I was sitting in a cage—a goddamn cage with a collar—and staring into a magical mirror. Etched onto the collar were the words, "Property of Damon Salvatore, 1st," beneath which, in large letters, was "THE CUNT." Officially, I had no name; I was simply "the cunt."
The padded cage hung high from the ceiling, and the damn collar around my neck silenced me, preventing me from accessing the hive through the sigils and crystals adorning it. My reaction wasn't rage, but a more bewildered, "Really? He must be crazy."
He lived in this room, sometimes bringing in women—some drugged, like Mariella, or our daughters. Biologically, they weren't ours anymore; their DNA had changed, making them strangers. Even though I'd given birth to or carried them for weeks, I barely felt like their mother. They were simply cut out and handed over; I'd never changed their diapers or even named them.
I was forced to watch as he seduced and brutally fucked these women, their pleas for more lost in the sounds of their panting and squeals. The smells, the sounds...it had been going on for some time, though I had no sense of how long. The curtains were always drawn, obscuring the windows, yet the room was never truly dark.
Even when he slept, the constant dim lighting persisted. I was confused, irritated, and messed up, yet this didn't trigger rage. It only highlighted the absence of it; I felt as empty as ever, wondering how long it would take him to realize this—to understand that I was broken, irrevocably, permanently. Maybe there was no mending me.
I kept my memories secret, burying them deeper each time I awoke. I was paranoid he'd try to penetrate my mind and discover them, something within me I hadn't recognized as programming. This programming forced me to hide my memories, to remain silent, to prevent him from truly knowing me. It was all designed to isolate me, to make me feel like nothing, a nobody.
Drugged and unable to move, I woke to find my hands cuffed behind my back, attached to a cage. My legs were spread wide, restrained by a bar, and I wore a tiny bikini—a pathetically unsexy outfit. The drugs rendered me helpless, my mind a swirling fog.
Sometimes more men would be there, referring to me as "The Cunt," while Damon promised me to them, though he always held back, planning to use me first.
"Shh, that's it, good, cupcake, come on," he crooned, leading the drugged Mariella into a room.
She shuffled, barely able to walk. My eyes barely open, I was again heavily drugged, watching through slitted lids as Damon laid Mariella on her back, undressed her, and began to seduce her, kissing her all over. Jojo was there too, forced to watch from beside the bed, ready to obey Damon's every whim.
The large room—six or seven meters square—was dark, its heavy curtains and rugs obscuring the details. I couldn't even tell if the rugs were familiar. Damon undressed, joining Mariella. He twisted his hips, snapping his fingers. Jojo knelt and began to lick and suck his hot hard cock, which was a little too large for humans to take fully in their mouth.
Despite the drugs, I could see the distaste on her face; this was not something she had ever enjoyed. Yet now, she had to take him deep into her throat, unable to gag, as drool escaped her mouth. Damon's hips jerked as he fucked her face mercilessly.
Seeing her perform this act, in her cheap clothes, I smiled. It felt like a karmic retribution for the time she had stolen Damon from me. Karma, as they say, is a bitch. It will truly bite you in the ass.
Mariella sighed beneath Damon as he suckled her breasts, nibbled her skin, and touched her, arousing her. She drifted in and out of awareness, her body reacting instinctively, oblivious to what was happening. Darkness enveloped me as the drugs took hold once more, and I, too, drifted in and out of consciousness. I saw him fucking Mariella furiously, grunting and addressing her with various pet names—sugar, dear, cupcake—instead of her actual name.
Overwhelmed by a potent cocktail of drugs, my mind felt suffocated, a layering effect that rendered me a passive, silent observer, trapped both physically and mentally. My awareness flickered; I struggled to comprehend the why, when, where, and how of my situation.
Whenever lucidity returned, I focused on my surroundings: the high, shadowy ceiling; the dark rugs; the intoxicating scent of Damon's magic—burning forest, sandalwood, passionfruit, and a hint of strawberry—a scent subtly different from my own, yet strangely familiar.
