“Say hello.”
“Fuck you,” I whisper.
“Oh, I will. When you come begging.”
“That will never happen!”
I think he’ll rage at my attempts at resisting him, but he shocks me by laughing. “You’re fucking drenched after I threatened you and used you like you’re nothing but a blow-up doll. You’ll cry for my cock to impale you within a week.”
“Never!”
“Do you want a shirt?”
“Fuc—What?”
“Give us a show tonight. In front the camera. But you can’t come. If I’m happy with your performance, I’ll get you a shirt.”
I want to scream at him that this is inhumane, this is unfair, he has no right, but I clench my teeth, glaring daggers at his back as he disappears out of the room. Grabbing the blanket, I curl up in the far corner, as far away from the camera as I can, compulsively throwing dirty glances at it. Shirt. Yes, I want a shirt. I look at the plate with the crumbs, greedily pinching them between my thumb and forefinger, pushing them one by one into my mouth. A shirt, and food, and coffee, and my own apartment, and a new life. Again.
Fucking again!
“It’s Chloe,” I scream. “At least give me that!” My voice breaks on the last word. Then I cry. Again. How can there be so many tears?
Chapter 11
Chloe
The thought of getting a shirt makes me weep with want. How did he already reduce me to someone who is so desperate for even the most primal needs that I consider doing what he tells me? Eat, drink, cover up my naked body? I stare at the camera over and over, pondering the option to masturbate in front of it. I clench up at the thought. How many will be watching? Will it be recorded? It will for sure, then used against me at some point. No, I refuse.
Hours pass. I sleep a little. I’m thirsty and my head pounds. I realize I’ll need to pee soon. I glance at the camera again, then at the drain in the middle of the room. I can probably cover up with the blanket. This is all so fucked.
The silence is suffocating, the padded room swallowing every sound, my whimpers when I cry, the rustle when I move, my breathing. It’s all eerily muffled, like it’s being eaten the moment I make the sound. I have bursts of panic, feeling as if the walls close in on me, but no one comes to my rescue, no one comforts me and I have to take care of myself, as always.
I don’t know how much time has passed when I decide it’s enough. My bladder feels as if it’s gonna burst and my stomach cramps. I’m lightheaded from hunger when I get up and then squat over the drain, making sure the blanket covers me up properly.
When I stand, I spin around and glare at the camera. “Fuck you! I’m hungry! Let me out of here, you dick!”
I’ve dozed off again and almost fly through the roof when a disembodied voice suddenly is heard. It’s him.
“You know what you need to do.”
“For a shirt?” I spit.
“For a shirt, you give me a show. For food, you’ll beg me to suck my cock.”
“Never!”
“Okay.”
Silence.
My stomach twists my insides. The word food renewed the pain from being denied for so long.
Silence.
“Salvatore!”
Silence.
“Hello! Anyone there?” I scream.
“Yes?”
“Can I…” Repulsion almost makes me retch. “Can I please suck—” I swallow, “your cock.” I can’t resist the new tears that fall and a hoarse whimper escapes my throat. I’ve never hated anyone more in my life before. Not even the men who dragged my brothers into a life of crime.
“Please what?”
“Sir!”
Silence.
“Hello!”
No answer. I jerk hard when the door suddenly opens and he stands there in all his deceptively beautiful glory. So fucking handsome, and such a ruthless psychopath. Maybe I should just provoke him until he kills me? But I know I can’t. I’m too afraid. I really don’t want to die.
He grins. “You wanted something? Tell me what again.”
The corners of my mouth must be pulled to my knees as I answer him, my voice shaky. “Can I please suck your cock, sir?”
“Crawl to me.”
I look at my cast and then up at him. He shrugs. “Do your best.”
On knees and one hand I shuffle across the floor until I’m right before him, sitting back on my heels.
“Take out my cock. Make me hard.”
My hand shakes violently as I obey.
“You know,” he says, as I take him in my mouth, “I’ll have the doctor whipped for giving you that drug.”
