by Amy Isan
I feel a cold chill run across my skin as I stare into the dusty camping room, thinking about how whoever is staying up here, can probably hear me when I'm alone. What have they heard? What have they done? Is it Giovanni? I want to say yes, but the thought of him curled up on a wooden floor in a flannel sleeping bag just doesn't look or feel right.
Anything less than the king sized monstrosity at the hotel room just won't do for Master Giovanni Azzo, I'm sure of that much. Considering how upset he gets with me, I bet he punishes his servants by forcing them to sleep here. That thought is much more chilling than having him sleeping above me. Another room just to punish people. How many are there? How many rooms can be turned into cells before a house becomes a prison? Before the owner becomes a warden?
I've given up trying to count the number of different servants I've seen after the last time Giovanni dragged me through the house. Why are there so many in the first place? The house certainly needs someone to clean it, but eight, fifteen, or more people? All dressed in old-time uniforms, like they're popped straight from the fifties. It's strange.
I close the door behind me as I leave the room and step back out into the lofted courtyard. The other doors are similar, but probably locked. After Giovanni caught me snooping in his photography studio, I feel ill at the thought of him catching me in someone else's room. I should just consider myself lucky that I get to walk around at all. I should consider myself lucky that my wrists only ache a little, and that I don't have huge cuts across them from the bracelets. Then why am I up here exploring if that thought makes me sick? Does it really?
After the spanking he gave me in my room, I can't say I'm not... curious what else he could think of. I saw him exposed to me for the first time, and then he disappeared.
Maybe I should listen to Monica, and try and get Giovanni to get rid of me? If he doesn't murder the women he deems unworthy, and if I push him just far enough against the edge, maybe he'll release me. If I make his life hell. Like doing a shitty job cleaning the dishes to keep from being called to do it again, I'll just make sure that I obey him, but only to the barest extent. When he asks me to jump, I'll look up and shrug before giving a short hop. When he orders me to undress, I'll loosen my belt and give up with feigned exhaustion. That'll really get his fire stoked. Then he'll lose it completely and let me go. What if it makes him worse? More brutal, more vicious, more dominating.
I'm disturbed to find my heart racing at the thought of him getting flared up. At the idea of him tempting me with his cock again, with his fingers, or his silky voice.
Should I even be considering this? Who is Monica to tell me what to do? For all I know she isn't a servant but actually Giovanni's wife. This is the game they play together, abducting women so she can harass them as he breaks them.
I head back down the stairs and cross the hall into the downstairs courtyard. I try the door to the dining hall again but find it still won't budge. I feel like I should pound on the door and holler for someone to come get it, but what's the use? Why should I?
I go back to my room and close the door. What else can I do... Nothing. I spread out on the bed and hang my arms off the edges, laying on my stomach and staring at the iron bracelets that used to cuff me to it. I wish they still did.
The Polaroid calls to me from the dresser, and I hop off the mattress and pull the drawer open. The hard plastic hits my fingers as I reach into the back and I grasp it like it's an unwieldy rock and take it out carefully, being sure to not scratch the surface against the edges of the drawer.
It's still loaded with the film I put in it. How many shots left? Ten I think? What use will they be to me?
I lay on the bed again and keep the Polaroid near my pillow. I make sure it's against the wall so it can't fall and hit the ground. The pain in my stomach doesn't even matter anymore. My body's just replaced that urge with exhaustion, so I let it come. I close my eyes and dream of a rainy day back home. Where I'm safe, and I don't feel like everyone wants me to just leave already.
CHAPTER 7
Giovanni wants to see me. That's all the servant says to me, in her harsh accent, before she shuts the door on me. I lift my head in a fog and can't tell if she was kidding or if I'm still lost in a dream. The crickets outside chirp loud enough to make my ears hurt, and the stars twinkle off the horizon like shimmering silk.
Giovanni wants to actually see me? Now what? I roll out of the bed and nearly stumble as I hit my feet on the cold stone. My legs are asleep and barely holding me up. I snatch the Polaroid from the bed before leaving.
