The days blur together in a haze of pain and pleasure, Ivanov's insatiable appetite for Sam's body leaving him weak and drained. Sam's once vibrant eyes start to dull, the spark of life fading as Ivanov uses him relentlessly, turning him into little more than a warm, willing hole for Ivanov's cock. As the days turn into weeks, Sam's once vibrant and energetic self starts to fade away. The constant marathon of sex and the lack of proper rest and nutrition leave him gaunt and pale, his body a shadow of its former vitality. His eyes, once sparkling and full of life, now look haunted and hollow, staring blankly into the distance as Ivanov uses him again and again.
Ivanov's whispers of love and possession become a constant soundtrack to Sam's new existence, the sweet words echoing in his mind until he can't distinguish between reality and the twisted fairy tale Ivanov spins for him. "You're mine, Sam," Ivanov murmurs, his breath hot against the back of Sam's neck as he takes him from behind, one hand gripping Sam's hip bruisingly tight while the other wraps loosely around Sam's throat. "My perfect little love slave, my beautiful boy. I love you so much, Sam. More than anything in this world."
Sam can only whimper in response, his voice a thin, reedy sound that barely fills the room. He's lost count of the number of times Ivanov has taken him, lost track of the days and nights that blur together in a haze of sweat, semen, and the sticky, drying remnants of his own blood. Ivanov's bites and marks cover every inch of Sam's skin, a roadmap of his obsession and possession, a brand that can never be erased.
One evening, as Sam lies limp and splayed out beneath Ivanov, the Russian's cock buried deep inside him, Ivanov reaches for the phone. Sam barely registers the ringing tone, his mind too fuzzy and exhausted to process much of anything. Ivanov puts the phone on speaker, and Sam hears his mother's voice, filled with concern and confusion.
"Sam? Sam, honey, are you there? Ivanov said you were sick, but he didn't say what was wrong. Are you okay?"
Sam opens his mouth, trying to form a coherent response. His tongue feels thick and clumsy, his throat dry and aching. "I... I'm..." He swallows hard, trying to find his voice. "I'm f-fine, Mom. I'm just... tired. Really tired..."
Ivanov grins, his eyes dark and possessive as he stares down at Sam. "Your son is just exhausted. Don't worry, I'm taking good care of him," Ivanov says, his voice dripping with false sincerity. His grin widening at Mrs Carper thankful response. He hung up the phone before grabbing Sam's thighs higher–almost bending the boy in half. "Now where were we?"
....
Sam wakes up to the scent of Ivanov.
The air is thick with it—musky, warm, and suffocating, as if the very walls are soaked in his presence. It clings to Sam's skin, to the bedsheets, to his very breath, making his head feel light and his body sluggish.
He blinks slowly, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the ceiling.
How long has he been here? Days? Weeks?
Time is nothing but a blur now.
The apartment is quiet, unnervingly so. There is no sound from the outside world—no cars honking, no people passing by. Just the ticking of a clock and the faint hum of the air conditioning.
He barely remembers the last time he tried to fight.
It was pointless.
Ivanov had stripped him of everything—his strength, his will, his mind. Every attempt at resistance had been met with whispered reassurances, with kisses that melted his protests, with hands that knew exactly how to undo him.
"Good morning, little bird."
Sam flinches.
Ivanov's voice is soft, affectionate, as if he hasn't been holding Sam captive, as if he hasn't been breaking him piece by piece.
A warm hand trails down his cheek, and Sam barely reacts. He only blinks up at Ivanov, his body unmoving, his mind numb.
Ivanov chuckles, pressing a slow kiss to Sam's forehead. "*That's a good boy.**"
Sam barely registers it.
He has stopped reacting to the pet names, stopped pushing away the hands that touch him so freely.
It doesn't matter anymore.
"I don't want to leave you, not even for a second," Ivanov murmurs against his skin. "But work calls, sweets. You'll be a good boy for me until then, right?"
Sam nods quietly.
He always does.
Ivanov smiles, brushing a strand of hair from Sam's face before standing. "That's my baby."
With one last lingering touch, Ivanov finally pulls away.
The sound of the door clicking shut echoes through the silence.
Sam doesn't move.
He stays curled up in bed, his eyes fixed on the blank wall in front of him. His mind is empty. His body is heavy.
Minutes pass.
Hours.
The day drags on in stillness, and all he does is wait.
Wait for Ivanov to return.
Wait for the warmth of his touch, for the sick comfort of his presence.
Until—
Something shifts.
A crack in the numbness.
A sharp jolt of realization.
This is wrong.
This isn't normal.
He's trapped.
The walls that once felt safe now feel suffocating, their edges closing in on him. The sheets around his body feel too tight, too restricting, like bindings he never noticed before.
And then—the silence.
For the first time in weeks, he is alone.
Ivanov isn't here.
The weight of that realization crashes into him like a wave, sending a violent shiver down his spine.
His breath quickens.
His fingers dig into the sheets.
He has to get out.
Now.
Sam pushes himself up, his limbs weak and trembling from days of isolation, but his desperation fuels him. He stumbles to his feet, gripping the edge of the bed for support.
The room tilts.
His head pounds.
But he doesn't stop.
His gaze flickers around, searching, searching—
His phone.
It's gone.
His heartbeat stutters.
The windows—locked.
The door—locked.
He swallows hard, his breath uneven. "Think, Sam…"
His eyes land on the small wooden table near the wall.
He can't stop now.
Adrenaline surges through his veins as he stumbles toward it, grabbing the edges and dragging it toward the door. The legs screech against the floor, but he doesn't care.
His pulse is a wild drumbeat in his ears.
He raises the table, his arms trembling from the effort—then slams it against the door.
A loud crack.
He does it again.
And again.
"Come on, come on…" His voice is breathless, frantic.
Another slam.
A creak.
His heart leaps. It's working.
Just a little more—
A final, desperate strike—
And the door shifts open.
Relief surges through Sam's chest, his lips parting to take in a shaky breath—
Then, he freezes.
His blood turns to ice.
Because standing in the doorway—watching him with dark amusement—
Is Ivanov.
Smiling.
"Going somewhere?"