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animasola86 · 1 month ago

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🚩 FORCED: 01

Accidents happen. Mistakes were made, and while you hoped the handsome stranger would help you through your dilemma, you ended up in his service, paying off a debt that would have changed your life for the worse if you wouldn't have "accepted" his "offer". Unfortunately, your life is still about to change, if you want to or not, and it's not getting any better...

a morally gray man!your new master ✖️ female!reader

WARNING: This is a DARK FANTASY EROTICA! Beware of the following tags: NSFW! Dead dove: do not eat! Explicit sexual content! Noncon! Master/servant dynamic! Bad BDSM etiquette! Manipulation! Free use! Hurt/No comfort! (🚩Please do not read/engage if any of these tags are triggering to you!)

WORDS: 3.1k 🚩 READ ON AO3! 🚩 SERIES MASTERLIST

A/N: Before I further warn you about the following depravities, let me address the elephant in the room: Yes, this is tagged with various fandom tags, no, this is not about your favorite blorbo, BUT I wrote a very ambiguous male character here, no descriptions, no name, so I invite you to fill in the blanks and MAKE him your favorite blorbo, call him Joel, call him Tony, call him Dean, whatever you want, imagine him as your favorite character, he can be ANYONE who's tall, (subjectively) handsome, rich, slightly intimidating, morally gray, and who would consider himself a Master.

Our Reader character is very ambiguous too, all I "blessed" her with, is hair long enough to braid and female genitalia. As I usually do, I tend to give my vague female characters pet names, and hers is Doll.

Now back to the warnings. I hope you considered the warnings I already gave above, so just know that this story is very dark, there's no comfort, it's rough, it's depraved, it's a collection of the darkest kinks I could think of (even those I told myself to never explore). Sometimes you just need to write (and read?) something that makes you highly uncomfortable, and maybe, through that discomfort you'll discover something about yourself. There is pleasure through pain after all, right?

So if you want to follow me on this wild, wild ride and are not afraid to face some dark themes, I welcome you and I thank you for reading these long notes before you dove into the thick of it. Please enjoy my darkest story yet!

And remember: This is fiction!!!

🔻 Chapter 1 🔺 Chapter 2+3

Not that it mattered in the moment, but if you could have formed a coherent thought, you'd wonder how you'd ended up like this: strapped to something one can only call a medieval torture device, wearing a blindfold and a ring gag, completely helpless, while getting a very unrelenting ass pounding.

It certainly wasn't something you'd planned.

The memory was hazy, but it had something to do with driving your rusty old hunk of metal of a car into the rear end of a shiny new, very expensive looking sports car. You'd been quite tipsy and shouldn't have gotten behind the wheel in the first place, but it happened, and while nobody got hurt (yet), you had been devastated.

Your options were slim. You knew your insurance couldn't do jack, you'd have to pay for the repairs yourself (because it was so obviously your fault), and on top of that you'd been (very) drunk, and if the police got involved, you'd lose your driver's license, which would ruin you further. No means to get to your job, you'd lose that too. And where were you supposed to get the money from then? Definitely not out of your starving bank account.

It was a spiral of doom, and it all led you to fall onto your knees, overdramatic as you were in your headless, drunken state, and you were begging. The man who had exited the sports car watched you curiously. He wasn't even angry, maybe mildly inconvenienced, but when you started pleading, his demeanor changed. There was a dark smirk on his handsome face.

Because, of course, you had to rear-end the car of the most gorgeous man you'd ever seen. On top of the dizzying sensation of numerous cocktails (and countless shots and in-between beers) swimming through your system and the overwhelming guilt of causing an accident, you felt a strange and very inopportune warmth between your thighs.

He was hot, and you were hot for him, and it only made it worse to be on your knees in front of him, telling him I'll do anything, please, no police, it'll be my ruin, I can't afford the repairs but I wanna do something to help, make this better, please...

He'd taken a step closer, his hand moving towards your tear soaked face. You must have looked terrible, blotchy reddened skin, make-up smeared, mascara running down your cheeks in ugly rivulets, but he still cupped your burning face, thumb tracing the shape of your trembling bottom lip.

