7
Mia
Istarted crying because I was ashamed. The instant that our sensual moment was interrupted, it felt like glass smashing in my mind. What the fuck was I doing? The fear I’d felt before, the urgent emotion that came along with my desire, and the shock of hearing that knock on the door all culminated in tears. I was scared, electrifyingly aroused, and ashamed because I wanted him. That’s why I started to cry.
The way Antonio had moved onto me, had shown me what he wanted without asking for permission, was more than I could take, more than I could have expected for my first time. And the shame didn’t come from his forcefulness, for the way he treated me, but for myself, because at that moment he could have done anything he wanted to me, and when he didn’t, I felt disappointed.
“What’s wrong with me?” I whispered to myself. “Seriously?”
After he left, I sat on the bed, noticing the strange shadows cast in the room by the light outside. I don’t have a clock, so I don’t know the time, but I’m guessing it’s well past midnight. I take deep breaths as I realize what almost happened. My entire life, I’ve gained more than my fair share of attention from men who, to everyone else, seem to have the qualities I should be looking for in a partner. Well-mannered, caring, and the most of which were reasonably handsome—and yet, I had never felt aroused in such a way by any of them before. I swear, I had once thought my only choice would be to just get the act of losing my virginity over and done with, that I would be doomed to only read about good sex in romantic novels and live a boring, mundane life with a boring, mundane man.
Antonio, on the other hand, is something else.
I get up from the bed to go to the bathroom and wash my face, to clean away the smell of Antonio’s cologne, the after-scent of whiskey he left on my neck. The bathroom is fitted with a claw-foot tub. I fill it with hot water, closing the door to let the steam fill the room. I get in slowly, the hot water both stinging and delightful at the same time. The bath is deep enough that I can sink my face under the water, and the intensity of the heat is almost too much, but the longer I linger in the warmth, the more my desire drives my thoughts to Antonio.
What if?I think to myself. What if there wasn’t a knock on the door? What if he didn’t stop when he heard the voice outside? What if he had put his hands between my legs and had continued to touch me? What if he had moved his mouth from my neck down to my whole body?
In reaction to the memory of his touches, my own hands travel across my skin, caressing myself as if he was in the tub with me. My fingers start at my neck, touching the skin there as gently as his kisses were, and travel down to my breasts. I really liked how he touched me there; he was gentle but forceful in such an irresistible way. Thinking of his rough fingers, I pinch my nipples, arching my back. Wow, I like that.
Next, I allow my fingers—imagining Antonio’s–to move over my belly and down to the place between my legs that had begged to be given some attention. I don’t know if I would have fought him off had he gotten that far, but I know that, in that moment, I wanted him to. I imagine what he would have done, perhaps slid his hand from my thigh right into my panties, and spread me open? God, yes… Perhaps, he would have teased me with his fingers for a while, before dropping me onto the bed.
Suddenly, in my imagination, we’re both naked. I’m ready as I’ll ever be, and I pick my legs up in the bath, letting them rest on the rim of the tub while my fingers explore deeper. Shit, where’s my dildo when I really need it? Imaginary Antonio has a big dick, bigger than my dildo. He watches me squirm as he readies himself for me, crawling onto the bed in between my legs. I can only imagine what it would feel like if he entered me, and even the mere thought that it almost happened intensifies my pleasure. Knowing that my small fingers won’t do any good anymore, I rub my palm in slow circles over my clit.
With my eyes closed, I see him over me, kissing my neck, my chest, my boobs. Then, I feel him against me, opening me, sliding into me. Oh God, would it have felt this good? Would he have groaned in pleasure as I’m dying to now? Consciously, I have to stop my moans from leaving my mouth, like I used to at home to keep my orgasm to myself. My pleasure is a solitary experience that’s dying to be shared. I imagine he’s with me, on that bed, moving his body against mine, inside of mine. It’s almost too…much…
“Oh! Fuck!”
My climax explodes into little white sparkles behind my eyelids. Fuck! Yes! I need it, I need him! Oh, God… I let out a jagged breath. Much too soon, it’s over. He’s gone, I’m alone in the tub. Quickly, I pray that no one heard my outburst. Different feelings wash over me now. With my arousal quenched for the moment, I feel embarrassment again, shame in relishing his touch, and guilt in being the type of girl who actually wants her captor.
Don’t forget, Mia. He beat Papa and he took you from your home. He’s not the hero of your story. No, he’s the villain…
Why am I so depraved, so deranged in my sexual desires? Why do I want the villain? Maybe it’s my virginity. Maybe my hormones are overflowing, telling me to get it done. I read so many books with raucous sex scenes, telling me what it should be like. I’ve never felt closer to that than I did with Antonio engulfing me, touching me, kissing me. It’s what I want, but he’s not who I want. He hurt my father, he locked me in this room. He was willing to take me forcefully, to rape me. No… I can’t let myself want him like this.
* * *
After the bath,I pull my t-shirt back on and flop onto the bed. Now that I’ve pushed my depravedd desires to one side, I’m left thinking about my father. The hardest part of my predicament is that I was almost glad that something came and knocked us away from our daily lives. It’s such a hard thing to describe—I mean to anyone else, we had it pretty good. A nice house, an okay business, and even a pretty good relationship, me and my papa. Yet it always felt staged, like, the feeling of a false facade always lingered with us. I knew we had a past in the city, but I never remembered it. After finding that photo in the basement that read ‘Stephano Gallo, Tax and Accounting’, I knew there was a lot more to it than he was letting on. I always figured we moved away so he could start fresh and move on from my mother’s death. But to change names? It was all becoming clear now.
“Gallo,” I say aloud, testing out the name. It doesn’t sit right. And in a way I’m glad, because, if anything, that name must have been tainted to anyone who knew us before. My father must have known that from the very second he decided to steal from the mob, the name Gallo would have been dragged through the dirt. THIEF, spelled out with all capitals.
I turn onto my side with a huff, feeling sad and angry, and alone. Just as my tired eyes flutter closed, I’m jolted awake by a sound.
Doof!
It’s not from the door, though. It’s from the window. I’d left it open for the night breeze, and now, jerking around in fright, I see a cat waltzing proudly along the windowsill. When she sees me, she jumps straight onto the bed and rubs herself against me.
“Aww, who are you?” I ask sweetly, rubbing her back as she glides under my hand. She has a pretty little pink collar and I check her name. Leonessa. Italian for lioness. It’s beautiful, and so fitting for such a brave little trooper.
She accepts my caresses and cuddles and plops herself down against my tummy while I lie on my side. The company is so needed, and I finally drift into a deep sleep to the purrs of little Lea.
* * *
By the timemorning comes around, I must have had only about three hours of sleep. Mind, they were three hours of absolute dead sleep—no dreams this time. Lea gets up and stretches, waking me. Almost simultaneously, the lock of the door clicks open and in walks a woman in a plain maid’s outfit with a small stack of towels under her left arm and several stuffed shopping bags hanging from her right.
“Good morning, Miss Mia.” She has a distinctive Italian accent. I can see gray streaks in her dark hair that’s pinned up into a bun. She must have stories to tell of what goes on in this house.
“Ah, morning,” I reply carefully, trying to gauge her. Is she nice, or ruthless like her employers?
“I am Sophia, the housekeeper.” She’s nice. Putting the bags onto the old loveseat couch next to the table, she smiles at me. “Mr. Moretti told me to bring you some clothes. He said you’re a size 8.”