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a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all · 1 year ago

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The Job (Part 2)

AI-Less Whumptober 2023: 2. Exhaustion, 8. Panic Attack, 18. Vomiting, 21. Shock, Alt 6. Crying to Sleep Fandom: Peaky Blinders, Tommy Shelby, f!reader, prostitute!reader Summary: After being forced to witness the bloodbath at the stables, you are left shaken to the core. So when Tommy comes to visit you a few days later, you demand answers leading to a revolution you never expected. Word Count: 4266 TW: Steamy Situations/Soft Smut, Non-sexual Nudity, Shock, Trauma, Vomiting, Tears, Mentions of Prostitution, Smoking, Language Notes: A HUGE thanks to @loverhymeswith who not only sent me the ask that inspired this fic and helped me perfect this part, but also for getting me into Peaky Blinders in the first place! Part of @ailesswhumptober's event

Masterlist (coming soon)

Part 1, Part 2

As you hurried from the stable and the nightmare within, you saw Arthur, John, and a handful of others you recognized as Peaky Blinders pulling up out front. No one looked at you directly as they climbed out of their cars—Arthur the only one to even acknowledge you with a small nod—before silently heading into the stables and drawing their pistols. You increased your pace but you were still within earshot when the cacophony of gunfire sounded behind you. Even though it was too late, you pressed your hands over your ears as you fled down the street, tears blurring your vision as you went.

Yet no matter how quickly you ran nor how much distance you put between yourself and the bloody massacre you had just escaped from, you felt as if you were still there. Trembling behind the hay bales as the world exploded in blood around you. It was the stuff of nightmares you had heard about in whispers behind closed doors, but the reality of experiencing it first-hand was far more horrifying than you could ever have imagined.

After what seemed like an eternity, you finally stumbled up the front steps of your lodging. Your hands were trembling so badly that it took you three tries to finally get the key in the lock to open the door and, once inside, you rushed quickly to your room.

Despite it being the middle of summer, you were shivering uncontrollably and there was a chill deep in your bones. After much trouble, you got a fire started in your fireplace and you huddled next to it as closely as you could stand. And yet, the chill persisted.

Looking down, you saw that small flecks of blood had landed on your new dress and you immediately ripped it off and threw it into the fire. Even if it could have been cleaned, the events of the night had stained the dress in ways that could never be washed off. You would never be able to forget what you witnessed no matter how hard you tried—you didn’t need a reminder of it hanging in your wardrobe as well.

Standing before the fireplace in only your undergarments, you watched as the once beautiful gown blackened and burned, slowly falling apart as it turned to ash. You wished there was a way to rid yourself of your memories as easily as you had the dress. The sounds of the screams, the metallic bite of blood in the air, the way Tommy’s blue eyes peered at you from a face stained red. All building up to the thunderous booms of gunfire as you fled the stable.

And it was all your fault.

You had led those men to their deaths. Even if Tommy hadn’t explicitly told you what was to happen once you lured them to the stable, you should have realized what he planned to do. You knew his reputation for dealing with threats to his empire and yet, you had agreed to do what he wished with only the slightest of hesitations. If not for you, those men would be home with their wives or children at the moment instead of lying in a heap in an empty stable waiting for a handful of Peaky Blinders to come to dispose of their bodies.

That thought was the final straw. You dropped to your knees as you emptied the contents of your stomach across your floor. Over and over you retched, even past the point of having anything left in your stomach to expel. Every time you thought the nausea had settled, the memory of the blood-soaked stable would flash in your mind and you would gag once more.

Finally, once your body physically could not take anymore, you rolled over and curled up next to the fire. With tears streaming down your face and a weak whimpering in your burning throat, you slipped into unconsciousness only to find the horrors of the night were waiting to torment you there as well.

The next few days were some of the worst of your life. At first, you tried to push what had happened to the back of your mind and move on as you attempted to continue about your days as normal. However, that was much easier said than done. The feeling of nausea failed to leave you and all you could manage to hold down was broth or a little bread.

After the initial horror of the experience settled a little in your mind, you realized it wasn’t even the fact that all those men died that was really bothering you. Yes, the taking of any life was a tragedy but they were gang members who voluntarily chose this life. They knew the dangers involved with it and the potential consequences. And it wasn’t as if you weren’t used to witnessing violence after spending your entire life in Birmingham. It was just a way of life here.

No. What was really making you sick to your stomach was Tommy and how he had involved you in his feud. You were used to him using your body on a weekly basis—you gladly offered it up—but this? This was something completely different.

He had made you an unwilling, unknowing accomplice to his dastardly deed. Then he had forced you to stand there and witness every last horrifying second of it. The image of his pale blue eyes boring into you from a crimson-drenched face, his outstretched finger pinning you in place from across the room, was burned into your soul.

Why had he forced you to stay? You had done everything he had asked of you, so why did he want to punish you so? Why did he feel the need to curse you with these images that would haunt you for the rest of your life?

The dread in your chest only grew stronger with each passing day as Tommy’s scheduled visit approached. Wednesday simultaneously came too quickly and seemed to take an eternity to arrive.

Usually just before he was set to appear, you would put on your finest dressing gown and style your hair just the way you knew he preferred. Then you would wait by the entrance with a cigarette and a glass of whiskey ready for him. However, this time when Thomas Shelby walked through your door, you were seated on the edge of your bed in a simple shift dress that laced up the front. As he entered, your shoulders folded in on themselves as you shrank slightly away from him. Hesitantly, you glanced over at him out of the corner of your eyes.

If he noticed anything was different, Tommy did not address it. He simply strolled over to the table, took off his coat, and began unbuckling his belt as he asked, “Shall we get to it then?”

You made no move to stand or begin removing your clothes. Instead, you wrapped your arms across your chest, and with a slight quiver in your voice, you whispered, “H-how can you just walk in here as if nothing happened? As if this were just any other Wednesday and nothing has changed?"

He paused as he pursed his lips and gave a slight shrug. "Nothing has changed. I'm here for your services just as I am every week."

"Tommy, I watched you murder an entire room full of men right before my eyes. And I-I helped you do it. I mean, I know I agreed to help you but you never told me I would be leading them to you like lambs to the slaughter.”

His icy blue eyes took on an extra chill as he took a few steps towards you. With a slight bite to his words, he said, “You are neither foolish nor naive. You knew what would happen once you got to the stable.”

“I thought you would talk to them! Give them a warning, maybe send a message! Yes, I knew violence would probably be involved but I didn’t expect you to massacre every single one of them!”

A cunning, almost bordering on cruel, smile spread across his face. “Oh, but I was sending a message. Now anyone else out there who thinks they can fuck with the Peaky Blinders will see what will happen if they come for us.”

“But why did you have to involve me? What did I do to displease you to the point you would—” Tommy’s face dropped as the first tears spilled from your eyes and you took a wet, shaky breath, looking to the ceiling as you blinked rapidly and tried to maintain your composure. You had to know. This question had been haunting you almost as much as what you had witnessed. “I haven't been able to eat or sleep since that night. I feel as if I’m going mad. Every time I close my eyes all I can see is blood and I hear the howls of pain as those men died. Tommy, I have to know why you made me stay. What was the point? I tried to leave but you….Why did you make me witness that?”

