Baby for the Brute_A Fake Boyfriend Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  She gasps now with parted lips and closed eyes.

  “Our bodies can dull our perception of pleasure if it goes on long enough. You’ll still cum and it will still feel good, but you won’t realize the intensity has gradually faded. But there’s a way to counteract it. Pain and pleasure are opposite ends of a spectrum, and introducing pain, even a slight amount, resets your body’s tolerance.”

  I slide the flogger out of her and flip it around so my grip is on the handle again. I bring it up just a foot or two above her shoulder blades and bring it down in a smooth, unhurried motion. I’m careful to avoid the too-sensitive skin of her neck and the area just below her ribs where the kidneys are virtually unprotected by anything but skin, and the blow lands exactly where I aimed, making her jump and gasp with surprise.

  Pain tolerance can vary wildly from individual to individual, but even someone who hardly tolerates pain would be exaggerating to say rabbit skin hurts. The material is too soft and light to do much more than provide a soft thud and very faint sting. The purpose of this flogger is to introduce her to it without frightening her.

  She seems to relax a little once her brain registers that it didn’t actually hurt.

  “I’ll never do anything to bruise or scar you, little pet. You’re too precious for that. Only superficial pain. Only as much as it takes to give you the most incredible orgasms you’ve ever had.”

  She chews her lip, opening her eyes again to look up at me.

  “If my father ever knew about any of this…” she says.

  “Tonight isn’t about any of that, Ana. It’s about you being the mother of my child and me needing to give you a well-deserved reward. In the form of a punishment,” I add with a wry twist of my lips.

  She laughs throatily. “Oh, I see. So none of this is about your enjoyment? Just mine?”

  I feel the urge to grin, but I suppress it. It’s impossible to ignore the atmosphere of this place, of times like this. In here, I’m her Dom. There are no doubts or questions of what people will think. There’s only the two of us, only my command and the tension of waiting to see if she’ll obey or if she’ll need to be persuaded to obey. That’s the game. That’s everything in here. All the shit with her father and our families is for other times.

  “I enjoy,” I say slowly as I switch to the deer-skin flogger. I raise it and bring it down on her ass this time, careful not to let the tips of the material extend past her hip where they would wrap around with painful speed. “When my submissive submits,” I finish.

  I can see the effect my words have on her, like fingers reaching inside her mind and massaging away the worries and everything else but this moment.

  “Now,” I say. “We remind your body how sweet pleasure is after the pain.” I set the flogger down on the edge of the table and bend to kiss the place where her skin is a faint shade of red on her ass. I palm the back of her thigh and let my fingers glide against her slickness, wanting nothing more than to plunge my cock into her right here and now.

  Once I’ve given her nearly a minute of kisses and the deliberate movement of my fingers between her legs, I pull back and grab the flogger again, fingers still wet with her excitement. I work my way across her body, flogging her two or three times between breaks for soothing kisses and caresses. I watch her closely. I don’t want her to ignore discomfort or pain because she’s trying to impress me or please me.

  I think there’s very little chance of that based on the way she reacts to the flogger. Each brush of the leather strips against her back, ass, thighs, and calves makes her wriggle and sigh, back arching and fingers tightening. Even with her eyes squeezed tightly shut, I watch her face for any of the usual warning signs—a frown, grimace, the way eyebrows pull down when someone is frightened.

  “Why does it feel so good?” she asks breathlessly.

  “The same reason a cold shower feels good after exercise. Push the body too far from neutral and it will crave balance. But pain isn’t the only tool we can use. Pain is the opposite of pleasure,” I say, emphasizing my point by giving her a quick slap from the flogger on her ass and following it with a soft, warm kiss to melt away the sting. “And release is the opposite of restraint.” I tug on the straps holding her tightly to the table. “Defiance opposes submission…”

  “And…” she says slowly.

  “And when you cum, it’s going to feel like a nuclear bomb going off inside you because we’re going to use all of that.”

