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Footsteps invaded Slade’s senses once more. It was the only thing he could concentrate on in the dark, humid room. This and the sound of drops, slowly falling on a puddle of water just by the door. They barely kept Slade from descending into insanity. The captivity had taken a toll on him in a way years of torture hadn’t. Waller’s methods were merciless. He could no longer think, form any thoughts. Days, nights, hours, minutes, they were all blended together into a piercing silence within his mind, one which accounted nothing. Whatever sound he heard, he latched onto it and didn’t let it go, desperate for any kind of distraction. In the old days, when Slade had just been brought here, he used to distinguish each different set of footsteps. He remembered he had figured out there were three different people to enter this part of the dungeons. The first one, Slade used to see. His footsteps were heavy, loud. He was a huge man, almost as huge as Slade. Half his face was scarred, Slade had suspected knives, torture. He was probably a soldier. The second one was a woman, a nurse, he believed. He hadn’t seen her directly, but the tapping of the sneakers she usually wore proved his theory. Her steps were always slow, reluctant, afraid. The third and last set of footsteps was one Slade was terrified of. The clicking of her heels, the loud noise the door made each time she opened and closed it. Everytime he heard it, Slade felt terror. He knew she was coming for him.
That’s why he had already started to tremble now. He was chained on a dungeon wall, hands each to their own sides with heavy silver handcuffs. Amanda allowed him no clothes, another form of breaking him, Slade presumed. Nothing broke a man of pride better than humiliation. He had found early on that there was no way of breaking out of this hell. Amanda Waller could be a lot of things, but Slade knew that her most dangerous trait was her icy cold heart. She had reached where she was now by stepping on other people, having no regard for feelings or human lives. She aimed for the top and nothing else mattered. And that was the reason she had kept Slade alive for so long: there was no greater achievement than breaking the unbreakable. The mercenary was regretful to admit she had almost achieved it.
"Are you ready to talk now?" Asked the figure above him. Her tone suggested anger. She was slowly starting to run out of patience and Slade couldn’t say he wasn’t eagerly waiting for her to. Death was the only release he would ever really get from Waller.
He shook his head. Same as every day. Only, these days, he couldn't remember why he didn't speak. Or what was so important about the secret he was hiding that he was holding it more dearly than his own sanity. Why did people keep secrets anyway? Was it a matter of pride? Of guilt? Or was it a secret hope that, at the time of their reveal, they would be held unaccountable for them?
No matter the reasoning, Slade followed his instincts and remained quiet for now. He could not remember why, but there was a prime need to follow them, almost drilled into him. So, he kept quiet. Not that he knew what the woman wanted him to say exactly.
He inhaled deeply as he felt the piercing of her heel against his thigh, the cold tip of her shoe against his cock. He felt the pressure increasing. He remained quiet. It was the only outside touch he had gotten. Even if it was pain, he embraced it.
He moaned.
She smiled at the sound, lifting her shoe, only to roughly stomp onto his privates. He screamed out, but didn’t struggle, didn’t try to move away. He knew better than that now. Neither did he say anything as he felt her bringing her heel down on his balls again, kicking. He distantly knew he deserved it. He just couldn’t recall why.
There was a time when Slade would push the pain away, forbid himself from feeling it. Another emotion, he remembered calling it, as useless as the rest of them. Back then, it was different. Back then, he had something dragging him along, he had a goal to fulfill. Back then, he had anger.
All he knew now, all he had, was pain. There was an emptiness inside him everytime he was on his own, a blank he had no other means to fill. He almost craved it. There was this traitorous feeling of self-satisfaction that came along with each of Amanda’s actions.
Every almost 86.600 drops of water, she would come in and provide this welcome distraction. She would not speak to him, other than the same phrase twice: once when she came in and once just before she left. She, too, had lost the initial spark that she had when she first brought him here. Everyday, her words would get angrier, her torture more vicious. Each day, Slade would come closer to talking.
His throat felt raw as she brought her foot down again and again, mercilessly kicking. She bent down, bringing a manicured nail under his chin, lifting his head. She laughed at his tortured expression, but made no comment. She wrapped a hand around his neck, putting in pressure.
"Are you ready to talk now?" She asked again, enraged. Before giving him no chance to answer, she made a point to remind him of the consequences of his denial. Something was different today. She, too, seemed to be running out of time. He felt the piercing of a heel against his testicle again. This time, though, it wasn't the calculated pressure he was used to, no. She didn't stop, she just kept on until she couldn't anymore, until. And then some more, for good measure.
"I have given you too many chances, Wilson." He felt the underside of her shoe moving up and down his length gently. His cock started to slowly harden.
Then, screaming.
"But it seems I have been too lenient."
Slade struggled against the cuffs. Amanda continued, almost as if she hadn't heard him.
"Are you ready to talk?" He had a feeling it was the last time she was asking, before she’d leave again.
Slade was a strong man, he was. He just couldn’t be alone. Not again.
"Yes."