🌸Forest Nymph🌸

"It was worth it."

"Huh?"

"Well, you asked if it was worth it – always being perfect. And that I just want praise. You're partly right," – you needed a pause to swallow, wetting your throat a little – "but only partly."

Melon tilted his head, not hiding his curiosity.

"Well then, enlighten me."

"What you asked this morning… I can answer 'yes' to all of it. It's pleasant, painful, frightening. And you know, it makes me feel alive. And also free, even though that sounds ironic given my situation," – you laughed quietly, which triggered a coughing fit, and you hissed from the pain tearing at your vocal cords. – "I probably don't have long to live, but screw it. I walked into death's jaws myself, ran toward them, and there's no one to blame but me, yet I don't regret it. I'm just a fucking suicidal mess – there's no other way to explain my attempts to make you like me."

Your voice was completely hoarse; speaking further was unbearable – the scratchiness made your eyes water – and there was no point in continuing. You'd said everything you wanted.

Melon was silent, it seemed he wasn't even breathing, and that made you anxious. You looked at him, his gaze lowered so his thick lashes hid his eyes. Before your speech, you had a pretty good idea of what he was thinking – probably how to break your neck – but now he seemed… sad? Empty? Confused? You didn't know. But you heard how much saliva had pooled in his maw, judging by how loudly he swallowed.

"Freedom, huh? Interesting…" Melon whispered to himself.

His gaze slid over your body searchingly, from your stiff neck to the pulsing points between your legs, where the tape still held the "instruments of torture."

"How many times did you come?" he suddenly asked, running a claw down your stomach.

The unexpected question and teasing touch made you flinch, your fur standing on end. Goosebumps ran beneath it.

"I don't remember…"

"Apparently enough to lose count."

Melon's smile made you relax, and that was a mistake, because what he did next nearly made you lose consciousness. With two careless movements, he ripped the tape off your clit and entrance.

"F-Fuck!.. Fuck, fuck, fuck!.." you moaned, tears falling, since you couldn't scream anymore.

"Excellent!" Melon laughed, his eyes manic as he studied every nerve, every movement on your face, leaning in so close his nose almost touched yours. "What, feeling alive enough now, huh?"

You broke out in a cold sweat and trembled with something akin to joy when he ran the back of his hand down your cheek. Your eyelids drooped with drowsiness, something unintelligible slipping from your lips as you, as if in a fog that suddenly enveloped you, tried to nod.

Melon kept chuckling, not hiding his delight at how your body trembled and jerked under his hands. Having long since pushed the vibrator away from your clit, he remembered the one still inside you and began to pull it out with agonizing slowness. When the toy finally left your stretched hole, you gasped out, seemingly in unison with Melon. With an extremely focused and admiring expression, he watched as the accumulated juices began to flow rapidly out, soaking the sheet beneath you.

"You look like one of those prostitutes I ordered once," his sudden humiliating comment made you frown and hold your breath, especially when Melon pressed the slick head of the huge silicone toy back against the entrance to your pussy. "She tried so zealously to get my non-working dick hard that, you know, I actually felt sorry for her. She was definitely a new one, and I could almost see the fear in her eyes of how her pimp would… punish her. So I killed her. She was too pretty to eat."

Impressed by Melon's story, whether fictional or true, you felt your muscles clench around the emptiness. You didn't know if it was from fear or because what you heard turned you on, but this reaction didn't escape Melon. He smirked.

"You're so pathetic…"

With that, he thrust the discharged vibrator back inside in one sharp motion, and you arched your back, squeezing your eyes shut, soon writhing and whimpering as his hand immediately set a merciless rhythm, coaxing out the most shameful wet sounds that echoed off the walls of the half-empty room.

"Just look at yourself! I could gut you at any moment, sink my fangs into your throat, shoot any part of you I want, and what do you do instead of begging for mercy or trying to escape? You thrust your hips toward me like a real whore! Is it that you want to impress me that badly, or are you just so sick that you get off on all this?"

If Melon hadn't said it out loud, you wouldn't have noticed that you were indeed moving with his hand, trying to impale yourself deeper and feel the warmth of his fingers wrapped around the base of the toy. Realizing this, you froze and looked away, shocked and ashamed. But you couldn't hide for long. Growling disapprovingly, Melon stopped to tug at the clamps on your nipples and finally remove them. This instantly sobered you, making your sore throat tense again, and you completely lost your head when he twisted the tortured red beads between his thumbs and forefingers, without a trace of tenderness.

"No, no, no, what's this? Has the good girl suddenly become embarrassed? What a pity…"

A click sounded. You opened your eyes wide to see a butterfly knife blade flash within a centimeter of your throat.

