Eighteen
Holly
Happy birthday to me.
It’s my eighteenth birthday. I know this because yesterday, Maria wished me Feliz Navidad in the morning when she brought me a breakfast tray and packed sandwiches and snacks to cover me for the rest of the day.
When it got dark, I sat in my window sill, looking at the pool instead of snow, and sang Silent Night, Away in a Manger, and Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer. I burst into tears during the Rudolph song and then said, “My life sucks” and went to bed.
Christmas was such a big deal when I was a little girl.
As I grew and after our circumstances changed, it became all about my mother’s misery.
And then when Ang came, she tried. She really tried. She tried so hard to make Christmas and my birthday special. Mom sucked out as much joy as she could. We nicknamed her Felicia Dyson. She could drink her face off and not lose that suction power of extracting the joy from the house.
I was gone before my sixteenth birthday, so I didn’t celebrate it. I also didn’t celebrate my seventeenth birthday. But according to my captor, he’ll be celebrating my eighteenth with me.
I woke up today with trepidation. Times a hundred. My heart wanted to beat out of my chest before I was even out of bed.
I’ve spent the past several days in my room. With him away, he didn’t want me out of these four safe walls, I guess, because Maria hasn’t said a word about me swimming or walking. Maybe with Esmerelda gone, so are my outings.
Today, Maria delivered a breakfast of muesli cereal, milk, and a bowl of raspberries, plus a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice. She put a paper bag down, too, and I peeked inside at a sandwich, a bottle of juice, and a bag of grapes.
She must be going out again. Sometimes Esmerelda would bring a packed lunch with my breakfast if she had to go out during the day. And thinking back, maybe the past two Christmases came with packed food for the day, too.
“Thank you, Maria,” I say and she gives me a tight smile before she leaves.
I notice again that the door does not lock and fear instantly pierces my veins. She’d been locking it.
Is she setting me up? Or is she following orders?
I glance out the window and see him. He’s swimming laps in the pool. I don’t know when he got home, but seeing him makes me feel both elated and filled with dread at the exact same time.
I watch until he gets out and dabs his face with a plush towel. He looks up at my window.
I clutch the drapes. The look in his eyes? In my non-existent experience with men, I shouldn’t know a thing. But, I do know. I can see it. I see carnal lust and warning and anger all at the same time. And for some reason it feels like a match is struck right against that magical spot between my legs.
He’s furious with me. Still. He drops the towel and strides to the door, muscles rippling, in absolute command of his body. He disappears from my view as he enters the house.
Is he coming up here? Am I in trouble again? Still?
I stand, waiting, for what feels like forever. Finally, I sit down and put the television on, putting on an episode of The Vampire Diaries and I half-watch while I eat. I’m in the last season of the show and I want to savor it. But my mind isn’t on it, so I turn it off and stare out the window, deciding I’ll re-watch it later.
Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I won’t be back here after tonight.
Maybe he’ll take my virginity and my life. Or send me to the basement so that I can be trained. And sold. To someone else. Sending me away would solve the problem of Angie’s powerful husband looking for me, wouldn’t it?
Sadness creeps through every inch of me. I climb back into bed and close my eyes. Sleep doesn’t come. I just lie there for hours, telling myself that he won’t do terrible things. But it nags that maybe I’m wrong; maybe he will.
***
It’s early evening and my door opens. I’m painting at my easel. It’s a snowy mountain scape from a camping trip I remember from when my dad was alive. In the center of the scene is a small cottage and there’s a lit and decorated Christmas tree in the window.
Alessandro is here with a tray in his hand. It’s covered by a silver dome.
“Dinner.” He puts it down on the desk.
I tuck my hair behind my ears.
He’s glaring at me.
“Happy birthday,” he practically spits, like he’s furious it’s my birthday.
“Thank you. And Merry Christmas. Belatedly. Did you have a nice Christmas, Alessandro?”
He shakes his head, an incredulous look on his face. Like I have a whole lot of nerve or something.
“Why are you bringing me my dinner? Maria packed me sandwiches.”
“No one’s here but you and me. I thought you might like a hot meal after sandwiches yesterday.”
“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows in surprise, “Why is she gone?”
“That’s how I wanted it,” he says dismissively and moves toward the easel and looks at my painting.
He lifts the page and throws it over the top of the easel so that he can see what’s underneath. The paint was wet so it’s probably ruined now. I’m not about to complain. My heart starts racing.
It’s a sketch of a snowy owl. I’m quite pleased with how it turned out.
He flips that sheet over the top, too, and I wince, knowing what’s next. My face is going red; I can feel it.
Underneath that page is a sketch. Of him and me. And I’m more than pleased with it, although I’m not pleased about him seeing it.
It’s just in profile, of him and half of my face as he’s overlapped it, his hand holding my jaw. It’s a sketch of that anticipatory breath right before a kiss. And the way I captured the moment, it’s crystal clear that the two people about to kiss are ready to abandon everything else so they can get lost in each other. Their eyes are closed and they’re so close that tips of their eyelashes are almost touching, looking like they’ll weave together in a perfect fit.
He lets out a cold gust of laugher. It’s so icy cold it chills and freezes the center of my chest.
