“She’s too busy trying to fuck Jagger to care.”
“If you paid her attention instead of the slaves, then maybe she wouldn’t stray.”
“She would still stray because of that puttano!”
“Don’t call him that.”
“He is! All he does is steal other men’s women.”
“That’s his job.”
“Not when it’s my woman!”
“This is like a circle, it always comes back to the same thing. You either ignore it or you deal to Bianca, but you are not to touch Jagger. He is blood, your wife is not. If she can’t keep her legs closed, then you can hardly blame Jagger. Sort her out or I will, because I cannot have blood fighting over pussy.”
Alberto swore in Italian, then his heavy footsteps thudded out of the room, the door slamming a second later. Lighter footsteps approached the bed, the mattress going down from the new man’s weight, his cologne the same as my husband’s, making me wish it was Matt who had saved me, that he wasn’t dead, and that this was all a sick dream, a nightmare that I was going to wake up from.
“Did he hurt you?” the man said softly. His voice was husky, but not as strong as Alberto’s. He brushed back my hair, making me flinch from his touch. “You’re a beautiful woman, you shouldn’t be treated so harshly, but Alberto is a stupid brute, nothing but an animale.” The man slipped his arms under me.
“No!” I yelled out, trying to jerk away.
“Sssh,” he said, gripping me tighter. “I’m not going to hurt you; I just want to clean your scrapes so they don’t get infected.”
I went still, the man sounding genuine. I’d heard many liars, had listened to the different pitches in their voices, the slight nuances that betrayed them, which this man didn’t have, his voice calm, gentle, friendly, despite the sexual tones underlying his breathing.
He carried me into another room, my feet hitting the side of the door as we entered it. He laid me down in what felt like a bathtub, the cold porcelain making my heart-rate go up.
“I need to take your clothes off to wash you,” he said.
“No!”
“You need to be cleaned.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
“I can’t untie you.”
“Please, I won’t try to escape.”
“There’s no need to be scared, all I’ll be doing is washing you, nothing else.”
“No, please, just let me do it,” I said, trying to keep my panic under control. No matter how much I believed him, I still didn’t want him touching me, didn’t want any of these people near me.
“If you won’t cooperate,” he said, “I will have to call back Alberto. Do you want that brute touching you again?”
“No!”
“Then it’s me.” What sounded like a switchblade opened, making me flinch. “Sssh, don’t be frightened,” he said. “I have to cut off your dress because of the ropes. Shame. It’s pretty. Now, stay still so I don’t hurt you by mistake.”
I froze as the cold blade ran up my leg, the man not as nice as he was pretending to be. He may be speaking the truth, but he was still a mobster, which made me wonder who he was and how he could get Alberto to back down. It couldn’t be Frano, since he was in New York, introducing himself as the new D’Angelo don to fellow crime families. Then who was it?
I lost my train of thought as my dress ripped, the material being cut away along with my bra, only air now touching my bare flesh. I imagined the man staring at my naked body, his heavy breathing making me more and more nervous. I wanted to cover my breasts, but instead they stood out, my tied arms stuck underneath me, arching my back uncomfortably.
He said a word in Italian that I was unfamiliar with, but from the tone of his voice I knew it was a compliment, then something rattled, followed by a burst of water hitting me between my thighs. I cried out, the cold shocking my senses.
“Mi dispiaci,” he said, “I mean, I’m sorry, I should have set the temperature.”
The water heated, warming me a fraction, the room colder than an icebox. A bar of soap ran over my nipples, making me gasp.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “just cleaning, nothing else.” He continued what he was doing, spending too much time on my breasts, then his hand moved lower, slipping between my thighs.
“No!” I yelled. “Stop it!”
“Shhh, è tutto buono,” he said, saying it was all good.
His thumb started rubbing my clitoris, the intensity almost unbearable, the feeling too good, too bad, too much! I wriggled about, trying to escape what he was doing. He dropped the water nozzle on my thigh, then placed an arm across my collarbone, holding me down as he continued to play with my clitoris.
