Sabato: The Cross

by Mj Fields

  I laugh and so does he.

  “Now, it’s your turn.”

  He paces a bit, sputters a bit and finally he stops in front of me.

  “All right, but I don’t want to discuss this, ever again.”

  I nod.

  He takes my face in my hands. “When I’m done, I want to forget it.”

  I nod again.

  “After we’re done here, you’ll go in the bedroom and present for me. You’ll deny me nothing. Nothing.”

  I place my hand over his.

  “Mmmkay,” I say, in attempt to make him smile. He doesn’t.

  “When I was six years old, my mother tried to leave that son-of-a-bitch, Salvatore. We had a tiny little apartment in Florence. For a few happy months, we didn’t see him. I knew, even then, how awful he was to her. I saw it, heard it and was happy when she decided to run.” He stops, swallows. “On my birthday, we visited The Uffizi Gallery. We were looking at the pictures when an explosion went off. My mother covered me with her body, as glass rained down on her.”

  My heart squeezes so tight, it physically hurts. A soft sob escapes my mouth and he closes his eyes, tight.

  “I couldn’t save her.”

  “You were seven, Sabato,” I whisper.

  “Less than two months ago, I overheard him, Salvatore. He was talking to Benito, about what he would do to me if I tried to leave his service. He said he would do to me, what he had done to my mother.”

  He starts trembling, with sadness or rage, I can’t tell. Maybe both.

  I gasp in shock. “He was the one? He planned it?”

  His eyes fly open, his jaw tense. “Yes and you know the rest. I am finished discussing this. Present, Melyssa.”

  “Sabato, I’m so, so sorr—”

  “PRESENT!”

  “Okay.” My body is shaking as I scamper into the bedroom. I throw my clothes off, but then I can’t decide where he might want me—the bed, the chair, the floor? I can’t stop trembling. I want to cry, hell, I am crying. He doesn’t like me to cry. He doesn’t like it and—

  I look up and he is standing above me. Quickly, I wipe my tears away knowing he sees them and wishing he doesn’t.

  “Bed.”

  “Right.”

  I am on the bed and he is taking his clothes off. He folds them neatly and puts them over the arm of the chair. He is calm and I am a wreck. I don’t know how he can be calm.

  He stands in front of me and reaches out, but stops before he touches me. I spread my legs wider and arch my back. When he still doesn’t touch me, I look up, questioning.

  His hands are at his sides and he shakes his head. “I can’t do this.”

  “You can,” I say, sniffling.

  “No Melyssa. I can’t fucking do this. Not with you. Not with—”

  “Not negotiable,” I say. “Only with me.”

  “Everyone who gets too close ends up dead!” he snaps, literally. “Do you understand, that is what I bring to the fucking table?! Everyone I let in dies. So no, I will not give you what you want. Not that. The apartment, the car, the fucking ring are yours, those I can give. I will even give you money enough to get through school, I will give you more than you deserve, but I will not—”

  I move off the bed and take his hands. He tries to pull away and I don’t allow it.

  “You think the girl, Luciana, died because...because you loved her?”

  “Don’t, damn it,” he hisses at me.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yes it was! I couldn’t fucking save them! You don’t know shit! I couldn’t—”

  “You were young, you—”

  “Failed the only people I loved. I am no good. I can fuck you, but I can’t protect you.”

  “He’s gone, Sabato. Your father is gone, because you killed him. You made sure he was no longer going to hurt anyone. He is gone, finally gone, so now you can live. You have already protected the people you let in now, let them in, damn it!”

  He looks so broken, so unhinged, so lost and angry, like he doesn’t even know how to breathe anymore.

  I pull him against me, as hard as I can. He is stone, everywhere. I kiss his neck and he stiffens even more. I reach down and grab him, through his pants. Silk and stone. It feels so good in my hand and I no longer care that I am still sore from the morning.

