(Author's Note: I began writing this story after a role play I began with a friend of mine. After it fell apart, I started to write it out on my own. For those who have been asking, Enslaved to the Mob will be finished *eventually*. For the time being, I'm just not interested and uninspired by it. Thank you all for sticking with me and reading my stories. As with all of my stories, all characters depicted or mentioned are eighteen years of age or older, and all characters and story is the sole property of this writer.)
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Roland Norton was a man that had almost everything. He was obnoxiously rich, coming from a long and distinguished background of European royalty. The house he owned certainly didn't feel like a house. It was large and spacious like a famed chateau of France. His garage was reminiscent of a parking garage that held everything from sports cars, antique cars, and limousines. He was a man that seemingly had everything.
But Roland Norton didn't have everything. Some things could not be bought with money and favors. Time was something he didn't have. The octogenarian was becoming weaker with each passing day, the obscure disease slowly eating away at his muscles and strength. Pills and treatments only prolonged the short time he had. Eventually, he would die. That was something he could not escape.
Patience and tolerance was another thing Roland Norton did not have.
It was in those last few months he had left according to doctors, which he decided to have more of the finer things in life. With no wife and certainly no bastard children running around for money, the rich old man decided to dabble in the illegal sex trafficking auctions. A great deal of money was spent upon her, his newest toy and possession. She was a beauty to say the least. Eighteen years old. Blonde. Blue eyes. The typical, idealized American girl with a slight Southern accent to her voice. She was exactly what Roland wanted: a slave to take to go to the grave with.
Roland was mistaken when he assumed the young girl would be too frightened to fight him off. She was a fighter, a rebellious little cunt that fought and kicked and used every ounce of her spirit to fight him off. It was only with his paid body guards in the room, forcing her legs apart with their bare hands, that he finally broke her hymen.
She was a fighter, there was no doubt about that, and on one fateful night, she had gone too far.
"That fucking bitch!" The old man wheezed as he stormed into his private library. His red silk robe was wide open as it billowed in his wake, his naked and old form displayed. In his hand, he clutched a cloth to his member, holding it painfully close as he moved across the room and sat himself down in behind his desk.
It was with pain and grimace that he slowly removed the cloth to stare down at his flaccid and bleeding cock. The teeth marks were obvious, the dark blood evident where she bad bitten down upon him.
"We've locked her up in her cage, Sir." A man, dressed sharply in a suit said as he closed the door to the study behind him. "It wasn't easy, but she'll be fine there after we forced the sedatives into her mouth."
"If I didn't spend three quarters of a million on her, I would say kill the bitch." Roland growled out, patting his pained cock with the clean fabric. Although a rich man, Roland Norton wasn't a man that was going to just forget about that kind of sum.
Quietly the right hand man stepped closer to the desk. The dim lighting from the desk lamp brought his features into view with his smooth face and salt-and-peppered hair. "She's not worth it, Sir. I'd say give her to the men and dogs for scraps. Such a little whore like that doesn't deserve to live."
