Chapter 5
In the damp dungeon, only the sound of dripping water could be heard, and an iron chain hung from the ceiling, binding Ryuzaki's hands behind his back. Disturbing instruments of torture were on the walls. Whips, butt plugs, dildos of various shapes, clamps, wrenches. At this time, the light and inaudible footsteps of the man when he came became clearer. His exquisite leather boots clattered on the hard stone floor, and his suit pants wrapped his strong calves. He reached up and lifted the captive's face.
Ryuzaki's sockets were deep-set, the cheekbones protruding, and there were serious bags under the eyes, a sleepy face.
Seven long candles, in a semicircle, are placed around Ryuzaki. The faint firelight scattered in the air, caressing his black tangled hair. This scene was like a cult, but the candles were purely for lighting in the unlit space. And Ryuzaki, who was tightly bound by metal shackles, was the hostage to be sacrificed. His thin lips were bloodless and trembling. The eyes were not covered. Because those eyes—the same black eyes as when he played Ito—explode with thrilling beauty when he suffered from pain.
The man's touch made him sick. But he could neither spit out curses nor curse. He endured everything in silence, enduring the damp and foul air. The man smelled of cologne. At this time, the man took out a brand of flue-cured tobacco from his trouser pocket and lit it.
"(Exhale)"
The sparks of smoke and the surrounding candlelight were shaking, giving people a mysterious and ominous feeling.
The man put the cigarette end into his mouth and took a deep breath. By the time the smoke had burned a third, the unpleasant pungent smell had spread in a space only a few shower rooms in size. Ryuzaki stared at him, there was resentment in his pupils, full of gloom, and some kind of hatred shone, but slowly, the hatred melted away, leaving only the indifference and ice cold ignorance.
That's not anyone, not the painter, Ito or Takuya. But that—is it Rue Ryuzaki ? To see through that indifference, he must be pushed into a desperate situation. It took extreme pain and despair to shatter Ryuzaki's mask.
The man whose face unshown bent down, raised his head, spit the smoke into the polluted air around him, and then pressed the half-burned cigarette butt on his shoulder, where the collar of his shirt just couldn't cover.
Zila-Zhila- red sparks crackled on the skin. And Ryuzaki's expression was tense. Half a second later, his body trembled violently. "—!"
No moans.
The man raised his hand until the ashes seeped into the blood along the broken skin. The head was still there, so it fell on the young man's slender neck, pale profile, and lips. This time the blood seemed to be bubbling from the hole left by the vampire's bite. The bean-sized ink dots smelled of burning.
The man raised his leg and kicked him hard. The blow sent Ryuzaki slamming into the wall, his head swung back and forth, and he bent down. His sitting posture had returned to its original very personal appearance. It was just that this time it was not active, but passively let the knee stick to the abdomen, which was a defensive and fragile posture.
If the neck bone is broken at this time, he cannot resist.
The film hadn't started yet. This was just the beginning of the torture. Long, dangerous, and excruciatingly painful — as he demanded.
The man threw the cigarette butt at his feet and crushed it. He rubbed the young man's bare little toe with his leather shoes, making the bruises there worse. His toes were so crushed that he couldn't get up and walk, but that wasn't necessary either. In the next few days — according to the consent contract, Ryuzaki didn't have to get up.
The man took his weak arm under the muscle relaxant and easily lifted him up. He went to remove something from the wall covered with torture instruments. Pale, slender fingers grabbed it and dangled in front of Ryuzaki's big eyes.
A pair of pliers.
Before the latter tried to struggle, the pincers pressed against his flesh. The nipple on the left was pink and tender against the skin, as if it had never been touched. And Ryuzaki opened his mouth wide, breathing softly.
His head drooped in front of his chest, shaking slowly from side to side, but he couldn't avoid the pain. With wide-open eyes, he must be looking at the metal pliers clamped on the nipples on both sides. Even though there was a layer of soft cloth, it was still squeezed into a ripe red that oozed blood. The other two pincers, with serrated teeth, were held on either side of the glans.
The man smiled happily. His face won't be captured by the cameras, all that could be seen is this vicious, Ito-esque smile. The pliers pulled out a long wire and connected it to a wall plug.
When the power was turned on, the pliers suddenly seemed to come alive, dancing wildly and buzzing. Ryuzaki's body was lifted up, as if being held up by an invisible devil's hand, his arms trembled enormously, as if he was about to break the shackles. His eyes bulged outward, staring at his chest, at the ceiling, and tears oozed from them, his well-restrained indifference shattered in pain. The pincers on either side of the glans discharge towards the fleshy stem and the two eggs. Five seconds later, he let out a shriek, a high, demon-possessed cry that continued.
He began to sob and babble unconsciously while screaming. Please let me go. There are such words. - You know who I am, I can give you anything. –please. stop! stop! –Ah ah ah ah ah! —I tell you, I'll tell you everything, my name, my accounts, everything—stop!
Of course I won't stop.
His body curled up, tears no longer swirled in his eyes, but fell uncontrollably. Tick-tick and overlapped with the sound of water.