For a moment, the room was still as the suffocating silence filled the room. Why wasn’t he answering your question? Maybe he didn’t have an answer. Maybe it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision in the heat of battle. Maybe to him, it meant nothing at al—

“You had to stay because I needed you to see the man I truly am.”

Your eyes snapped to his face as you looked at him directly for the first time, your brow furrowed in astonishment. “W-what?”

Reaching into his pocket, Tommy pulled out a cigarette. However, unlike usual, he didn’t light it. He just rolled it between his fingers thoughtfully. Then he tapped the end on the table before looking back at you. “The last time I was here you spoke of the Peaky Blinders as if I was not part of them. As if I was not the one in charge of them. Just because I don’t talk about that business with you does not mean it isn’t my life. That I am not as guilty if not more of their ‘transgressions’ as you put it. And I needed to remind you of that.”

“I have never had any misconceptions of who you are or what you do. Even before the first time you came to me, I knew the name Thomas Shelby and I knew the stories. And though the man I have come to know here in this room is far different from what I expected from those stories, they were never far from my mind.”

“But knowing and seeing are two very different things, eh?” Tommy asked. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you are keeping your distance? The way you are too afraid to even look at me directly?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Tommy.”

“Is that right?” He placed his cigarette down on the table and began slowly strolling over to the bed. “Then if it isn’t fear, what is it? Disgust? Loathing? What is it that you see when you look at me now?” He stopped as he reached the foot of the bed.

Shaking your head, you said, “Tommy, please—”

He stepped closer until he was less than an arm's length in front of you. You dropped your eyes to the floor as he towered over you.

“Look at me.” When you continued to avoid his gaze, he firmly grabbed your chin between his fingers and forced your head up so you had no choice but to look into his startling blue eyes. “Look at me! And tell me what you see.” You opened your mouth to speak, but he added, “The truth.”

Trembling, you gazed into his eyes and whispered, “I… I see a man capable of unspeakable horrors. One who has washed in the blood of other men, and will readily do so again.”

Tommy stared back at you without the slightest reaction to your words. Then he nodded softly and released your chin. You slid closer to the head of the bed and wrapped your arms around yourself as he turned. Silently, he walked across the room, grabbed his coat, and began to put it on.

However, you weren’t ready for him to leave. Maybe it was his explanation and reasoning as to his actions or maybe it was the idea that if you let him walk out that door you may never see him again, but something deep inside you had shifted as you answered his question. What you had said was your honest answer, but the truth was so much more complicated than that. And you couldn’t let him leave without hearing the rest of your response.

Taking a deep breath, you stood off the bed, walked over to him, and placed your hand on his forearm. He paused, one brow raised as he waited for you to explain your action.

Wetting your lips, you softly said, “But I also see a man who only does these things for the sake of his family and their interests.” Tommy’s face remained emotionless, but you felt some of the tension ease out of him under your touch so you continued.

“I don’t think I can ever support your actions that night and it still makes me sick that you made me a part of it and then forced me to watch. You should have at least warned me or let me leave because I didn’t need the lesson you tried to teach me. I hate what you did, but I understand why it was necessary. And as much as I’m loath to admit it…. There is a sort of honor in it. Those men posed a threat to the lives of every member of the Peaky Blinders as well as their loved ones. And you shed their blood so the blood of your people wouldn’t be.”

Your hand slowly trailed up his arm and across his chest until it rested just over his heart. Feeling it drumming steadily against your palm, you softly added, “The Peaky Blinders are lucky to have someone like you watching out for them.”

As usual, Tommy maintained his mask of indifference, but not even he could control his heart. You felt it jump underneath your hand as the drumming began to pick up its tempo. He blinked, long and slow, before gazing at you once more and it seemed as if some of the ice in his eyes had melted ever so slightly.

He placed his palm over top of where your hand still lay on his chest. “I hope you know that you are one of the people under my protection. I swore I would never let any harm befall you, even that by my own hand.” His other hand reached up to cup your face, his thumb gently tracing the dark bags that had formed this past week under your eyes. “And yet it seems that is exactly what I did. I thought by making you see me for who I really am I would be protecting you. But I was so blinded by that thought I did not see the hurt I would cause instead. I am truly sorry.”

You were utterly speechless. As long as you had known him, you had never once heard Tommy admit fault or apologize for any of his actions. He only ever brushed off these incidents and changed the subject, but for him to tell you he was sorry? He must honestly regret his poor decision.

“I-I forgive you,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering as his thumb continued to caress your face. “Just don’t ever put me in a situation like that again. Please.”

“I promise.” His hand slid down your cheek slightly until his fingers brushed against your lips. “Shall we seal it with a kiss?”

Faintly, you nodded, your head spinning with anticipation for what was to come. Tommy bent over until his lips lightly grazed yours, the feeling no more than a whisper. For a moment, your heart dropped in disappointment and you figured you had misread the situation. However, when Tommy’s hand wrapped around the back of your neck and he pulled you into him, the kiss became something else entirely.

You sometimes kissed Tommy during your weekly appointments but even then, at the peak of pleasure, it never felt like this. Now, there was a heat, an urgency, a need behind his lips that made your knees grow weak. It was something you had never experienced with any man, let alone Tommy. But the fact that it was him kissing you like this made everything more intense and overwhelming in the best way. You never wanted it to stop.

As you began kissing him back with the same intensity, Tommy’s hands came to rest on your hips and he guided you over to the table. Dropping into one of the chairs, he pulled you onto his lap, your legs spread on either side of his waist. You could feel him already hardening in his slacks and you wrapped your legs around his hips to draw yourself in even closer.

He buried his face in your hair, his long eyelashes fluttering against the edge of your face for a moment until he turned his head. Slowly, his lips slipped across your jaw, breathing ghostlike kisses in their wake as his mouth traveled along the curve of your throat. When he reached your shoulder, he bit down lightly. This drew a soft gasp of pleasure from your lips and you felt him buck against you in response.

Yet before his mouth could dip any lower, you tilted his chin so you could see his face.

His usually pale blue eyes had darkened with lust and the hunger you saw there made you ache deep within your core. This was a different side to Tommy, a side that you had never seen before. While your time together was always pleasurable, you were providing him a service and that was always apparent in his actions. But now…it felt about you just as much as about him. It felt like something deeper than just his regular weekly appointment. Yet before you lost yourself completely to him, before you let yourself believe it could be more, you had to know for sure.

Holding your breath, you murmured, “What is this, Tommy? Business or pleasure?”

Brushing his fingers across your cheek, he responds in a low, husky whisper. “For me, it stopped being business long ago.”

A brilliant smile spread across your face as you surged forward to recapture his lips. Kissing you back with the same fervor, he stood, his strong arms supporting you so you remained wrapped around his waist, and carried you over to your bed. Without breaking your kiss, he laid you down and settled above you.

Your eyes drifted shut and you could feel his nimble fingers begin fiddling with the laces across the front of your dress, even as his tongue slid past your lips. You arched your back to allow him easier access to the ties as the aching between your legs intensified. But after a moment, he froze and then suddenly pulled back. At first, you were worried you did something wrong, but as you opened your eyes, you saw all of his concentration had shifted to the laces still perfectly fastened in place.

