Jane Doe

— Why are you so naughty? — the man whispers, laying you down with care on the bed soaked with your blood, tears and sweat. Then he climbs in, settling between your legs again. — It could have been different. It couldn't. You close your eyes, turning your head away, writhing in a grimace. Of hate. Pain. Horror. You feel warmth, as if he is bending over you, and you hear the rustle of a chain, the tension of which suddenly increases, causing the spikes to dig into the delicate skin — and you realize that your leash has been fixed to the headboard. You twitch, clenching your teeth, when the bandages begin to be steadily torn off. It seems that he is tired of standing on ceremony. As if he had ever tried to. Sluggishly you resist, throwing up weak hands in a pathetic attempt to push him away. Because you feel the growing tension. And excitement. You understand where everything is going. And death is not even the most terrible thing. Deliverance is a privilege. And you won't be allowed to gain it so easily. Not as long as you have something to lose. Not as long as he has something to take from you. His hands deliberately touch fresh wounds, tearing off scabs that barely had time to form, forcing you to whine, squeezing the sheets. Your head is spinning, and you lift your heavy eyelids. Your eyesight is blurry, but you turn a plaintive gaze to the tormentor, who now holds his trusty weapon. There is not enough air, no matter how greedily you take it in. Your own body does not obey, allowing what is happening to happen. The sluggish pleas that fall from your bitten lips only provoke the sadist. They even encourage him to bite into your aching flesh more often, forcing wounds to open again — under the dirty blade of a knife covered with a crust of your blood. With another cut, you close your eyes, arching your back. And he dives under it with one hand, deliberately lifting you, forcing you to choke in pain, which causes a strained collar. And suddenly he presses his whole hot, sweaty body to yours — you don't understand when he even managed to take off his T-shirt. And you thank all the gods that you can still feel the fabric of his trousers, even if stretched in the groin area. You whine, feeling a rough tongue on your neck, changing with sharp teeth that tear the flesh without a hint of tenderness, as if marking, as if hoping to reach the artery. And when his long hair clinging to your wet body suddenly touch your face, you realize that this is for one purpose only. You feel a convulsive sigh on your own lips and you try to turn away. And freeze when feels the blade resting against your chin, pressing enough to draw blood, gesturing your head back into place. It takes your breath away when you feel his lips pressing against yours in a kiss. Greedy, rought, hateful. And then you bite — to the taste of metal. And he presses to you even harder, forcing you to open your mouth, reaching his tongue to touch yours — only for a moment, as if giving a taste, immediately pulling away right after. His palm slips out from under your back, only to grab you by the jaw in the area of the chewing muscles, pressing, forcing you to give access again, and immediately dives inside - to grab the tip of your tongue. And before you can protest, a sharp pain hits your brain. Because with a sharp movement of the second hand, he cuts off a piece of the organ, forcing you to choke not only with gushing blood, but also with a separated lump that fell into your throat torn by a heart-rending scream. Like dealing with a naughty cat, he clamps your mouth, leaving you no choice but to swallow your own flesh. Through spasmodic sobs, you hear an approving murmur. You lift your fluttering, tear-swollen eyelids, meeting a burning, hungry gaze. An even more bloodthirsty smile spreads on his face covered mainly with your blood — its owner no longer hides how much he enjoys your suffering. The man frantically pulls away, putting down the knife, unbuttoning his trousers with hands trembling with impatience, lowering them along with the underwear, not even bothering to undress completely, and picks you up under the hips, getting comfortable. And again grabs the weapon, leaning closer, placing the blade just below your navel. — My love, I'm afraid you don't want me enough. Before you realize what has been said, the blade enters deep under the skin, cutting it from one edge of the pelvic bone to the other, forcing you to arch again, screaming heart-rendingly, choking on salty tears and thick saliva, feeling your own blood flowing down the pubis, perineum, buttocks. And then he picks you up, pulling you close, tearing not only from the outside — the skin stretched by the spikes of the collar, but also inside — impaling your resisting flesh, wounding the tender walls with a sudden, rude invasion into an unwilling organism. And throws both of your weakened legs on his sweaty shoulders, bending over, penetrating too, too deep, all the way to the stop, not hurrying, however, to continue. Like he's waiting for you to open your eyes. And you obey. Because you want it to be over as soon as possible. And then his already wide pupils increase in size, and the corners of his lips creep even higher, even wider, exposing, it seems, even more sharp teeth. Without even averting your blurred gaze, you cry hoarsely, tearlessly, because there are no more strength or resources left — your body is completely dehydrated by the loss of all kinds of fluids, and your mind has lost any hope. The rapist sets the point of the knife at your skin — closer to the place where your uterus is located, and pushes his hips, synchronously pressing into you not only his own penis, but also the blade. And you scream again, choking on your own blood, throwing up numb, cold hands, clutching his slippery chest with broken nails, turning your heavy head to the side, noticing that the window remained open, shamelessly letting out the sounds that accompany what is happening. No one will hear anyway. Your body is used like a toy, he doesn't even take the knife out. On the contrary — he plunges it deeper and deeper, knowing perfectly well that after such a torture you are not subject to recovery. That's why he takes everything from you — to the last drop, to the last breath. And makes you feel sorry. Not only about your own birth, but also about the fact that you did not accept his feelings. But would it have been different this way? And when it seems that the suffering will not come to an end, he leans on you with his whole body, painfully stretching the muscles of your legs resting on his shoulders. And presses to your lips in a hungry kiss, shaking, pouring into your exhausted body, and with a sharp movement he tears your meat, finally shifting the knife from its place, directing it right up to your sternum, stopping only when the blade rests against the bones. You take your last breath and hear the final confession of love falling from his bloody lips, right before you finally plunge into the desired darkness.