Mafia Captive

by Kitty Thomas

  Later sessions—the ones that had created the scars on his back—had been about something else. Punishment. He wanted to punish himself for what he was and couldn’t erase and for what he knew he would act on soon. He was never sure if Esmeralda—pretty sure that wasn’t her real name—suspected that the increased intensity wasn’t about learning or about a secret masochistic tendency he must feed. It was pure penance. Though he was sure the Church wouldn’t approve of this makeshift form he’d created for himself.

  Leo turned from the mirror to look at Faith. Far too young and innocent. Not someone into this. He’d fallen this far, but even so, he knew a hundred harsh visits from the dominatrix could never stop what he was going to do to the terrified red-haired beauty in front of him.

  She was his type in every way but one, and it was time to change that one incompatibility.

  He went to the wine cellar and brought back a bottle of pinot noir. He collected wine glasses from a cabinet in the kitchenette and placed them on the counter.

  “Faith?”

  She detached herself from the wall by the whips and sat on one of the bar stools he indicated while he poured them each a glass of wine. He should have chosen white. Something fruity and light like a Riesling or sauvignon blanc. The red was too strong and dark and made him think of blood and pain. It made him more eager, so that the gesture of trying to relax her would only come at a price to her later.

  He watched while she sipped more slowly than necessary, postponing what was coming. He indulged her until he’d finished his own glass, then he took the wine from her and set it on the counter beside the sink.

  “I think that’s enough, don’t you agree?” There was no amount that would be enough for her right now. And he knew it.

  “Yes, Master.” She stared at the counter. Her lovely red hair fell in front of her shoulders and covered part of her face, making her look more demure and sweet. That sweetness was going to be the death of him. Or her.

  Leo helped her off the stool and led her to the large mirror, then crossed to the chest of drawers beside the bed and pulled out a black T-shirt. He slipped it on because, while he enjoyed her discomfort at his state of partial undress, he enjoyed the power imbalance of himself clothed and his slave nude even more.

  As comfortable as he was with his own nudity, there was vulnerability in it, and minimizing his vulnerability while maximizing hers was the goal of the evening. While one side of him wanted to make this about trust and bonding and some long-forgotten romantic ideal which society had hammered into him long enough that it should have taken, another part of him burned to take and use that which he’d acquired.

  “Last chance to back out, Faith.” His better nature insisted he give her one more exit door.

  If she took it and walked up those stairs, he might chase her down and take all her choices away. He wanted her to soothe his guilt by not saying no.

  “And then what happens? We go back to how things were? You barely speaking to me? Those women coming over here? I told you, it hurts too much.”

  He had to give her points for bravery and determination. They were qualities that had been mostly lacking in the other women he’d brought to his lair. After all, how much bravery was required to face what you got off on?

  “Maybe you’re a bigger masochist than I thought,” he taunted. But she didn’t respond to the bait, she just watched the ground like a criminal waiting for sentence from some high and lofty monarch.

  He took her by the hand and guided her to the mirror, then stood behind her and pulled the sweater over her head. As the fabric fell to the floor, her gaze followed it and stayed there.

  “No. Watch.” He raised her chin to force her to look in the mirror. Even in the dim lighting he could see the flush on her cheeks that spread down her throat and over the tops of her breasts, exposed by the pale-green, lace demi-cup bra she wore.

  He cupped the feminine mounds of flesh as her chest rose and fell. Her fear seeped into the air like poison. She wouldn’t make it up the stairs if she tried to run, assuming she could wriggle out of his grasp.

  Looking into her eyes, he could see she’d calculated those risks and had chosen deep breathing exercises over any rash escape attempts. Smart girl. A predatory urge rose inside him, and running would excite him more.

  His hands smoothed over the soft skin of her belly, and he smiled at the goose bumps that broke out over her skin. He pulled her flush against him and brushed the hair away from her throat, then kissed the side of her neck. She let out a muffled sound of pain as his teeth pressed into her flesh. He sucked on the skin where he’d bitten to soothe the discomfort away.

