Marco had seen this before and now picked up what was left of Emma and fucked her. She began to laugh. And he fucked her harder.
‘Never stop. Never stop,’ she said. ‘Do it to me all day, all night. Pass me between you both. Do me how and when you want. I don’t care. Just don’t stop.’
THIRTEEN
Marco and Emma arrived back at his house around three in the afternoon. They hadn’t slept and they had to be at work again in a few hours. They climbed off the bike and walked down to the water. Elena never rented out their private inlet and when they got down there they found the little beach empty. Marco stripped off his shirt and jeans and walked across the sand and pebbles into the crystal water. He had lost his boxers somewhere. His tanned arse was the last thing she saw before he dived under the water.
Emma wasn’t far behind him. She stared up at the sun and then out at the boats cruising by about half a kilometre off shore. There was no breeze. She undid her jeans. Every muscle in her body ached. She felt more tired than she could ever remember having felt, but she also felt something else. She had been fucked by two men for hours and hours. They had not given way. Each had surpassed themselves, coming again and again without respite. She was filthy from end to end. Not one part of her body was untouched. Her skin had been kissed and bitten, licked and caressed. Her hair was a knotted mess. Her lips were swollen. Her breasts felt bruised. Her pussy was throbbing. She pulled off her top and undid her bra then stepped out of her jeans and her g-string, and sank into the water. Neither cared much for what the world might think if they were sprung bathing nude. They had passed out of normal life a few hours ago.
This was the life Emma had been looking for. This was why she had walked out of Mosman. She never wanted to feel normal again. David might come for her but she would never return to that life. She wanted only to feel as alive to sensation as she felt now. The cool salt water acted as a balm to her skin, her sin. She swam out to where Marco was floating on his back and pulled his face to hers and kissed him with great passion and feeling. He wrapped his arms around her and she her legs around him, and they clung to each other in the neck-deep water and kissed. Emma felt him rise beneath her and though it hurt she let him enter her. They did not move but kissed, deeply, long, lingeringly. Emma’s lips were swollen and sore but this didn’t seem to matter. She was having the time of her life.
‘You are a puttana,’ Marco declared with a smile from across the room where he lay on his bed, a few days later.
‘Are you calling me a whore?’ Emma asked. She had been getting dressed.
‘Si,’ he said. ‘A whore.’
‘That isn’t very nice.’
‘You are not very nice,’ he replied.
‘I am very nice.’
‘How many men you fuck?’
‘Not many. But they remember me.’
‘Not many?’
‘How many women you fuck?’
‘Tanto,’ he said with a grin.
‘You are a puttana,’ she said.
‘Sì, io sono un prostituto per l’arte.’
‘Ahhh, you only fucked all those women for art …’
‘Si, I paint.’
‘You don’t paint anymore.’
‘Si. I no paint.’
‘Why?’
‘Perché …’
‘Yes?’
‘Non lo so.’
‘You don’t know,’ said Emma, crawling across the bed. She took hold of his cock through the bed sheet under which he lay. ‘You are a painter. Your whole life has been devoted to art. That barn is filled with your work. You paint. It is who you are. If you don’t paint, who are you?’
He shook his head.
‘If I leave your bed will you paint?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘I think I’m the reason you don’t paint. I don’t want to be that woman. I shouldn’t let you come near me for a week to see if you take up your brush.’
‘No,’ he repeated.
‘Si,’ she said.
‘You fuck other men.’
Emma grinned. ‘Other men? Like that American? Ooh, yes. Good idea. Where is his number?’
Marco blanched.
‘I promise. I no fuck men. Not without you,’ she answered, feeling his cock grow in her hand. ‘We make test.’
He groaned as she tugged at him.
‘One week. No fuck. Paint,’ she proclaimed.
‘If test work?’
‘Non lo so,’ she answered, letting his cock go and returning to the dresser where she began to brush her hair.
