A small, cramped room. The bare, damp, concrete-like interior walls, and a single bare light bulb.
Why do aliens prefer such a bleak room when they have such advanced technology to the point that they can modify the human body at will? I’d like to have a room that’s a little more futuristic. That’s what I think every time I come here.
This is the Butcher’s cell. The other day, I overdid it with the blonde girl and slaughtered two lizardman-like aliens. I’ve been put in here as a cool-down period.
When the Butcher gets out of control, it gets thrown in here for maintenance. I’m in the middle of that routine now. It seems that the other day’s killing and wounding was my runaway.
It wasn’t a runaway, it was my own choice, but the aliens don’t know that.
It’s been almost a whole day since I was put in here.
Actually, I don’t hate this cell.
I’m crucified on the wall with no clothes on, and I just standing there, unable to move, but it gives me some time to think.
Sorting out my fragmented memories. How to use the Butcher’s hidden abilities. The alien’s equipment and facilities. Escape plans. How to infiltrate the Fort. and lastly Revenge.
The chain clanked. I think I’ve been a little overwhelmed.
Revenge. That one thought is strongly burned into my mind.
But I don’t know who I should take revenge on.
Many of my memories are gone. I can’t even remember my own name. I’ve tried so hard to remember, but it doesn’t seem to work. I tried this and that all day, but in the end, I couldn’t even remember my name.
And just after a few minutes, I gave up.
I’ve just decided to give myself a new, cool name.
I can’t speak it anyway, and I can’t say my name. So it’s just going to be something that I can call myself.
It’s a trivial sentiment, but I still want a name. When I think about myself, I don’t want to call myself the Butcher of Slaughter.
Let’s not do that.
Yes, a butcher is originally a butcher or the person who carve the meat in the butcher shop. There is a similar word for slaughterer.
But it’s too simplistic. I wonder if there is a more punchy name. ……
Avenger…… Torture…… Heart….. Brun…….
While I was thinking about this, I heard the door to my cell slam.
The thick metal door opened with a squeaky, ill-fitting sound.
Two people walked into the room bathing in the ray of light from the outside.
One of them is a male alien, close to humanoid in shape, well-built in his own way, with a hobgoblin-like appearance. He is the guard of this cell.
I know the other one very well. A woman.
The guard is leaning back against the wall near the door, smirking.
The guard smirks at me as he walks past me, and the girl walks up to me. She has silver hair down to her hips and curly goat-like horns sprouting from her head. I can’t think of any other species that looks like her.
The Butcher was placed in this cell, and its movements would continue to be restrained until it calmed down. In the meantime, however, its sexual appetite is inexhaustible, and if left unchecked, the Butcher’s rampage will not only not stop but will worsen.
That’s why there is a girl who comes around on a regular basis to take care of my sexual needs.
She is one of the Butcher’s sexual servants. She is also one of my favorite girls. She’s the best.
The Butcher’s sex drive is so staggering that they need to send several girls in rotation, but currently, she’s the only one who comes to aid me.
She stood next to me.
I can feel her breathing up close. Her limbs are only covered with a thin robe. Her ample breasts push up against the cloth. The prickly tips tickle my belly, making me tingle.
It was deliberate. She’s teasing me on purpose. Damn.
The anticipation, along with the blood flowing through my veins, is inexorably flowing into my son. My taut glans rubbed up and down her thighs.
My son is perfectly poised to take in her scent. She looked down at me quietly, not even a hint of displeasure.
She watched with satisfaction as I was mesmerized by her, my animal instinct raging. She knelt down in front of me, reached out her hands to my raging penis, and began rubbing it lovingly with both hands.
At first, she gently tickled it with her fingertips, then carefully caressed it from bottom to top.
She brought her face so close that I could hear her sniffle, but she still didn’t touch it. She put her mouth to mine by a paper-thin margin. She continues to caress me with her breath, keeping a perfect distance.
She looks up at me with awe and admiration through the meat stick.
She’s really good at this.
And she doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable or obligated. As a professional, I can’t help but feel sympathy for her.
When I was first put in this cell, it was terrible. The routine of the ghostly women mechanically squeezing my semen out of me was terrifying and almost torturous. I secretly refer to the woman here as Sadako. In fact, they really look like that.
Among them, this girl was the only one who shone.
After about the tenth time in solitary confinement, I couldn’t take it anymore and felt like I was going to lose my mind. So I decided to go on a violent rampage whenever anyone other than this girl came in.
Even though her hands and feet were bound, if the butcher writhed and flailed, she would not be able to serve him properly.
After doing this repeatedly, eventually, only this girl was left.
She began to thrust her tongue in and out.
She started with my balls. Chewing and sucking. Next, she moved her tongue along the back of my cock to the tip of my glans.
She pressed her tongue against the warm, rough, plump belly of my tongue and licked it up and down making the slick, slick, slick sound.
She licked up and down and moving her head over and over again, my nose tangled in her breath. Each time, my sexual senses were gently heightened.
When my mind is a little tired, I sometimes go out of my way to be trapped in this cell and let her blow me to cheer me up. Her professional oral ministrations felt like a mother’s love, and this cell and her presence became a spiritual oasis for me to cure my loneliness.
Her oral ministrations entered a phase in which she rolled her head to the side and swirled her tongue around my flesh. Then her long silver hair fell in a flurry and her face became clearly visible to me.
She is, to put it bluntly, an ugly woman. One eye is squashed and swollen, her face is distorted, and one corner of her horn is broken. Several of her teeth had fallen out, her tongue peeking through the gaps as she’s licking my thing.
Probably another butcher had done this to her.
Poor thing. If it were me, I wouldn’t have treated her so roughly.
I don’t know why this girl is in this position right now, but I feel pity and resentment for her. This is proof that I am still normal. She is a very special person to me because she reminds me of my pride as a human being.