  I kiss his chest, as I continue stroking him. I kiss down him and I am on my knees before him. I have never really done this but I want to do this for him, to him.

  He hisses when my tongue circles his tip and thrusts forward with his hips. I look up and he is looking down, eyes raging with an intensity I have never seen. I work my mouth and hand in rhythm, up and down and he growls. I reach around him with one hand to grab his ass. I push him forward, causing his tip to hit the back of my throat. I almost gag, but I don’t, I swallow.

  He lets out a sound that is pure, raw emotion. I continue pumping him, forcing him further and further into my mouth. I love the noises, the sounds he makes, the scent of his skin, the heat of his cock, the soreness in my throat and between my legs.

  I am all sensation, and his reaction is pure temptation, driving me further and further into an unexplainable state of ecstasy. I thrust my body closer wrapping my leg around his, hoping for contact to ease my own burn. I suck him and rub myself against his leg until I am groaning too. I am turned on by doing this to him, for him, with him. He pushes his leg forward, nudging me. I come undone as he pulls out, grabs my hair, yanks my head back and pumps his cock until he comes all over my chest, groaning my name over and over.

  I wrap my body around his leg, panting, shaking, and holding onto him for dear life. Fearing if I let go, he’ll walk away and that will be it.

  The only man I’ve ever wanted will have ruined me, because he thinks it will save me.

  His hand is still fisted in my hair as he breathes in, heavy, deep breaths. I feel more vulnerable than I did as a virgin tied to the cross, the first night Sabato Efisto ever touched me.

  “Up.” He whispers. His grip loosens and his fingertips gently massage my scalp.

  “No.”

  “Melyssa, up.” His voice is gruffer now, but still I hear the pain in it.

  “Don’t walk away and leave me like this.”

  “I’m right here.”

  His hands are under my arms then, lifting me. I pick my shirt up off the ground and use it to wipe his cum off my throat.

  “Get in bed.”

  “Sleep next to me this time.” I put myself out there further. “Non-negotiable.”

  I silently beg for the response I desire. If he says yes, I will know he means it.

  “Get in bed.” He pulls back the covers. “This is the last night you’ll sleep on discount store sheets.”

  I lie down and watch him walk out, hoping he won’t disappear. He returns with a warm cloth and he cleans me, gently, tenderly, and—I may only be imagining this—reverently.

  He throws the cloth into the pile of clothes and climbs in next to me. I scoot back against him, needing contact. He places one hand on my hip.

  “Goodnight, Melyssa.”

  “Goodnight, Sabato.”

  I wake up and the sun is blazing.

  It’s much later than I should be waking up, I know, but I really don’t give a fuck right now.

  Melyssa is draped over me, clinging on to me for dear life. After last night, I know things are much more complicated than I anticipated. She touched me, tasted me, stroked me throughout the entire night...and I gave her nothing back. I would have, but she wouldn’t allow it.

  Two things I am not: a taker and someone who allows others to tell me what to do. Last night, I allowed both. One thing I definitely am not: submissive. Last night, in some small way, I submitted to her.

  Knowing that disturbing fact, I don’t want to face her today. But I don’t want to let go, either. I am in a hole and can’t even dig myself out of it. She has messed up my mind, tilted it, spun it, shaken it and fucked it.
<
br />   I try to remain still, try to let her sleep, but when I look down she stirs and looks up at me.

  Green. Green is the color of jealousy, money, greed and her eyes.

  “You woke me up,” she says, as she stretches. In doing so, she rubs her body against mine.

  “I was trying not to.”

  “Well, your heart woke me up. It was beating against my ear, like a little alarm clock.”

  “I see. Good thing the new apartment has three bedrooms,” I say, watching to see how that fact hits her.

  It only takes her a minute, before she smiles in that familiar, petulant way. “I’ve decided what I want out of this arrangement.”

  “Let’s hear your latest demands.”

  Good, now we’re getting back on track.

