by Amy Isan
"For what?" I ask. "Monica?"
"Partially," he says, turning to look at me. "And for you, Lily."
I shake my head. "What's to feel guilty about?"
"Everything I've done to you."
I fall back onto my butt and sit down cross-legged. He's still wrapped in his cocoon of a sleeping bag, gazing at me with the eyes of a man full of regret. But also, full of exhaustion. "You're not yourself, you're still asleep," I tell him.
"I'm not. I'm finally awake, for once."
"No," I say, shaking my head. He pulls his arms out from the sleeping bag and he's holding something small and square. A sheet of paper. No, a photograph.
"This is why," he says. He hands me the photo, and it's from the studio when he caught me by surprise. I didn't get to see it originally, and looking at it now, I scarcely recognize myself. The expression on my face is a mixture of surprise and fear, mostly leaning toward fear. I was terrified he was going to hurt me, to punish me, to lock me up again, especially since he had told all the men to leave. "You're more terrified than I've ever seen anyone. Not blatantly, but in a subtle way. If I showed other people this picture, they might break down in tears and not know why. That's the look into your soul I was searching for. I didn't know I never wanted to see what I'd been hunting for my entire life."
"I was scared," I admit. "I thought you were going to cuff me again, or worse... I thought you were selling me to those men. In some kind of silent auction."
He slumps and stares at the dusty floor. "I never have the servants clean this room so I can admire how much work they really do. I can compare the whole house to this one room. Its cobwebs, broken lights, and thick dust. I sleep here when I need to remind myself what I came from."
"Where?"
"A very poor family. My mother died long ago, but none of that really matters." He beckons toward the window. "My first camera was a Polaroid I found on the ground that some tourist had left behind. The same model this picture was taken with. My first picture got featured in a newspaper, and before I could blink, I started getting features in magazines."
"But..." I start for him. I can hear it coming.
"But is right... I wasn't satisfied. I didn't know what it was for a long time. After I started photographing models in Italy and Paris and then all over Europe, I started to realize what they all lacked. That soul, that candid flame that dies out when you tell someone to smile for the camera. They all stared at the camera with the conviction of a mugshot. I wanted to find a way to pull an emotion from them. Telling them wasn't enough, none of them got it. Maybe they did at one point, and that's when they got started, but with time... it burnt out and turned to ash."
I lean forward and touch his skin. He shudders at my touch and then digs his cheek into me. I feel my heart flutter when he opens his eyes again. He's right, he's awake now. His green eyes aren't clouded or guarded any longer.
He grabs my arm and pulls me closer, not with a lot of force, but enough to bring our faces together. He kisses me deeply, his lips and taste completely embracing my heart and soul all at once. The dust on the ground dances in the air in the moonlight, and our breathing grows heavy through our noses. I climb on top of him, even though he's still in the sleeping bag. I kiss him harder and more feverishly than I thought I ever would, and he reciprocates each and every time. His fingers grope me through my clothes and I moan loudly for him, feeling him getting hard through the layers of fabric between us. I'm sure he can feel my warmth, too, pressing against his erection.
He grunts and whispers my name, before releasing me so he can climb out of the sleeping bag. He's fully clothed in his suit, and it's wrinkled and dusty from the room. He peels the layers off, and I follow his example. When we're finally both naked, I feel like we're both standing at eye level, even though he's a good couple inches taller than me. He grasps me and hikes my legs up around him, and I clutch my ankles against his back. He enters me as he pushes me against the wall, and the force of it knocks a picture frame loose and it clatters to the floor.
"Ignore it," he shushes me with an impatient kiss. Using the wall as leverage, he pumps into me, my mind swirling. I press my hand against the wall to balance myself, and wrap my other around his neck to hold myself against him. His root presses hard against the top of my pussy and I feel him twitch each time I stare into his eyes. I feel my heart blossom and expand as that seawater behind his eyes reaches out to drown me. The moon bathes both of us in a pale light as we make love for the first time. He swallows hard as he grows tired, sweat beading on his forehead. I feel a climax rising through me like a wave slamming against the shore. I moan and cry out with him, his head grazing me just right.
"Lily," he whispers to me, between grunts. He catches his breath.
"M— master," I whisper back. "Ah... you're going to make me cum."
"Cum with me, Lily," he demands. He pumps harder and the sensation overwhelms me, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut as I force my weakening muscles to stay up just a little longer. My hand on the wall slips a little. I lean forward and wrap both of my hands around the nape of neck to stay upright. He lets out a guttural growl as he finishes, his speed slowing and slowing until he's just keeping his weight pressed against me and the wall. I relax enough for him to get his arms out from under me, and he lowers me to the floor. I crumple down to my knees and rest my head against the sleeping bag. I'm so weak I can't move another muscle. My bandage feels wet, but not soaked. Dust is sticky on my skin.