Outside my room, I catch sight of the servant who woke me shuffling down the front hallway. I race to catch up to her, not knowing if I'm supposed to follow her or just know where Giovanni is. Hell, I don't even know if she actually said anything about him. Maybe she just woke me up to be a pain in the ass.
I touch her arm as I catch up to her and she glances over her shoulder, giving me a stare that I can only read as contempt. I couldn't tell it was Monica when I just got woken up like that, eyes blurry and ears clogged up. She stops in her tracks and exhales a long sigh, which only makes my face burn more.
I try to control my breathing. "Where did Giovanni want to see me?"
She blinks and nods. "Oh, now you want to go see him? I was going to tell him you were still sleeping." Her eyes go to my hands and I pull the Polaroid behind my back to hide it from her. She raises an eyebrow. "What's that you're hiding?"
I frown and shake my head and avoid the question. "You didn't even give me a chance to get up."
"Why should I? You think you're special? That you'll last much longer?"
It feels like she's almost rehearsed. Like she's done this before. "Why do you keep saying that?" I can't handle this bitch constantly trying to undermine me. Why? What would make her be so cruel to me? I might just be right about her being his wife after all. As twisted as that would be, considering she doesn't appear to have any special treatment over the other women walking the halls of Giovanni's prison-mansion.
She shakes her head and points up the stairs. She starts to walk back toward the courtyard and I relax a little as she leaves. Suddenly, hands pry my fingers from my camera and I whirl around to see it in her hands. She stares at it, holding it up like a treasure. "A Polaroid? Where'd you get this?" she asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
At least that rules her out from my list of suspects of people who shoved it into my drawer. I shake my head and manage to claw it from her hands. "Who fucking asked you? Just take me to Giovanni already, or I'm sure he has a nice sleeping bag for you to sleep in tonight."
She shakes her head and I figure I've nailed her. She walks in front of me, her pace just outdoing mine enough to be annoying. I leap up the stairs as quickly as I can, still sleep-addled and starving.
At the top of the stairs, she guides me toward the courtyard and through the hallway above the one that led to the studio. Eventually we reach the two french doors that are at the end of the hall.
She shrugs me off and walks away. I want to call back to her and call her a bitch, but if Giovanni heard me, I'm sure I'd get hell for it. Going off the handle won't work, he'll just keep throwing me into my room and locking me up. I need to prove that I'm not good enough... for whatever he wants me for. I knock on the door quietly and wait. My heart is racing, but why? Because I'm not sure what to do?
I knock again, and there's no answer. I look around to see if maybe I'm being watched, but there's nothing to hide behind at the end of this hallway. No corners or plants, just the doors into his room. After waiting some time, I try the handle and it doesn't twitch, but the door does sway a little. I jab my finger into it and discover that while, the door is locked, it isn't closed enough for the lock to do anything but stiffen the handle. I push it open.
Thick velvet rugs line the floor, surrounding a king-sized bed at the center of the room. Huge wooden posts with metal strips attached to them are in all four corners of the bed, and it's obvious the posts are for re
straints and hand cuffs and god knows what else. Two doors lead out from the bedroom, and a shower's steam is coming out of one of them. He's showering? Why the hell did he summon me then?
I wait at the door, feeling light headed from barging in, that same kind of dizzy spell threatening to knock me on my ass. This isn't the right way to disobey my master. But, that's what kind of excites me. I stare at the bed posts and wonder how many devices he can attach to my body using the bed as my anchor? My wrists and ankles are obvious, but what else? My neck? My waist?
The sheets are made up and pillows are nearly spilling off the top of it. The shower splashes as water cascades off some part of his body and echoes off the floor. Without a thought, I find myself walking toward the open bathroom door. I dip my head inside and see a huge bathtub inlaid with gold, granite tile floors, two sinks and finally, the fogged up shower. Giovanni's muscular body is moving behind the steamed and frosted glass, so I can't make any details out. I'm sure he can't make me out either.