“Eat your food and then take a bath and get ready for me. When you’re done, come to my room in a robe wearing your bra and panties underneath. Wait for me there. At the end of the bed.” He heads for the door.
“Alessandro.” I say, not sure how I’m going to communicate appropriately what I want to say, but I’m going to try.
He turns around and looks at me expectantly.
“I want this. I want you. I’m not scared.” I shake my head, filled with resolve. “I know there’s no way that you’d keep me safe all this time only to hurt me. I think you’re a tormented soul who needs to know that another soul will accept you for who you are. I---”
He moves fast, faster than I’ve ever seen anyone move, and I’m up against the wall, my throat in his grip. His eyes are hard. His jaw is clenched in fury, like he’s fighting to control his anger.
“You aren’t scared? Don’t be stupid, little girl.”
I swallow against his palm. I put my hands on his chest. The heat seeps through his dress shirt. I feel the hardness of his muscles. I also feel his heartbeat. Steady, strong. I swallow and blink a couple times and then focus on his eyes.
His eyes are filled with wrath. The smile on my face is long dead.
“After tonight,” his lips move to my temple and the fury in his tone forces icicles through my veins, “you’ll know fear. And you’ll know who your fucking master is.”
His hand sifts through my hair and then he cups my face and leans down, looking deep into my eyes, his dark gunmetal eyes so close his lashes briefly tangle up with mine. Like my drawing.
I draw in breath, breathing him in. There’s nothing else I can do; I’ve melted into the wall already. And there is nothing else I want to do.
He smells so good, so right. I barely breathe because all I breathe is him, in my face, in my space.
“I already know. It’s you.”
His eyes flare with anger, “You don’t get it.” He tightens his grip. “I suggest you stop dreaming these childish fantasies right now and brace yourself for the monster beneath this mask.”
I close my eyes tight and feel the absence of his body heat as he backs away.
“I’ll meet you in my bed. Be waiting. Bra and underwear only. Happy birthday, mi pequeña flor. Wear whatever it is that makes you sometimes smell like peaches.”
He closes the door.
***
I can’t eat more than three bites of the roasted turkey dinner that I’m guessing was supposed to be a substitute for Christmas dinner, so I have a bath and take my time shaving, shampooing, conditioning, and after drying off, lotioning up with the body lotion he must be talking about.
I also couldn’t stomach that dinner, because it reminded me of birthday dinners when I was little. I almost always had Christmas leftovers for my birthday, until Mom stopped bothering with Christmas. Now it just tastes like sadness to me.
I quietly pad to his rooms and drop my robe and get into his bed. The doors are opened to show the glass leading to my room. It’s odd to see that, to see his view of my space, to see his admission of what we both already know: his choice to tell me he has the power to watch me whenever he wants.
I don’t think this is having the effect he wants. Because, for some reason, it’s kind of…comforting. It makes me feel safer, rather than invaded.
My heart is racing. I’m quickly under the heavy blankets and I smell him on the pillow. The room has a soft and romantic glow with just the lamp on.
After I’ve been here what feels like half an hour, I hear noise. My heart hammers and after a full body shiver, I haven’t stopped trembling. Is this really happening?
The doors open and he is here with me. He’s bare-chested, wearing a pair of black silky boxers and not a stitch of anything else.
He’s holding a cupcake with swirly pink frosting and a lit candle on top.
“Blow it out. Make a wish.” He is right here, at the bedside, and I’m clutching the blankets to my upper chest.
This is really happening.
The pretty pink frosted cupcake is now in front of me.
“You’re very cruel,” I say.
“Now she’s getting it,” he snickers.
I close my eyes and make a wish and that wish is his name. It’s a prayer in my mind and I know that it’s entirely self-explanatory to the God who knows what’s in my heart.
Please be good.
Please be gentle.
Please love me and continue to keep me safe.
Please keep treating me like I’m your treasured possession.
Please let me show you that you really aren’t bad.
I blow out the flame.
“What did you wish for?” he asks softly and the timbre of his voice? It sounds gentle, sweet, caring. How can I read so much in just five words? I just feel it.
“You.”
His expression darkens. He puts the cupcake on the table beside the bed and sucks a tiny speck of frosting off his thumb.
“I guess you aren’t getting it.”
“I get it. I understand more than you realize,” I tell him.
“Wishes don’t always come true. But sometimes, they do. Only, they’re not what you thought you were gonna get.” His eyes are on me. “I’ve kept you too sheltered. You have an unrealistic view of who I am.” He reaches under the bed and produces a box. He puts it on the end of the bed, then pulls the blankets back. He freezes.
Because I’m naked.
His eyes darken and he snarls at me while his eyes are simultaneously raking over me. I’ve surprised him.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” He thrusts his hand through his hair. He doesn’t look away. His eyes are on my body.
I’m quiet.
His eyes move to my face.
I’m not saying anything and I’m not sure what my expression ‘says’. But my heart is loudly reminding me that I’m alive. For now.
Why did I defy him? I don’t really know. Or, I guess I kind of do. Maybe I don’t want him to hesitate and if he sees me naked, maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll see I’m not afraid and stop feeling like he has to be a bad guy with me. Maybe I can be his solace, his happy place. I’m stripped down. Maybe he’ll strip down to who he really is.
“Holly,” he says my name, his tone lethal.