"Either you impale yourself on this cock substitute, or on the knife, and believe me, it won't be the handle. Am I making myself clear?"

Your breath caught halfway, and blood drained from your face and limbs at the very sound of that idea. Imagining it meant dying of terror, let alone experiencing it firsthand, so you nodded and with renewed strength – courtesy of adrenaline – began pumping your hips, lifting them almost to the ceiling, which triggered an uncontrollable fit of laughter from Melon. He put the butterfly knife on the bed not far from himself, and although you sighed with relief, you couldn't fully relax.

"You really are pathetic… You'll do anything I ask, won't you? Because you're afraid to die? Or because it turns you on? Hell, maybe it's both? Don't answer," Melon said, breathing heavily, and pulled out the toy, and this, to your surprise, disappointed you. "I don't want you thinking right now. You can fill that pretty little head of yours with thoughts later. But for now…"

Stopping mid-sentence, Melon suddenly freed you from the handcuffs. When your legs and arms were mobile again, he walked around the bed for half a minute, watching your reaction as if testing whether you'd make a run for the exit. But even if you'd wanted to, you knew you couldn't make it to the door. You'd never been strong, fast, or agile, and after a whole day of exhaustion, you couldn't have outrun a sloth. But shouldn't the will to survive be stronger than common sense? You didn't know. Didn't want to know.

Seeing you starting to retreat into your own head, Melon grabbed you by the hair and pulled you off the bed like a ragdoll, right onto the floor, and laid you on your back. You hit your head a little, but he didn't seem to care. His shoe, now pressed against your crotch, knocked the air out of you and pinned you to the floor.

"Come on, cum on my foot. I'm sure you can come from anything, right? If you adore me so much, my shoes should be like an altar for you, something you can die on. So go ahead and die."

Time slowed for you. You looked up at that insane face above you, into those empty yet alive eyes, and understood – he wasn't joking.

First, reason knocked on your skull, reminding you that Melon had been walking in those shoes all day – on the street, on the subway, within university walls. How much dirt and how many germs were on that sole now pressing against your clit? On the heel, nudging the entrance to your wet pussy? Wasn't that disgusting?

No, it was funny. How you still clung to the remnants of your battered moral compass. For some reason, it hadn't seemed disgusting to run after Melon with a list of questions after every lecture. Even when you knew the answers perfectly well or could have Googled them, you wanted so badly to hear his voice a little longer, one-on-one, when the auditorium was empty. While he talked, you'd simultaneously imagine how happy you'd be to be under the podium while he lectured about the war between carnivores and herbivores, or under his desk in his office while he graded homework and took out his irritation on you.

You didn't give a damn about history. It didn't matter what subject he taught – you'd learn higher math or nuclear physics if it meant he'd notice you and you could ride on his shoes. Even if they were radioactive, if it meant you'd see his pleased expression and hear his approving grunt, you'd agree to that humiliation.

So you didn't waste any more time thinking and rubbed yourself against the slightly ribbed sole of Melon's shoe. The insane delight in his eyes was your reward. Moreover, apparently sensing the invisible, dirty connection between you, he pressed harder to give you more sensation.

"I never would have thought I could make someone this happy just by putting my foot on their genitals… You look like you're about to piss yourself with joy, goddamn!"

He was right. Your eyes were watering from how good you felt and how ashamed you were of the pleasure you were receiving. It was a vicious cycle. You whimpered, whined like a puppy, and it was so humiliating, so pathetic – you lay under the foot of a mentally unstable maniac dressed in a professor's suit, and not so long ago you'd sat in his classes, confident this was such a cute, funny, pleasant game, but it turned out you'd been the loser from the start, the victim. The most humiliating part was that you felt you belonged there.

"You're so beautifully broken…" Melon whispered, watching your torment. "Do you think I should try a piece of you? I'm already drooling!"

That's it, you thought. You'll definitely end up in his jaws, if not during your orgasm, then after. There's no reason for him to leave you alive. He'll eat you slowly, and you won't even be able to scream or struggle because you've already exhausted yourself. It'll be a terrible death. You closed your eyes, mentally preparing for this outcome. Maybe you'd get lucky – he'd take pity and go straight for the throat?

"Look at me, bitch!"

The sole pressed into the sensitive bud even harder, and enduring that tight, hot knot twisting in your lower belly was no longer possible. You lifted your hazy gaze to Melon, who leaned down to get a closer look at your emotions, and arched toward the agonizing, all-consuming pleasure. Now you could fully understand the comparison of orgasm to a little death. Your vision went dark, your ears plugged up, and then you suddenly felt as if you'd emerged from heavy, icy water.

