A cramped room. Bare, damp walls that resemble exposed concrete.
In the solitude, only a single naked light bulb flickers.
The aliens possess technology advanced enough to modify human bodies, yet they prefer these stark, lifeless rooms. I'd rather have something more futuristic. Every time I'm here, that's what I think.
This is the Butcher's solitary cell. Recently, I went a bit too far with a blonde woman, and I also slaughtered two lizard-like aliens. I'm here to cool down after that incident.
When the Butcher goes berserk, they throw me in here for maintenance. Right now, I'm part of that routine. Apparently, the recent killings were labeled as my rampage.
It wasn't a rampage—it was my own choice. But the aliens don't know that.
I've been in here for almost a full day now.
Honestly, I don't hate this cell.
I'm just standing here, naked and crucified against the wall, unable to move. But it gives me time to think slowly and deeply.
Sorting through fragmented memories. Figuring out how to use the Butcher's hidden abilities. Thinking about the aliens' equipment and facilities. Planning my escape. Mapping out infiltration routes to the Fort. Revenge——.
The handcuffs click. I must have tensed up a bit.
I want revenge. That thought burns strongly in my heart.
But I don't know who to take revenge on.
So many memories are gone. I can't even remember my own name. I've tried so hard to recall it, but no luck. Today, I tried again, but I still couldn't remember.
And just now, I gave up.
I figured, why not just give myself a cool new name? I've come to terms with it.
I can't speak or introduce myself anyway. It's just for me to call myself.
It's a silly sentiment, but I still want a name. Calling myself "Butcher" when I think about myself feels wrong.
...Abdullah.
Never mind.
Right, "Butcher" originally means someone who slaughters or cuts meat, like a butcher. There's a similar word, "slaughterer."
But it feels too straightforward. Isn't there a more striking name?...
Avenger...Torturer...Heart...Bone....
As I was thinking this, the cell door rattled.
The thick metal door creaked open, revealing a rectangle of light.
Two figures stepped into the room.
One was a male alien, humanoid with a decent build, his skin tone resembling a hobgoblin. He's the cell's guard.
The other was someone I knew well. A woman.
My favorite companion.
The guard leaned against the wall near the door, smirking.
As he watched, she slowly approached me. Her silver hair flowed down to her hips, and goat-like horns curled from her head. I can't think of a similar species.
When a Butcher is locked in here, they restrain me until I calm down. But during that time, my libido surges endlessly. If left unchecked, it doesn't just stop my rampage—it worsens it.
So, companions like her regularly come to handle my sexual needs.
She's one of the Butcher's sex handlers, and my favorite. My "push" companion, as they say.
The Butcher's libido is absurd, so they rotate multiple companions, but now, only she comes to me.
She stood so close, almost touching me.
I could feel her breath nearby. Her slender body was covered only by a thin cloth. Her ample breasts pressed against the fabric, their tips tickling my stomach—intentionally.
She's teasing me on purpose. Damn it.
Excitement surged through me, flowing with my blood straight to my member. My throbbing glans slid up her thigh.
Just inhaling her scent put me on full alert. She didn't flinch, calmly watching me.
Seeing my desire, she knelt before me, her hands reaching for my rigid penis. She stroked it lovingly, both hands caressing.
At first, her fingertips teased gently, moving from base to tip with care.
Her face hovered close, breath mingling, but her lips never touched—a perfect distance. She continued her handiwork, breath intertwining.
Through my shaft, she looked up at me with reverence.
She's incredibly skilled.
And she serves me with focus and enthusiasm, no reluctance or obligation. As a craftsman myself, I can't help but feel a connection.
When I was first brought here, it was terrible. Hollow-eyed women, like ghosts, mechanically drained me—it was horrifying, almost torture. I secretly called them "Sadako." It really felt that way.
But she stood out.
By my tenth time in the cell, I couldn't bear it anymore. My mind was breaking. So, whenever a Sadako came, I thrashed violently.
Even restrained, the Butcher's struggles made it impossible for them to serve me.
Eventually, only she remained.
She began flicking her tongue in and out.
Starting with my scrotum—sucking, nibbling. Then, along the underside, to the head.
Her warm, rough, and plump tongue pressed against me, slick and wet.
She bobbed her head repeatedly, her breath mingling with mine. Each movement heightened my pleasure.
When I'm mentally exhausted, I sometimes let her revive me with her mouth. Her careful oral service feels like a mother's love. This cell and her presence are my mental oasis in loneliness.
Her technique shifted—head tilted, tongue wrapping around my shaft as she stroked. Her long silver hair fell, revealing her face clearly.
Frankly, she's ugly. One eye is swollen shut, her face distorted, one horn broken halfway. With each flick of her tongue, I saw missing teeth.
Probably done by another Butcher.
Poor thing. I'd never treat her so roughly.
I don't know why she's in this position, but I feel sympathy and anger. It's proof I still have a human mind. She reminds me of my pride as a person, making her special to me.