Too Damaged to Love

Disclaimer: This story includes kidnapping, violence and non-consensual sex, so just a heads up in case that's not your cup of tea.

Also, this is not just a quick fuck kind of story, but a rather drawn-out, slow-burn romance story. If that doesn't sound appealing to you, I recommend you move on to something else. If not, enjoy the first chapter!

***

My life has pretty much gone to hell. That may sound like I'm exaggerating, but let me explain and I'm sure you'll agree with me.

Let me give you some backstory. My name is Raphael Amaris. I'm a 22-year-old man, standing at an astonishing 5'6", with a slender frame that weighs 125 pounds, pale skin, waist-length black hair, green eyes, and a soft voice. Yeah, can we say twink much?

Honestly, it's not my fault. I can't control how tall I am, and if I try to make my voice firmer, it sounds like I'm growling. Whenever I try to gain muscle, I fail drastically and only succeed in making myself sore. I could cut my hair, but it took forever to grow out, and all of the other factors would mean there wouldn't be much of a difference in how the world perceives me.

But yeah, twink. I'm gay, have always been gay, and will always be gay. It's never really been a question for me, and it's not like I have a family to come out to or anything, since my parents died in a car crash when I was nineteen. The issue is I guess I'm not the right type of gay. The one time I worked up enough courage to go to a club (I'm pretty shy if it's not already obvious), this other guy started chatting with me. Not in a flirty way, since he was a twink like me and our conversation made it clear he only liked one type of guy: silver foxes. He went on and on about how great it is to be with someone older, why they're so hot and manly, etc. When he asked me my opinion on them, I admitted I didn't find them attractive, since the one and only guy I slept with was some junior when I was a sophomore in college, so there was not exactly a massive age gap there. That also ended pretty badly, but that's a story for another time.

Anyway, when I told him silver foxes weren't my time, he LOST it. It was like I told him I supported mass murder or something. In not so many words, he told me I was nuts and just walked away, shaking his head like he pitied me. So I guess my taste in men is inaccurate according to the world.

But enough about that, let's get to the burning dumpster fire my life has now become, shall we?

***

It started like any other boring day in my life. It was after seven p.m., and I was walking home from my mundane office job. Fresh out of college, I wasn't exactly rolling in cash, so a car wasn't an option for me.

As I turned a corner, I accidentally bumped into a man, bouncing off him.

Great, just great,

I thought. I smoothed down my coat and was about to look up to apologize when, out of nowhere, I was shoved against the wall. The man boxed me in, pressing his body against mine.

It felt like a scene from a bad movie. Although I'm on the smaller side, this guy was objectively big. Even if I were of average height and weight, there was no way I would be able to fight him off. He stood about 5'11" or maybe six feet tall, with some muscle tone--enough to keep me pinned against the wall. A smirk spread across his face as he looked down at me. His voice dripped with malice as he said,

"Well, well, look what we have here. What's a pretty thing like you walking all alone at night?"

My mouth dried up as I looked up at him in absolute terror. This man could easily overpower me, and we both knew it.

He leaned closer, his hand running down my body. "Don't worry; I'll make sure no one else bothers you."

Suddenly, someone cleared their throat behind us. "Actually, I think you're the one bothering her."

The man on top of me is forcefully pushed off, and an unknown person grabs my hand, my slim one swallowed in his much larger grip. I quickly realize my rescuer is a man, but I can't see his face in the dim streetlight.

The man who pushed me against the wall glares at the other man. "We were just having some fun, man. Chill..."

My savior ignores him, leading me by the hand down the street without a word. We walk quickly in complete silence until we're a few blocks away when he suddenly stops and turns to me. At last, I can see the man who rescued me in the glow of the street lamps.

He is even bigger than the man who grabbed me. Seriously, am I one of the only ones who missed out on the tall and buff genes? He stands at an impressive 6'3" and looks like he spends at least four hours in the gym every day. With short brown hair that has a few streaks of gray and blue eyes that always seem to be smirking, I'm sure many people find him attractive. But again, I'm not into older men, and this guy seems to be well into his forties.

