Page 36 of Violent Love: Viktor
The snout lay beside her pillow like a shed skin. My obedient pet, peeling away the last of her resistance in secret. So she thought.
She believed I wasn’t watching.
She thought her shame was hers to manage.
She forgot that even in silence, she belonged to me.
Her cock worship had become instinct—eager, efficient. The way she cradled my balls now, not out of fear, but with reverence. She sucked with purpose. Fucked her throat like it was routine. No hesitation. No questions. She’d already begun to forget the feel of a meal without cum first coating her tongue.
That was progress.
But today, I took it all away. Not to be cruel—never for cruelty’s sake. I deprived her because she needed it. She needed to learn what hunger meant without me, what loneliness felt like when she broke my trust, and what it cost to pleasure herself like a free woman.
Her body was mine. Her pleasure was mine.
Her need, her hunger, her every twitching ache in the night—mine.
She hadn’t cried yet. Not real tears. Not the kind that meant anything. But they would come. Hunger would claw through her soon enough, and with it, guilt. And shame. The kind that rewires a brain.
No cock.
No food.
No contact.
Just silence and the knowledge that she failed me.
That my good little pet…tried to steal.
???
I watched her for two days. The first day, she cried.
The second, she crawled like a restless cat, glancing from the door to the camera, pacing in circles, curling beside the hatch.
I watched it all—every single second.
The snout never came off now, not even when she slept. Her fingers toyed with her collar like prayer beads. By nightfall, she was barking. Crying and begging for me. Gone was the maid I first met.
Now she was my fucking bitch.
???
The metal latch yielded with a click. I shoved my sweatpants down beneath my balls as her fingertips crept up to the base of the opening, trembling like she knew what was coming.
“I’m sorry, Master,” she whispered, voice cracked and raw from crying.
I didn’t move.
The silence dragged. She tried to peer through the hatch, breath misting the metal. The Pakhan had known precisely what he was doing when he reminded me of the basement setup. For him, cruelty was an art form. I lived for sadistic control.
Then she barked.
Short, sharp, pathetic little yaps.
Then it got louder, frantic, like her whole body was in it until her barks turned into cries.
I slid my cock through the gap and smirked.
