Giving In

by Alison Tyler

  “You don’t know what you want,” she said, and she was right. I didn’t.

  “Stop thinking,” she said. “Don’t concentrate. Don’t try so hard. Let go.”

  She licked and sucked with such obvious pleasure that I couldn’t feel embarrassed or concerned that I wasn’t coming fast enough. Worries that I usually feel melted away until there was only her mouth and my pussy in my world. That’s the size of what mattered.

  I would have come anyway. But it was Stefan standing in the doorway, staring in at us, that took me over the edge.

  How long had he been there? I didn’t know. He leaned against the door frame, casually watching. I would have covered my eyes with my hands, but my wrists were still cuffed and useless. I thought of looking away, but his gaze held me firmly. Last night, I’d been the voyeur. This morning, I was the show.

  Bonnie didn’t seem aware of our audience. She kept her mouth between my thighs and plunged her tongue inside of me as I started to come. I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. Even with Stefan watching, so intently, I moaned and sighed, my breathing coming faster as I reached climax. Bonnie let me ride out the waves of the orgasm, and then she reached for a key on a chain around her neck and set me free.

  “No strap-on today, I guess,” she said to me as she rubbed my wrists. “She’s a sweet girl,” she said to Stefan—letting me know that she knew he was standing there. “Look at this.” She motioned and, mortified, I rolled over, so that she could show him the welts on my ass.

  I heard his footsteps as he approached the bed. “Very nice,” he said. I felt his warm hand on my skin. His hand moved lower, between my thighs, feeling how wet I was. He could have been checking produce in the market with how indifferently he caressed me. And then he ordered, “Get her dressed and send her to my room. I have something to talk to her about.”

  How odd, I thought, even in my hazy, postcoital state. Odd how he talked to Bonnie instead of me. But somehow I didn’t mind. There was a formality to the tone of his voice, one that turned me on.

  * * *

  “You and I are close to the same size,” Bonnie said, opening the second wardrobe in the room. “Do you want to choose something of mine?” I was surprised to see so many different dresses, opulent colors, gauzy fabrics. “I’m not only the chef,” she explained in answer to my unspoken query. “Stefan likes to dress me different ways for this and that.” Clearly. There were costumes of all sorts on the racks: drum majorette, schoolgirl skirt, headmistress attire.

  She pulled out a cashmere turtleneck the color of ripe peaches and a flirty short skirt that looked as if it had been made of layers of translucent scarves. “These will look lovely on you.”

  I started dressing. The clothes were so rich, I wanted to take my time. I’d been accustomed over the past few years to try to dress expensively without actually having money. I was focused on how luxurious the fabrics felt against my skin, when she added, “Don’t worry about wearing knickers.”

  The worry was instantaneous.

  “His room is at the end of the hall that yours is on,” she said. “He’s waiting.”

  I slid into my shoes—the only part of the outfit that looked sad now—and walked down the long hall. I wondered where Sasha was, where Lou was, wondered what Stefan wanted to tell me. Tell. That wasn’t the right word at all, was it? Should I feel bad that I’d been invited to Venice as a sex toy? I couldn’t manage to feel unhappy about that at all. The attention made me feel beautiful, and when I glanced into a mirror, I saw a warmth to my cheeks, to my eyes, that had been missing for longer than I could remember. Fear can turn a person cold inside.

  I climbed the stairs, headed down the hall I’d walked the previous evening. Stefan was waiting, sitting in a deep leather chair, sipping from a cut-crystal glass. I entered the room and then stood, not knowing what to do, where to go, how to act. His room was twice the size of the one I was staying in. I felt as I always did when I’d been summoned to yet another boss’s office after yet another merger—one that meant my job was redundant.

  He smiled at me, and I felt myself begin to melt. “You know, you are exactly as Sasha described,” he said.

  I didn’t know how to respond. How had Sasha described me?

  “Hungry,” he said. “Get your jacket and meet me downstairs. I’ll take you out.”

  I hurried back to my room, wondering if my battered old jacket would make the outfit look cheap. The first thing I saw was a typewriter on the desk. I’d always preferred working on a typewriter—and my old one had been the first beloved material object I’d jettisoned when I’d lost my apartment. This was identical to mine, a Remington. I’d sold mine for $500—trading a piece of myself for money I needed. And here was the twin, with the colored glass keys in mint, turquoise, yellow and red. Sasha must have told Stefan. There was no other way he could know. I had an urge to sit at the desk and start writing, but Stefan called out for me. I turned to grab my coat from the bed where I’d left it, but the coat was gone.

  On the mattress was a raspberry-hued woven shawl, like tapestry. I wrapped the shawl around my body the way I’d seen Sasha do, and then I caught site of the little box on the pillow. When I took off the lid, I saw a glittering rhinestone broach, obviously antique, perfect for pinning the fabric in place. I was about to snag a pair of knickers from the drawer in my dresser, when I heard Bonnie calling. “Stefan’s ready, El. Come on!”

  I hesitated another second, and then decided to go without.

  “I’m so grateful,” I said when I found Stefan waiting for me in the foyer.