  She looks like she wants to say something, but decides against it.

  “Now,” I say. “There’s one simple rule that will be very important in a few moments. You must not cum. I demand that you stop yourself from cumming at all costs. If I see signs that you’re getting close to climax, I will punish you. Have I made myself clear?”

  She hesitates, but finally nods.

  I push the floggers off the table and remove her straps so I can reposition her to her back. I tighten the restraints around her again, making sure she has enough slack around her ankles to let me move her legs and reposition them as I need, but I leave them tight around her wrists so her arms are forced above her head. I enjoy every second of the delay, like fasting before eating the most luxurious meal of my life. Every moment I delay will only make the prize that much sweeter.

  I slip out of the last of my clothes and climb on top of her, enjoying the way her eyes can’t seem to decide which part of me they want to take in first, or which part they want to stare at the longest.

  I grip the base of my cock and spread her slickness from her entrance to her clit with the head of my cock, basking at how amazingly warm she is. In my mind, I map out the next few minutes. I plan how I’m going to torture and tease her with the promise of my cock until she bucks against her restraints and begs me for it. I want to show her how powerless she is, to drive home how much control I have and how little she has.

  But the heat of her entrance and the look of pure desire on her face undoes me. In an instant, my hardened self-discipline that I’ve spent years perfecting comes apart, and even a gun to my head couldn’t stop me from guiding my cock into her wet warmth.

  I groan with relief to be inside her, to feel the perfect tightness of her walls clenched around me like her pussy has a stranglehold on me, as reluctant to let me go as I am to ever stop fucking this perfect, innocent girl.

  I’ve always prided myself on my control. Sex is not an emotional ride for me. Not some reckless explosion where I let pleasure consume my senses. It has always been more controlled than that. More precise. Like a perfectly choreographed dance that I could enjoy the complexity of, albeit with an emotional distance that always left me feeling detached.

  Ana wrestles that control from me effortlessly. All it takes is seeing her bare body squirming beneath me, feeling the wet slickness of her arousal heating my cock and listening to the sound of the whimpering moans spilling from her parted lips. In an instant, I’m lost. I grip the table beneath her and fuck without restraint for the first time in my life. I lose sight of the greater picture, the delicate play of teasing out more and more pleasure like the maestro of a symphony and instead I just let my body drive me forward.

  I let each thrust into her perfect tightness be its own reward. I drink in all the signs of her pleasure she gives me. Erect nipples. Flushed cheeks. The taut muscles of her thin arms as she grips the chains above her wrists and pulls against them.

  We don’t need games. We don’t need complex.

  All I need is her.

  The realization slams into me with the force of a sledgehammer as my orgasm comes. “Cum, now,” I growl suddenly, only half-remembering I had planned to draw this out.

  I grunt with the power of it, feeling my cock twitch with each release of cum, getting off on the thought of filling her with my seed and the thought that she’s letting me.

  There’s no time for consequences. No time for worries or responsibilities.

  All that matters is the next move, the next bit of sensation.
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  She relaxes against the table, still shivering from her own climax and looking even more beautiful than she has any right to while she’s beaded with sweat and exhausted.

  “That was…” she breathes, but then she lets her head lull to the side, as if she can’t settle on the proper word.

  “That was fucking,” I grin. “The kind of fucking I didn’t think I was capable of.”

  “That makes two of us,” she laughs.

  I kiss her then, and I feel a pang of fear mingling with the aftershocks of my orgasm, because I realize then that there is nothing I wouldn’t do for this girl. For my little pet.

  15

  Ana

  The only sound at the breakfast table is the screech of my father’s knife and fork against his plate as he cuts through his over-easy egg. He looks up at me under his heavy eyebrows, breath whistling through his nose before he sighs loudly and looks back down.

