Breaking the Luna **Trigger Warning**

Emma’s POV
I come round on the floor of my circular cell. I am grateful for that, as I am not sure how much more my shoulders can take before they dislocated.

My hands are still attached to a chain by cuffs round each wrist, the amount of silver means they are designed for a shifter, so very thick and heavy. I am still naked except for my knickers, but they aren’t my knickers. I left the house this morning, or whenever it was, wearing comfortable cotton pants, I am now wearing heavily soiled white lacy ones. I hadn’t realised I could feel more violated until then.

Pain is in my shoulders and arms, lower legs, and my mate mark is burning. I check and it is looking red round the edges, a lower key version of how it was before I accepted Peter. Other than that, I feel surprisingly good, glowing almost. My nipples are erect, and I feel really turned on. I remember what happened before I passed out and my core trembles.

Shit, that is not right. I get a grip on my breathing and start trying to think about anything except how my body feels. I wonder if this is how teenage boys feel when around girls.

I struggle to my knees and take a good look round. The first thing I notice is a large, covered bucket to one side. Well, that is a relief, I don’t have to find a corner in a corner-less room. Near the bucket are some more knickers, identical to the ones I am currently wearing, so I take the opportunity to change into clean ones.

Looking up I can see the daylight sky, direct light currently reaching about two thirds of the way down. I guess, that depending on where the light travels, I should at least be able to work out if it is morning or afternoon, and now I know I have been here at least a day.

I continue working my way round the room, and about a foot from the door, and at the edge of my reach is a covered tray. I pull the tray towards me and under the cloche I find a cheese sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of water. The tray and cloche are a type of paper or cardboard, so nothing I can use as a weapon or to free myself. My stomach growls, communicating its displeasure, so I hunker down and eat.
…
As time passes, I start to feel worse and worse, nausea cramps my stomach, I feel anxious as if an attack may come at any time. My heartbeat is erratic. The more unsettled I get the more I pace. My mark is itching, and I find myself scratching until it bleeds.

It is late afternoon, I would try and mark the wall like an old-time prisoner, but the chain leash doesn’t allow me to reach that far.

During the afternoon I have tried repeatedly to reach out to Peter or any member of the pack, to no avail, depression wars with my anxiety, but slowly I feel the anxiety fade, along with the nausea.

There is a clanking and ratchetting sound, and my arms are being pulled upwards again. I have no desire to get a grazed bum, so I get up and move to the centre of the room. The sound stops, and while my hands are high over my head my feet are still flat on the ground, my weight is not being borne by my toes or shoulders.

I watch the door open, and Jorge and his two minions stroll in.

‘Good evening, ma cherie,’ he greets me, the minions disappearing out of sight. He clicks his fingers, and a chair materialises, he turns it round and sits astride it with his arms resting across the back, his chin resting on them. His eyes rake over my body, taking in the clean panties, the healing cut, the scratches over my inner thigh.

The pressure of his gaze has my nipples purling in response, he smiles like a cat who’s got the cream.

I take a moment to look at him. I see a pale individual, like he doesn’t get a lot of sun; he has dark hair, I can’t make out his eye colour, like they are all pupil so black, his lips are very red but thin, and when he smiles, I see a flash of fang. He is tall, maybe six foot two or three, less muscular than Peter, or any werewolf, but appears to have a wiry strength. Like a stereotypical vampire he is dressed in evening dress from the Victorian period… I mean really, and a smirk escapes me.

‘What are you smirking at cherie,’ he asks me.

‘Nothing, just some wannabe goth staring at me.’

His eyes flash red in displeasure. ‘When I have finished with you, you will call me Master like all my pets… shall I tell you why…’

I go to turn my head away, and suddenly he is in front of me, holding my chin, staring into my eyes from inches away.

‘…because I am going to feed from you and inject my venom again and again… then I am going to stop… when I do you will feel it… the anxiety, the panic, the palpitations, the nausea. Your skin will itch so badly you will scratch at it until you bleed, and then keep scratching… I let you have a small taster earlier…’ his mouth sneers.

He lets the silence grow as I remember how I felt earlier, but the feelings faded so it can’t be that bad? Right.

Then he continues, ‘You think that it won’t be that bad… multiply what you felt by a hundred, and you might get close to what you will feel… and I will watch you crawl across that floor… begging me… calling me Master… and then I will unzip my fly and you will take my cock in that naughty mouth of yours… then if, and only if, you make me feel gooood I will give you what you need…’

‘Are you ready cherie…’ he turns my neck and bites.

The orgasm is as intense, white heat ripping through my pussy as it clenches around nothing, spasming again and again. My clit throbs, as I writhe through my release. As long as he drinks my body bucks unable to contain itself. The intensity and the blood loss mean that, yet again, I pass out.
…
Over the next few hours, days, possibly longer Jorge feeds from me at irregular intervals. I have no idea what time it is as each time I come round the time is different, and I spend a period sitting as I come down. Eventually when the pleasure fades, I drag myself to the sandwich, apple and water. I start leaving the apple, then half the sandwich… it is too much effort to eat.

I start waiting with anticipation for the sound of the chain being ratchetted, especially if I have been left long enough for the pain to kick in.

He has been leaving it longer and longer between bites, and I feel like I have been waiting for ages. Anxiety fills me, I pace back and forwards. I scratch and my arms, my skin itching even as I watch blood trickle down them. I scratch harder, trying to exchange one pain for another.

‘Master, please’ I pant to the empty room.

Nausea overtakes me, and I empty my stomach contents, then continue retching. Bile burns my throat, and my belly cramps from the force.

I lay there whimpering, I want him to bite me, I want him to stop me feeling so bad… all I can think is how awful I feel, how much pain I feel… the pain is getting worse and worse… I don’t know how much more I can take… and he can make it go away… stop it all…

I lay there knowing what he will want in return. A blowjob in return for the drug of my choice. A blowjob in return for no pain, just bliss. I just need to give him what he wants.
…
I don’t know how much time has passed. I have scratched and retched and even bitten at my own flesh.

I don’t hear the door open; I hear him call me, ‘Ma cherie,’ caresses my ears, promising relief from my suffering.

I go on to my hands and knees, like a dog. ‘Yes, master,’ I whimper. ‘Please master I need you.’

‘Then be a good slut cherie,’ he unzips his fly, freeing his cock. I can see his hard dick waving in my direction.

I lick my lips; can I do this? I ask myself.

As if he can read my mind he goes to leave. ‘Master,’ I mewl.

‘I am tired of waiting.’

I crawl across to him as quickly as I can. Then reach for him, before stopping. I look up silently asks for permission to touch him.

‘Only your mouth cherie, you may only use that naughty mouth of yours.’

I flick my tongue out over the tip of his dick. I can taste his saltiness already, I circle round, then move forward taking as much of his length in as I can without gagging. I know there is another inch to go, but he is already going so far back

I start bobbing back and forth trying to take him deeper, trying to please him. His fingers curl in my hair, tugging gently at first, then pulling harder. He starts fucking my face, thrusting into my throat, as I struggle to breathe, gagging each thrust.

I feel as his cum explodes filling my mouth, I desperately swallow, feeling sick inside.

‘Good girl,’ I kneel looking up at him, pain and self-loathing warring inside me. Then I tilt my neck, giving him access to bite me, to inject me again.

A tear escapes and trickles down my face… joining me in my gutter.