by Amy Isan
There aren't any name-brands on any of the fixtures. I lean in close to my reflection and double check my teeth, hoping I didn't already have lipstick on them. I'm clean, thankfully.
I turn over my shoulder and hear some light music start playing. I should hurry back. I don't want him to think I'm desecrating his bathroom or something. I just don't want to look like a fool. I'm still confused as to why he invited me up at all, to be honest.
I check my reflection again, what am I doing here? I basically just met this guy, and I'm already in his room? He's... interesting. His dark skin and thick accent. His green eyes. The way his hand grazes mine, I can't handle it. Patrick never made me swoon like this man is doing, not even in the beginning. We just kind of fell into our relationship, but this... this feels different.
Giovanni Azzo, huh? Do I want to find out more about this man, or just turn this into a one time kind of ordeal? I grimace at the lines on my face. I can't already be getting lines, can I? I smile and try and make my eyes sparkle. I think of the soothing wine and handsome man waiting for me. Screw it.
I pick up my purse off the counter and leave the bathroom. I set my purse down next to his briefcase and ascend the step to the bedroom side of the room. He's sitting at the bar and he raises our glasses. Both half-full.
He grins and holds his wine-glass strangely, like it's brandy. Palm upward. I take the glass from his hand and sit down, the scent of the red wine already intoxicating. "Wow..." I say. "What year is this?"
Giovanni chuckles, and his laugh is more mesmerizing than his voice. His accent somehow creeps into that and makes him seem even more exotic. "No, my flower, it's a 1967."
I almost gasp and spit the wine—which is older than me—out of my mouth. Did I hear him right? I pause to regain my composure and realize I have my mouth all ballooned up with the wine, ready to spit it up like it's poison. I swallow my shame, even though Giovanni hasn't done anything to make me think I should be embarrassed. He holds up his glass, and I clink mine to his. "What are we toasting to?"
"Freedom," he says. "That's why I love this country."
"Freedom, it is, then," I say. I take another drink, maybe a bit too much, and savor the flavor; letting the red wine settle on my tongue and in my cheeks before swallowing it. He sets his glass down after taking a sip and takes off his bow tie. It's no clip-on affair, either. When he's finished, he sets a completely undone strap on the back of one of the stools. He undoes the top button of his white collared shirt and reveals a small tuft of chest hair to me. My cheeks flush when he catches me staring. I look away and into the bottom of my wine glass.
This man is seriously hot. No one else has to know though, right? I glance around the room for a clock and finally see the time since I got out of my car.
"It's two?" I say after swallowing my mouthful of wine. "I'm usually snoring by ten!" I blurt out. He chuckles and even with the gulf between us, I can feel it reverberate into my chest. My face flushes from the wine and his sharp looks, and I can't stop myself from drinking him up one glance at a time. His white button-down shirt is nearly sculpted to his muscles, the hard edges and angles making him look like a tanned marble statue. My tongue feels heavy.
His green eyes dance like lights on the sea and I dip my glass back, forgetting it's empty until I'm staring down through it. A single drop drains from the bottom to my lips and I smirk and lower the glass to the bar. "I must be drunk already," I try and laugh it off. I'm being so silly, how he can think this is attractive?
"Feeling woozy already?" he asks. He moves to the bed and his hands touch my back as he lowers himself down. I feel tingles shoot up and down my back, a cold shiver making the hair all over my body rise with goosebumps. I hope he can't tell. Actually, I kind of hope he can.
"What do you do for a living?" I ask him, before I crumple my hands together awkwardly. I wish I still had my wine glass to keep my hands busy, at least. I'm scared they'll just wander to his legs and split his pants open. Like, I have that little amount of control over myself right now.
"I'm a photographer," he says. He stands up and disappears behind the wall that the bed is pushed up against. After some rummaging, he returns with a large black camera, shaped like an old film camera. The way he handles it though, I'm sure it's digital. He holds it up as if it's proof. "See?"