As he continued his futile attempt to untie your dress, he cursed softly and muttered, “Damn you woman for wearing this infernal thing."

Leaning forward, you smiled into his neck before teasing, your lips brushing across his skin, “Come now, Tommy. One might think you’d never undressed a woman before.”

He paused, his head tilting until he locked eyes with you. Then, without breaking eye contact, he curled his fingers into the fabric of your bodice and gave a firm pull, causing the dress to rip open down to your waist. You let out a gasp of surprise but Tommy swallowed the sound as his mouth found yours once again.

With your legs still encircling his waist, you pulled him in closer until his hips were flush with yours and you could feel him straining for release against your clothed core. Slowly, you began rolling your hips to rub against him and you were rewarded with a deep rumble deep within his chest.

“Not so fast, you little minx,” Tommy growled, nipping at your lip. “There’s no rush tonight. You wanted to know what this was between us? Well, I’m going to show you. Over and over and over, until you never again doubt that this is all about pleasure.” A soft shudder of pleasure shivered down your spine at his words and he smiled. “Now, let me watch you take off what’s left of that dress then our night can begin.”

You had serviced Thomas Shelby more times than you could count. But that night became the first time you and Tommy made love….over and over and over and over, just like he promised.

Remarkably, you slept like a babe that night—the first real sleep you had had since the night in the stable. Even though you hadn’t opened your eyes yet, you could tell you had slept through the rest of the evening and well into the next morning by the warmth of the sun trickling in through your window onto the bed. The sunbeams felt heavenly on your bare skin and you hummed contently as you basked in the glow.

Stretching to help wake up your sluggish limbs, you opened your eyes and found yourself staring directly into a pair of familiar glacial eyes.

“Tommy!” You were instantly wide awake as you scrambled out of bed, dragging the bedsheet along with you to wrap around your naked body. “Wha-what are you still doing here? I mean, you don’t stay afterward. You never stay afterward.” You felt your face grow hot as you realized now that you had stolen the sheet, he was lying bare in your bed, fully on display. It took all of your willpower to keep your eyes locked on his face and not let them drift down the muscular planes of his body or linger on the hardness between his legs.

Completely unfazed by your reaction or his naked state, Tommy propped himself up on one elbow. “You said you hadn’t been sleeping this past week yet you looked so peaceful last night I didn’t want to disturb you.”

You blinked several times in quick succession as you tried to process that information. “So you stayed….for me?”

He shot you a coy grin. “Yes, I stayed for you. Though my motives may not have been as selfless as you make it seem.” His expression softened and he opened up his arms inviting you back to bed. “The truth is, I too found myself more at peace with you by my side than I have in a long time.”

You relaxed slightly, the motion causing the sheet to slip down until your breasts were almost completely uncovered. Tommy’s eyes shifted down to them and you had to bite your lip to keep from smiling. Apparently, for once you had more self-control than the great Thomas Shelby. But that feeling of superiority didn’t last long as your nerves once again gripped you as you faced the situation at hand.

“So, if that’s true….What do we do now?” you hesitantly asked as you worried the sheet between your fingers, afraid his answer might have changed now in the bright light of day. “Do we resume our business as usual or has this become something else? Something more?”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” Tommy reached over to the small side table where his pack of cigarettes and lighter were waiting and pulled one out. Once it was lit, he took a long drag, held it, and slowly let the smoke stream from his lips. “I told you last night that this has not been business to me for a long time. I’ve respected what you do but if I had my way, you’d be mine and mine alone.”

This time, you didn’t even attempt to mask the smile spreading across your face. In fact, you embraced it until it was shining almost as brightly as the dancing across the room. “And what would you do with me, Thomas Shelby? If I was yours and yours alone?” you teased, leaning forward to show off even more of your exposed breast.

“I’d give you the fucking world.”

All of your playfulness evaporated with your sharp intake of breath. You scanned Tommy’s face for any indication he was joking or teasing you back, but there was none. As you locked eyes with him, all you saw was sincerity. It was truly how he felt.

Trying to project the same level of honesty back at him, you whispered, “I don’t need the world, Tommy. As long as I have you…that’s all I’ll ever need.”

“Well, you are in luck, love,” he said as he stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the table. His eyes swiveled back to yours and he added matter-of-factly, “Because you’ve got me.”

You nodded, tears slightly blurring your vision. “And you’ve got me too. For forever. Starting right now.”

You dropped the sheet to the floor, pausing for just a moment to let Tommy take you in. Then you climbed back on the bed and into his waiting arms.

I am toying with an idea for a Part 3 so let me know if you would be interested!

Tag List: @lucien-calore, @zebralover

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fangdokja · 1 month ago

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🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

❤︎ Synopsis. Caught in a web of lies, a spy's double life unravels when her mafia husband discovers her betrayal—turning their love into a merciless game of dominance, vengeance, and obsession. She was his wife, his possession, and now, his prisoner.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss x Fem. Reader

♡ Novelette. #1 -The Enemy in His Bed

♡ Word Count. 8,853

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, rape, blood play, forced oral, fear play, knife play, needle play, heavy bodily injury, slut shaming, objectification, psychological torment, actual torture methods, mature language, humiliation, degradation, forced orgasms, sadism, BDSM, groping, biting, bondage, nudity, fire play, gagging, physical assault and violence, choking / breath play

You are in a room that reeks of blood and mildew, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your lungs. The faint hum of a fluorescent bulb flickering above casts the space in a sickly yellow light, illuminating the cold, concrete walls streaked with rust-colored stains. You’re tied to a chair—no, anchored. The ropes around your wrists and ankles are so tight you can feel the pulse of your blood struggling beneath them, the fibers cutting deep into your flesh. Your breathing is shallow, ragged, your chest rising and falling as if every breath might be your last.

He stands in front of you, a towering figure cloaked in shadow. His silhouette is broad and unyielding, the kind of presence that fills every corner of the room with an oppressive weight. This man—the man who used to call you lyubov moya—is no longer the husband you once knew. The ruthless Russian mafia boss whose name is whispered like a curse. His eyes, dark as pitch, are fixed on you with a predator’s focus, glinting with something primal, something vile. He’s not here to forgive. He’s here to destroy.

“Do you feel it?” His voice is low, gravelly, but it carries the force of an earthquake. He steps closer, the sound of his boots hitting the floor like a countdown. “That crawling under your skin? That’s fear. That’s regret. And yet, you still sit there,” he hisses, his tone sharp enough to flay skin, “with that fucking look in your eyes.”

His hand shoots out, grabbing your chin with bruising force. His thumb digs into the soft flesh just below your cheekbone, forcing your face upward. The light catches his features, and for a moment, you see the rage carved into every hard line of his face. But it’s his eyes that terrify you most. They’re dead things, black holes where love once flickered.

“You betrayed me,” he snarls, the words laced with venom. His grip tightens, and you hear the faint crackle of cartilage in your jaw. “My wife. My fucking wife. And all this time, you were a spy. An actress in my bed, a liar in my world.” He releases you with a violent shove, and your head snaps back, the base of your skull colliding with the chair’s hard frame. Pain blooms, hot and electric, as blood trickles from your nose, the metallic tang filling your mouth.

