Diabolical

WARNING: will contain MENTIONS of psychological/physical torture, but nothing intense or gory at all.

Summary: An espionage universe where the bad spy gets caught by the good spy; Clyde endures punishment during his imprisonment, slowly losing his mind to his interrogator, Vanta.

*****

There's a thick darkness that coils his mind, obscuring his senses and making it difficult to distinguish his surroundings. Clyde initially remarks on the thrumming pain coursing in simmering waves throughout his body; he aches everywhere, from the splintering headache (or is it an injury?) to the sensation similar of searing his bones down to the marrow. A low moan of pain builds in his parched throat, making way across his tongue, which he can taste blood upon, and trickles past his equally dry, cracked, bloody lips.

After realizing he has been beaten mercilessly some time ago, Clyde attempts movement. However, a simple tug of his arms proves unsuccessful— he's bound securely, and to his absolute dread he knows the chance of escape is little to none. His body feels bare of his hidden gadgets, but oddly enough, his bones are so heavy he sags against the binds holding his arms high above his head, causing them to bite into his wrists. His arms have lost their nerves long ago, serving as nothing but useless, numb limbs.

Clyde's inky brown hair is tousled, greasy, and hangs as an unruly curtain over his stormy gray eyes. He realizes that he's surrounded by an eerie darkness, a cold, dry darkness that allows not a single source of light. Assuming he's located underground he tries remembering how he has ended up in this situation. It hurts terribly to think, but the faster he figures out his position the faster he may be able to find a way out, if that is possible.

The beaten man isn't given a chance, for a door in the pitch darkness suddenly opens, startling him. There are silhouettes of a woman and two muscular men flanking her through the blinding light. 'Ah,' Clyde nearly chuckles in self-pity, bitterly so, but manages to keep his lips sealed, 'now I remember.'

Bits and pieces of the last few days probe his mind and he remembers clearly why he's bound and injured horribly. He's been exposed of, taken, and beaten; he's been caught red-handed, and no excuse will get him out. He's drawn back to his surroundings as the silhouettes move forward, mockingly so. Memories of the beatings— no, it isn't beatings, it's torture, memories of the torture inflicted on him makes Clyde smirk at their fail at breaking him.

Somehow he knows the bitch is scowling at his reaction. He watches her shadowed arm extend out, snap her fingers sharply, and the cell he's imprisoned in is illuminated brightly, too brightly. His thoughts are proven correct at the charming frown pulling her slightly tinted salmon pink lips that are luscious. Clyde realizes it's chains that are binding him, holding him up in the middle of the room, and he's kneeling, unable to move more than a foot forward.

"Having fun?" he is still smirking, and that deepens her scowl. Her voice is mellow, saccharine, yet lilts deadly; it reminds him of the soprano singers his grandfather listened to on an ancient radio. Despite its sweet coating there's always a bite to the words spilling from those tempting lips. Clyde will admit that she's an exquisite goddess, even if she is his opponent. She takes a taunting step forward, and he finally takes in the garments she's donning, which doesn't help his situation.

Sheer black leather is tautly drawn over her body in a provocative jumpsuit; it clings to her like a second skin with sleeves that stop at the elbows, the bottom as spandex shorts, and a golden zipper running down the length of her body (which is pulled down just above her naval). He can see a black mesh underneath that reveals the absence of a bra, black thigh-high tights held up with a garter-belt, and a pair of black leather boots stopping above her knees along with matching leather gloves. She is a stark contrast against the too white room; she's a mark against the stinging white walls and floors.

Everything of this uniform accentuates her mouth-watering physique— perfectly rounded, generous breasts that seem about to spill from its hold, deep curves, flaring hips, toned legs, rich, waist-length brown locks pulled in a single, curled tail, and vibrant green eyes that seem to glow within darkness. Of course someone with such beauty has to be the enemy; it's nearly comical on how much this resembles a cliché spy film— the attractive hero-spy falling for the attractive enemy-spy, in this case, it's reversed. However this is no laughing matter, as much as he wants to laugh it off like a dream. When the woman crosses her arms, it brings his attention back to her figure, to which he is openly ogling at without shame. The click of her heeled boots has him tensing in anticipation for pain.

