Ruined By Reality

‎She was strung up like a sacrifice—wrists bound tight with leather cuffs to the iron hook above, eyes blindfolded with black silk, her naked body on full trembling display for him. The room stank of sex, sweat, fear.

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‎Kane stood in front of her, dark and unmoving, a flogger hanging from his hand. The leather strips kissed the ground, waiting.

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‎Her nipples were clamped viciously, red and swollen around the metal, the connecting chain tugging with every tremor of her body. Her thighs glistened with slick. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and sweat.  And still, she was fucking gorgeous.

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‎He stepped close, his feet heavy against the floor. She whimpered when he grabbed her jaw roughly, forcing her to meet his cold eyes.

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‎"You’ll take everything I give you, Castelle. You’ll scream, you’ll cry, you’ll fucking thank me for it."

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‎She shook her head weakly, and he just laughed—a cruel, broken sound.

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‎He stepped back, drew his arm back—and crack.

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‎The flogger struck across her breasts, the clamps jerking painfully.  

‎A strangled sob broke from her throat.  

‎Another strike.  

‎Then another.

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‎He lashed her five brutal times across her tits, watching her body twist and writhe, sweat beading on her skin, her mouth open in a silent scream.

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‎He didn’t stop there.

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‎He moved lower, flogging her stomach, her hips, the tender insides of her thighs—ten, fifteen times until her body was shaking like a leaf in a storm, covered in angry red welts.

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‎"Count," he ordered, striking again.

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‎"O-one," she choked out.

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‎"Good girl," he sneered, giving her two more lashes across her inner thighs, so close to her dripping cunt she jerked violently.

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‎When he was satisfied with the marks, he dropped the flogger and grabbed a small vibrator, switching it on with a low, menacing buzz.

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‎Her eyes widened. She shook her head.

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‎"No? You don't get to say no," he growled, fisting her hair and shoving the vibrator violently against her clit.

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‎She screamed.

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‎Her body jolted, hips thrashing wildly, but he kept it there, relentless. She was soaking wet, her juices dripping down her thighs, humiliating and raw.

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‎He worked her to the edge once—twice—three times.  

‎Every time she was about to break, about to fall over into pleasure, he ripped it away.

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‎She sobbed, tears falling freely, her cunt clenching helplessly in the air.

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‎"Please," she gasped, voice raw. "Please, Master Kane... let me.....let me come."

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‎He grabbed her by the throat—not tight, just a warning—and stared into her broken, beautiful face.

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‎"You'll come when I say," he hissed. "Not before. Never before."

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‎He edged her five times before he showed mercy.

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‎On the sixth time, he shoved two fingers into her dripping cunt without warning, curling them cruelly, while slamming the vibrator against her clit.

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‎She broke apart with a raw, animalistic scream, body spasming helplessly in the cuffs.

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‎Her orgasm was violent. Her slick gushed over his hand, soaking his wrist and forearm, dripping to the floor.

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‎Kane groaned darkly, stepping back to admire the wreckage.

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‎But he wasn’t done.

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‎He freed his cock from his pants—thick, angry, dripping—and fisted it lazily as he looked at her wrecked body.

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‎Still trembling. Still crying.

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‎He stroked himself slowly, imagining bending her over and slamming into her bruised, used body, fucking her until she couldn’t walk, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe without remembering him.

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‎He didn’t fuck her in the dream—but not because he didn’t want to.

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‎Because the next time, he would fuck her awake. Make her beg to be ruined.

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‎-------

‎

‎Kane jolted awake with a growl, his cock rock-hard and leaking against his stomach.

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‎He shoved the covers off, storming into the bathroom, switching the shower to ice-cold.

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‎Didn’t fucking matter.

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‎He braced his hand against the wall and wrapped the other around his cock, pumping it viciously. In his mind, it was her mouth on him—those broken lips wrapped around his length, tears sliding down her cheeks as she gagged and drooled all over him.

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‎"Castelle," he snarled, hips jerking, cock throbbing in his fist.

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‎One, two more brutal strokes—and he came hard with a hoarse shout, shooting his release against the tile.

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‎His body slumped forward, panting.

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‎Still, it wasn’t enough.

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‎He needed her for real.  

‎He needed to bend her to his will, to fucking own her until she didn’t even remember her own name.

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‎---

‎

‎

‎Kane didn’t bother cleaning up properly. He wiped his cock with the towel, tossed it aside, and yanked on a pair of loose sweatpants. His skin still burned, his muscles tight from the dream.

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‎It wasn’t fucking enough.

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‎His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as he stalked out of the bathroom, his bare feet silent against the polished floorboards.

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‎The house was dead quiet. Everyone knew better than to roam this part of the estate at night.

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‎Good. He was not in the fucking mood to explain himself.

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‎He pushed open the heavy double doors to his bedroom, and there she was—  

‎Castelle.  

‎Sleeping like some wounded animal, curled up small on his massive bed, in one of his dark shirts that barely covered her up, this was pure torture. The swell of her breast peeking out and her nipples—he reached out his fingers and grazed the nipples and the reaction made him happy. They stood upright like they knew who they were for—Master Kane.

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‎His throat worked painfully.  

‎The shirt barely covered her thighs. Her bare legs were exposed, bruised and tender. Her wrists still bore faint red marks from the rope ties Kareen mentioned to him earlier. Her hair was a messy halo around her face. Her mouth was slightly open, soft whimpers spilling from her even in sleep.

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‎She was so fucking breakable.

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‎So his.

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‎He leaned back from the  bed like a predator, looming over her, watching the steady rise and fall of her battered chest. His hands itched — fuck, they itched — to reach for the drawer beside the bed, pull out the leather cuffs he kept there, and shackle her wrists to the iron headboard.

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‎To chain her there.

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‎Make her truly belong to him. Keep her forever.

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‎No escape. No running. No more fucking fear.

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‎Just her, naked and bound, waiting for whatever dark mercy he decided to give.

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‎He exhaled slowly, raggedly, forcing himself to back away.  

‎He couldn’t.  

‎Not like this.  

‎Not when she hadn’t given herself willingly yet.  

‎But one day — soon — she would.

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‎He wasn’t going to ask.  

‎He wasn’t going to plead.

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‎He was going to take.

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‎Castelle stirred in her sleep, a faint whimper escaping her lips.

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‎Kane's hands fisted by his sides again, fighting the savage need to climb into that bed, shove her onto her back, and teach her who the fuck she belonged to.

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‎Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed back out, slamming the door behind him slightly.

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‎Downstairs, he poured himself another glass of whiskey, the liquid sloshing violently over the rim.

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‎He needed a fucking plan.

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‎Because Castelle wasn’t just a pretty, broken thing anymore.  

‎She was his addiction, His fucking obsession.  

‎And he needed to own her, and that too, very fast

‎---

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