Only to meet amber irises devouring your soul. You held your breath, bracing for the pain as he opened his maw, full of saliva and fangs, but instead of a bite, he ran his large, rough tongue from your collarbone, up your neck and chin, stopping at your trembling, dry lips. It was confusing. Wasn't he going to eat you?

"Are you thirsty?" Melon suddenly asked, grabbing your cheeks.

You nodded slowly and incredulously, watching the smile touch the corners of his eyes. He pressed on your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and covering it with his own, transferred his saliva to you. There was so much, and it was so unexpected, that you almost choked, instinctively grasping his forearm with your weak hands. You had no choice but to obediently swallow it. Judging by the pleased growl, you'd done everything right, and he pulled back, casually slapping your face.

You gave me all you could, loved me with the force your heart was capable of. Loved me like I love my things, my clothes, my food. You claimed me as yours. And that was enough for you. But it became the end for me.

You call it peace, I call it death. There were things you never shared, you were afraid, ashamed, and that's okay. The only thing I can't forgive is that you didn't want to give it a try. You were the one who ruined everything, not me. So why did I blame myself and asked for your forgiveness, as if you were saint? You never were.

No money could save us. No matter how much you would give me, it wouldn't be enough, because there wasn't you. I held us both on my shoulders, even if it seemed like it was you who did it.

I tried everything to keep it alive. Being good, bad, sexy, cute, present, absent, funny, serious, feminine, masculine, submissive, dominant, lazy, productive, cruel, kind. I was ready to become anything you would want me to be. In bed, outside of it. To give you a child, to love your family, to never have sex, to never ask for your kiss or hug or kind word. I was so hungry for you and you alone, but still, you denied me.

You said I spit in your soul and made you feel like a stranger. Was I the one to blame? Even now I feel sorry for hurting you, when in fact you weren't offended. When I cried quietly in our bed, you fell asleep just like any night before. When I wanted to die, watching you getting up and dressed, you were okay. When I felt dead, watching you taking away your stuff, all you did was say bye, like you would return tomorrow.

But you never did. And never will. I said awful, dirty, disgusting things about you. And for that, I am sorry for sure. I never blamed you for your personality, but I will no longer justify you with it.

Thank you for giving me this little fairy tale, this time of love, faith, and healing. Without you, it would've been much harder. I still love you, a lot, though I'll never bother you again.

You can’t even begin to imagine how much time has passed. Since the toys shut off, it’s been about two hours, but how long ago did that happen?

It was a relief when they finally died. He left you, your hands and feet tied to the iron bars of the bedframe, blindfolded, with a tape on your mouth. And you wouldn’t have been in such horror if he hadn’t taped one vibrator to your clit and shoved another inside you to the very base, sealing the entrance securely so it wouldn’t fall out.

Before leaving, he chided himself for being forgetful. What had he forgotten? To attach clamps to your nipples and crank them to the maximum, of course. You felt his satisfied exhale on the top of your head as you shrieked from the steel biting into your tender buds. And then he turned both toys on at the highest setting simultaneously… His loud, manic laughter still echoed in your ears. If you could have screamed at full volume, they’d have heard you across the entire country, and if it weren’t for the restraints, you’d have arched your back so hard you’d break your spine. But you thought that would be better than being unable to let your body fully react to this assault.

“How amusing…” he whispered thoughtfully. “You’re screaming exactly like that young lamb I was slitting the throat of last week. Tell me, what’s it like? Does it feel good? Does it hurt? Are you scared? Oh, right, sorry, you can’t say anything.”

Your desperate attempts to break free and cry out to him triggered another wave of laughter, but a moment later, he suddenly grabbed you by the throat and spoke with just his lips against your ear:

“So lie still and learn, like a good, diligent girl. When I get back, I’ll examine you thoroughly and ask the most difficult questions. You’d better be perfectly prepared.”

Throughout all the time spent in this torment, a confusing mixture of pain and pleasure, you seemed to have completely forgotten how to think. You’d scratched your wrists and ankles raw and lost your voice. What the hell would he do when he returned? And when exactly would he come back? You didn’t really care anymore, because you had no strength left for anything except sleep, but you couldn’t even do that – your arms were numb, your nipples ached, your whole body begged for mercy, and you were desperately thirsty. Your throat was so dry it hurt to swallow.

But you heard him. Melon was already here. Cheerfully, almost skipping, he walked down the corridor, whistling some tune. Your eyes flew open in terror and anticipation, but all you saw was the darkness of the tear-soaked blindfold.

When the door creaked, it was as if an electric current shot through your body; it came alive again, and you could now feel every inch, every note of pain, every tiny wound or stiff muscle.

“Huuuh…” His growl suddenly seemed deafening after such a long period of silence and semi-consciousness. “Those fucking idiots.”

