The Power of a Woman: A Mafia Erotic Romance

by Gina Whitney

  I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, closing the door behind me. I knew this place well enough to know “fuck house” didn’t come close to describing the opulence behind the concrete exterior. This was a fuck palace. And the knowledge that I’d be his fuck Cinderella had my body zinging.

  You see…Cinderella might have been the maid, but she outsmarted everyone in the entire story. You think that bitch accidentally left her glass slipper behind? No. It had been a methodical move. A move that ended with the prince on his knees, between her pulled-up dress, to “see if the shoe fit.” Next thing you know…Cinderella is queen and ruling the land.

  I entered the elevator as soon as the mirrored doors opened, a sadistic smile playing on my painted lips.

  Yes…I was Cinder-fucking-ella.

  I pressed the button for the seventh-floor, following the instructions he gave me. The building was twenty stories high, with exactly as many units. Each floor was single residence, some thirty-seven hundred square-feet in size. The Giannottis purchased the entire building about six months ago, right after Stefan came back to town. Which made sense considering Stefan had studied real estate developing while he was away, and from what I’d heard, he really knew what he was doing. And it showed with his purchase of this three hundred-sixty degree view of the city.

  When the doors opened, I stepped into the front entranceway of Zeke’s condo. It was a lot like Stefan’s with its open concept, and to my surprise, quite tastefully decorated. I hadn’t imagined a man like him to live in such sophisticated style. I imagined it to be simpler, more mundane, more…seedy. I heard Scarface approach me from the left, but I’d been too busy glancing around to give him my attention.

  I had a compliment on the tip of my tongue over the décor when my knees buckled. I felt pain unlike anything I’d ever experienced before radiate through my entire body, paralyzing my every fried nerve. My eyes rolled back in my head and I almost swallowed my tongue. Was I shot? Am I having a seizure? I felt like I’d been electrocuted. Time stood still as I convulsed on the hard marble beneath me. I couldn’t move while his evil face hovered over me, my eyes straining past the pain to focus on him. He bent down to do something with my arms, but I couldn’t feel them. Only when my limbs stopped shaking, did I realize they had been moving—flailing about on the floor like the rest of my body had been. When my faculties slowly started to return, I realized what he’d done to me. I hadn’t been shot. It wasn’t a seizure.

  Oh fuck! The asshole had zapped me with a Taser gun.

  He rolled me to my stomach and handcuffed my arms behind my lower back while kneeling on my ass, practically shattering my pelvic bone against the hard marble.

  I don’t know how, but I had recovered enough to speak. “Wh-why did you do that?” I stammered, still confused and in shock. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Oh, just for fucking fun,” he answered. “I love this thing. Watch.”

  Another loud zap echoed around the room and another painful shock ran through my body from head to toe. He’d zapped me again. This time, I must have temporarily passed out from the pain because I didn’t remember the convulsions like last time. But once I awoke, I noticed he had cut away my top and bra, leaving me bare-chested, but my jeans were still on. I lay frozen on the cold, hard tiles, face down, my tits pressed against the floor. He took hold of my long dark hair, winding it tightly in his fist, and pulled me. Literally. Along the floor. By my hair.

  I arched my back to try to keep from tugging against the force, and lifted my breasts slightly so most of my weight rested on my stomach. As he dragged me along, my nipples flicked against the grout between each tile, flooding my system with constant pain. Luckily, I slid across the floor with ease.

  Until we reached the carpeted living room.

  “Here, let me show you around,” he teased, but I could barely hear him over my own whimpers of pain. I wanted him to let me go, but my mind was so overwhelmed with the agony my body suffered that I couldn’t form even the simplest of pleas coherently.

  No matter how loud my cries became, he never stopped dragging me. My stomach and breasts, especially my nipples, now suffered rug burn, adding to the pain in my scalp. With my wrists cuffed behind my back, I had no way to defend myself, and kicking my legs only made everything worse.

