Armin woke up with a grumbling stomach, feeling sore all over.
His lips were bruised, his eyes bloodshot from the crying, and his throat sore from screaming for help.
He had screamed all night, but only the walls of the torture room heard his voice.
Or maybe someone else did hear but decided to mind their damn business, knowing what happens to busybodies.
His entire body was on fire with red welts from the leash scattered all over his skin, and small cuts here and there.
He groaned in pain as he raised his battered body from the cold and dirty floor.
His body was sticky with sweat, blood, and dirt—no wonder the rats had battled all night to feed on his toes and fingers.
He had been thrown into the dark, empty, smelly cell after a long night of torture from Mistress Delilah.
With his small body hanging from the chain in the ceiling that his hands had been bound to, his legs had been cuffed together as they wriggled in the air, off the floor.
His head hung low from the exhausting position he was in and the pain she was inflicting on him.
His eyes were shut tight, his face soaked in his tears.
She was taking way too much pleasure in punishing him for someone who said it wasn’t personal to her, counting the lashes as she whipped him.
Armin had counted along with her, hoping it would end as soon as it started.
The minutes dragged on, and hours later she was still counting and inflicting him with unbearable pain.
“Seventy-six!
Seventy-seven!
Seventy-eight!”
He thought of his dad.
What was he doing now?
How was he coping?
Was he still wasting himself on alcohol and gambling?
Was he still getting into trouble?
His heart wrenched, not from the physical pain.
Was he eating dinner?
He whimpered as the memory of his dad lying unconscious from alcohol poisoning flashed through his mind.
“Eighty-five!
Eighty-six!
Eighty-seven!”
His mind traveled to Archer, his very own Archer—his twin who had stood by him unfailingly even when he was annoying and weak.
“Where are you, brother?” he murmured in pain.
Did his Archer really kill someone?
Did he truly kill Ivy, or was he being framed?
Why did he run away without saying a word to his own brother?
The one he did everything with, the one whose hand he promised to hold tight during difficult times.
Now he was going through a very difficult time and his Archer was far away from him.
He cried harder, trembling from the fear of his brother being in trouble.
“Ninety-three!
Ninety-four!
Ninety-five!” Mistress Delilah counted.
Her voice sounded as smooth and lustrous as her hair.
The squeaky sounds she made in between counting told Armin she was having the time of her life battering someone who had offended her in no way.
“Fucking sadist,” he cursed, but his voice was fading and the only sound audible in the dark room was the welting sound of the leash and the happy voice of his punisher.
“Ninety-nine, one hundred!” Visit g.com for the full chapter.
She clapped and made a victory sound like a psychopath.
“You did it, pretty boy, you impressed me.”
Armin spared her no glance.
Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.
He was weak, battered, brutalized, and nearly passing out.
He could still hear her, but her voice sounded distant.
He knew he was falling unconscious, but Mistress Delilah was too deep in her own world to notice.
“When I release you from the chain, you go down on your knees and thank your mistress,” she commanded and marched toward him.
She unlocked the cuffs and Armin slumped down in a pile.
“Oops!” She laughed hysterically like a possessed nun as she pointed her index finger at his brutalized body on the blood-stained floor.
He could feel a pair of strong hands pulling his unconscious body and dragging him on the floor.
He heard a door open, shut, and lock.
He thought of the man who had first whipped him.
The man with striking, hypnotic eyes that matched his own eye color.
The man who had popped his cherry, given him his first wine and steak in his life, and vanished with the wind.
His subconscious mind went to his forearm as he felt the bandage wrapped around it.
He held onto it as his mind slipped away into the abyss of darkness where there was no violence or cruelty.
Well, that was last night and the morning had come; the sun was especially early this morning.
He stretched his limbs and curled back in pain.
He was hurting even more than last night.
He tried to stand on his feet, but his body groaned in painful protest.
He gave up trying and just lay back in his pile on the stinking floor.
He was hungry, but he needed water the most.
His throat was dry, scorched, and itchy.
