The very next day, as promised, Aska shattered the fragile predictability of my routine. The endless cycle of chores and housewifery was broken—yet not freed from his grasp. Cooking remained my tether to him, a ceaseless obligation to feed this insatiable glutton who, despite his failures in the kitchen, devoured nearly every meal I prepared. This at least lightened my burden slightly, but not enough to ease the suffocating weight of his control.

  He began with lessons—mathematics first, but not the kind any child should start with. Did you know that one-third is equal to a zero followed by an infinite string of threes? Multiply that by three and, strangely, it becomes a zero with endless nines trailing behind, which somehow equals one. That was the lesson on my first day. I hadn’t even mastered the basics of addition or subtraction, yet there he was, demanding I wrestle with infinities and paradoxes as if my mind were already ready for such torment.

  But Aska was no teacher—he was a tormentor cloaked in the guise of education. His lessons weren’t about learning; they were weapons, wielded to break me down when I failed to keep up. Each session was a battlefield where my ignorance became a target for his fury. Math, biology, physics, psychology, languages—he forced all upon me, relentless and cruel.

  Yet, in his absence, fleeting as it became more frequent, I found fragile solace. Alone, I could bury myself in books, lose myself in knowledge on my own terms. I would spend entire days cocooned in my bed, reading feverishly to catch up on what he never properly taught. When Aska returned, he would glance over my progress with a flicker of surprise—never praise, just a slight raise of an eyebrow before he pressed onward to more complex subjects, as if eager to crush any sense of accomplishment I might feel.

  The physical abuse escalated alongside the mental torture. Nights were the worst—aching from bruises, bones stiff with pain—sleep evaded me. Tears sometimes threatened, but I swallowed them down, for crying meant more punishment, more neglect. When I turned four, the lessons grew crueler still. He introduced languages I had never heard before, weaving them into lessons and conversations I couldn’t decipher. I never complained, though. I begged instead—for books, for the chance to learn on my own, which he begrudgingly supplied.

  Aska’s interest wasn’t in teaching me—it was in watching me suffer. The pain, both mental and physical, was his language of affection. I loved him fiercely, twisted as it was, but that didn’t mean I accepted his cruelty. I hated the constant torment, the deep purple bruises that blossomed across my skin, hidden only by the thin fabric of my nightgown. I hated the way he gave me no outlet for the rage that consumed me after every pet I killed, after every moment I felt the sting of being trapped.

  By the time I turned five, I could speak three languages, solve complex math problems, recite human biology, fundamental physics, and basic psychology. But I stopped everything else—sleep, reading, even the fleeting moments of peace. I clung to Aska, wrapping myself around him in desperate attempts to steal some warmth from the darkness. Those moments were the rarest and the most precious—the only times I felt truly alive, and for fleeting seconds, the happiest girl in the universe.

  But beneath the surface, a flame of rebellion burned. I refused to be his pet forever. The thought of being owned—possessed—choked me. I longed for freedom: to chase the elusive blue lights flickering at the edges of my vision, to make choices for myself, however small.

  One night, as I changed into my nightgown, I caught Aska staring. It was a look I had never seen before—something raw and hungry hiding beneath the cold mask. He looked away quickly, but even through his hesitation, I knew he liked what he saw. Despite the bruises, despite the scars, he desired me.

  Later that night, I summoned courage to ask what had haunted me for so long.

  “Aska, what is love to you?”

  His answer was chilling, stripping away the last of my illusions.

  “Possession. I want to own what I love.”

  I already sensed this dark truth, but hearing it aloud was a knife twisting in my heart. I didn’t want to be his possession. I wanted to be free—free to play under the distant blue lights, free to carve out my own existence, whatever the cost.

  I still wanted to live with Aska. But I would always keep that freedom as my secret weapon—the final defiance waiting to be unleashed.

  So, I delved deeper, hunting through every worn and dusty biology book I could find, desperate for answers that might unlock the cryptic puzzle of his behavior. I wasn’t certain if my interpretation was correct, but I had nothing to lose. This gamble—this fragile thread of hope—was all I had if I ever wanted to stand on equal footing with Aska, or at least bend the sharp edges of our twisted dynamic in my favor.