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you fucking follow my directions?” He’s looking at me. I’m just lying there, my hands at my sides, fists filled with the sheets, my legs closed, the blankets thrown down below my knees.
“I think you know why,” I answer softly, looking straight into his eyes.
He moves and I think for a second that he’s gonna leave, but he stops at the bottom of the bed, his hand in his hair and I see that his boxer shorts are tented. He’s hard. For me.
I slow blink. And my mouth drops open at the sight of it.
Alessandro pulls the blankets right off the bed, the box of unknown contents falling to the floor with them. Now there’s no option to cover myself if I wanted to. And I want to, suddenly. I really want to.
His eyes are moving up and down my body. And he looks totally furious.
His hand goes to his erection. He’s got ahold of his package as if he’s trying to calm it down or something. Or maybe like it hurts. I don’t know; I can’t read his expression or his body language very well. This isn’t exactly something I’m familiar with.
“Fuck.” He looks torn.
And I feel this overwhelming urge to go to him, to put my arms around him and give him some reassurance. I make a motion to move and he points.
“Not a fucking muscle until I tell you.”
He begins pacing, just the width of the bed. But he’s pacing that short distance with his massive erection and a scowl on his face. His hair is a mess. A beautiful mess. Because he’s been running his hands through it in frustration. Sexual frustration. Over me.
“You’ve been saving me for tonight. For my eighteenth birthday. It’s my birthday, but I’m your gift. Are you gonna take me, Alessandro?”
He jets across the room, whirls and whacks at the small desk, sending the laptop and the desk lamp over the edge. They hit the floor with a crash.
He thrusts his hands into his hair again and then he’s back at the foot of the bed, holding the railing, white knuckled, and he’s looking at me with so much anger on his face that I’m beginning to regret my actions. Deeply.
He shakes the footrail of the bed, with fury, with both hands, like he’s trying to strangle it. A strangled angry sound comes from his throat. The bed moves with his motion and I’m frightened of what I’m seeing. Like he’s fighting rage off.
He takes a big breath. There’s loaded silence for a minute, maybe two. He’s just standing there. His eyes active like he’s mentally calculating, weighing things.
“Go on, then. Present yourself to me,” he finally speaks, waving his right hand like he doesn’t even care. But he cares. His left hand is still gripping the footrail.
“Wh-what does that mean?” I ask, stammering.
He straightens up and looks down at me.
“Knees up, together.”
I lift my legs a little so that the soles of my feet are planted on the mattress. My heart is racing. But, it’s damp between my legs. It feels like there’s a pulse down there.
“Backs of your heels to your ass, knees stay together.”
I do what he says. My knees are up high.
“Drop your knees. Slowly.”
I blink a few times fast.
“Drop your fucking knees. Right now.” His eyes are filled with fire.
He lets go of the bed and makes a motion with his palms like opening a book. And then his hands go to his waist and he plants them on his hips. He licks his teeth behind his closed mouth and jerks his chin at me, waiting.
My eyes move to the ceiling as my knees separate until they’re almost touching the bed.
God, I’m mortified.
“Soles of your feet together.”
I match them up.
“Eyes on me,” he says and then he grabs my ankles roughly and yanks me down a bit more so that I’m closer to the bottom of the bed. He plants my feet against one another again. I feel so exposed. I am so exposed.
“Arms over your head.”
I throw my arms over my head, but grab the sheets above me.
“No. Relax your hands. Submit. You don’t move unless I give you permission. Nothing tensed.”
His eyes are on me, between my legs. I glance at his face. He hisses behind clenched teeth.
And then I see that he is holding his dick. His shorts are gone. He took them off at some point.
My eyes land on it. I’ve never seen one in person before, other than a glimpse when that girl got raped my first night here, but it’s bigger than I expected it to be.
It’s thick and long there are a few slightly puffy veins running down the length of it. He’s stroking himself. His eyes travel from my breasts to between my legs.
“You wet, Holly?” He leans over and I see that there’s a clear drop of liquid on the head of his thing, over the small opening. His thumb grazes it and he squeezes, his eyes directly on my vagina.
I nod.
He reaches over and his hand moves toward me. My heart is threatening to burst out of my chest and take flight.
His finger dips and slides between my lower lips and it slides not only due to the motion, but due to how wet I am.
I’m quivering now, with anticipation, but I’m feeling incredibly shy suddenly so out of reflex, my knees fly up and clamp nearly shut. They don’t completely shut, though, because he slaps between my legs and the sting right across my vagina is practically ringing. He then grabs both of my knees and roughly shoves them.
“I said, open! You upped the ante, baby. Now you face the fucking music. You’re gonna wish you never started your shit with me.”
There’s a vein popping on his forehead.
“Damn you for fucking doing this,” he snarls.
My heart drops. My stomach pitches. I break out in a cold sweat. He’s so mad at me. Was he not going to do this tonight? Was he just trying to scare me and now I’ve gone and pushed my luck?
I want to close my legs. I want to hide my face.
“Look at me,” he demands, “Eyes on me.”
His fingers move away from between my legs and he plunges them right into his mouth. He lavishly licks them and the look he gives me is like he wants to murder me.
“You can’t undo it now. The monster you’ve been kept safe from? Now he’s seen your cunt, tasted it, and he’s all fucking yours. You opened Pandora’s box and you can’t shove him back in and re-lock it, Holly. You ready? Shit’s about to go down.”
