Page 93 of Mafia King
“Yes.”
“Stop talking.”
He rides me like a jockey using a belt as a rein, hips at a gallop, then a canter, then a run, faster and deeper than any man his size should. I squeal.
“That’s what your voice is for. Now take it.”
This is not sex. It’s punishment. It’s violence. It’s a drug and I’m an addict.
“You like when I talk.”
“I like when you’re fucking quiet!” he roars.
Then he picks me up, throws me over his shoulder and pitches me onto the bed, dropping me onto my back. Towering over me, he grabs behind my knees and pulls me to him, the back of my dress sliding against the duvet, and spreads them wide.
“Your mouth needs to talk less.” He shoves four fingers inside me, tugging on the hood of my clit, sending shockwaves of bliss up my spine. “And your cunt needs to talk more.”
His fingers are slick when he pulls them out.
“I want more.”
He shoves them in my mouth. I taste myself, gurgling around hard knuckles.
“You don’t know what you want.” He heaves his massive cock into my waiting, begging cunt. He’s loose and feral, angry and passionate, trying to impale my heart with every thrust.
“This is what you need.” He grunts, cupping my jaw with his palm and pushing his fingers into my mouth. “To be put in your place.”
The heady fumes of an orgasm build into a mindless fog. I am nothing. I do not exist outside him and the building promise of release. He owns me. I’m his toy. His American whore. His growling in Italian comes from the other side of an ocean.
“You. Stay. Out. Of. My. Business.” His thrusts punctuate each word.
Euphoria finally cracks open. Everything goes rushing to my pussy as the earth opens and the heavens cry, and I scream his name the moment before he thrusts me into voiceless oblivion.
He curses, closes his eyes, and lets his fingers slide from my mouth when he comes. He stumbles back with his dick out, shiny and wet, leaving me panting on my back. I wipe the hair from my face, but my arms are overcooked noodles and flop back to the bed.
Santino takes me by the ankles, spreading them to the width of his arm span and wedges himself between my legs. Is he going to fuck me again? Right now?
“Are you hurt?” he asks with his forehead touching mine.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t seem satisfied. I pull him down to me.
“No.Mi…” he starts, but can’t finish without swallowing. “Mi dispiace.”
The Italian words for an apology are “I am not pleased,” and in this case, he means it literally. He’s not pleased with himself. He’s ashamed and regretful.
“Look at you. Look what I did. Your dress is torn. Your throat will be bruised. Inside… I hurt you.”
“I’m fine,” I say again.
“No!” he shouts, standing, still fully dressed with his dick out. “You want to help Gia. Where’s my excuse? I wanted tohurtyou for no higher reason. This…” He holds out his hand to indicate my body as if what he sees is illustration enough. “This is not what a man does. A man keeps his wife safe, even from himself.”
When I get up on my knees, I feel the back of the torn dress draping over my calves and wrestle out of it.
“I asked you to do it.” I toss the ruined dress on the floor. My thong’s so stretched out it’s falling off, so I roll onto my back and whip that off as well. “I begged you. I egged you on.”
“That’s not a reason to beat you like a dog.”