Why am I thinking all of this? Because I can see him looking me up and down with a gleam in his eyes like he just found his favorite candy. He did just save me, so I want to be polite, but I really hope he doesn't try to seduce me right now. I'm seriously not in the mood.

I brush my hair out of my face and say softly, "Thank you for helping me. I didn't know what to do when he grabbed me."

His smirk remains in place as he replies in a deep voice, "Of course. There's no way I was going to let him lay a hand on you, darling."

I give him a small smile, trying to suppress my discomfort at the term "darling." I want to be polite, but I also need to leave as soon as possible, so I take a small step back. "Thanks again, but I really should be going."

He steps forward, gripping my wrist firmly with his large hand. "You're leaving already? But I want to spend some time getting to know you, darling."

My eyes widen as I stutter, "S-Sorry, but I need to le-"

The man suddenly pulls me towards him from his strong grip on my wrist, putting one of his hands over my mouth as his other wraps around my waist, his chest pressing against my back as he hisses in my ear, "Listen, pretty boy, I have a gun in my front pocket. Now, my Black Mercedes is just across the street. You're going to walk with me over there and get into the trunk without a word or I'll be forced to shoot your cute little head. Got it?"

I immediately stop squirming when I feel the hard barrel of the gun pressing against me through his sweatshirt pocket. I give him a small nod, my heart pounding in my ears.

"Good. Now move."

He gives me a firm shove, his hands gripping me tightly as he drags me across the street toward the back of his car. For a brief moment, he removes his hand from my mouth to pop open the trunk. I consider screaming, but paralyzing fear prevents me from doing anything except standing there helplessly. The man roughly pushes me into the trunk, and I instinctively reach out to catch myself, feeling a sharp pain shoot up my wrist as my hand hits the hard interior of the trunk. He forces my legs inside before slamming it shut, plunging me into darkness. A moment later, the Mercedes speeds off down the street.

My breathing becomes shallow as I squeeze my eyes shut, struggling to stave off a panic attack. I take a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm my racing heart as best as I can.

In and out. In. Out.

About twenty minutes later, the car comes to a sudden stop, causing my curled-up body to lurch forward in the trunk. I hear a car door open and close, followed by bright light flooding the trunk as it opens.

"Get up."

He grabs my wrist--the same one I fell on painfully earlier--and yanks me into a modern two-story house. I don't have time to take in the exterior before I'm pulled through the front door, up the stairs, and into a bedroom that I assume is the master. He shoves me down onto the bed before climbing on top of me, his mouth pressing against my ear as he murmurs,

"You're such a pretty little doll. I'm going to have so much fun playing with you."

He grabs a pair of handcuffs off the nightstand (why he has them, I don't want to know) and holds them up for me to see.

"By the way, you can try to scream but no one will hear. And you'll only succeed in making me mad and then I'll have to punish you. So just shut up and take it."

He grabs my shirt and yanks on it roughly, ripping it down the middle before yanking it off me, exposing my slim torso. His eyes roam over my bare upper body, a look of lust on his face as he grabs my wrists roughly, yanking them over my hand as he flips me over, looping the handcuffs around a bar on the headboard before snapping them around my wrists. I start to squirm violently as the reality of the situation sets in, desperate to break free as he grabs my jeans, pulling them off me along with my shoes, socks, and underwear, leaving me completely naked.

He smacks my ass harshly, forcing a cry from my lips as he growls, "Shut the hell up and stop fucking squirming."

He grabs one of my socks, shoving it in my mouth as he pushes my legs apart, his nails digging painfully into my ass cheeks to prevent me from moving too much as he leans down, spitting on my hole as he forcibly pushes a finger into me, causing me to moan my discomfort into my sock.

He leans down, spitting on my hole as he roughly shoves another finger into me. "You're so tight, doll. I can't wait to split you open."

He scissors his fingers in and out of me for a few moments before yanking them out. I hear the sound of a clasp and fabric rustling before I feel something hard pressing against my opening, something that's much larger than his fingers. My green eyes widen and I feebly try to move my bottom away from his cock but it's futile. He holds onto my hips firmly as he pushes into me in one smooth thrust.