“You'd do anything, doll?” he asked, and you didn't even mind the pet name you would normally cringe about (or the inappropriate touch or the strange undertone), his voice was just so low, soft and deep, a gentle rumble in the air, very distracting.

You nodded into his hand, whimpering a breathless “Yes, sir”.

A smile made his lips twitch. “You know,” he said, caressing your face, fingertips brushing your unruly hair behind your ear. “It so happens that I need a new servant,” he continued, and you stared at him, mesmerized and confused. “You could pay off your debt while working for me.”

His suggestion made you blink, your mind too clouded to fully comprehend it, but you nodded again, a shaky smile playing around your lips. “Yes. Yes, I could. I would, I mean, I will! I'll do anything,” you repeated, leaning your head into his palm.

“Get up,” he ordered, and you stood immediately, albeit on trembling legs, having to look up at the tall man who still held your face. His other hand slipped into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve his phone.

You were staring at him, dumbstruck, desperate, drunk, watching him dial some number, then giving a bunch of orders. You barely registered any of it, too intoxicated (infatuated?) and shocked, too busy thinking about your spiraling life, you just heard something about a tow truck and some garage, and when he was finished, he winked at you, slowly guiding you to the passenger side of his car, his hand warm on your lower back.

While your car seemed damaged beyond repair with how the hood had been crushed into an accordion shape, there was a deep scratch in the probably very expensive matte black paint of his bumper, a few dents, a broken tail light, but nothing that kept his car from driving.

Not that you noticed too much of it as he ushered you onto the soft leather seat. He even leaned over you and buckled you in, and you were mind-blown, mind basically shattered at this point, too enamored to think any further than the tip of your nose, too distracted to realize you'd left your purse in the glove compartment of your car.

Not that it would matter.

The man slipped behind the wheel, his eyes holding you hostage while you both waited for the tow truck. There might have been small talk, but you couldn't remember, the world was muffled at that point, your head spinning, your tongue too heavy to move. Once those flashing lights that weren't from any police car flickered across the dark parking lot, the man drove off with a roar of the engine, quickly speeding away from the scene of your demise.

Demise? Again, you couldn't make that connection, not in that moment, all you felt was a strange relief. He took care of the car, he'd take care of you too, right? You'd work for him, pay off your debt, keep living your boring little life once it was all done.

It was all a blur when the car arrived at one of those fancy metal gates, and the house that loomed behind them was too massive to comprehend. You were floating, still too drunk to properly function or think a single rational thought. Doesn't matter. It'll be alright.

You remember stepping into a large foyer, eyes too unfocused to take in all the splendor around you. He grabbed your wrist then and pulled you after him into an office where you fell into a soft chair. The rustling of paper made you curious, but when you looked down at the stack he'd put down in front of you, you frowned.

“Just to make this legal,” he said in that honey sweet baritone voice of his that melted your panties right off. “You'll sign this and you'll become a part of this household, as you'll serve me in whatever way I see fit. We'll find a place for you. You'll get your own room, you'll always be fed, and I'm sure you can handle whatever needs to be done, right? Consider your debt paid off, doll.”

As confused as you were, you were also too grateful for this turn of events. Stumbling out of a bar after a night of too much alcohol to try to forget your shitty little life, drunk driving into this man's car to end up working for him, living in his special mansion? Why not? Sounds reasonable. Sounds better than having to return to your small apartment that still reeked of the previous tenant's love for garlic.

It didn't even matter that he never told you who he was, that you didn't exchange any names to begin with. Who is he? Doesn't matter. He seemed wealthy, influential, generous in his offer to let you do this instead of ruining your life by insisting to do it the official way. He was offering you redemption, and you'd be very stupid to deny it. It'll be alright. No need to read the long text in front of you either, not that you could focus on a single word anyway. It'll be fine. You'll be a maid, probably, you can do that. Dust and clean or whatever, easy.

And so you grabbed the pen he was holding out to you and left the strange squiggle of your signature on the lines he marked for you, not even wondering why he'd have this contract ready to sign so quickly. Does this happen often? Doesn't matter.

