Antonio gives short, clipped answers, his voice perfectly steady even as his fingers thread through my hair. Not guiding, just possessing.
The duality is intoxicating. I am the centre of his universe, and utterly invisible at the same time. I am a secret being shared in plain sight.
The shame begins to morph, to simmer into a different emotion, a fury at my own debasement. I am good at this, at pretending. I can please him like this, make him groan, and forget about everything but the feel of my mouth on him. All the while I’m planning my escape, planning his demise too.
I lose myself in the rhythm, in the taste, in the power of my own faux submission. I am his perfect pet, earning her Master’s favour.
His breathing changes, grows shallower as his grip in my hair tightens almost imperceptibly. I know his tells, I feel the tension coiling in his thighs. I redouble my efforts, proving the power I actually have over him in this moment.
With a final, guttural groan he comes, pulsing hot and bitter down my throat. I take it all, swallowing diligently until he is spent.
He withdraws himself slowly as I sit back on my heels, my lips swollen, my eyes down. He looks at me with a satisfied, predatory smile playing on his lips as he tucks himself away and does up his belt.
“Good girl,” he says, and the praise goes straight to my core, warmer than any spank. “Now, go to the other side of the cabin. On your knees. Bend over the seat. You’re a piece of art, the finest in my collection and I want to admire you.”
I move on unsteady legs to the opposite row of seats. I kneel on the floor as instructed and bend forward at the waist, folding myself over the seat, presenting myself to him. My face is pressed into the cool leather, my arms hanging down. My bottom, surely marked with the red imprint of his hand, is raised high. And between my legs, my sex is exposed, glistening and utterly open for his inspection.
He doesn’t touch me. He just looks, but I feel his gaze like a physical touch roaming over the curves of my arse, the pink, swollen lips of my pussy, the tiny silver hoop that pierces my clit.
“Look at it.” Antonio says, his voice conversational, as if discussing a painting. “Have you ever fucked a pierced woman before?”
There’s a pause. I hear his brother shift in his seat. “Can’t say that I have.” His voice is bored, disinterested, but heislooking. I know he is looking.
“It’s a delightful thing,” Antonio continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. He’s talking to himself, narrating my body. “So responsive. This plump, perfect little cunt.” I flinch as if his finger is right there, outlining me. “I love how soft she is. How I can dig my fingers into her fat, juicy flesh and feel her yield.”
I chew my lip, trying not to speak my outrage. Trying to be docile, to be his pet.
“And the way she bruises, it’s exquisite. Her skin marks so easily, holding the memory of my touch for days.”
He continues his degrading monologue, describing my body in crude, obscene detail. Praising the very things I’ve often been insecure about; my softness, my fullness.
He owns me, every inch, inside and out. He had me murder two women yesterday, killed a man today without blinking, and now he is admiring the way the light plays on my flesh. What the fuck is wrong with him?
As I kneel here, exposed and displayed, listening to him boast about the way I bruise, I have never felt more disgusted in my entire life.
The high, sun-bleached stone walls seem less like a castle and more like a prison looming over us as we get closer and closer.
This is it. He’s brought me back, and I don’t doubt my punishment will continue.
My stomach clenches, and a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. He will send me back there. He has to. I defied him.
The car glides to a smooth halt. Antonio gets out, and the humid, floral-scented air feels so thick, so suffocating.
I don’t move, I can’t. My limbs are leaden with terror.
He dismisses his brother with a curt nod and turns to me. His eyes, dark and unreadable, finally land on me. He doesn’t speak, he simply extends his hand.
It’s not a request. It’s a command.
My hand trembles as I place it in his, and for some reason it feels like I’m giving away a piece of myself, some part of my soul that I want to keep. His fingers close around mine, not crushing but firm, absolute. He doesn’t pull me towards the side entrance I know leads directly to the doghouse. He leads me straight up the grand front steps, through the heavy oak doors and into the soaring, cool expanse of the main foyer.
The relief is so sudden, so potent it makes me lightheaded. The exquisite agony of fear recedes, leaving me weak-kneed.It’s just the doghouse,I tell myself, clinging to the lie as he pulls me through the marbled halls.You’re just relieved you’re not being thrown back there. It’s not him, it’s not this. It’s just not that cage and those horrific memories.
He doesn’t stop until we reach the carved double doors of his private suite. He releases my hand to push them open and ushers me inside before closing them with a soft, definitive click. The sound echoes in the profound silence.
I stand frozen just inside the room, my arms wrapped around myself. The suite is exactly as I remember it; opulent, intimidating, a space that speaks of his immense power and taste. The vast bed, the sitting area, the fireplace, the doors leading to a private terrace overlooking the sea. It smells of him, sandalwood, clean linen and something uniquely, dangerously Antonio.
He watches me for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over my dishevelled state. He was kind enough to let me put my dress back on before we landed, kind enough to tell me to sit properly, saying he didn’t want me to be too dizzy to walk.
