vibrating plug. The cock cage. And every time he slept, he dreamed of . . . God, he didn’t want to think about it. Hands. Teeth. Cocks. Pain and ecstasy and burning need and Nikolai, Nikolai looming above it all like the world’s most polite puppet master.

And for all that he was sure he wasn’t sleeping deeply—how could he be, with sex and violence and violence and sex and burning shame filling his dreams—he’d woken up three separate times to a tray of food on the table, miraculously appeared, with no sign of who’d delivered it. So he wasn’t to be starved or deprived of water, like before—and he damn well ate it like a normal human being because clearly nothing he did or didn’t do would end his torture and he needed to feel like a person at least sometimes. He had light to go with his food and water, and his hands and his mouth free and a whole big room to pace in, and yet it didn’t seem any better than that horrible time in his dark little tomb. God, was Nikolai trying to make him lonely and horny enough that he just . . . gave in?

Would it work?

It scared him that it actually might. Truth was, he was sick of being alone. Sick of being ignored. Sick of waking up in fucking wet patches on the mattress like he was a twelve-year-old boy again—and how that was even happening, he had no fucking idea, because he was sure he wasn’t pissing himself in his sleep, and he certainly wasn’t getting hard in that cage. He was so sick of the pain in his cock and balls, the need coiled tight in places he’d never even known before being kidnapped, sick of his misery and his traitorous body and the endless humiliation and shame and those awful, terrifying thoughts that kept seeping in through the silence. Through the doubt. Through the cracks in the life he’d once felt so sure of.

He was going crazy. Abso-fucking-lutely insane. Felt like . . . like he was melting, reducing into some lump of desperation and fright and hatred and animal need, and he knew with horrified certainty that Nikolai, when the moment was right, would come and shape him back up into whatever he wanted him to be. Something that looked like Dougie on the outside, but .

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