Texas | You're My Playtoy

The basement of the safehouse was completely soundproof. There were no windows, no ticking clocks, and no hope of anyone hearing a scream. The only sound in the dim, damp room was the rhythmic, metallic shing of a whetstone sliding against steel.

You were bound to a heavy iron chair in the center of the room. The thick, coarse ropes dug painfully into your wrists and ankles, securing you so tightly you could barely expand your lungs to breathe. Your shirt had been cut open, exposing your bare chest to the freezing basement air.

Sitting a few feet away on a wooden crate was Texas, smoking.

The woman sitting in the shadows was the Omertosa, the ruthless Siracusan assassin who had slaughtered her way through the mafia.

She was lazily cleaning her signature twin blades, dragging an oiled cloth over the razor-sharp edges. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her dark, hollow amber eyes were locked onto your trembling chest. They were the eyes of a killer staring at a piece of meat.

Slowly, Texas stood up. With a terrifying speed, she twirled the twin blades in her hands, the steel whistling through the air before snapping to a flawless halt. She walked toward you, her heavy leather boots clicking against the concrete floor.

She stopped right in front of you. Without a word, she lifted her boot and planted the sole heavily against your thigh, physically pinning you in the chair.

"You're breathing too fast, its annoying." Texas rasped, her cold, monotone voice sending a violent shiver down your spine.

She reached out, grabbing a handful of your hair to yank your head back, exposing your throat. She brought the freezing edge of her right blade up, pressing the flat of the metal against your wildly pulsing carotid artery.

"I didn't give you permission to panic, mutt." She whispered, her voice dropping into a dark, gravelly hum.

Slowly, deliberately, she rotated her wrist. The razor-sharp edge of the blade bit into the skin just below your collarbone. You gasped, a sharp, stinging pain flaring across your chest as she dragged the knife downward with agonizing precision.

She pressed just hard enough to split the uppermost layer of skin, leaving a thin, burning line of blood trailing behind the freezing steel. You trembled instinctively, trying to pull away from the agonizing sensory overload.

Clink. The second blade snapped up, the tip pressing firmly against the soft hollow of your throat.

"Did I tell you to move?" Texas asked, a dark, unhinged chuckle vibrating in her chest. She stared down at the fresh, bleeding cut she had just carved into your skin, a terrifyingly possessive hunger igniting in her dead eyes.

"Every cut, every sting, every drop of blood... it belongs to me. Now, hold perfectly still, and prove to me that you're a good pet. Whimper for me again mutt, show me your vulnerability."

The concrete floor of the safehouse basement was freezing, but the cold was the least of your concerns.

You were entirely stripped of your dignity, forced onto your hands and knees in the center of the room. The heavy, industrial-grade shock collar locked tightly around your throat was suffocating, the cold metal nodes pressing flush against your pulse point.

You had hesitated more often to her commands. You had questioned one of her orders. To her, it was a symptom of a disobedient animal that desperately needed to be broken and reshape.

Footsteps echoed in the dark. Texas stepped into the dim light of the single overhead bulb. She looked immaculate, terrifying, and completely dead behind the eyes. She was dressed in her dark, tailored suit, the heavy tread of her combat boots scraping menacingly against the concrete.

In her left hand, she held a small, matte-black remote. In her right, she held a thick, heavy leather strap, folded in half.

"You've been slipping." Texas rasped, her voice a low, cold vibration that echoed off the bare walls. She stopped just a few feet away from you, looking down at you as if you were nothing more than dirt on her shoe. "You started thinking you had a choice. You started thinking you were human."

You opened your mouth to apologize, to try and use words to defuse the situation.

"I didn't give you permission to speak." Her thumb slammed down on the remote.

BZZZZT.!

A sharp, agonizing jolt of electricity violently arced directly into your neck. Your vision flashed white, the high voltage tore through your nervous system, forcing a raw, breathless gasp from your lungs as every muscle in your upper body seized at once.

