Arranged Mafia Marriage

“Not yet.” He steps back and I sense him surveying his handiwork.

“Hmm,” he makes a sound of approval deep in his throat, and instantly, my nipples pucker. Hell, it’s as if there’s a direct line from his voice to all the erogenous zones in my body. He leans over me and heat surrounds me, pulls on me, swirls about me, and pins me down to the counter. I can’t move and he isn’t even holding me down any more.

“Look at you.” His voice is low and melting. “All tied up and laid out like a buffet.” His tone dips another octave and a pulse flares to life between my legs. I chafe my thighs together, clench my core in the hope of plugging the emptiness that yawns in my center.

“Michael,” I groan, “what are you doing?”

“Admiring my handiwork, of course,” he retorts at once.

Jerk.

“Please, Michael, please.”

“What do you want, Beauty?”

“Fuck me, Michael.”

“Not happening.”

“What the-?” I try to rise up but he, once more, wraps his fingers around my neck to hold me in place. “What the hell are you playing at?” I snap. “Seriously, I am done with how you keep toying with me and then making me come-”

“So, you’d rather not come?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“So, you do want me to touch you.”

“Argh, stop putting words in my mouth, asshole.” I stare up at him from the corner of my eyes, “Honestly, what are you up to?”

“I think I need to stuff some of the fabric in your mouth.”

“Don’t you dare, you jerk.”

“Then stay quiet, Belleza.”

He slides his fingers between my legs, drags the edge of his hand against my pussy. My core clenches and my toes curl. Moisture pools in my center, slides down my inner thigh.

“Dio cane,” he growls, “you are soaking, Beauty.”

“Oh, bugger off,” I mutter. “How about this? Next time, I’ll be the one to tie you down, and play with your balls, and then we’ll see how you respond.

“You can play with my balls even without tying me down, baby.”

I snort then quickly turn it into a gagging noise, “Seriously, that was a terrible attempt at banter.”

“So why are you laughing?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Her reaches for the curved ruler that I’d been examining earlier. He picks it up and I frown. “That’s a French curve,” I explain. “It’s used to create the perfect curved line for pants and skirts.”ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

“I can think of a perfect curved line I’d like to use it on.”

I blink rapidly, “Wh… what do you mean?”

He releases his hold on me, steps back, no doubt, to admire his handiwork one more time. Jerk! Then he positions himself at right angles to my body, widens his stance, raises the ruler, much like the position of a golf player raising his club. My throat closes. My scalp tingles and a hot sensation coils in my belly. “Wh… what are you doing, Michael?” I gulp

“One guess.” He smirks down at me, “Go on, surely you have an inkling by now.”

“Are you…” I clear my throat, “going to use it on me?”

“Right on one.” He brings it down and taps it against my naked backside. My breathing hitches. My core clenches. I lick my lips and his gaze drops to my mouth. His blue eyes blaze. His muscles uncoil.

He raises the French ruler again, swipes it against my arsecheek, and I yelp, “What the hell? Stop that!”

He chuckles. The asshole chuckles. “Come on, it didn’t even hurt, Beauty.”

“Fuck you,” I snarl. “Why don’t we exchange places and I’ll spank your tight ass and then we’ll-”

He brings the curved part of the ruler down on my other arsecheek and goosebumps pop on my skin. I huff, try to pull away, but of course, the bastard doesn’t allow me to move. He places his free hand on the middle of my back, leans enough weight on me so I can’t pull free, then he brings the ruler down on my other arsecheek. Fire sears my butt and I yell, “Goddam you, you… you jerk.”

Whack! He brings down the ruler again and I howl. Again, and my entire body jerks. My nipples pebble, my toes curl, moisture laces my core and I squeeze my legs together. A groan bubbles up, and I bury my teeth in my lower lip to stop it from escaping. He pauses, and I glance up to find his gaze arrested by my expression.

His shoulders bunch; his chest rises and falls. I lower my gaze to the front of his pants, which is tented, showing just how much he is aroused. He drops the ruler on the counter, and the sound chafes across my already sensitized nerve-endings.

He massages my backside and pinpricks of pleasure crawl up my spine. He slides his fingers between my thighs, scoops up some of the cum from my core, then drags it up between my arsecheeks to my backhole.

“What the hell are you d…doing?” I stammer.

“What does it feel like?”

I hear the smirk in his voice. Bastard. He plays with my puckered hole and I tense.

“Shh.” He brings his other hand up to massage the back of my neck. He digs his fingertips into the knotted muscles there and moves them in small circles. The tension instantly drains out of my flesh. My shoulders relax and a delicious warmth seeps into my blood. He slides his finger inside my backhole and I can’t bring myself to protest. He pulls out his finger, slips it in again, works his way inside my channel. I wriggle around, dig my heels into the ground. He curves his finger inside and a trembling grips me. Shit, shit, shit. I shouldn’t find what he’s doing so much of a turn on.

He removes his hand from my neck. There’s a whisper of fabric, the rasp of metal, then a thump. I snap my eyes open to find his knife laid out on the counter next to my face. Goosebumps pop on my skin. “Wh…what are you going to do with that?”

“Nothing you don’t want me to.”

I take in the handle of the knife and my heart begins to race. “Michael,” I whisper, “you wouldn’t…”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Huh?” I glance up from the side of my eyes, “So you agree that you are not going to…use it?”

“Is that what you want, Beauty?” His blue eyes are hard, all emotion wiped from his face. He seems cold and unreachable. Like he’s putting me to the test. Like he’s already decided about the outcome. Like he knows that I am going to refuse what he wants to do next.

I swallow, draw in a breath. I can’t let him know just how afraid I am. How much I want what he can do to me, and yet, how scared I am that I will like it. What does that say about me? That dark side of me that I have always suspected I have. Which is the reason I had been down for becoming a goth… Which still hadn’t satisfied that deep nothingness inside of me. The place where there is no judgment, where I can indulge my appetites, can allow myself to be used the way I want, for it seems to satisfy that need inside of me to become someone’s fucktoy.

There, I said it. Well, in my head, anyway. Something I’ve known but which I’ve never admitted, even to myself. I know, it’s me being judgmental about myself… Then, I’d met him and he’d ripped off my mask. He’d laid that kinky fucked-up part of himself out there and I had recognized it… Only, I have yet to come to terms with what that means… Still, I want to own it.

I want to be able to wear my smutty heart on my sleeve. I want to be free to be myself. No judgement. It’s what he’s offering me. A safe space in which to embrace my own fucked-up-ness. It took a beast to bring out the monster in me. I wonder what that means?

“No,” I whisper, “that’s not what I want.”

His features seem to freeze. His gaze widens. Then, those blue eyes seem to catch fire. Cold fire that sweeps through my skin, heats my blood, and lodges somewhere deep in my gut. My heartbeat ratchets up and moistures slicks my core.

“Tell me,” he rumbles, “tell me what you need.”