  Leo reached to the button on her jeans, unbuttoned them, and slid them down her legs. “Step out,” he growled when they were on the floor. Red-polished toes peered out from under the bundle of denim.

  He supported her while she did as he asked. A few moments later, the scrap of matching lace joined the jeans on the floor, and Faith rushed to cover herself.

  “No,” he said, forcing her arms to her sides. When he removed her bra, he felt her struggle as she fought to obey his demands neither to cover herself, nor to look away from her reflection.

  For a moment she was hypnotized by the seduction as his fingertips grazed her flesh, like he was memorizing a raised relief map. He massaged her scalp and stroked her neck and shoulders, moving down her arms, then over her stomach, her breasts, and between her legs. For this small window in time he had her, locked inside his spell.

  He went to retrieve a rattan cane. She tensed, but he ignored it. She’d have to learn to trust him by his actions. She’d labeled the cane as one of the worst things on her list—a fairly accurate assessment, particularly in his hands, but he wasn’t going to hit her with it every time he picked it up.

  He allowed the lightweight wooden rod to trail over her skin, mimicking his fingertips of moments before. He did this until she relaxed again. Then he took a step back and pushed her to her knees.

  “Spread your legs.”

  She hesitated and he smacked the cane against a nearby piece of bondage furniture. It had the desired effect, and she quickly assumed the position he’d demanded.

  “Stay exposed, with your eyes on your reflection until I give you permission to move.”

  He crossed to an old-fashioned record player and thumbed through several albums until he found a collection of somber classical music that started with the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The round, vinyl disc settled on the turntable like a spinning quarter, finally coming to settle. The needle hissed and sputtered against the grooves as the haunting music groaned to life.

  Leo sat near the leaner mirror, arms crossed over his chest, appraising. His focused observation unnerved even the most experienced sub.

  She was a delicate rose petal about to fall off the flower—so graceful and beautiful, even while falling and dying.

  Her gaze strayed to him, and a cold smile crept up his cheek. “Did I give you permission to look away?”

  “N-no, Master. P-please don’t hurt me.” Her eyes hadn’t gone back to the mirror, but instead were on him… imploring. How long until she learned mercy came from obedience? And not begging or pathos?

  “Hurt is what sadists do, my dear. But punishments hurt worse. Do you want to be punished tonight?”

  “N-no, Master.”

  “Then don’t take your eyes from your reflection until I say you can.”

  She flinched at the snarl in his tone.

  As her eyes returned to the mirror, her situation clicked into place. There were so many things he could do to feed his urges besides hitting her.

  How much would she sacrifice for him—how much could she give before he emptied her out?

  Leo moved behind her, peeling his shirt off and tossing it into the pile of clothing behind him. He didn’t wear shoes in the house, so it was quick work removing his jeans and boxer briefs.

  He peeled a condom from a wrapper and pushed h
er forward so that her hands braced her against the floor. Her gaze went to his in the mirror for the barest moment of uncertainty and pleading, but he shook his head. “Eyes on your reflection,” he growled.

  When she obeyed, he thrust into her. The condom was lubricated, but not enough. Irrational anger gripped him. She’s not aroused. Any other woman would be dripping from need, excited by his fucked-up brand of seduction. But Faith was only enduring.

  The anger rose steadily, climbing to more extreme heights the more she cried. His hands bit into her hips marking her as his. How dare she not be turned on by this! How dare she cry when she asked for this, practically begged, her pouting mouth and doe eyes undoing him as she pleaded to be together? Well, this was together. This was how it was. How he was. If she couldn’t fucking take that she should go back to her room where everything was bright and sparkling and safe and clean. The guilt chased him while he chased release, her tears eliciting twin feelings of shame and excitement.