It was a strange jealousy – not for Ryuzaki, but for that man. Ryuzaki claims to preserve his virginity. His pale pink ass hole had only been swallowed by a vibrator in the first two weeks and hadn't been opened by any cock. This is unbelievable for a GV actor. But since the last conversation, looking at his face, his eyes, I understood that Ryuzaki didn't come here to experience life, to stimulate, or to relieve sexual desire. He is looking for pain. It couldn't be clearer. Long before filming began, Ryuzaki had already had an erection when he was tied up in front of the wall covered in blood and footprints. He's an out-and-out masochist. Rape could not satisfy him. And I loathe that other men have access to his pure body. Preferably, keep sexual encounters to a minimum.
The rape scene was canceled, or replaced. The wart-covered cock—similar to the one I had him swallow when I first saw him, but thicker and longer, and able to discharge like a pincer.
The man pulled out the pincers, and without giving him a chance to breathe, he roughly kicked his calf, causing Ryuzaki to turn around by himself, put his head against the wall, raise his hips, and put himself in a dog lying position. Naturally, the eight-inch dildo couldn't go in smoothly, but Ryuzaki's entrance had already been propped open. The transparent conical anal plug makes the internal situation clear at a glance, the intestines that have taken the aphrodisiac are scrambling to wriggle, and when the anal plug was pulled out with a "boo", it shrinked in emptiness.
"Uh-ahh!"
The penis was inserted forcefully, followed by frenzied thrusting, the intestinal meat was already expanded enough under the expansion of the anal plug, and the inhuman length was pushed to the deepest part. Every time it was pulled out, it seems to take away his life force, and when it is inserted, the blood that has no chance to clean up was splashed out. Ryuzaki's legs lost their strength and hung limply under his buttocks, shaking like two porcelain white ornaments. His hair, held in the hands of the man, was soaked in cold sweat as the handle of the instrument for penetration.
Ryuzaki endured a period of time when his mouth and pussy were full. From the next day, realizing that the audience was almost bored, I instructed the actors to proceed to the next stage of the interrogation. Yes.
Long, dangerous, and full of pain — just as Rue Ryuzaki demanded.
His tightly fucked back hole was flooded with more cum and injected with an aphrodisiac to activate the sphincter. Ryuzaki either crawled around like a dog, or gave oral sex to men in turn, or drank other people's or his own semen, or licked the urine on the ground, or pressed his head into the water, pulled it out when he suffocated, and pressed it again, Or put toys in public toilets, decorate the whole body like a Christmas tree, or wear silicone clothes to become silent dolls, or be used as furniture, tables or shoe racks. A week later, his head was drooping lifelessly, and his body was covered with layers of scars, even so Ryuzaki didn't stop. Some kind of light faded from his eyes—even though there was no light at first, they finally changed from godless darkness to terror and despair. This must be what he was after.
Pain.
When he played a traitor from a neighboring country and was tortured in a dungeon, when he played a plaything, a dog, a slave, a sinner, an orphan, a villain, a murderer, and was punished by various instruments of torture in turn, one thing remains the same. It was not a genital that stood still all the time, but a certain strong and unyielding belief emanating from him. Although his eyes were cloudy and swollen with tears, their tenacious light never changed. It was said that when captured in a Nazi camp, people lived with similar beliefs. Although they had no ability to resist, they could have a heart of resistance. Such a decisive attitude was the last thing they could control, and it was the only thing that brought them–hope.
Speaking of his sexual response, there was one thing that surprised me. His genitals had been congested for too long, so long that it could cause pain in itself, like a forced excitement. His resolute eyes looked at the void, sometimes showing a blank or angry look. His emotions sometimes got out of control. At that time, he would swear wildly at the air or the invader, but in the next second, he absorbed all the released emotions and turned into that indifferent and arrogant look. Sometimes he was crazy, sometimes calm, sometimes cowardly, sometimes showing the toughness that this age group should not have, sometimes detached, sometimes controlled by the current emotions, shouting or weeping.
I could say with certainty that I saw a kind of madness in him that was even worse than any character he played, an indescribable madness, integrated into the strobe-like incongruity of the old TV, in the occasional rippling the water was churning. If that's what he does on purpose, then he's the best actor around.
When negotiating safe words, I asked for his opinion. And he just said indifferently, Rue Ryuzaki.
Yes, Rue Ryuzaki — because he would never say his own name. When called in this way, it means that the filming is interrupted and the actors return to the real society. This is the best safe word.
Seven nights later, an accident happened.
That happened when he played the scene where he was captured by his sworn enemy and put in a cage. He was placed there, pretending to be drugged and lusted, his penis erected helplessly in a chastity cage, one hand chained to the bars. Ryuzaki thus gained hours of unsupervised time. It took him half an hour to make an ingenious knot, reach through the cage door, hook in the dangling key, and open the cage from the inside.
And that was exactly the problem - his left hand was still chained, so he couldn't escape. And the obtuse angle of the knot or the key could not cut the metal chain. After another half hour, he let the rope go to the gray and white prop wall outside, put a knife on it, let it carefully pass through the gap between the fences, fell to his feet, and picked up the knife again.
