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Chapter 20
Emilio
Thesoftafternoonlightfiltered through the curtains, casting a gentle, warm glow across the room. Griselda and I lay on the bed, facing each other, a sense of intimacy and trust enveloping us. There was no awkwardness this time, no hesitance in our gaze.
Her fingers traced the scars that marred my back; each touch a caress of understanding and acceptance. Griselda had seen the vulnerability within me, a part of me I had kept carefully concealed for so long. It was a side that bore the weight of years of abuse, the lingering shadows of a painful past.
As her touch soothed my skin, I debated whether to share my deepest truth with her. It felt like standing at a precipice, on the edge of a revelation that could change the course of our relationship. I took a breath, my heart feeling both heavy and light with the decision I was about to make.
"The battles in the mafia, they weren't the only source of these scars," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "My father... he had his ways of disciplining me."
It was a vulnerable moment, bearing my wounds, both physical and emotional. Griselda's eyes were filled with compassion, and I felt a strange mix of shame and relief. Shame for allowing her to see this side of me, but relief for finally confiding in someone.
She reached out, her touch gentle, her fingers tracing the patterns of pain etched into my skin. Griselda's touch was like a soothing balm on the wounds that lay hidden beneath my skin, both physical and emotional.
Her fingers traced the jagged patterns of pain etched into my chest and back, her touch gentle and understanding.
"Emilio, I'm so sorry," the soft murmur of sympathy escaped her lips.
I took a deep breath, trying to find the words to convey the torment of my past. "My father believed in discipline, in his twisted way. When I was young, it started with punishments on my hands—whipping or hitting with a belt. As I grew older, the punishments shifted to my back. He always found reasons—sometimes trivial, sometimes concocted—to inflict pain. And initially, he claimed it was a form of love to mold me into the man he wanted me to be."
The memories surged like a relentless tide, threatening to pull me under.
"But now," I continued, "he no longer hides behind such excuses. He labels me a disappointment, a failure. I'm 35 years old, and I often wonder why I still tolerate it. Maybe it's the ease of leaving his presence once the punishment is over. Maybe it's the conditioning from childhood. Or maybe I fear the repercussions of rebellion."
I looked into Griselda's eyes, hoping she could comprehend the twisted complexities that kept me ensnared.
"You see," I said, struggling to put my thoughts into words, "because my father is the don. His orders are to be obeyed, or there are severe consequences. Death is not a distant threat—it's a reality in our world."
Her hand, warm and comforting, came to rest on my arm. "Emilio, you're not alone anymore.”
The hope in her voice stirred something within me, something I had almost forgotten existed. Griselda sat up, the sheets slipping down her frame, and leaned over to me. At first, I had no idea what she was doing until I felt a soft touch on my back, followed by another and another. She was kissing my scars.
A whirlwind of emotions surged within me: vulnerability, gratitude, and a sense of being seen and accepted. My heart felt like it was caught in my throat as Griselda's lips pressed against the marks that bore the years of pain and torment.
"You are not a disappointment," her words came as a whisper against my skin, a soothing salve to my wounded soul. "You are strong, Emilio. Strong for enduring all of it, for surviving, and still standing tall."
Her voice carried a conviction that my soul desperately needed to hear. Griselda continued, her voice steady and filled with empathy, "You've faced darkness, but it hasn't consumed you. It's made you resilient and compassionate. I care for you, Emilio, not despite your scars but because you are so much more than your past."
I closed my eyes, allowing her words to sink in, each one like a lifeboat pulling me out of the depths of my memories. It was as if a weight lifted off my shoulders, a burden I had carried for far too long. Griselda's gestures, her kindness, and her unwavering support were breaking down the walls around my heart.
Overwhelmed, I sat up and pulled her into my arms, our lips meeting in a deep, fervent kiss. It was a kiss filled with a blend of emotions that words failed to capture—gratitude, longing, relief, and a burgeoning love that had taken root in the depths of my being.
She softened in my arms, and her legs fell open for my hand. I wasted no time digging deeper between her thighs, my fingers teasing as they wandered through her damp folds.
Slowly, so achingly slow it felt decadently torturous, I pressed one of my thick fingers into her tight little hole, making her stretch slightly to take it in. She breathed a little harder and leaned forward to bury her face in her pillow, muffling her mewls.
I dug an arm between the mattress and her front, my hand trailing up her chest over her t-shirt until my searching fingers found her chin. I gently turned her face away from the soft, safe refuge of her pillow.
“Ah, ah,” I asked softly, “Wanna hear your pretty sounds,Gattina(kitten), don’t hide them from me, please.”
She could hear the faint smile in my tone.
Kissing her cheek and nuzzling her neck, my finger still plunged deep into her core, fucking her as slowly as possible. She moaned and gasped freely.
When I sunk a second finger into her slick hole, she let out a whimper to join the lewd noises.
“Emilio,” She whined, clutching loosely to the arm I held bracketed between her breasts, my hand still gently clasped around her throat.