"Lily..." Giovanni says again, repeating my name like it's a song lyric. He sits down on the sleeping bag and invites me over. I crawl toward him and collapse on my side, before dropping my arm on his lap. He chuckles a little and brushes my hair from my face, and he leans down to give me a kiss. "What have you done to me?" he whispers.
I shake my head and kiss his hand, with my eyes still closed. "No, Giovanni, what have you done to me?"
He kisses me on the forehead and I pull him down for a real kiss. Lust wells in me again, but even though I'm willing, I can't do any more or I'll probably pass out. "Can we go back to your room?"
"Yes." He stands up. I don't want to move a muscle. He's adept at reading me at this point, or just psychic. He leans down and picks me up, sliding one arm under my shoulder and the other under my knees. I clutch his neck as he carries me down the hallway to his room. We're both naked still, but I don't care. No one will see us.
When we reach his room, he nudges the unlocked door open and goes inside. For a brief second, he lets go of me with one hand and tugs the sheets open, before slipping my feet under the bedding.
It's so comfortable compared to the cot in my room. Only vaguely do I realize he's climbing in with me. Before I doze, his arms wrap around my body and hold me tight. I touch his forearms and feel his breath against my chest.
CHAPTER 11 — GIOVANNI
She was supposed to be easy. My first attempt at trying an American woman, all the European ones a disappointment. She was supposed to be someone I could bring back without any effort and tease until she finally gave in or broke down. Taking pictures of her fingering herself, I should have known the minute she invited herself to grab my cock through my pants that she was going to be trouble.
No woman has ever made me cum so indirectly and with so little effort. Something in her eyes, even back then, was enough to send me over the edge. That glimpse was already there. The same look that took weeks to summon from the other women. She had it the first night we were together.
She's asleep now, but I'm just waking up to reality. She's endured torture to stay with me this long, but I did, too. Every minute I was with her was pain, since I had to maintain my authority, my power. Any glimpse of a crack would give her that freedom to turn hard on me. I had to keep her soft, wet and pliable for my will. For my goals.
It worked for the other women, until they finally gave up. The spark I would glimpse the first or second week in would just vanish weeks later, never to appear again. That's when I'd
give them a choice: you can leave the island and go home, or stay here and serve me. Almost all the women decided to stay. I don't know why. Something about how I handled their training must've been too harsh. They couldn't imagine leaving me. They all doted on me, like I truly was their master. The only thing I could do was give them work.
I paid them handsomely, and provided them room and board. I didn't give them difficult lives, but just the one that they chose. Freedom is different to all the women. Freedom, for me, would be finally finding that woman who'd fulfill that hunger in me. A year or two into my photography career, I noticed that all the models were dead-eyed. That's what planted the seed in me.
I started off small, just seeing if maybe pets and other animals could showcase that special spark, but none of them did. They were too dull or dim-witted to do so. After that, I tried to instruct or train the models to show me that vulnerable side of them, but it never worked. They were husks by the time they had gotten into my studio, only chasing the money or fame. They weren't in it for their lives or anything that special.
That's when I had that idea. I'd take a woman and rebuild her. It worked in every other agency, arranged-marriages, mail-order wives, and prostitution. Surely if they could manage it, I could too.
But it didn't work. The first couple of women showed promise, but quickly succumbed to my tests. Perhaps my tests were too harsh at the time, my technique unrefined. The only one who never broke was Monica. But that was only because she was already broken.
But she was as soulless as the prostitutes and models that I photographed before her. I gave her the same choice I gave the others, and she offered to do me one better and take care of the other servants. I agreed, since it would be one more barrier between me and them.
Seeing them was a harsh reminder that they weren't good enough. I never assumed that they all had the same, eager flame, and I was the one snuffing it out.
Lily brought my whole house of cards down on my head. What I thought was rock solid and sturdy, was instead just thin paper. She tore something inside me and it dripped blood since the flight back to Italy.
That crimson was staining my insides. I tried to ignore it, but you can only ignore your impending doom for so long.
It's late in the night right now, and Lily is soundly asleep. Tomorrow, I'll release all the servants. If they resist, I'll make sure they must leave. I'll fly them back home, pay for any expenses to return them to their lives. Lily will stay, even though I'll ask her the same. She's the one thing I've searched for. Her flame has reignited my own. That zest, that creative zeal. Nothing else matters. Nothing but that one photo of her to remind me of how far down the hole I went to get what I wanted.
Emotionless, uncaring, demonic, satanic, monstrous; all words that women have called me. I've brushed all of the words away like they were so much dust on my suit. But when Lily called me those things, it struck me, because she had a deep conviction in it. She had fear in her eyes when she said them. The others were already breaking down by the time they uttered those words. They were joking, if anything. Lily meant it.
Even Sir and Master came easily to her. Like she was born to serve me. Most of the women would resist, for a little while, until I forced their hands to use the words. Soon after, the flame would flicker out.