"We're going to do something different today," she outstretches a gloved hand to one of the men and is handed a leather crop. Clyde's eyes widen. Previous days he has been merely beaten by the two men as the bitch interrogates him. He can't help the streak of fear rooting within him as the woman sharply slaps the end of the crop within her gloved palm. She is displeased, very. Unable to get answers out of him is proving difficult, and now it has come down to some...extremities. "You can keep this up, Mr. Stavings, or simply give in," she is cold, colder than Oymyakon, as she stares down at him with a face devoid of emotion, save the deadly glint within her jade eyes.

The man doesn't need words to show his rebellion, his silence is enough to prove that he won't leak a single word. Her eyes narrow dangerously. "Have it your way, but I will break you," she takes a step forward, but is stopped when a voice echoes in the room seemingly from everywhere.

"Agent Vanta," a warning, yet having a teasing lilt much like the woman's, and an English accent, but male, comes through a public announcer built in the ceiling, "need I remind you that we need him—"

"Alive," the woman, or Vanta as she is now named and known to Clyde, finishes, "I know that perfectly well, but who says I can't have...fun?"

'And you're supposed to be the fucking good guys, yet here you are torturing an enemy spy, like you're the evil bastards,' Clyde nearly rolls his eyes.

"Let's try this again," and the questioning begins. The crop is placed underneath his chin and Vanta lifts his chin up, a delicate hand on her hip, "Where is the location of Savage?"

He spits at her beautiful, cold face, and the spittle lands just below her cheek bone. She doesn't even flinch, but the two men inch forward, yet she waves them away without looking and the men return to their spots by the door dutifully. The woman raises a leather gloved hand to slowly wipe her cheek clean, all the while staring into his gray eyes. Her face is empty, impassive, a blank canvas, but eerily so. Suddenly her hand flies out at his face and his head snaps sharply to the side. Clyde hisses at the stinging needles of pain sprouting on his entire side of his face. The leather glove does no justice to suppress the hit, it heightens it, unfortunately.

Vanta harshly grips his chin, pressing the length of the crop to his throat until it is sure to leave an imprint. He swallows against the overwhelming pressure, staring into her icy eyes. "Where," her gloves creak as she digs her fingers into his face deeply to engrave trenches, "is Savage?"

"Eat shit."

She moves so quickly— the crop strikes out against his bare torso, and instantly, an angry red mark swells between his pectorals down to his sternum. He gives a startled yelp at the painful explosion against his skin. It's hard enough to hurt, but not enough to draw blood...yet. "I can keep going," that she does. For the next two hours, the same question is repeated until it goes into one ear and out the other. Each time Clyde 'incorrectly answers' he's rewarded a painful strike. Sometime during the interrogation, Vanta orders the other men to strip him to nothing but his skin and haul him up; the chains pulling into the ceiling and bringing him to his feet, his toes brushing the floor.

He's covered from neck down to his ankles with marks, each one throbbing hotly in torturous pain. Inky brown hair plasters to his pain-screwed face, sweat beading across nearly every inch of his body as he tries hard to keep conscious. This is usually how the interrogation ends, with Clyde blacking out from the pain, but each time he seems closer to succumbing to the comforting darkness of unconsciousness, he's sprayed with freezing, jetting water from a hose connecting to one of the corners of the room; somehow he's missed that fact. Now he's rigid, shuddering uncontrollably, and his subconscious is telling him to just give in. He can feel his mind slowly breaking, beginning from small fissures that will eventually implode the walls he's built. His head hangs as he catches his breath, while Vanta circles him predatorily so.

She grabs a fistful of his hair (he's taller than her as he hangs, already being half a head taller than her when standing), yanks it back painfully, and presses the end of the crop to his throat. "Where's Savage?" her growl gives away that she's losing patience with his uncooperative manner, and he never feels more satisfied than now.

"I thought you said you were going to break me, sweetheart," he chuckles breathily, knowing that's the final pluck to her strings before she explodes out on him. When she releases him, Clyde expects a blow to his face that will knock him out cold...but she retreats a few steps. He curiously peers at her through his dripping curtain of hair, watching as she cocks her hip to one side, a hand placed on that side, and her face pulled into pursed lips of irritation.

