Arousing me now with a sense of desire,

Possessing my soul till my body's on fire.

A dark angel of sin,

Preying deep from within,

Come take me in. ~A Touch of Evil, Judas Priest

Capitolo X:

-L'epoca d'oro: seconda fase-

17-24, December 1999

One thing that the mock Saturnalia festivities could not alleviate, was the pain from the memory of the dungeon. Of course, for Secco and Cioccolata, the memory for them was unmarked, completely unblemished—an ever-distancing memory of cruel and hedonistic delight. For Secco, it was perhaps just another duty off his hands, as he was the one responsible for bringing the slaves their food, letting them to the bathroom several times per day, and taking note of any other ailments to relay to Cioccolata. As far as work was concerned, the only work Cioccolata put in toward them was the dicking down. Secco had his cut of this as well, so his reward in it all was at least earned, in some sense, for his effort.

Something from the start that struck Caramella was the fact that Secco only ever participated in the raping of Nocciola. Not once did Cioccolata allow otherwise. Her "training" was much different than Nocciola's in that it was completely intimate—between her and Cioccolata exclusively. She didn't know if this were a blessing or a curse. Sure, she wasn't getting raped from two people at once. But she obviously didn't want to be so intimate and alone with the obviously, worse madman, clearly the master to the other.

This difference in how they were trained produced some slightly different results that even she could witness. Nocciola was broken by the time the month was through; you could see in the stony and filmy gaze in her eyes. Her demeanor had changed, even before they were moved upstairs. Caramella was used to Nocciola crying to her, to which Caramella sometimes cried with her. But the disturbing piece in it all was how after two weeks, Nocciola had changed. For each visit of Cioccolata, she died more.

Selfish as it may be, Caramella began caring less about what happened in the other woman's adjacent cell than what had went on in her own. For the first two weeks, the echoes of screaming and wailing was a horrible one, and a worse one to doze off to. But after that midway period, it dulled into a silent "C'est la vie;" it became a part of daily living. There were periods of silence in the dungeon, and that was welcome just as well as tears and screams.

One of the most terrifying experiences they had endured was the branding of their outer thighs. This was around the mentioned two-week period, and perhaps this was the final nail in the coffin for Nocciola. She was branded first, then Caramella. This was exactly what made it more terrifying for Caramella; seeing and hearing what was going on in the cell across from her, having a hope that she wouldn't be getting that as well—some irrational belief that this was a punishment only meant for Nocciola and not her.

She truly did fancy these hopes, which may come across to the reader, as cold, disconnected and dishonorable. However, it's unlikely any reader nor the writer can relate to such a captivity, nor the very primal, fight for survival that one would experience in such insurmountable circumstances. If one wanted to have a taste of raw, human nature, they had better fill out their application to be accepted within Cioccolata's rape dungeon.

Therefore, Caramella's only consolation during Nocciola's branding was that surely she would not also be branded. The strangest cognitions occurred in her psyche, as she huddled her knees and thighs against her, wrapped by her own slim arms.

It's happening to her but, surely that means it won't also be me…

She believed it, and it helped ease her mind; the screaming was less personalized. Her pain bore no association to Caramella, it was an experience that could only be felt by Nocciola, and only Nocciola. In fact, she was the only woman in the world who would ever experience that type of torture. Not only that, but Nocciola often misbehaved, it's natural that she would be punished.

Caramella's thoughts spiraled in this such way, increasingly non sequitur they became, an absurd flow of rationalizations and denial. They went on and all was well, before a shirtless and ripped Cioccolata stood in front of her cell, leering at her with a look that foretold the near future for her person.

Like this, was she was also branded by an iron in the shape of what looked to be a cross or the letter "T." She knew this symbol to be familiar, and realized that it was the one she had often seen on his sleeves, though they were absent today, and as such, could be given no reference. It was his way of marking them as his own for life; it didn't take a genius to figure that out or its meaning. It killed her inside, not only the physical pain, but to see the look on his face as he abused her in such a way. It wasn't different at all however, than the expression she was used to seeing on him. His features shifted from complete apathy to sopping delight interchangeably.

…It was after these days that Cioccolata grew even more hungry, and that seemed to be on account of an added incentive for him.

It took some time to analyze, but she did realize what that incentive was, at least on her part. It was that he enjoyed seeing them finally show the first signs of complete submission to him, in body and spirit.

For instance, although Caramella could not have previously imagined that she would ever stoop this low, she became quite shameless in how she called out to him or Secco for her necessities. She begged him not hurt her, pleaded that he go slower (when he ravaged her), and sometimes even kissed his loafers upon his entrance in hopes that it would lessen the extremity of her training. She also had succumbed to the excitement upon hearing his footsteps, and what was once relief when he had stopped at Nocciola's cell rather than her's, slowly dipped to disappointment, of all things.

"I see the first phase is over…and now it's the honeymoon," he breathed at one point, having entered her cell and seeing the polarity of dread and need in her eyes.

She crawled over to him this time, no longer hiding in the corner or waiting for him to initiate the commands. Her arms wrapped around his leg, the soft fabric of the well fitted trousers already filling her with the desire, the need to warm herself with her shabby attire.

"Master Cioccolata…! M-Master, how do you feel today?" She looked up at him then, with a well-trained attempt at puppy dog eyes.

He shrugged her off his leg then, with a look of triumph before seating himself upon a short, wooden cask which was, apparently, best suited as a chair.

"It's delightful to see my favorite pet is already so well behaved. And for that…I feel happy, that's how I feel," said an indeed, happy Cioccolata.

Her eyes lit up, seeing an opportunity in this, she crawled back to his new location, between his legs, huddling to her only source of heat in this cold dungeon. She was never too obnoxiously vocal with him, choosing to say only what she felt or knew to be vital to him.

He scanned her demeanor, seeing her huddle to him for warmth was giving him an ego boost and consequently, a boner.