On the nights I left Lily unchained, I'd lie in bed awake at night, listening to see if she was haunting the place. She never did. She stole my tie from the bathroom, and I made sure she knew. She surprised me in my shower, but she'd never dare do that again after I had my way with her. She stole my camera from the photography studio, and I made sure she that I knew. She knew who I was, and wasn't scared to say it.
And that's when she started to lower a rope to me. She brought me back to the surface when I had dug a hole so deep and wide I was convinced it was the true surface of the world. Ironically, I was just the closest to the center of it than anyone else.
— — —
I brush back her hair and kiss the nape of her neck to wake her. The sunlight is streaming into the room and making the dust dance like snowflakes. She stirs and grins a little, before turning over and kissing me. She's hesitant, but I don't expect anything less from her. Not for a while. It'll take some time to build that trust for her, and the same for me.
She could still try to leave if she wanted to, but I don't expect her to. Just like all the other women, they all decided to stay. I never asked them why. What was the point in prolonging anything? The charade was up by that point, so I let them go like balloons in the wind. It wasn't my fault they ended up caught in the rafters.
She kisses me and lingers for a bit, and I savor her flavor. There's something delicate about the scent of a woman. It's so intangible and thick at the same time. Like time itself. You can't feel it, but you can admire it in some way. When Lily is near, I get that same sensation. That hint of her scent is enough to drive me hard and wild.
I bet she doesn't even know how fast she can make my heart race. When she scolds me or tells me off, that's when I get off the most. Her refusal to give up or break was what made me keep her around. Most women who refused to break, like Monica, would become more and more wild until I finally realized they were broken already. Like taking a magnifying glass to a diamond, I look for the flaws and uncover them. Lily hasn't a single defect I can see.
That's not right. I sit up in bed and the sheets fall off of my body. She stirs some more and rolls over and brushes up against my skin. She isn't perfect, but that's what makes her perfect.
Diamonds without flaws are boring and as uninteresting as a night sky filled to the brim with stars. The darkness in the gaps is what makes each tiny spark of light that much more fascinating. The same with flowers out in the garden. If they were all the same color and height and shape, I might as well have a lawn.
Lily climbs out of bed and runs her hands along the posts with metal embedded in them. That was my solution to the women who thought they could slip the cuffs off the top of the posts. It proved useful in other conquests as well. She fingers one of the ringlets and lets it clink against the metal backing. She smirks over her shoulder, one that I can read like a book.
I'm sure the ringlets will be very interesting to use on a woman who is willing to be chained up. One that loves it when I spank her, when I'm rough and pull on her hair. Lily didn't stand a chance at that casino.
But the dire truth is: neither did I.
She takes my hand and drags me out of the room, grumbling about being hungry. My thoughts are too clouded to fully take her words in, especially if I'm going to release all the servants. We go down the stairs and I take her into the kitchen.
"Listen up," I say, pulling the crowd of women's attention to me. They all stare up at me with that same look in their eyes, as if they hope I'll take them back and chain them up again. Like they miss it. "From here on out, you're all free to go. You always were, but now I'm not giving you a choice." As the words leave my mouth, many women drop what they're holding. One breaks down in tears. Lily flees from the kitchen, disappearing back into the dining hall. I can't follow her right now and if she chooses to leave, so be it. Many of the women resist and fight, but I offer condolences, cash, and therapy to those who require it. God knows I have enough money from my photography. All of them accept my offer, and the next time I find Lily, she's silent. She's sitting in the dining room, the tall back of the chair almost hiding her completely.
"What's wrong?"
"You released them... but not me." She huddles her knees against her chest and refuses to look at me.
I'm stunned. She won't look at me. "Is that what you want?"
"That night at the hotel, you toasted to freedom."
"I did. You're right," I say. She still won't look at me. My heart burns with an unyielding pain. "I release you then, Lily."
She turns to me and shakes her head. The same defiance she's had all along. She grins, this time, though and lets her facade show its cracks. "I'm already free, master,"
she says. Just like the others, she's convinced. But unlike the others, she's decided. They never had that freedom. I broke them of having it at all. That's why they fought me in the kitchen.
I embrace her in my arms and squeeze her tight. I won't let her go anyway. She deserves this, deserves to stay with me, to grow old with me. To raise children together.
She laughs and drags me back into the kitchen, where she finds the pans and pots to start making some breakfast for us. She insists I cut up the vegetables, something I haven't done in probably fifteen years.
As the omelets cook in the pan, she hugs me and kisses me again. Her eyes are unguarded. That spark I sought for so long, is finally there. It's like a bonfire. Not like the glimmers I caught on film or in the bathtub, which was like reading about what a fire is, but not feeling the heat of it, not watching it dance. The look in her eyes right now is pure and full of soul. That's the look I've been dying to see my whole life.
If only I had known.
If only I had Lily.
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Did you love Dark Exposure? Then you should read Charred (MC Romance #1) by Amy Isan!
My heart quickens, more out of excitement than fear. He looks pissed. His arms are tanned as dark leather and covered in jet-black tattoos.