𝙱𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝙴𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 || ✔

7(K)

__________

The weight of a simple human emotion,

Weighs me down more than the tank ever did.

The pain, it's determined and demanding

To ache, but I'm okay.

__________

I watch Sierra as I lower the temperature of the basement. She struggles to even reach the bucket I kept there, and I almost chuckle at her desperation. Her body curls into itself as I push the temperature below 60, her bra-clad chest heaving slower. I did good ripping off her sweatshirt, now she feels the cold much more fiercely. Almost comparable to the lust I feel for her. The desperation she has for warmth is almost comparable to the desperation I feel for her submission.

Submit to me, Sierra, and I'll make it all better.

Her breaths grow shakier over the hours, a light fog being exhaled from her mouth. Her teeth chatter, her limbs shake, and I feel nearer to her submission. The collar around her neck shows that she's mine to own and fuck, but the determination in her gaze leads me to believe otherwise. I haven't conquered her mind yet. Even if I own her body, I don't own her soul.

I move my fingers over the laptop screen as she lays on the mattress, adjusting her hair around her neck, seeking warmth. Her body shakes in the temperature I've set, the ends of her fingers and her lips turning the slightest shade of blue. She closes her eyes and huffs deeply, securing her arms around herself. Suddenly, the emotion of guilt weighs upon me, but I shake it off.

I feel nothing but lust towards her. Not after what happened the last time.

I see her trying to get up, but her legs buckle underneath her, and she resorts to the mattress.

Submit, Sierra. I'll help you feel good.

I lower the temperature drastically, almost reaching 20 degrees, and her chatters grow louder. 

Submit. Submit. Submit. 

Submit, Sierra. Submit, and I'll get you out of there.

She sits up, locking her arms around her bent legs, and says something inaudible. She clears her throat, speaking louder, "Sir..." I stand up, eager to hear what I've been wanting to hear for weeks.

"I submit to you, sir. Please, please, I won't try to escape. I'm sorry," she continues, and my heartbeat shoots with ecstasy. She's desperate, so desperate. But it wouldn't be like me to rescue her right away.

I wait. I stop lowering the temperature, keeping it constant, and I wait for her to make a move after her submission. She's mine, finally. I want her to be desperate enough to give away her will for warmth, and then, I might be able to satisfy myself.

And if I feel philanthropic, maybe satisfy her.

My lips stretch into a grin involuntarily, but I sit patiently in my seat. My joy ends abruptly when I see Sierra drop onto the cold ground, her foggy breaths ceasing, her purple fingers unleashing themselves from a tight grasp.

She fell, lifeless.

I shut the laptop in front of me, grabbing the keys and rushing down the stairs. I heighten the thermostat before I leave. I fling open the door, and run towards Sierra's unconscious form, checking for her pulse. It's there, but barely. She is definitely in bradycardia and bradypnea, typical symptoms of hypothermia. I look at the ends of her fingers, they're blue but not ice-like. She'll not lose her extremities, at least.