He swallowed his saliva to wet his throat.
Minutes bore into hours and no one had come to check on him.
He had run out of saliva to swallow, and now his throat was even more parched than before.
Why wasn’t anyone coming to check on him?
What if he had died, his mind thought.
Was that how no one would care?
How then was he going to replace Ivy if he had died too?
It dawned on him quickly that it wasn’t about replacing anyone; it was about smoothing someone’s ego.
And it was no other person but that slimy salamander.
She was using him as an object to pass a warning message to her subordinates.
“How unlucky I am!”
He had forced himself to sleep twice and was scared to sleep again.
What if he slept from hunger and never woke up again?
He sat up, placing his bloody back against the unpainted wall of the cell.
His sore body was tired of lying down.
He tried to think of something to distract from the hunger and thirst he was feeling, but failed miserably.
His mind went back to the steak and pasta. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
His stomach grumbled loudly as he licked his chafed, sore lips.
It tasted of dried blood; he licked more.
He was hungry and didn’t have much of a choice for food.
He got bored of sitting and decided to lie back again when the door squeaked as it was being unlocked.
It flew open the next second.
The guard held the door open as two ladies dressed in nothing but colorful panties walked in.
Without a word, they crouched down and picked him up, putting his hands over their shoulders and leading him out of the cell and down the hallway.
They seemed to be in a haste.
They brought him to another room, identical to the pink room, but this one had double bunk beds and the dressing table was layered with lots of cheap makeup and perfumes.
They gave him a quick bath in a bathtub, washing the blood and dirt off his hair.
They styled his hair into a messy bun, applied makeup to his face to cover the bruises and tired eye bags, and painted his lips in a faint red to hide the chaps and cuts.
They dressed him in white, tight pants, a pink crop shirt with glitters, and pink glittered gloves that covered his hands to his forearms.
The bandage was removed and ointment was applied to the bruise, and his feet were clad in beautiful white sandals.
Armin groaned in pain throughout their makeover.
They bathed him in cheap perfumes that were harsh to the nose, spraying and spraying the perfume all over him until his nose sneezed in protest.
He jumped and made away from them and their shenanigans.
He stared into the unframed mirror that was balanced against the wall at one corner of the room and gasped in new horror.
What is wrong with everybody here?
Why isn’t anyone normal here?
Who dresses someone up like this?
He looked like a live Ken doll.
Armin turned back to see the girls giggling.
They seemed too proud of their work.
“Don’t you have any decent clothes to wear?” he asked, his eyes searching their faces.
Their smiles dropped, their faces wearing a slight disappointment with their lips curled downward, but they said nothing to him in reply.
“This isn’t my style, you know?” he continued.
But the girls didn’t answer.
Instead, they went on their knees and crawled toward him, their eyes fixed on him like a tiger eyes its prey when hunting, their faces with an expression he couldn’t quite make out but he hated it.
It made his skin crawl.
They knelt in front of him, sitting on their legs, their tongues licking their lips as they stared at him with lust-filled eyes.
They brought their hands to their mounds, fondled them, and played with their buds.
Armin noticed how their fingernails were painted in many different bright colors that matched the colorful makeup on their faces.
One of the girls jiggled her mounds seductively, while the other bent her head, brought her buds to her lips, and flicked her tongue around them.
The scene made Armin recall a snake his boss had once killed under the old car in the garage.
He hated snakes, and the girls were imitating the creature so well with their beautiful bodies slithering on the carpeted floor and their tongues refusing to stay inside their mouths.
They stretched out their hands and made to rub his legs.
Armin yelped as if a millipede had fallen on his body, jumped, and held onto the top bunk bed tightly for dear life.
The girls squeaked excitedly, jiggled their mounds, and came after him.
Armin threw his legs high in the air and screamed at the top of his lungs.
The door flung open and in came Madam Margaret.
For the first time, Armin saw her as a savior.
He flung his frame into her arms and clung to her like a monkey clung to a tree.