I let out a choked cry of pain that's muffled by the sock as I grasp the sheets tightly in my fists, tears rolling down my cheeks from the intense burning. His member only feels to be around six inches long and is slightly thinner than average, but it still hurts like hell. The one time I had sex once three years ago, it was nothing like this. This is intense, excruciating pain that makes me want to pass out just so I don't have to feel anything anymore.

The man (whose name I still don't know) starts thrusting in and out of me roughly, pulling nearly all the way before slamming back in over and over, his tight grip on my waist sure to leave bruises.

"Mmm, you feel so good, doll. I'm going to enjoy pounding your tight little hole whenever I want from now on."

He grabs my ass cheeks (the only perky part on my slim body), squeezing them as he continues to fuck me with what seems like all of his strength. I bury my face into the sheet, trying not to scream into the sock too much for fear of making him mad.

He slams into me harder and harder, letting out a groan as he growls in my ear, "I'm going to breed your tight little hole, doll. You're going to belong to me forever, got it?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, ramming into me one last time before grunting as he spills his seed inside of me. It registers then that he wasn't wearing a condom, but at this point, I hardly care. Everything just feels... numb.

***

Two Months Later

Fast forward to today, and everything has only gotten worse. Now, you may be thinking,

Raphael, why didn't you just leave when Jake (I discovered later that was his name) was finished attacking you?

Well, first of all, it's kind of hard to run away from him being handcuffed to a bed. Also, let's not forget Jake has a gun.

He left me handcuffed to that damn bed for a while before he figured he had instilled enough fear and pain into me to keep me from running away. He forced me to move in with him, making me sell my apartment and most of my belongings and clothes, except for a few pieces of clothing that he deemed "acceptable", which mostly consisted of tight tank tops and overly small jeans that I only had for going to parties (when I convinced myself to socialize, that is). He made me wear clothes like that every day, as well as other clothes he bought with my savings, all of them lewd in some way.

Jake also made me quit my job, saying he didn't want other men looking at me at my workplace. He was already a wealthy man, but he didn't have to spend much extra cash on me. He had us shower together in the morning before making me cook him breakfast, with me eating only what he told me, which was very little. He says he wants me to "keep my figure". While he's at work, he locks me into his house with his state-of-the-art security system, ensuring I can't go out the door and run away. The windows are also equipped with some sort of magnetic lock, keeping me from going out through them as well. I mostly have to clean and take care of the house, doing whatever he instructs me to do while wearing the clothes he picks out for me every morning. I'm basically an abused Barbie doll.

Jake also threatens me into having sex with him whenever he wants. Sometimes days go by in between, but more often than not, he makes me do it multiple times a day. He also beats me in places where my cropped shirts and tight jeans will cover. It hurt quite a bit at first, but after a while, it seemed to dull as well, leaving me with an empty pit inside of me. I seemed to fall into a depression after the first couple of weeks, not feeling any sort of emotion at all.

It was currently six in the evening and I was bent over slightly, wiping off the table as Jake firmly instructed me to this morning when I heard the door click open. I look over my shoulder, my heart sinking as it always does when I see him.

He smirks as he walks over to me, grabbing my ass cheeks in a tight grip. "Did I tell you to stop cleaning, Raphael?"

I turn back around, a soft flush coming to my cheeks as I finish cleaning off the tabletop. "S-Sorry..."

He squeezes my cheeks firmly one last time before grabbing the wipe, tossing it on the table before grabbing my wrist and leading me to the door. "Come on, we're going to the steakhouse."

Most nights, I have to make Jake dinner and get him snacks whenever he pleases. But once or twice a week, we go out to eat, usually to Jake's favorite restaurant which was a steakhouse a couple miles from his house.

The ride to the steakhouse is silent as always. After all, no need for a kidnapper and his hostage to talk about the weather or traffic or any other inane things.

Once we arrived, he placed his hand on the small of my back and gently nudged me toward the door. We step inside and take our usual booth, where the hostess seats us. A waitress quickly comes by to take our order, which, once again, is what Jake typically chooses: a ribeye for himself and a small salad for me. Our food arrives promptly, just like always, and we both eat in silence.

