The Power of a Woman: A Mafia Erotic Romance by Gina Whitney, Leddy Harper Read Free Book Online Page B

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