Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem

Gilbert's fingers traced along the cold, metallic edges of the implements on the tray, each of which was more brutal than the last. He lifted a small iron branding rod whose tip was designed to leave deep, permanent marks on the flesh. His lips curled into a cruel smirk as he tilted it in the light, examining it thoroughly.

He set the branding rod back down and moved to another tool - a barbed clamp, sharpened and wickedly serrated. "This one here, darling…" he began musing while running his thumb along its cruel, twisted teeth, "it could make for a memorable lesson, wouldn't you agree?"

The girl's face drained of color while her small hands pressed against the cold stone floor as if she could push herself right through it to escape. She whimpered softly with her eyes wide due to sheer horror as he turned each tool over in his hands, contemplating its use with sick fascination.

She wanted to resist with all her being, or at least not give him the satisfaction of showing fear and pain, but to the young girl's dismay, her body had betrayed her commands. She was terrified beyond what words could describe. She'd somewhat even gotten used to getting beaten - which in itself was a tragedy already - but these tools were something much crueler. She instinctively dreaded each and every one of them with every fiber of her being.

Gilbert chuckled victoriously and tapped a thin, rusted metal spike against the tray, letting the clang echo through the dimly lit cell. "You know, they say it's better to let a child choose their own path in life…" he murmured in a sickly sweet voice. "So, why don't you tell me, Iris? Which one would you like to start with?"

The question was not meant to give her control; it was a twisted game, a mockery. Her heart thundered painfully, beating so fast I felt like it might burst. She wanted to scream, to cry out, to somehow vanish and escape this waking nightmare. But all that escaped her lips was a quiet, desperate cry, a sound that only seemed to amuse him further.

"Not feeling talkative today either?" He asked with a lighthearted tone that sounded conversational. He held up a small blade that was no longer than his hand but honed to a razor-sharp edge, perfect for carving deep lines. His thumb ran over the edge, testing its sharpness, drawing a thin line of his own blood. "Ah, yes… this one has potential."

He picked up a pair of iron pliers. "How about these? I could start with your fingers. Look, with your useless mommy deceased, no one has cut your long fingernails in months! It is time I step up as your father and lower myself to such a feminine task. Aren't I a great sole parent?" He questioned while moving closer to her cowering form. An entirely crazed grin decorated the face of a complete monster.

Gilbert crouched down to her level with his shadow stretching long across the cell as he savored every second of her horror. He gripped her trembling hand and she instinctively tried to curl her hand away, but his grip only tightened.

"Let me reiterate that I draw not even an ounce of joy from this, my dear daughter…" he murmured as he brought the pliers up to her fingernail. With a swift, brutal jerk, he yanked it free, causing a sharp pain to lance through her small frame as her vision went white. She couldn't contain her scream at all. The entire basement holding was filled with her wailing, and in my mind, I was doing the exact same thing. After all, I felt everything she did. Just like her, I'd gotten used to getting beaten by his fists rather well, but this… I've never in my life felt anything even remotely this hurtful.

This lunatic just tore the fingernail off his defenseless, less-than-5-year-old daughter! How black does your soul have to be to reach this point?! What's more, he had the galls to claim he didn't enjoy this process at all, yet his cruel smile and gleaming eyes told an entirely different story.

"Good, good, good… That's the spirit." He set the bloodied nail aside, watching with sadistic satisfaction as blood trickled down her limb. Then, he moved to the next nail, pulling it out with the same ruthless efficiency.

Her breaths came in short, desperate gasps. Each one was more strained than the last. Every nerve in her hand screamed in protest, yet he showed no hint of mercy, moving methodically from one nail to the next.

Once he finished, he set the pliers aside and lifted her hand to examine his handiwork. "You look pathetic!" he spat, tossing her hand back down with disgust. "All this crying over fingernails."

Iris could only gasp as she struggled to catch her breath. Her tiny, wounded hands curled against her chest in instinctive protection. Her tears streaked down her face, which were silent now - but their flow entirely uncontrollable - yet she somehow managed to hold her gaze steady. Defiance burned through the pain, her hatred was clear as day even through the extreme amount of agony coursing through her small, fragile frame.

Gilbert scowled at her. "Still not enough, I see. Alright, I'll make sure you understand how things work from now on." He reached back and picked up the branding rod, twirling it casually as though it were nothing more than a harmless toy.

He held the branding iron up to the torch mounted on the wall until its tip glowed red-hot. Then, without a second's hesitation, he pressed it against the delicate skin of her forearm. The sickening sizzle filled the air as the stench of her burned flesh mingled with her screams. She thrashed, trying to wrench her arm free, but he held her firmly, forcing her to endure every second of excruciating heat.

When he finally pulled it away, a deep, ugly burn remained on her skin that was raw and oozing. Iris's vision swam from the sheer magnitude of the pain and her body was going limp in his grasp as she teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, alongside me.

"Maybe that'll teach you." He sneered while setting the branding rod down and wiping his hands as though ridding himself of something filthy. "Tomorrow, we'll try again until you stop fighting and start acting like a daughter who respects and loves her only parent. Until then, try not to bleed out, alright? I don't feel like spending a healing potion on you every other day, let's limit it to once a week, m'kay?"

He spat at her feet and with a last, disdainful look, he turned and walked out, leaving her battered, broken, and utterly alone in the cold silence of the cell.

Iris once again curled up into the fetal position as she desperately hugged her legs to her chest and cried herself into sleep.

…

"Meow."

Both Iris and I awoke sometime later to a warm sensation. It quickly became evident that it was caused by the tongue of a cat. "Whiskers…" Iris whispered.

This cat was the animal Sarah, the head maid, kept around as her personal pet. In her free time, she would train Whiskers who I must admit had well above normal levels of intelligence for a simple domesticated cat.

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