Chapter 3
783words
No windows. The walls, ceiling, and floor formed a seamless whole—smooth, slightly warm, milky white. Minimal furnishings: just a bed of the same material, a low table, and a chair. No visible light source; the walls themselves glowed with a cold, dawn-like radiance.
She lunged for the only visible seam—a door—and pounded with all her strength. The material was unnervingly alien, absorbing every impact without sound. Her fists struck silently, the force vanishing like water into sand, leaving only pain in her knuckles. She screamed until her lungs burned, but the room swallowed her voice without even an echo.
Despair crashed over her like a physical wave. This wasn't a prison—prisons had bars and echoes. This was a specimen box. A living coffin.
Time lost all meaning in the unchanging light. Only her body's growing complaints marked its passage.
First came the cramping—invisible hands twisting her guts. She huddled in a corner, arms wrapped tight around herself, trying to squeeze away the pain. Useless. Soon hunger became knife-sharp signals stabbing her brain. Dizziness followed. Darkness flickered at the edges of her vision. Even standing became an effort.
By the second day—or third, who could tell?—her willpower began crumbling under biological torture. The anger that had fueled her faded to a dim spark. She curled at the foot of the bed, consciousness flickering, the world dissolving into white noise.
Just as she felt herself slipping away, the seamless wall silently parted.
Carlos entered.
He'd changed from formal wear into a simple black bodysuit that clung to his powerful frame. In his hands, a silver tray. On it, sizzling meat released an aroma that filled the sterile room.
The scent invaded her senses like living tendrils, violently awakening every starved cell. Her stomach clenched painfully as saliva flooded her mouth—a primal response beyond her control. Shameful. Irresistible.
Carlos set the tray on the table but didn't leave. He pulled out the chair, sat with calculated grace, and crossed his legs. His gaze was clinical, emotionless—a scientist evaluating a newly captured specimen.
Ella forced herself upright, leaning against the wall. She met his gaze with defiance and hatred. She wouldn't break. Wouldn't beg like some trained animal.
Seconds crawled by. The meat's aroma tortured her with every breath. Carlos waited with inhuman patience, watching silently like a hunter who knows his prey will eventually collapse.
Finally, he moved.
He tore off a strip of meat with elegant precision and approached her. Crouching to her level, he held the morsel—radiating heat and scent—to her lips.
Ella's body shook with hunger, but her pride made her turn away, lips sealed tight.
Carlos had expected this. Something like pleasure flickered in his golden eyes. Not anger—just calm determination as he slowly, deliberately brushed the warm, oily meat across her cracked lips in a gesture both intimate and degrading.
The sensation sent electricity through her body. The warm, greasy meat, heated by his fingers, sliding across her sensitive lips—the act wasn't feeding but foreplay. A primitive ritual to break her will through her own body's betrayal.
Ella trembled violently—from rage, from hunger, from the unwanted stimulation.
"Eat."
His voice was deep and rough, utterly cold. A command, not a request.
"Or starve. Your body is mine now. I decide when it needs fuel and how it gets it."
His words stabbed through her pride like a poisoned blade. Her body, his property—the arrogance was breathtaking.
But hunger had already shredded her defenses. The meat's aroma and the lingering oily sensation on her lips whispered like a demon, urging surrender. Her body was betraying her mind.
After an agonizing standoff, Ella turned her head in defeat. Eyes closed—unable to face his victory—she parted her trembling lips.
The meat touched her tongue. When her teeth sank into the savory flesh, a violent wave of pleasure crashed through her body. Tears leaked from her tightly closed eyes.
She chewed and swallowed mechanically.
Carlos watched her, then reached out to wipe a drop of grease from her mouth with his thumb. As she watched in horror, he brought that thumb—now coated with her tears and humiliation—to his own lips and slowly licked it clean.
His eyes locked with hers, golden irises reflecting her broken state.
"Good girl," he murmured, as if praising a newly tamed animal. "Remember the first rule: your survival depends on me."
In the days that followed, this ritual became fixed. Whenever hunger weakened her, Carlos would appear to "feed" her by hand. Each touch, each command, each surrender reinforced his rule—the only law that mattered in her white prison.
After countless degrading "feedings," the door to Ella's cell finally opened at an unexpected hour.
