Chapter One

Jacob

Blood and spit.

It drizzled from her still-red mouth. I didn’t like it. But I did. It confused me. I fucking loved the way her insides dripped on me, pooled into my navel and sloped down further. But it made me sick too—twisted in the head for liking her pain and misery. Pretty little Tanya, my father’s favorite for a while. But now he had a new girl; he had to make room. I don’t know if I loved the idea, or if it terrified me, but it didn’t stop me from being here, enjoying her pain and the slickness of her bodily fluids. Although I found pleasure in this, nausea rumbled through my belly at the same time. Besides, I didn’t have a choice but to be in this room, just like her. My father controlled everything, even the life and needs of his son.

Suspended above me, Tanya swung in silence on little meat hooks—the ones Dad had pushed through the bolts installed in the delicate flesh of her back. She’d screamed. I stayed silent. And then I came all over my dirty, stained sheets, my hips twitching and flexing as I humped into my hand. Because Dad asked me to, yelled at me to, and beat me if I didn’t.

You like treating them like whores. That’s all they are, son. Whores.

So I did. Palmed my cock, jerking, twisting, and pounding until the sickness over watching his little toys in pain didn’t make regret eat at me. Until their screams sounded more like pleasure to my ears than agony. Then, I took a step further into the darkness, exactly like he wanted me to.

For a time, this toy belonged to me.

She was pale and dark-haired, too dark for my taste, but she had other qualities. When her eyes weren’t swollen shut, they were the prettiest gray I’d ever seen. And she teared up so nicely. Now my father was done with her, about to toss her away, but I wanted her a little longer. It was what he expected out of me.

“That’s my boy,” was all my dad said. He stared at me for a few minutes, his brow furrowed, an eerie smile on his face. He wanted to make sure I enjoyed it. Dad wanted me to need this shit to live. Maybe I did. Maybe I was more like him and less like the man I hoped to be. But then, I didn’t know any man but my father, so it was stupid to try. My father walked away and didn’t say anything as he shut Tanya and me in the room together.

My toy didn’t cry or shiver away from me, and it irritated me. My father taught them to be afraid, to bow down. But she didn’t, and it made me angry. So angry. I released my cock and jumped to my feet. It bobbed in agreement as I curled my fists. The bite of my nails into the palm of my hand was surreal, but it planted me firmly in the moment. My father had taught me how to deal with unruly toys: deliver a beating so she would know who was Master and who was the slave. The first hit went a bit wide, grazing the top of her head, but the squeak of the chains welded to the hooks was sweet. I swung again, harder this time, and caught her right on the cheekbone. Enough pain made anyone give up, I’d learned. She moaned. Better. So much better. I laughed until my stomach ached, and then kept pounding until her flesh was black and blue, ripping her little puncture holes and making her bleed all over.

Fucking served her right.

I hate myself.

I was my father’s son—born and bred in the blood of his victims. And the sins of the father would be mine too. As her warm blood slid down my skin, I laid back underneath her. Forgetting the hate, the sickness, only pleasure swelled now. Her blood met my twisting fingers, and it made me so … wet.

“Yes,” I gasped. Perfect. So hot. So good. It was sloppy and dirty. Nasty and filthy. And it turned me up so high, my little teenage heart almost thudded out of my chest. But there it was, the final moment, the weightlessness in seconds where I was only pleasure.

My cum mixed with her blood and spit.

Pretty. Ever prettier when covered in our mixed fluids.

The sins of my father most definitely belonged to me, but I couldn’t stop them now.

Her body hung frozen-still long before I saw what I’d done. For the first time since I’d stepped into this final room, the death glade, I could see it. My father had built this concrete room to be solid and soundproof. The windowless room was dark and gloomy, deep underground. A single, bare bulb swung overhead, yellow and dirty in its age. Father had put in four different stations where he killed the toys he didn’t want anymore. Tanya hung in station one, the Hooker’s Place.

The next station held a large, glass tube about ten feet high, with manacles attached inside at the bottom and to the top, underneath the lid. The chains connected to the iron bracelets could be adjusted from the outside to make up for the height of the victim standing inside the tube. Once one of the toys was strapped in and the lid locked down, water would be slowly pumped in from a hose attached to the top. The Witch’s Redemption. The device was my father’s favorite to use. They screamed for hours while they were in there, begging for him to free them, but he never did. Not until their bodies stopped twitching.

The Bitch’s Punishment was right next to it. My father had fashioned a working guillotine he used to quickly break the women who irritated him the most. At first, I found it odd my father gave the worst slaves the quickest deaths. Wouldn’t it be better to have time to watch the piece of shit die, to enjoy their demise? But, to my father, a quick death amounted to the greatest insult. He didn’t even want them, even in death. They were unworthy of his final act of need.

The last station was where my father began everything, and where I, too, had my first taste. The cold, metal slab had ties for the wrists, chest, head, and then stirrups for the feet. I’d lost my soul to a toy as she bled out into dirty, white buckets from the deep gouges in her wrists. I masturbated and finished long before she died, and my father stayed with her for hours afterward, but I didn’t stay to see. I threw up every time I remembered it.

A whimper pulled me from my thoughts, and I looked up at Tanya, hanging motionless and dead. The whimper came from me. The ache in my chest swelled outward until I swallowed the tears. I spun and ran from the room, pounded up the stairs, past the sounds of the crying new slave in the above-floor cells, and into the house. My father wasn’t in the main kitchen, thankfully, and I breezed through to my bedroom. In seconds, I stripped off my jeans and was running to my adjoining bathroom.