The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing, heavy and deliberate, like a beast stalking its prey. He circles you now, each step echoing like the tolling of a bell. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he asks, his voice quieter but infinitely more dangerous. He crouches down beside you, the leather of his gloves creaking as he pulls a blade from his belt. It’s thin, surgical, the kind of tool meant for precision rather than brute force. “Did you think I wouldn’t break you?”

The blade glides along your collarbone, its edge so sharp it almost feels cold. He presses just enough for the skin to part, a shallow cut that wells with blood and sends a sharp sting radiating through your nerves. “This is just the beginning,” he whispers, his lips so close to your ear you can feel the heat of his breath. “You don’t get to die yet. Not until I’ve carved every secret out of you. Not until you understand what betrayal costs.”

Your pulse is erratic, hammering in your chest as he stands again, looming over you like some ancient lord of vengeance. His fist connects with your cheek, and the world spins, your vision blurring as pain explodes across your face. Blood spatters across the floor in a violent arc, warm and sticky as it drips from the corner of your mouth.

“Where’s your defiance now?” he growls, his voice shaking with fury. He grabs a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head back so your gaze meets his. “You want to look brave, milaya, but I know better. I can see it in your eyes. You’re already breaking.”

His lips curl into a cruel smile as he lets go, letting your head drop forward. The room seems to tilt, the edges of your vision darkening, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of your surrender. Not yet. Not while there’s still air in your lungs.

But he’s not done. He won’t be until every inch of you is stripped raw, every nerve exposed and screaming. He reaches for a switch on the wall, and with a flick, the room is bathed in red light. It casts his shadow on the walls, grotesque and distorted, like a demon looming over the damned.

────────────

The door creaks open, and a figure, one of his subordinates, enters the room, dragging a metal tray laden with an assortment of cruel instruments. Your heart races as the cold steel glints under the flickering lights, each tool designed for a specific kind of torment.

The Russian mafia boss nods curtly, his eyes never leaving yours as the man sets the tray down with a clatter. "You're going to tell me everything," he says, his voice low and deadly.

"And then, I'm going to show you what it means to betray the one who gave you everything." He leans in, his hot breath on your neck, his grip on your chin painful.

"But first, I want you to remember what you used to be to me," he murmurs, the words a dark caress that sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand travels down, cupping your bruised cheek before sliding down to grasp your throat. You swallow hard, the fear rising like bile in your throat, but you refuse to show it. He squeezes, the pressure increasing until your eyes water, but you don't make a sound, not even a whimper.

His eyes narrow in frustration before he releases you, the hand moving to grip your jaw instead, forcing your mouth open.

With a sneer, he brings his face closer, his stubble scraping against your skin as he whispers, "You were once my sweet little bird, singing only for me. Now, you're a caged whore for the highest bidder." He slams his mouth down on yours, his kiss bruising and possessive.

You taste the rage and desperation in him, and for a fleeting moment, you feel a pang of pity.

But it's quickly replaced with a fiery resolve to survive, to somehow escape his clutches.

His tongue forces its way into your mouth, and you bite down, hard. He pulls back with a growl of annoyance, but instead of releasing you, he laughs, a dark, chilling sound. "Good girl," he says, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

"You still have some fight left in you." His eyes scan the tray, and he selects a pair of pliers. "Let's see how much you can take."

He reaches for your shirt, his fingers deftly unbuttoning it despite your struggling. The fabric tears away from your body, exposing your bruised and bound breasts. He squeezes them, watching the pain flicker in your eyes with a twisted pleasure. "These used to be mine," he says, his voice filled with a sadistic glee. He leans in again, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "But now, I'll make sure no one else ever touches them again."

The air in the dimly lit room reeked of sweat and copper, a metallic tang that coated your tongue as you gasped for breath. His shadow loomed large, an oppressive specter that seemed to drink in your pain. The pliers in his hand gleamed under the flickering light—a surgeon’s precision wrapped in a sadist’s grip.

His voice slithered through the silence, low and venomous. “Tell me,” he hissed, his words thick with cruelty, “whose touch you’ve dared to crave besides mine.”

Your chest rose and fell, trembling under his gaze. You held your tongue, the taste of defiance as bitter as bile. His jaw tightened. Then, without hesitation, he snapped the cold steel jaws of the pliers onto your right nipple.

The first twist came like lightning, sharp and blinding, a searing current that jolted through your body. The delicate tissues twisted under the unyielding bite of the metal, the nerve endings igniting like fireworks. You clenched your teeth so hard your jaw ached, your scream lodged in your throat like a jagged stone.

He leaned in closer, his breath an unwanted warmth against your cheek. “Still stubborn, aren’t we?” he murmured, his tone laced with mockery and dark amusement. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

The second twist was slower, deliberate—a calculated cruelty that made your skin crawl. He pulled, the pliers dragging the sensitive flesh in directions it was never meant to go. You could feel the tissue straining, tearing, fibers unraveling like the threads of a fragile tapestry.

Your vision swam, black spots blooming like ink blots against the edges of your sight. He laughed softly, the sound of a predator savoring its kill. “Beautiful,” he said, almost reverent. “Even in pain, you’re mine. Always mine.”

The climax of his sadistic art came with a grotesque pop, the sound of tissue surrendering to force. The pain was an inferno, all-consuming, burning through every nerve as he wrenched the nipple free from your body. Warm blood spilled in rivulets, pooling on the filthy floor beneath you. The ruined flesh hung like a torn petal before he carelessly tossed it aside, letting it hit the ground with a wet slap.

He stepped back, his gaze fixed on your bloodied chest—a grotesque canvas of raw meat and trembling sinew. The shredded skin wept crimson tears, each droplet sliding down to trace the curve of your ribs. The room tilted; your body screamed for reprieve, but there was none to be had.

“You’re breathtaking like this,” he said softly, running a gloved hand over your mutilated breast. His touch was clinical, detached, as if admiring the precision of his own handiwork. “But we’re far from finished.”

The metal tray clattered as he reached for his next tool—a scalpel, gleaming with sterile menace. But before he could wield it, he paused, considering. With a dark smile, he reached instead for the salt.

The coarse grains glittered like tiny shards of glass as he grabbed a fistful. “Let’s ensure you remember this moment,” he whispered, and then he scattered the salt into the gaping wound.

It was as if the salt detonated on contact, each granule a fresh explosion of agony. Your body bucked involuntarily, the ropes digging into your wrists as you thrashed against your bindings. The scream that tore from your throat was raw and primal, reverberating off the walls like a wounded animal’s last cry.

His smile widened, a cruel crescent etched into his face. “Much better,” he said, almost soothingly. “Now we’re making progress.”

The pliers returned, their jaws still slick with blood as they moved to your remaining nipple. This time, you could see the shadow of his intent, the cold malice in his eyes as he clamped down. The pain came like a tidal wave, drowning you in its depths as he twisted, pulled, and twisted again.

The nipple tore loose with a sickening crunch, cartilage snapping, blood spurting in a violent arc. Your chest was no longer your own—it was a ravaged landscape of gore, a grotesque testament to his control. The raw, exposed tissue oozed and quivered, a mockery of what it once was.

He stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes drinking in the destruction he’d wrought. “You’re exquisite when you break,” he murmured, his voice tinged with satisfaction. “But don’t worry, little wife. There’s so much more of you left to ruin.”

You hung limp in the chair, your body trembling, every nerve ablaze. Your silence persisted, but his words lingered, curling around you like smoke, a promise of horrors yet to come.

────────────

The mafia boss steps back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes never leaving the destruction he's wrought upon your body. His hand reaches down to adjust his crotch, where a noticeable bulge has formed.

He's enjoying this, the sadist, getting off on your suffering.

"You're going to scream for me," he says, his voice low and filled with a primal hunger. "You're going to beg for me to stop. And when you do, I'll make sure you never forget who you belong to."

He moves to stand in front of you, his pants tenting obscenely. He unbuckles his belt, the leather making a harsh sound as it's pulled from the loops, the anticipation in the air thick and suffocating. He unbuttons his pants, and his cock springs free, hard and angry. He strokes it, the motion taunting you, a silent challenge to see how much more you can endure.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a whip crack that slices through the pain.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction, keeping your eyes cast down, focusing on the puddle of blood forming around your chair.

He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Look at what you've done to me," he snarls. "You've turned me into a monster."

He steps closer, pressing his cock against your bruised and bleeding chest, the heat from his arousal a stark contrast to the cold steel of the pliers still digging into your skin. He grinds against you, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"You're going to take this," he says, his voice a mix of anger and lust. "You're going to take every inch of me until you remember who you are."

With a brutal yank, he twists the pliers on your nipples even more so, and you feel your body convulse in a silent scream.

He takes the opportunity to force himself inside your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. "Suck it," he orders, his hand fisted in your hair, pushing your face closer to his crotch.

With a burst of defiance, you clamp down on his cock with your teeth, biting as hard as you can, feeling the warm flesh between your teeth, the taste of his pre-cum mixing with the coppery tang of your own blood.

He roars in a mix of pain and pleasure, his grip on your hair tightening as he thrusts deeper into your mouth.

The mafia boss’s eyes widen in shock, but the arousal in them doesn't waver. Instead, it seems to intensify, his pupils dilating with a dark excitement.

"Fuck, you little bitch," he growls, his voice a mix of anger and desire. "You're going to regret that." His hand moves from your hair to the back of your head, pushing down harder, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a sickening rhythm.

You refuse to give in, biting down again, the pain in your breasts and the metallic taste of blood only fueling your resolve to fight back.

He responds by slamming your head into the chair, stars exploding across your vision, but you don't let go. The pain radiates through your skull, but you hold on, biting even harder.

The Russian's hand trembles with a mix of rage and arousal as he pours an unmerciful amount of salt into the gaping wounds on your chest.

The agony is instant and overwhelming, your body arching off the chair as the salt sears into your flesh, setting every nerve ending alight with pain.

The scream that rips from your throat is muffled by his thick cock, still lodged in your mouth. His grip on the back of your head tightens even more, his hips jerking as your teeth graze his shaft, the scream vibrating along his length.

He watches your face contort in torment, his own expression a twisted blend of love and hatred. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Scream for me."

He pours more salt, the grains falling like a sadistic rain upon your ravaged breasts. Your teeth clench around his cock as you fight back the urge to pass out from the pain. Your eyes squeeze shut, and tears stream down your face, mixing with the blood and saliva that coats your chin. He seems to revel in your suffering, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his breaths more ragged.

The henchman, his eyes wide and slightly horrified, watches from the corner, unsure of what to do. The Russian mafia boss, noticing his employee's discomfort, turns to him with a wicked smile. "You want a taste?" he asks, his voice a dark promise.

The man shakes his head, unable to tear his gaze away from the macabre scene unfolding before him. The mafia boss laughs, a low, chilling sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Then get the fuck out," he snaps. "I'll handle this one."

The henchman nods hastily, retreating from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You're alone with the monster you once called your husband.

The salt has stopped falling, but the pain remains, a constant reminder of your betrayal and his wrath.

He pulls back a bit, panting heavily, his cock still hard and slick with your saliva. He looks at your destroyed breasts with a twisted kind of fascination, the blood and salt creating a gruesome tableau. "You're so beautiful when you scream," he murmurs, his voice almost tender.

His hand reaches out to trace the edge of one of the wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos.

You flinch away, the slightest of movements, but it's enough to snap him out of his daze.

The mafia boss’s hand clamps down on the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him again. His eyes are dark with lust and anger, a storm brewing in their depths. "You're going to pay for every lie," he says, his voice a promise of unspeakable torment.

He then pulls his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, the sound echoing through the room. You gasp for air, your throat raw from his rough treatment. He steps back, his gaze traveling down your body, taking in every bruise and tear. "But not before I make you feel everything I felt when I found out you were whoring around."

He grabs you by the hair, yanking you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles making you stumble. He pulls you to the tray of instruments, his eyes lingering on a long, thin knife.

The blade glitters in the light, a silent threat of the pain to come. He picks it up, his hand steady, his movements deliberate. "You're going to tell me who else has had you," he says, the knife hovering just above your skin. "Every name, every touch, every time you spread your legs for someone who wasn't me."

His grip tightens, his thumb tracing a line along your jaw. "And for every lie, I'll make sure you feel it here," he says, pressing the knife against your throat, the cold steel a stark reminder of the power he holds over you.

You stand before him, your body shaking with pain and fear, but you refuse to speak.

The Russian's eyes narrow, and he presses the knife harder, a thin line of blood welling up. "Tell me," he demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

But you remain silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes locked on his.

He sighs, a sound filled with disappointment and resentment. "Very well," he says, moving the knife to your chest.

He slices through your shredded shirt, the fabric giving way easily to reveal your bruised and bloodied skin. "If you won't tell me willingly, I'll make you confess."

He starts to cut, the blade digging into your flesh, tracing patterns of agony across your stomach and ribs. You bite your lip, the pain a living entity consuming you, but you refuse to break.

He pauses, looking up at you with a mix of admiration and anger. "You're so stubborn," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I used to love that about you."

His hand moves lower, the knife grazing your navel, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You can feel your body responding despite the pain, a traitorous arousal building within you. He notices and smirks, the knife moving lower, hovering just above the fabric of your pants. "But now, it's just another reason to make you suffer."

With a quick movement, he slices through the fabric, exposing your nakedness to the cold room. He traces the edge of the knife along the line of your underwear, the threat of what's to come clear in his eyes. "You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a seductive whisper. "Or I'll start peeling you like a damn orange."

You force yourself to remain still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

He leans in, his breath hot on your skin as he presses the knife against your inner thigh, the tip just barely breaking the surface. "Who else has been here?" he asks, his voice a dark caress.

You bite down on your tongue, tasting blood, but still you don't speak. The mafia boss’s eyes flash with anger, and he presses harder, the blade cutting through your skin. You grit your teeth, willing yourself not to scream, not to give in.

With a snarl of frustration, he slices through your underwear, the fabric falling away to reveal your most vulnerable areas. His hand moves to cup your pussy, his grip bruising. "So wet," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust.

