Author's comments: Oh, I am evil. In all seriousness, I am a whore for rescue porn, and I always say that the worse the torture, the better the rescue. So this is an alternative ending for "Beast's Obsession." I titled it after the Coldplay song, which seemed a fitting theme, and it might be even more enjoyable reading it with the song playing. Enjoy.

Trouble

The dirt crunched under Olivia's feet as she approached the empty crumbling structure, their footsteps echoing the same as her heart inside her cavernous, dreading chest. Even as she wanted to vacate her mind of all thought, her years of police experience automatically kicked in, and she scanned her surroundings, even knowing that observation would not save her this time. Lewis had lured her into his web just as he had planned, and now she was marching with him to her doom.

The beastly spider beside her beamed his pleasure at his victory; she could feel it emanating from his body in the way his hand clutched her arm triumphantly. She avoided most of his rhetorical questions with silence, although she got a few jabs in when she couldn't stand his arrogance any longer. But she knew her verbal assaults on him were hollow—he had the upper-hand, and although he might drag it out, an unpleasant end approached.

"Having flashbacks?" he taunted her, and then launched into a discourse on PTSD, more for his own entertainment than anything.

Even as she tried to brush off his words, the flashbacks were happening as he said the words. Now they were on the bed with the iron frame, his hands groping at her pants as she tried to struggle out of his reach. The memories only lasted a second or two, but the tension in her muscles stayed with her, leaving her shoulders tense and legs weak.

They climbed relentlessly up several flights of stairs, rats scurrying on every level, until they arrived breathless on a floor where Lewis guided her forward with a push to a spooky place filled with cobwebs, and she knew this was the center of his web. He had the child, Amelia, hanging by her hands, and Olivia reassured the girl the best she could before Lewis forced her to an awaiting table. And then he gave her a choice.

It was a no-brainer, of course. Olivia could never live with herself if she allowed an innocent child to be brutalized by this monster. So she chose to be brutalized by him instead.

He handcuffed her to the table, and then stood behind her and began violating her boundaries, grabbing at her breasts, pulling her head roughly toward his so he could force his lips onto hers, and she shrunk into herself.

And her mind wandered elsewhere, lost somewhere in the clouds, as the fight drained out of her. Her body went limp as she gave up, and at first, he took advantage of her flaccid reaction and started to unzip her pants. But then he stopped, his hands still firmly planted on her waist.

"What, not even gonna put up a fight?" he said, disappointment oozing from his voice.

She didn't answer, just slumped on the table, all resistance having evaporated. Maybe he would give up too, but he wasn't going to just let her go—this she knew.

A lighter flicked behind her, and she heard him exhale shortly before a waft of cigarette smoke passed under her nostrils. For what seemed like a century, the room stood still, the only sound in it the heavy breathing from the little girl. Olivia lay there, not wanting to turn around to see what Lewis was up to.

"You're not going to just play dead and ruin my fun," he said.

She gulped as she felt the back of her shirt sliding up, Lewis' hand brushing her skin in the process. Her heart pounded as if she was racing in a marathon, and then she felt something digging square between her shoulder blades. It took a few seconds for the burning to shoot up through her nerves, finally registering in her brain as the end of the lit cigarette.

Biting her lip, she fought hard not to react, but she couldn't help but let out a small grunt. She caved her back to escape the pain, but the sting of the hot ember followed her. He had burned her the last time too, and it had hurt, but he had always used it as a prodding tool to get a reaction out of her before he moved onto the next bit of torture. This time, he kept the cigarette against her skin impossibly long, and she began to pant uncontrollably, letting out muffled cries between her teeth.

And then it stopped.

"That's better," he said, his voice oozing with satisfied pride. "Now let's keep up that liveliness while we get down to business."

Fearing the lit end of his favorite torture implement, she stood as tall as she could manage, still unmoving, but no longer limp, as he undid first her pants, and then his, and jerked them all down in a few gleeful sweeps. She closed her eyes. A lonely tear slid out of one eye as she recalled that, even though she had suffered the last time, she had been grateful of escaping this, the worst of fates short of death.

He must have noticed her reaction, because his cheek pressed up against hers as he said, "Aw, don't cry. Not yet anyway. Don't worry—you don't have to miss out this time."

And then he yanked down her panties, one of his nails scraping her leg in his haste. "Spread your legs," he commanded, but she couldn't will herself to comply. "Do it!" he yelled, and she flinched.

When she still didn't obey, he said with sarcasm, "Oh, well I guess you're going to make me work for it after all. That's okay."

She wanted to throw up as he pried his hands between her thighs and forced them apart like a wench, and then shoved a knee in between them to keep them from closing up again. "Oh, you're strong," he said, grabbing a handful of her breast now. "I don't get many challenges like you."

And then she did want to fight, because she didn't want to go through with it. But try as she might to flail her legs and kick at him, he had her pinned with the weight of his chest on her back, and after a few failed attempts, he finally got what he wanted. Anything but gentle, he shoved himself into her with all his might, and it hurt—even worse than she had imagined it would.

She opened her eyes wide in alarm, because not only did it feel like a knife was impaling her, she also couldn't breathe with his weight on top of her. She wanted to say something, to tell him, but she couldn't get enough air into her lungs to speak, and she thought telling him might just turn him on even more. And so she did the only thing she could—she escaped her body with her mind, noticing a wooden post in the corner of the room and floating to it, dissociating from the horrible things being done to her over the next several minutes.

As she began to wonder what would happen first—passing out or breaking a rib, the motion inside her stopped, and she thought maybe it was over. She began to pant to catch her breath as his weight lifted just a bit, and then she felt the cigarette dig into her back again, and she let out a full-on scream this time, unable to shield Amelia from the torture she was experiencing any longer. And then the stabbing inside of her began again, picking up momentum as he thrust even harder within her.