Page 51 of Psycho Obsession
“Aris used electricity to break your mind,” I rasp, themetal clinking as I prep it. “I’m going to use frequency to erase it.”
I shove the anchor into her. It’s thick, uncompromising, stretching her open until she’s gasping for air she can’t find. But that’s not the part that breaks her. I take a secondary device—a series of weighted, magnetic micro-leads—and I clip them to her labia and the clamp still crushing her nipple.
They’re tethered by gossamer-thin wires to the main anchor inside her.
“This is a symbiotic loop, Hallow. Every time the motor inside you spins, the leads pull. The harder you twitch, the sharper they bite.”
I step back, the remote heavy in my hand. It doesn’t have buttons; it has a slider. I thumb it upward.
The sound is a low-frequency hum that vibrates the very floorboards. Inside her, the anchor doesn’t just buzz; it grinds in a jagged, offset orbit. It feels like a tectonic plate shifting against her G-spot. And then the leads kick in. With every rotation, they snatch at her skin, a rhythmic, stinging tug that perfectly syncs with the internal thud.
“Fuck!” she screams, her body snapping like a whip against the ceiling restraints.
But the more she thrashes, the more the magnets jerk at her nerves. It’s a closed loop of agony and filth. I turn the dial. The frequency hits a pitch that makes her eyes roll back until only the whites are showing. She’s not just coming; she’s being electro-mechanically dismantled.
“You feel that?” I mock, walking around her suspended, twitching form, watching the way her muscles cord and fail. “That’s the sound of your father’scampaign speech. Every time the crowd cheers, I’m going to up the hertz. Every time he lies about ‘protecting the children,’ I’m going to make you feel exactly what he sold you for.”
I pull out my phone and sync the remote to the live audio feed of the Mayor’s speech.
“Now, the city is going to fuck you, Hallow. Literally.”
The Mayor’s voice booms through the funhouse speakers. “I promise a future of order!” The vibrator spikes, the anchor spinning at a violent, blurring speed. Hallow’s scream is lost in the roar of the mechanical hum and the applause of the crowd outside. She’s hanging there, vibrating so hard the chains are throwing sparks, her pussy weeping a river of slick, frustrated heat over the cold steel.
“You’re the heartbeat of this city now, sweetheart,” I whisper, leaning in to lick a tear from her cheek as she shudders in a permanent, forced peak. “Don’t you dare go quiet on me.”
I leave the slider pushed all the way to the red.
The funhouse is filled with the sound of her unmaking—the wet, rhythmic thwack of the leads snatching at her skin and the deep, industrial growl of the anchor grinding into her core. She’s not even screaming anymore; she’s just making these small, brokenclicking sounds in the back of her throat, her body a blur of violent, high-frequency tremors suspended against the rafters.
I pick up the porcelain teacup—fine, bone-white china I looted from a Victorian estate—and step out onto the balcony.
The night air is crisp, smelling of salt and the expensive exhaust of the motorcade idling below. A hundred yards away, the Mayor stands on a makeshift stage draped in red, white, and blue. He looks presidential. He looks clean. He looks like a man who hasn’t spent the last decade dreaming about the sound of his children’s bones snapping.
“I see a city that has lost its way!” his voice booms through the speakers, echoing off the water.
I take a slow, deliberate sip of the Earl Grey. It’s hot, bitter, and perfect.
“You see a city that’s lost its way?” I murmur to the empty air, a jagged grin splitting my face. “That’s funny, Dad. I see a city that’s finally found its pulse.”
Inside, the anchor spikes in response to the crowd’s roar. I hear the chains rattle. I hear Hallow’s heels drum against the thin air.
“We must protect the sanctity of the family unit!” the Mayor shouts, slamming his fist onto the podium.
I let out a sharp, barking laugh and tilt my cup toward him. “The ‘sanctity,’ he says. While his daughter is hanging from a hook like a side of beef, vibrating on a frequency that would melt a normal brain. You really are a poetic piece of shit, aren’t you?”
I lean over the railing, watching the secret service detail scan the crowd. They’re looking for snipers.They’re looking for bombs. They aren’t looking for the ghosts of the past sitting on a rotting pier, drinking tea and watching the show.
“The darkness will be purged!”
I thumb the remote in my pocket, pushing the frequency even higher, into the ultrasonic range where it starts to whistle. The sound from inside the funhouse changes—it becomes a shrill, piercing whine. Hallow’s body snaps into a rigid, agonising arc, her spine looking like it’s ready to burst through her skin.
“Purge away, old man,” I whisper, the steam from the tea curling around my face like a shroud. “But you can’t purge what you built. You can’t purge the filth you left in the dark.”
I settle back into the rusted iron chair, crossing my legs, enjoying the symphony of his lies and her mechanical agony. It’s the best tea party I’ve ever been to.
I don’t just watch him; I savour him.
The remote in my hand is a heavy, matte-black slab of obsidian, custom-tooled with a haptic feedback strip. Every time the anchor inside Hallow grinds against her bone, the remote pulses in my palm. I can feel her heart through the circuitry. I can feel the exact moment her nerves begin to fry.