"You're so needy, so ready to serve me lately." He reached down and opened his palm before her face in invitation. She knew what this meant, and laid her cheek into the large surface, nuzzling up and down, savoring the emanating heat. When satisfied, she tilted her face so only her chin had a seat in his palm. He withdrew it then, pressing his thumb into her cheek somewhat hard, and she felt her heart speed.

"I see…" He loomed over her, scrutinizing her features, and each moment those callous eyes scanned her felt to be an eternity; like waiting for the guillotine blade to fall. And so, when he spoke again, his heavy voice sliced through the silent, chill air like the audible, horizontal swish of a blade through heavy air, coming directly for her. "You're still more concerned with your own needs. It's natural, I understand that you're only human too. But it still means that we have to train you more."

Her breathing stilled at the mention of more training, and she shut her eyes in resignation. She understood very well that a huge object in her training was to separate her sense of self to the point her only concern be meeting her master's needs. Still, her mind almost broke at the thought of more training, yet she did not; her body gave way not even with a small quiver. He noted this too and thought to offer her up a deal.

"I'll tell you what, I'll allow you to do me a favor now to make up for it. You're curious to know what it will be like when I take you upstairs, aren't you?"

Caramella nodded her head, but otherwise remained deathly still. She had already noticed of course, the bulge in his pants. She knew what was coming, oral sex was almost always included in all their sessions. She knew well by now that it was one of his favorites and he could hardly get enough of it.

It was just what was being offered. He unzipped his pants slowly, then removed his impressive length in her direction with expectation.

There was no hesitation for her at this point, she was so desensitized to this. Despite the fact that she had never sucked dick in her life prior to these few months, she felt as though she had been doing it her entire life. What was life before captivity? Her old life slowly slipped away, so distant it could be mistaken as a past life. This was the new life, and it was liberation, ironically.

Maidenhood was ancient in this age of degeneracy after all. Wherefore does any woman, in the face of the endless string of sexual and human abuses that was provoked by the aforementioned age, ever cling to it? In any case, maidenhood became associated with who she was for the past 17 years, a life she found best to forget, leaving only her damaged, torn roots in hereafter. In hindsight, she could see those lingering roots struck up, hardly holding onto the soil for which they stemmed from. It was a weak foundation now, and the fear was that when the very last sinew was torn, so would be the state of her mind. The genuine, birthname of this girl, Caramella; it now conveyed the vicissitude of innocence, womanliness, and passion. The fact that her master gave them new names was the greatest act of mercy he could possibly bestow them; for they were enabled to use the old life as fertilizer for the new, without ever once having any memento to stir the ghosts lingering at this criminal act of violating human rights.

After placing a hard grip over his girth that he had taught her, she twirled her tongue around his cock, still too hesitant to look him in the eye, however, as she was taught he preferred. She massaged his balls as she worked him, and his palm increasingly hardened down with force upon her head. He continually pushed her down over him more until she heard a low, drawn out, but soft drag of his breath.

"Ahh…that's it, come closer to Papà and get warm."

So she did, and as he huddled her a bit between his legs, she relished in the heat of his sculpted thigh against her arm. But more than this, she favored the great heat at his crotch, suffusing around her at her most vital spot to maintain the warmth. She lifted her torso more as she sucked him off, wanting to not waste any bit of the sacred heat, and to that end, teasing him out slowly so to prolong the moment.

She pleased him well this day, not caring in the slightest to suck up, along with his cum, the bit of smegma he had collected under his foreskin. He watched her clean him thoroughly, drink his fluids like wine and immediately translated it in his mind as an act of worship. He laid his shriveled dick upon her face, enjoyed beholding that doing this had little matter to his slave, as she concerned herself more with maintaining her own heat provided by his. In fact, she simply laid her own face into his crotch, still holding onto his thighs.

"Come here," he breathed, and without much of her own recognition, he pulled her from below the elbow, urging her to come up.

She of course, followed suit, especially with the additional application of force to the roots of her hair shafts as well. He dragged her into his lips, letting her feel a withheld passion he had maintained during her literal lip service to him.

Just as he kissed her then, so he did now. It was in the midst of their intimacy during the Saturnalia that Caramella's mind had dozed off to these memories, and that one specific memory of the many she shared with him now from those dreaded days. Again, she visited the thought, the one she had wondered before—if being upstairs now, free, was any better than what was experienced then.

Something slipped in her mind between then and now, between what was experienced and what was yet to come. Her intoxication may well have left her prone to delusion, but her heart told her it was real. It was a bratty thing to say, that this treatment now, as his pet over his destitute slave with hardly a pot to piss in—was somehow equal in rank. If there was any time to prove this to her, it was there, in and of itself within the entire core principle of Saturnalia.

Freedom, as in going back to what her life once was, was too big of a wish to be granted. It would be like an impoverished child in an underdeveloped country to ever hope for adoption into an established, western civilization. What could be taken was this—what was the value in freedom really? What was her life before anyway, except for stress, uncertainty, constant conflict and hopeless prospects? Why was this not a blessing, or the best she could get? Her life was now decided for her, she was taken care of—safe from the cold world, safe from what was worse than this without any doubts—the dungeon. The relative freedom could not be denied.

Having nothing, or suffering, left a person hardened. It left one ready to leap and appreciate what was given to them. And what was given to her now, in this very moment, was the warmth of a bed and what lay beneath her, satin sheets thoroughly entangled with her master's knees. She tasted the tang of the alcohol on his tongue this time that he kissed her, welcomed the high bridge of his nose pressing into her own. She felt his hand pin both of her wrists, but the rough skin of his own against her soft flesh felt more welcoming than ever before. It all only made her press into him harder, lean her small breast into his diaphragm.

She could hear noises coming from Secco somewhere distant, likely his continued celebration of being the king of the event, but nothing could preclude their impending love making. She melted under him, so when she felt his other hand prising her thigh to open, it fell below him like a poorly garrisoned fort. All sensation melded into one, and Caramella fancied she was above rather than below, yet here she was, all the same, completely rooted under this man that was meant to be her maker rather than lover.

