Un-fucking-believable.
This young woman is either truly insane or so intelligent that she’s oblivious to social norms. I can’t push past my bafflement at her answer. From the beginning, I wanted her to be terrified of me so I could absorb that emotion, revel in the idea of Caruso’s daughter, his only child, being tormented. I run my gaze over her, and I’m unable to detect anything from her beyond apprehension.
And lust. That is still there.
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and it’s done so covertly I’d miss it if I weren’t paying attention. I know this tiny movement is due to her cunt wanting the very things Emilia just dispassionately described. Biology may be at work, but those terms—intercourseandorgasms—are not correct.
La donnacciawants to be fucked, and she wants to come.
I toss the undergarment aside, and she watches the object plummet to the floor. What is she thinking about? And after that last response, do I really want to know? Fuck. I do. Her mind, warped or not, intrigues me. She never does or says what I predict, and this mystery goads me to learn more and figure her out. If this is not her true personality, then she won’t be able to keep up the facade forever.
Nor will she be able to keep from begging.
“Get on the bed,” I say, gesturing to it with a flick of the belt. “I want you to stay on your knees but have your chest flush to the mattress.”
My fingers twitch with the urge to prod her so she’ll move quicker. Everything Emilia does is with forethought, and that comes across in her deliberate mannerisms as well as her words. Holy shit is it in her words.
Emilia approaches the bed with a hesitancy that is easily seen in the rigidity of her spine and the tenseness of her extremities when she places her knee on the mattress. I drink in the sight of her ass in the air, pink from the bite of leather, but at the glimpse of her cunt on display in such an inviting position, I fist my cock and bite back a groan.
She will surrender to me and despise herself for it, or my revenge won’t be complete.
The instant the leather makes contact with the back of her thigh, Emilia sucks in a breath. That tiny reaction tells me how nervous she is, and I enjoy it. I drag the belt to slide along her ass and up the small of her back, saying, “I give you permission to speak whatever is on your mind, and I promise not to punish you for it unless you become uncontrolled. So tell me, what are you thinking?”
I find myself full of anticipation and circle the bed to stand where I can easily see her face. Her gaze is fixed on the comforter as if it fascinates her, but I doubt that’s the reason. I replace the feel of the belt with my hand to brush the long, inky strands of her hair off her spine and to the side. They blend in with the red color of the bedding, since it’s nearly black, and her skin is a beautiful contrast. It’s a cream surrounded by dark hues that make it appear porcelain. I know for a fact it’s just as delicate.
“Donnaccia?”
Her mouth thins. “I’m not thinking about anything in particular, sir.”
“Lies do not become you. If another one flows past your lips, you will regret it.”
Her words come out in a rush, and if I weren’t facing her, I wouldn’t hear all of them.
“I’m thinking about the belt and how much it’s going to hurt,” she whispers. “I’m thinking about how my humiliation is just beginning, which means I need to grow accustomed to it now. I’m thinking how unfair my life has been and wondering if God only answers the prayers of men. I’m thinking about the best way to get you to…finish whatever this is. And I’m thinking if it really matters, since tomorrow will bring more of the same.”
She exhales, and it’s different from the ones earlier. It is full of something deeper and darker than defeat. It’s…acceptance. I know there’s fight in Emilia, because she showed it to me by refusing to grovel, so what’s happening exactly? Are her words merely a ploy to gain my sympathies? Emilia is certainly clever enough, but I’m not sure that’s what this is.
I flick my wrist, and the belt cracks against her ass cheek. She cries out, but it’s muffled by the bed, and afterward she presses her lips together and squeezes her eyes closed. To shut out me and the rest of the world.
That’s not fucking happening.
“Open your eyes,” I snap. She obeys, giving me an unobstructed view of the emotions in her gaze. It’s been decades since I’ve been anything but blind with rage, yet I easily recognize the vulnerability in her. It snags my attention longer than I’d like before I’m able to dismiss it. “That slap wasn’t executed with all my strength,” I say, “so you’d do well to consider yourself fortunate. Although, you deserve a more severe reprimand, seeing as you’ve forgotten to address me appropriately on several occasions.”
“I apologize, sir.”
Her voice is dull, lifeless. At hearing it, a twinge that goes beyond annoyance coils within my gut, and I’m not able to readily identify it. Or why her sounding that way disconcerts me.
“Are you ready to ask me for what you’re needing?” I tilt my head. “Maybe if you ask me to bring it to God, he’ll give you an answer.”
Emilia’s gaze flickers to mine, and a spark of defiant anger has her green eyes glimmering. It makes my cock harder than the blushing of her ass or the way her cunt is spread. She’s been hiding this inner strength by looking away or keeping her eyes downcast, but not any longer. I wish to fully see this rebellious spirit at all times, because this is the challenge I’ve been waiting for.
I quirk a brow. “Your silence is damning.”
With intense focus, I whip the belt across her ass, bringing the flush to her other cheek. I repeat the motion twice more in different locations, spreading the blushing hue across her entire backside. She bites her lip but manages to keep her gaze on me the entire time, even when she winces. I lean onto the bed and palm one ass cheek, letting the heat from it seep into my palm.
“I don’t care which one comes first, but know this: you’re either going to beg me to stop or to come. Those are your only options.” I slide my fingers along her skin until they graze the lips of her cunt. As one would handle a stringed instrument, I thrum my fingers over her folds. “You should be grateful to have a choice.”
My bride’s petite frame trembles, the shaking magnifying the moment I skim her clit. “You lied, you know,” I say, dipping my finger inside her cunt to coat it with the moisture I find there. Then I circle her tiny bud with agonizingly slow strokes until her hips lean into my palm. A tiny surrender but not enough.