The mattress sagged under his weight as he plopped down on the bed by your feet, and your body bounced a little. You heard a rustling sound, like something being stretched. Taking off his tie, you thought. Then came the click of a lighter. You heard Melon take a drag, and a couple of seconds later, exhale slowly. The smell of tobacco reached your nostrils, and you coughed slightly, which seemed to get his attention.

Without warning, he ripped the tape off your lips. You opened your mouth to scream, but he clamped it shut with his large, clawed hand, so only a pathetic, tearful moan escaped you.

“Don’t you dare,” Melon hissed. “My head is already splitting from those goddamn students who can’t sit still and shut up. Is it really that hard to keep quiet when the teacher is talking? Hmm? Show some respect?”

Hearing the threat in his voice, you were glad your own voice had given out. You could only barely grunt and breathe tiredly, and that seemed to please him. At least for now.

“You, on the other hand… You always stayed quiet and listened, took detailed notes, turned everything in on time. Is that because you’re such a ‘good girl,’ or because no one wanted to talk to you?”

His question was followed by another drag and exhale. Drag, exhale. And your silence. With a growl, Melon yanked the clamp on your nipple, and a sharp, stabbing pain shot through you so intensely you feared you might lose it entirely.

“I asked you a question. Be so kind as to answer it.”

“I…” You were shocked by your own hoarse, barely recognizable voice as you tried to push something coherent out. “I don’t know. Probably both.”

“Hah, hilarious. So, teachers’ pet… was it worth it?”

“W-worth what?”

“Being perfect all the time just to please those old, grumpy bitches? You don’t give a single shit about it, do you? The truth is, you’re just desperate for someone to praise you.”

“I’ve never thought about it like that…”

Melon clicked his tongue. This time, he tore the blindfold from your eyes, catching your ear – not drawing blood, but scratching it. You immediately squeezed your eyes shut, then blinked rapidly, trying to get used to the world being accessible to you again, in all its beauty or horror. Your world was now confined to a single person, and he was sitting in front of you in his blue university shirt, staring at you with a dead-eyed gaze. In his amber irises, the flickering lights of sunset danced, and maybe something else you couldn’t decipher. Perhaps he wasn’t even sure what emotions he was feeling himself.

“Alright. Have you thought about what I asked you this morning, then?”

The memory of his questions about pain and pleasure immediately surfaced. Despite the inappropriate circumstances, you felt your cheeks burn.

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

His gaze, still fixed on your face, confirmed his words. Melon wanted the truth, and as quickly as possible. You didn’t want to know how things would end if you said nothing. You only knew you had absolutely no desire to actually end up in the place of that lamb he’d slaughtered. Or did you?

Now, having lost hope of escape or being rescued, you weren’t so sure. How many others had Melon kidnapped and done what he was doing to you? You had heard of him, but had no idea what he looked like. You only knew the rumors from the Black Market about a hybrid who kept the lions (who thought themselves kings) in fear, about how cowardly they tucked their tails and lowered their gazes, how they lined up to meet him and receive their dose of humiliation.

All those whispered conversations among the campus carnivore guys only added fuel to the fire of desire burning in your belly at the thought of this maniac. Melon certainly wasn’t interested in romantic affairs. You were sure you’d overheard something about carnivore-herbivore hybrids: not only do they have issues with taste perception and psychological problems related to rejecting their own bodies and not understanding who they are (exacerbated by social pressure), but their libido is also at zero or below average. It seemed nature itself disapproved of such interbreeding, thus placing a ban on the further reproduction of these individuals.

Therefore, the likelihood that the terror of the Black Market kidnapped and raped girls like some common brute wasn’t just close to zero – it was in the negative. So it wasn’t shameful at all to imagine such things before sleep, wrapped in a blanket with a dildo between your legs, right? They were just fantasies that helped you come harder; there was nothing wrong with that, and it would never go further.

But fate had other plans. Who would have thought that Melon – Melon himself – would turn out to be the history professor at your university? You sensed something was off right away, from the very first class. That mask, that voice, that empty gaze, that predatory walk contrasting with his lanky figure… But how many weird professors are there? They’re usually just like that – well, weird. And rarely attractive. But this hot? Damn, you’d never encountered someone like this in your life.

It was shameful, but you wanted his attention so badly. Not yet knowing who he really was, you were sure this young professor fucked like a true carnivore, so you did everything to get him to notice you. You sat closer, wrote down every word he said, watched him intently, nodded. Your hand was always the first raised when he asked a question, and you never scored below an A on homework and tests.

“Hah, hilarious. So, teachers’ pet… was it worth it? Being perfect all the time just to please those old, grumpy bitches? You don’t give a single shit about it, do you? The truth is, you’re just desperate for someone to praise you,” Melon’s words echoed in your head.