She felt an unlikely moan escape her lips and into his own; it felt so good to feel him please her, a feeling so foreign—something she never imagined could feel so satisfying. Her mind trailed off with images of the last moment of intimacy they had spent at the beginning of this event, where it was all four of them, and he had orally pleased her, made her cum even. Her eyes opened slightly, and she shivered with the memory and the knowledge that it could very well end again just as it did before.

The old, familiar feeling of his organ prodding at her entrance revisited her, and she clung to him as she felt him enter. All this time she avoided his gaze, one she knew well was probably locked on her. But when he entered her fully to the hilt, she was finally left to come face to face with him as he tilted her chin up.

"Master…" the lust was hardly hidden in her voice now, and Cioccolata knew this. He knew it better now, having felt her fluid permeate around him, invite him in deeper.

He shushed her gently, letting his lips trail along her ear, before adding, "Not now, you needn't call me that now, tesora." His Italian made a pause along the second syllable of her pet name, continuing in a low lull, "Call me simply…Cioccolata."

On this cue, he unpinned her wrists, as if even acknowledging himself that he had no right of this usual, preferred containment. But her arms still lingered above her for a bit, until his thrusts into her became deeper and more determined, as though he were attempting to fish something more out of her soul than what he had already previously harvested these past couple months.

It was like this that she found her hands trailing over his bare chest, feeling past the curves of his sculpted figure, and soon following, moaned a gentle, "Cioccolata," into the shared lusty atmosphere of his bedroom. How she had ended up here, she did not recall. One moment they were engaged in their usual games for the events, at the time a variation of "twister," and the next she was being carried away in his arms. All she did know was that it must have been decided abruptly, on a whim. Given the drunkenness shared by all, there might have been some accidents, and perhaps an accident could be attributed to this turn of events.

"That's it…" he drawled in his own drunken stupor. As much as just a little bit of alcohol could affect the inexperienced young girl, she witnessed Cioccolata's energetic habits during these festivities, and couldn't understand how he could even hold himself up nor have carried her.

He seemed so perfectly capable, despite how truly wasted he was, that it hit her with a note of unexpected sadness to think that this attention he gave her was anything less than genuine. But with her breast being enveloped now in his hands, and her tightening legs around his hips, she couldn't spare it anymore room in her mind than anymore she could spare in her pussy. She needed him to fill her utterly until the building conflict in her uterus was convalesced.

Suddenly his pace changed, as this was common for him of course, but in no way was it foreseeable to Caramella, who, up until this point as of late, had only experienced brutal and nonconsensual thrashing from him. He had steadied himself on his knees firmly, pulled her back into him, while also tugging down at the roots of her hair at the back of her scalp. Her face inclined, exposing her neck to him then, and he suckled it, leaving love marks upon porcelain white skin.

Caramella was rocked into pealing moans as her body bounced off Cioccolata every time he pushed into her. She couldn't comprehend how it could feel so good; it juxtaposed her overwhelming prior abuse by his hand. There was no consolation in what she was feeling, not even that tender look in his eye, nor the tilting of his pelvis executed to please her clit—but everything in her inexperienced heart manipulated her into the notion of him caring for her. Denying such, as it stood in this ingress of passion, was like debating an established truism—nothing could be gained by it.

Before she knew it, her arms were wrapped around him, as she strived to pull herself deeper into this foreign whirlpool of tenderness—not something she had known long in her life, and certainly not from him. But the reward in it all was so grand, something worth competing for; the elixir of life. She heard herself crying out as she released under him, yet it sounded far away and more of a dream than of reality. Heavy intoxication was known for producing this notion, even without the contrasting psychological dilemma she was posed with, as a possession of a depraved mafioso. Even still, her grip lingered into his shoulder blades, afraid for what one might call the cessation of their short-lived love making. Her orgasm held on for about as best it could—fifteen seconds—and it was enough time for him to fill her himself within the interim.

She knew he had roughened, smacking into her softened cervix, yet she didn't flinch anymore. She knew there was a pain around her waist, the feeling of his palms and thumbs girdling her, yet she only arched her back in more. There was no resistance emanating from her as he made a mess out of the cave between her legs. Instead, she only welcomed the warm fluid that filled her deep, as her grip on him and the sheets slowly became less fixed.

She drifted away in the direction of her departing bliss, not without mouthing the name of Cioccolata twice. And he didn't need to hear her enunciation, for he read the four syllables just fine on those small, arousal induced, red lips.

.

25, November 1999

Only a woman ever thinks that sex ever keeps a man, and despite all the universal reason circulated among the softer sex, they operate by this faith in man's heart, spurred on by the native passion that rests in all. It can be applied literally; it can be metaphoric. What it can't be however, is a truth, for that would imply that the notion is far more than a hypothesis, has been tested and proven over varying circumstances again and again. Even at best, it could not be described as a correlation. As all matters of the heart, when it comes to women, there was nothing but feeling and intuition, and in a world where Nature decides that man be the ruling force, these were not facts but phenomena whose only value was to add color to such facts. It was therefore complimentary, just as woman's purpose was to man.

While this could all be applied to a broader worldview, the reality was that there was no wider world outside the walls, forests, fences, and all other boundaries of the estate. The world was only what Cioccolata deemed it to be in his slave's minds, and, for a sex he deemed as weaker than himself, he would not speak on the outside world with them as much as he could help it. In fact, if he ever felt the urge to confide, he found that comfort in doing so with his subordinate, Secco. Even though he served him, his status, being that of a man, was still higher than the female slaves.

The slave who already appeared to have the highest favor, Caramella, was not unlike most women in the regard that she fancied delusion in the face of hard facts. It was something that she of course, could not help in herself, given the added vulnerability of her present circumstances and mental state. No matter how much wiser she might have been, there was this biological fact that she would always be faced with, and, removed from the ingenuine constructions of society, her womanly instincts became ever more clear.

