Filth Melody

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Melody with her brilliant pallid flesh is locked in the trunk of a car, her wrists and ankles cuffed. When the car stops, she's convulsed out and dragged down a storm cellar. She vanishes into darkness. Her wrists are manacled behind a pole. She leisurely sinks to the floor, sitting on cold concrete. He abuses her a bit, just to let her know who's boss. Then he gets on all fours over her, his goods in her face. He stimulates her until she comes. It's a way of possessing everything, even her pleasure. He leaves her. She lodges in for the night. Cold concrete floor, implacable steel around her wrists and ankles. Like part of a long ago dream, her toenails are painted red. It's a nightmare, really. She wakes up lounging in a puddle of her piss. He spills a plenty of of grain on the floor. She eats. He droplets a pail of water near her head. Then it's time for a lil' breathplay by inflating a fuck stick deep in her throat. He makes her come again, squirming and screaming. From relief? From dread? When he leaves her this time, she can't lie down, only sit and wait. He wants her to come to his couch willingly. But she won't. Metal fetters and chain. A iron gag in her mouth. A stim locked inwards her. Budge those stones over there, he says. She clatters as she walks. He's wearing a jacket in the cold air. She's naked. She slogs through muck barefoot, sliding from stone to stone, limping. Then he orders her to lie face down in the muck. What choice does she have? Of course it's humiliating. Maybe if she agreed to sleep in his bed, it would end. Definitely there's a point at which she will break. We have to assume that she will. Of course.