  The very next day, emboldened by the knowledge I’d gleaned, I began a subtle, calculated dance. I let my fingers linger on the bruised, tender places beneath my underwear, tracing lines where the pain was freshest, where the marks throbbed most deeply. I could feel his gaze piercing me from across the room, a cold fire smoldering in his eyes. The faint, almost imperceptible curl of my lips was met with nothing but silence. But I knew—I knew he noticed.

  Years passed in this grim charade. I learned more—about myself, about him, about the unspoken rules we twisted into existence. At one desperate point, my frustration boiled over, and I lashed out with a foolish attempt at rebellion: I salted his food until it was nearly inedible. The moment he bit into the first forkful, his face twisted into a mask of disbelief and fury—pure, unspeakable gold to me. I savored it, a perverse thrill rising in my chest—until his fork slammed down onto my right hand, pinning it to the table.

  Pain like that doesn’t dull. It raked through me like fire, sharper and more vivid than any punishment before—even the cold terror of drowning. I gasped but held back tears, too afraid to give him the satisfaction.

  “If you ever do something like that again, I’ll torture you for real.”

  His food was sacrosanct after that. I never dared sully it again.

  But something in him snapped, twisted further into darkness. His abuse grew harsher, more violent, meting out punishment with brutal precision whenever I faltered. It was as if I could no longer fulfill some cruel expectation, or perhaps he was simply growing tired of me—his broken plaything.

  Yet, beneath this relentless storm, my plan was taking shape. Slowly, insidiously, I began to push boundaries in quieter ways. I lingered longer in my underwear when near him, sitting at the edge of the bed, massaging my own bruised arms with trembling fingers. He noticed, surely, but he said nothing—allowed me this subtle assertion of control.

  By the time I was eight, his hands roamed my back beneath the thin fabric of my nightgown. He tended the angry welts left by his whip, a twisted balm for his own cruelty.

  Initially, my strategy was simple—get so close that he couldn’t resist me. But as the ninth year crept in, a brutal truth dawned on me: proximity alone would never shatter the iron bars of this cage. I was offering myself, raw and exposed, and yet he never crossed the line I secretly longed for.

  The day after this realization, I dared more. No nightgown. Only underwear as I pressed myself against him, craving any sign of acceptance, any warmth in the cold night. His reaction was swift and merciless. He dragged me to the oven, forcing my hands above the roaring flames. The fire licked my skin, carving agony deep into my flesh. I didn’t beg—no tears—because I knew it would only worsen the torment. I screamed anyway, a raw, primal sound that, I suspected, fed his dark pleasure.

  That night and many after, my progress unraveled. The fragile closeness I’d built shattered, and I dared not try again for weeks. Still, no stone was left unturned in my quest. I pushed harder, risked more. The more I threw myself at him, the crueler he became—whipping, stabbing, burning, even when I followed his twisted rules perfectly. It was as if no effort could sate him.

  On my tenth birthday, marked by the absence of any gift, I coaxed him into a small mercy: permission to sleep in my underwear. It was a victory, though it felt like my worth had plummeted in his eyes. The love he once showed flickered and died, replaced by something darker—something that neither loved nor hated, but desired nonetheless. His hunger for my body was something I clung to, the thread I hoped might save me.

  By eleven, he gave me three new fish. He grinned strangely when I served him cooked salmon the next day, as if testing me. No more toys followed, as if he was watching, waiting for me to prove myself. His mood lightened—just enough to make me believe I passed his unspoken test.

  The psychological terror raged on, yet I gained small victories. I made him sleep bare-chested one night. After that, his touches became bolder, roaming my back with fierce intent even in daylight whenever it pleased him.

  But as I clawed closer to what I desired, Aska’s frustration grew. His cruelty evolved into something more inventive, more merciless, tearing at my body and soul with fresh methods of torment.

  Yet I endured, steeling myself for whatever came.