So to speak, she returned to the Holy Mother within, that feminine spirit which is said to be present in all on account of the blood passed from mother to daughter, so on and so forth until all share the source entity. It has been said that women who unlocked this potential, were the very poor maidens who became ostracized in any given society; and the full weight of the theocratic system fell upon their bosoms. Threatening indeed, for this sacred knowledge in women has been the driving force behind man's fervor and passion, as well as their violent efforts of defense for their kingdoms and progeny.

True hell for women came not when men relinquished these efforts for self-preservation, but in fact, when men stepped down, and allowed subversive forces to bend and manipulate the tribes into modes of life and ideology which placed itself worlds apart from the command of Nature. The awakened woman was the embodiment of Nature, and she is most pleased when men serve to protect her; in exchange, she grants man life and the privilege to carry on a biological legacy. And yet, not one thing present today is symbolic of this old order. Thus any man, and better yet, woman, who takes a hostile stance against Nature is one who is doomed to lose.

In no way is it clear, nor is it being hinted, that Cioccolata felt to be one in league with Nature's will. Even the doctrines of what is or isn't natural is a point of conjecture in this subversive age. The best that could be done would be splitting hairs, but even to ask the man himself would induce a torrent of justifications that would lead all back to square one. The habit of mankind was to bend truth to whatever fits their narrative, and in a world where "good" was pronounced "evil", and "evil" was beheld as "good" by the masses, the truth came with no easy pickings.

Even still, this did not mean that Cioccolata's viewpoints were wrong per se, but that his interpretation, which was obviously of a negative sort, casted a dark, somber, and twisted hue over the patterns he witnessed of the world which were indeed, facts. Psychological pathology in no way helped the matter, and we are left with someone who has become lost, or "of" the world which, no one can deny, is closest to horror and atrocity, than of peace and joy. In some sense, this made Cioccolata the physical embodiment of Nature at its worst.

If anyone should like to experience the greatest nightmare, as well as the paradoxical greatest dreams, they should like to be born on planet Earth. One would argue that it is the cruelty of life that makes it so beautiful, all for those glimmers of beauty and humanity in between; and that same argument can be twisted around. In just this paragraph can be described the budding awakening of the girl Caramella. Where her master placed more emphasis and validation of the cruelty of life, she found herself placed in the beauty and hope. Even this observation, was an undeniable consequence of her sex—again she falls for intuition, feeling, delusion, over what is to be dubbed empirical—the facts.

Again, even this may be dragged out further, however. Was the solution to the question a choice on landing upon one end or the other, or was it a meeting somewhere in between? Was it possible to observe both pain and happiness, and not come to a conclusion about the world in the flavor of either two, while at the same time, without offering a talking point symbolic by nihilism? Better yet, one might want to beg the question as to why we often interpret the pain, and yet jump at the very hope of joy. When we decide that there is still happiness to be found, for whatever reason, this observation often drives us to conclude that life is indeed a positive and worthwhile experience. Why do we shudder at the thought that the opposite may be just as true? Perhaps it's natural after all—it may be instinct; and evolutionary biology has something to say in way of explanation.

This was exactly symbolic of the situation these girls, and all future girls, would find themselves placed in. The sudden leap toward kindness, whenever perceived. The longing to ascribe any slight show of care on the part of their master to that of "love" or "respect" for themselves as people. It is this thought which explains why Caramella would fall into the same mentality. After the passion they shared on Saturnalia, it made sense why she would. After being so intimate in a way that felt more to bear each other's soul, so she thought, that she would somehow "have" him.

It was not the case so much in the sense she was subconsciously hoping for. However, could the fact that it was true in another sense, not be interpreted as a victory?

One thing that hasn't been mentioned thus far, and should now be detailed, is the physical examination Cioccolata conducted on both women after introducing them to their new living quarters. In the antechamber of the estate, was a connecting room which was made up into a sort of small office. True to the image that an office would conjure, there were a few filing cabinets, and a long desk which ran from the entrance to the bit of feet that stretched to the opposite end. Two rolling chairs were placed there, some foot or more apart. All this aside, there was one thing that stood out somewhat in this office of otherwise professional trappings—a large stool placed between the chairs, but against the wall. And no, it was obviously not the same, nor did it resemble, the small foot stool that met a hard fate several months before.

This physical examination, so Caramella found out, turned into a psychological one as well. It might as well have been called a general exam, but even that wouldn't be so true to the idea. Having known this man intimately, it was far too personal now to be called strictly business.

She found herself placed in the chair in the deepest aspect of the room, with Cioccolata seated at the one closest to the door leading out, to be expected. He wrote on a paper before him, but the girl spent no time watching him, however. As much as she did wonder what he was doing, at this point, she almost felt as though she had needed his permission to stare at him; fear kept her from doing so. She instead focused her eyes upon the wood paneled walls, although there was nothing much in the spirit of adornment she could behold and even feign preoccupation.

Like a young bird making a premature departure from the nest, the girl was petrified; her eyes were hardly adjusted to anything other than 3 stone walls and one row of iron bars, the still ether gray and black which imbued filtered light with a tinge of hopefulness. Suddenly, to pass through luxury of the very opposite caliber that was her master's dungeon was a startling profundity into her captor's character, one she could not have foreseen. Stepping, close behind him in what seemed to be a palace fit for a king, or at least a retainer, made the girl woozy, as each hurried step left her feeling that she was inching herself closer to the terminus of reality.

It therefore was a relief for the, at this time, unnamed girl, that she should use the interval of silence to replay the images of extreme opulence in her mind; for the luminosity of this alone was enough to strike all the color and sensation in her blackened mind much that it does when shrouded in a pitch black cave. Each light on the spectrum was like a bone being thrown her way, one which her mind was too eager to catch; it grasped the images too tightly in its hold, that the grappled phantoms of the image slipped away and back into the dark chambers, leaving her to scramble in their memory.

