12. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Alessandrio
“ W here are my panties?” Monique asks, tossing her dress and jacket on the chair.
I paw the silk material and kick it up to join her belongings. She’s wrapped in a fluffy white towel, the steam from my ensuite curling around her and off her body. It’s always like this. We fuck, and before I have even fully released her from her binds, she’s at the bathroom door. Even now I see where her skin is pink from scrubbing, like she can’t get me off her fast enough. To drive it home harder, she won’t even look at me directly, always keeping me in her peripheral, just enough to know where I am in the room and if I move.
She’s uncomfortable. I’m her dirty little secret now. Before I became the monster, she would beg to spend the night, always wanting more, like the other women I fooled around with. Now, the only thing more she wants from me is my cash. Her phone lights up as I hit send on mine, and I watch her face light up as she sees my generous sum delivered to her bank. I turn away, walking to my floor to ceiling window and stare out at dawn approaching.
Something dark and bitter curls through me, something that has been slowly poisoning me. An emptiness that I haven’t felt since I was a child. When I had my old life, I could drown this feeling in alcohol, violence and women. Now? It’s much harder to ignore. The urge to drink is strong, but I can’t lose my head, or my control. With Olivia so close, and my anger just beneath the surface, I might throw everything out the window and do something I will later come to regret.
“I’m going to go now,” Monique says behind me, and I only grunt in response.
Our whole transaction is over in less than an hour and thirty minutes. I had hoped to wipe the she-devil from my thoughts, but hers was the face I thought of as I drove my dick into Monique, feeling her pussy contract as she came apart. Monique isn’t the only one who now feels dirty. Not for you, I remind myself.
I need sleep and my fucking head examined. Somewhere in the apartment, I hear the ding of the elevator as Monique leaves, and I feel like I can breathe easier again. The weight of the experience with her always feels heavy and confusing. When we fuck, she whispers things, how much she loves the way my dick feels, that when she comes, those fucking ridges swell to lock her in place and draw out her orgasm. Yet she wears a blindfold the entire time. There is no depth to it, a means to an end and usually I am okay with it, but tonight feels different. With Olivia so close, it feels lewd.
You need to sleep. I remind myself, that’s all. Sleeping on the floor of my van has given me kinks in my neck. I missed my bed. Tonight, however, I’ll need some aid. Debris litters the light floorboards beneath my paws as I make my way across my room, the bathroom light giving me direction. My vast bed with its dark silk sheets is undisturbed. I don’t fuck Monique in bed. Beds are for lovers, and we are not that.
The ensuite is still full of steam and the moisture in the air clings to my fur. It's spacious and designed for two. His and hers they call it, two sinks side by side, the shower long with two twin heads, the bath beside the window big enough for two. Well, once big enough for two, the marble is now a jagged mess. I also ripped a sink apart and one of the shower head hangs at an odd angle from the wall, all destroyed in a rage.
The mirror is fogged, distorting my image, yet I stare as I open the draw beneath the sink. Unlike Emilio, I didn’t shy away from this form. I might have refused to go back out into society, but that’s because the Mafia society is suffocating. The men all wear masks to hide their shadow selves. The mamas are always tugging your arms, begging you to meet their daughters, but as the night wears on, they will be the ones to pull you into a bathroom and suck your dick like they are the unmarried. It’s all a show, and I don’t have the patience or the will to play by their rules.
I pull a bottle of sleeping pills from the draw and drop a few more than I should into the velvet palm of my hand. They aren’t strong enough anymore. It’s like my size has made it impossible for the drug to fully put me down. A few hours of dreamless sleep are all I need as I toss them back and swallow them dry. Stumbling back into my room, I press the button on the wall beside my bed so the heavy curtains slide across the wall of glass. The bed reaches up to embrace me as I fall limbless onto its surface, grateful that when I close my eyes, I don’t see a certain pair of silver eyes wide with horror.
My lids feel heavy with sleep. It’s an ordeal to pry them open and, for a moment, I wonder where I am. The comfort for me is the reminder. Home. Sleeping in a van on and off for weeks is enough to make one appreciate the creature comforts. Plagued by aches every morning on that tiny mattress, it’s nice to wake up feeling good in my body despite the grogginess of my head.
The surrounding silence, however, is unnerving. Olivia. I would have expected her to be screaming for help or hunger and thirst. Something makes the fur of my arms stand on end. In one fluid movement, I roll from the bed, the grogginess of my head replaced by urgency as I slip on my sweatpants.
I punch the button for the curtains on my way out and hear that familiar whir as sunlight pours into the hall in my wake. Her prison is the end room. Down lights hang from the ceiling along the way and I step over a particularly large piece of plaster where the pipes in the wall have been exposed. Pausing at the door, I press my ear against it for a moment. Inside, there is no sound, and my unease becomes magnified.
Did she suffocate behind her gag? Die of a heart attack from the experience of me getting her here? That would be a fucking inconvenience. I nudge the door with my paw. The room is lit only by the shard of light from the ensuite. Her golden hair is a halo as the light illuminates her outline. My paws click across the floor, stopping just before her to kneel. Her even breathing stirs the hair in front of her face, and the sight of it fills me with relief. Good, because that would have been fucked. Standing once more, I look down at her head. She will be hungry and thirsty, just as I am, so the first order of business will be food. Again, that tingle of anticipation fills my veins. Soon, she will have her rude awakening. My steps feel lighter as I leave her and head back down the hall.
“Fucking hell,” I exclaim in shocked dismay as the light of day reveals the rest of my space.
It once resembled a war zone, with walls containing gaping body-sized holes and cords pulled from where the electrical work was destroyed. Only one dilapidated old couch sat before the unblemished floor to ceiling window of the city beyond and the balcony. They have now patched all the holes, swept away the debris, and the smell of fresh paint is still evident in the room. A large flat screen TV now adorns the wall, while a coffee table rests on a fancy rug before a plush-looking couch. The kitchen is a dream of white marble once more. My fridge was the only thing that I couldn’t destroy and that was more out of necessity. Now my living room and kitchen look like they belong in some interior design magazine. Fuck. When I reach the fridge, I see the culprit left his calling card.
’ Surprise.
- Lorenzo.’
“Surprise indeed, motherfucker.”
Gripping the door, I pull it open, hunger replacing annoyance. My mouth waters. Donatella took care of everything. The fridge is stocked, and in the very middle sits a roast chicken on a platter, which I pull out, along with a bottle of water. The need for food drives me to the other side of the counter and onto one of the bar stools, wondering what the hell my uncle was thinking as I cut strips of meat off with the assistance of my claws. The man at least has a sense of humor. I stuff the meat in my mouth and repress a sigh. Living off meagre supplies of protein bars, I dreamed of real food and now my mouth is overflowing with the taste of heaven.