  On my eleventh birthday, I received a new pet—more intelligent, more complex. At first, I was indifferent, knowing boredom would claim it soon enough. But then I realized: when I engaged with the creature, Aska’s torment eased. I embraced this revelation and threw myself into the sadistic games, trying to keep the animal alive as long as possible.

  Yes—I tortured an ape. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I reveled in the dark pleasure it gave me. I loved the look in Aska’s eyes—the twisted satisfaction and desire—as I inflicted pain. Sometimes, he even joined me, revealing a side of him I’d never seen before. When he tortured the ape, his smile was broad and cruel. Yet when he tormented me, his face was a mask of bored detachment.

  The ape survived about a month, before it finally gave up, succumbing—perhaps with Aska’s subtle assistance—to its injuries. No replacement came. Aska’s focus snapped back to me, the center of his dark obsession.

  In that month, I began to understand something deeper. Aska’s expectations were labyrinthine, impossible to fully grasp. I never asked more, afraid that questions might bring fresh pain. But I learned to read his moods: he was pleased when I occupied myself with the ape, but frustrated and violent when I didn’t.

  And so, the endless, twisted game continued—me, trying to survive and bend, and Aska, the cold puppeteer pulling the strings of my suffering. As I couldn’t find out anything about his expectations, I ignored them until later. I was more focused on making him realise that his love for me went beyond wanting to own me.

  As I turned twelve, a new and unsettling awareness settled within me. My body—though still fragile and deceptively childlike—had begun to betray its true age, its curves and contours shifting ever so slightly. I had pored over biology books in secret, piecing together the cold truths of development, and quietly marking the day my reflection finally matched the years I had lived. This realization brought with it a dark resolve. If I was to ever claim even a shred of power over him, to tilt the balance between us, I had to take a bolder step.

  So I chose his sanctum—his holy grail—and defiled it.

  I prepared a lavish buffet, each dish meticulously arranged, a mask of care and devotion to hide the subversion beneath. But I had seasoned everything with reckless abandon, an excess of salt that turned the feast into a bitter, unforgivable mess. The aroma, once warm and inviting, now hung thick and acrid in the air, a silent act of rebellion waiting to be discovered.

  He took the first bite. His eyes locked onto mine immediately—wide with shock, then narrowing in utter disgust. The way he stared at me, his gaze heavy with disbelief and revulsion, was almost palpable. Yet, I held my ground, forcing a smile—a fragile, trembling thing—as I chewed deliberately, pretending everything was as it should be.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The table did not flip this time. No, the destruction was far more brutal and final. With a savage strength I had never seen before, he slammed the table, snapping it in two with a loud, shattering crack. Plates and food exploded onto the floor like scattered fragments of my gamble, the chaos echoing in the cold silence that followed.

  Rising, his fury manifested in heavy, thunderous steps as he stomped toward me, the most terrifying I had ever seen him. My smile faltered, now weak and unsteady, as a cold fear crept up my spine. Had I miscalculated? Was this the moment my plan unraveled?

  Without a fight, I allowed him to push me down, his hands roughly pinning my arms above my head. His voice was harsh, low, dripping with venom: “Didn’t I tell you never to do this shit again?”

  He was unraveling, losing control beneath the weight of his own frustration. The knife glinted coldly in his hand, and I felt the sharp sting as he stabbed me again and again. Each cut was a jagged burst of pain, but his face—contorted with rage and desperation—showed no trace of satisfaction. I groaned softly, the sound a mixture of agony and a strange, quiet relief.

  It was odd, this relief. In his anguish, I recognized a mirror of my own. I knew the bitter taste of torment all too well. I played with others, yes, but hurting Aska was a different matter entirely. If I were forced, I might stab him—but it would never be out of desire. I did not want to see him suffer.

  And yet, here we were—locked in a dark dance neither of us fully understood.

  The moment his blade sliced into my arm a second time, sharp and unforgiving, he abruptly released me. The sting of the wound seared through my skin, but my attention snapped to the next move—his hand darting to the hem of my dress. His grin was wild, unhinged, like a predator savoring the hunt. With deliberate force, he tore through the delicate fabric, the sound ripping through the silence like a dark promise.