  “For what?”

  “You don’t know what it’s been like,” I said.

  But he shrugged away my gratitude, with a simple “Prego” and then added, “You look lovely in the wrap.”

  I stammered, trying to find the right words. He’d given me too much to accept with a simple thank-you.

  “You say, ‘Grazie,’” he said graciously, and I whispered the word as he took my hand. The touch of his skin on mine made me feel hot all over. If he noticed, he didn’t comment.

  Stefan led us through tiny winding streets to the open-air market. I’d been to farmer’s markets before, of course, but I’d never seen anything as lush and colorful as this. Every piece of fruit looked perfect, as if plucked from a photo. There were bowls of the largest berries I’d ever seen—raspberries, blueberries, blackberries—bunches of chilies, purple grapes that looked so ripe they would burst when you barely touched their dusky skin. The voices of the shoppers and clerks made music to me, as I didn’t understand the words. Stefan had a hand in mine, I felt to make sure I didn’t get lost. But then he let go of my hand, and his palm caressed my ass through the filmy fabric of the skirt. I was reminded in a heartbeat that I was without underwear. I wondered if other people could tell.

  In Italian, Stefan ordered several pieces of fruit for us—peaches, figs, cherries—and then we continued walking once more. I wanted to take in everything: the water, the boats, the colorful awnings, the painted buildings, the busy restaurants, bustling with tourists. Every location I admired appeared as elegantly quaint as a picture postcard.

  Then Stefan led me down a tiny alley—so narrow I hadn’t noticed the space between the buildings at first. “This way,” he said. I followed him for several steps until he stopped and turned around. “Lift your skirt.”

  “What?”

  “Show me.”

  I pulled the skirt up, a warm buzz rushing over me.

  “Spread your lips.”

  Who was he? Who was I? I was the girl who reached down and opened my pussy up so he could see.

  “So beautiful,” he said. “Did Bonnie treat that well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then so will I.” He bent on his knees, pressed his mouth to my pussy and began to lick from me. I couldn’t believe he was doin
g this out in the open. Except we weren’t in the open, were we? We were off on the tiniest side street I’d ever been in. I had my body pressed against the building as firmly as Stefan had his mouth pressed against me. I sighed and closed my eyes as he licked me harder, faster. Was he going to make me come here, where I could listen to the sounds of the city all around us?

  No. He pushed back and told me to turn around.

  I didn’t move quickly enough. He spun me, so I was facing the cold wall. He stayed on his knees, his hands spreading my ass cheeks apart. I felt a wetness around my hole, and I thought for a moment that he was licking me there. I would have pulled away if I could have, but I was sandwiched between Stefan and stone. I could not remember ever feeling this aroused and ashamed before, the two emotions warring within me. Shame won out, as Stefan stood and whispered in my ear, “That was sweet peach juices I spread around your asshole.”

  I shivered.

  “I’ll lick them off from you later.”

  The shivers persisted. My whole body was trembling. “I’m going to fit you with a plug. A large one. You’ll wear that while I fuck your slippery pussy. It will be your introduction to having two holes filled at once.”

  I sagged against him. No one had ever spoken to me like that before.

  “Do you want to hear more?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take you home now,” he said, “and I’ll tell you the rest.”

  * * *

  The sunlight glinting on the water, the colorful mélange of people and the beauty of the city blurred together. I could not think or speak on the ride home. I was so wet and the need for climax was so large, that I felt as if I were lost in a half swoon. Stefan seemed unchanged completely, as cool as ever. He led me through the villa, and we did not see anyone else on the way.

  In his room, he poured us each a drink from a cut-crystal decanter, and handed mine to me. I breathed in the scent of good whiskey.

  “You seem more naive than most women your age. And you seem unhappy. Too sad for someone who has no real problems.”

  No real problems? Suddenly, everything I worried and feared came back in a rush. A physical rush. I pushed back against the wall so that I would have something to hold myself up. “I have problems.”

  He shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

  Up until now, Stefan had been nothing but gracious to me. He’d treated me as if he’d invited me personally, as if I were his guest. I felt nothing but special. My life was not supposed to look the way it did now. Venice might be sinking, but so slowly nobody noticed on a day-to-day basis. I, on the other hand, had sunk.

  “Look at you,” he said, standing and moving me so I was facing a mirror. For a flicker of time, I wondered if someone was watching me on the other side. Sasha? Lou? “Is this a woman with problems?” he asked both of us.

  I started to get angry. “I have no job, no family, no one to turn to, nowhere to go.” I did what I’d promised myself I wouldn’t. I took a firm step out of this fairy-tale land and into reality. “When I leave here, there is nothing else. I land at whatever airport Sasha helps me get to, and then…nothing.”

  “Then why leave?”

  I turned to face him. I didn’t understand what he was saying, what he was suggesting. Apparently, my confusion showed on my face, because he smiled and cupped my chin in his hand. “I mentioned a job.”

  I nodded.

  “But I was talking about more than some freelance gig, Ellis. I didn’t invite you for two weeks,” he said. “I invited you forever.”

