Ch 1 Captive

10 years ago

The wand never fully leaves her skin now. It hovers, circles, teases—then strikes without warning.

(21 years old Elenore Vale)

Another crackling burst slams into the tender crease where thigh meets hip. Eleanor's scream erupts instantly this time, high and shredded, bouncing off the bare concrete like breaking glass. The sound is wet, ragged, torn from somewhere deep in her diaphragm. Her whole body convulses—shoulders slamming back against the chair's cold metal slats, spine arching so violently the leather cuffs squeal against their buckles. Her breasts bounce with the **** of it, nipples dragging across nothing but air, hypersensitive from the constant adrenaline and the lingering burn of previous shocks.

The current races inward, a white-hot wire threading through every nerve. It finds the places electricity loves best: the soft inner walls of her core clench and flutter uncontrollably, a deep, humiliating pulse that makes her hips roll forward in tiny, helpless jerks. Sweat pours now—down the valley between her breasts, along the curve of her ribs, pooling in the dip of her navel, trickling lower to mix with the slickness that's spreading despite every clenched muscle and bitten lip. The chair beneath her is damp; she can feel it, the obscene evidence of her body's betrayal cooling against her ass.

Thorn holds the contact longer this round—three full seconds. Her scream fractures into staccato bursts:

“AHHH—FUCK—STOP—AAAHHH!”

Each syllable punched out between locked teeth, voice cracking higher on the last one until it's almost a keening wail. Tears stream freely, hot tracks cutting through the sweat on her cheeks, dripping from her chin onto her heaving chest. Her dark hair whips across her face as her head thrashes side to side, strands sticking to lips parted in a continuous, broken cry.

He finally lifts the prongs. The sudden absence is almost worse—her nerves keep firing phantom sparks, making her thighs quiver in rapid, uncontrollable tremors. She gasps, gulps air like she's drowning, chest shuddering so hard it hurts. A low, guttural whimper escapes between breaths, involuntary, the sound of something fraying inside her.

Thorn doesn't speak yet. He simply watches—studies the way her pupils are blown wide, the way her lips tremble, the way her clit pulses visibly with aftershocks even as she tries to squeeze her thighs together against the unyielding spread of the restraints.

Then he moves again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

The wand traces a lazy figure-eight up the inside of her right thigh, leaving a trail of gooseflesh and tiny, involuntary twitches. The prongs are cool now, almost soothing—until they aren't.

He presses them directly to the swollen, aching bud at her center.

The scream this time is immediate and primal—longer, deeper, tearing her throat raw.

“NO—GOD—PLEASE—AAAAAAAAAHHH!”

Her entire pelvis lifts off the seat as far as the cuffs allow, hips bucking wildly, muscles seizing in a full-body cramp of agony and unwanted ecstasy. The current feels like liquid fire pouring straight into her nerves, then blooming outward in vicious waves. Her inner walls spasm rhythmically, clenching around nothing, flooding her with heat she can't control. A fresh gush slicks her thighs; she feels it drip, hears the tiny patter against the concrete below the chair. Shame burns hotter than the electricity.

She screams again—wordless now, just pure sound, high and ****, cracking into sobs at the edges. Her head falls back, throat exposed, cords standing out as she tries to **** air past the rawness. Tears and snot mix on her face; she doesn't care. Can't care. Every thought is drowned in the next pulse of current.

Thorn holds it there. Four seconds. Five. Her scream warbles, loses coherence, becomes a continuous, shuddering keen that vibrates in her chest. Her eyes roll back, whites showing, lashes fluttering. Drool slips from the corner of her mouth.

When he finally releases, she collapses forward—only the restraints keep her upright. Her body jerks in aftershocks, small violent twitches that make her breasts quiver, her thighs tremble. Harsh, wet sobs rack her now, each one punched out with a tiny, broken “huh… huh… huh…” as she fights for breath.

Thorn crouches low again, face inches from hers. He tilts her chin up with one gloved finger—gentle, almost tender—so she has to meet his calm, unhurried gaze through the blur of tears.

"Listen to yourself," he murmurs, voice soft against the ringing in her ears. "That's the sound of truth leaving your body, Eleanor. One scream at a time."

He lifts the wand once more. The prongs gleam under the fluorescent light, still humming.

Her lips part. A weak, hoarse whisper escapes—barely audible:

"…please…"

But the wand is already descending.