  In his eyes, I saw a fire I hadn’t dared to witness before—a burning, feral lust that scorched through the cold mask he usually wore. At that instant, it was clear: his desire for me had ignited into something raw and uncontrollable, more intense than ever. The gamble I’d made—ruining his cherished food, the endless teasing in the dead of night—was paying off in a twisted way. I had bartered my body against his torment, trading pieces of myself for a sliver of control, a brief respite from the relentless pain.

  It was a dark bargain, and I knew it. But if this was the price to escape even a fraction of the cruelty I endured every day, then so be it. I would endure this torment, endure everything, if it meant carving out some small space where I wasn’t entirely his plaything.

  A thrill surged through me as his fingers closed around the strap of my bra. In that instant, my mind spun wild fantasies of freedom—of stepping out into the open air, of walking under the sun without fear, of finally living on my own terms. I imagined a future where I could be myself, unshackled by his twisted rules and the dark cage I’d been trapped in for so long.

  His hand tugged on the fabric, slowly revealing skin that had remained hidden for far too long. I watched, breath hitching, as his eyes roamed over the delicate curves he seldom glimpsed—skin flushed pink from the weight of secrecy and longing. A satisfied smirk played at his lips as he drank in the sight, as if this newfound vulnerability thrilled him.

  And then… abruptly, he stopped. His grip loosened, and with an almost imperceptible motion, he let go of my bra, leaving it hanging loosely where it was.

  “Fuck.”

  The word tore from my lips in a whisper of frustration and disbelief. I hadn’t anticipated this sudden halt—not after everything had seemed to align perfectly. My carefully crafted plan, years in the making, was unraveling before my eyes. Why? Why couldn’t he follow the script I’d read in books, those desperate fantasies of control and surrender? Why was he so maddeningly capable of containing his desire, suppressing it with chilling precision? And why, of all moments, did he have to pull back at the very edge, shattering the fragile hope I’d dared to cling to?

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” I thought bitterly, the sting of disappointment twisting inside me like a knife.

  Rage flared up quickly, fierce and hot. Yet, despite my anger, I found myself silently agreeing with him. We both knew what this moment meant—we were on the verge of crossing a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. And yet, he had chosen to reject what he so clearly desired.

  The bitter truth settled over me like a shroud: even in this cruel dance of power and pain, he held all the cards. And despite everything, he would decide how far this would go.

  But it wasn’t all lost—not yet. I had been playing this dangerous game for years, carefully plotting every move, every contingency. I had rehearsed this moment in my mind countless times, preparing for every possible outcome—even this frustrating, disappointing refusal. So when the silence stretched between us, heavy and charged, I didn’t falter. Instead, I let my voice slip out sharp and raw, cutting through the tension like a blade.

  “What? Aren’t you man enough to have sex with me? Fuck me, Aska. Take what you want.” My words hung in the air, reckless and defiant. I was certain he knew my intent from the start—why else would I have come this far? But I didn’t care if he saw through me. I needed to push him, to shatter whatever walls he still clung to.

  At first, he laughed—dark, low, almost amused—but then his face shifted. The amusement faded as he turned away, avoiding my gaze, his expression hardening into something unreadable. He was weighing his options, calculating, retreating into cold reason. And that was exactly what I feared most—the calm before the storm, the distance before the blow.

  “Rape me, you fucker! Or are you a bitch who can’t get it up?” The words came out sharper than I intended, fueled by desperation and fury. Normally, such insolence would have earned me swift punishment—his fury unleashed without mercy—but this time, something was different. He said nothing.

  Instead, he met my eyes with a chilling calm. “I can get it up, don’t worry. It was just never planned that I get addicted to you.” His voice was steady, almost resigned, as if it were an undeniable truth that I had fallen for him—yet he refused to admit that the feeling might be mutual, at least in part. He wanted me, that much was clear.

  “Ahh… how troublesome…” I breathed, the words slipping out smoothly as I shifted gears, diving into the next phase of my plan. If he wouldn’t take me willingly, I’d find another way—force him, bind him, whatever it took to make him crave me. “Either you make love to me right now, or I’ll find some random human to fuck later.” The threat was raw, brazen, but I meant every word. This was no longer a game—it was survival, and I was ready to do whatever it took to win.