How could he desire me? I was nothing—ugly, thin, devoid of my usual rage, a collection of bad memories, a weakened mind, and traumatized remnants of a soul once possessed. Programming held me captive, leaving me detached, floating, questioning my very existence. Was this merely my soul, left to haunt, disembodied?
My drugged state prevented me from fully perceiving the multiple Salvatores probing my mind, but Wulfe detected a faint trace of the programming. This discovery spurred the men onward, confirming the programming's existence and guiding their search for similar traces in other women's minds.
In the darkened room, Damon entered. Five minutes earlier, he'd delivered a brutal dose of sedative through the organ implanted in Mimi's spine. Now, slumped in the cage, she was unconscious. He pressed a magically concealed wall button; the cage descended, the door sealed, barring entry.
It was time for his work. He desperately wanted to yank out the programming, but Wulfe had warned it would rip like wet paper, causing them to lose it. It had to be done slowly, unwound like stubborn yarn from a tangled knot. Their progress had been rocky, but this small sliver of hope kept him focused on these traumatized women instead of seeking easier, willing victims.
Once the cage was fully lowered, Damon opened the door, released her restraints, and removed the spreader bar that held her legs apart. He carefully lifted the limp Mimi into his arms, carrying her to the bed and placing her there without excessive gentleness—she could take it. Her body bounced slightly as he deposited her.
He then went to a table, setting up a soundtrack—a selection of songs that would guide him as he delved deep into her mind and body. As his mind would burrow in her mind, in her memory getting that little sliver more out, his body, his cock would burrow in her pussy. He was her mate, her perfect biological half—not brother, but mate—and his body yearned to nourish her.
His arousal was intense and peculiar; he could only release himself within Mimi. He was making a bump, and he just could not get it out as he had fucked others. Something inside him knew that this bump was meant for Mimi and only for Mimi. He would use her body for his pleasure.
He had the right; she was his wife after all, and he knew that once Mimi recovered, she would be an enthusiastic participant. But for now, the pleasure was solely his. This power over Mimi, a creature among the universe's strongest, made him feel omnipotent. Seeing her naked and vulnerable, ready for him, was perfect.
He was learning so much. He possessed empathy and compassion, but also a healthy dose of self-awareness, surprisingly heightened by these experiences with these women. Tapping into a long-suppressed part of himself, he felt free. It was his cruel side, the side that saw women as toys.
He was an old creature, a creature encompassing many parts, one of which was shaped by a time when women were considered mere playthings. This ingrained belief persisted, even though he could behave in a modern way. Denying this part of himself didn't help, though. Mariella might eventually appreciate this side of him, but not yet.
Acknowledging it, however, helped him function and break free from the lingering effects of the witch's spell. His past infidelities paled compared to Mariella's and Mimi's, especially considering they hadn't been under a spell.
He realized he was much like Mimi, which contributed to the difficulty of the situation. He understood her mindset, her feelings, her emptiness; he could almost taste it. He vowed to fix it, acknowledging his own oversight in their predicament. Blaming Mimi, despite her leadership of a major resistance group and her position with the NSA, was pointless.
He, the millennia-old vampire pack leader, had been paranoid and careful once; this wouldn't have happened if he'd maintained that vigilance. But love, he mused, softens one, leading to the burying of inconvenient truths. He'd also learned that despite his bond with Mariella, she didn't fully know him—a fact dictated by his own choices about what he shared. This served as a wake-up call. It was time for Mariella to truly know him, and he could only hope she would still love him.
As the music softly began, Damon shed his clothes, crawled into bed, and partially lay on top of Mimi. His belly ached, and a large bump protruded from his lower right side. Latching onto her nipple, he suckled lightly. Power flooded into him, making him see fractals, smell equations, and intensify the pain in his huge hard throbbing cock.
He continued suckling the "hot strawberry milk," a rush overtaking him. He moaned, his hips jerking, desperately searching for friction, but not yet. This was important for several reasons. First, it gave him a much-needed boost; undoing the programming was arduous work. Second, Mimi needed help; she lacked control over her growing powers, and her imbalance exacerbated the problem. This mild power-down would ease the pressure until she could find her rage, control its flow, and regain her composure. Until then, he would have to assist her.