A tear is rolling down my cheek.
That whole time, he kept stroking his cock. He kept doing it while staring into my eyes and letting his eyes wander over my naked body. He’s still doing it.
“Stop it.” I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.
“Shut your manipulating mouth,” he snaps. “Unless I tell you to open it because I’m ready to ram my cock down your throat.” He’s breathing hard. “Ram it until tears are streaming down your face because I keep hitting that gag reflex, because I won’t let up until your tears and spit are mixed with my come.”
I choke on my feelings and begin to sob. I squeeze my eyes shut tight.
“Open those fucking eyes! Don’t make me tell you again.”
I gasp.
“Still think I’m your fucking prince, protecting you like my protected princess in the tower until I can rescue you?” He’s stroking faster and faster now on his cock, “Or do you think you can rescue me and make me be a good man?”
I’m sobbing.
“Your tears, little girl, fucking gorgeous.” He squeezes, grunts, and then creamy white streams land across me, dotting my stomach, my breasts, and a little bit on my pubic bone, just above the start of my slit.
And then he’s mere inches from my face and his hand glides all through the mess he made on me. He wipes it all over, spreads it around. He rams three wet fingers into my mouth and it’s him and me.
I’m not crying anymore. I’m tear-stained, sticky, and staring at him in absolute and complete shock with his fingers in my mouth. His chest is rising and falling rapidly and the eye of that storm in his eyes? They are burning holes into me, like he’s an angry wronged beast that just got let out of the cage so that he can take vengeance on those who locked him up.
And then his fingers are gone and it’s his mouth that’s on mine. He’s not doing what I can confidently call kissing. Kissing is something I think of as giving. This isn’t that. This is taking. Marking. He’s marked me by coming on me, put himself inside me not through sex but through shoving his come-coated fingers into my mouth.
Now he’s kissing me in a bruising and painful way. It’s like he’s fucking my mouth with his tongue.
He grabs a handful of my hair and is using it to hold me still against his mouth. It hurts. My scalp is on fire. He’s kissing me for what feels like a long time. I’m not really kissing him back because there’s no way to do that. He’s got me immobile. His mouth is moving so insistently, so possessively over me that I can’t participate. I’m simply taking what he’s giving to me.
He starts grinding against me. He’s hard. Again, or still? I don’t know.
I’m flipped over onto my stomach and I instantly brace.
He pushes his dick between my butt cheeks and then I feel the tip poised against my opening. I clench my teeth. He shifts and fluidly rams his hard cock into me but it’s not into my vagina.
He’s ripped right into me from behind. I know he’s torn my asshole. He’s rammed in hard and right to the hilt. I scream. He’s still for a second and I feel the tension in his body as if it is the entire room. He begins moving, thrusting, slowly, deeply.
It hurts so badly. I’m crying and gasping. I’m struggling, kicking, and grabbing at the sheets, but it doesn’t help. He’s pumping, drilling in and out, over and over. There’s a slapping sound permeating the room.
“Don’t struggle like this is rape. This is what you asked for. You get into my bed naked? This. This is what you get when you try to seduce me repeatedly through the mirror, when you let me catch you in my bed rubbing your cunt. No gentle deflowering for you today, baby. I’ll save the technical deflowering until our wedding night. Tonight, at least your ass was mine. If you’d been a good girl… fuck. Fuck you’re so tight.” He stops talking for a second and then growls, “Next time be a good girl and follow my fucking directions and maybe I won’t go in dry.”
I’m thrashing and crying as the pain continues searing through me.
He’s grunting, he’s grabbed my hands and is now holding my arms above my head, his hand clamped over my pushed together wrists.
His other hand goes to one of my hips and his fingers are digging in hard.
His mouth is against the back of my neck.
“Alessandro, please,” I cry out and he slows but deepens his pace, and then I feel him come inside my ass.
He stills. He’s put most of his weight on me.
His hand is suddenly in my hair and then I’m turned to my back. His lips are against mine again.
“You’re beautiful. My beautiful Holly. Mine. Only mine. But you’re most beautiful when I make you cry.”
My lips are sore and swollen, and I can taste blood from biting my lips so hard, but it only takes a moment for me to realize that this is a different kiss from before.
This kiss has turned tender, filled with emotion. This kiss coaxes my lips to part. His tongue doesn’t take, it tastes, then dives in to twirl around with mine and make tingles work their way through to my nipples.
How or why that’s happening with my butt hole a ring of fire, I have no idea.
His thumb is swiping across my nipple, which is pointy and super-sensitized, and then his hand is on my jaw, gently, sweetly. Before I can think through my actions, I’m thrusting my fingers into his hair. I desperately want to cling to him. I want to draw comfort from him. I’m so raw and sore and broken. I just need to take comfort from him.
He lets me.
I’m crying and kissing him and holding him tight while the tears trail down my face. And he’s kissing me like his life depends on it. He’s letting me kiss him back and I’m doing it. I’m going for the gusto.
I pull back and look at him. The look of pain on his face is tearing a hole in me. He did this to me, but yet he looks like he’s the one who has been ripped apart.