"I see a camera," I tease him. "I don't see any photos,"
He clicks it on and takes a few snaps of me, the shutter and mirror clicking and releasing with a satisfying ker-chik. Giovanni tilts the camera and takes a few more pictures of me, and I start to pose for him, leaning back and spreading my arms wide. I start laughing and I lie on my back on the bed, angling my head up and grinning like an idiot so his photos look even more ridiculous. He seems to love it though, and he keeps snapping away, only occasionally stopping to tweak a few buttons or knobs on the top of machine.
He sets it down on the nightstand and sits next to me. "I really am," he says again, his accent rolling off his tongue like waves against a shore. I close my eyes and inhale his scent, completely forgetting that he can tell what I'm doing. He leans over and pulls up a bag that the camera must've been in. He fishes out a magazine and hands it to me. "Look," he says, pointing at it.
The title is in Italian and I can't read any of the text on the front. He shakes his head and points at the model on the front. "I took that," he says. "I wasn't kidding."
"No way," I say. His finger moves down to the photographer credit on the very bottom, and his name is written after some Italian which I can only assume means: 'photography by:' "'Giovanni Azzo,'
"Wow... I'm amazed. So, you're practically famous."
"Some might say that."
He leans back on the bed and touches my back. I suddenly feel way too warm to be wearing any clothes, but I can't imagine taking them off.
"Let me take some photos of you..."
"You already did," I say.
"No, some real photos. Come with me to Italy and I can make you a model."
He can't be serious. Where are the hidden cameras? Where's the celebrity hiding so he can come out of the walls and tell me I just got pranked? This man is way too sexy to be serious about offering to take me to Italy, to make me a model. I'd believe anything else at the moment. He could tell me he was a lizard in a disguise and I'd be more likely to believe that over a trip to Italy.
I shake my head. "You don't want to do that, you photograph models all day long, I'm no model." I blush a little and look away from him. "I'm sure you're just trying to flatter me."
"Why?" He curls his elbow around his head and lies down some more, looking curious and roguish. "What makes you think that?"
I pause. Well, for starters, my boyfriend was cheating on me for who knows how long, and honestly, I'm just not model material. I don't think I could handle the drama... "First off... what kind of model could I be?"
"Any kind you want. Lingerie?"
I blush, "I don't know about that," I say. He touches my arm and runs his hand up to my shoulder, pushing my sleeve up a little.
"Really? I'm sure you're quite sexy when you aren't hiding in these clothes. When you're exposed."
"Maybe..." I flirt.
"Let me take some photos," he says, standing up again. He unbuttons his shirt completely and reveals not just his chest, but his defined abs and deep adonis belt. Just looking at him is enough to quench my thirst. With the wine making me bold, I consider his offer.
"Your lipstick is lovely, just the right shade... I'd go a little more purple maybe, but really," he adds. "I'm not an expert on that sort of thing. I have make-up artists handle that. But I can make suggestions..."
A compliment on my lipstick? This man must be the stuff dreams are made of.
What do I have to lose? Nothing but my clothes. I start to unbutton my shirt, and he feeds on me. The camera clicks away, the mirror shutting and opening as quickly as he can press the button. He's all around me, turning around and moving behind me as I drop my shirt to
my elbows. I feel sexy, for the first time in a long time. He coos and tells me to hold my position, my hands briefly wrapped around my sleeves as the shirt is halfway down my back. I've taken my bra off, but he's behind me. He clicks a few more pictures and moves onto the bed, shaking it with each step. His black socks are next to me.
"Your turn," I insist. I feel a flame burning in the room, the heat radiating from both of us. Is this what... love is supposed to be like? No, I'm just buzzed. It's the wine talking. God, does wine get more alcoholic the older it is? 1967... I glance over my shoulder at him and feel dizzy looking at his body. He ignores me.
His body hair accentuates his hard edges, making him look even stronger and more masculine than I imagined when we were in the elevator. I look forward and his free hand goes from my shoulders to my stomach, while he growls against the nape of my neck. His scent is stronger now, and he leans down and over my shoulder. His breath is on my neck, and I glance at him over my shoulder and his lips grasp mine. I fall into the kiss and backwards, leaning on him. He sets the camera on a pillow and strokes my cheek, his tongue parting my lips and scraping past my teeth. He kisses so differently than I'm used to, and I don't think it's because he's Italian. He's just... exotic.
