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His cum fills my mouth, and, almost instinctively,I spit it out, but I obey his command. I swallow every drop he feeds me, which is more than I believe should be normal. His orgasm lasts forever and stretches for miles, and all I can do is sit there and take it, which, while depressing, excites that small sick part of me.
But the excitement doesn’t last long. He pulls away as soon as he’s done, tucking his cock back into his pants before the sound of his zipper closing fills the room. He then grabs me by the tops of my arms, lifting me and planting me in front of the massive, glass shower.
“Wash yourself,” he snaps and, immediately, I feel dehumanized, even more than when I was roped to the bed.
I feel used and dirty, exposed and foreign. Most importantly, I feel stupid. I feel so ridiculous because like the sick person that I am, my stomach is housing a swarm of butterflies, a wetness is pooling in between my legs, and my clit swollen and completely separated from my mind as it pulses with need. For some reason, that makes me cry, but I don’t let him see my tears. I just turn my head towards the shower, slide the door open and step in. He closes the door behind me, sitting on the toilet as I look over my shoulder for the faucet, turning and adjusting it to the proper temperature before I melt beneath the jets that spray from nearly every angle.
I can feel his gaze on me as I tilt my head back and let the water wash the last four days from my skin. A moan escapes my lips, and he shifts, leaning closer as my gaze moves from him to the shelf built into the tile near my head. I feelaround for a bottle of soap, and when I hold it for a few moments, he mutters something over the water.
“Shampoo,” he says coldly, but I don’t thank him or acknowledge him.
In fact, I’m so pissed that I just squirt a massive amount into my palm and work it into my hair and all over my body. I don't want to rely on him or expose any more vulnerable parts of myself; I don't want to ask about conditioner or body wash; I just want to be awayfromhim.
I lather the soap all over, andthe scent of vanilla envelops me ashis gaze burnsinto my skin the entire time. I turn to wash my face, swishing water around in my mouth before spitting it out on the floor, a ghost of a chuckle leaving his lips, fueling my rage. When I turn off the faucet and wring the water out of my hair, I step out and wait with my head turned to the side.
He hands me a towel, and I dry myself while bending down to pick up my dirty clothes from the floor before slipping them back on. He doesn't say anything the entire time, just stares at me until I'm finished. Then, hegrabs my wrists and drags me to the bedroom. I already know he's going to bind me to the headboard again, so I beat him to it and lay on the bed when we get there, hands above my head, eyes closed.
“Good girl,” he mumbles as he ties me again.
When he's done, he just lingersthere, quiet and observing. When he turns to exit the room,I wait for the sound of the door clicking shut to release the remaining tears that have pooled behind my eyes. Of course, it's normal to cry because I've been kidnapped, bound, and used, but this is not why my tears fall.
I’m crying because I’m angry at myself, and him. I'm angry that he won't touch me, that he gets to come and I'm not. I'm mad that I want him to make me come, but more importantly, I'm frustratedthat he's not here, that he'll only say a few words to me. I hate the fact that the only communication we have is through his orders and my compliance.
I allow myself to cry for a few moments, sitting in my grief while stretching my legs and taking deep breaths. I open my eyes and turn my head to the door, away from the bright light of the windows. I stand there for what seems like hours, my limbs aching and trembling.
The clock ticks forever, the only sound echoing in the large, modern and empty room before another sound is heard; a knock.
Marco never knocks. He always enters around the start of the afternoon, when the sun shines the brightest through the window.
My body immediately stiffens, on high alert as I wait for the person on the other side to show their face. It could be anyone. A guard ready to kill me, or even rape me. God knows these men are just as sick as Marco and maybe after what I just did for him, he’s decided to spread the word. With that thought, my heart nearly stops in my chest, ice spreading throughout my veins as bile rises in my throat.
The door opens, and I try to scanfor as many details as they can. A voice fills the room before I can see the person. A soft, elderly, womanly voice.
“Hello, Lori. My name is Mariella. I’m Marco’s mother,” she says, her accent thick but her tone soft—the sound of it making tears fill my eyes again as she slowly enters the room and shuts the door behind her.
CHAPTERFIVE
Lori
Mariella walks into the room quietly, soft footsteps echoing against the hardwood floor. From her outline, I can see she’s a small woman, soft and crouched. When she slowly sits on the edge of the bed, I can’t help the involuntary stiffening of my muscles. The only interaction I’ve had in my captivity is with Marco and judging by the cold, violent nature of her son, it’s not crazy of me to think that she could be the same way, no matter how tender her voice sounds.
“I’d be a fool to ask you how you are,” she says and even though I want to quip back with a smart remark, I refrain and stay quiet, trying to feel her out.
She turns towards me on the bed, placing a gentle hand on my calf, letting out a strange sound as she looks at me, almost a sound of disgust.
“I know that you understand the brutality of the world that we are a part of and what it’s like to be a relative of a mafia family, but I can’t help but be angry by what my son has done to you,” she says evident sadness in her tone as my ears perk up at her words.
“Are you… here to let me go?” I ask, feeling foolish as soon as the words leave my lips.
She sighs, shaking her head as she pats my leg and sets her hand back in her lap.
“Sadly, no. I had to beg my son to let me see you,” she says, fidgeting with her small hands as defeat fills my stomach once more.
“He’s waiting for the next stage of his plan. I told him there would be no harm in keeping you company. As for the rope, trust me when I say that I’ve tried my best to get you unbound. It kills me to see such a pretty girl like this,” she says with sincerity.
“Trust me, I feel anything but pretty right now,” I say, hating this outfit more than anything since it’s basically been plastered to my body for four days.
She looks at me for a long moment, assessing my form. I wish I could see the details of her face—I wish I could see if her eyes reflect the same sincerity that her voice holds. From what I can see of her hair, I can tell that it is dark and scattered with gray streaks, the contrast of colors sticking out prominently. Her face shape is like Marco’s, her lips just as full and her nose just as straight. I can see where he gets his incredibly good looks from.