I thought he was going to cut through the metal with the knife, but without hesitation - without thinking - he cut to his tethered left arm.
Blood came out almost at the same time. It was not fake blood, a viscous liquid mixed with syrup and red dye, but a real fishy smell, gushing out from the inside of the human body. I froze in place, behind a row of set lights and cameras, still immersed in a dreamlike trance, suspecting that something was wrong with my eyes.
Then I stood up abruptly.
"Ryuzaki!" I rushed over and grabbed his arm, but the young man's sword did not move away. "It's more realistic that way," he said, seeming resentful that I interrupted the safe word. "It's just a show. I'm fine." Even so, the amount of blood dripping from the forearm was really frightening, and the wound that was simply adhered to by blood does not show the extent of the injury. "Ryuzaki, Rue Ryuzaki!" I had to look into his eyes to make sure he wasn't really insane.
Under my pressure, he finally dropped the knife and turned his head away. I forced the eyes to meet again, and found a kind of anger, anxiety, incomprehensible madness and red — a redness that should not appear under the modification of pupil makeup. Ryuzaki looked at the ground.
The filming stopped. Three weeks later, for the first time, I considered formally expelling him, even though Ryuzaki claimed that was the most natural reaction a prisoner should have, and he had his measure.
"You can let me play this. There's no need for a script anymore," he said, his voice cold. "It's not my style to give up halfway. We've already started. In the end, the fortune and the fame are yours, and I will get what I want."
That red color came through again. This time I was terrified, and recalled the murderous intent that I had almost forgotten about him. Obviously it shouldn't be like this. He was so obedient and gentle back then.
"Next time," he said. "If I don't say 'Ryue Ryuzaki', you can't stop the filming. We've made a deal. Director."
Ryuzaki stretched out his hand towards me, all four fingers were bent, only the little finger was straight. He actually wanted to hook me up. With that wounded hand covered with bandages. I dreamily stretched out my little finger and pulled it.
Ryuzaki smiled brightly. He just hooked his hand lightly, then put it down, and put it in his pocket. He fumbled out something from there, a white pill. I was chewed by him before I could see clearly.
"Continue." Imperative.
The ten-day torture made Ryuzaki weak, but he had no intention of giving up. Occasionally, I suspect he has a disorder called compulsive masochism. Fortunately, his physical strength was about to reach its limit, and I still retain the right to expel this monster—or so. In fact, it was his last scene on my set. This time, I will play the abuser.
Ryuzaki was hung up and whipped. This is Ryuzaki's plan.
If this was the first day I saw him, then I would have accepted this position with joy, but now, after experiencing his abnormality, I don't know what kind of mood I should have when facing him. On the one hand, I know that he is just an actor who likes intense sex and pain. On the other hand, I am confused by his contempt for his body, afraid of his turbulent personality and threatening words, and I can't help but suspect that he is in pain In addition, he was still looking for something, and when he gritted his teeth and looked up into the sky, his eyes passed through the dirty air that smelled of blood, and he saw something.
One by one, thread the twine through his body, maintaining his center of gravity, pulling on the bearings, and raising his body. Ryuzaki's head was facing down, and his feet were tied together and hung under the zenith. He was now being slaughtered, his blood flew backwards, and his limbs will be numb in fifteen minutes.
Therefore, I want to control the length of the execution. Control the strength not to make him faint, but enough to make him painful. With trembling hands I picked up a long whip. It was five inches long, the handle leather, and the whip slender. When it is swung, it makes a loud whirring sound, and the force can tear people's skin open. I walked right in front of him, looked up and saw his upside-down face, those black—black eyes. He stared at me lonely, cold, and emotionless.
Rue Ryuzaki.
I said silently in my heart, and then waved my whip. The first hit hit him from thigh to chest.
Ryuzaki writhed like an earthworm, curled up like a seven-inch snake being held, then fell powerlessly and was caught by the rope. A red mark was clearly left on the flesh.
Slapped! Slapped! I didn't tease much with the forked whip tail, and continued to whip. Sometimes it's the full buttocks, sometimes it's the heels of the legs, the nipples that have been tortured to purple, and the smooth back. His body curved between a boy and a man was decorated with red marks, and his beauty was suffocating. The swaying body under the whip, the groan and pain from his lips made my blood rush and boil. I use my last rationality to control my strength.
The gore created long red spots, and blood gushed from his injured left arm, staining the bandages red.
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Ryuzaki did not cry.
His cock was oozing with glee, which made me flap my arms even more frantically. He's a slut, a dog, a plaything, yes, he wants nothing but pain, he plays this indomitable look just to arouse the sadism of others, and two weeks of torture is still not enough to destroy he. To destroy him, it is useless to cut or crush his body, but his heart must be cut from within, or the mask of invulnerability must be torn off skin and skin, draining his monster's blood and burning him in flames bones.
Ryuzaki's tearless face ignited my anger. In that hatred, I unconsciously increased the strength in my hand, without even noticing that his groaning became weaker. His twisting range also weakened, as if he was just being blown by a breeze. After letting out a light, inaudible whimper, his head drooped, his eyelids closed, and he lost consciousness in such pain.
And finally, tears blurred his face.