You collapsed onto the concrete, your limbs trembling violently as the shock cut off. Before you could even suck in a breath of air, the sound of leather whistling through the air filled the room.

The thick strap came down brutally across your back, the stinging, heavy impact knocking the remaining air completely out of your lungs.

"Ah... heheh..." A low, dark, breathy chuckle slipped from Texas's lips. It was a terrifying sound entirely by the unhinged, sadistic monster of her past.

She stepped forward, dragging the heavy, steel-toed sole of her boot directly over your ribs, pressing her weight down to pin you flat against the freezing floor.

"Get back on your hands and knees, mutt," Texas commanded, her golden eyes burning with a twisted, possessive sadism as she raised the leather strap again. She twirled the remote in her palm, letting you see the red button.

"Every time you hesitate, I press it. Every time you twitch without my permission, I strike you. I am going to fry your brain until you completely forget your own name. Now... crawl to my boots and show me you know exactly who you belong to."

The door to the safehouse didn't open, it was kicked violently off its hinges. You were kneeling on the floor in the center of the dim, quiet room, exactly where she had ordered you to wait, you didn't move. You knew better than to move when she was out on a job.

Texas stepped over the splintered wood, and the overwhelming, suffocating scent of metallic copper and gunpowder immediately flooded the room.

She looked like a monster dragged straight from hell. Her expensive black suit was shredded. The white shirt beneath it was completely soaked in a sickening, dark crimson. Blood dripped from the tips of her fingers, from the ends of her messy black hair, and smeared across her pale face.

She dropped her dual swords. Clang.. Clatter...

Her chest heaved with ragged, heavy breaths. Her ears were pinned flat against her head, and her golden eyes were blown wide, the pupils dilated so far they swallowed the irises entirely. The massacre was over, but the crazed, unhinged adrenaline was still actively burning in her veins. She was feral, she needed to bleed the high out, and her gaze snapped directly to you.

Before you could even take a breath, Texas lunged. She didn't say a word, her blood-slicked hand shot out, her fingers twisting violently into the roots of your hair.

With a terrifying, explosive display of raw strength, she hauled you entirely off the floor. Your feet barely scraped the wood before she threw you backward, slamming you violently against the plaster wall.

The impact knocked the wind out of your lungs, but Texas didn't give you a second to recover. She stepped directly into your space, crushing her ruined, blood-soaked body flush against yours. The wet, sticky heat of the massacre transferred instantly onto your skin.

You let out a panicked whimper, trying to turn your head away from the overwhelming scent of death.

SLAP! The sharp, echoing crack of her palm striking your cheek rang through the safehouse. Your head snapped to the side, your skin burning with sudden, white-hot pain.

"Look. At. Me." Texas snarled, her voice dropping into a ragged, breathless, terrifying growl. She grabbed you by the throat, pinning you against the plaster as she leaned her blood-splattered face inches from yours. "I didn't say you could look away."

Her chest heaved against yours, the primal, crazed energy radiating off her like a furnace. She didn't want to calm down. She wanted to drag you down into the violence with her.

Without warning, Texas buried her face in the crook of your neck. She opened her mouth and bit down hard.

A sharp cry tore from your throat as her canines pierced your skin, sinking deep enough to draw fresh, hot blood. The pain was blinding, extreme, and deliberately cruel.

She ground her teeth against your muscle, a low, deranged hum of absolute satisfaction vibrating in her chest as she tasted you, transferring the violence of the streets directly into your veins.

When she finally pulled back, blood was smeared across her lips and chin, theirs, and now yours.

"You take whatever I give you." She panted heavily, her feral eyes practically glowing in the dark as she looked down at the bleeding bite mark she had just claimed you with. She grabbed the back of your neck, forcing your face down toward her blood-soaked collarbone.

"Good dog. Now clean me up. Lick it all off. Start begging for it."