Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 48018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
The pain is near instant, and it is searing. It shoots through every part of me in a split-second, making my toes curl and my breath drag roughly down my throat before being expelled in a ragged cry.
Angelo decides this is the moment for a treatise on cruelty and gender.
“Whether you know it or not, the way this world treats you based on what it thinks is between your legs is baked into your being. But not here. I don’t care about your holes, girl. I care about the void you have inside you. The part of you where a soul should be.”
As I am trying to digest the pain and the reason he thinks I don’t have a fucking soul, the cane lands again, another harsh stroke that feels like it is breaking the skin. I don’t know if it is actually doing that kind of damage, but I know that it is designed to break me.
Six times, the cane lands.
Six times, I scream out in pain. I give the sadist the satisfaction of my suffering. I don’t hold back from him, because I know he’ll wring every drop of it out of me anyway. There’s no point trying to keep anything back from Angelo. Somehow he knows what’s inside me. He sees parts of me that have lain dormant throughout my life, even to my own eyes.
I stay in place, waiting for the rest of his punishment to happen. The pain from the cane is washing through me, but I know it is not the entirety of what he has planned for me. It cannot be.
“Good. Very good.”
I don’t know if he is pleased with me or with himself.
“You didn’t move. You didn’t beg for mercy.”
I think he’s pleased with me? I’ve pleased Angelo Vitali. I’m his captive, his beaten captive, and yet that single fact sends warmth rushing through me. I’m pleased to have pleased him.
I didn’t move because I’m too scared to move. I didn’t beg for mercy, because I know there is less than zero chance of him showing me any. The only way to get out of this is to play along with him until I can make an escape. That means taking his beatings and submitting to his will.
I feel Angelo’s hand, big and warm and soothing even as it causes more pain, rubbing over welts. My legs are spread. My sex is exposed. I know that most men could not resist the urge to toy with my pussy. He does not touch me there. This intimacy, this comfort, is reserved for my ass alone. My pussy is left to quiver and yearn for touch I tell myself I do not want, but on some primal level, I expect.
Angelo Vitali is a man who loves men, but there is evidence to suggest he has slept with women before. I understand now. He is not gay, straight, or even bi or pansexual. His orientation is dominant.
He’s not touching my pussy, but he’s already fucking me. That’s the truth. He’s making me feel pain, and he’s making me yearn for pleasure of the precise kind I absolutely do not want. He’s already under my skin. In my bloodstream. I am infected, and I am intoxicated.
“Get up,” he orders.
I rise to my feet.
“Look at me.”
My eyes shift to his obediently. My ass is throbbing with pain, but I am alive and that is more than I could have hoped for, given my situation.
He seems pleased, nodding slightly as if he has confirmed something inwardly.
“You’re going to be such a good girl for me, aren’t you.”
I bite my lower lip. I know he wants me to say yes, so that’s what I say.
“Yes.”
I say it softly and huskily, and I say it with even a little conviction, because I know Angelo Vitali could make me a good anything for him.
3
Angelo leads me deeper into his house. I feel as though I am being digested by the elegant walls. There is no decor in the traditional sense. No pictures. No portraits. It should feel empty, but it doesn’t because I am in Angelo’s company, and he could fill a stadium with the force of his personality.
He opens the door to a room without a window. There is a bed on a simple iron frame and nothing else. It is a room designed to keep a person like an animal. Worse than a cell, because there is no toilet, and no mandatory light filtering in.
“You will not be comfortable here,” he says. “You will not be safe. But you will be kept.”
With that, he guides me into the room, his hand on the small of my back, and closes the door behind me. I hear the unmistakeable sound of a lock being clicked into the closed position.
I have lived my life in service of the law, and now I find myself imprisoned. Fate, it seems, really loves irony.