He still has me by the face. His eyes are closed tight, his mouth is contorted painfully. His jaw is hard. He keeps clenching. His eyes open and lock with mine for a beat, two beats, three. And then he looks like he’s about to roar in anger.
He abruptly lets go of me and I tense up. I’m afraid of what’s next, but then he rolls over me so that he’s behind me. He spoons me and his mouth is on the back of my head.
His fingers go between my legs. He’s rubbing me.
He’s rubbing me and I’m hurting. Hurting and hurling through some strange world of conflicting sensations. My rear end is killing me.
He sinks his teeth into my shoulder as he keeps rubbing circles between my legs and I begin to tremble. Pleasure and pain are braided together. My eyes are closed and I’m warring in some sort of confused and pleasure-driven state. It’s a three-way tug of war between pain and embarrassment and arousal. He’s rubbing faster, harder, and then he’s kissing the spot he’s just bitten. And then he rises on an elbow and his mouth moves over to my mouth and he’s kissing me again while circling faster. I cry out into his mouth as I come, hard. Harder than I ever have before.
He rubs my asshole, which I can tell is all puffy and bleeding. I wince, sucking in a hiss as I shudder, floating back to the earth from some otherworldly place.
“Sleep,” he orders and then kisses my head and moves away for just a beat and then the blankets are thrown over me.
His left arm is around my waist and my hand is on top of his hand. My eyes close and my fingers tighten, threading with his. He squeezes, too.
I sink down to a place where I don’t have to process this. Where I don’t have to think about the fact that he came on me and inside me and gave me an orgasm, but that I’m still technically a virgin. He kissed me painfully and then kissed me sweetly.
We’re both naked and my bum feels like it’s bleeding. It stings so badly. My stomach and breasts are sticky.
But I’m in his arms. He’s holding me like he loves me. Like he needs me.
I feel his strength at my back, around me. His other arm snakes under me and wraps around my chest and now I’m completely wrapped up in his arms.
He’s not making a sound. He’s holding me so tight I’m almost struggling to breathe. But I’m pretty sure those are tears, his tears, that are making the back of my neck feel wet.
I obey his order to sleep. I’m absolutely shattered, so shattered I can’t even process everything that just happened. I only know that thing he and I have? We’re in this together.
Happy birthday to me.
***
I wake up alone. It’s finally light out. I’d woken four or five times, at least, through the night, wrapped in his arms, nuzzling in, running my hands over his warm hard naked body, and falling back to sleep. And he’s nuzzled back. Touching my hair, kissing my face, my shoulder. Asleep together, him vulnerable to me? I can’t describe how intimate it felt, how much I adore it. Until I wake alone.
I feel so alone. Like part of me is missing.
I sit up and wince at the pain in my backside.
There’s still a mess. The room looks like a tornado has been through it. I throw the blanket back and look down and see darkness spotted and streaked on the navy-blue sheets. My blood. But not from where I thought I’d bleed.
I get up.
I move to the bottom of the bed and see the box. It’s the size of a box you’d get a dozen roses in, but it’s black and has a suede finish to it.
I lift the lid off carefully. Inside is a figure eight of dark grey velvet ropes with a spring closure hook at each end. I look up at the ceiling and see the silver rings glinting from the canopy. I chew my lip and close the lid.
He was going to suspend me last night. Was he just gonna scare me?
I pad to the bathroom, past the large open area that has a shower and a bath as well as a long marble vanity, to a door that leads to where there’s a toilet, bidet, and another sink.
I touch back there with my fingertips while I’m sitting on the toilet in his big luxurious bathroom with a sunk-in tub in the corner and a shower stall that’s large enough to hold a football team. It feels almost normal again back there. But, it still hurts.
I step in to the massive shower with multiple heads and turn it on. It’s soothing. There’s only some manly stuff for shampoo and body wash. I use it, luxuriating in the scent, as it’s him.
But, shouldn’t I feel disgusted?
I should.
I don’t.
After how it ended? Him making me climax. Him holding me all night.
I spent the night with him. We both came, him more than once. But, I’m still a virgin.
I wander back out to the bedroom wrapped in a towel and see the bed has been stripped and the black box is gone. I grab my housecoat and the bra and panties that were on the floor but are now on the chair beside the desk. I take them back to the bathroom and dress in them. When I come out, I see that Maria is coming out of Alessandro’s large walk-in closet with a suitcase.
“Hola, Holly,” she says with a smile and then goes into his armoire and has several pairs of socks. She drops them on the bed and then goes back to the closet and returns with several suits., throwing them across the end of the stripped bed.
Where is he going?
“Food es you room?” she asks.
I guess she’s telling me my breakfast is in my room.
“Senor Romero say… you bed room. To go.” She waves at the door.
I nod and tighten the sash on my peach satin robe, and go.
Romero. Alessandro Romero. Information is flowing at me these days. Mere weeks ago, he didn’t have a name. Now he doesn’t just have a name, he’s said he’ll be my husband if it comes down to it. Will it come down to it? That means I’ll be Holly Romero.
But what else does that mean?
I sit down at my table, seeing my breakfast had already been delivered.
I hear the door lock.
***
Dinner time rolls around and I haven’t seen him at all that day. And it’s depressing. Nothing has changed. But everything has changed at the same time. It’s such a cliché, but it’s true.
