Melody with her perfect pale skin is locked in the trunk of a car, her wrists and ankles cuffed. When the car stops, she’s yanked out and dragged down a storm cellar. She disappears into darkness.
Her wrists are cuffed behind a pole. She slowly sinks to the floor, sitting on cold concrete. He manhandles her a bit, just to let her know who’s boss. Then he kneels over her, his crotch in her face. He vibrates her until she comes. It’s a way of owning everything, even her pleasure.
He leaves her. She settles in for the night. Cold concrete floor, implacable steel around her wrists and ankles. Like part of a long ago dream, her toenails are painted red.
It’s a nightmare, really. She wakes up lying in a puddle of her piss. He dumps a pile of grain on the floor. She eats. He drops a pail of water near her head. Then it’s time for a little breathplay by inflating a dildo deep in her throat. He makes her come again, writhing and screaming. From From dread? When he leaves her this time, she can’t lie down, only sit and wait. He wants her to come to his bed willingly. But she won’t.
Metal shackles and chain. A metal gag in her mouth. A stim locked inside her. Move those stones over there, he says. She clatters as she walks. He’s wearing a jacket in the cold air. She’s naked. She slogs through muck barefoot, slipping from stone to stone, limping. Then he orders her to lie face down in the muck. What choice does she have? Of course it’s humiliating. Maybe if she agreed to sleep in his bed, it would end.
Certainly there’s a point at which she will break. We have to assume that she will.
Of course. 
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