  The orgasm was empty, choking the air from the room. It felt like the icy grip of death instead of pleasure. It was supposed to be a kind of forgetting, where the drab world faded into a sharper, more pleasing reality, but this was cold and dull and lifeless, and he couldn’t escape the feeling fast enough. When he was spent, he pulled out of her, removed the condom, and tossed it in a nearby trash can.

  She doubled over on the floor, her sobs ringing in his ears. Had he broken her in one visit? What the hell was wrong with him? She hadn’t said no. She hadn’t tried to fight him, and yet it felt ugly, the evidence of his savagery painted on her thigh. The thin line of blood making her look like a spoiled virgin.

  A sick thought slid into his mind. Had she lied on the questionnaire about her sexual history?

  “Were you a virgin?”

  “N-no, Master. You know I wasn’t.”

  She could barely push the words out. In the space of minutes, he’d destroyed her. He’d never broken a woman’s trust like this, not ever. His play things had all gone home happy with secret smiles on their faces, their bodies relaxed and loose and confident. But those women had consented, not just with words—with their whole being.

  It wasn’t a verbal transaction. It was bodies and trust and communion. He’d known where Faith was mentally, and yet… he hadn’t stopped.

  He’d meant to protect her. Was there no leash that would hold him back?

  Leo moved slowly closer as she drew back.

  “Faith?”

  “Y-yes, Master?”

  What was he going to say? I’m sorry? For what? How did one apologize for this? Words couldn’t fix the brokenness. They weren’t going to laugh over this later.

  The surgeon side of him rose to the surface, intent on fixing her. Still not a person in his head, but at least something he wanted to heal rather than harm. How could such two disparate instincts reside in one soul without ripping it apart?

  He knelt behind her and pulled her into his arms. She didn’t fight him; she went limp like a rag doll, as if her spirit had vacated her body.

  This was worse than if he’d taken a bullwhip to her unmarred back and sliced her open. He held her forever, stroking her hair, shocked by how she clung to him in spite of what had happened. Against his better judgment, he found himself kissing her, and she responded to his lips on hers, kissing him back. He should give her privacy and space, but he knew if he left her, she’d fall down a deep hole she couldn’t climb out of. He wanted to paper over the last few minutes with tenderness. Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” he murmured against her mouth.

  He left to retrieve the medical bag from the den. When he returned, she’d stopped crying, but she still huddled in a ball, her eyes vacant and staring.

  “Faith, are you with me?”

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  He carried her to the bed and laid her down gently, then dug through his bag for a flashlight and a speculum. Playing doctor was a game one of his subs had been into, and he’d happily collected all the necessary tools to be a convincing gynecologist. It came in handy now as he lubricated the piece of metal and carefully inserted it and flicked on the flashlight. The physical damage was minor. But the physical damage wasn’t the problem here, and they both knew it.

  ***

  The eerie music played on as they lay in bed. Some of the songs she recognized, some she didn’t. There couldn’t be more than an hour on the record. Hadn’t they been down here months? Years? But it must have been less than an hour. Was time even real? The curtain had been pulled back to reveal the void where every second was eternity, and there was no way back out again to where time marched on like obedient linear soldiers.

  She’d tried to prepare herself for the hitting, but when Leo bent her over and fucked her instead while she was too scared to be turned on, it brought everything home. She was his property. She didn’t want this, but he’d been in the grip of something she didn’t feel strong enough to break through. The Leo that acknowledged her wouldn’t be the one she thought she’d fallen in love with.

  Whatever romantic fantasies she’d had of love between them scattered and faded into the empty air. Why did it have to be like this?

  And to allow him to kiss her like that… to return the kiss… to want to after… what was wrong with her? But the moment he’d switched to kindness, as if there could be an apology wrapped inside his kiss, she’d drunk it up like a parched animal at a stream—desperate to hold onto this version of Leo just a little while longer.