"Do you get off on the pain I give you?" He strokes you roughly, the knife still pressing against your thigh, a constant reminder of the power he holds. "Or is it the fear?"

His thumb brushes against your clit, and despite the horror of the situation, you feel yourself respond. It's a traitorous betrayal of your own body, but you can't help it; his touch has always had this effect on you.

"You're mine," he says, his voice a low growl. "You'll always be mine." His hand moves from your pussy to your throat, squeezing tightly. You gasp for air, your eyes watering as he forces you to look at him.

"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."

You refuse, the word 'no' lodged in your throat, unspoken but clear.

His grip tightens, your vision swimming, but you stand firm, your resolve unbroken. He laughs, the sound a chilling echo in the room. "Fine," he says, his voice a harsh whisper. "We'll do this the hard way."

The mafias boss’s patience is at an end, his rage and lust boiling over. He yanks the knife away from your throat, the sharp tip of the blade leaving a trail of fire across your skin as he moves it downward.

With a quick, violent thrust, he pushes the knife into your pussy, the cold steel parting your wet folds with ease.

You scream, the sound a mix of agony and despair, your body trembling as he uses the knife to fuck you.

He's merciless, his strokes deep and hard, the blade sliding in and out of your tight hole, the edges scraping against your inner walls with each brutal thrust. You can feel the warmth of your blood mingling with your arousal, the sensation making you want to gag.

"You like that, don't you?" he whispers, his breath hot on your ear. "You like it when I hurt you. Fucking masochist." His free hand snakes around your throat, squeezing just enough to keep you on the edge of consciousness.

"You're such a good little slut, taking it all." He continues to use the knife, his knife thrusts growing more erratic as he gets closer to climax.

"Tell me," he grunts, his voice strained. "Tell me who you've been fucking." But you remain silent, your teeth clenched in a silent snarl of defiance.

The room spins around you, the pain in your breasts and the invasion of the knife in your pussy making it difficult to think straight.

Yet, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

The Russian's grip on the knife tightens, his strokes growing faster, harder. "I'll make you talk," he says, his voice a dark promise. "You can't hide from me forever."

The knife twists, hitting a particularly sensitive spot, and you can't help the scream that tears from your throat. He smiles, the sight of your pain seemingly pushing him closer to the edge.

As you feel the world fading around you, the older man’s grip on your throat tightens, his eyes wild with a mix of anger and arousal.

He slams the knife into your pussy one final time, the pain so intense you think you might actually pass out.

But just as the darkness begins to claim you, he pulls the knife out, the absence of the cold steel leaving you feeling violated and empty.

He throws the knife aside, his own breaths ragged and desperate, his cock pulsing with need.

"Fine," he snarls, his voice a harsh rasp. "We'll do it the old-fashioned way."

With a quick movement, he unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants down, his cock springing free, thick and hard. He grabs your hips, spinning you around so that you face the chair, your destroyed breasts pressed against the cold metal. He kicks your legs apart, and you feel the tip of his cock nudge against your bruised and bloodied entrance.

"You're going to tell me," he says, his breath hot against your neck. "You're going to tell me every name, every face, every cock that's been inside you."

His hand moves to the back of your head, pushing down until you're bent over the chair, your ass in the air. "And when you do, I'll make it all better. I'll make you forget them all."

His cock slams into you without warning, the pain so intense you can't help but cry out.

He's rough, his movements punishing, his anger and pain manifesting in every thrust. You can feel him stretching you, filling you completely, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

The Russian's cock slams into you with the force of a battering ram, the pain so intense it steals your breath away. He's not gentle; every thrust is a declaration of his dominance, a punishment for your silence.

Your body shakes with the impact, your bruised breasts smacking against the cold metal chair, the pain from the fresh wounds sending jolts of agony through your system. His hands are like iron bars, holding your hips in place as he uses you, his grip bruising your skin.

Each time he pulls out, you feel the warm gush of your blood and arousal, mixing with the sticky mess he's creating inside you.

"Who else?" he snarls, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your shoulder. The pain is a white-hot brand, but you refuse to give him what he wants.

Instead, you spit in his face, the saliva mixing with the sweat and blood that coats his skin.

He rears back, his eyes flashing with fury, and then he slams into you again, his hips moving like pistons, his cock a weapon of torment. "You think you can resist me?" he growls, his voice a dark whisper that sends shivers down your spine. "I'll make you beg for mercy, cunt."

You bite back a scream as he hits your g-spot, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses your body for his own sadistic pleasure. You can feel him thickening inside you, his orgasm building with every punishing thrust. "Tell me!" he roars, his hand reaching around to squeeze your throat again, cutting off your air supply.

"Tell me who you've been fucking, and maybe I'll let you live." Your eyes bulge, your nails clawing at the chair as you fight the urge to pass out.

After a particularly brutal thrust, the mafia boss releases your throat, and you gasp for air, your lungs burning. "You're going to tell me," he whispers, his voice a promise of more pain to come. "You're going to tell me, or I'll make sure you never feel anything but pain again."

His grip on your hips tightens, and he starts to move faster, his cock pistoning in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound. You feel your body betraying you, your walls clenching around his shaft despite the pain, the traitorous orgasm building within you.

"Never," you croak out, your voice barely a whisper.

It's all you can manage, but it's enough to fuel his rage. He slams into you again, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see white. "You're mine," he says, his voice a harsh rasp. "You've always been mine."

His hand moves from your hip to your clit, and he starts to rub it roughly, the friction sending sparks of pain through your body. "You're going to come for me," he says, his voice a dark command. "And then you're going to tell me everything."

Your body is pushed to its limits as the Russian's relentless assault continues. Each thrust feels like a hot iron rod being driven into your soul, the pain unbearable as your body is stretched and filled with his monstrous cock.

The sound of your flesh slapping against his is like a grim symphony of agony, echoing through the cold, sterile room. You can feel your insides tearing, the warmth of your blood mixing with his seed, a grim reminder of his ownership over you. His hand on your clit is a sadistic maestro's touch, forcing pleasure from your bruised and abused body despite the pain.

"Tell me!" he roars, his grip on your hips like vice. "Tell me who's been inside you, and maybe I'll stop." His voice is desperate now, a mix of anger and love warring within him, his need for control overshadowing any shred of humanity he might have once had.

But you remain silent, your eyes squeezed shut, your mind a haze of torment. The only sound in the room is the harsh grunts of his exertion and your muffled whimpers.

The mafia boss’s sadistic stroking of your clit reaches a crescendo, and despite the agony of your injuries, your body responds to his command. You cum around his cock, your muscles clenching tightly, trying to push him out even as they pull him deeper.

He groans in victory, feeling your pussy pulse and spasm around him, his own orgasm building. He fucks you harder, his hand moving faster, his thumb pressing down mercilessly on your clit, forcing wave after wave of unwanted pleasure through your trembling form. You scream, the sound a mix of pain and climax, your body shaking as you cum for the second time, blood and fluids painting the chair beneath you.

"Fuck," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "You're so fucking beautiful when you're in pain."

He doesn't stop, his thrusts growing more frantic as he chases his own release. You feel his cock thicken, his grip on your hips tightening until it's almost painful. "Again," he says, his voice a dark whisper. "Cum for me again." And despite yourself, you do, your body responding to the twisted game he's playing with your emotions and your pain.