I flinch, but keep swirling my tongue around his cock, trying to take him deeper, my hand around the base, squeezing, moving along his length. He got significantly harder when he said he’d punish the doctor. I’ve never met such a cruel and twisted man in my life.
“Every person who shows you even the slightest kindness will be punished, and it will be on you. Don’t ever beg someone to help you. Don’t plead to the fucking camera. There’s no use.” He grabs my head and thrusts harder, deeper. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself. This is your life. Get used to it. One day you’ll be my obedient pet, conditioned to do everything I tell you without moaning about it.”
I try to pull back, I want to tell him what a sick, fucked up person he is, but he lodges himself so deep that I can’t breathe, stabbing back and forth, gripping my hair so hard it hurts. He groans when he comes, his hot come filling my throat, forcing me to swallow it.
When he releases me, I fall forward and throw up everything right in front of his feet. Salvatore takes a step back.
“Seems to me you don’t want that food anyway.”
“No, please!”
He’s silent.
“Sir!” I choke out.
Fuck him!
Everyday it’s more of the same. I beg to suck him. I get one meal. I’m constantly hungry and faint. I’m losing muscle mass. My bruises fade. I think I’ve been here a week. I don’t know. There are no days and no nights. I’ve come to long to see him. He’s my only contact with the outside world, and even his company is better than no company. He always hurts me. Always. Always grabs my hair rough, stabs deep into my throat, always pushes me away when he’s come. I’m still naked. I haven’t brushed my teeth in a long while and I reek of sweat. I shit on a bucket that is miraculously emptied when I wake to a new day, or night. I have no sense of time. I feel like an animal. He doesn’t touch me, and I’m not surprised. I’m disgusting. I don’t know what he wants me for.
The doctor comes by, twitchy, his eyes haunted, his glances at Ivan are even more nervous than they were before.
“I, uhm… I need to give you another injection. Every three months.”
My mouth falls open, then I just give up. It’s no use trying to fight it. I won’t give in to Salvatore, but he may very well just take me one day and I sure as hell don’t want to get pregnant with his child.
The doctor holds up a syringe. “Buttock,” he says and I turn to my side, obediently. I’m not broken, that’s not why I let him stab me with his needle, I just know to choose my fights.
“How long have I been here?”
He doesn’t answer but begins to cut up my cast. I’m horrified at the implication. I’m supposed to have healed?
“Weeks?”
He still doesn’t answer, packs up everything and darts out of the room as if he has the Devil on his heels. Ivan throws me one glance and I think I see a fleeting pity in his eyes before he lets the door fall closed.
I don’t ask for Salvatore that day. And not the next day. I have water that I drink as little as possible from, but I won’t play his fucking game anymore.
Luciano
I’m not happy with my little project. It’s been three weeks. She’s starving, naked and dirty. Her blowjobs are mechanical, and I’ve begun to lose interest. It’s not that hot. She needs an incentive, or I’ll
lose her. I expected it to be easier and I’m still motivated to do this, to break her in and make her my obedient slave. My clean obedient slave.
I honestly don’t want to see her like this. It doesn’t bring me pleasure. I gotta fucking make right with this mess before she perishes before my eyes. The Chloe I saw on that picture the day I decided she needed to die, the cocky, radiant beauty, the thief and the tricky little lady who forged a new identity, that’s the one I want back.
Throwing one last glance at the monitor, I spin the seat around and call Ivan.
“Sir?”
“Get our dentist here, and someone to groom this chick, and get me Elena. I need fucking Elena. Now!”
Ivan never shows a single emotion, but I almost hear him twitch. “Yes, sir! Eh… groom?”
“Waxing, nails, hair, that kind of shit.”
“A beauty therapist?”
“Whatever the fuck it’s called. Yes!”
“I know someone, sir. I’ll send for her.”
“Good. Also, have the cook make her three meals a day from now on. Lots of protein. And Matteo. Have Matteo call me.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“No,” I growl. “That’s all for now.”
