The Villains Must Win-Chapter 349: (+18) Alistair Cain 9

What the fuck?! The soul inside Selene thought.

Was Alistair going to kill her?

"Shhh," Alistair purred darkly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against her racing pulse. "Just relax and let it happen."

Selene’s vision began to swim as oxygen deprivation clouded her mind. The vibrator continued its relentless assault on her clit even as Alistair squeezed tighter around her neck.

Pleasure and pain blurred together into a dizzying rush that left Selene feeling weightless and unmoored.

"That’s it," Alistair crooned approvingly, leaning down to nuzzle at Selene’s ear. "You’re doing so well for me. Maybe I should reward you?"

Selene could only whimper weakly in response, the pressure on her windpipe making speech impossible. She could feel her consciousness slipping away, the edges of her vision darkening as she teetered on the brink of oblivion.

And then Alistair’s fangs pierced her neck and Selene screamed - or tried to, at least. The sound emerged as a strangled gurgle around his hand clamped over her throat.

White-hot agony exploded through her neck as he drank deeply from the wound, but it was quickly swallowed up by an even more intense wave of ecstasy.

Selene came harder than she ever had before, every muscle in her body seizing with the force of it. Her pussy clenched rhythmically around nothing as pleasure consumed her utterly.

She was only vaguely aware of Alistair releasing his grip on her throat so that she could draw a shuddering breath...and then another...before everything went black.

====

When Selene finally drifted back to awareness some time later, she found herself unbound and curled against Alistair’s side beneath the sheets. He stroked a gentle hand through her hair as he held her close, murmuring soft words that sounded almost tender.

Selene blinked up at him in dazed confusion, her mind still fuzzy from the intensity of her ordeal.

"What...what happened?" she rasped, her voice hoarse and scratchy. "Did I...did I faint?"

Alistair chuckled darkly, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Indeed you did," he confirmed. "But don’t worry - it was only a small taste of what’s to come."

Selene shivered at the promise in his words even as exhaustion tugged at her limbs. She knew she should be afraid...but all she could feel was a bone-deep sense of contentment and belonging.

Alistair had taken her to heights of pleasure she never knew existed - and she would follow him anywhere, no matter how dark or dangerous the path might be, all for the advancement of the plot!

She could only hope that she would be the villain in the end or at least sided with the villain.

====

The night did not end gently.

It could never have ended gently.

Selene learned this when Alistair finally drew her beyond the threshold where pain and pleasure ceased to exist as separate sensations.

By then, her body no longer trembled from fear alone. It shook with anticipation, with an awareness she had not possessed before—an understanding that whatever awaited her at the end of experience trial would change her irrevocably.

She realized that now, that she like BDSM. A little dangerous but exhilarating nonetheless.

Alistair had always been patient, but this patience was something else entirely—ritualistic, reverent. He did not rush toward climax or cruelty. He built toward it, layering sensation upon sensation until Selene felt as though her body had become an instrument tuned exclusively for him.

The nights that followed established a pattern.

Selene learned quickly that endurance was not merely tolerated—it was valued.

Alistair returned to her again and again, sometimes with rituals as severe as the first night, sometimes with variations that tested different limits. Each time, she faced the pain. Each time, she survived it.

And each time, pleasure followed.

Not always immediate. Not always kind. But always there, waiting at the edge like a promise.

She began to understand something unsettling about herself.

She did not merely tolerate these nights.

She anticipated them.

There were moments—lying awake during the day, tracing faint marks along her skin—when the realization frightened her more than Alistair ever had.

She questioned whether something in her had fractured, whether endurance had awakened a hunger she could no longer deny.

But Alistair noticed.

He always noticed.

"You do not rebel," he observed one evening, watching her kneel before him, calm despite the implements laid out beside him. "You do not scream unless I draw it from you."

Selene lifted her gaze. "Would it please you if I did?"

His expression hardened. "No."

That answer told her everything.

She was not valued because she suffered.

She was valued because she endured.

Other women came and went.

Some were beautiful. Some were defiant. Some screamed from the moment pain touched them, their resistance loud and chaotic.

They begged. They cursed. They thrashed against restraints they had already agreed to wear.

Those nights ended swiftly.

Alistair despised disorder.

Rebellion irritated him. Screams born of panic grated against his senses, shattering the ritual, poisoning the experience. He did not tolerate chaos in his sanctum—and when a woman crossed that line, her fate was sealed long before the final cry escaped her throat.

Selene learned not to ask where they went.

She learned not to listen when screams echoed too sharply, too briefly.

She endured.

So did Caroline.

Caroline was different from Selene in temperament, but alike in one crucial way: she did not resist. Her endurance manifested differently—quiet, almost serene, her breaths controlled even when pain etched itself across her body.

Where Selene trembled and cried in silent (an act), Caroline held still, eyes dark and focused, as though pain were something to be studied rather than feared.

Alistair noticed her, too.

He always noticed.

Soon, the nights divided themselves between the two women—sometimes alternating, sometimes overlapping in quiet, unspoken rivalry.

Neither woman resented the other. They understood, instinctively, that favoritism in Alistair’s world was not affection.

It was survival.

And something more dangerous.

He watched them closely, comparing reactions, testing thresholds. He learned how Selene’s body softened before it broke, how Caroline’s strength lay in stillness.

He learned how both women transformed pain into something that fed him—not just blood, but fascination.

"You enjoy this," he told Selene one night, his voice low as he drew blood from her again. "Do not deny it."

She did not.