Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  By the way her hip popped out, by the way her eyes dulled, and by the way she exhaled loudly, he could tell that though her body obeyed the order, her mind had not. She wore the new lingerie he’d had the shopper lay out and it matched the pale color of the dress she’d worn. Distantly he wondered if that was why she’d chosen the dress.

  “Spin around,” he said. When she didn’t immediately do so, his eyes flashed again. Closing her hands into a fist, she finally spun, giving him the view he demanded. Her ass was basically naked. Swarovski crystals hung down from the hips like a waterfall across a thin string of crystals that disappeared deep inside her ass.

  “Now spin back,” he said coolly. Slowly, she turned around. She bit her lip, pulling the bottom between her teeth. Small Swarovski crystals dotted her bust, pushing her small breasts up. Her skin was perfection, from the line of the collarbone to the line of her slit peeking through the sheer material. She was flawless. The only wrinkle on her face was her frown line, which he would fix.

  Eventually.

  He would have her mind, in time.

  “New toy?” a voice asked, breaking the concentration he had on her. It belonged to Little O, one of his Wolves. Ottavio “Little O” Li Fonti was anything but little, dwarfing his twin by two heads. Anteros glanced briefly over to where Little O sat on the edge of the leather couch. Though Little O was leaning forward, his massive frame caused two of the other Wolves, Pretty Boy and Big O, to sit uncomfortably close on the couch.

  Once upon a time when they’d been just boys, only soldiers for the Pavoni army, the couch fit them comfortably. As they gained height and muscle, it became a little more snug.

  “Something like that,” Anteros murmured, returning his attention back to Frankie. He ground his jaw when Frankie folded her arms, looking angry. Each time her eyes flashed, it was as if she slapped him across the cheek.

  “Take it all off,” Anteros said. Frankie's jaw clenched at his words, but she obeyed. In one motion Frankie ripped off the thin corset that contained her small bust and Swarovski crystals flew in all directions, one crystal hitting him in the face. Anteros touched the spot where the crystal hit his cheek and saw Frankie shrug.

  She stood before them in white stockings, heels, and nothing else, but she stared Anteros down, refusing to capitulate. It was as if she said he could take her clothes, could take her body, could even take her voice, but he would never take her.

  That feeling inside of Anteros stirred again. It was like a sharp yank, as if two sides of himself were being pulled apart. One side—the normal side—said to sit back and ignore her, but the other side, the side that felt as though it was burning down, wanted to reach inside and find the part of her lighting it up. It needed the fuel. He placed both his hands on his polished wood desk, as if about to stand, when Little O spoke again.

  “You don’t get much better than that,” Little O murmured. “Look at those lips, that ass,” he continued. Little O stood up and reached out to touch her. She stumbled back, tripping over her heels and falling on her back. Little O advanced toward her and she stumbled backward, sliding and tripping on the floor until her back hit the wall. Her chest rose and fell in heavy breaths while Little O towered over her, his scars magnifying in the shadows.

  “Is that the Notte girl?” Big O asked from behind Little O. Now that Little O had stood, Big O stretched out on the couch, putting space between him and Pretty Boy. Frankie craned her neck, looking around Little O and catching Anteros's stare. Anteros felt his eyes narrowing at her gaze; what was she looking at him for? Did she see him as some kind of savior?

  She hadn’t felt that way earlier in the day, when she’d vomited all over his shirt.

  Anteros turned his head from her and looked back to Big O. “Yes,” he replied. Orlando “Big O” Li Fonti was the smaller Li Fonti twin. Rumor had it that Little O had taken up all the room in the womb, leaving Big O with no room to grow or eat.

  “The virgin?” Pretty Boy asked. “You have iron willpower keeping her around like this, man. When is she going to The Institute?” Anteros had known this question was coming, it was why he’d brought Frankie in the first place.