After finally emptying her perfect breasts, he eagerly relieved himself. He cruelly kicked her legs apart, his heavy, hot, hard cock, pulsating and oozing a complex substance designed to open her cervix, make her yield, and give him optimal access to flood, feed, and breed her, if necessary. His pulsating balls mirrored his readiness.
Thrusting himself into her perfect, tight pussy, he groaned; it was as perfect as it could be—tight, hot, and yielding. It was his pussy, his right to fuck, and he let himself enjoy it.
As his pleasure mounted, he spoke to her, though she couldn't hear him: "Oh my god, baby, you're perfect. Oh my god, I'm gonna cum hard."
Only he heard his grunts, the pressure coiling down his spine, making him sweat and shake as the first explosive orgasm hit. He sank as deeply as possible into her perfect, hot, tight pussy; her cervix was loose, and he flooded his scalding load into her womb. Leaning over her, he jerked as wave after wave of pleasure hit him like a tsunami, leaving him panting and licking her neck. He desperately wanted to bite her pheromone glands, but the time wasn't yet right.
It took three more orgasms before his bump bag emptied and his swollen, throbbing balls subsided, yet he continued to fuck his wife. He looked at her sleeping face, knowing a significant part of him wanted her to feel this afterward, but not yet. She would wake up in her cage, unaware of what he had done.
Only with further refinement of the programming would it be possible; exposing this fucking and its use too early would trigger her suspicions, and she might guess the truth. It was time to begin teasing out the programming. He had used her favorite songs, implanting them deep within her subconscious so her body would react to sex, her biology sensing his bump in her abdominal cavity and connecting it to the music she loved.
Ironically, he had discovered this connection through songs as well. Probing her mind, he found a song that didn't belong: "Highway to Hell" by AC/DC, a song she'd never listened to. A brief examination of her past revealed one of the guards always played music loudly; he must have played this song while assaulting her, providing their crucial clue.
As he continued to fuck her, he used her sensations as a shield, carefully sending only brief, second-long bursts of the song into her mind, like echolocation, attempting to map the programming or the traumatic memory. It took time.
Five hours later, his probing hit a memory, taking his breath away for several minutes with its visceral impact. Instinctively, he tagged the memory.
He shuddered as it unfolded: "He was lying on a hard cot, tired and sore. Burns from electroconvulsive therapy ached and throbbed, and he could feel arrhythmias in his heart. He was done, yet a faceless monster, a man, came by and pressed a moldy towel over his head, holding it in place while someone poured water over it. He couldn't breathe; he needed to...he thrashed..."
The memory blissfully ended, but Damon had sent this to Wulfe, and he could feel Wulfe's rage.
Although they had only a terrible song—one they'd heard during this time—it gave them a lead.
Wulfe's voice echoed in Damon's mind: "I've got this. We have a good grip now, and we can escalate soon. But let her recover; don't tell her yet that we know. I've sent this to others, so we can use music to tease memories from them, too. This song might work for them as well."
Damon replied, "Fine, that was horrible, somehow, but we must keep going and get this nastiness out of the way."
He continued to fuck her for five more hours, talking to her, letting himself feel love for her. The pain the memory had ignited burned like wildfire within him, felt by all ten Salvatores; they wanted to help heal her. Damon swore he would take those memories away—utterly, as she didn't deserve to carry that burden. At this point, Mariella was not his priority; Mimi was, and he was ready to do anything for his baby.
They now had a clear direction, although this had initially been just Mimi's sensations. However, there was more. As Damon and Wulfe reviewed the memory, they both heard the whispers emanating from the earpieces Mimi had worn—whispers telling her she was nothing, weak, and ugly.
This revealed the programming and the voice Damon could manipulate and use with his telepathy to extract similar programming from others. While it would take time and effort, they finally had it, and it was time to begin the real work.
Although Damon wanted to inform Mariella that her feelings were merely the result of programming, it would be unproductive; her mind refused to accept this until they could identify and neutralize the programming, enabling her mind to recognize the external influence and distinguish it from her own thoughts.