  “I want to sleep in the same bed. It feels good, I feel safer and you are very, very comfortable. Hard, but—”

  “Hard, because you can’t keep your mouth or hand off of it.” I raise my eyebrows.

  “That’s the other thing. I like touching you. As a matter of fact, I love touching you.”

  “Melyssa,” I begin.

  She places her finger over my mouth, quieting me. “I’m not asking to tie you to a cross, just maybe a bed now and—”

  I bite her finger. “Fuck, no! You must be—”

  “You’ve created a monster, Sabato.” She sits up. “All that perfection....” She runs her finger down the separation in the center of my abs. “I want to drink wine out of this area.”

  “Not until I have drunk it from your pussy.”

  She swallows hard and tries to be courageous. “Are you...thirsty now?”

  I stare her down. My mouth is suddenly dry.

  Then she laughs and gets up. “I’m going to shower, oh and that was non-negotiable, too.”

  I sit up as she walks out the door. I may have let her have last night—hell, admittedly, I needed last night. But that is where I will draw the line.

  She’s already in the tiny little shower when I walk into the bathroom, condom already on. I pull back the plastic curtain and she jumps and turns towards me. I turn her back around.

  “Hands on the wall and hang on.” I lift her, without asking. “Legs around me.”

  “How?” I grab on and wrap them behind me. “Oh, I see.”

  “No more talking,” I line myself up and slam into her. This time there is no stalling, no reprieve. I fuck her with wild abandon. This is a reminder of who is in charge.

  I grab her tits and squeeze, I pinch and pull her nipples, hard. She cries out, but I slam into her fast and hard, pounding her tight little pussy. I want her bruised, battered, sore, as a reminder that I am no fucking prize to be won.

  Her face is pressed against the shower wall. Her hands are beside her head, holding on as best they can. She is crying out my name in pleasure and I want her to remember this moment the next time she decides to poke the sleeping bear.

  “Who’s in control here, Melyssa?” I hiss against her ear.

  “You, oh god! You!”

  “Do you like it like this?”

  I expect a no.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Her pussy contracts, milking my cock as she comes.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” I groan and my release follows hers, not far behind.

  I grab the shampoo, cock still buried deep in her, lather up my hair, rinse, then finally pull out. She leans against the shower wall and I step out of the shower.

  When she leaves the bathroom, she looks at me like she’s going to say something, but then decides against it. I feel some control coming back after an uncontrollable night.

  She comes out of the bedroom dressed in one of my shirts tied on the side and a pair of shorts. I don’t like how much I enjoy seeing her in my clothes. But I don’t hate it, either. Although, I know it would be smarter if I did.

  “We should pack the car,” I say, as I look away from her.

  She stops dead in her tracks and looks at me. “Do we have to?”

  I nod. “I’ve convinced you to play along. So it’s time.”

  “I could use more convincing, you know.”

  And the balance of control teeters again.

  “You’d better think twice about that.”

  She smiles and starts packing up. After a moment, she giggles.

  “I’ve thought like, ten times about that and I’ve decided that I’m game.”

  “I think I’ve spoiled you,” I grumble.

  “Meaning?” She shoves some clothes into a bag.

  “I’ve allowed too much freedom.”

  “Is that so?” She looks up at me, still bent over.

  “Yes, that is so.”

  “What’s too much freedom between friends?” She grabs the keys off the counter, pats me on the back and carries two bags outside.

  *.*.*

  We drive silently as I think about what too much freedom might look like.

  Anarchy, knowing her.

  Part of me thinks I may have asked for too much from her—no demanded it. And yet, she has taken it all. I can’t help it. I like this girl.

  I would definitely consider her a friend. I only had a few of those, but she could easily be considered one...if it wasn’t for the fact that I had fucked her. Then again, Valentina was something of a friend and I had fucked her too. I’d even told Melyssa that it meant nothing. So who was I lying to, her or myself?