  “Her contract has been terminated as she is no longer a virgin,” he responded with steely resolve. The air stilled as the realization dawned upon them. Anteros had taken a woman already promised to The Institute. Not only would he have to eat the cost of her contract, he’d have to eat the cost of what she might have been worth—meaning the potential highest bidder. Also, to appease The Institute and keep them from getting pissed off that he’d canceled a contract, he would have to pay hush money. What would have been a million-dollar profit for them had turned into more than a hundred-million dollar loss.

  Silence settled, awkward, thick, and nervous, until Big O grinned and rubbed his hands together. “We get to keep our own little slaves now? Awesome.”

  “You know I don’t care what you do in your spare time so long as it doesn’t affect the business. Take all the women in New York, but if it gets back to me…” Anteros trailed off, his attention dissipating. He looked to Frankie again, watching as Little O stood over her and reached his hand out. Frankie pressed her body against the wall, desperately trying to get away from his groping finger.

  “She’s mine,” Anteros growled, surprised at the words that came out. “Back down, Little O.”

  “Are you at least going to show us how it works?” Big O asked, but the question sounded faint to him. His focus was entirely on Frankie. He knew Little O would not ignore his orders, but Frankie didn’t. She had painted herself against the wall, fear evident on her features, and in that fear, she had found an escape: him.

  “Maybe,” Anteros responded, leaning back against his chair he threw his arms above his head. “Depends on what you have to show me.”

  Little O gave Frankie one last calculating look and turned to walk back to the couch. He sat back down, scooching in as best as he could. Pretty Boy and Big O gave a collective groan as they all squeezed in together.

  “It’s fucking bullshit that Crazy A always gets the chair,” Big O said, gesturing to a thin man shrouded by shadows in a corner. Anteros paid little attention as they bickered, for Frankie had pulled her knees to her chest, watching them talk from the corner, no doubt hoping they would forget she was there.

  Just a fly on the wall.

  “Sales for Beauty are great.” Pretty Boy stood up, drawing Anteros’s attention with the status of their new designer drug. There was hesitation in his voice, though. He stood up and walked over to the desk, placing his hands on the wood and leaning in. “I’m worried about Emilio. This plan…” Pretty Boy trailed off and then continued. “Look, I get it man, I do, but don’t you think you should—” Anteros reached across, grabbing Pretty Boy by the throat. None of the other men raised a brow as Anteros's fingers curled across the beautiful man’s throat and his face purpled.

  A gasp sounded from the corner.

  “I must be mistaken.” Anteros squeezed tighter. “Because it sounded like you were about to tell me what I should do.”

  “Stop!” Frankie screamed. Anteros looked to Frankie curiously and let go of Pretty Boy, eyebrow raised.

  “You have an admirer, Pretty Boy,” Anteros said with black humor. Pretty Boy sat back down, rubbing his neck silently. Unlike Little O and Big O, Pretty Boy’s name was not ironic. Nico “Pretty Boy” Genovese was beautiful and Anteros was not surprised that Frankie was taken with him. Too bad Pretty Boy was one of the cruelest, darkest among them—other than Crazy A. Frankie locked eyes with Anteros, presumably waiting for her punishment.

  Anteros stood up and walked around his desk. She crouched into the shadows, as if she could hide from him. He gripped her arm and tugged her up from the floor then dragged her the few feet to the desk. He threw her on the wood and her eyes met his, hot with defiance. He trailed a finger down her proffered body, enjoying the way she shivered even though she turned her head. Taking her elbow, he held her tight.


  Frankie tightened in his hold then went slack.

  Defeated.

  But only for a moment. She kicked his shin, taking him by surprise, then spat in his face.

  “You are the devil.” Hair fell across her face with the force of her anger.

  “Maybe,” he responded, pulling her by the wrist. “But you are in my hell, and in hell, the devil is among friends.” He gestured to his Wolves for emphasis then pinned her to his desk. She tried to scamper across the surface but he grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her back. He flipped her over then spread her legs, putting himself between them.

  He had to punish her now; the Wolves would be expecting it and there were certain things even a Boss couldn’t deny. Though this wasn’t the first time he’d seen a punishment happen, he oddly found himself situating his body so no one could really see hers. Her naked parts were mostly shielded by him. Still, Frankie would feel exposed. She wouldn’t know he hid her.

