My body remembers this. Remembers how he made me scream in that tent, how he found spots inside me I never knew existed, how he reduced me to nothing but desperate need and broken pleas.
"STEFANO!" His name erupted from some primal place, the same place it had come from that night when he'd finger-fucked me into oblivion while calling me his good boy.
Well, fuck. There goes my last shred of dignity, screaming his name exactly like I did in the tent. My self-respect just filed for divorce and moved to another country.
My body convulsed against the silk sheets, thighs trembling violently as he worked his finger deeper, finding the exact spot that had made me see stars that night. The stretch burned—a bright, electric pain that transformed into intense pleasure exactly as it had six months ago. Slick gushed from me like a broken faucet, coating his hand and streaming down my thighs in obscene rivulets, my body remembering exactly how to respond to his touch.
"Holy shit," Marco breathed, mesmerized as my hole fluttered and clenched around Stefano's finger. "Look how he'smilking you already. Just like in the tent. Like his body's been waiting six months for this."
"I'll kill… you," I gasped between broken moans, my threats getting increasingly desperate as Stefano found that perfect spot inside me—the same one he'd tormented for hours that night. "I'll turn your spines… into garden trellises and weave… your intestines into macramé wall hangings. I'll use your skulls… as planters for my herb garden… and your femurs as—OH FUUUCK!"
Marco's delighted laughter filled the suite. "Oh, I love our verbal little pet. Such creative threats, even when he's desperate. Do you hear that, Stefano? Our little wildcat still has claws, even with a diamond collar around his cock."
"I hear it," Stefano replied, working a second finger into me with the same expert precision I remembered from that night. My body yielded more easily this time, recognizing the invasion it had craved for months. "And I love every fucking word. That royal bloodline showing through—you threaten like someone born to command, even when you're at our mercy on silk sheets at thirty thousand feet."
Royal bloodline. Right. Because yakuza genetics apparently come with a predisposition toward elaborate death threats and inappropriate sarcasm. At least I'm fulfilling my heritage in some way, even while being sexually terrorized by mafia royalty in their flying sex dungeon.
The stretch of two fingers was devastating—familiar yet somehow more intense than my memories. My muscles clamped down desperately, trying to milk them deeper as Stefano scissored them apart, my body remembering exactly how to accommodate his invasion. When he crooked them just right, hitting that spot that had made me sob his name six months ago, I screamed again.
"THERE!" I sobbed, my hips bucking back against his hand, muscle memory taking over. "Oh God, right there, don't stop—just like before?—"
"Such pretty sounds," Matteo said, watching my face with that unsettling intensity as Stefano worked a third finger inside me. The burn was exquisite, my body opening eagerly despite the six-month absence. "Look how your mouth falls open exactly like it did in the tent. His body remembers us perfectly."
Three fingers. He's got three fingers inside me and my body is welcoming him like he never left. Like we've been doing this every night instead of me pathetically trying to recreate this feeling with my own fingers.
Matteo's hand cupped my jaw, tilting my head back as his mouth crashed down on mine. His tongue swept past my lips, thick and methodical, filling my mouth completely. He sucked my tongue into his mouth, teeth grazing the sensitive muscle before fucking back into me with deliberate strokes.
Jesus Christ. Matteo's kiss. The same methodical precision from the tent—how he'd studied my reactions while the others watched, how he'd cataloged every sound I made when he explored my mouth. He remembered exactly how to kiss me, like he'd been taking notes on what made me whimper that night.
Hot, wet heat engulfed my cock—Marco’s mouth sliding down my shaft in one devastating motion. His lips traveled all the way to the base as he swallowed me completely, the tight passage of his mouth making me see stars against the cream leather headboard.
Holy shit, his mouth should be illegal. Marco knows exactly how to take me apart—the same perfect suction, the same wicked tongue that had reduced me to begging in that tent. My cock's about to explode but this damn cock ring won't let me—I need to come; I need it so fucking bad?—
"So tight," Stefano murmured against my ear, his breath scalding my skin as his fingers worked deeper. "So wet. Your body's preparing itself for Daddy, isn't it? I can feel how desperately you're clenching around my fingers, trying to pull me deeper."
My biology is a traitor. My body is staging a full-scale rebellion against my conscious mind, producing slick like it's going out of style and practically advertising 'alpha cock wanted, apply within.' And he called himself Daddy—the same way he did that night when he had me bent over his knee, counting each slap while Marco praised me for being their good boy.
His fingers crooked inside me, hitting that spot that made lightning race up my spine. The precision was devastating—he knew exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply, just like he had in the tent when he'd reduced me to a sobbing, begging mess. My hole fluttered around his fingers, muscles spasming as waves of pleasure crashed through me.
The jet hit a patch of turbulence, the sudden drop making my stomach swoop and my body press harder against Stefano's invading fingers. The unintentional deeper penetration sent electricity racing through me, a strangled cry tearing from my throat.
Even the fucking airplane is conspiring against me. 'Let's add some turbulence to really drive home how completely out of control this omega is!' Thanks, physics.
"Look at how beautifully you respond." Marco's voice was liquid velvet as he traced his tongue along the thick vein of my cock, never quite giving me the suction I desperately craved. "The way your pretty hole tries to swallow Daddy's fingers whole. Your body knows what it needs, doesn't it, baby? Even when that sharp mind of yours fights us."
Oh fuck, the way he talks. The same honey-sweet praise from the tent when he'd watched Stefano finger me while I tried not to scream his name. Like he's reading my body like a book and narrating every shameful response. My cock's throbbing against that ring and I can't—I need to come so fucking bad I might die from it.
Matteo's tongue swept back into my mouth, fucking between my lips with methodical strokes that mimicked what they planned to do to me later. His technique was familiar—the same careful exploration he'd used in the tent when he'd studied my every reaction like a scientist cataloging a rare specimen. When he pulled back, saliva connected our mouths in obscene strings. "Such sweet sounds you make when you surrender," he said, studying my flushed face. "I want to catalog every expression, every reaction when Daddy finally claims you properly."
Even his clinical observations turn me on. Just like when he'd watched the others take me apart, those amber eyes tracking every micro-expression while he told me how fascinating my responses were. Like I'm some omega specimen he's documenting for science. 'Subject responds optimally to simultaneous oral and digital stimulation.' I'm so fucked up.
The coordination between them was seamless—when Stefano's fingers stilled, Marco's mouth would intensify its assault. When Marco pulled back, Matteo would claim my mouth more thoroughly. They were playing my body like an instrument against the silk sheets, each knowing exactly when to escalate and when to retreat, the same perfect choreography they'd used to break me down in the tent.
"Do you feel that, sweetheart?" Stefano's voice dropped to a whisper as he added another finger, the stretch so intense I saw stars against the cream leather walls. "How your body opens for your daddies? How it begs for more even when your mind resists? This is what you were made for—to be cherished andprotected and thoroughly claimed by daddies who know your worth."
My omega hindbrain is practically purring at his words. The same primal response I'd had in the tent when he'd called me their good boy while spanking me until I sobbed. The idea of being protected by the most powerful, feared mafia bosses in the country makes something deep inside me sing with approval, even while my rational mind screams about independence and dignity.
"Please—" I sobbed, beyond shame now, beyond pride. My hole was clenching rhythmically around his fingers, trying to pull him deeper, and slick was flowing so freely it soaked into the silk sheets beneath us. "Please, I need?—"
