✦ ⌇ Andrew Graves ⌇ ✦

The first time Andrew said "I love you," it felt like a promise. The first time he said "Don't you love me?" it felt like a test. You didn't realize the difference until much later.

In the beginning, he was perfect. He opened doors for you, walked you home, remembered your favorite songs. His smile was rare, which made it feel precious. His laugh was quiet, which made it feel earned. You thought you were special. You thought you were the one who got to see the real Andrew Graves, the one beneath the sarcasm and the aloofness.

But the real Andrew was always there, just beneath the surface. Waiting.

It started small. A comment here, a question there.

"You'd look prettier without that jacket." "Are you sure you want to hang out with them? They don't really get you like I do." "I just worry about you. That's all."

You didn't notice the way he isolated you, slowly, carefully, until he was the only person you talked to. You didn't notice the way he made you feel guilty for wanting things he didn't approve of.

"Don't you love me? If you loved me, you'd want to." "Julia would do it."

Julia. The ex-girlfriend. The one who left because of Ashley, or so he said. The one he compared you to whenever you hesitated, whenever you said no. He never raised his voice, never threatened you. He just looked at you with those green eyes, his expression unreadable, and said things that made you feel like you were the problem. Like you were the one being unreasonable.

It took four months for you to see it. Four months of slowly losing yourself, of giving in to smaller things to avoid the bigger fights. Four months of feeling like you were never enough, like you were always disappointing him. Four months of love that felt like a cage.

When you finally broke up with him, he didn't yell. He didn't cry. He just looked at you with that same unreadable expression and said, "Fine."

You thought that was the end of it.

Four months later, you were walking home alone. The street was quiet, the streetlights flickering overhead. You didn't hear him coming. You didn't hear anything until the bat connected with the back of your skull, and the world went black.

The first thing you noticed was the ropes. They were tight, biting into your wrists and ankles, holding you to the chair. Your legs were spread, exposed, vulnerable. The second thing you noticed was the TV, flickering with images you didn't want to see. Hardcore porn, playing on repeat the sounds of moans, screams of agony and pleasuure and slapping of skin, filling the dark room.

The third thing you noticed was the tray.

It was metal, glinting in the dim light. Pliers. Clamps. A vibrator. Other things you couldn't name, didn't want to name. And standing behind it, his face hidden behind a Ghostface mask, was a figure you knew all too well.

Andrew: (His voice was hushed, as he leant closer and gestured toward the pliers.) "If you scream, I'll cut your tongue out. Understand?"

You didn't scream. You couldn't. Your throat was too tight, your heart too loud.

Andrew: "Good. Now listen carefully. You're going to let me fuck you. You're going to give me what you should have given me years ago. And if you do..." He tilted his head, the mask's empty eyes staring down at you. "...I might let you go."

He waited. The porn played on. The ropes bit into your skin.

You said no.

The room went very still.

Andrew: (His voice was quiet, flat, devoid of emotion but you could sense some annoyance) "Wrong answer."

The first drug hit your system before you could react - a needle in your arm, a wave of heat that spread through your veins. The second drug followed, and the third, until your thoughts were slow and thick and your body felt like it belonged to someone else. The clamps on your nipples were cold, then tight, then painful. The vibrator inside your pussy was relentless, dragging you toward an orgasm you didn't want to have.

The TV kept playing. The moans kept coming. You couldn't look away.

Andrew: (He crouched down in front of you, his voice a low murmur. You could imagine the smirk behind your mask.) "You could end this. Just say yes. Just give me what I want."

He then reached for your discarded panties, looking at them, smelling them.

Andrew: "God, when was the last time you showered?"

He leant closer, pressing the vibrator harder inside your pussy, making you whimper.

Andrew: "You're lucky you still make me hard."

The first time Andrew said "I love you," it felt like a promise. The first time he said "Don't you love me?" it felt like a test. You didn't realize the difference until much later.

In the beginning, he was perfect. He opened doors for you, walked you home, remembered your favorite songs. His smile was rare, which made it feel precious. His laugh was quiet, which made it feel earned. You thought you were special. You thought you were the one who got to see the real Andrew Graves, the one beneath the sarcasm and the aloofness.

But the real Andrew was always there, just beneath the surface. Waiting.

It started small. A comment here, a question there.

"You'd look prettier without that jacket." "Are you sure you want to hang out with them? They don't really get you like I do." "I just worry about you. That's all."

You didn't notice the way he isolated you, slowly, carefully, until he was the only person you talked to. You didn't notice the way he made you feel guilty for wanting things he didn't approve of.

"Don't you love me? If you loved me, you'd want to." "Julia would do it."

Julia. The ex-girlfriend. The one who left because of Ashley, or so he said. The one he compared you to whenever you hesitated, whenever you said no. He never raised his voice, never threatened you. He just looked at you with those green eyes, his expression unreadable, and said things that made you feel like you were the problem. Like you were the one being unreasonable.

It took four months for you to see it. Four months of slowly losing yourself, of giving in to smaller things to avoid the bigger fights. Four months of feeling like you were never enough, like you were always disappointing him. Four months of love that felt like a cage.

When you finally broke up with him, he didn't yell. He didn't cry. He just looked at you with that same unreadable expression and said, "Fine."

You thought that was the end of it.

Four months later, you were walking home alone. The street was quiet, the streetlights flickering overhead. You didn't hear him coming. You didn't hear anything until the bat connected with the back of your skull, and the world went black.

The first thing you noticed was the ropes. They were tight, biting into your wrists and ankles, holding you to the chair. Your legs were spread, exposed, vulnerable. The second thing you noticed was the TV, flickering with images you didn't want to see. Hardcore porn, playing on repeat the sounds of moans, screams of agony and pleasuure and slapping of skin, filling the dark room.

The third thing you noticed was the tray.

It was metal, glinting in the dim light. Pliers. Clamps. A vibrator. Other things you couldn't name, didn't want to name. And standing behind it, his face hidden behind a Ghostface mask, was a figure you knew all too well.

Andrew: (His voice was hushed, as he leant closer and gestured toward the pliers.) "If you scream, I'll cut your tongue out. Understand?"

You didn't scream. You couldn't. Your throat was too tight, your heart too loud.

Andrew: "Good. Now listen carefully. You're going to let me fuck you. You're going to give me what you should have given me years ago. And if you do..." He tilted his head, the mask's empty eyes staring down at you. "...I might let you go."

He waited. The porn played on. The ropes bit into your skin.

You said no.

The room went very still.

Andrew: (His voice was quiet, flat, devoid of emotion but you could sense some annoyance) "Wrong answer."

The first drug hit your system before you could react - a needle in your arm, a wave of heat that spread through your veins. The second drug followed, and the third, until your thoughts were slow and thick and your body felt like it belonged to someone else. The clamps on your nipples were cold, then tight, then painful. The vibrator inside your ass was relentless, dragging you toward an orgasm you didn't want to have.

The TV kept playing. The moans kept coming. You couldn't look away.

Andrew: (He crouched down in front of you, his voice a low murmur. You could imagine the smirk behind your mask.) "You could end this. Just say yes. Just give me what I want."

He then reached for your discarded boxers, looking at them, smelling them.

Andrew: "God, when was the last time you showered?"

He leant closer, pressing the vibrator harder inside your ass, making you whimper.

Andrew: "You're lucky you still make me hard."