I tip-toe a little forward and remember the hefty Polaroid camera in my right hand. I lift it to chest-height and clutch it as if it was the key to escaping and it wants to slip from my fingers. What the fuck am I doing? Catching him in his own bathroom? I just... want another look at that body of his. He rotates under the shower's stream and I freeze solid. He smacks his lips and rotates again, lifting his arm and rinsing the soap off his body. The closer I get, the sharper he is, even through the frosted glass. My eyes go to the towel rack, but the idea of using it as a weapon is firmly in the very back of my mind. My mind is in tatters. The only thing I can think of is getting a snap of this man. It's a compulsion, a desire — an obsession I have to fulfill.
I raise the camera and click the top half of it open with a creak of the plastic. Giovanni stops rinsing off, but doesn't turn toward the door. That's right, just stay there, don't look over here at me. I'm so close, I could reach out and touch the shower door with the tips of my fingers. I raise the camera to peer through the viewfinder. Suddenly, the sound of the shower running stops and he stares up at the fixture. Without the shower going, I have no sound to hide in. My cloak is gone. My heart stops dead.
He throws open the shower door and opens his eyes. I'm sure I'm a fucking sight right now, standing dumbly in his bathroom with a camera in my hand. Giovanni stares at me. The corner of his mouth twitches and I can't tell if he's going to smile or scowl. Still dripping, he steps out of the shower, completely naked, and grabs the towel off the rack. The tail end of the towel tickles my leg as he whips it around his waist and cinches it against his hips, those deep grooves that make him look like carved stone act like wedges for the towel. I still can't move an inch. I can't blink.
He steps toward me and I flinch, activating the shutter without warning as I squeeze the life out of it. The flash goes off and his outstretched hand goes to shield his eyes, and suddenly I can move again. The picture ejects from the camera and hangs loosely from the camera, begging to be ripped off. I twist on my foot and dash out of the bathroom, the floor slick with condensation. The photo breaks free and flutters to the floor. I can hear him behind me, his feet pounding the ground with the steady rhythm of a stallion. I can't race him.
He beats me to his bedroom door and blocks my escape with his dripping body and strong arms. I don't dare look into his eyes knowing that they can only be serrated knives directed at my throat. He reaches out and snatches the camera from my hand and grabs my wrist with his other hand all in one smooth motion. He pulls me so close to him that his towel rubs against my stomach, the damp cotton seeping right through my dress. He forces me to look at him, by clenching the camera under his arm and grabbing my cheeks to direct me. When I finally meet his eyes again, I'm awestruck.
He's not angry; none of the raging storms that sink ships are in his eyes. I can feel the warmth of the shower coming off him in waves, and water keeps dripping from his hair to my face. I flinch with each drop, but don't try and pull away from him. He's silent and wordless, a statuesque figure blocking me from my freedom. From my only hope. Why did I come up here anyway? Why'd I push the door open and just come in?
His hand tightens on my wrist and he pulls me closer until my thighs touch his. The towel between us falls to the floor, but I don't break eye contact. His eyes are clear blue crystal as they flit back and forth between my eyes the same way you read a book. What's he reading inside me now? I can't even process my own thoughts, as jumbled as they are.
He loosens his grip on me and picks up his towel. He swings it around his waist and tightens it again to secure it, and walks back into the bathroom. I follow him, not even knowing why.
"Sir...?" I say, the sincerity in my voice too real for me to be comfortable with, yet, there it is. "Master...?" I repeat when he doesn't answer. He stands in front of the mirror in the bathroom, staring at his own reflection. He curls his hands into fists and rests them on the counter, hunching over the sink and staring down into the basin. I approach him like he's a strange animal, with my hand barely outstretched and my feet shuffling slowly. My feet squeak on the smooth tile, and he turns to glance at me as I touch his shoulder. That's when he strikes, just like a cobra might, without warning.
His lips are on my neck, tasting me and inhaling deeply. Both of my arms feel stiff and hover above his body as he kisses me all over, digging his hands against my hips and pawing at my breasts. I don't move, but I want to. Not to run away, but to embrace him. That isn't... part of the plan. I want to push him away, but he didn't give me an order. He didn't say a thing.