I’ll fucking wake her up, and wake her up good.
I can’t stand to look at Chloe. Somewhere deep inside there’s an uncomfortable gnawing feeling that I fucked this up. Admittedly, I didn’t think it through for shit, and maybe I should have asked someone. Ivan has given me dirty looks lately but, like everything with him, so subtly that it’s taken me awhile to get it. He’s pissed with me.
Taking my frustration out on the weights in my gym, I wait for Matteo to call, and Elena to get here. When my phone chimes, sweat drips off me and I’m naked from the waist up. I’ve never been in better shape than I am now, at forty-five. I wipe off my face, throw the towel over my shoulder and pick up.
“Man, it’s fucking five in the morning!” Matteo sounds less than happy, and as if he hasn’t slept at all.
“Time to get up.” I try to keep the growl out of my voice.
“What’s up, Uncle?”
“I want you to make preparations to get the girl’s brothers out of prison.”
He’s silent a few moments. “Oookay… Feeling goody two-shoes?”
I scoff. “I got my reasons. Give them a place to live. Nothing fancy, just a bed and somewhere to drop their bags. There’ll be conditions. They are to stay in San Francisco, and always at my disposal.”
“Jeez. Fuck. Okay. I can make that happen. Give me a few.”
“A few what?”
“Weeks.”
“You’ve got one week.”
He inhales as if to object. “Do it,” I snarl and disconnect as a soft knock on the door makes me spin around. “Enter!”
Elena, without makeup, in a simple white blouse and a dark gray skirt, her hair in a strict bun, peeks in through the door as she pushes it open a sliver. Her eyes travel my body and then she looks back up.
“You asked for me?”
“Go make us coffee. I’ll shower. Find you in the kitchen.”
She raises an eyebrow and disappears without further questions. Fifteen minutes later I follow the tantalizing scent of freshly brewed coffee and find her in the adjacent lounge, curled up on the couch, her shoes kicked off and her legs pulled up, folded to the side. She still has the body of a much younger woman. I make a detour to the kitchen, pour myself a cup and then steer my steps back to my old partner in crime, my mentor, and the only one I can unload on.
I sink down on the couch on the other side of the coffee table. “I have someone.”
She’s silent, waiting for me to continue.
“A captive. A girl.”
She’s still silent.
“I’ve fucked up. I need your help.”
“That’s… new.”
I shove my fingers through my hair and take a sip of the coffee. “To be candid. She was supposed to die, but circumstances made me decide to keep her. Seems I suck at taking a hostage, and I think I’m killing her anyway.”
“What’s your intention with her?”
I give her a deadpan look that she has no trouble interpreting. “My girls aren’t making you happy anymore?”
“My motives are none of your business.”
“What do you need me for?”
“I need someone to give her some clothes, babysit her, bring her back to life and make her someone I actually want to fuck.”
Elena regards me, then she nods. “I’m very busy, Luciano, but I can put one of my girls on it.”
I think it over, narrowing my eyes. I did want Elena herself, but I also need her to run her business. “That’ll do. I trust you to make a good choice.”
“Of course.” She puts down the cup and stands. “When do you want this to happen?”
“Last fucking week. But today will do,” I mutter.
“Not a problem. I’ll have someone here later this morning.”
“Good.”
She sails out of the room with her usual grace. She’s the only woman I ever considered for a girlfriend, but that was a long time ago, and I know I was too cruel with her. She’s in my service, but I don’t know how she really feels about me, and I really don’t care as long as she does what she’s told. And she always does.
I head back to my personal chamber, fall on my back on my bed and bring up the feed from the camera down below. Chloe is awake, hugging her knees, staring emptily in front of her. I don’t have feelings. I don’t do pity or remorse. I don’t care about other people, but there is a twinge of something in my chest as I look at her. Conjuring up the defiant woman who stood before me, thinking about how I’ll heal her and bring some of that back makes my cock twitch. I’ve been cruel. It backfired. Time to be nice.