I’m in this room and it’s no longer feeling like a haven. Now it feels like a prison and I want out.
I hear a knock and know Maria is here with dinner. But when the door opens, I almost fall over.
“Ess-pagett, albon…meat-ta balls,” she says and looks at me with pride. She’s trying to learn English. She keeps using more and more of it with me. She moves in and puts the tray down.
Oh God, it’s the man that brought me here! He moves into the doorway as she bustles in with my tray. He looks the same --- dark and serious in a three-piece suit and shiny black leather shoes.
I’m sitting, frozen, eyes wide, mouth agape.
She leaves the tray and smiles apprehensively at me, and then they leave. Both of them.
I can’t even eat, I’m so thrown.
A long hour of me trying to figure out why he was there passes and she comes in to clear the food and bring clean laundry. And he’s here again. I stare at him in what must look like horror. I’m braced. Convinced he’s here to take me away.
Alessandro is done with me. He screwed me up my ass and now he’s done. God. What’s going to happen to me?
But, the man doesn’t do or say anything. He just watches Maria. It’s as if I’m not even here.
It dawns that he must be home. Several times now, since I’d been in the main house I’d been served spaghetti and meatballs and the past three times I’d noticed that he’d arrived home that day. Maybe he’s still here. Maybe it’s his favorite meal.
Since being here in his house, my meals have changed and I’m obviously being served whatever he’s eating. We eat this meal most often. Hardly any Mexican food at all, in fact. I’ve been daydreaming about food lately. What I wouldn’t do for a bucket of KFC popcorn chicken. A big mountain of chili-cheese French fries.
But, why was the guy in the suit here? Will he be taking me somewhere? Or, is he just keeping an eye on Maria because of what had happened with Esmerelda?
“Why are you here?” I finally dig up the nerve to ask, grabbing the doorframe that leads to my bathroom, as if holding on could stop him from removing me.
He eyes me curiously. He doesn’t answer.
She quickly vacates the room and he’s there staring blankly.
“Are you taking me somewhere else? Where’s Alessandro?”
He raises his eyebrows as if I’m being far too bold.
I take my tone down a notch. “I want to talk to him. Can you please ask him to come here?”
He shakes his head, “He’ll come if and when he’s ready. I’m not taking you anywhere right now. He has me protecting his assets, that’s all. And I’m Rocco. You need anything when you see me, ask.”
I stare blankly, unsure of how to respond to that. Finally, I break the awkward silence. “Thanks, Rocco. Can you tell him that I wanna talk to him? Please?”
“I’ll pass on that message, but I suggest you wait until he’s ready to come to you. Might be a good idea to stop pushing him. Whatever you did recently? It’s not smart.” He goes. And with the sound of the lock twisting, my heart also twists.
I walk to the mirror and put my forehead and palms to it. He’s probably not there, otherwise Rocco wouldn’t likely have been so forthcoming with his warning. But in case he is, in case Rocco doesn’t know about the mirror and he is there, I say, “Come see me? Please?”
I’m suddenly ravenous, wishing I’d eaten my spaghetti and meatballs. I could make a pretty good spaghetti and meatballs back in Alaska.
My sister loved pasta, used to joke that her religion was Pastafarian, and we used to cook it together all the time. Meatballs were a rare treat back then.
We bought most of the groceries, toiletries, and our clothing with Angie’s part-time income, so the food budget was super tight. But, I could make a mean batch of meatballs when I had the supplies to do it. I watched that beautiful celebrity chef Giada make them on TV and tried her recipe. They turned out good. Ang used to drool over them.
After my dinner, I take a shower and then, in the dark, just my lamp on, I sit at the mirror. It’s late so maybe he’s there, watching.
“Alessandro, talk to me,” I plead, “I don’t know what’s going on. Are you gonna avoid me after what happened? Are you sorry? Because I’m not upset with you. I want to talk. I want…” I stop and let out a sigh. I feel silly talking to the mirror, not knowing if he’s even there.
“I just hope this doesn’t mean you’re done with me. Please don’t send me back down there. Please don’t send me away. I want… to be with you.” I wait, as if I’m gonna get an answer and when I don’t, I wander back to my desk and sit.
There’s a jigsaw puzzle spread out on a puzzle mat. It’s of a field of wildflowers and I’ve already done all the edges. I fiddle with it for a while, then roll it up and put the mat on the floor under the desk. I pull out my sketchpad and start to work on sketches of his eyes. His eyes when he was angry. His eyes when he was looking lustfully at me. I’m daydreaming about being suspended from his canopy bed. How would that have gone? I’m squirming at the possibilities. Dangling by ropes, him holding one, controlling how close I am to him, touching me. Me, at his mercy. Mercy.
One o’clock in the morning rolls around and I’ve been doodling nonsensically for ages, writing out Mrs. Alessandro Romero, Holly Romero, Holly-Mooney Romero and drawing hearts, birds, flowers, clouds. Thinking about being tied up and at the mercy of his whims. I finally stretch and put my sketchbook away.
I go back to the mirror and I stare a minute. And then I carefully, with my heart hammering hard, pull the straps of my nightie down over my shoulders. It falls, exposing me to the waist.
I get right up to the mirror so that my nipples are touching it. I lift the length of my hair and put it over one shoulder.