  The age old question pressed: can a male and female be friends? I never even considered the issue, until now. I’ve always liked women, loved to please them, to control them. I was not disrespectful, I never played a game—in fact, I was the game. When I chose a woman for an evening of play, she knew what she was getting. A few hours of fun, with a man who could satisfy her completely—physically, of course.

  My employees never had preconceived notions and were never given any false promise of becoming mine, or of me becoming theirs.

  I am unattainable. I choose to be so. I am better this way.

  I look over at Melyssa and she is asleep. She has no reason to trust me, but she does. She now knows my greatest secret and still I trust her.

  She is perfect and yet I will ruin her.

  She opens her eyes, covers her mouth and yawns. Then she smiles a sleepy smile.

  “Want me to drive?”

  “No, I drive.” I am angry and I have no idea why.

  “Okay.” She sits back. She says nothing more. I’ve upset her and I don’t want to. But I can’t be a friend.

  After a few moments, she reaches up and points to the radio.

  “Do you mind if I listen to some music?”

  “It’s your car,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “Right.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “For now, I guess it is.”

  Melyssa hits the search, until a song comes on that she seems to like. She leans back and begins to bop her head to the music. I look at the radio and the display reads ‘Budapest’ by George Ezra. She starts tapping her foot and I hear her singing quietly.

  “We need a song, to make this believable,” she says, after the song changes.

  She looks at the radio display and laughs.

  I look, too. ‘Dear Future Husband,’ by Meghan Trainor. I shake my head, but I am curious. I listen to the lyrics and look out of the corner of my eye as she sings along. She sees me watching, but doesn’t stop. The song keeps playing and she keeps singing, only she gets louder.

  “Is there anything we should be discussing?”

  “Are you feeling better?” She leans up and turns down the radio.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I thought we had an understanding. Our negotiated list. I can’t wear jeans or discount panties, I can’t talk to my ex, I live with you and...?”

  “I can only have sex with you.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” she asks, quietly.

  “Well it certainly...limits things.”

  She looks out the window and I know I have hurt her
feelings. I don’t mean to.

  “Melyssa,” I begin.

  “No. You know what, I don’t care. You’re right. You should do what you want. Just understand that I’m going to do the same.”

  “Fine.” I spit out, even though no, it’s not fucking fine.

  “Also, I want my student loans paid off—all of them. And I want ten grand when you leave.”

  “When I leave?”

  “When you go back to Italy. When you go back to running your club, when you decide that our crap marriage is worth about as much as the fake paper it’s printed on.” she pauses, and she is angry. “My legal fees, too.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  I feel like I should push one more point. “I can’t be your friend.”

  “Obviously.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Look, Sabato. I can’t change your past. But he is dead. The man who hurt you, tormented you, crushed you, he’s dead. You can’t go back and save your mother, even though I know if you could, you would and hell, I would help you do it. But until you allow yourself to accept that you are not making your life any better after he’s gone, well then...you may as well have let him live.”

  The rage that overwhelms me then, it’s almost blinding. How dare she? How dare she?

  “Fuck you!”

  “You have.”

  “You’re infuriating.”

  “You’re giving up.”

  “You have no idea what my life has been.”

  “And that’s where the problem lies, Sabato. You’re too focused on what your life has been like, before now. Until you can forgive and move on—.”

  “He doesn’t deserve forgiveness.”

  “It’s not for him. It’s for you. Forgive yourself, because you didn’t do a damn thing. A seven year old boy cannot control what an evil, grown-ass man does. You had nothing to do with that bomb, or anything you did after that, when you went to live with an evil man who you thought was your father. I’m sure on some level, you thought you owed him—”

  “Enough!”

  “Alright, then. I’ll stop talking. I’ll stop caring.”

  My blood boils. “Just because you were allowed to touch me, doesn’t mean I have allowed you inside, Melyssa. Please don’t fool yourself. You are just like the rest. There are hundreds of you out there. I barely remember most of your names.”