The mafia man’s orgasm hits like a freight train, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with his seed. You feel the warmth of his cum mixing with your blood, the sensation making you want to retch.

But you stay silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing your despair.

He pulls out, his cock slick with your blood and his cum, and you collapse onto the chair, your legs giving out beneath you. You're sobbing now, the pain and humiliation too much to hold in.

He stands over you, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening. "Look at what you've done to yourself," he says, his voice a mix of anger and pity.

"This is what happens when you betray me." He grabs a handful of your hair, forcing your head up so you have to meet his gaze.

His eyes are wild, the love and hurt swirling together in a toxic brew. "But I can fix you," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I can make you mine again." He releases you, and you slump back down, your head hanging limply.

The mafia boss stares down at you, his chest heaving with his own release. The rage in his eyes hasn't dimmed, but there's something else there now. Something that looks almost like hope.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a mix of disgust and admiration. "You're still fighting." He steps closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of your jaw, his touch gentle despite the bruises he's left there.

"But you can't win, my love."

You spit in his face again, the defiance burning in your eyes like a dying ember.

It's all you have left, and you cling to it with everything you have.

He wipes the spit away with the back of his hand, his smile twisted. "Oh, how I've missed your fire," he says, his voice a low growl. He grabs you by the shoulders, spinning you around to face him. "But it's time to put it out."

With a swift movement, he pulls you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles cutting into your skin as you stand. He yanks your torn shirt up, the fabric sticking to your blood-covered breasts.

His eyes travel over your body, a mix of hunger and disgust. "You're a mess," he says, his voice filled with contempt. "But I'll make you clean again."

He pulls you closer, his cock still hard against your stomach. "You're going to tell me," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "And when you do, I'll make you forget all about them."

The Russian's eyes gleam with a dark excitement as he takes in your bruised and bloodied form. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat.

His free hand reaches down to a specific part of his belt, unbuckling it with a sharp click that echoes through the room. He then pulls out a set of keys from it and unlocks a drawer in the desk, revealing an assortment of whips, chains, and other tools of torture. His hand lingers over them, a sadistic smile playing on his lips as he selects a particularly vicious-looking whip.

The mafia boss selects the spiked whip, the leather crackling with anticipation. He takes a moment to appreciate the gleaming metal spikes, the sight of them making your stomach churn. He grabs a bottle of vodka from the same drawer, the clear liquid sloshing in the bottle as he brings it to your blood-soaked crotch.

You try to jerk away, but his grip on your hair is unyielding. With a cruel smirk, he pours the alcohol over your wounds, the stinging pain making your vision swim.

You scream as the liquid seeps into your freshly torn flesh, the coldness of the vodka a stark contrast to the heat of your blood.

He doesn't give you a chance to recover, instead bringing the whip down in a vicious arc that connects with your bruised and abused pussy with a wet slap.

The pain is a white-hot brand, searing through you as the spikes tear into your sensitive flesh.

You can feel the alcohol burning into your wounds, a fresh agony added to the symphony of pain already playing in your body.

He doesn't stop there, though; he brings the whip down again and again, each strike more precise and brutal than the last.

You thrash in his grip, trying to escape the torment, but he's too strong, too determined to break you. His strikes are methodical, a twisted dance of pain and power, the whip's spikes digging deeper with every hit.

The mafia boss then wraps the end of the whip around your throat, the spikes biting into your tender flesh as he squeezes, cutting off your air supply. You claw at his wrist, your nails leaving bloody furrows in his skin, but he only tightens his grip.

Your eyes bulge, your chest heaving for air that won't come, your vision swimming with stars.

He leans in, his breath hot against your face, his eyes gleaming with a sick satisfaction as he watches the life drain from you. "Tell me," he whispers, his voice a dark promise of more pain if you don't.

But you refuse to give in, even as your lungs burn and your chest feels like it's going to explode.

Your hands fall to your sides, your body going limp in his grip, the only sound in the room the wet, gurgling noise of your struggles. He holds you there for a moment longer, watching you with a twisted fascination before finally letting go.

You gasp for air, your throat raw and burning, the coppery taste of blood filling your mouth. He smiles, a twisted parody of affection, and pulls out another tool from the drawer.

It's a metal rod, the end shaped into a cruel hook.

"This," he says, his voice a dark purr, "Is for when you decide to be more… cooperative."

He steps closer, the rod in his hand glinting in the harsh light of the room.

You can see your reflection in the gleaming surface, a broken doll covered in blood and sweat. He runs the hook over your skin, tracing the curves of your body with a featherlight touch that's somehow more terrifying than the pain of the whip.

"You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that's more unsettling than his previous roars. "And when you do, I'll make it all better."

You spit blood in his face again, your voice a harsh whisper. "Never."

The word is a declaration of war, a challenge he seems to relish.

He laughs, a sound devoid of humor, and brings the hook closer to your pussy.

"We'll see about that," he murmurs, the hook pressing against your bruised and swollen flesh.

You tense, expecting the worst, but he surprises you by sliding it along your slit, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your pain. The mafia boss uses the hook to spread your labia, exposing the raw, bloody mess he's made of your most intimate parts.

"Look at this," he says, his voice filled with a twisted admiration. "You're so beautiful when you're broken."

He leans in, his breath hot against your skin as he runs the tip of the hook along your clit. The sensation is so intense, you almost pass out from the pain.

"But you're going to be even more beautiful when you're mine again."

He pushes the hook inside you, the spikes scraping along the inside of your pussy, and you scream hysterically, your body arching in agony.

The mafia boss’s smile widens as he watches you writhe in pain, the hook still embedded in your pussy. He takes a step back, admiring his handiwork, and then reaches for a small, black case on the desk.

Inside, you see a collection of needles, glinting in the cold light of the room.

His eyes never leave yours as he selects one, long and thin, with a wicked curve at the end. You can feel your body tightening around the hook, your muscles spasming in a futile attempt to push it out.

"This is for when you're feeling particularly uncooperative," he says, his voice a dark purr. He takes the needle between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently.

"But I suspect you're going to be feeling quite cooperative very soon." He brings the needle closer to your pussy, the curve lining up with your clit.

You can feel the sharpness of the tip against your swollen flesh, and you fight the urge to beg him to stop.

But you won't give him that power.

With a swift, precise movement, he inserts the needle, the point piercing your clit and sliding deep into your pussy.

The pain is like nothing you've ever felt before, a searing agony that makes you want to pass out.

You scream, your body jerking against the chair, but he holds you steady, his grip unyielding. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal.

"Take it like the good little whore you are." He starts to move the needle, twisting it inside you, the curve scraping along your inner walls.

Each twist sends a fresh wave of pain through you, making you want to vomit.

The mafia boss steps back, admiring his work, as you sob and whimper in pain. "You see," he says, his voice almost gentle, "It doesn't have to be this way. Tell me what I want to know, and I can make this all stop."

But you stay silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes squeezed shut.

He sighs, the sound filled with disappointment. "Very well," he says, his voice cold again. "But you're going to wish you had talked sooner."

He selects another needle from the case, his eyes never leaving yours.

