Chapter 9 - Masseter (18+) ⚠️
Chapter 9 contains (CW: violence, non-con, medical horror, and mature themes.)
☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎
Sunday evening, I sat at the high-backed chair with a wine glass on my hand, while I watched Rose regain consciousness. The book of Arthur Rimbaud rested on my lap as my eyes scanned the pages. All the while, Rose raised her head searching for me. I settled the wine glass on the side table before I started to recite the passages from the book.
“Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.” Turning the page, my finger tracing the stanza. I looked up at her, reciting the next line.
Rose didn’t respond. Instead, she was trying to remove the gag from her mouth. I paid her no attention and continued.
“One evening, I sat Beauty on my knees. And I found her bitter. And I reviled her.” I paused for a minute and observed her, wondering if she would succeed. Even though, I already knew that she couldn’t remove the gag. So, I continued.
“I armed myself against justice,” I said, one finger pointing to each word, as if I wanted to make sure everything had been read.
“Stop it.” Her voice was a rasp, cutting through the meter of the poem.
Maybe I overestimated Rose. She did remove the gag. But she was blurting nonsense, ruining Rimbaud. I sighed at her behavior; it wasn’t expected. Yet, I was understanding of her. Perhaps she was just tired. Rose’s posture, even when she was restrained to the bed, seemed too fragile. I knew she wouldn’t dare to disrespect me even further. Therefore, I resumed reading.
“I ran away. O witches,” I said, turning my gaze toward her. I waited for her to speak, testing whether she would really dare to go even further with her insolence. Then, there she was. She couldn’t help but protest.
“I said stop it!” she snapped louder this time. “Do you think reading this... this garbage makes you great? It just makes you pathetic!”
I stopped, feeling the disrespect from her sudden disruption, my finger resting on the line. I did not look up. I waited for the silence to return before I closed the book, my attention shifted to her. The soft thud of the cover echoed through the small room. Her eyes were blindfolded, but her mouth was like that of an insolent child, trying to taunt me. My chest felt the cold acid rising, and I felt the burn of her insult, yet I did not let her words control my reaction.
“Please, just stop! Stop whatever it is you are doing,” she sneered. “You are nothing! You are scared! Let me go!”
Rose cried. She couldn’t stop sobbing, choking on her own disdain. Rose wasn’t content; she even spat on the floor, dangerously close to my Dublin black leather shoe.
“You are nothing,” she whimpered.
Clearing my throat while I stared at the spittle on the pristine tile, then back at her. My lips remained silent, wondering if I had been careless before when I had tightly secured the gag over her mouth, and she had easily moved it aside. Disrespecting Rimbaud was unacceptable.
Rose’s figure seemed weak, thin, and pale. How could such a delicate frame act so tough? Why did she keep being so delusional, thinking that if she insulted me, I would instantly set her free? Was she this dumb? Taunting me wouldn’t give her the power she desperately sought.
Standing up from the chair, I placed the Rimbaud volume gently on the side table. My hands reached for the shelf and pulled down a different book. It was the heavy medical encyclopedia.
Pulling a long silk cord from the drawer. I tied a noose and draped it over her neck. She froze, her insults dying in her throat as the silk settled against her skin. I tossed the other end over the rafter and secured it to the heavy book. The weight lifted. The noose tightened, forcing her chin upward.
Then I pressed my thumb hard behind her ear. She gasped in pain, her mouth flying open. I shoved the thick knot of the rope between her teeth and immediately let go of the book. Gravity took over. The book dropped. Her head snapped back violently, caught only by the clamp of her teeth on the knot. The heavy volume swayed behind her, a pendulum of dead weight pulling against her jaw. She made a choked, terrifying sound. She realized instantly that if she opened her mouth, the book would fall, and the noose would strangle her.
I pulled the chair directly in front of her and sat. Drawing the .45 caliber from my holster, the slide sounded thunderous in the absolute silence as a round was chambered. I pressed the cold muzzle against her arm. She flinched, a violent shudder running through her bound limbs. The rope creaked into her teeth. Slowly, the barrel dragged up to her face, resting against her cheekbone. Veins in her neck bulged as she fought the weight. Her pulse was visible beneath the angle of her jaw; its beat counted every second of her survival. The gun leveled out, hovering right in front of her face.
