Page 26 of Deviant

I scream. I curse. I curl my fists into the tightest balls I can manage, impaling my ragged nails into my palms.

After the beating he gave me, now that he’s lapping at me, it feels almost soothing, but I refuse to acknowledge that thought. I refuse to admit that there’s any pleasure to be had. He spears one finger and then another, twisting them against the tears he made from raping me only yesterday.

Perhaps he’s admiring his handiwork, perhaps that’s what this is, him feeling the physical results of what his body inflicted on mine.

And then his lips clamp around my clit.

I jolt.

My whole body locks up.

I will not come for him. I will not give him this.

I shut my eyes tight, reminding myself over and over of who this is, who is touching me, that I don’t want this. That I’m not enjoying this. He can force himself onto me as many times as he likes, but I will not give him this piece of me. I will not give him this satisfaction.

Perhaps he senses it.

Perhaps he can tell where my head is at.

He withdraws his fingers, sliding them out tauntingly slowly, and then he hauls me off the gurney like he hates me just as much as I hate him.

My legs are shaking so badly I can’t hold myself up, and I collapse onto the concrete floor.

I hear the sound of something clicking on.

“You’re filthy,” he states. “Disgusting. And you stink of shit.”

Like I’ve had a chance to wash over the last God knows how many days they’ve had me, or even before for that matter.

I look up just as the first wave of water drenches my face. It’s freezing cold. Ice cold. He hoses me down like a dog that’s puked over themselves. I huddle up, throw my arms over my head and curl up, but he merely kicks me over, forcing that jet over every inch of my body.

It feels like a mercy when it finally ends. I can’t breathe, I can’t stop shaking. It feels like I’ve endured hours and hours of torture though in truth, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes at best.

He grabs me by my arm, dragging me out. My legs refuse to cooperate. My feet are so cold they’re more like solid blocks rather than individual toes.

And then he throws me back into my cell, tosses me onto the floor like discarded trash before he slams the door shut and pitches me back into the darkness once more.

I’m still soaking wet.

I can feel the last of the water trickling down and with my hands I try to sweep it off while a voice in my head says there’s little point bothering. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get pneumonia and die. How ironic that would be, to simply slip away in my sleep after everything this man has done to capture me.

The lack of smell that tells me my bucket has been emptied. I crawl over, glancing in to confirm that fact and figure that he must have sent a servant or someone to do it while he was abusing me in the other room.

And right next to it is a bowl of water and some meagre looking soup.

For a moment, I briefly consider not eating it. I briefly consider starving myself, but my thirst gets the better of me and I lap it up, barely tasting the soup as I gulp it down.

“We have a problem.” Dustin, my Head of Security says, as he meets me by the entrance to Oblivion, barely letting me get inside.

“And what is that?” I reply.

“One of the new girls. She’s a Turner.”

Of all the things I expected, that was not it.

Micah Turner is the head of our Chapter. He’s as close to a God as you can get. Everyone thinks the Brethren operate with one chain of command. One single unifying leadership but we’re spread all over the world. It just simply wouldn’t work like that. No, we have Chapters, local leaders if you will, and they all report into the Higher Lord—a man no one knows the name of, a faceless God who rules as though he were Zeus atop of his mountain.

“A Turner?” I repeat.

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