"We have as much time as we need to break you," with that, Vanta spins on her heeled boot, hair lashing out, and walks away with her hips swinging. The two men follow after her, leaving him in total darkness. It's not until he can't hear their muffled footsteps when the words truly sink in; she isn't out to make him talk, she actually wants to break him. Suddenly all the pent up emotions surge through him and he lashes out uselessly, screaming out until his throat burns.

. . .

It's two weeks that he's left completely alone in this coiling darkness. He can't see anything (his eyes can't even adjust to this unnatural darkness), he can't hear a single sound besides the slight movements of his chains and himself, and this sensory deprivation is slowly driving him to insanity. He can't even have simple social contact, for they've injected an IV that gives him his daily nourishments to keep him alive, and he's naked for the whole time he's in that prison.

Somehow he's managed to keep his toned body, even from the lack of real food. Finally, after two torturous weeks of solitary confinement, Vanta returns with the same two men dressed in equally white clothes. Clyde is first cleaned thoroughly from the wastes he's had to release, and then he's facing the stunning woman, who is in the same black outfit.

This session is no different; this time the man manages to endure three and a half hours of the beatings. Sometimes she just circles him in utter silence, the heels of her boots echoing in the room. It slowly drives him to a certain degree of madness until he is torn between telling her to stop walking or nearly begging the woman to say something. Having the men watch on as he's brought down by a woman is humiliating enough, but now he doesn't care, he just needs someone to say something to him, before he might be the one to say something. And then they leave just like that. Clyde is furious with himself once more.

Over the time span of three months, he continuously endures the torture of solitary confinement, sensory deprivation, and being restrained, which is slowly breaking him, just as Vanta wants it. He's so desperate for any kind of social contact that he looks forward to his interrogation sessions. He is able to survive six hours of Chinese water torture until he breaks into a panic attack of hyperventilation and hysterical weeping; having spectators just staring at him and questioning him on himself instead of Savage drives him into an indescribable terror and panic.

The room has been both hot and cold enough to keep him up at night, but not kill him, they somehow discover his phobia of hospitals and purposely transform his prison to that of a hospital room, ultimately sending him into another panic attack, Vanta abuses him emotionally and when she is gone he had breaks to pathetic tears. At times he is forced into stressful positions for hours on end until he can't feel his body. Overall, the torture is undoing him, until he is just a shell of the once, prideful right-hand man of Savage.

Today is different. As soon as the door opens and the light snaps on, Clyde is alerted. He doesn't flinch at the sudden brightness, nor when he sees familiar boots come to view. He is kneeling, arms and ankles chained. At any given moment he's about to give in and spill all information he's holding in his breaking mind that's a crumbling wall, and he won't be surprised. The riding crop also comes to view, and he unconsciously trembles at the sight of the leather. Just when he expects it to strike him on his naked body, he watches as it slowly nears him. He shudders when it presses lightly into his throat, almost teasingly so.

Vanta slides the crop end down past his collar to his sternum, and swivels its path to his right pectoral. In a torturously slow manner, she circles the end around his nipple. Startled at the sudden sensation of pleasure contrasting all the pain he's endured, Clyde gasps, snapping his head to eye the woman. Her face is in its signature blank canvas, but her actions speak otherwise. She presses lightly into his nipple, earning a grunt, and gives his left nipple the same treatment. She knows how to play the game; he's so desperate for freedom from his imprisonment, from his loneliness, from everything, and now that she's conveniently before him, he has no choice but to depend on her. Soon, he'll be nothing without her.

The crop continues its path down to his slightly rippled abs, caressing them, and she sees his hard erection standing on end. She has him where she wants him. A myriad of emotions crosses his face, ranging from confusion to anger to denial of pleasure. Vanta will make him beg, and so she teases the twitching head of his prick, rubbing back and forth on its weeping tip, up and down the throbbing shaft, weighing his sac teasingly. Within minutes Clyde is having extreme difficulty keeping his moans in. She suddenly pulls away and leaves, and the broken man nearly shouts for her to come back. He doesn't even have his usual anger tantrums at himself, he can no longer deny himself.