I stroke his chest upwards and pull his sleeves off his shoulders. His strong neck angles down in a shallow bulge. How can he be so muscular? He gropes me, his soft hands stroking my breasts and nipple like the button on his camera. I let go of his lips to let out a harsh moan, surprised at how intense he feels. He grins roguishly and chuckles, his laughter dark in my ear.
He leans down and kisses my neck, his lips traveling down to my wrist and finally taking my hand. The photographer with olive-skin takes my finger and sucks on it, and I just stare at him, stunned and unsure of what to do. Giovanni guides my hand down to my waist, and I think I see where he's going. He pushes my fingers under my panties' waistband and brushes my wet finger against my clit.
"Touch yourself," he insists. And I do. I don't even know why, but there's something in his voice that demands that I follow what he says. I can't resist. It's like he has a lock on me, and it won't budge. I touch my clit, my finger warm and wet from his spit, and I feel warmth rush up through my body. My cheeks redden and chest flushes with a humid heat that makes me sweat. He leans back and climbs off the bed, snatching up his camera in the process. He takes pictures of me while I finger myself. I stare into the lens, feeling transfixed and anonymous. Even if I was completely nude, I don't think he would be getting more intimate pictures. As a deep moan slips from my lips, I suddenly grow self conscious and hesitate. He raises his head from behind his camera and rotates his finger like he's rolling up a spindle of film. "Don't stop."
I keep going, bringing myself closer and closer. "I want you to cum," he says. His voice makes him sound like a snake charmer. I'm his cobra right now, and there's nothing I can do but obey him. I shut my eyes and keep going, the wave of heat only surging and growing stronger with each flick of my wrist. He keeps egging me on, telling me to keep going, keep going faster. His voice is growing breathy, and I open my eyes to see his erection bulging through his slacks. So this is getting him off too, huh? He continues to take pictures, and I wave him closer to me. He steps forward only after I insist, and I stroke his cock through his pants. I've never done anything like it before with a stranger.
He keeps snapping pictures as I climax, my moans spilling out of my mouth like a waterfall. I don't stop stroking him through his pants though, and he grunts and thrusts his hips toward my hand as I let out a final moan. His shutter clicks closed once more and he lets out a muffled cry. Did he just... cum, too?
He sets the camera down on the nightstand and excuses himself. He steps into the bathroom and closes the door.
I lean back on the bed and feel a bit lightheaded. Much more than I should. I only had one drink, didn't I? I'm not that... much of a lightweight. Maybe the age of the wine makes it more powerful.
But as the glow of my climax washes away from me, I start to realize that I'm not right. Drunk isn't the word to describe it. I feel so exhausted and... dizzy.
Oh fuck... ... this is why you don't leave your drink alone... isn't it?
I can't keep my eyes open. Still topless, I feel like I'm pulling out of my body and watching myself go to sleep. I grow more and more distant, shrinking until I'm nothing. I watch him walk back into the room, a sly grin on his face. He's wearing gray pants now, instead of the black ones. What... is he really? Unconsciousness welcomes me.
— — —
The songs of birds. I shudder awake and open my eyes. A dream, it was all a dream. It's dark in my room, much more than I'm used to. I don't think I've ever heard the morning birds. It feels like it's late night, not early morning. Grogginess clouds me, like when I used to get sick as a kid and my eyelids would get sealed shut from sleep. What happened last night?
I yawn and stretch my legs out, touching the end of my bed frame. The wood is polished and smooth, and... wrong somehow. I turn my head and open my eyes. This isn't my room. My heart starts racing, my mind playing over the events of last night, realizing none of it was a dream. It was all real. Giovanni, the camera, the climax, my... feelings. It was all real. My body aches all over.
My arms feel heavy, and I stretch them out, trying to bring them past the top of the bed frame, but something stops them. A force yanks my wrists back toward the bed like an invisible wire. I stare at the ceiling, blind and bewildered, and try to stretch once more, and it happens again.