  Those other women… She’d seen them happy afterward, and Mei Lin was happy to return. Another sob escaped her throat, and Leo swallowed it up in another kiss that felt like flowers blooming after the storm.

  She couldn’t stop her body from responding to the careful, yet passionate way he kissed her as he held her in his arms.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Closing her eyes was a sign of trust. How could she trust him now? But she couldn’t fight him, so she closed her eyes, hoping to go some place safe.

  His weight lifted off the bed. A lid opened and closed. The box. Her mind screamed. The music continued to play, filling every space of the room, the notes foreboding. He returned a moment later and slipped a blindfold over her eyes, then he took her wrists in his hands and bound them with rope to the headboard of the bed.

  She let out a desperate whimper. “Please, Master…”

  “Shhhh. I’m not going to hurt you again.”

  Again.

  His voice was softer and kinder, and though she knew she was stupid for it, she believed him. He pushed her legs apart, and she tensed. He’d already hurt her down there, and he’d promised that he wouldn’t… but his fingers went to her clit. They were cold and wet with lubricant, and even after everything that had happened, her body opened to him and awakened under his touch.

  She was ashamed when she came, moaning and squirming under his hand. It should have taken longer. He should have had to work more for it. He should have had to drag her kicking and screaming to pleasure after hours of endless stimulation. His hand should have cramped. And yet… minutes. Mere minutes for her surrender.

  Could he do anything to her, then change course and make her pant for her treat like a well-trained dog? She flinched as his greedy mouth engulfed her nipple, and he ran his hands over her, assessing his property, feeling every curve and contour of what she’d foolishly given him.

  He inched down her body, and his expert tongue brought her to a second orgasm in only a few minutes more. Everything pleasurable and gentle he did was tinged with the memory of the savage way he’d taken her. If he thought he could erase that with orgasms, he was wrong.

  Without a word, he untied her wrists and removed the blindfold. She kept her eyes shut, unable to look at him. If this was day one, what would the rest of her life be like? How could she walk down an aisle and marry such a man? How could she fake happiness on that day? And how badly would he punish her for failing? />
  She thought about Christmas morning when Angelo had almost shot her. She wasn’t sure she’d have the heart to beg for her life again.

  Leo was not her Prince Charming riding in on a horse. He’d killed her more expertly than Angelo ever could have. And what’s more, he’d done it without leaving a speck of evidence that she was dead. A living, breathing, corpse no one suspected was long gone.

  The light clicked off, pitching her into blackness. The music played. Faith felt the weight of him again as he wrapped her in his arms and his breathing smoothed into the peaceful rhythm of dreams

  The record reached its end, and the needle scratched against the empty space, creating a white noise that lulled her finally to sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Faith woke to an empty bed in the dungeon. With only a small lamp that had been turned on and no sunlight, the place was creepy. She started up the stairs, but stopped herself. Was she allowed to leave? She wasn’t sure. And if she was, did she want to see Leo right now? Or ever again?

  She showered for half an hour, scrubbing until she was raw. She wasn’t sure if she was scrubbing off what had happened in front of the mirror or the later orgasms. Both were equally horrible.

  When the water ran cold, she got out and dressed, then checked the cabinets and fridge. But there was no food. Just the wine. Getting drunk might help erase the memories—at least for a while—but it wasn’t worth the sickness that would follow.

  Faith took a glass from the cabinet and poured water from the tap. She huddled back in bed, propping the pillows against the headboard and wrapping the blankets around her. She waited to be hurt again.

  Around noon, Leo came down. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Yes, Master.” As soon as his feet touched the bottom step, she looked away.

  Max came down with him, the golden retriever hopping on the bed to comfort her, which reminded her she needed to clean the litter box and feed the cats. Snowball had been litter trained for two weeks now, which was a blessing because the box she’d arrived in was becoming too small for both of the cats to cuddle up together. Snowball and Squish were no doubt in the bright, window-filled room, lying in patches of sunlight like they’d gone to cat heaven.