  Finally, we stopped. Not because he wanted to show me some mercy, but simply because he became breathless from the exertion of tormenting me. He roughly flipped me onto my back, showing not one ounce of sympathy on his menacing face. My breasts felt sunburned—burning hot—due to the friction of the carpet. My stomach felt raw, the cold air stinging my fresh abrasions.

  He kneeled down and took hold of my poor, unprotected nipples between his fingers. My automatic reaction was to cry out, but an unfamiliar fear silenced my sobs. As he spoke, he emphasized certain words by inflicting even more torture on my battered nipples. “I’m not sure why I have such a desire to hurt you,” he said, rather matter-of-factly. “Is it because you’re so damn beautiful?” Pinch. “Is it because you’re Gene fucking Albanese’s daughter?” Squeeze. “Or, is it because you were stupid enough to come here, by choice?” Twist.

  My nipples were under such torturous assault I didn’t think they’d ever recover. The pulling and twisting were relentless, and not at all enjoyable. When he finally stopped, I breathed a sigh of relief. But it didn’t last long, because then he backhanded me. Hard. Throbbing radiated through one side of my face, causing my eyesight to blur and my stomach to lurch.

  I did something I never imagined myself capable of doing—I begged. I cried, I pleaded, and I begged him to let me go. I was willing to give him anything he wanted if he’d just let me go. But it didn’t work. It only made his smile broader and his laugh louder. It made him even more sadistic, if that were at all possible.

  The arrangement we made had been for sex, yet that didn’t happen until several hours later. By then, I’d turned into a blubbering mess, my pleas no longer recognizable—not that they ever did any good when they were. My throat was sore, hoarse from my screams and pathetic cries for help. I knew they were pointless, but that didn’t stop me as he used various random instruments to torment my body: a spatula, a ruler, and an umbrella—which he found pleasure in using the blunt end to poke into my ribs.

  Once he seemed satisfied with my broken mental state, that’s when the sex happened, except it wasn’t anything like I thought it would be. It made me wish my earlier picture of being tied to his bed was truth. He positioned me over an ottoman in the living room while he took me in every hole, forcefully. Each time, he forced me to beg for it, made me ask for it while thanking him afterward. When he’d reach the end of his pleasure, he’d come all over my body, burning my abrasions, and then take a break before growing hard again, ready for more. By the time he finally wore himself out, he’d coated my lower back, my stomach, and my thighs with his venomous cum, leaving me sticky and unclean. He wouldn’t even let me wash it off.

  I had no idea how long it all lasted; time meant nothing to me any more. When he finally seemed to be temporarily satiated, he took a break to watch television while keeping me kneeling on the floor next to his chair. I wanted to get up and run, leave the hellhole I’d somehow consented to, but I didn’t have that option. The bastard had my arms tied behind my back and buckled a dog collar around my neck. He held the leash in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. “We have all week,” he said between sips, never taking his attention away from the game on the TV screen. And as if he couldn’t degrade me enough, he’d set a bowl of water in front of me—for when I got thirsty.

  “Sir,” I said at one point, interrupting him, “may I have a moment of privacy? Please?” I really had to relieve myself, and I hoped using polite manners would help my case some. I thought if I showed him a weak, vulnerable side, he might take pity on me.

  He pulled me onto my feet using the leash, nearly choking me in the process. It was the first time I stood since he’d used the T
aser gun on me when I first arrived. I became lightheaded and my knees wobbled beneath me, making my legs shake and threaten to give way. But my weakness didn’t make him stop, or even pause. He forcefully tugged me into his bedroom, and I thought he’d give me what I’d asked for, but I should’ve known better.

  The punch came out of nowhere, hitting me hard in the stomach and completely knocking the wind out of me. I crumbled to the floor in a silent heap, unable to catch my breath enough to even scream. With my arms still restrained behind my back, I had no defense against the fall, and landed on my shoulder. I rolled in pain, trying to alleviate the agonizing discomfort that shot up and down my arm. It hurt so bad I barely recognized that he’d untied the binds that held my hands behind me. The only reason I knew he had was when he nudged me in my ribs and ordered me up. I pulled myself to my hands and knees, which seemed to be exactly what he wanted. He tugged on the leash some more, practically dragging me to a dark closet, and then shoved me in. “Enjoy your moment of privacy.”