Chapter 12
Chloe
I jerk when the door opens. My head has been so foggy lately and I don’t have the energy to stand anymore. I know I’ll die down here and I’m too weak to even care.
A woman enters, a curvy brunette in her thirties with light makeup and warm brown eyes. She is a stunning beauty and oozes sensuality even in her simple, rather demure flowery dress. What game is he playing now? Is she a new captive?
She comes up to me and crouches, cocking her head, looking me over as she hands me a bottle with some fluid. “Chloe?” Her voice is husky and a little uncertain.
I take the bottle and meet her curious gaze, licking my dry lips. “Yes,” I whisper. I don’t know when the last time I spoke was.
“I’m to clean you up and give you something to wear. Start drinking that. Slowly. It has salts and sugar.”
It’s as if a gust of wind suddenly moves across a field, clearing the mist in an instant. “What?”
“Can you stand?” She gives me her hand. I take it and she pulls me to my feet as if I weigh no more than a bird. My mind spins sickeningly and I drop the bottle as I put a hand to the wall to steady myself, wincing. My arm still feels weird and vulnerable where it used to be broken, but it looks pretty normal, so I guess it’s more in my mind than an actual physical issue. The woman snatches up the bottle, grabs me around my waist and half lifts me. “We need to get up a set of stairs. Can you manage?”
I nod. “What’s going on?”
She gives me an uncertain gaze. “I’m not supposed to talk with you.”
Anxiety rolls over me in thick, heavy waves, tightening my chest. The first person to be kind to me in a very long time, and still I stay in the nightmare. I’ll let her off the hook, though. I have no reason to blame her. At least I don’t think so. She is probably caught in the monster’s web too. “Okay.”
She half-carries me up the stairs to a hallway I vaguely remember and opens a door right across it, gently pushing me into a stunning bathroom with black tiles on the floor and dark brown, tiled walls with tiny specs of gold. It has a masculine feel and is actually tasteful. I expected him to be tacky. I would have wanted him to b
e tacky but from the little I’ve seen so far–the garden, the office, this bathroom–he’s got a sense for beauty. Pushing the bottle into my hands, she waits until I’ve had a few sips while I hold her gaze, still wary of the contents and what is going on. It tastes of lime and when I lick my lips they taste slightly salty, like she said. She turns on the faucet, and soon a warm mist fills the space as she steers me into the stream. I close my eyes and sigh with contentment as she lathers and rinses me, shampoos my hair several times, massaging my scalp, being so, so tender the whole time. I can’t deal with tenderness, it gives me hope and a longing I can’t afford. Turning my face up against the stream, I hide my tears.
“Oh my God, you’re so thin,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my reflex to apologize beyond my control.
The rest of the day gets weirder. Wrapping me in a thick dark beige towel, she then leads me through the carpeted hallway, the walls simple and white with nothing on them, and into some kind of sick bay. She stays by my side the whole day. A dentist comes by, has me gaping, snickering as he examines my mouth, scraping my teeth, making me taste blood. A prescribed mouthwash, an electric toothbrush, and a lot of instructions that pass through one ear and out the other. A beautician removes all the hair off my body, takes care of finger- and toenails. Finally, the woman next to me pulls a bag to her and rummages around in it, digging out a large white shirt and a little pink thong. She looks embarrassed as she hands me the clothes.
“What is this?” I ask. “Is he being nice only to be cruel later?”
“You’re beautiful,” she says, “He’ll adore you. Put on your clothes.” She nods at the now half-empty bottle. “And keep drinking.”
I obey and take a sip, studying the thong. “Not much to put on.”
“Better than before.”
I’ll give her that. I don’t want to get her into any kind of trouble, and despite my ever-present fear that this will be another one of his cruel games, I put on the shirt and panties. The panties fit perfectly, but the shirt looks like I borrowed a boyfriend’s, and reaches to my lower thighs.
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