  I had to sit down. I pulled away from him and looked around the room. I couldn’t take his seat—it was so obviously his. So I sat on the bed, knowing as I did so that maybe this was not the best choice for me. But my brain wasn’t working well. I wished I could have slowed the world down for a moment or two, so that I could catch up.

  “I told you that I’ve read your writing,” he said, “not only the copy for ads, but your real writing.”

  I’d guessed this, but I had to ask, “How?”

  “When Sasha would visit for the summers, and you’d trade letters, she always let me read yours. When you mailed her stories you were working on, she shared your words with me.”

  I flushed. Sasha was the only friend I’d ever allowed to see my work. I’d been embarrassed to share them with her, but she’d always been supportive. Even in the brain haze I felt, I had to ask, “You liked my stories?”

  He went to a desk and opened the drawer, bringing out a folder. “I’ve kept every one,” he said, rifling the papers so I could see. I remembered writing the different pieces, modern-day fairy tales set in New York. Sexy, saucy stories I’d been unable to show to anyone but Sasha.

  “Your words captivated me,” he said. “I need them, the way I need you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want you to write about this place.” He spread his arms out.

  “Your bedroom?”

  “Smart-ass.” He spoke the words with a smile. “You’ll get a spanking for that. Later. I want you to write about our world here in Venice. What we do here. The way we live.”

  “We…” My mind was still on the spanking.

  “Lou and I. Bonnie. Sasha when she comes to stay. Our summer guests and our winter guests. And you.”

  “Me.”

  He sat on the bed at my side and he took one of my hands in his. “I was hoping you would be as unique as your words, that you would fall in love with this place—and with me—and I would fall in love with you. And now I only have one question for you….”

  I waited. My heart was racing. I knew the rule. When he asked a question, he expected an answer.

  “Have you?”

  “Have I?”

  “Fallen in love.”

  I couldn’t breathe. What was he asking me?

  “You wrote in your journal that you never wanted to leave. Did you mean it?”

  I didn’t care that he’d read the diary. Aren’t all diaries written at least subconsciously with the hopes and wishes that the words will be found and revealed?

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, Stefan.”

  “And have you?”

  I had nothing to lose. I had truth to gain. “Yes,” I said. “I have.”

  He gripped me in his arms and he kissed me. Differently from the way he’d kissed me at the market. Sweeter and rougher at the same time. I felt as if I were one of the characters in the fairy tales I’d written over the years, except this wasn’t make-believe. Was it?

  “I want you to write about this. About how we behave. About what our life is like,” he said. “All the ways we play, all the things we do.”

  “What do you do?” I had to ask. I thought I understood, but I needed him to explain.

  “People are so caught up in what’s normal. What’s right and wrong. I don’t live like that. I don’t have to. Not anymore.” He kissed me in between sentences, and each time he did, I felt light-headed. “I used to,” he continued. “At least, I tried. I went to parties, the opera. I joined the society circles you’re supposed to be a part of if you have money. And then I realized, if you have money, you don’t have to be a part of anything you don’t want to be.”

  I stared at him. He seemed to want me to understand.

  “It’s different here. You’ll get used to the way we behave. If you want someone to tie you up in the middle of the night, then you come to me. If you’d rather have Bonnie eat you then you go to her. If you have a need—we will fill it. And we’ll find out needs you never thought you had.”

  I sighed. This was too much like being read on the inside. Everything he was describing was everything I’ve always wanted.

  “You’ll write each word in that style of yours. This is important to me. Do you understand?”


  I nodded.

  “Like this,” he said, and he startled me by pulling me over his lap, his hand resting on my ass. I sucked in my breath at the same moment that he let his hand land against my rear. “You’re a smart-ass. That’s not a bad thing.” He spanked me hard, through my skirt—through Bonnie’s skirt. “But being flippant here will get you a spanking.” Each time his hand landed, I flinched, but I didn’t try to get free. “You might be spanked in the middle of a dinner party, with everyone watching me bend you over the table.” I swallowed hard, as he described the scene. “My friends know me, they know the way I act. They’re generous and compassionate. They’ll sit and watch as I punish you, and then they’ll go on with their meal.”

  He stroked my rear between blows, and then he sat me up again.

  “Do you like being punished?”

  My thoughts were captivated by what he’d just described, but I managed to respond with a soft “Yes.”

  “Why, Ellis?”

  I looked all over the room rather than look into his eyes. But then I remembered—without him having to remind me—the one rule. When he asked a question, I was to answer. “Because I don’t have to think anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I stared at the floor. “I’m always worrying, wondering, wishing. When the sensation—that pain/pleasure mix—overtakes me, all my thoughts disappear.” I hoped he’d understand. “I feel erased, somehow. Or washed clean.”

  “Yes. Perfect.”

  He stood me up. He seemed to be studying me, as if he wanted to learn my face by heart. “You look good in new clothes,” he said, “but tomorrow we’ll get you your own. Not Bonnie’s. And new shoes, too. We have the best shoes in Italy. You’ll see.”

  “What will I do?” I asked him, as he was leading me to the bed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I stay, if you really want me to stay…”