Later that morning Emma was with Marco as he set up his stools and easel in the corner of the square in front of the cathedral. He might have been making good money in the last few weeks, charging what he liked. At times there were people lining up to have their portraits done. The old town was bulging with tourists. He could sit there from dawn to dusk without rest, if he chose.
He didn’t choose. He had been having too much fun with Emma. His early morning starts had become mid-morning starts and then afternoon starts. Emma was distracting him from making money in the peak season. And Elena was counting.
It hadn’t all been Emma’s fault, though. He had lost his Club Med job by himself. She had tried to get him to go to work. She would kick him out of bed by forcing him to go down to the kitchen and make her coffee. But he was so damned seductive and a touch would turn into a fuck. And fucking always seemed to take longer than they thought. Then afterwards, when they were recovering, he had this way of going down on her. It was nothing more than a breath at first, then the lightest of touches with the tip of his tongue. He would revive her and take her the longest, most pleasurable route to the top. An hour would pass in the blink of an eye. They’d be ready to walk out the door at nine and end up leaving just before one.
It wasn’t very responsible, she knew. She could close her legs. When his face was not between her legs, or his cock deep within her, when he wasn’t touching her, or smiling, or near, Emma did feel slightly guilty. She was disrupting his life. And it wasn’t Marco who suffered. It was Elena who lost out. She kept the place together and needed all the income she could get. The brother and sister had had fierce words. Hadn’t she been the good sister? Hadn’t she been patient? Hadn’t she supported him? Right or wrong, Elena had been banking on Marco’s paintings. When the future seemed bleak, Elena would brighten it with the riches Marco’s inevitable success would bring.
They were in the cathedral square early because Emma refused to be seduced that morning. She had won round one. The day was heating up and the square was full of tourists. Marco was set up but no one had taken up the offer yet.
‘Do you want me to pretend to be a customer?’ asked Emma.
‘No, I in no hurry.’
‘I’m going for a walk, then.’
‘Where you go?’
‘Exploring. I might go for a swim.’ She thought she’d wander south along the coast before going to work in Sylvia’s shop. She’d been told there were caverns and caves in the cliffs where the water turned an unnatural blue, like the famous Blue Grotto of Capri. Underneath the summer dress Elena had lent her she wore her bikini. She would explore the coastline by herself and swim in the strange blue water if opportunity presented itself.
She knew she should say a quick goodbye and be on her way, but she lingered.
Marco pulled her down onto his knee.
‘You serious. No fuck?’
‘Yes. You’re a painter. You need to paint.’
The no-sex test Emma had proposed wasn’t just for Marco, or for Elena. Emma had to break free of the spell he had over her. She knew in her heart that she had to move on. She thought of his house as an island. Once she was there she was free from having to make decisions. Life was good there. Easy. He provided for her. Her desires were sated. There was sun, sex, food, the sea, a bed, sex, food and the sea. She needed nothing and thought of nothing until it was time to go to work. And when she was away all she thought
about was her return to her island.
He shook his head. ‘I no need paint. I need you.’
‘That is why we have to stop,’ she said. She couldn’t just leave. It was paradise and you don’t leave paradise. You must be cast out. The test was her way of making it impossible for her to stay. When she denied Marco sex, she denied herself as well.
‘I no stop,’ he said. ‘I never stop.’
‘You must,’ she said as the cathedral bells started to chime loudly. She looked up as the pigeons took flight from their roosts in the rooftops around the square. Marco took this opportunity to run his hand along her thigh and under her dress. She started to clench her thighs against him but then was distracted by the doors of the cathedral opening and men and women in formal attire pouring out into the square. They were throwing confetti and forming a guard of honour. Marco’s hand found its way past her bikini bottoms. There was no mistaking what he was doing but the whole square was distracted by the wedding party and had no interest in the lewd couple in the corner. When Emma parted her legs further for him, it really was a disgraceful spectacle.