All this was to say that dear Caramella was zoned out, and this served her captor well, as he wasn't one that enjoyed being interrupted. He was, however, the type to interrupt another since it doesn't interfere with him in any way, and thus he brought the girl out of her thoughts by interjecting with his own.

"There wasn't much at all that I needed to add to your chart. You see, you probably won't remember by now," a hinted smile now flitted over his lips, "but I've already taken your measurements long ago."

That is, even before he introduced her to the dungeon. Cioccolata found himself unable to resist at least a noninvasive examination. She was, after all, his first girl on his otherwise new, untaken project. Not only that, but her small and petite frame left him internally salivating with the infinite desire to crush her beneath him. Just one look at this little anthropometric chart he had compiled on her had him reliving the moments they had shared in his training, and the yearning he felt for more, new experiences to be had with her. The excitement, the thrill, the karmic pull. Yes, this all left him all too curious for what the future may hold.

Although, some of the thrill in it all was witnessing the intensifying handle his pet seemed to have on him, rather than the usual, other way around.

Caramella finally looked into her captor's eyes, and the dazed, groggy air she maintained gave her the bravery, in effect, to absorb him wholly. Not one thing was lost by his acute perception, and he was already pleased with her demeanor and where this was going. He realized that one thing he could update however, was her weight. And thus, this was the first thing he took before anything else was conducted.

After looking over his measly documentation, he commented with a brief sigh, "These past few months have taken my mind off things. It's been a relief for me, truly. But now…what of it…?" He drummed his fingers upon the desk, looking as though he were absently giving voice to his thoughts.

She didn't know what he was talking about, and given the beauty of his home, she could find no reason for why he would need to take his mind off anything. What could possibly be so distressful for him, in his life? But the better question was, what right had he to speak of the past months events in such a way, only concerning him?

To this, Caramella had nothing to say. She simply stared blankly, observing the specs of dust in the shaft of light which fell betwixt them suddenly, and fading in and out like a dying pulse.

It should come as no surprise that despite Cioccolata ever and always being the lady's man, he never actually had what could be called a single, loving relationship. Everything that could be noted of his relationships were casual, sexual, short-lived. If they ever even gave a hint of growing serious, he would head for the hills. However, more often than the former was ever the case, he nipped them in the bud and threw himself back into his work. And yet, ironically, it was in the midst of the fruition of his work that he had come closest to what could have been a successful relationship for any other man.

And that experience itself seemed to be the looming shadow over the point where he had lost all. It was but a single instance, but it left him bitter. Given that it happened only once, it wasn't quite possible to assess the circumstance as if it were a pattern; he hadn't a way of knowing if it could happen again.

As shocking as it may be, even a highly intelligent madman like himself did not possess all the answers. Like a loner of a man who resigned to his uneventful fate, he settled on "man's best friend." A dog, in other words, Secco. Not really, but he is, again, a madman, and this was the closest to his definition of his companion. In doing so, he at the very least, collected all the health benefits that one normally saw in the owning of a dog; let alone the added intelligence factor of such a being serving as his accomplice. This was safe for Cioccolata, he had concluded. Just this…

He continued now, taking note of a sudden awareness of his drifting thoughts, "When an aspect of our lives is absent, we begin to feel a void. I've felt this now, for over a year of my new life." When he said this, there was a reflection of his features that almost seemed to bear emotion, and yet, the display looked too orchestrated, and in this fact, lacked depth.

The young girl observed his features as his low tone seemed to vibrate the air between them, lulling her into a heightened awareness. Her eyes trailed over his limbs, his crossed legs, but ultimately, they never strayed long, too fixed on what he would say next.

"I understand that it's a hard transition for you but trust me, it's the only way it's going to work out for both parties. And nonetheless, I'm still taking care of you. You may have your own feelings regarding it; perhaps you're feeling a void now." His palm now rested over his crossed thigh, and he seemed to curve his body slightly closer toward her, saying gently, "But you'll adapt like all humans do." He smiled now, as if this were all the greatest assurance he could give her in the world.

Her eyes drooped to the floor, an implication of just how truly desperate his "reinforcement" was taken by her.

Cioccolata droned on, his tone changing to one of the daily custom of sarcasm, "It's certainly a learning experience for us all! This is my first time, for one." His eyes rolled seductively, and she felt the same, familiar heat rise in her once those green irises settled on her squarely. They shot into her like razors, and as such, prompted her into taking a defensive body language. She crossed her arms, holding each tightly in her palms.

"I see that I'm unsettling you…we'll diverge from this topic for now." He thought to accomplish this by redirecting the focus to Nocciola. "What should I do with your friend? I'm assuming she's your friend by now, anyway." He paused, gauging that her shoulders did indeed expel tension at the mention of the other woman. He enjoyed the display, it proved to him just as it did for him countless times in his experiments, just how primal and self-preserved all people are. "I'm not too fond of her. Regardless, I'll be taking her up today as well when we're finished here," His last line came out with some exasperation, as if it were a task he was not feeling up to.

Some silence ensued, and just when Caramella's breathing recommenced with some normalcy, Cioccolata destroyed all hope of the returning composure once he spoke again, "Secco doesn't want me to put her down…I wonder if I should just hand her off to him as his playmate. That'll be a joy to watch, and he certainly can benefit from a regular lay."

Her stomach flipped, and she felt the heat rise leave all over; without a doubt, she had also gone pallor. Her light eyes darted from one aspect to another in the brightly lit room. The urge came on so suddenly—to wish she could be back into the familiar blackness of the dungeon, where, at the very least, shadows hid her dismay. And God only knows how horrid she looked by now; she hadn't seen her reflection in over 3 months.

Soon she was distracted by Cioccolata rolling closer to her in his chair, and with that, the dread crept over her. She only quickly assessed his expression, only in a blink of her heavy lashed eyelids did she have enough time to note a boy-like, sinister expression. A memory or two flitted through her mind in that instance, reminding her of a schoolboy stalking the weak, innocent girl he was ready to pick on. It couldn't be argued that this scenario was any different.