“Le-let me go,” I panted, unable to handle it anymore. His touch was sending unwanted pleasure through me, mixed with fear and anger.
“Not until you come for me.”
“No! Stop! Please sto—” I cried out as his fingers squeezed my nipple.
“So lovely,” he mumbled, brushing his lips over my other breast, his tongue flicking out, licking it. He pulled away. “You taste of soap.”
Before I could yell at him, curse him for what he was doing, cold water blasted my breasts, making me cry out again. A second later, his mouth was back on my breast, sucking hard while his fingers and thumb rubbed me below. I didn’t know who he was and after a while I stopped caring, because the man’s touch, his mouth... Oh God, he was exquisite.
He shoved a finger inside of me as he continued to suckle on my breast, my mind and my body fighting each other, but my body winning. I arched, pushing my breast willingly into his mouth, the need to come overriding everything. He shifted to my other breast, sucking it harder, pulling on it, using his teeth, his tongue, his whole blessed mouth. He added a second finger below, continuing to finger fuck me while his thumb rubbed my clitoris to the point of pain, the intensity again too much, even more so combined with his mouth, everything inside of me building, one suck, one thrust, one rub, and one... I cried out, the orgasm blanking my mind as pleasure swamped my body. He swallowed my cry with a kiss, his tongue penetrating my mouth, seeking more of me as I continued to ride the orgasm.
As the pleasure quelled, my thoughts began to filter back in. I hadn’t allowed a man to touch me since my husband had died just over six months ago, didn’t want another man to do to me what he’d done. But now I’d allowed a man to do just that, to take what belonged to my husband. I wanted to cry, no, I wanted to hurt him for making me betray Matt’s memory.
The man pulled away from me. “It was a pleasure giving you pleasure,” he said, his tone of voice promising that this wouldn’t be the last time.
I couldn’t believe I’d let my guard down, allowed myself to give into him, to believe his lies that he wouldn’t do anything. He obviously knew how to use his voice to get his way, no doubt one of those criminals who could fool a lie detector, which meant I couldn’t trust a word that came out of the mouth that had sucked on my breasts.
I wanted to scream at him, to hurt him for touching me so intimately. He was not my husband! He didn’t have a right!
“You’re tensing up,” he said. “Relax, it’s not a sin to feel good, no matter how much priests might tell us it is.”
A towel touched my body, making me jerk away, my anger building.
“I’m just going to dry you,” he said.
“You lied to me!”
“Get used to it.” He pushed me forward, drying my back like I was a small child who couldn’t do it myself.
“Don’t touch me!”
A slap stung my backside, stunning me into silence, then he lifted me up and carried me out of the room.
“Put me down!” I screamed.
He dumped me back on the bed, my body now shivering from the cold room.
“Sorry, I cannot give you clothes to wear,” he said, “you haven’t earned them yet.” The bed went down with his weight. “Do you want to know how to earn clothes?”
“Just give me a blanket, please
,” I said, trying to get my emotions under control.
His hand moved to my cheek, then his mouth was on mine once more. I went to yank my head away, but instead froze, the words he mumbled against my lips stunning me. “You are exactly as the American described.”
Had I been found out?
A door banged, breaking through my fear. “What are you doing?!” a male voice yelled, sounding like Jagger.
The man pulled away from me. “Tasting the produce,” he said, “but this cherry is bruised. I’ve told you not to treat the women so cruelly. There’s no need to throw them into the van like cattle.”
“That’s Alberto’s doing, not mine. And you are not to touch any of my women again.”
“Oh, so they are women now? I do apologize, Jagger, I just assumed they were punching bags with the way you treat them.”
“That’s the job you gave me, so leave, I have work to do.”
“I could help you by taking charge of this one—”
“No! She’s mine to train.”