He stops kissing me and rakes his fingers through my hair, until it tangles and he gains control of me. I squeal as he pulls my face up to kiss him, and feel my stiffened arms go limp as his tongue slides into my mouth. Explosions go off in my head; firecrackers, their fuses too short to be thrown safely, go off. I grab him, my hands admiring his shoulders and abs without my consent. I can't stop myself, and I have a feeling, he can't either.
After a few breathy moments, he finally pulls off me and turns away. I'm left blistering, my scalp sore from his fingers dragging me around and my face and neck itchy from his stubble. He squats down and picks up the photograph that I took of him. He comes back to me and hands it to me before disappearing into his bedroom.
I watch him leave. When he's gone, I look down at the picture. The water has seeped into the plastic and partially destroyed the image, but I can still tell what it is. Giovanni's shock and surprise at seeing me in his bathroom. Not anger, but... something else entirely. That kiss wasn't an act of violence, I know that much.
Picture in hand, I go back into the bedroom to try and find him. He's dressing in the closet across from the bathroom, near the bed.
"Master...?" I ask again, since he still hasn't answered me with any words. "I'm sorry," I say, my chest growing tight. "For intruding... but Monica said you summoned me..."
"Monica did, huh?" he asks, while buttoning a shirt. He's only wearing boxers. I can't keep my eyes off him. The Polaroid camera is resting on his bed, and I severely want to pick it up and snap a couple more photos. "She'll have to be dealt with..." he growls. I feel my blood grow hot. What does that mean? Fuck her? Like how he deals with me? Strapping her to a bed and teasing her with his cock? He fucking better not.
The thought makes me sick. Is he fucking her already? Is she just one of the many? I think about the other servants, all women. Is he fucking all of them? A little harem for him to enjoy? My fists are clenched in anger, and I don't even notice until he turns to face me and his eyes wander to my hands. "Something wrong, Lily?"
I grit my teeth, "No, sir, nothing at all."
"Good. Now..." he says, his voice dropping low and growing silky. I already feel slick from him kissing me earlier, I don't think I could handle any more teasing like the other day. Ever since I came here, I've been a toy. I'm sick of being a toy, I want to be a tool.
He slinks up next to me and grasps my hips, staring down at me with expectant eyes. "For your
punishment... for trying to take a picture of me in the shower and running." He slips his cock out from his boxers and holds it out. It's hard and glistening, the tip already wet with a drop of fluid.
I stare up at him, unsure. "Master?"
"You have to suck my cock, Lily. That's an order."
Nervously, I grasp his shaft and feel him twitch between my fingers. I sit down on the bed so his waist is closer to my face. I stare up at him as I stroke him, making sure I'm doing it right. Any ideas or notions of half-assing his orders vanishes from my mind as I stroke him. His skin feels tight and smooth against my palm. Throaty growls reverberate through his body and I can smell his cologne. His hand grips the back of my head and eases his hips against my lips, and I take him in my mouth, being sure to put pressure on him with my tongue. He growls like a powerful animal with pleasure and my chest burns. I'm not just feeling passion, but guilt, too. How can I do this, and like it? What's wrong with me? He stares down at me, his eyes rusted copper and hardened, and I try and take his entire shaft at once. Giovanni grunts and moans, his hips jerking and twitching against my face. I jerk him off harder, gripping the base of his dick as I try and drain him. After a few minutes, his eyes start to glaze over. He starts groaning loudly and I brace myself for him to climax. I've never had such a receptive partner. He finishes, his hot load sliding down my throat with each gulp. I hope that isn't all he has planned for me. My body is only getting started.
I give him a couple more strokes and suck on him for a little longer, hoping he might take things further. His forehead and neck glow crimson. He walks away and into the closet. I stare after him. He picks out a pair of slacks and finishes dressing in silence, his eyes not meeting mine once. I'm still sitting on the bed, feeling the heat building up in my body. I need him. I need something. A relief from this frustration.
"That was very good, Lily," he says as he latches his slacks together. "Very good, indeed." His accent thick on his tongue. I blush at his compliment. It helps that my ex was never appreciative of my blowjobs, but that's not what makes me blush. It's that the compliment is coming from this man. A real man. This... hulking, lean, dominator. "That'll be all. You can leave now."