By the time he had overtaken her, she had resigned her neck at an angle, so that her face only could stare down, as if she could do little more than wait for the blade to fall. All she could hear initially was his quiet breathing, a slight change, a heavier exhale, and next, his fingers graving over her neck. He tugged the golden hair behind her ear, then let his touch descend her long trunk only until he had reached her collar.

The gesture seemed romantic enough, and his words added to it, "I've wondered if I should allow myself to succumb to what I feel. Maybe I should just settle with my two catches, take you as my mate, and the other Secco's."

At each harder put enunciation, she felt his breath hit the nape of her neck, and even this gesture brought her back memories in the dungeon, with him as close as this, if not closer, inside, and…

But the dark memories couldn't last long when eclipsed by the light of his statement. Some foolish version of herself within her leaped at the proposition, the idea that her captor would not do what was done to her and her companion to any other women, and, better yet, that he may treat her with the amount of decency and humanity befitting one you would call a mate.

It wasn't exactly the first thing on her list that she would have wished for, but she knew very well by now, that liberation would never be an option. With that in mind, one could only scramble for the next best things—treatment.

And to only heighten her hope, as well as her embarrassment, Cioccolata's low, sensual voice rang out again, so close to her, he said, "It turned me on like nothing else to see you, countless times, so weak beneath me to the point that it was all you could do but to keep your legs open. I could see the anguish on your face, how much work it was for you to even so much as tense around me. And peculiarly, I noticed that you only spread them wider in response." He paused, and rightfully, for it was a lot for the now flushed red adolescent to absorb.

Now he resumed his descent with the back of his index finger, running along between her breast, and noting that here too, her pale skin was flushed and effectively heated. "Your submission to me has not gone unnoticed. I only want you, tesora."

The words hit the final note in her delicate, softened mind. It didn't take long to rationalize everything, his treatment of her thus far, his clear preference for her based on the fact that he often trained her himself in the dungeon. As much as the wiser half of her would have thought this all a lie, for whatever reason, she was taken away with this one.

What scared her was that she couldn't understand why. What was making her so hinged on seeking his approval, and what was leaving her almost salivating at the thought of being only his favorite?

Her eyes finally released their absorption with the polished wood floor, as if his words suddenly gave them the liberty to move within their orbits. She looked up at him, at his equally light, lipochrome pigmentation and saw there, at least she thought, a genuine passion. Though every marker inside of her at any given time may have warned her it was a lie, she looked past it, to the clear hope in the horizon with her one-way eyes.

He correctly analyzed the state of her mind, knew very well the look of trust in another, and was then, ready to pounce at the opportunity; the mere thrill of the chase, so they say, left him digging in his heels, with only a little bit more…

He hardly contained himself, that old familiar tingle took ahold of him—beginning in his lips, hands, chest, junk, thighs, feet, and lastly, his mind. Albeit, it wasn't nearly as a convulsive as some others he had felt, but even simple manipulation on those so gullible had an unending appeal. He entertained it whenever possible, at every opportunity and whatever the cost; all with the same tenacity that he displayed to get his dick in a bitch.

The only tell-tale sign of his cunning was the slight, but still noticeable mannerism of his. It escaped few, in that beholding it was quite a difference in expression than his given marble-like composure. That is, few emotions could be read by him, and in fact, none at all. And few things in the world could hardly bring him to a genuine smile, as sad as a statement that may be. What his lips displayed now was a parting, a slight revelation of glistening enamel, a gentle exhale, and the slick grazing of his tongue over the most inferior portion of those visible extensions of his skull.

Having the effect of nothing else but the awareness of time, interval, the inhale, exhale, and the passing of one cardiac cycle in between, Caramella knew herself to be privy to all. His proximity to her only grew, and with it, the heat. She only became slightly aware of his other outstretched arm and elbow resting upon the desk; if it meant breaking herself from his hypnotizing glare, the spell it cast, those very lips that, in themselves, formed their own chains to hers, then no other detail was worth noting. And then, with the sharpness of his nose eclipsing her own, far inferior to his in comparison, left her with the somewhat painful feeling of her heart strings being stretched a bit too far.

At the wrong moment for her, while at the right for him, Cioccolata exclaimed, "Gotcha!" But if this wasn't bad enough, he had also slammed the palm of his hand down into the desk, the one belonging to the same arm she had only briefly recognized had strayed from her beforehand.

The thud that reverberated from the wooden desk was nothing compared to the dub that she felt, almost heard within her own mediastinum without the aid of auscultation. This fact was conveyed in the rush of pressure she felt in her temples not long after the fact. Distress was not a quality for which she could subdue as often as she had previously tried, not in the wake of such unexpected environmental conditions.

It was again, a pleasure for the maniac in front of her to observe, and he burst into a sickening snicker, leaving the victim's emotional pain as a worthwhile expense. It was this that was always and ever again the conclusion one could gather from the cruel twinkle in his eyes; nothing in the world was too serious to him—not when there was so many little things, seemingly unnecessary ways to bring about his short lived happiness. If he was the one who didn't have to pay the toll, then the price was always worth it, no matter how high.

And even in this clear manipulation of her, obvious bullying of her own sensibilities, did he keep the ball rolling in his direction; like a child, the game never ended. He lifted his palm, revealing the smashed wings and carcass of an unfortunate type of gnat. A single brow of his raised at her, the shadow of his smirk still evident in the dimple of his cheek, and he spoke then in defense, "No, I wasn't talking to you, dearest."

He motioned his palm once more as if this was all the proof he needed for his innocence, but one thing that was clear to the girl was that he was talking to them both—as unsettling as it was to be compared to an insect. This doubt revealed itself in her eyes, in the slight grimace that escaped her brows, and the man laughed yet again when he recognized her scowl as he wiped the gnat guts from his palm with a tissue.

Somehow, Cioccolata knew how to both set a mood, and ruin it.

