He finally stops. He’s panting from the effort, no longer whipping me, but poised as if he’s ready to strike again.
Why? Why does he care?
Why this time of all times is my punishment so much worse than it was before? Why does questioning my virginity make him so harsh? I would've expected fury from Sergio, or Mama. Or any of my brothers, to be honest.
Why does Dario care?
"You know I did," I say, my voice choked with tears. “You know I gave it to him. So why do you need me to tell you? What’s it to you?” My voice sounds small and accusatory, and I don’t care.
“You know why,” he says, his voice so harsh it feels physically painful to hear. "What happens to you next is fully contingent on how honest you are.”
Maybe he's also experimenting with the best way to get the truth from me. Sensual caresses, and the need to climax? Or harsh punishment?
I'm fully aware of his hard length pressed into my belly, and it suffuses me with a sense of power. I like that he’s affected by me.
He feels what I do, every inch of my body pressed against his. This is more than his job.
Dario wants me. And is there any such thing on this earth as a woman who doesn’t want to be wanted?
I admit the truth, even though it’s embarrassing. "I didn't like that my virginity wasn't mine to handle or control," I tell him truthfully. At this point I don't know why I would hold anything back from him. Every time I have, he's only punished me and known that I had something to tell him.
My reward comes as he spreads my legs with his strong, capable fingers, teasing and possessing every inch of me until I'm on the very cusp of climax again.
"Vivia," he says, “tell me everything now. I want to hear it. Don’t make me extract it in pieces.”
And then his voice dips to a lower register, molten and seductive. "You took your punishment like a very good girl, and I'm so very proud of you. Do you know how proud of you I am?"
I tell myself not to fall for it. I tell myself he doesn't mean it. I tell myself that this is only part of the whole game.
But it doesn't matter. Nothing I tell myself makes my body respond any differently.
I melt into him. My pulse raises. My breasts feel fuller and tingly, and I want to feel anything, literally anything, against my nipples and the underside of my breasts. The pressure between my legs is unbearable.
I can handle the spanking. I can handle his anger. But the way he praises me unravels me. I fall to pieces like a deck of cards. And he knows this, fuck it.
I wish I had better control of my emotions. But I can't control my reaction any more than I can control my heart beating or my eyes blinking. It's instinctual, inexplicable. In my entire life, no one has ever spoken to me the way he does, and even though a very small part of me feels that this is just part of the game, and he doesn't actually mean a word of it, I don't care. It feels so good, I’ll take even this parody of affection.
Harsh direction, cruel words, brutal punishment… They are my bread and butter. They were my daily diet. I don't like being punished, but long ago I learned how to steel myself against it. This, however? This… praise? Gentleness? Whatever it's called… It's so foreign to me I'm completely taken off guard.
"Open your legs, beautiful," he says to me, and even that feels so good it makes me want to cry. Mama told me that I'm beautiful, yes. My nannies did too, as did my extended family. But there's something about the way he calls me beautiful, as if it's a term of endearment, that it sinks into my skin and warms me from the inside out.
I do exactly what he says. I lie prone over his lap as if I'm part of him. My naked skin is on fire and my heart beats so fast I feel dizzy. I close my eyes as if that will help me withstand the torrent of emotion, but it doesn't do much good. No. I don't stand a chance against this.
Flames lick at my body, warming me to the point of pain. I half expect he’ll make me come like this, right over his lap, and I won’t stop him. But no. That would be too simple. He releases me on his lap, reaches down, then lifts me and cradles me to his chest.
Aw, Christ, I love how that feels though.
"I've never seen anyone more beautiful in my life," he says. "When they told me what my job was, I thought I was the luckiest man alive.” He’s playing me, he has to be, but why does it seem like he’s sincere? “I’ll take a gorgeous woman like you into custody anytime.” He shakes his head from side to side. “And I didn't even know the half of it. Tip your head back, lovely. Just relax, let your head fall back.”
When I do as he says, he makes a low, male groan of approval. Oh, he likes it when I obey him. Dario has a strong sadistic streak, that much is clear. Lucky for him I'm a pretty damn good match.
“What a good girl. Look at you, you’re doing so good.”
His praise makes my heart beat faster, and I feel as if I’m wrapped in a silken cocoon of utter bliss. I feel blissfully happy, and my heart sings as I bask in his praise. I silence the inner censor that tells me not to trust him, that this is only an act, that this is a—
Oh, hell.
My mind becomes a blissful chasm of nothingness when he bends his mouth to me and kisses the valley between my breasts. He continues to praise me, his words igniting a need in me so ferocious I can’t control it. Every word is an adulation, every sentiment pays homage and I forgive his sins with the benevolence of a saint. “Look at that perfect body,” he moans. His lips are fire against my skin, and every time his eyes meet mine, as his tongue circles my nipple, he kisses the swell of my breast, the slight pain of teeth against the hardened buds, my heart turns over in response.