But all eyes, including Emma’s, were trying to catch sight of the happy couple, who were making their way slowly through the crowd. A glimpse of billowing tulle was all they were granted. A band struck up a lively tune and then everyone came to a halt as the photographer shouted for them to huddle together for a group shot. He set up his tripod as a couple of older men ushered the crowd back towards the doors of the cathedral. Emma shifted slightly on Marco’s lap in an attempt to hide what he was doing to her. The wedding party finally arranged itself in the middle and the friends and family squeezed in at the side. Marco’s fingers, which had been roaming where they liked, now stopped and concentrated their attention on one particular spot.
‘One week?’ he whispered in her ear.
‘Si,’ she moaned in return. The tourists were crossing between her and the wedding group.
‘No fuck?’
‘No fuck.’
‘You can do?’ he asked, biting down on her neck and massaging her with his teeth.
‘Si,’ she said.
The wedding group burst into laughter. The rhythm of Marco’s fingers quickened.
‘Liar,’ he whispered, and took her earlobe between his lips.
‘Si,’ she replied.
‘You want me to fuck you now?’ he breathed into her ear.
‘Yes,’ she replied. She was staring at the bride.
‘You want me to fuck you in front these people?’
‘Yes.’ The bride seemed to be gazing back at her through the passing tourists.
‘You want me to share you with these men?’
‘Yes,’ she gasped. She was close. It didn’t take much, she thought, a few well-chosen words … Her whole body jolted and then she glanced at the groom. ‘Oh, fuck!’ she whispered and threw her arms around Marco, hiding her face in his shoulder and moaning into him, coming hard. It was gorgeous and lingered. She shook against him.
After catching her breath, she whispered, ‘Look at the man getting married.’
Marco had to wait for a group of elderly tourists to pass.
‘Stronzo!’ he said quite loudly and began to laugh. It was the American with the huge cock.
‘He did say he was here for a wedding,’ laughed Emma.
‘Stronzo! You think he share his wife with me?’
‘Shall we ask him?’ said Emma, adjusting her clothes and walking towards the wedding group. She squeezed through the curious crowds and stood beside the photographer so that the American could see her. His face changed colour as the photographer clicked away.
Emma kept her promise to Marco. They did not have sex that night, nor early the next morning, late morning, midday, early afternoon, late afternoon, evening, night or the following dawn. Emma held off Marco’s advances for two whole days before she succumbed. And when she did it wasn’t all the way.
They were in the bar and the night was coming to an end. The owner had gone home leaving Emma and Marco to close up. She’d been on the lookout for David all night. She kept expecting to turn and for him to be there. But now it was an hour before closing and there were only a few patrons left. Twenty or so. Emma had cleaned the bar area and Marco had just returned from wiping down the empty tables. Stools and chairs were upended. Marco poured himself a beer and asked Emma if she wanted anything. She shook her head. She was tired and, bending at the hips, rested her head on her arms on the bar. Marco placed his hand on Emma’s behind. He often did, but this time Emma felt it. Really felt it. It had been hard fending off all of Marco’s advances over the last few days. They had wrestled on the bed. He had pinned her down. He had torn a perfectly good pair of underpants from her. He had kissed her – how he had kissed her! – all over. And she had had to be the strong one. She had had to say no when all she wanted was to say yes. And yes. And yes.
Now they were in the bar, at work, and she was tired and she wanted to be fucked. Nice and slow. Right here and right now. The patrons be damned. Her promise be damned. Marco’s art be damned.
She could see most of the patrons. They were busy with their own lives. One couple were clearly touching each other under the table. It was a common sight late at night in a bar like this. Staying fairly still Emma moved her left hand from under her head. Marco wandered off to refill his beer and when he turned back to Emma she had undone her jeans and pulled them down below her butt.
She glanced across at him. He stood with a grin and took a sip of his beer.
‘You want?’
‘I want,’ she replied.
‘You want? How much you want?’
