Page 4 of Ruined

I lie with my face against the couch, knowing that there is quite literally no escape from this situation. Outside any door to the interior likely lurks his brutal lover, Bobby, ready to gun me down. The manicured gardens of the exterior provide little in the way of cover either. These are men who like to see their enemies coming from a long way off.

I have never been in this much danger in my life. That danger is almost distracting enough to take my attention away from the fact that I have been bared by a man who intends to destroy me. The sheer vulnerability of my position makes me lightheaded. With my hips raised, my ass naked, almost every part of a woman a man will exploit is bared and vulnerable.

He does not strike me right away. He is looking for something, perhaps. Or maybe he is just looking at me from different angles, considering his plan of attack. I hear him walk away and around the room while I stay obediently in position, knowing I have no choice, my palms and cheeks pressed against fine fabric far nicer than any that would ever grace my own home.

Again, my mind wanders to what this room might be called, a hopeless distraction from the primal helplessness I am experiencing. It’s so exposed, with big windows facing the front garden. I almost feel as though I am on display, as Angelo has chosen one of the pieces of furniture closest to the window to hold me half-nude and captive. It is a gorgeous, refined space, but this is a place bad things happen to good people, that’s the only way I can parse it.

When Angelo enters my field of vision again, he is standing behind me and off to the side. I can see him by turning my neck and lowering my eyes. He looms over me, a devil in a fine suit, an absolutely refined monster of a man.

He has a cane in his hand.

“I’m sure you’ve never been properly punished before. I’m sure you’ve always been able to cry your way out of a situation, or earn yourself a lesser punishment through pleading, begging, perhaps even arguing. You have the look of a precious creature.”

I let out a little snort at being called a precious creature. It’s because I’m a short blonde woman. He is talking to me as though I am a stereotype. It has been a long time since anybody made life easier for me as a girl. I know a lot of men think being female is easier than being male. They’re wrong.

“In my house, you are nothing but a little captive. I will treat you no differently to the way I treat my boy, do you understand?”

I know how he treats Bobby. I know the two of them have a twisted, tortured love affair in which Angelo is master and Bobby is the resentful slave. To be treated like Bobby is to be spoiled and ruined.

There is a slight note of affection in Angelo’s voice when he calls me his little captive. That worries me. He doesn’t know me. I am a stranger. I am literally an agent of the law. But Angelo has already decided to see me as something else completely.

His presence whispers to something inside me. I feel myself vibrating with an unseen malevolence that does not emanate from him, but which rises from slumber inside me.

“Yes,” he murmurs, as if he is seeing in my eyes an echo of what I saw in his. “Oh yes. You will be a very good girl for me.”

I don’t care if he calls me boy, or girl, or big or little, good or bad. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is surviving him. I know he is going to hurt me, and I know he is going to mind fuck me. I have to keep my wits about me, and I have to keep looking for opportunities to escape.

While I am thinking these thoughts, the cane bites against my ass, a snap proceeded by a short warning hiss. For a second, nothing hurts. A second later, everything hurts.

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.

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