More than an hourmust have passed by now. The bedroom window looks over the courtyard at the front of the house. Apart from the few areas that are lit by spotlights, it’s hard to make out the rest of the grounds. One thing I know for sure is that this place is more guarded than anything I’ve witnessed before in my life, almost like something out of the movies. Men with rifles walk up and down the perimeter of the courtyard, while some group together on wooden chairs, smoking and talking. I try to think back to the trip here. It must not be too far from the city. A few distant images flash before me. A memory of my bedroom in our apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. A few blurred faces of the friends I had in school, although I can’t remember their names anymore.
I’m tired—I can feel the redness in my eyes. My whole body just wants to fall onto the bed and forget everything, but I try to wrestle with my body’s need to rest. At any moment, someone could walk through that door. I have to keep myself alert, or at least that was the plan because before I know it, I’m on the bed and it is impossible to keep my eyes open.
When I wake up, it’s to someone knocking on the door. I sit and position myself on the edge of the bed, my chest damp with sweat, my mind fussing over its own confusion as it peels itself away from the dream I had fallen into. I wake to confusion because my heart is beating fast and hard, and my brain is responding to an excitement I’m feeling between my legs.
What the hell was I dreaming about?
Snippets of the dream come back to me as I reach out mentally for them. You know, like when you shut your eyes right after waking and wish the images from your dream will return? The warm feeling between my legs and deep down in my belly begs me to remember. Once one or two images come back, the rest tumbles out, and for a blissful moment, I experience my dream lucidly.
I was taken to a castle–a large, looming, and dirty castle–by a beast. Angrily, he threw me into his dungeon before following me in. The stone floor was cold, frozen even, and suddenly it dawned on me that I was wearing nothing but my panties. How did I get here? Why am I naked?
“Looking like that, how could I be expected to leave you behind?” the dark beast grumbled out and reached over my huddled body to a set of chains behind me, fixed to the wall with bolts. Taking his time, he attached each of the chains to my wrists, then tightened them, pulling my arms above my head. I tried to kick him, tried to wrangle my way free, but I was helpless. My legs didn’t move, no matter how hard I tried. The beast left me alone, laughing devilishly as he shut the cage with a deafening clang!
I remembered struggling in vain to get free, but instead helplessly falling into a deep sleep until I felt a hand on my foot. I screamed–or at least, I tried to, but no noises left my mouth. I was still chained at the wrists with my naked body exposed to the night air. As I looked around, the sensations I experienced changed. Suddenly, the stone floor morphed into a silk sheet on a soft bed. The cold dissipated, and my body relaxed its limbs, no longer shaking with cold and fear. I looked up at my hands to notice that they were now tied in silk strips, comfortably tight.
Finally looking into the distance, I saw the hand on my foot appearing from the darkness beyond the bed. I tried with all my might to kick, to scream, to do anything, but I couldn’t. The beast’s hand slid up my leg, and then up my thigh. Even though I was scared, the hand didn’t feel cold or calloused like it had earlier. Searching for a face in the blurs of my memory, my eyes landed on a gorgeous, ripped body, climbing his way over me. I stilled for a moment and squinted my eyes. The beast was no longer a hairy, slobbering animal. He was glorious. The ridges of his body—his abs, his pecs, his biceps—reflected by the low candlelight. His face was obscured, but I could see his dark hair. My attention was pulled away when suddenly his hand traveled back down my thigh, taking my panties along with it.
By that time, I knew I wanted it. I wanted him, and whatever he would give me. I lifted my ass to ease with the removal of my panties and felt cold air wash over the hot need between my thighs. The faceless man kept caressing me, running his hands up my legs and squeezing my thighs mercilessly.
“Please…please,” I started to beg and tremble with need.
“That’s it, baby girl. Tell me you want it.” While the beast’s body had changed, his voice was still a deep, terrifying grumble. Yet, I didn’t feel scared. I felt needy, so fucking needy. Finally, I sighed with relief when his hand moved to my inner thigh. His thumb dipped into my wet center and ran up through my folds, spreading the lips apart. He ended his trail at my clit; his wet thumb rubbed circles around her, spreading the slick liquid. Groans left my mouth involuntarily, and I still couldn’t move. Struggling to see him, to see anything, the blur of his body became evident again. He was moving away.
“No! No, no!” I complained, feeling as though I would cry. But the dark curls of his head stopped at my stomach and started planting kisses along my lower belly. “Oh, God…yes…”
His thumb circled again, then lifted when a long, thick finger entered me. The next sensation I felt was warm, soft, wet, against my clit. It was his tongue. He massaged the excited bud until I could feel myself clenching around his pulsating finger. My breathing became ragged, and I moved my head from side to side, searching for release. His hot mouth on my throbbing folds was intoxicating, but it wasn’t enough.
“More…I need more…” I groaned. Desperately, I moved my hips, and this time it worked. This time I felt myself move, so I continued, urging myself against his lapping mouth, moving back and forward again rhythmically on his steady finger that pressed against something inside me, something dull but so, fucking, good!
The heat built up, and my wrists pulled painfully against the restraints. I begged and begged for him to move faster, for him to release me from this torturous cycle of pleasure that never seemed to reach its pinnacle.
Right at the moment of climax, I still felt dull. I still felt unsatisfied as I raced for that feeling, that fiery warmth that slowly faded away. I looked back down. In between my legs, glowing green eyes stared up at me.
The knocks come twice more, ripping me ruthlessly back to reality, then the door unlocks as Antonio Moretti walks in with a tray in his hand, and as he does, it dawns on me that Antonio was there, in my dream. His green eyes, less potent now, are unmistakably the same. His brow scar even seems familiar in that weird, fuzzy, dreamlike way.
“I brought you some food,” he tells me and places the tray on a table opposite the bed. He goes back to the door and stands there for a moment, looking at me.
An unease makes goosebumps form across my skin. I feel exposed, so I grab the cover off the bed and wrap it around myself. The worst thing is that I don’t know how to react to him. A part of me wants to say thank you, while another part wants to take the food tray and beat him around the head with it—to try and escape. Yet, some kind of residual excitement from my dream is causing me to stare intensely at his face, especially when I realize it was him in my dream, lapping at me. And it wasn’t the fact that I was tied up that somehow twisted my interpretation of fear and excitement, but the understanding that he had complete power of how the scene would play out. He had my life in his hands, still does. I should hate him, fear him, yet I can’t help but be pulled in by the intensity of his stare.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“To do with you?” He repeated back to me in a low voice. He then walks back to the table with the food and pulls out one of the chairs from under it. He doesn’t answer my question, just points to the food.
“Eat,” he demands. His muscular forearms are exposed, his biceps bulging from within the sleeves of his rolled-up shirt.
I wait until he walks back to the door and then, like an obedient pet, I remove the cover from around my shoulders and move over to the tray of food. My stomach reacts by tightening itself upon the smell of the steak in front of me, to the balsamic vinegar on the green salad. I sit down and, as if satisfied that I will start eating the meal, Antonio leaves the room, locking the door behind him. Unable to help myself, I start eating, and it’s not just a piece of meat that had been thrown into the pan, but a well-thought-out meal. It had been made with care, to be enjoyed, and it tasted authentic.
Am I so weak?I question myself whilst finishing the food, enjoying every bite. And I’m right to judge my reaction to this, aren’t I? I mean, some hours ago, life was normal. We were just a father and daughter who ran a small bookshop. Now, I’m a prisoner enjoying a five-star meal in a mansion.