I kiss the mirror.
“I’ll be waiting, in case you want to come sleep with me. Sleeping in your arms was beautiful. I felt so safe. So loved. I’d really like to do it again.”
I let my nightie float down to the carpet and turn, walking in just my white lace booty short panties, back to my bed.
In case he didn’t see that, I decide to stay on top of the blankets, width-wise so that my knees are facing the mirror. I squirm out of my panties and drop them on the floor. I throw my arms over my head, pulling my knees up like he taught me, my heels almost to my butt, and then I let my knees slowly fall open.
I’m lying there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the breeze from my opened window blowing over me. I’m very aware of down there. I’m very aware that he might be watching me, getting a perfect view of my vagina, which he has touched. And, of my asshole, which he’s already had his dick inside of. And I know, after what happened before, that if he is watching, this will make him react.
Will he come in here and take my virginity?
Will he put it in my ass again? I wince in memory. That really hurt. But it was something from him.
I’m chewing my lip, wanting something from him, anything but this.
And then I’m feeling stupid lying there like this. I roll over and turn out the lamp and I’m just about to roll back over when a crash rents the air and my mirror explodes.
Glass is everywhere. It hasn’t hit me, but I’m reeling. My heart is racing. I hear the key go into my lock. I scramble under my covers.
Oh shit. Whoa, oh shit. I can see where the mirror used to be. I see his bedroom. His room isn’t dark, it’s not bright either. There is a lamp on his bedside table that’s on.
He’s here. He’s moving toward me with purpose, lightning fast, flicking my light on, wearing only his suit trousers, bare chested. He yanks the blankets off and he’s thrown me over his lap.
He slaps my ass, hard. I screech in shock. He slaps it again and again, and again and again. And then throws me to my back on my bed, separating my legs roughly. I shriek but then I feel something hot and wet down there. His mouth. His mouth is on me. Between my legs! His head is between my legs!
He’s not taking it slow, either. He’s furious. But he’s fervently licking me and sucking, making me squirm. My butt is on fire from all those slaps, but my vagina is feeling something the opposite of pain. I’m tingling like mad. My toes are curling. The roof of my mouth is vibrating. I arch my neck and a sharp noise escapes me.
He slows, finally, but keeps going. Slowly and with long strokes, licking and then he’s going faster but licking and sucking with short strokes and a circular motion. He quickens his pace. Then slows. And it’s driving me insane. All of it. I hear these keening crying noises coming from my own mouth and they sound so foreign. He sucks my clit hard. He’s groaning like he’s the one in ecstasy.
My legs are draped over his big strong naked shoulders. His face is scratchy, like he hasn’t shaved. And it feels amazing. His fingers are digging into my butt cheeks roughly, holding me captive. I grasp the bedsheets and I’m panting. My whole butt is off the bed, I’m balancing on my middle back, and he spears his tongue just slightly inside me and then sucks, hard, not relenting, then sensation is climbing. Up, up, up, and then something protrudes into my butt just slightly, his thumb, maybe, and that’s when I sail through the roof and I shudder and cry out his name as I come crashing back down.
He slaps my ass again, hard, before I’ve finished the ‘o’ at the end of his name.
“Fucking brat,” he snaps and then I’m flat on my back and he’s up on his knees.
His shadow is foreboding. I blink, trying to adjust to the darker room. His zipper goes down. His button is undone, and then he stands and gets his pants off. He climbs onto me, straddling me, then he’s moving up. Before I can process it, he’s straddling my face, naked, his knees are against my ears, and his cock goes to my lips.
I breathe in sharply.
He’s absolutely still, looking down at me. And then it’s in his hand again and he’s holding it against my mouth.
“This what you want?” He uses it to part my lips. “To suffocate on my cock and my balls? Think I won’t? You should not fucking test me!” He looks so mad.
And then he angrily thrusts forward and my mouth is full, too full. I gag.
He yanks my hair and pushes forward, I choke.
He pulls out.
“Suck. Lick. Hold it.”
I’m gasping.
He taps my cheek, not really hard, but enough to get my attention.
“Take it!”
I shakily reach up and take it into both hands.
“Your training begins, mi pequeña flor.”
“Wh-what?”
“Do not stop. Do not!”
“What do you mean? My train---” Is he gonna send me down underground?
Oh God.
“You’re my slave. Mine. Suck my fucking dick.” He shoves it in my mouth and I choke. He’s thrusting and I’m choking. He eases up so that just the tip is in my mouth.
“You wanted this, Holly. Now you can be a dirty fucking slave and belong to my cock. It’s your job to give it what it wants.” He pulls back. “Understand? See what you did?”
“I want you,” I say, “I want all of you, not just this. I did what I did to get your attention. You leave me alone in here, like a pet bird in a cage. After my birthday and all that happened? This was my way of squawking!”
“You want attention? You fucking got it. Suck it,” he orders and then rolls to his back. “Time for your first lesson in head.” He grabs me by my hair and roughly, angrily pulls me over until I’m on my knees, he’s moved to his back, and my face is at his pelvis.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Shut up. Did I give you permission to speak?”
A sob escapes.
“This hurt is nothing. You don’t even know hurt yet. But being what you now are to me? You will. Lick. Tip to root, hold my balls.”
