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Barry's Torture (in progress)

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A lamp dangled overhead. With a click, the bulb was raging so brightly that it flickered for mercy every few seconds.

Cold sweat was caking up in crevices of his mask, slowly beating into his eyes until they awoke. His lips glued together from the grogginess, his jaw too weak to yawn it Iff. He was ready to roll over and fall back asleep. He has taken power naps in his suit before, and he's never slept so deeply in his life so there wasn't any reason to get up and change.

His suit glossed over in an odd chill. Curling up in attempt to conserve heat pulled everything tight against the blisters and stinging goosebumps. His cold breath bounced off the concrete below him. The concrete was moist, sticky and musky, with stale drool and sweat being the only warmth. Even his blood was beginning to go cold and his erection felt more crushed than stiff. Under the skin-tight padding, his nipples bulged like frozen peas and ached with each chafe.

The concrete below his face. Under his tingling gloves, aching his elbows as the bone pressed into it. his hip bone and ribs digging into his organs, sandwiched buy cold concrete and his body weight.

He winced as he propped on to his elbow. The puddle below him was tinted, a glistening red like wine with a metallic scent that was sticking to his face. He couldn't help but run his tongue along the roof of his mouth, for that sweet, grainy, wispy, lustful taste. Before screaming, and desperately looking around at the rhythm of his slamming heart.

The concrete was closing him in. The walls were splayed in cracks, but they only seemed to draw in more cold. Cracks in the floor suctioned him down, pulling the ceiling down lower and lower. Another tiny crack trailed towards his face as a deafening slam made his ears ring.

A goddess came from behind him. Her tight heels planted into the ground, fishnets trailing up her thick legs, with lace cuffs that groped her thighs. The netting appeared even tighter the further up her body it went; her soft ass cheeks consuming her tiny sticky thong, her exposed waist and arms puffy in White crosshatch, her breasts pouring out and turning a light blue shade when they refused to be restrained by the leather corset and knotted netting. She ran her steel riding crop along her bulging cleavage to make sure Barry would notice it.. A few stains on the crop were pale, but the blood that had seeped into the holes and scratches was still as tender as her lips.

His eyes scrunched but he couldn't look away. He should have stopped trying when he realized that was the point. He knew he should have stop trying to resist when he saw that riding crop. When the cold, rough steel brushed along his cheek and jabbed him in the neck.

The goddess' words poured over him like melted candy. "It's okay, Bartholomew. Give in."

His tongue batted around his mouth. He couldn't do this to Iris. He couldn't do this to himself. For whatever reason he was here, it wasn't to drool over this woman, while she taunted him and watched him wither in what was probably going to be his death. Yet, just yet, he couldn't find a way to say no.

" Bartholomew Henry. You are going to take punishment anyway. You may as well give in and enjoy what's going to come."

Henry. It wasn't only his name, but his father's name.

The father he has disappointed and failed. Who is locked up in the same hell. This is what it was, pure hell that reeks of shit beyond the dead blood and musk of aged concrete and shame. The only door in this room was so far away from him, that if he where to have the energy to crawl over, and a way to pick the many rusted bolts and locks, this woman and her bloody weapon would still stand between them. Similar to the hell that he allows his father to go through. He was his father, but with shame - the nasty inability to not deny this woman.

He allowed her to stroke him through his suit with her crop. He laid there, letting his elbow give up on him, letting his shoulder hit the floor, as this woman ran her riding crop down his chest. He could barely feel it through the layers, and he hated himself for wishing she would stroke him harder with it. Barry knew this was wrong. He knew somehow, giving her permission to do this would make the situation worse and would eventually lead to her using this as a weapon. But when he felt that very, very light yet heavy brush over his codpiece...

"Good..." she crooned. She had him. And couldn't help but giggle when a defeated sigh left him and his body splayed on the concrete in submission.

" I hope you're enjoying it."

" I hope it's worth it."

"Your father would be so disappointed. So disgusted. Seeing you here now. Like this."

She snapped the crop along his face. With a rip, and a dry his from his throat, he was on his knees. His face digging into his hands, the leather and quartz of his gloves chilly against his scraped chin.

Before the pain could begin to subside, she striked him again. Along his cheek, the scraping was even deeper, and the flakes of torn skin started bubbling up in red. The tip of his thumb started throbbing with hot blood where the crop had struck it.

Barry was hissing. Digging his face deeper into his gloves even though the stretching and pressure made the pain worse. His mind was scrambling, panicking, crying inside. He's never felt this bad of pain before. Well, he knows pain, but he couldn't remember any point where it's been this concentrated, this intentional. This lengthy. Any injuries he's had in the past eternity would instantly mend, and these strikes would be expected to heal by the instant, however the skin wasn't closing up. His chin still searing with friction. Cheek still boiling in blood, smearing onto his lips whenever he rubbed his face around in his hands. The air and sweat seeping into the pockets torn skin and tingling with undeniable weakness.

The woman jabbed his neck with the riding crop. Pushing it up toward the base of skull to bring chills down his body. He had to pull away from the wounds on his face in order to hug himself. His suit wasn't retaining any body heat, and his warmth was slowly leaving him through his sweat and blood.

She was right. Barry was weak, on his knees slumping over, hugging himself over a few scratches. His father would be so disappointed. His father has seen him cry, and as ridiculous as those tears felt, those were actual pains and fears. This was absolutely nothing.

The crop jabbed his spine. And then the steel handle was rode up the back of his head.

As his wincing numbed down, she told him, "Look."

The handle guided his head to the side, where the large wall how turn into a mirror. His pathetic, heaving little body was so tiny in the reflection, yet it was just clear enough for him to see his face covered in scratches that weren't going anywhere, and a thin film of smeared blood. His sweaty mask wasn't enough to conceal the shame. The deep red was beginning to look like blood all over his face, the longer he was unable to blink. The gloves on his hands also resembled blood, and the real blood on his hands gave the burgundy leather a fresh shine.

That light bulb. Blinding like the sun. Yet it was no replacement for any sun. It was beginning to beat down on him, staring at him in the mirror, shimmering the blood and drool. And his suit was beginning to absorb the heat. Twinges of warmth, though very small, felt amazing on his goosebumps. The aching would stop eating away at his nipples and cock. In the mirror, his shoulders hesitantly rose and his hug laxed, in hopes of getting back to a comfortable temperature.

"Are you enjoying the heat, hmm?" The woman was groping at the crop, smacking it on her open hand loudly.

She whipped the steel handle on his back. Pushing a lustful moan from his throat when a warm bruise rushed over his spine.