Marco took one step closer. Emma felt exposed now. She hadn’t counted on resistance.
‘How much you want, eh?’ he repeated. He moved closer still.
‘Very much.’ She started to touch herself.
He slapped her behind. ‘No, you promise. No fuck. Si ricorda?’
‘Yes!’
He moved behind her and she rested her chin on the bar and watched the patrons. She expected to feel his cock entering her. Nothing happened. He did not touch her.
She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. He was taking a sip of his beer. At that moment she felt his fingers against her. They slid up and down her – then into her.
‘You want very much but I no break promise.’
‘Break promise.’
‘I no break promise. Tomorrow I paint. I no fuck tonight. Tomorrow I paint.’
‘I don’t care. Fuck me.’
She reached around and felt the huge bulge in his jeans. She rubbed it. He did not resist. She undid his jeans.
‘I no fuck you.’
She released his cock. It felt hot. It felt hard. She directed it towards her and pushed back.
‘We no fuck.’
She could feel the head of his cock against her lips. He ran it up and down her slowly. Then he slid the whole shaft up and down along her wet lips. His cock was drenched in her. It would slip in easily. She was watching the patrons. It was dark in the bar. No one had looked their way. She was jittery now. Expectant.
She reached under her and rubbed the wetness of her pussy into his balls. She squeezed them and he groaned. He was going to fuck her. He put the head of his cock against her then slid it up higher. He pushed her butt down and she gave way, bending at the knees. Was he going to fuck her in the arse? He’d never done that to her. The American had. Marco pressed it against her arsehole and held it there. His cock head felt huge. He moved forward. She would take him in. Then he slid away from her. When she turned he was hastily packing away his cock. He walked off to the far end of the bar. She then saw why. A patron was coming to the counter. It was only then that she realised when he was pressed against her arsehole she’d stopped watching the bar and had waited for him with eyes closed. She pulled up her jeans, just enough, and stayed where she was. She was shaking. Lust ridden. She touched herself. Anyone might have had her then.
Marco stayed a long time with the patron; she could see that they knew each other. The patron kept stealing glimpses of her. She couldn’t tell if he knew what she was doing or just found her pose provocative enough. If he’d known what she was feeling and what she was thinking about he would have leapt the bar. She’d have fucked him, too. He was cute. She was so turned on. But while he was watching her and trying to keep up with the flow of the conversation Marco called for last drinks and the moment was gone. For ten minutes or so Emma and Marco had to work. When everything settled down, Marco said, ‘We keep promise.’
FOURTEEN
Emma woke late the next morning. She was alone in Marco’s bed. She hadn’t slept well, her dreams had been too lively. At one time the patron from the bar was fucking her. The next moment he was David. Then she was getting married. Then she was shouting at Sally. Then being caught with her face between Sally’s legs on the balcony at the beach house. Then Marco was there and he was unhappy. The night was long and she awoke frustrated and thinking of David.
Thoughts of her husband were unavoidable. Since discovering he was in Otranto, or at least discovering he had been in Otranto, he lingered on the edge of her thoughts. Each of Marco’s touches was intensified by his presence. But when she tried to picture him in Otranto, she couldn’t do it. He didn’t fit this new life of hers. He wasn’t casual. He wasn’t carefree. He couldn’t live on the smell of an oily rag. He couldn’t work shit jobs and he didn’t like not knowing what tomorrow would bring.
She washed and got into her bikini and Elena’s dress and ate what she could find in Marco’s kitchen. The kitchen was a piece of history. Without changing a thing a film crew could come in and film a scene set in 1960s Italy. The building Marco lived in had been his mother’s home. She had kept everything in perfect order and now Elena did the same. She told Emma that Marco had wanted to clear out all of his mother’s things but she had forbidden him. When she saw how Marco lived she had taken it upon herself to keep house. Not for him, she said, but for her mother.
The Secret Lives of Emma: Unmasked Page 9