  I shift in my chair, part of me wanting to just tell him I’m done pretending I care about his stupid rivalries. I want to scream that it doesn’t matter if he hates Angelo, that I don’t, and that their feud has nothing to do with me. I want to say so much, but I know all of it would only put both our families in more danger. There’s a fragile peace right now. As long as my father thinks Angelo is keeping his distance, it feels like everyone is content to go on with their lives.

  Good for them.

  They’d be happy to go on living so long as I’m locked up in my cage like a good girl. Not fucking the enemy. Like a good girl.

  When I bite into my jelly-smeared toast, I can’t help but glaring over the crusted edge at my father. For the longest time, I resented the way he coddled me—even hated it, but I never hated him. Recently, I can’t help feeling like some kind of slow, powerful poison is eating away at my resentment for him until all that’s left is the kind of hatred that tastes like acid in my mouth. And I hate him for making me hate him, even though I know that hardly makes sense.

  “Need anything?” he asks when he’s finished his breakfast. He looks up at me expectantly after I don’t immediately answer, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

  “What more could a girl want?” I ask. “I have a nice cozy bed and food whenever I want it. We even get internet here in my prison. Nope. I think I’m doing just fine, daddy. I’m not sure what else I could possibly hope to have.”

  He glowers. “Anabella. You know I’m only trying to protect you.”

  “Why stop with this, then? If nothing is worth more than my safety, maybe you should buy me an underground bunker. Strap me to a bed so I don’t risk falling and hurting myself. Maybe just mix my food in a blender so there’s no risk of choking.” I hate this side of myself he’s bringing out of me as much as I hate him right now. I’m not the petulant, sarcastic daughter. I never have been, but I’ve been bottling up so much frustration that I can hardly open my mouth without poison leaving my lips.

  His fingers tighten around his napkin, bunching it into a small ball.

  I wait for the explosion of anger, but it doesn’t come, and somehow that’s worse. He relaxes his fingers, stands, knocking his chair back with a screech, and then points a meaty finger at me from across the table. Instead of shouting, he only turns and storms out of the room, snapping for Franco and Donnie to come in and keep an eye on me once he’s gone.

  The two men slide into the dining room and take up positions on either side of the door.

  “I have to go number two,” I say suddenly. It’s a lie, but I know it’ll buy me a few minutes alone in the bathroom.

  Franco motions toward the bathroom nearest the dining room, but it’s not the one I plan on using, because it’s on the second floor.

  “That one is out of toilet paper,” I say. “I’ll use the downstairs bathroom.” The one with the big window.

  They glance at each other, and then Donnie shrugs before opening the door for me.

  I rap my knuckles against the door of Angelo’s beach house. I had to take an Uber to get here and ended up walking half a mile because I didn’t remember exactly where along the beach his house was, even though he just took me here last night.

  It looks even bigger now in the daylight. Windows upon windows and a seemingly endless expanse of walls and sharp, modern corners and lines make up his mansion. When the door opens, I feel my expression fall.

  “Damn,” says Damian, who is standing there with a tropical style shirt unbuttoned to reveal a carved, muscular body sprinkled with tattoos. “I’m going to take that frown to mean you were expecting someone else.”

  “Is-is Angelo here?” I ask.

  Damian hesitates a second, like he’s trying to think of the right way to phrase what he’s about to say.

  An unexpected burst of anger and alarm roars up in me. I push past him and march into the house, heading for the living room where I can now here the distinct sound of Angelo’s muffled voice and a lighter, feminine voice.

  My anger burns even hotter.

  When I turn the corner with Damian at my heels, I see Angelo standing there while a sleek, slender woman with perfect breasts and about five pounds of makeup on her face is reaching to touch Angelo’s arm with a seductive smile on her lips.

  Angelo doesn’t notice me—and he’s lucky he doesn’t—because I have a chance to see him take a deliberate step back to avoid her touch and scowl.

  “I won’t say it again,” he warns her. “It’s over, Corrine.”

  She pouts, then her blue eyes take me in for the first time and a line of anger creases her smooth forehead. “Because of her?” she asks.