He brings it to your pussy, the tip hovering just above your clit. "I'll give you one more chance," he says, his voice a deadly whisper. "Tell me who's been fucking you, and maybe I'll go easy on you."

You remain silent, your chest heaving with the effort of holding back your screams.

With a shrug, he pushes the second needle in alongside the first, the sensation of the sharp points tearing through your tender flesh making you want to pass out.

The Russian's eyes darken as he watches your silent defiance.

He starts to play with the needles, twisting and moving them with a precision that speaks of practice and skill. You bite down on your lip so hard you taste blood, trying not to give him the satisfaction of hearing your pain.

"So stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a mix of admiration and anger. "But you'll break eventually." He grabs another handful of needles, his eyes traveling over your body, considering where to insert them next. You can feel the cold sweat trickling down your back, the pain making your vision blur.

The mafia boss’s hand moves with the precision of a surgeon, inserting needle after needle into your pussy. Each one sinks into your flesh with a sickening pop, the pain so intense you feel like you're being torn apart from the inside.

You're a pincushion of pain, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body.

The needles are inserted at different angles, some going deep while others skim the surface, the varying depths creating a tapestry of torment that makes you want to scream.

Then the Russian's hand moves with a newfound fervor, the needles sliding into your flesh with an eerie grace.

The hook remains lodged deep inside you, the spikes scraping along your swollen walls as he twists it in a sickening rhythm that matches the insertion of the needles.

The pain is so intense, it feels like your entire body is on fire, your pussy a focal point of agony that threatens to consume you.

You feel the wetness of your blood mixing with the lubricant he's used, creating a macabre dance of red and clear fluids that dribble down your thighs.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "You're mine," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "You've always been mine, and you always will be."

His words are a knife, twisting in the wound of your soul, as he adds another needle, the metal scraping against the hook with an almost musical sound. You can feel the sharp points digging in deeper, the pain an almost tangible presence in the room. "Tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that makes your skin crawl. "Tell me who's been fucking my wife."

The mafia boss slightly smirks, stepping back from you, as his eyes gleaming with a twisted excitement.

He reaches for a small, red canister on the desk, the label written in a language you don't recognize.

You know what it is, though; you've seen it used in interrogations before. It's a can of lighter fluid, and you know what he's planning.

He douses the needles and the hook with the fluid, the harsh smell of the gasoline-like substance filling the room.

Your heart races, fear mixing with the pain as he takes a step back and flicks open a lighter.

The flame dances in the air, the light flickering over the needles embedded in your pussy, making the metal glint ominously.

"This is your last chance," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell me, and I'll make it quick."

The flame hovers near the needles, the heat making your skin crawl. You clench your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the unimaginable agony that's about to come. "Who have you been fucking?" he demands again.

But you stay silent, your resolve unbroken despite the hell you're enduring.

With a snarl of frustration, he brings the flame closer, the heat growing more intense until it's almost unbearable.

You can feel your skin blistering around the base of the needles, the smell of burning flesh making you gag.

The mafia boss’s hand hovers over the needles, the flame reflecting in his eyes. "Fine," he says, his voice cold. "You want to play the martyr, I'll give you a performance to remember."

In one swift motion, he presses the lighter to the needles.

The fluid catches fire, the heat searing through your pussy in an explosion of agony that makes you arch off the chair.

You scream, the sound echoing through the room as the flames dance along the metal, the heat spreading through your insides like molten lava. The mafia boss watches you burn, his expression a twisted mix of anger and fascination.

The needles glow red-hot, the heat so intense it feels like your soul is being torn from your body. You can feel the flesh around the hook contracting, the spikes and needles digging deeper with each spasm of pain.

The flames lick at your tender flesh, the pain so intense that it's all you can focus on.

Your screams fill the room, a cacophony of agony and despair that seems to echo off the walls.

The mafia boss watches, his eyes alight with a perverse excitement as he sees you finally break.

Your body jerks and spasms against the chair, the ropes cutting into your skin as you struggle to escape the fire.

The needles are embedded so deeply now, the metal searing your insides as the flames dance around them.

The smell of your burning flesh fills the room, a sickeningly sweet aroma that makes your stomach churn.

────────────

The flames from the needles flicker and die out, leaving behind smoking metal embedded in your burnt flesh. The hook remains lodged deep inside you, a constant reminder of his dominance.

Your body is a wreck, a canvas of bruises, cuts, and burns, a testament to the extreme lengths he's willing to go to break you. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, each inhale a battle against the pain that threatens to swallow you whole.

The mafia boss’s smile fades as he watches you slip into unconsciousness, your body a broken doll in the chair.

He sighs, his frustration clear as he puts out the last of the flames with a damp cloth. He's impressed by your endurance, by the sheer force of your will to survive and not give him what he wants.

But he's not done with you yet.

He can't be.

You're his, and he won't let you die until you're his again.

The mafia boss leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, as he presses a soft, almost tender kiss to your bruised and bloody lips.

The contrast between his gentle touch and the agony of your burnt flesh sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand moves to the hook, gripping it firmly as he slowly pulls it out of you, the spikes tearing through your raw, swollen pussy with a wet, squelching sound that makes you whimper despite being unconscious.

The hook comes out with a final, sickening pop, leaving a gaping wound in its place.

"You're so stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a soft caress that seems to mock the pain he's inflicted on you. He carefully removes the needles one by one, his movements efficient and precise despite the anger that still lingers in his eyes.

Each removal sends a fresh wave of pain through your body, making you jerk and gasp even in your unconscious state. "But that's what I love about you," he says, his voice a mix of admiration and frustration.

The mafia boss sets aside the bloody needles and hook, reaching for a first aid kit that seems out of place in the room of torture.

He cleans your wounds with a gentle touch, his fingers deftly applying ointment and bandages to the burns and cuts. You can feel the coolness of the medical supplies against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the flames that had just been there.

He seems almost disappointed that you're not awake to see his 'care' for you, his eyes lingering on your bruised and broken form with a disturbing mix of love and anger.

"You're going to be okay," he whispers, his voice a strange blend of sweetness and malice. "I'll make sure of it."

He tapes the last bandage into place, his eyes lingering on the gaping hole where the hook had been. His thumb traces the edge of the wound, the pad of his finger coming away sticky with your blood.

He brings it to his lips, tasting you, his eyes closing for a brief moment before he opens them again, the anger in them burning like the embers of a dying fire.

You're vaguely aware of the pain as he tends to you, the fog of unconsciousness lifting slightly.

Each touch feels like a brand, a reminder of your submission to his will.

He wraps you in a blanket, lifting you with surprising gentleness from the chair, and carries you to a cot in the corner of the room.

He lays you down, his hand brushing through your hair, his touch surprisingly tender. "Rest," he says, his voice a command wrapped in a velvet glove. "You'll need your strength for tomorrow."

The mafia boss locks the door behind him with a final click, leaving you alone in the cold, sterile room.

The cot is hard and uncomfortable, but it's the closest thing to relief you've felt in what seems like an eternity.

Your eyes fully drift shut, the darkness behind your lids offering a temporary reprieve from the horrors you've endured.

But sleep doesn't come easy.

The pain keeps you on the edge of consciousness, a constant reminder of the hell you're in.

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