I rotate my hands and finally get a feel for what is stopping me. I'm bruised all over, and my hands feel especially heavy. It's because there are huge iron bracelets attached to them. Chained to the bed posts. I'm trapped.
I scream. What else can I do? I'm in a dark room I can barely see in, and the only thing I can hear is the movement of the sheets from my legs, the clink of metal, and the chatter of birds outside. It must be day. It must be. Then, why am I so tired?
Without warning, the door bursts open and floods the room with light. I squint against it and try to see who it is, but by the time I'm able to focus, she's already upon me. An older woman, with fierce eyes and an outfit that tells me she must be a maid or housekeeper. She puts her finger to her mouth and shushes me with a harsh sound. Then, she says something in Italian, but I can't understand a single word of it.
She shakes her head when she realizes I don't understand, and she turns away to leave. I yell for her, "Help me!" and try to reach my hand out, forgetting already that the chains won't let me stretch them more than a foot in any direction. She stops at the threshold and grabs the door handle, ornate and metal in design. She turns to me, and speaks again. "Don't worry, Giovanni will find you unacceptable, too. Soon enough," she says. Her English is clear and her accent has disappeared without a trace. She grimaces at me one last time before shaking her head and closing the door.
I thrash against the bed, knocking the blankets and sheets that were covering me to the floor. Great, now I get to be cold. And there's nothing I can do about it. I'm naked. My ribs ache and legs have bruises on them too. I can feel them, even if I can't see them that well.
What the fuck happened? What did I get myself into?
I scream again, but stop when I remember the woman shushing me. If she heard me and came in just to yell at me, who else would actually help me? Giovanni? He has to be the one who did this to me. He was the last person I saw. At least if it is him, I know I can talk to someone here.
I whisper his name to myself, "Giovanni Azzo," as if it's a mantra. As if it'll make him appear like some kind of evil genie. A monster that I can wish away and it'll disappear. Like checking the closet before bed. Or pulling the shower curtain before you use the restroom.
"Giovanni Azzo," I repeat, holding the name on my tongue like some kind of offensive spice. I want to spit it out. I want to kill him. I can't believe I fucking fell for his bullshit. I shake my head and my hair flies across my face. At least I can
reach down that much, and drag the hair away from my wet cheeks.
Toasting to freedom. That mother fucker.
I should have known better than to trust a complete stranger. A handsome, roguish stranger with an accent that'd make any girl melt like snow in the summer heat. With sea green eyes that draw you in like the tide. I just forgot the most important thing: the ocean can drown you and make you disappear.
I should have known better.
— — —
I can't fall back to sleep. It's useless. All I can do is replay the images of last night. There must've been some clue. Something I should have known or noticed. I can't think of one though, besides just my gut feeling tight. That was nerves, wasn't it? Just my stress from being in a place I'd never been before. That's what I get for being bold. For daring to try and be someone else for one night in my damn life. I would be the girl to get kidnapped and dragged to some countryside cabin.
But isn't that the number one fucking rule? "Isn't it?" I say to myself, talking into the darkness. Some light creeps around the edges of the shuttered window, but it's barely enough to see with. "To not let the guy pour your drink or be alone with it at all."
I just had to check my make up, didn't I? I just had to make sure I was perfect. Then he tricked me into posing for photographs. I bet that fucking magazine was fake. I bet it was all a sham. Ugh! It makes me so sick, I feel like throwing up.
Who the fuck was that lady who came in and yelled at me? She spoke English just as fluently as Giovanni did, but she wasn't dressed like his wife. He didn't have a wedding band on either.
Ugh, Lily, like that would make a difference. Like he couldn't just take it off? He's a fucking liar and a kidnapper. Probably a cheat, too.
My bruises throb and pulse, and one of them feels like it's bleeding. Why am I so beat up? It almost feels like a joke.
It's disgusting, but I can't help but laugh. Helpless, defenseless, worthless, I just laugh and laugh. I can't hold it in, and I buckle over, curling my knees to my chest and trying to stop myself. I hope no one comes in, especially that lady, just to yell at me for laughing. They'll think I'm really insane. Ha! Maybe, if they think I'm insane, they'll let me go. Set me free! Then I'll be able to go home, somehow.