"My, what quick reflexes you have. And the look on your face! What a darling," he added, before joyously swiveling back toward his portion of the desk and, taking hold of the pen once more, noting something—likely what he had just observed. Absently, he then added, chuckling, "But nerves of steel? That you would be lacking in."

When he had finished, which was, with the quick pace of a penmanship belonging to a man who was accustomed to paperwork, he resumed his conversation.

"I see that you're skeptical, but I truly didn't mean to startle you. I happen to get quite an itch that must be relieved whenever I spot one of those things. I've swatted enough of them from childhood on to this day to rack up an entire serving of daily protein, maybe more." He inched himself closer to her once more, though at a much more conservative distance than before, continuing, "But I don't need it." He paused then, only to smile mischievously, and straighten himself while at it, "I get plenty of that, as you must have already noticed."

The point was clear, and her eyes couldn't help but linger over the definition of his arms—those biceps brachii whose substantial bulk and flex couldn't even compare to the weight of the man's ego for who they belonged. That, given the weight he had in muscle mass, therefore, was truly worth a sigh. And to make matters worse, Cioccolata flashed a knowing smile with the slight angle his neck held his face in, which only washed over her the memories of the sight of his bare chest above her, and at the branding press, with a flush just as crimson as the cross indentation of the brand itself.

Cioccolata wanted to comment on it, but he would spare the girl his teasing as an act of mercy for his evident favorite. At least that wouldn't be the object of his jabs. He gratified himself instead with a slow, dragged out exhale, inhaled anew, then concluded, "You are what you eat."

Speaking on this new topic, he opted to steer the conversation into a new direction yet again; he was clearly ever the antsy one today, understandably. A big day was ahead of him, and more big days to come.

"On that token, you certainly are a nothing. Secco hasn't been feeding you too well during your training." He shook his head just then, as if Secco follows his own whims and does not do only what Cioccolata orders him, thus, distancing himself from the responsibility.

It was true that both slaves were not fed properly, raw slabs of fresh meat made for them plenty a meal. And so, Cioccolata was tickled by the temptation to let this girl in on the method to his madness. In ignorance, one might think this was just another antic of cruelty for him, but much like his homicidal tendencies, there was a clear logic and reason to why he did what he did, and it was separate from his base desire of pleasure.

Some might call it an excuse. He called it reasons to justify his actions. The sole reason for keeping his slaves, and future slaves, malnourished during their training, was to decrease the likelihood of impregnation. Surely, and especially in the case of an adolescent, the body had better things to do than be bothered with his strings of sperm. As sickening as it was that his mind resorted to starving the women as a sound contraceptive method—over the ethically established methods at that—no one could argue that this was shocking coming from him.

The thrill, he reasoned further, could be found in that slight possibility of conception. He was ever fascinated by it, and excited to see if any of his slaves at all, present or future, would conceive and carry full term his demon seed during his dungeon games. If it happened, then what a fit woman she would be! This was another experiment in itself, as it turned out.

He couldn't help it when his black lips, therefore, curled anew into an animated smile. He had a feeling that the thought had never crossed the young girl's mind, even still, he resisted the urge to convey this fact. It wasn't the time, nor the place…there'd be another opportunity. Besides, he needed to save some awful surprises up his cross tacked sleeves.

Caramella knew not what her captor's ominous smile was about, but she also didn't bother much to attempt to figure them out. He often did this, gushing to himself as if he were trapped in the fixations of his own internal world. Given the circumstances, and all that she had been made aware of regarding his character, it was perfectly logical to appreciate that this was a man who had no choice but to indulge a hidden, private world from the eyes of humanity. And as the latter was surely one for which stirred the foundation and provided for the source of his hatred, his mind was his own cushion; his thoughts, his only solace.

Yet it wasn't long before his attention was finally goaded back into the present, in the physical realm. His eyes, at first appearing to be staring right at her, were really fixated above and around the top of her head. Unfortunately, there was no esoteric explanation to be given for this occurrence, and the explanation as such was not profound. Simply put, there hovering above the girl's head was either the cousin or the mate of the fellow who had met the pressing of Cioccolata's palm.

Suddenly, and understandably, the girl grew hot with the intensity of his glare, though she did not share the knowledge of why he was staring so. When the wheels of his chair suddenly lunged close to her, she braced herself the only way she could, squeezing her eyes shut, balling her fists, and pulling them to her chest. She felt the swish of cool air over her scalp, his arms above her head, another loud slap, but no touch of his hand upon her being save for, perhaps one tendril of her golden hair.

"I apologize, tesora. It was just another nuisance." He affirmed her sweetly.

The relief was heavy, following the fear that was slowly leaving her chest. Already she felt exhausted with this meeting, the heart pain and jump-scares he was putting her through was enough for one day, especially after all she had already put up with for the past couple months.

He scanned over her face and aspect yet again, this time, almost as close to her as he previously was before. There was a mocking smile on his face, and again, he seemed satisfied with her reaction.

"You didn't really think I was going to lay a hand on you, did you? Never." It was another affirmation for her, presumably, yet it did not seem as genuine as the first and was even an outright lie considering past evidence.

Luckily, the subject was changed yet again, but this time, he did not back away toward his portion of the desk, nor inch any closer. "Hm," he pondered for a second, before adding, "Maybe they're attracted to you; you haven't exactly had a proper bath."

And it was true, she hadn't. The best she and the other woman got was a bucket of soapy water, at times thrown upon them, and made to clean themselves as if they were livestock. Good behavior seemed to elicit time in a small, portable, wooden tub. Bad behavior however, which only happened with Nocciola, was rewarded with a splash of cold water, Secco's animalistic fucking on her while Cioccolata watched, recording and beating his meat with some added commentary. The thought of a proper bath was a luxury at this point, one she now understood many took for granted.

Cioccolata didn't leave her to dwell on these memories for too long however, he spoke again, this time catching her attention more with some food for thought.