  Angelo notices me then, and the annoyance melts from his face in an instant. “Ana…” he says. “How—”

  “Excuse me,” snaps the woman. She sidesteps to place herself between Angelo and I, but it’s a futile effort because he’s tall enough to look straight over her head and his eyes never leave me. “You’re going to have to—”

  “It’s time for you to leave,” he says to her, not even breaking eye contact with me.

  “You think I’m going to just walk out of here so you can slobber all over her? Look at her.” The woman takes in my outfit and manages to make me feel small and boyish under her gaze, but I force myself to stand straight and glare right back at her. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she got that top at Target,” she says, spitting the word out like it’s poison.

  “Marshall’s, actually,” I say defiantly. “It was a great deal, too.”

  “Damian,” says Angelo. “Mind dragging her out of here? Kicking and screaming is fine, if that’s how she chooses to go.”

  Corrine yanks her arm away from Damian when he reaches for it and storms out on her own, expensive heels clicking until the large front door closes behind her.

  “Sorry about that,” says Angelo as Damian comes back to join us in the living room. He lounges on one of the sofas and picks up a magazine from the coffee table about airplanes.

  “It’s okay,” I say, feeling guilty for how I reacted when I heard her voice. “I have to admit, I think I was about to come in here and start throwing punches if she was flirting with you.”

  Angelo barks a laugh. “Sorry, I don’t know if I can picture you throwing punches, Ana.” He lifts up one of my hands and swallows it up in his, curling my fingers so they make a fist that seems so small and so much like a toy inside his hand. He playfully drags my wrist forward and makes me punch him softly on the chest. “Still can’t picture it,” he muses.

  “If you want to see it first hand, keep bringing pretty girls around your house.”

  He grins. “Corrine’s brother is one of my men. I spent a little time with her. Years ago. Before all the surgeries and bad choices turned her into that. Now she’s what women think men want. She just looks like plastic to me. Fake and artificial. She’s not real like you. She’s nothing like you,” he says more softly, letting the hand that rested on my wrist move up my arm and then to my neck, where he brushes my jaw with his fingertips, eyes sear
ching my face with interest.

  Damian clears his throat. “If you guys are going to fuck on the kitchen counter or something, can I make a sandwich first? I’m starving.”

  Angelo raises an eyebrow at me as if to say, are we?

  I slap his chest and bite my lip, but shake my head at him. “Believe it or not,” I say. “Angelo and I do like to talk sometimes.”

  “Oh, that’s good. Dirty talk can keep things interesting,” agrees Damian in an off-handed tone while he keeps flipping through the magazine.

  I look incredulously at him. “I mean we like to talk. With our clothes on.”

  “Foreplay is good, yeah,” he murmurs.

  I look to Angelo, who just motions for me to come with him. I follow him, wondering if he plans to simply take me upstairs and sleep with me. As much as that idea appeals to some part of me, it doesn’t quite feel right. As if continuing to sneak away from my dad and fool around with Angelo would just be another distraction—something to take our eyes away from the growling lion at our backs for one more night.

  “Angelo,” I say quietly once we’re out of earshot from Damian. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m taking you to the club. Third floor, tonight. You’ll love it.”

  “Angelo,” I say again, pulling at his arm to stop him from leading me up the stairs and look in my eyes. “I mean about my father. It feels like we’re just ignoring it. We can’t just keep sneaking me out forever and, and,” I blow out a frustrated breath and groan in irritation at not being able to find the words. “We need to figure something out,” I say finally.

  “Hey,” he says, pulling me into his chest gently and running his fingers through my hair.

  There’s something in the softness of his voice, the warmth and hard muscle of his chest, and the protective wrap of his arms. It’s like a spell, like he could convince me my hair wasn’t on fire even if I could see the flames, with that soothing voice and his touch. I can’t let him wash away my worries this time, though. I put my hands against him and push back.