Page 83 of Deviant

But none of this makes sense.

Are the Brethren doing this? Is this his brother stepping in? Have they seen the way he’s been treating me, do they think that he’s overstepped and have been forced to intervene?

No, if it were the Brethren, I wouldn’t be in a padded cell, and I certainly wouldn’t still be given nice food. I’d be given gruel, and mouldy bread, and almost certainly, I’d be lashed and beaten and raped too for good measure.

Perhaps Magnus doesn’t know about this.

Perhaps he had to go away and any moment, he’s going to return and let me out and be furious at the way I’ve been treated.

Am I stupid to think that he might react like that? To believe that he’d actually care?

I claw at my hair, breaking off the tiny bits of regrowth. My mind keeps going in circles. I can’t stay like this. I can’t live like this.

I need to get back. I have to get back.

I throw myself onto that ridiculously padded floor and I sob, I claw, I rip at it as if I can draw out all of my pain and confusion.

But it doesn’t help.

Nothing helps.

I stare up at the walls, my hands start searching all the padded squares, trying to figure out if there’s some hidden camera. Is this a test? Is that what this is? Is Magnus sat back in his room, watching my reaction, trying to gauge how contrite I am?

My breath starts to pick up even more. What do I do? How do I pass this? I need to make this right, I need to do whatever it is he wants, but I don’t know what it is. I don’t know. My mind races from one scenario to another but there’s no solution. No answers to be had.

I let out a scream, clawing at my scalp even more.

If this is a test then I know how to get his approval, how to get his attention, how to prove that I am obedient.

My fingers delve into my pussy, I arch my back, splaying my legs as wide as they’ll go. I don’t know where the camera is so I need to make sure whatever angle I’m at, he can see clearly. I raise my hips, meeting each thrust, and deep inside I can still feel those tears, those scars, I can feel every awful thing that that man has inflicted upon my body.

“Magnus.” I cry.

I don’t know if it’s in disgust or desire, but I drag the syllables of his name out, letting my head fall back while I desperately urge myself on.

He has to be seeing this. He has to be realising that I really am giving in.

Maybe he wants the pain, maybe that’s it, maybe I’m fucking myself too gently. Being too kind. He always got off on hurting me so surely that would give him pleasure now? I raise a hand slapping one breast hard enough that I yelp. My nipples are taut, pokingout as neat little buds and I pinch one, then the other, wondering whether I should be twisting them more, hurting them more.

“Magnus.” I cry again.

Perhaps, I am mad. Perhaps I am completely fucked in the head now. I can’t decide if it’s better that I’ve lost my mind or worse than simply submitting to my rapist?

My pussy throbs, my arousal leaks out down between the fingers buried deep inside me.

I’ve only put two in.

Does Magnus want more? Is that it?

I push a third. Then a fourth.

My mind flashes to when that grey-haired man fisted me, how much my blood covered his hand as he held it up. Did that turn Magnus on to see that? Did that satisfy him? Would it turn him on to watch me do it to myself?

I’m far too tight to do it comfortably, I can barely fit my fourth finger inside me, but I won’t stop now. I have to keep going. I scream out as I force my entire hand inside myself. My muscles try desperately to expand but there’s nowhere for them to go.

“Magnus.” I sob, as I start brutalising my insides, feeling as all that internal healing starts to tear. As the stitches start to give way, as my blood starts to stream out all over my wrist and legs.

Why isn’t this enough? Why is he not satisfied?

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