“Alessandro, please, can we talk?”
“Suck!”
“If I do good, can we talk?”
“This ain’t a fuckin’ negotiation.” He grabs my hair and roughly shoves his dick down my throat. I gag and try to brace myself in a push-up stance, but a girl push-up as I’m on my knees.
I try. I lick around the tip and then I suck it in, just the tip at first and then I lean on one hand and wrap the other around the base of his cock. I go as deep as I can.
He sucks in air through his clenched teeth and then one hand is in my hair, making me go deeper. I’m doing something right, obviously. I gag. I try to pull back, but his hand is on the back of my head, stopping me from pulling back. I seize up in panic. He releases his hold.
I recover a little and run my hand up his abs. They’re hard, rippled. I bob my head, not taking in as much, but trying to use suction and my tongue without biting. He lets out a sexy moan. And I feel proud of myself, strangely. It makes me wet. Or wetter.
My hand lands on his chest and I climb up, reaching for his face.
I start to lower myself on him, my chest to his. He watches me do it and then my mouth is on his. I’m kissing him, rubbing myself against him. And then I feel his hardness slide between my legs. He groans and seems to get lost in the kiss for just a moment, but then he throws me to my back and is on top of me, breathing hard, staring at me.
“Did I give you permission to stop? You suck at head.”
“Sorry. Teach me. Show me what you like. Gentle, so I get a chance to learn.”
He’s breathing heavy and his eyes are searching my face.
I rise up on my elbows. I put my lips to his and lick our lips. He goes crazy with passion and he’s kissing me hard, hungry, my jaw in both hands, and then I’m flat on my back again, but my head is dangling off the bed.
He grabs me by the hair and is biting and kissing my throat, feasting on my skin with nibbles, licking, sucking. I’m covered in goosebumps.
“Alessandro? Make love to me?”
His body locks tight. It feels like we’re at some sort of tipping point here. Like he wants to be sweet and he’s fighting against the darkness that wants to take over.
“I’m ready. I want you.”
He freezes and then something changes. My words have thrown him. He slowly backs away but is looking into my eyes. He’s shaking his head. I swallow and rise up on my elbows. He moves back and now he’s no longer touching me. He flicks the light off and storms out. I hear the door lock.
Darn. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
I hear noise and he’s back in his room and I’m watching the hole, waiting until he’s moved into that space. But instead of seeing him, I hear a loud groaning noise. It’s furniture. The light slowly evaporates as something covers the hole in the wall.
I turn my lamp on and look at the carpet. It’s littered with broken mirror pieces. I see pieces of glass that have a Jim Beam label on them and my light-colored carpet also has dark wetness on it. It’s alcohol. There’s a bloodstain, too. He must’ve stepped on glass.
I turn out the light again. I roll over and close my eyes.
***
I wake up to Maria. And the back of Rocco. And she’s frantically saying something in Spanish and throwing something fabric over me. It’s my housecoat.
I look over. I’m still naked and I’m on top of the covers. I pull the robe tight around me.
She reaches into my armoire and then she’s pulling a t-shirt over my head and passing me panties and pajama shorts under the housecoat. I get them on and then I dash into the bathroom. She’s shouting at me and I realize she’s worried about my bare feet on the glass-littered rug.
While I’m in the bathroom, I hear a vacuum cleaner. I stare in the mirror. I look a fright. My hair is a tangled mess. My eyes are bloodshot. And I’m frantic in my brain. I’m elated and frightened at the same time. I keep finding ways to get reactions from him. Having no idea how he’ll react is a thrill. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve come unglued or something. I have to pull it together.
I must.
I come out of the bathroom as the vacuum is being wheeled out. My door closes. There’s a breakfast tray on my desk. There’s no more broken mirror on the floor but there are towels down in two places and I see that there’s a bottle of carpet cleaner on the floor.
I lift the first towel and blot it a bit. I look under the second and then do the same thing. I keep myself busy by scrubbing, rinsing the cloth, and scrubbing some more. And for some reason, I’m crying the whole time I’m doing it.
The hole has been covered on the other side by something wooden. I’m guessing I’m looking at the back of his massive armoire.
Finally, I sit and sip my cup of now cold coffee. My own cup is overflowing with sadness.
I feel alone. So alone. It’s my fault he can’t see me. How crazy is it that I want him to be able to see me? He has this big house, the property, the other buildings, his business. What are the chances he spends much time in his bedroom staring at me? But the idea that it’s possible that he watches over me sometimes, that at any time I could be under his gaze? It’s something I’ve been clinging to. It makes me feel less lonely. And now I’ve gone and messed that up.
I worked hard to get his attention after he saved me from that fire. And I got it all right. And now I’m in a constant state of need, of feeling frazzled and unsettled.
I was safe. I was protected. I was sheltered but I was sort of content in my lonely but safe existence. Blissful ignorance.
Now? Now I don’t know what I am, besides needy, panicky, and whatever else you want to call the stupid way I’ve acted that has “poked the monster” with a stick repeatedly.
Maria comes, Rocco stays in the doorway. She gives me heck for cleaning the carpet. She does this in Spanish but the way she’s gesturing at the cleaner bottle I know she’s telling me off.
I shrug. What else is there to do? I can at least try to clean up the mess I’m responsible for.