After that, I waited and watched her intently, anticipating the moment she might lose her strength holding the weight. Two minutes passed. The room was deathly quiet, filled only with the sound of her ragged breathing through her nose. Sweat dripped into her eyes. Her masseter muscles spasmed under her skin. I could sense her slowly losing control. Fatigue had taken over her jaw.
Then suddenly, there was a smell; it was acrid and pungent. It invaded the chamber’s synthetic floral scent. I noticed a dark stain spreading across the silk of her dress. She was trembling; her body was reacting with anxious, involuntary tremors. I glanced down at the mess, then back at her, keeping the pistol leveled at her face. I was waiting for her mouth to give up the rope. The gun went back into its holster as her movements were watched. My attention drifted to the grandfather clock in the corner, the minutes counted in silence as they ticked by.
Her jaw was trembling violently. I watched the rope slip between her teeth. But before she finally let the rope go, I quickly left the chair. I stood near the contraption, waiting for the heavy book to fall. Her mouth snapped open, and the weight dropped. The book was caught in mid-air, inches from the noose that threatened her windpipe, relieving the tension on her neck. She slumped forward, spitting out, but refused to look back. Her head remained turned toward the wall, shoulders shaking. The cord left a mark on the corners of her mouth.
“I’m sorry...” she gasped in horror. “Why are you doing this?”
I stood in front of Rose while observing her reaction. The voice modulator clicked off. The mechanical hum died, leaving only silence. Leaning down, my lips brushing her ear.
“Because you let it,” I whispered, revealing my true voice for the first time.
Her mouth hung open but the words died in her throat. The realization paralyzed her and her entire body drenched in a cold, nervous sweat. I slid the gag back between her teeth and secured the strap. Then I reached for the syringe from the tray and drew up a few cc’s of rocuronium. Pressing the clear liquid into her vein. Enough to turn her muscles to water but leave the mind awake.
Once the drug had kicked in, I removed the restraints from her arms and legs and carried her immediately to the bathroom, where I washed the smell of urine from her skin. Then afterwards, left her seated on the chair, tied. While I changed the sheets. When everything was set, I carried her back to the bed and secured her there.
At this moment, she was not blindfolded. Her eyes gazed at the ceiling; she never once looked at me. The restraints had marked her arms, and I noticed a bruise forming on the surface of her skin. It was all from the IV.
I was about to leave her there because I was tired myself, but her legs were spread, it was inviting. So, I came back and traced my fingers over her soft skin, from her feet up to her thighs, where the silk slid carefully aside to reveal what was underneath. I bit my lip, trying to stop the intrusive thoughts; I was caving in to the pressure. I felt the veins inside of me start to heat up; it was electrifying. It was so sudden that I had to remove the restraint from her right arm. Then, I gently took her hand as I let her bony fingers fondle my pants. I was breathing heavily. I had to remove her hand away from me. I was clenching my jaw from the thoughts of touching her.
It was the point of no return. I knew I had to do it. Rose continued to muse, as if far away. The indifference she was showing was distracting me. But it was expected; it was better than yelling. I continued to touch her. As I slowly closed my eyes, I saw Phaedra. I felt the curse between us. It was forbidden, yet it felt better than breathing.
I pulled the pillow behind her and smothered her with it as I continued to move on top of her. I heard her muffled cries, but I was about to come. When I removed the pillow from her face, she was convulsing. I thought it was the end, but after a moment she stopped, tears streaming down her almond eyes. When she had finally relaxed, I lifted her into my arms, carrying her gently to the bathroom.
Her clavicles stood sharp against her pale skin. She was wasting away; her vitality was gone, and her essence had simply vanished. This time I did not administer the IV drip to her, as I had to let her wounds heal. I kept Rose in this state for more than a week, until the bruises were healed and drug chemicals had finally flushed out of her system. Since she had no strength to fight, Rose sat there; her arms were tied, but her legs were not. I moved her legs every night to let the blood flow equally, moving her in different positions.
☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎
Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.