  Once the door closed, I frantically searched for the knob, basic instinct kicking in. Unfortunately for me, there was no handle, no way out. I was trapped and left to my own devices with nothing to do by cry silently. But after my moment of self-pity was over, I used the silence and darkness to think, to pull myself together. This hadn’t been what I’d signed up for, but it didn’t matter, because in the end, I was the one who’d gone to Scarface looking to make a deal. Without knowing it, I’d volunteered myself for this torture. He’d played on my desperation, took what I offered, and set out to destroy me. Realizing that, I made a vow. You will die for this, you cock-sucking bastard.

  Nobody does this to Jordana Albanese.

  My father won’t get revenge on him—I will!

  You might be winning the battle right now, but you will lose the war.

  I’d gone to Zeke thinking I could handle it. Thinking I knew what I was getting into. I thought that with my love of dirty, rough sex, I could hold my own. I’d learned through my time with Stefan that pain brought me pleasure, so I figured I could lose myself in the actions, drift into my own state of mind, and get through this. I knew enough about Zeke to assume he’d be rough, but never in my worst nightmares did I think he’d be like this. I never imagined that someone could find sexual gratification in torturing others to this extent.

  Sitting alone, trapped in this dark, bare closet, I quickly began to question the person I’d be when I got out. I wondered about the nightmares I’d have or the demons that would haunt me. But it didn’t really matter who I became or what I had to deal with, because the only thing that mattered was that I would get out. I’d leave this place alive. Not only alive, but a murderer. I’d kill that motherfucker with my own two hands, and use that memory to ward off the demons brought on by his torment.

  And that became the only thought to get me through.

  After waiting for what felt like hours with my head against the wall in the corner of the dark closet, I fell asleep. But my body didn’t rest long before my need to pee pulled me from my dreamless state. My neck was sore. My nipples badly chafed. My ribs tender. My inner thighs still stinging from that damn spatula, and my forbidden hole still tender from his lube-less cock.

  A week? How in the fuck am I going to survive a week with this sick freak?

  Just then, I heard movement in his room, and it sounded like he’d gotten out of his own bed. What time is it? What is he doing? I heard the familiar roar of a pressurized stream hitting water and realized he must’ve been urinating. When he finished, I waited for the sound of the sink turning on, but I couldn’t hear it, so I pressed my ear closer to the closet door. I waited for any noise to be heard, and then practically jumped out of my skin when the door flung open.

  “Here you go,” he said and threw a newspaper at me. “If anything gets on the carpet, you will regret it in more ways than one.”

  The door closed hard in my face before I had the chance to say anything. The first emotion to hit me was defeat, because I’d had my chance to escape and let it pass me by without even realizing it until it was over. Next came shock over the bastard tossing me newspaper to relieve myself on. It shouldn’t have shocked me considering he’d treated me like a dog since arriving. But I guess somewhere deep inside I’d held out hope that he’d have an ounce of humanity in him to at least allow me to urinate in a fucking toilet. Humiliation and degradation filled me as I kneeled upright and maneuvered the newspaper beneath my body, pulling it apart page by page to make it more absorbent. Then, with the sound of heavy snoring in the distance, I closed my eyes and peed.

  I’d never felt so debased in my entire life.

  He whipped me the following day until I bled. And the only food I’d been given was scraps from his plate as he fed me like a fucking stray dog. He fucked me every hour on the hour like clockwork, as if he’d scheduled his day around it. And he wouldn’t stop until I came. I didn’t want to, and fought it early in the day, but once I realized the sooner I came, the sooner it’d end, I stopped holding it back. I knew why he did it…I wasn’t stupid. Getting off while he fucked me was humiliating, but at some point, you just have to stop caring. It comes down to survival, and doing what you have to in order to make it out alive. Once he’d get me off, he’d relieve himself on whatever body part he wanted, and then he’d wash his rancid dick in my mouth.