His fingers squeezed my nipple again, making me gasp. “This one just came for me as I sucked on her breasts and finger fucked her.”
The sound of footsteps approached the bed. “Get your hands off her!” Jagger yelled.
The man squeezed my breast harder, causing me to cry out. “She sounds so good when she comes. I’m sure I can teach her better than you.”
“Get. Off. Her!”
The man removed his hand from my breast, the bed going up as he got to his feet. “You forget, little cousin, that I am not as forgiving as my father, so watch what you say to me, because I may decide to send you back to the Donatelli.”
“But you know what they will do to me,” Jagger said, his tone now scared.
“Then don’t overstep the boundaries. And, Jagger, I need this slave ready to be shipped out in four weeks.”
“That’s too soon; I need at least six weeks to train her.”
“She fits what the Black Russian wants, and what he wants he gets with a cherry on top.”
“You can’t send a woman to him without adequate preparation, she won’t last a day with that freak.”
“That’s not my concern, it’s yours. And by the way, I am very pleased you finally brought me a brunette. When I heard, I had to come see with my own eyes, and I must say: she is quite stunning. I want more like her. Our clients have diverse tastes, which need to be catered for with more than just blondes.”
“Mario brings in the other kinds of women, not me.”
“This is a job, Jagger, not a reflection on who you want to fuck. You check the orders and bring me what is needed. Now, although I do enjoy our little conversations I have real work to do. Unlike you, I can’t wile my time away on pleasure.”
“It’s work!”
“If you say so.”
“Fanculo, Frano!” Jagger swore.
The man laughed, then a door closed, my heart now frozen in shock at the name that Jagger had yelled.
Frano.
The head of the D’Angelo family.
And my husband’s murderer.
3
A sob broke free from my chest as though my heart was trying to dispel my grief and the betrayal I’d committed. I’d allowed my husband’s killer to bring me to orgasm, to touch me in ways that I only ever wanted Matt to do. I hated Frano with all my soul. I had vowed to kill him, had imagined doing it in so many ways: by bullet, by knife, by fire—yet the first time I came in contact with him, my mind had taken comfort in his soft voice, then I had come under his hand. But I hadn’t known it was him, he was supposed to be in New York. Still, how could I not have known? Alberto had backed down to him, and only one person could make the second in command do that: Frano—the D’Angelo don.
“What did he do to you?” Jagger asked.
“He ... he washed me,” I sobbed.
The bed went down. “And?”
“Touched me. I didn’t want it, I didn’t want it!” I yelled, angry at Jagger for not being here. I wouldn’t have wanted it from him either, but anyone was better than Frano, better than this guilt and revulsion now drowning me.
Jagger slapped me hard, making me cry out. “You are not to let him touch you again,” he snapped.
“I didn’t let him!” I yelled, wanting him to hit me again, needing the external pain rather than the emotional storm that was screwing with my head.
“I don’t care! I am your master, not that bastardo.”
“No one’s my master!” Another slap stung my cheek, cutting off all the other words I wanted to scream out, all the rage that had built up inside of me since I’d learned of my husband’s death.
“You are not to yell,” Jagger said, “you are not to fight me, or you will be punished. Capito?”
“No!” I shouted, wishing he would knock me out. I could get hit harder than what he was doing. I’d been knocked to the floor by bigger men in black belts. These slaps were nothing! Only a normal woman would whimper and beg for him to stop, but not me, because I was not normal!
He slapped me again. “Capito?!”
“No!”
Jagger continued to slap me until I was screaming at him, my hate pouring out, my need to be hurt, and now to hurt, making me fight uselessly against my binds. Then the slaps stopped and a hand was laid over my mouth and nose. Panic now seeped in. I started shaking my head vigorously, trying to dislodge Jagger’s hand, but he held on tight, making my head go hazy.