  He was momentarily stunned by the sudden shift in my tone and demeanor, as if my boldness had caught him completely off guard. But the shock quickly gave way to a dark, simmering anger. Without hesitation, he yanked the knife out of my upper arm—a sharp, cruel movement—and with a harsh grunt, drove it deep into the wooden floor beside me. I didn’t flinch. The act wasn’t just violent; it was symbolic—an expression of how much he hated both options I’d laid out before him.

  “I will torture you if you do that,” he hissed, his eyes burning with fury yet strangely laced with a curious, almost twisted fascination, as if he was testing the limits of how far I would go.

  I smiled—an unsettling, defiant curve of my lips—and said, “Sure, but then you’ll have to live with the fact that someone else already had his way with me. I wonder who that lucky bastard I spread my legs for will be.” The words slipped out easily, like poison laced with sweetness, fully aware that this was something he could never, ever accept.

  For a moment, he released my arms and, to my surprise, began smiling—though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a strange turmoil within him, some kind of chaos churning beneath that grin. I knew then that something was deeply wrong inside his head, but I also knew that I was playing right into his complicated game.

  “And if I never let you be with a human male?” he challenged, his voice low, taking an intriguing and unexpected turn.

  I shrugged, cool and unbothered. “I see no problem with that. A woman would work just as well. And you know as well as I do that eventually, I will come into contact with a human—sooner or later. So, what do you choose?”

  I knew the truth: he could never bear the thought of me sleeping with someone else. Yet, paradoxically, he seemed unwilling to choose the other, more direct option. It was like a battle within him, a war between desire and control.

  Then, almost out of nowhere, he proposed something different: “How about taking the third option? Starting anew?”

  His words threw me off. I didn’t immediately understand what he meant. I hesitated, searching his eyes for clues, pondering my answer for several silent seconds. Then, without a word, he grabbed my arm, pulled me to my feet, and began dragging me behind him.

  We walked towards the one room I had never been allowed to enter—not the broom closet or any ordinary storage—but the large, mysterious chamber at the back of the house, always locked tight. Without hesitation, he opened the door effortlessly, as if the lock obeyed him alone.

  Inside, the room was dimly lit, shadows flickering against the walls. Embedded in the floor was a circle of glowing runes, arranged meticulously in multiple concentric rings. The symbols were written in a language whose name I didn’t know, but somehow I could read them clearly, as long as the words didn’t overlap. The intricate pattern was unlike anything I had ever seen before—ancient, powerful, and ominous.

  “What is this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “That,” he said, kneeling beside the circle and placing his hands firmly on its edge, “is a magical circle. It can change anything according to the user’s wishes. It can even erase memories. So, tell me—do you want to take back your threat?”

  I took a bold step forward and entered the circle without hesitation, watching his reaction carefully. He seemed indifferent to my choice, his expression unreadable.

  “Any last words?” he asked, his voice low and challenging.

  I smirked, feeling a surge of reckless courage. “Go fuck yourself.”

  Then, without warning, Aska activated the circle. A soft, colorful light rose up, enveloping me in a mesmerizing glow. It wasn’t blinding—more like a gentle cascade of shifting hues that held me captive in wonder. But suddenly, the brightness surged, forcing me to close my eyes. In an instant, it was gone.

  “Fuck. Again.” He muttered under his breath. As I had assumed, my memories remained intact; the magic hadn’t worked. But Aska’s frustration was palpable—his eyes darkened with the sting of failure.

  He slammed his fist onto the floor in anger, making the ground tremble beneath us. I knelt right in front of him, our knees touching, our eyes locked in fierce confrontation. Slowly, I reached up and gently brushed a smear of food from his cheek.

  “Tell me,” He whispered angrily, “how long did you plan all of this?”

  “Years,” I admitted quietly, my voice almost a confession. Then, with a faint, almost tender smile on my lips, I asked, “And? What do you choose?”