Your head was spinning, and the way he smiled at you didn't make it better. You found yourself smiling back, somewhat dumbly, too buzzed to react any differently. You felt sleepy too, a strange mix of nerves and utter exhaustion, and you barely noticed when he stood next to you all of a sudden, gently grabbing your elbow to pull you to your feet.

Then you were walking with him, to an elevator, and it was going down, and your stomach jumped to the ceiling, nausea grabbing you tightly. The cubicle stopped with a sudden jerk, the doors slid open with a ding, and he kept dragging you along, through a dimly lit corridor lined with doors. You felt lightheaded now, on the verge of throwing up all the sugary drinks you'd consumed earlier, but he didn't stop, didn't give your body a second to rest before you reached the end of the hallway.

He opened the nearest door with something like a key card and gently pushed you into the room beyond. You stumbled, turned to look at him, but he was already closing the door behind you, shutting you in. You blinked, confusion mixing with the vertigo gripping your body, and the small noise of a lock clicking into place got lost when you started retching.

You somehow made it into the small room to your left that held a toilet and a sink, and found yourself hugging the bowl as you emptied your stomach into it. You were still dizzy when your body decided it was enough, and after a long moment of just sitting on the tiled floor, trying to catch your breath, you managed to stand up and lean over the sink. No mirror. Strange.

The light coming from a single bulb dangling from the ceiling hurt your eyes, so you didn't pay too much attention to the unusually spartan light fixture. You washed your hands, then your face, then washed your mouth out. There was a small shelf to the side, holding a prepackaged toothbrush and some tooth paste, and you ripped it open with shaking hands and brushed the vile taste off your tongue.

Feeling only slightly better, you went back into the room, finding nothing but a bed. Not even a bedside table. Just a bed, and it wasn't as comfortable or big looking as you would have expected in a mansion this large and luxurious. It still served a purpose, and you fell onto it and curled up, too exhausted to think any more about what happened. Or what might await you.

Doesn't matter.

With your head spinning and the room spinning along, you fell asleep to dreams of more spinning, of cars and handsome men, flashing lights, hands on your face, hands on your hips, hands pulling off your clothes, fingers pinching your nipples, fingers dipping between your shamefully wet folds, of moans and grunts echoing through a small room, and it was still spinning, and the bed was shaking and squeaking, and you were moved and handled, and when you woke up even more exhausted, you found yourself lying on your stomach, cheek resting on a wet spot where your drool had gathered on the pillow.

You rolled onto your side, feeling a strange soreness deep within you. There was something sticky between your thighs, and you blamed it all on drinking too much, having strange wet dreams, pushing yourself too far. Stumbling off the bed, you groaned, pressing a hand to your stomach as a deep-rooted pain poked at your insides. You didn't even notice that you were stark naked at first. Slowly, you made your way into the bathroom, sat on the toilet for what felt like forever, a strange burning sensation assaulting your senses.

Your head was heavy, hurting, full of cotton that pressed hard against your skull, threatening to break through. Not sure cotton can do that. You brushed your teeth again, blinking at the empty spot where you'd expect a mirror on the wall. It took you a very long time to finally put all the pieces together, or at least some of them.

Your clothes were gone. You were naked, aching, had to clean off a strange stickiness from between your legs, your insides hurt in a way you never experienced before, and sitting was very uncomfortable somehow too. Last night was a blur, but you remembered the accident, the man, signing a contract, paying off your debt by... by doing what? Being a servant? That's what he'd said, right? What kind of servant? you wondered as you sat on the edge of the bed, breathing harder as you tried to make sense of it all.

The room alone was strange. The only light came from the (doorless) bathroom, from that grimly looking light bulb swinging softly from the ceiling. There were no windows, just the bed and the door, a sturdy looking door without a knob or handle, just a key pad to the side. What is this place? A cell of some sort? Why were you here? Why were you naked? Where did your clothes go? Who had taken them? Who had been here? What had happened to you?

Caught in your own mind, you grabbed the sheets and draped them around your bare body. You weren't cold, but it felt better to cover up like this. If you wouldn't have to fight the aftermath of a night full of flowery drinks and gut-punching shots, you would certainly panic, start pacing, try to find a way out. But you were hurting, from the top of your head down into your toes, all nerve endings on edge, and the pain was that all-consuming thing around you, allowing not a single rational thought, just an overall feeling of uneasiness.