  But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

  I would’ve rather taken the degrading fucking over the games he played. That night, he sat on the couch with a crossword puzzle while I remained leashed on the floor at his feet—only this time, he hadn’t used the leather collar like before. Instead, it was the kind you’d use when training a dog, the kind that zaps them when they misbehave. I made a promise to myself that if I ever owned a dog, I’d never use one of those on it. They should’ve been illegal. He asked me for the answers, and every time I got one wrong, he pressed the button on his remote that sent a jolt of electricity through me. That thing stung like hell and singed every nerve in my body. By the end, I hated puzzles of any kind. My body became numb and tingly, and not in the good way.

  As I sat alone that night in the dark closet, trying to fall asleep, I plotted. Oh, how I plotted. He took this barter much further than I’d imagined. Which could only mean one thing—at the end of the week, he’d dispose of me. No fucking way would this guy let Matty off the hook. He’d kill me. I was sure of it. So, despite the sick, twisted things he did to me, I’d maintain my composure and study my surroundings, plotting my survival. Because I would survive. There was no way in hell I’d let this sadist take me out.

  On Wednesday, he allowed me to bathe. And by bathe, I mean he put me in the shower and used the jet stream on the handheld sprayer and hosed me off like he was giving a dog a bath. Any excuse to treat me like a mangy pet, he’d take. The scorching spray stung my lacerations and burned my abrasions. But I couldn’t complain, considering it was either that or go on with his dried cum on my skin.

  After my shower, he took a wet towel and flicked his arm, snapping it against my body a dozen or so times. He laughed each time I recoiled in agony. Just another glorious afternoon with Scarface the sadist.

  He took it easy on me Thursday. And by easy, I mean he hadn’t tortured me as much as before. Instead, he spent the time fucking me twice as often—this time, not stopping once I came. He fucked me so much I was raw and sore, believing I wouldn’t be able to handle one more time.

  Friday, while I knelt between his legs with his fat cock in my mouth, the intercom buzzed. Scarface ignored it and continued to fuck my mouth while stepping on my fingers with his steel-toed boots. It buzzed again—and again, he ignored it. That’s when his phone began to ring in his pocket. The fucker answered it without stopping his hateful fucking of my mouth, pulling me closer and shoving his cock to the back of my throat. I couldn’t hear anything he’d said over the rush of blood in my ears as I tried not to choke.

  He threw the phone down and lifted my head by my
hair. “Gotta go, little one, but I’ll be back. Duty calls.” And then he dragged me back to the spot in the corner of the living room where he enjoyed having me on display. It was the place he had kept me when he had to leave the condo for any period of time, using the excuse that he couldn’t trust me alone. Chains hung from the ceiling with cuffs at the end—two for my wrists and two for me feet. The ones for my arms hung down, allowing me to kneel on the floor, but still short enough to keep my torso upright. Once he had me locked in, he left, leaving me spread out, naked and bloodied, beaten and battered, with my arms above my head and my chafed knees spread wide beneath me on the floor. I couldn’t even close them. My head hung, not out of defeat, but out of exhaustion. He would never defeat me.

  Never.

  I must’ve passed out, because when my eyes slowly opened as best as the swelling would allow, I saw Stefan, breathing heavily, sweating, hunched over, and holding his hair in his fists. He mumbled, “What the fuck? What the fuck? Oh, shit…what the fuck?”

  He lifted his head and his eyes met mine from across the small space. In a quick second, he moved to his knees in front of me. His eyes were full of anguish, fear, pain, and a rage I had never seen before.

  I opened my mouth, struggling to get the words out. “I’m sorry, Stefan. I’m so sorry.” Tears immediately ran from my eyes in streams down my face before falling from my chin. I had no idea what I apologized for, but I felt some deep need to say it. Maybe for the lies, the deceit…for going behind his back and allowing another man to touch me after telling him I was his. Whatever the reason, the agonizing remorse struck me hard and settled into my chest in the form of a broken heart.