As I tentatively pick at my salad, I suddenly feel someone staring at me. I look up to see a man observing me with his strikingly bright blue eyes. I've noticed him here almost every time we've visited in the last month and a half. He appears to be the manager, always hurrying around the restaurant, assisting with whatever needs to be done. He has a kind smile and a patient demeanor when interacting with customers and staff alike. Not that I've been staring at him or anything.

But now I find myself curious about why

he's

looking at

me

. I don't consider myself much to look at, especially compared to him. He has short brown hair, a light dusting of stubble on his tan face, and a muscular build--though he's not overly buff. He seems a couple of years older than me and stands at least ten inches taller, at 6'4". He looks like he could easily be a male model.

My cheeks flush red as I feel his gaze scanning my figure, a small furrow appearing between his brows. I glance away with a frown, knowing he must see my scrawny body in this revealing outfit.

Jake finishes his steak and wipes his hands before instructing me, "Go wash your hands before we go; you're going to be busy when we get home."

I cringe at this, knowing that "busy" just means more sex. I put down my fork as I push away my barely eaten salad, standing up as I make my way to the bathroom, walking over to the sink, and turning on the water, the sound echoing in the empty bathroom.

I look at myself in the mirror, wincing at the sight. I look absolutely dreadful, and it's clear I've lost a significant amount of weight--around 10 pounds in the last two months, I would guess. The bottom of my ribs are poking against my skin, clearly visible beneath my cropped shirt. My cheeks are slightly too hollow, and I look gaunt and much paler than usual. I take a deep breath, placing my hands on the edge of the sink as I try to collect myself.

Suddenly, the bathroom door opens, and I quickly resume washing my hands, focusing on the task to appear normal. I hear footsteps draw closer before the person stops a few feet away from me.

"Are you alright?"

I look up in surprise, briefly wondering if he's talking to someone else before reminding myself I'm the only one in the bathroom. When my gaze lands on the man's face, my eyes widen in shock.

The male model look-alike I noticed earlier in the restaurant doesn't seem to notice my stunned expression as he observes my bony form with a hint of concern.

I blink at him, feeling a bit foolish. "W-What?"

His eyes rise to meet mine as he repeats in a deep yet gentle voice, "I asked if you were alright."

I look away from his piercing blue stare, focusing back on washing my hands as if it's the most fascinating thing in the world. "Yeah, I-I'm alright..." My curiosity gets the best of me, and I add quietly, "Why do you ask?"

The man steps a little closer but maintains a respectful distance. "Look, I don't mean to pry, but I saw you at the restaurant with your boyfriend." I wince at the word "boyfriend," and he notices, softening his gaze. "It's none of my business, but you don't seem comfortable with him. Considering the difference between what you two were eating and how you're dressed, I wanted to check in and make sure you were okay."

I turn off the water and grab a couple of paper towels, drying my hands while I try to keep my expression neutral. I can't muster the courage to look back at him. Instead, I focus on crumpling the paper towels, desperate for something to occupy my hands. "I'm a light eater... there's not really much to it. I guess I've just been busy," I mumble, avoiding the truth.

The man doesn't seem satisfied with my answer. He takes a step closer, lowering his voice slightly as if sharing a secret. "Busy with what? If you don't mind me asking."

I can't help but steal a glance at him. There's a kindness in his eyes, a genuine concern that makes my heart flutter and my defenses weaken. "It's... complicated," I admit, feeling the words tumble out before I have a chance to reel them back in. I decided to just embellish the truth. "I've been going through some stuff and haven't had the appetite."

He nods slowly, his gaze never wavering. "I get that. Sometimes life can be overwhelming, it's hard to remember to take care of ourselves."

I let out a small, bitter laugh. "You have no idea," I say, shaking my head as I let the weight of my situation seep into my voice. "It's like I'm just floating through each day, carrying this heavy cloud over my head and not really able to shake it off."

His expression softens further, and it's as if he sees past my exterior, recognizing the turmoil brewing beneath. "If you need someone to talk to, I'm here. I know talking doesn't really solve anything, but still."

I hesitate, the idea of confiding in a stranger is both terrifying and strangely comforting. But then I remember what it's like to feel unheard, invisible even in a crowded room. Maybe this is the moment to reach out--maybe it could help.