  “What do you say, boys?” Anteros dragged his fingers down her pussy, splitting her wide. “Want to hear her scream?”

  “A little thing like that?” Big O scoffed from behind him. “Doubt she has much voice.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” Anteros said. As he caressed a finger along her pussy lips, she tried to stay still, tried not to let him affect her. Even then, she tried to be cool. He raised his brow slightly, surprised at how wet she was. She was practically leaking onto his finger. That tug inside him amplified, growing to a throb. In his life, he’d been cut, shot, stabbed—just to name a few. He had scars all along his abdomen and arms from knives and bullets. Right then, feeling how her body betrayed her, it was like he could feel a bleeding wound inside of him.

  It was as if something was missing.

  He looked down at her, distantly wondering if there was something in her matching the thing missing in him.

  Fuck. He shook his head. What the fuck was happening to him? That sounded like some kind of pussy bullshit. Anteros pinned her harder, shaking his head out harder.

  “Please,” Frankie pleaded, but Anteros could see the plea wasn’t meant for him. He followed her gaze until he met Pretty Boy’s. Ah. Beauty had tricked her, made her think she had an ally. Pretty Boy checked with Anteros to make sure it was okay, and Anteros gave him a silent nod. Standing up off the couch, Pretty Boy walked over to the side of the desk, getting down on his knees so he was eye level with Frankie.

  “Shhh.” Pretty Boy lifted her chin to his. “It’s all right.” Anteros felt her slacken, felt the tension uncoil from her limbs, relief evident in every muscle and sinew. Gently, Pretty Boy put a strand of hair behind her ear. Anteros coiled his hands into fists at the gesture but exhaled. He had given Pretty Boy permission because there was no one better than Pretty Boy to teach her this lesson.

  Pretty Boy put his lips to her ear. “How loud will you scream for us?”

  “W-what?” Frankie stuttered. Her eyes popped open, her body went tight. Just like that, her viscera coiled back together.

  “I said, how loud will you scream for us?” He slapped Frankie across the face and stood up, walking back to the couch.

  Anteros grabbed her neck, turning Frankie's head so she looked right into his eyes. “Remember their faces. I am the only thing saving you from them.”

  Five

  I had been to clubs before. I was twenty and from New Jersey, it’s like a right of passage there. Like a bar mitzvah or Rumspringa, in New Jersey you went to a club. Still, the club scene never really called to me. Maybe it was because back then I was too sick to appreciate it or maybe it was because being sick I never made the right friends for clubs. Either way, I preferred books.

  I even preferred reading about clubs to going to them. I’d never said it aloud, but reality never measured up to what was between the pages. In my books, everything was more magical. More beautiful. Reality had a way of always ending up covered in smog and grease. In my books, the water shimmered in the moonlight. When the hero and heroine had their meet cute at a club, his breath didn’t smell of stale beer.

  But as the Beast tugged my forearm, dragging me up the steps of some warehouse, I wondered if some places did match up to the books.

  Music thrummed.

  Lights danced.

  This wasn’t just some warehouse.

  “What is this place?” I asked, mentally kicking myself for the awe tingeing my voice. Looking at the magic around me, I couldn’t help it. It was like a place from one of my books come to life—the glitter, the lights, the dancing. For a moment, I forgot who I was with.

  Then he looked at me and I was immediately reminded. Though he’d left me alone most of the day, he had made sure his absence was felt. It was worse than having him there. I’d been on the bed, minding my own fucking business, when the plug he’d jammed inside me had started to vibrate. It was already uncomfortable enough up inside my asshole without it vibrating.

  When he’d first put it inside me I’d contemplated taking it out, but I wasn’t sure I could get it back inside on my own, plus I would have no idea when he was coming back. If he came back and it was out, I knew I’d get some kind of terrible punishment. So I swallowed my pride and turned it into bitter contempt for the Beast. The moment it started to vibrate, though, I seriously regretted my decision.

