Page 78 of Mafia Bride
He lets me go and heads for the bathroom. I get up on my hands, sobbing in pain and frustration, and pull on my panties, then stop when the elastic makes the flesh scream. He drops a tube of lotion on the bed, rubbing his hands together as if the spanking made him sore too.
He’s so tall and powerful, I don’t know whether to feel threatened that he’ll give me what I want, even if he can’t admit it, or safe that he won’t.
“I can put that on you.” He indicates the lotion. “Or you can do it.”
It takes a moment for the sting of my ass to clue me in that the lotion is to soothe the angry skin.
I grab the tube. “I’ll do it.” When I roll to a sitting position, I suck in a pained breath and twist to the side, which hides absolutely nothing from him.
“I own you,” he says. “Those aren’t just words. I won’t let anyone hurt what’s mine. And you? I don’t care if you keep your legs closed for me the rest of your life. You are my blood violet. Mine. Forever. Don’t forget it, or I’ll prove it again. I’ll use my belt on your ass and save my hands to punish your tits.”
His seriousness can’t be questioned, any more than the enormous rod pushing against the crotch of his pants.
“I won’t,” I say, unable to look away from his erection.
“When you go out, you’ll have a man assigned to you. Be on time for breakfast.”
He closes the door behind him, but doesn’t lock it.
Peeling my nightgown off and stepping out of my underwear, I go to the bathroom and turn before the full-length mirror.
My ass is blotched with a red so deep it’s almost blue, and the backs of my thighs, which he paid less attention to, are a playful pink.
But as I rub the aloe lotion over the places he abused, I know that’s not where he did the most damage. The skin would heal in a few days, the contusions would turn yellow, then disappear. My ideas about myself were changed forever.
I’m not only a whore he’s degraded and debased, I’m unbearably wet. Swollen. Throbbing to be touched by him. I’ve only masturbated a few times in my life, and I’m tempted to do it again.
And I wonder, would that huge dick hurt? Would he be gentle? Or would it be as callously cruel as the moment he squeezed my face to force me to say “I do”?
I try to imagine a gentle Santino, but the cruel daydreams push out the sweet ones.
He would be terrible.
He’d hurt me.
He’d make me do disgusting things.
He’d use my body like a toy, and the more I imagine his brutality, the more demanding my arousal becomes.
I turn the shower water to cold so I can freeze out my desire.
He can’t have that part of me.
I’ll stay put and be good, but I won’t touch myself and think of that monster.
No matter how much I want to.
21
VIOLETTA
I wake slowly, letting my body adjust to being conscious before I open my eyes. Ever since I returned from Loretta’s, I haven’t been allowed away from the house. Santino has been here more, too. Whatever business he conducts, he has been doing it from home.
Seeing him around and sharing meals with him is pleasant in ways I never expected. He has his own charms, and it’s getting easier to see them through the cracks in his cold cruelty. When we’re eating together, he makes sure I’m taken care of before he is. When we talk, he listens with an intensity that drives deep questions about who I am. Why do I want to be a nurse? Why the ER? Why trauma? How does it make me feel? How do I react to patients, to blood, to the suffering of others?
Maybe he asks so many questions so I won’t have time to formulate my own, but I gave up on asking him anything until I know he’ll answer.
Because of this, he thinks he punished me into being a good and obedient wife, which will give me room to move, room to escape. It’s not because he’s slowly breaking down the walls I’ve put around myself.