  Without warning, he pushed me gently but firmly backward onto the ground. This time, his touch was surprisingly gentle; he cradled my head carefully to prevent it from hitting the floor too hard. My heart pounded wildly in my chest as I instinctively wrapped my arms around him. After all the pain, the scheming, the years of struggle—I was so close to finally breaking free.

  I had worked for this moment my entire life.

  “There isn’t much to choose from, is there?” His voice was low, almost a growl, as soon as I collapsed onto the cold floor. Without hesitation, he leaned down, his lips pressing gently against the delicate skin at the nape of my neck. The warmth of his breath sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. With one knee, he parted my legs apart decisively, asserting his control over the situation.

  “Tell me,” he murmured into my ear, his breath tickling my skin, “what is it that you want by doing this?”

  I was utterly overwhelmed—my mind a whirlpool of emotions and racing thoughts. I could no longer think clearly. The intoxicating mix of fear, desire, and desperation drowned out all reason. I was losing control faster than I had ever gained it. The tantalizing hope of freedom, just within reach, drove me wild—so close to the finish line that I could almost taste it.

  “I want to be your equal,” I whispered, my voice trembling with both courage and vulnerability. “Stop limiting my freedom. Stop hurting me. You never liked doing that, did you?”

  His lips moved to my cheek, leaving a soft kiss on my flushed, beet-red skin. I felt my resolve melting under his touch, especially as his hands traced slow, deliberate paths along my legs and belly, setting my nerves alight.

  “All right,” he said quietly, “I promise to do exactly that.”

  My heart fluttered, hope blooming inside me. Then, with an unexpected seriousness, he added, “In return, you promise me you will never make love with anyone else.”

  I saw no reason to refuse. My smile was genuine, and I nodded happily, feeling warmth spread through me as his hand slid downwards, the gentle touch sending delicious shivers racing along my spine.

  “I promise,” I breathed, “I won’t do that for the next hundred years.”

  And then, just as suddenly as he had drawn me close, he stopped. The air between us thickened with a confusing mix of tension and disappointment. That bastard—he had seriously just turned me on, muddled my mind, only to pull away. He didn’t have to play these cruel games. He could have simply asked what I wanted, straightforward and honest, before making my heart pound like this. I wouldn’t have resisted. But no—he just had to toy with me.

  Without another word, he stood up and glanced at me—disheveled, breathless, vulnerable. Then, without a backward glance, he turned and walked toward the door.

  “W… why?” I stammered, my voice barely audible. My mind struggled to grasp what was happening. Was he seriously walking away now, leaving me like this? Did he not even want to taste the meal he had before him—the moment we both had craved?

  “You’re too young for me,” he said quietly over his shoulder. “Get a few years older, and then maybe we can talk again.”

  The door shut with a heavy thud behind him, leaving me alone in the dimly lit room. I blinked rapidly, overwhelmed by the whirlwind of what had just passed. Confusion mixed with relief—I was still unsure of exactly what had happened, but I was certain of one thing: he had promised to treat me as his equal.

  Still, I couldn’t make sense of why he had stopped. We both had wanted this—desperately. And yet, here we were, with no final resolution. I knew he desired me, that hunger in his eyes hadn’t disappeared. So why? Why had he pulled away? Why did this feel so hollow, so unsatisfying? And why, beneath my anger, did a sad ache settle deep within me for the chances lost?

  I forced myself up, running my hands through my tangled hair. My frustration boiled over, and I stormed out of the room, every instinct screaming to throw a handful of noodles at him for leaving me stranded in this mess of half-promises and tangled emotions.

  The hallway outside was eerily empty, silent except for the soft echo of my footsteps. I didn’t need to search the entire house to know he was gone. The place felt hollow, lifeless—bereft of the wild energy he brought with him.

  My carefully crafted plan to manipulate his desires had somewhat failed. Perhaps it was because I sensed a deep, simmering anger beneath his calm exterior—anger born from the fact that I had tried to control him, to bend him to my will. Even though I hadn’t turned the tables entirely, I had gained something: equality. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

  I had hoped to use my body as a bargaining chip to control him. For now, it seemed impossible. But I wasn’t ready to give up just yet.