They left the party together and Gio unlocked the silver 1978 Corvette he kept in perfect condition. She slipped into the passenger's seat and immediately took off her high heels, putting her bare feet up on the dashboard and wiggling her toes.
“Take your fucking feet off the dash,” Gio snapped. “It's a Corvette, not an ottoman.”
“Sorry,” Katie said, rolling her eyes and putting her feet back on the floor.
As Gio pulled away from the house and got on the road, Katie reached into her purse and withdrew a joint. She put it between her lips, lighting it and inhaling deeply.
“No smoking in the car,” Gio said.
Katie giggled, rolling the window down. “It's cool,” she insisted. “I can blow it out the window, see?”
Gio reached over and grabbed the back of Katie's hair, twisting it hard. He expected her to react with a cry of pain, or even anger. Instead, she was silent, her head rearing back to expose her neck. “I said no smoking,” he growled. “Now get rid of it before I hurt you.”
“Yes, Daddy,” she agreed mildly, pitching the lit joint out the window.
“And stop calling me Daddy,” Gio added, letting go of her hair.
“Okay,” Katie sighed. “What do you want me to call you?”
“Nothing. Don't even open your mouth to speak to me unless I tell you to.”
Again, Gio expected some small flash of defiance from her. Instead, she simply nodded and stared out the windshield blankly for the rest of the drive, her hands fidgeting in her lap.
When they got to Gio's house, he ushered her inside. “I need to use the bathroom before we get started,” Katie said.
“I thought I told you not to speak until spoken to,” Gio snarled.
“Yeah, but I gotta go,” Katie whined. “I'll just be a sec, okay?” Before Gio could answer, she clip-clopped down the hall in her heels, looking for the bathroom. As she did, she reached behind her to pick at her thong.
Gio grimaced. Clearly, she had no class, but unfortunately, that was often how it went when trying to find sexual partners—the ones who were willing to cater to desires as warped as his were usually trashy by definition.
A minute later, Katie emerged from the bathroom without flushing, and Gio noticed that she was sniffling and gingerly brushing at her nostrils.
“I don't want you high for this,” Gio said disapprovingly. “I want you completely awake and aware of every moment while I break you.”
Katie shrugged nonchalantly. “Okay,” she slurred.
“Do you have a yellow word you prefer to use, or a red word?” Gio asked.
Katie cocked her head like a dog being shown a card trick. After a dazed moment, she said, “Oh, you mean, like, safe words? No, that's cool, I don't need 'em. Nothing's off limits on this bod, haha.” She sniffled again.
Gio flicked on the lamp in the room and surveyed Katie, noticing many details he hadn't picked up on at the party. Her bare arms were crisscrossed with old scars in patterns that looked self-inflicted. The insides of her elbows had small clusters of angry-looking red needle marks. Her hair was coarse and matted, her pupils were pinpricks, the skin under her nose was chapped, and the muscles in her face seemed slack.
“Get over here,” Gio commanded.
Katie trotted over to him, losing her balance once halfway across the room and snorting out a laugh.
Gio hated not being taken seriously. He felt a burst of rage and seized her by the throat, desperately wanting to see her face contort in surprise or anger. He pushed her backward, holding her down against his coffee table.
“You're mine, you fucking dirty slut,” Gio told her between clenched teeth. “I can do anything I want to you tonight. I can kill you. You wouldn't be able to stop me, and no one would ever know.”
He'd made such threats to his playmates before, and he always relished the awe and panic he saw in their eyes when he did. He loved the power that came from knowing that their lives were in his hands, and that they knew it.
But even as Katie's face flushed and started to turn purple from lack of oxygen, her expression remained dead, her eyes as empty as broken camera lenses as they stared up at him.
Gio eased up his grip on her throat so she could have some air. As he did, he used his other hand to reach into his pocket for a cigarette and lighter. He lit up, blowing the smoke into her face.
“Now pull your dress down and show me your tits,” Gio said, “or I'll crush your fucking windpipe.”
Katie reached up and pulled down her dress. She wasn't wearing a bra, and Gio slowly lowered the lit cigarette to her left breast, expecting her to draw back, to struggle, to try to fight him off. He was eager to see her skin overrun with goosebumps, her nipples erect when he pressed the smoldering tip of the cigarette against her flesh and savored her sounds of pain.
But her arms hung limply at her sides, and when Gio looked down, he saw that her nipples were still soft.
He also saw that she already had two cigarette burns on her breast, and several more high on her neck.
She was still looking up at him expectantly, her eyes as glassy as a doll's.
Gio snuffed out the cigarette in an ashtray without burning her. There was a part of Gio that wanted to reach under Katie's dress and rip her panties off, to shove himself inside her without warning or mercy, to violate her as hard as he could, to punish her for her disappointing apathy.
But he knew he might as well fuck a slit in a piece of meat for all the satisfaction it would give him.
She was a sub, yes. She would let him do whatever he wanted to her, yes. She'd call him whatever he wanted to be called and obey any rules he gave her. But she was burned out and drugged out and used up. She couldn't be shocked or hurt anymore. There was nothing fierce left inside her, nothing to bend to his will.
Fucking her would be as cold and joyless as fucking a corpse.
Gio released her and straightened up. “Go on, get the fuck out of here.”
Even then, there was something inside Gio that wanted Katie to react with confusion, anger, or hurt at being dismissed so suddenly without any explanation. But instead, all she did was shrug again, get up, grab her purse, and walk out the door, shutting it behind her. He heard her heels clicking down his driveway, and her voice as she called one of her friends to pick her up.
Gio trudged up to the Special Room in the attic and sat among his strange furniture and torture devices, contemplating the array of sex toys displayed on the walls.
This should have been the happiest night of his life. He was finally a real member of the Mancini family, and his place as its leader someday was assured. He had true power and respect. Most of all, his father had expressed genuine pride in him, and his friends had even shown their support for his unusual hobbies by trying to offer him the kind of woman they thought he'd want.
So why the hell did he feel so utterly misunderstood, out of place, and alone?