My father said every man needed his own time and space after he dealt with a toy. I welcomed it now. I turned the water as hot as I could stand it and climbed in. My flesh burned, and the steam choked me, but not as much as the wracking sobs I fought to keep silent. I’d killed her. With my own two hands. Covered in in my own semen and her filth, I enjoyed it. My father and I were the same. My tears pooled with the muck at the bottom of the shower as I fell to my knees. I would never be clean enough.

My father told me my regret for killing toys was on account of my weak constitution passed down to me from my mother. I was stupid and sickly, but he’d fucking make me into a man if it was the last thing he did. But my mind couldn’t keep up. It was fractured. Lost. One side of me needed these victims. The side he’d beaten into me needed their blood, screams, and deaths. The other side of me mourned their loss, wondered if they missed their families, and cursed the day my father had even come across them.

But I was as bad as him. Nothing would ever take away the hell I’d caused or the fucked-up shit I’d done over the last couple of years. How could God forgive the Devil’s son? I was a piece of shit, worse than the slaves, yet I held their lives in my hands.

“I wish I could die.”

It was a worthless whisper, from even more worthless lips, but it didn’t stop me from praying for it.

“You done sniveling in the shower, boy?”

“Yes, Father.”

“You handled the toy well. She was getting too broken in. You have to deal with them like horses, son. A stallion gives the best rush, but after a while, you’ve snipped his balls and taken all the fun out of him. He won’t buck even if you try to make him. He won’t try to bite you and will follow your every rule. When he gets too compliant, you’ve taken everything he could have been. It’s better to put him down. Do you understand?” He glared at me as I sat down at the table, the smell of blueberry Pop-Tarts wafting to my nose.

Those were my favorite.

My father got up and grabbed the sweets as they popped from the toaster and brought them back to the table. His dark eyes scanned me before he slid them on a plate and handed them to me.

“I understand,” I said.

“Once you’re finished eating, we need to get rid of the body and clean up down there. If you want to have your own toy, you have to know how to care for her. And I’ve brought you a real pretty one to learn on.”

My heart thundered in my chest. I couldn’t stop the happiness coursing through my veins at the mere mention of my own slave.

“You caught me one? Really, Father?”

“I just said I did, didn’t I?” The irritation in his voice dampened my joy.

“Yes, sir.”

“I got this toy because you are ready to capture your own yet. She’s a looker, with perfect blond hair and bright eyes. She has probably fucked plenty of guys before with the body she’s got.”

A blonde. I’d always wanted a blonde. They were the prettiest girls in the whole world to me, with fair skin that easily bruised. And he got me one. All for me.

“Can I see her?”

“Not yet. I need to break her a bit before you can handle her. But she will be a good first toy for you once she learns the ropes.”

“What’s her name?”

“Alana. Alana Masters.”

Alana Masters. My first toy. A blonde. Perfect. So perfect. I smiled wide.

“Thank you, Father.”

“Good boy.” When he smiled back at me, the darkness inside of me—the monster he’d made sure I was born with and cultivated every day—waved in greeting. Morals clung to thinning threads of my fear, but the monster would still rise. Right now, it stretched and unsheathed its claws, eager to use them.

“Did you fuck the toy before you killed her? I saw the marks on her throat. A tough way to kill anyone, and you held on, but she was dry between the legs.”

I swallowed. “No. I was already in the process of masturbating when she didn’t make enough noise for me. I was so mad I beat her until she was bloody and then finished before killing her.”

Lying to my father was impossible. He could smell it in the air, the perfect predator. When he narrowed his eyes at me, I knew I had incurred his wrath.

“You haven’t fucked one yet. They’re whores, boy. You fuck whores until they’re useless. You beat them until there is nothing else to beat. And then you destroy them like the filthy animals they are. How many times do I have to tell you this?”

“I understand, Father. You also told me a man gets his needs as he sees fit. I like to beat them, hear them scream, make them cry. It turns me on, their tears and blood all over me. I like it, I enjoy it.”

“No man turns down the chance to get laid unless he’s a fucking fag. You a fag, boy? Huh? Is that what you are?”

“No!”

My words fell on deaf ears. My father was already on his feet and lunged at me. His fingers wrapped around my throat faster than I could get away. I couldn’t breathe. The Pop-Tarts in my stomach tasted sour as I struggled to breathe, to fight back. But he was too strong. He cleared the table, sending everything crashing to the ground with his free arm, before slamming me on top of it. Then he was jerking at my belt, wrenching it from my hips.

“I didn’t raise a fucking faggot. But you want a man, hmm? Don’t want to fuck like a man should? Let me show you what it’s like.”

My mind went hazy and black dots swam in my vision. I was barely there as my father flipped me over, pressing my face into the rough table. At least I could breathe, but it was only to gather enough air to scream. With my pants around my ankles, my boxers ripped away, I was exposed and bruised to my soul.

He ripped me in two.

“Take it, you piece of shit. Hmm? Take it all.”

I don’t know how long I screamed. Or when exactly my voice wouldn’t work anymore. I don’t know how long it took before my tears stopped coming because there weren’t any left to shed. Or even how long it took before I realized I was as much a toy for my father as the women in cages. Sooner or later, he would destroy me as easily as he did them. I would never be like him, no matter what he did to me. But I’d survive, by whatever means necessary, and then I’d find a way out.

I would do anything to never know such agonizing pain again.