You didn't know how long you just sat there, staring holes into the bland wall, when the door suddenly opened with a click and a hiss. It swung open, and the man from last night entered, greeting you with a smile. You blinked at him, lips trembling, mind reeling.

“Good morning,” he said as he walked in and closed the door behind him. It clicked shut automatically. He was carrying a box in his hands. You remained on the edge of the bed, not daring to move as you watched him put it down next to you, nodding towards it. “I brought you something to wear,” he added nonchalantly.

Still confused but also intrigued, you slid part of the blanket off your shoulder and moved your hand to open the box, hoping for new clothes, maybe a maid's uniform, something that would make sense, but what you saw lying on the soft red velvet lining the insides of the container made your stomach turn violently. You recognized three coils of black rope, but the other item made no sense to you.

It was a metal hook, for lack of a better term, with a loop at one end that was probably for the rope to pass through, but the other side was... it was rounded, elongated, several ball shaped protrusions in a hard line, the metal formed in some sort of arch, giving it the hook-shape.

You swallowed hard, looking up at the man who watched you with dark eyes and an impassive expression, no longer smiling. Looking away more than intimidated, you stared back into the box and noticed a few other things. A thick leather band, like a collar, with a hoop at the back and three little belts in the front, the width of it making you stiffen, your throat already closing up just thinking of having something that big around it. You'd assume that was what it was for anyway.

It was strange how calm you were, how unusually distant. You had so many questions, but you couldn't find the strength to ask them. His presence felt ominous, like you couldn't breathe, oppressive, dominating. You felt small, even smaller than you were, vulnerable without your clothes, trapped in this weird room. And somehow it also made sense. You remembered the things he told you, and all of them seemed true. Having a room, doing what needs to be done, serving him. There were no details, but your mind was reeling with filling the voids.

Servant. Not a maid, but a slave.

Why was this revelation so eerily comforting? It shouldn't be. You should be freaking out, he took you away, forced you to sign a contract (patiently holding the pen, waiting for you, while you made the biggest mistake of your life), expecting you to come to terms with your new role right on the spot – and frankly, you felt yourself accepting it.

You didn't have a choice, did you? You were young and naive, yes, but you knew that contracts held value, and you signed one, you remembered it, not clearly, but it was there, and you did it because you needed to repay your debt, pay for the repair of his car that you were at fault of damaging. It was either this (whatever this was) or dealing with insurance and police and losing your car and your driver's license and your job and all the other things you'd accumulated over the years of independence. It wasn't much, but you didn't want to lose any of it.

And you wouldn't have to work here forever, right? A car repair, a new paint job, wouldn't be costing that much, would it? He'd have to let you go eventually. But you didn't read the contract... Something cold crashed down your spine, making you gasp, finally opening the door to more hysterical breaths, your lungs aching under the need to get enough oxygen to make you fully understand what was going on.

As soon as you started hyperventilating, you found yourself pressed to the bed, a strong hand closing around your throat, further limiting your airways. Your eyes widened as he loomed over you, staring down darkly. “Please,” you croaked out, your hands frantically grasping for his wrist, your body finally remembering it could move.

He shook his head. “You signed a contract. You gave your life to me,” he said quietly, his low voice menacing and dark now. “You want to pay off your debt, don't you, doll?”

You kicked beneath him as he climbed over you, one knee pressed between your legs, hand tightening around your neck. Gasping, thighs trembling as he rubbed the soft fabric of his pants against your aching sex, you opened your mouth, tried to tell him no, not like this, it was a mistake, please, but he only squeezed a little more, fingers pressing into the sides of your throat, black spots dancing in front of your eyes.

The room was spinning again, you felt so heavy, so exhausted, your fingernails scratched over his skin before your hands fell away limply, and then, darkness surrounded you, switching off the screeching voices of panic in your head instantly.

🔻 Chapter 1 🔺 Chapter 2+3

End notes: This was just the introduction, from now on, anything goes, and it goes hard. Stay tuned!

New chapter every Saturday at around 9pm CEST!

Thank you for braving this depravity reading!

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