  I clenched my jaw and gripped the sheets, praying it would be over soon. It wasn’t. The vibrating continued, but instead of pain, a familiar warmth in my abdomen spread. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t moan when a vibration racked me with intense shockwaves of pleasure. In the same instant, fear racketed through me, fear that I would come on his sheets, in his bed.

  I released my grip on the sheets and scrambled off the bed. The vibration upped in intensity and I doubled over, clutching my abdomen as another intense shockwave ran through me. I gasped, holding off the orgasm like someone nailing wooden boards against a large storm. Terror and determination gathered inside me as I realized I had one of two options: come or take the thing out.

  I reached behind me and tugged the fucking thing out of my ass. It slipped out easily and this time I couldn’t hold back the moan, grateful that I was at least alone for that shame. It vibrated like a wasp in my palm as I walked over to the windows and pushed one open.

  “Merry Christmas, New York,” I said, throwing it out the window. I sagged into the chair by the window and stayed there for hours, only moving to draw a blanket over myself. I hadn’t orgasmed, but I felt the shame all the same. That shame was like an anchor around my neck. It was hard to breathe, hard to blink even.

  If we’re being real here, I was used to shame. Growing up sick, I was nothing short of a burden.

  I was a burden on my father.

  I was a burden on the school district.

  I was a burden on friends (before they wizened up). All I ever was in life was a burden, always needing help with the simplest of tasks. Things others could do easily—like getting out of bed or getting up the stairs—I needed help with.

  What I’m trying to say is, I knew shame. I was a shame pro. At least, I thought I had shame down, thought shame couldn’t surprise me anymore, but then the Beast happened and he reinvigorated shame for me.

  I stared into the room, thinking about how much I’d enjoyed it. My mind mulled over what had just happened. There was a niggling thought in my head, like a termite burrowing through wood. If I was going to pull it out anyway and get punished, then why hadn’t I just pulled it out at the beginning? Everything throbbed, so as I warred with myself, so did I war with the urge to touch myself, which added another layer of meat to my shame sandwich.

  When Beast came back, I hadn’t moved from the chair. He kneeled before me, touched me, spread my legs, and the entire time it was a battle of how much I could take versus how bad his punishment would be. Then as he continued, as his hand moved over my private flesh, it morphed into If I don’t take this then it will all have been for nothing, just like the plug.

  But I failed again.<
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  When his fingers pressed against my entrance, a stab of warmth hit my abdomen. He stroked me and that warmth became a lightning bolt of pleasure—so I bolted. I hadn’t planned to throw up on the Beast, but his words settled like rotten meat in my gut. It was a reflex.

  When it happened, I’d expected him to hit me or something, some kind of punishment. He was obviously disgusted and maybe stunned, but there was no anger, which just confused me more. Why had he been so angry that first day when I’d simply left the room, but had not even shown irritation when I’d thrown up on him? I couldn’t help but feel like I was missing something. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he’d simply told me to clean up after myself and dress.

  I never imagined we’d come someplace like this. It was like a fairytale come to life. Naked women hung from the ceiling, spinning from silk like glittering spiders dancing in the air. All around me hundreds of people danced to the beat, their bodies in sync with the pounding. Just as a smile crept to my lips, Beast brought me back with another look.

  The lights dancing across his face, the music pounding around us, was nothing compared to his eyes. A wave of heat coursed through my body, immediately followed by shame. I looked away and he tightened his hold on my arm, dragging me the rest of the way up the steps and around a corner.

  I greedily watched the last drops of my fairytale disappear, the glittery lights fading until I was left in a dark, dank hallway. There were two big men standing outside a door, and I recognized them from the first day. They’d been present for my flesh trade, just as stoic now as they were then. It was like they were statues, except for one thing: the man to the left of the door watched me with dark, beady eyes.

  I swallowed, looking away from the two men as Beast walked through the door, tugging me along. When we got inside, I halted.

  The Beast sat down behind a thick wooden desk. The music outside was muffled, the untz untz untz of the beat sounding like an angry animal trying to break through the walls. Around the room I saw four other men besides the Beast, all leering at me.