"I do find it odd. There was a problem with them for many years here owing to the fact that the original owner of this estate was a wine distributer, among other things…" He trailed off, expertly leaving out the detail of the man's relation to him.

Caramella was almost entirely mute for the whole discourse, as per usual. Apprehension left her with not much to add, as well as that she knew better than to speak unless she was directly questioned. Comments were to be kept at a minimum. But now, she was questioned by her master.

"You've not seen the casks down there? That little dungeon I've created for you was once a wine cellar, you know."

Caramella was taken aback, swung back into reveries which she'd rather now leave dead and buried. There were quite a few barrels of sorts down there, along with a couple in her own cell, but there was definitely a noteworthy cask within Nocciola's cell across from her. It stood out only from the old, bold, pantone typeface spaced vertically along the base, reading, "Ferrante."

"I have," She spoke, and the tension of her nod matched the meekness in the tone of her feeble voice. Hardly making eye contact, she granted him only quick, frosty blue glances to his face, finding the engagement of conversation with him more challenging than the atrocities she was made to endure.

And the man let it drop, so it seemed. She was met with silence, and no other indication for further disclosure until a sudden interrogation ensued. Cioccolata reeled himself in, slowly and with the deliverance which implied only a serious change of events. Her intuition spiked, and she felt the change in the atmosphere that could do nothing to belie the gravity of his aspect, the way, once his knees practically interlaced her own, his palms dropped to his lap and folded with a determined intention.

The trepidation grew more severe when he ordered her to look at him. Already, this had to have been worse than the last time he was so close to her in this small, mock office.

"Tell me now, have you noticed anything else down there…?" He put forward the question with a gentle but knowing tone, and it flung her thoughts into a hopelessly tipping cognitive helicoid.

She spent some time, some mere seconds thinking, but given the sudden question and the severity in his bearings, she opened her mouth prematurely. Before she could utter a sound, he paused her, this time gentler, with, "Just think about it."

After about a half minute of silence, Caramella's recall sped up, and she remembered events not pertaining to her training or Cioccolata's nightly visits. Just like that, her mind was clear, and it quickly passed over all the days and nights she and Nocciola bonded, speaking to one another from one cell to the other. This wasn't the significant detail in it all, however. What was significant now, was the recollection of the most recent occurrence down there, one that particularly stood out.

In truth, Cioccolata was not expecting to be revealed anything to confirm his suspicions of what had, in this point of time, had only happened, or at least he had noticed, 2 days ago. And so, when Caramella revealed to him now that only very recently, she did notice some activity not belonging to him or Secco in the dungeon, he knew his paranoia, and its subsequent results, were not exaggerated.

It took some time sorting through the details, though not too long. It seemed that Caramella assumed, peculiar as it was, to have been Secco and him, but she dared not raise her voice or show any sign of concern. The utter darkness of the dungeon, whose contents were only revealed through Cioccolata, cloaked these strangers within the pit of his estate. Indeed, Cioccolata was God around these parts, it was only him who declared, "Let there be light!"

…Only in this situation, did that circumstance come back to bite him. If there were at least a nightlight, perhaps she could have made out the faces of the men. He could assume, given his position, that he could easily find out who the men are given a physical description, but even then, there really was no guarantee.

The other possibility to consider was whether Caramella was hallucinating a sound, a presence. Although this was his first experiment of the nature with these women, he understood this phenomenon to be especially common in those faced with starvation, and the degree of emotional and physical stress/trauma he had placed on them. At any other point in time, he would have attributed this revelation as just that, with not even a modicum of belief.

What changed things now was the matching of the timelines from the morning he had made the discovery in his kitchen. Understandably, the girl's sense of time was out of whack, if not altogether absent. Complete darkness for most days had this effect. Even still, at just guessing, which Cioccolata made every effort to patiently pry from her, Caramella indicated that it must have only been a few days ago at most. Given that this situation had only struck him two days ago, a few days ago at most fit the timeline like a puzzle piece.

The most interesting piece of this story, as he understood it, was the fact that these men saw Caramella. Apparently they had a flashlight, and for that moment, her little world was illuminated—until the unlucky trajectory momentarily blinded her in the lenses. For Nocciola not to have noticed this, having always been the noisy one, could only be assumed that she was knocked out. This was no surprise, as her condition was at its worst during these final days there. If Cioccolata had waited any longer to take them up, she might have just died, and during these last few days, Caramella did wonder if that limp and motionless body in the adjacent cell was just that.

Her blinded state, having all to do with the severe lack of stimulation to her photoreceptors, gave all the time and more for these unwelcome guests to see for themselves all that they needed to, and thus slink away. Talk about being, "blinded by the light."

"Poor, beautiful things." He added, belying the agitation he felt inside, not so much for her condition but by the fact that there truly was a couple assholes who had made themselves too comfortable in his home—enough to rummage through the contents of his fridge.

His thumb gently grazed her right orbit, making known the object of his comment. It might have seemed, for someone else, a caring gesture, however, Caramella did not perceive it in such a way. There was something about the way he said it, that gave a sense that he imbued her visual organs with more concern than the organism for which they belonged—all with a sense that the organ systems were separate from the being. He never failed to come across in such a way; it was clinical.

After assuring her that it would not happen again, as well as reminding her of how much "freedom" she will have now that she's an "inspected and certified pet" to keep around the estate, he began to wrap things up with her. He informed her that they would meet again, in this room some days later, after she and Nocciola have had proper meals to build their stamina, to conduct some further "examinations," as well as fitness tests and a physical. She didn't want to think about the latter; she could only hope it was a professional one given how many "physicals" she already had with him at this point.

From then on and afterward, and toward her entrance into the section of the estate for which he had promised would be her and Nocciola's dwellings, Caramella's world was completely transfigured relative to the previous dreadful transformation. It was there, in these high ceilinged quarters, supplied with their own primary living arrangements; kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms—along with those for their pleasure and convenience—where the two women would share commiserations, and soon enough, the addition of more of their kindred who would join them in their song of sorrow.