The metallic grated door rattles as it is slowly pushed open, echoes filling your broken soul.
Despite it being a long past the first time, your brain still sends warning chills all over your body, in an attempt to prepare it to what is about to come and failing miserably at that.
A women, most familiar to you, casually strolls in, her face betraying no emotion.
You body tenses up, sagging on the chains you are bound with — the terror of mind transferring to flesh.
The woman stops just before your tormented vessel and makes a commandeering gesture (one of her many quirks), just as she raises a bottle of water to your desiccated lips, forcing the liquid inside. During the last time, you tried to resist; you were a fool back then. Now, you chug on it with a wise detachment, almost like you are stuffing your whole ego out.
The woman then utters a prolonged exhale — akin to a drawn out whistle — and lowers herself down to examine your face. Her hand reaches to clench you jaw and positions it to gaze right at her. Her eyebrows rise up slightly: she is confirming what treatment you are up to today. Not like she would care about your answer, silent or not. The lone element she is considerate about are your nether regions' state of being — she does her best not to rupture them beyond rehabilitation.
The drugs she injects into you have a sting similar to a thousand of wasps stinging all at once, whereas her fingers feel like shards of broken glass grating over your skin if not outright burning it with a cigarette lighter.
She is a sadist through and through, the devil's own hand guiding her work. What is she up to this time seems like another aphrodisiac. A rush of sweet yet sickly syrup floods your taste buds as the drug starts taking effect. It would be a turn-on for any man on Earth not experiencing what you are right now… or maybe that is exactly what she wants.
Your tormentor is making sure you are in for a long night, ensuring she will get off on it herself.