Page 6 of Ruined

“Because I have no time or interest in treating her like a woman. All I want to do is treat her like one of my boys.”

“Like me, you mean.”

“Not exactly like you, my jealous pup.”

I stand in the dark and I listen to Angelo and Bobby discussing me. I find myself strangely flattered by hearing Angelo describe me as something special. I’ve certainly not found that to be the case in the rest of my life. Men don’t usually pay me much attention. I’m not ugly, but I’m not pretty either. I don’t smile for no reason. I don’t laugh at their jokes if they’re not funny. I don’t dress to emphasize my curves. There are plenty of bombshells at the agency. I let them get all the attention. I focus on the work. Or I did, until Angelo Vitali grabbed me and my life changed forever.

There’s a thud, like someone being pushed against a wall firmly. I hear a moan following, something raw and guttural. In my mind’s eye, I can see what is happening. Angelo has pinned his boy against the wall and is establishing dominance. He kisses Bobby roughly, then pushes him down. That’s the second, smaller thud, knees hitting the floor.

I can’t hear the sound of Angelo’s zipper audibly, but I can feel it somewhere in my stomach. His cock freed, plunged down Bobby’s throat deep and hard enough to bruise. Angelo does not like to be questioned or defied. Bobby’s upstart challenge will not go unanswered.

Muffled sounds are being transmitted through the wall, the sound of what could be a little scuffle, but isn’t. It is the sound of Angelo’s big hand fisted in Bobby’s thick dark hair, Bobby’s head tilted back, his shoulders and heels rubbing against the wall as he struggles to take that dick.

It is hot as hell. I feel my flesh reacting through solid wall, excited by the dominance being demonstrated even at a distance. I have often imagined how these two men interact and now I have the closest thing to a front row seat.

Angelo must be taking his time, thrusting hard, alternately keeping his cock deep in Bobby’s throat and pulling it free to let him breathe. I can hear ragged, intermittent gasps to support my theory.

Then there is a faster, more rhythmic tapping, the back of Bobby’s head against the wall as Angelo fucks his insolent throat to climax. Theres a deep, throaty growl of satisfaction that must mark orgasm, his seed flowing deep inside Bobby’s belly.

I am too scared to touch myself, but this is the hottest thing I have ever heard. It sends electricity coursing from that shamefully excited node between my thighs, zipping through my body. I feel as though I am hearing something I shouldn’t, though I know Angelo could just as easily have dragged his prey away and consumed it elsewhere. He wanted me to hear this through the wall. He wanted me to know how he treats his beloved mate, and I think he wants me to know that I, in all likelihood, am next.

His rough voice rumbles through the wall, too deep and soft to be discernible, but I hear Bobby scramble away a moment later and I know he was dismissed.

The door to my room opens. I take swift steps back, hit the bed and sit down heavily. Pain flares through my rear, and I gasp with the shock of it. I’d almost forgotten the caning while standing stock still, listening to Bobby get his comeuppance instead.

Angelo allows his expression to reflect just the merest hint of amusement at my predicament.

“Lie down,” he says. “It is time to secure you for the night.”

I do as he says, slowly. I cannot lie on my back, and I do not want to lie on my front. I have to hope that he does not intend to shackle me too tightly or I am about to be tortured for the rest of what ever Angelo Vitali determines to be the evening.

He has brought cuffs with him, mercifully wrapped in leather so my wrists and ankles are treated to a firm gripping sensation that extends several inches in each direction rather than a single thin line of metal or worse, plastic as we use in my line of work.

As I lie on my side, allowing myself to become even more captive of this dark and dangerous man, I find my gaze drawn to his crotch. I am looking for some sign that what I imagined just happened, did happen. Maybe his fly is slightly down. Maybe there is a spot of wetness on his pants left by Bobby, maybe a scent of seed.

This is not the behavior of a civilized person, but when in the custody of this man, there is no point in clinging to notions of civilization. He is chaining me down because that is what one must do to keep a wild animal.

The cuffs are attached to chains. They are not large, but I am sure they are strong. He attaches them through rope wound and tied around the iron bars in such a fashion that allows more movement than the situation otherwise would. When he is done, my wrists are attached to the top of the bed, my ankles to the lower part. I can move around a little, but not a lot without running into the hard reminder of the end of my chain.

“Sleep well, Riley,” Angelo purrs. “Your new self will be born tomorrow.”

4

I do not sleep. I do not know what the time is, or how much of it has passed since I was put in this room. I lie down on my stomach to rest a little, but like any captured animal, I am alert. I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. At any moment, Angelo or Bobby could come through that door and my life could be over. I am not confident that they intend to keep me for long. Angelo could lose interest and leave me to Bobby as entertainment. Anything could happen, and I have to be ready for it.

Time passes, and in due course, Angelo comes to me again. I feel a strange tightening in my stomach from fear, as well as a little leaping of hope in my heart as he opens the door. My body is already starting to anticipate him both positively and negatively. I am attuning myself to a new sun and a new moon, and they are both Angelo Vitali.

The observer in my mind is impressed with how quickly he has started to break me down. It’s masterful. He could teach students at the academy so much about how to truly break a suspect. In comparison to Angelo, our techniques are brutal and easy to resist because our techniques are impersonal and cold. I am learning that Angelo is much warmer. He is searing hot.

“Good morning, girl.”

He turns the light on and I see that he has brought a tray of breakfast food. It is the kind of tray you see in movies about happy families, containing french toast with powdered sugar and bananas, and a glass of orange juice that looks to my analytical gaze more like a cipher for homeyness and wholesomeness than an actual beverage.

I am very hungry, though. And I am thirsty too. I have not been fed since my capture, and I had not eaten in hours before that. It could already be a day since I ate. My mouth is dry, though it is more than dehydration. It is fear, a deep, primal proper fear that breeds respect and awe in equal measure.

Angelo is a fucking artist, and his art is in breaking people. Every element of this interaction and this room is controlled. He is giving me his full attention, his eyes locked on me, taking in every reaction I show, calibrating his approach to me while inexorably twisting me into the shape of a new person. I understand what’s happening here, but Angelo is so very good at this, the fact that I understand it is not an effective barrier against it happening.

Some part of me will watch him take me apart and be absolutely powerless to stop it.

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