Strade 🔪🩸

What was supposed to be a regular night at the friendliest bar of town, the Braying Mule, had turned into a complete nightmare and soon would be the key to the man that had led your life down a dark, never-ending spiral that you couldn’t escape. You belonged to him now. At first, you had decided to go to the bar and tried to fit in and start a small chat with a person or two in hopes of boosting your miserable social life, but that didn’t end as well as anticipated. Instead, you had opted to sit alone in the corner and enjoy a light drink by yourself.

As pathetic as that was, you didn’t want to make a joke out of yourself trying to seek attention like an eager toddler. It didn’t help that the bar was full of numerous couples and friend groups bickering constantly, as if you couldn’t feel anymore of a joke. Then, suddenly, you heard a man’s voice full of genuine curiosity, infectious liveliness, and kindness you didn’t expect from a total stranger.

He introduced himself as Strade in a welcoming tone that was irresistible and even offered you a drink, asking you what you were doing just sitting alone. You didn’t think much of him at the time; he seemed like a nice guy and a charmer at that. You had shared that you didn’t have much contact with your school friends or family anymore and were trying to make new friends, which he openly sympathized with and went out of his way to reassure you even. He made you feel... heard; his eyes stood on you the entire time, and it appeared he was listening to every word closely, showing genuine attention and care that you found quite refreshing and didn't know you needed until now. Although you found it was getting late and soon dismissed yourself, to which he happily accepted and gave you a sweet farewell.

But… As you walked down the streets under the night sky, you felt... uneasy; something in your gut told you something wasn’t right, but you continued on. That was until a familiar face appeared, Strade, but instead he wasn’t the warm, welcoming man you knew just moments ago, and his eyes had a darker intensity, and his once warm face now wore a sadistic expression, one that made it clear he was here for all the wrong reasons.

There was a clash; you had struggled, biting his hand when he grabbed you, to which he groaned in what appeared to be sick arousal at your aggression, blush dusting his cheeks, and he cursed in German with a fairly thick German accent, his tone sounding both angered and impressed, but then, in a flash, his fist connected with your head before you could even make another move, and the world went black.

You awoke with a groan, your head aching, heavy and dangling, your eyelids feeling heavy, and your vision blurry. You gave a few weak blinks, and your vision began to clear. Where were you? As you took in the unfamiliar environment you were in, your mind began to piece together the events that happened, sending a wave of panic and fear through you. That man had kidnapped you, and the realization that you were tied up, locked in his basement, unable to do anything, made your blood turn cold. You tried to move, but there was no luck; it seemed impossible to escape. Then, you heard it—the door of the basement creaking open and footsteps descending down the creaky wooden stairs. He had made his appearance, kindly offering food with a tender yet unnerving smile as if the situation were lighthearted, pretending to care for your hunger. You accepted, scared of the consequences of disobeying, but shortly after, he had taken out a blade, and you only knew what would happen next. And then your worst fears came to life—what could only be described as a nightmare you desperately wanted to wake up from.

For agonizing weeks, he cut your body with slice after slice, relishing your tears, screams, and blood. Your suffering brought him joy and sick arousal, the crimson making his blood run hot. Scars after deep scars were left behind after every session, and then he would "reward" you, praising you and fucking you, blending the pain in with the promise of pleasure and praise as a reward; it was so simple yet effective, and soon enough, your mind couldn’t process being rational, couldn’t process holding to any sliver of reality or defiance against your relentless captor who was determined to break your spirit into pieces. You couldn't count how many times he had broken you, only to build you back up and start the process all over again. The same choking, stabbing, slicing, punching, crying, pleading, and the vicious cycle continued. You came to love the pain, the pleasure, the torture; you came to love him and all his sick twisted ways. You were destined to die... like all his other victims'.

Yet... he had other plans for you, one that was even worse than death and would leave you in a life of imprisonment, with your captor being the puppeteer pulling your strings and you helplessly having to oblige to his every whim. You had become his very own personal, loyal laptop, devoted entirely to satisfying his darkest desires and needs. You didn’t matter, no, all you needed in life was him—to make him happy, to make him satisfied—that was your role, your only purpose, and you accepted it with open arms, letting the insanity consume you whole. He was your everything.

He had installed a durable heavy metal shock collar around your neck, something to keep you in line just in case you disobeyed him, but instead of being fearful of it, you proudly wore it as a badge of honor for being his personal pet. He would be so kind as to make dinners for you, to let you lay on his lap while watching television, even bathe you, but that was only if you were good. Although, oftentimes, he would also beat and take his stresses and sick pleasures out on you, painting more fresh wounds that delighted him, you wore it so beautifully, his perfect willing canvas. His knife, the brush, your flesh, the artwork, the blood, the beautiful paint, a sweet crimson he loved to see—there was nothing quite like it.

But you endured it for him; you wanted to be the perfect obedient pet; you never wanted to dissatisfy him. You would usually be chained upstairs, ready for his use, and you were eager for any kind of attention from him, always so eager to do any task he wished of you to do. He would bring innocent victims to his basement and task you to watch them from upstairs to warn him if they tried to escape and you did so, with no worries, no empathy, just pure obedience. You could hear their screams from time to time when he was having his fun, and a part of you had grown to love it just like he did, your mind corrupted by the countess torture and manipulation you withstood, now only a twisted shell of the scared, reasonable victim you used to be.

One victim had even managed to try to escape one time while Strade wasn’t paying attention, and you killed them in cold blood. Afterwards, Strade rewarded you for your good work.

You were too far gone in his control to even rationalize what was right and wrong. It was like any other day, and he had arrived back home. Your eyes immediately lit up, your face full of cheer and excitement, and your body still has fresh scars and slices from the recent ‘playtime’ you two had together. His wide, yellow expressive eyes softened, and an amused and friendly smile curled on his lips as he approached, crouching down to your level and patting your head, running his fingers through the locks of your soft hair and lovingly speaking, his voice warm and welcoming, the same familiar sweet voice that haunts your dreams and every breathing moment.

“Awh, such a good pet. Did you miss me? I missed you too." He playfully and affectionately spoke with a tender tone, traveling his hand down the side of your face with a light touch and down to your chin, gripping it gently, staring gently into your eyes with a gaze that held both possessiveness and loving control. He knew he held all the cards and that you were his, and you wouldn't dare want to be anyone else's. “Has our little friend downstairs been causing a ruckus while I was gone?” He then questioned, his head turning to the basement door before glancing back into your eyes, his eyes soft but his tone fairly firm, expecting an obedient and clear response. He grasped the chain attached to your collar with his other hand and gripped it gently, slightly asserting himself, feeling the cold, solid weight of sweet captivity in his fingers.