He finally removed his hand. I greedily sucked in air, more concerned with being able to breathe than screaming. “If you do as I tell you, I will be a good master,” he said. “But if you don’t, I will show you the monster my family created. And since you don’t seem to understand what capito means, I will use only English. Understand?”
I nodded, unable to get a no out even if I wanted to. The mattress went up, then footsteps receded, only to return moments later. The mattress went back down, then a damp cloth touched my cheek.
“I’m gracious when I’m obeyed,” he said.
I coughed, imagining being anything but gracious in return. I wanted to tie him up and slap him even harder, to make his cheeks turn red, to hear him scream like a woman, begging me to stop, then I would throw him into prison, where he would become a bitch for whoever wanted his pretty ass. The thought made me laugh hysterically.
Jagger jerked the damp cloth away from my face. “You’re laughing at me?” he said, his tone disbelieving.
I stopped, allowing another cough to escape, my throat raw from yelling.
“Why were you laughing?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Normal women in your situation cry, not laugh.”
“I’m not normal, so throw me back where I came from,” I croaked out.
He snorted. “Never have I heard that before, but it doesn’t matter, you will end up like the rest.”
“Dead?”
“No, you are to be trained and sold as a sex slave.”
“You can’t do that, I’m an American citizen.”
“We are no longer in America.”
“Where are we?”
“That is not your concern.”
“People will miss me, they will look for me.”
“True, but they won’t find you. You are dead to them. This is your new life, your reason for living.”
“I’m a human being, not a sex toy!”
Another slap stung my cheek, but instead of yelling at him, I closed my mouth, knowing I needed to reel in my anger, to start thinking logically, to accumulate information. But he would still pay for every slap. I needed to count them, then when I had him tied up I would return each and every one of them. The thought made me smile.
Silence filled the room, the man no doubt surprised by my expression, then he laughed. “I knew you were a masochist. Maybe the Black Russian will be a good fit for you after all.”
“I’m not a masochist, I was thinking of tying you up and returning every slap.”
>
He snorted again. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you.” He grabbed my blindfold and yanked it down, putting his face right up to mine, the beauty of it in direct contrast to the malice in his eyes. “And believe you me, what I did today was nothing.”
“You’re a sick coward,” I spat.
His face hardened. “And you’re my whore.”
I gritted my teeth, not wanting to counter that, because he might just prove it.
“Finally,” he said. “Silence. Still, I’m curious. What are you?”
“Human.”
“I’ll beat the humanity out of you if you don’t answer my question properly!”
I jolted, the sudden change in his tone unexpected.
“Answer me!”
“I’m a teacher.”
He sneered. “And I’m a librarian. So, tell me, Margarita, which I’m sure is not your real name, what do you really do for a living?”
“I teach high school kids in New York, which is a tough enough job.”
“Dealing with brats isn’t a tough job.”
“Kidnapping women isn’t either.”
He narrowed his eyes, then cocked his head to the side, looking like he was examining my face. “It’s a dirty job though,” he said, moving his hand to my throat. “Very dirty.”
I swallowed against his palm, his grip a little too tight, the threat there, just a squeeze away. He placed his mouth to my cheek, then licked up the side of my face, making me jerk my head away.
“Maybe I should lick your whole body clean,” he said, “because it looks like Frano left me with a. Very. Dirty. Whore.”
I wanted to shake my head, but his grip tightened, making it impossible. I gasped for air, my eyes going wide as he climbed on top of me, squashing my body beneath his.
“Or am I wrong?” he said, loosening his grip.
I coughed, sucking in air greedily. He reached behind his back and pulled out a knife, flicking it open. I went still, my eyes going even wider as he placed the blade against my cheek.
“Now, Margarita, I’m known for cutting things off that I shouldn’t,” he moved the blade to my lips, “but I’m only like that if someone upsets me. Do you want to upset me?”
“No,” I mumbled against the blade, unable to look away from him, the man’s face completely emotionless.
My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 1 Page 3