Vanta doesn't return for three days. "Sit him down and secure him," her voice radiates raw power and commands the two men who bring in a white chair. Her voice makes him shudder in thrilling pleasure and he's instantly aroused, thick cock rising in proof. He sees a spark of approval sprint in her eyes in affecting him and a vine of self-satisfaction grows within him in pleasing her with his reaction, but he quickly chastises himself. The two men haul him, sit him down, and clasp his ankles to each leg, which is spread fairly wide. Clyde doesn't even fight, because it's useless. "Are you ready for today, Mr. Stavings?"

He doesn't answer, but instead of being hit as he usually is, Vanta raises a boot-clad foot and places it before his standing erection, supporting the weight of her leg on the edge of the chair. "I said," her sweet voice pierces him, "are you ready," her boot grazes the underside flesh of his erection and he jolts in surprise, "Mr. Stavings?"

Not knowing how to answer he merely nods, not trusting his voice. "Very good, Mr. Stavings," she places more pressure on his shaft and begins to stroke him. She questions, all answered with a false 'I don't know', or just silence as she continues to stroke him. The brunette woman keeps this up for half an hour, torturing him when he's severely close to exploding, but stopping completely, pulling away, and then returning to her ministrations when he calms down. He's close to begging her to let him come, but then one of the men hands her a whip, an actual whip made to lash at animals and slaves.

"W-Wait—" however, no pain erupts, instead she expertly snaps the whip out and it wraps around his throbbing, hard cock, bringing a slight sting but no more. His words choke and clog in his throat as she pulls it up and it strokes him like a hand would. The tighter she pulls, the more closer he is to the edge, but she never lets him be complete. The pleasure is unbearable, blinding him and clouding his mind. The room is filled with his shameless moans and grunts, but Vanta isn't going to let him come.

"Answer me and I'll let you," she's so persuasive he almost gives in, but keeps his lips sealed. Frowning, the woman releases him completely.

"Wait, no, please don't go!" Clyde desperately begs, tears pouring, and face pulled in pleasurable pain. "Please, please, please."

"You want to cum?" she takes a step forward and he has hope. When he nods eagerly, his chin thumps against his chest. He's so hopeful, like a child and Vanta nearly smiles. "Too bad," she leaves him again and he cries in anguish. This routinely sexual torture continues for three weeks; she comes in to tease him, bringing him to the teetering edge of an unimaginable ecstasy, but never finishing him off. Each time he begs pathetically until he has lost sense in whom he is. All he wants, all he needs is to have a release.

They don't even need to tie him up anymore, he won't escape, and he willingly stays. The only time he's chained is during his interrogation, but even then he doesn't have the will to force himself on Vanta, because he enjoys being restrained; that thought hasn't crossed his mind. "From now on, you will call me Mistress Vanta," he doesn't need an explanation why, he blindly follows her order. "Do you understand, Clyde?"

He eagerly nods, looking up at her from his kneeling position. "Yes, Mistress Vanta." She is still the cold beauty he has come to know over the past four and a half months.

"Now, let's begin."

It's a blur of teasing and denial of his pleasure as he begs, begs, begs her to let him come. She will run her hands through his hair roughly, coming up from behind him, and forcing him to make eye contact with the two nameless men as she pleasures him, push his face into the wall or floor, wrap her fingers around his throat, lash him with her crop repeatedly, and completely abuse him until he's a mess. The idea of a woman, of Vanta bringing him weak to the knees is thrilling; he's absolutely fascinated how effortlessly she can make him painfully hard and aroused as hell. Being bound and unable to resist her makes his blood rush to his head all the more. She's an addicting sin.

"Will you answer today, Clyde?" he loves the way she sweetly says his name. He's instantly hard, moaning as she stands before him.

"No, Mistress Vanta," he answers quietly, almost shyly.

"Any why not, Clyde? Don't you want to cum? I'm sure you do; we've been at this for so long you must be willing to do anything to cum, right?" Vanta tilts her head and speaks with him like he's a child. Clyde shakes his head fearfully.

"I can't, Mistress Vanta, I'll be killed."

She growls "Not if I kill you first," and slaps him hard. He grunts, licking his lips at the sweet pain blooming in his cheek.