6. Mimosa
CHAPTER 6
Mimosa
“Good morning, Mimi,” Brutal greets me as he pulls the sheet from over the kennel.
I blink at the sudden influx of light, but I’m grateful for it. I’m not a bird to be kept in a covered cage at night, and I’d spent the night restless for it.
He at least sounds like he’s in a better mood, and I wonder if he’s taken his drugs or if he’s in a good mood because he hasn’t.
“Good morning,” I answer. I remember just how pissed he’d gotten when I’d been perfectly compliant, which makes me wonder more about him. Clearly, he doesn’t actually want an obedient little pet, or he would be happy about that.
He unlocks the cage and opens it, and I crawl out, stretching my aching joints. I know I’d be stupid to try to run again. If he thinks I won’t, he might let me have a little more freedom.
Then again, he’d been pretty pissed the night before, and he’d probably have shoved me inside the kennel anyway.
“Go to the bathroom and do your business,” he says, like I’m some pet. “I put a toothbrush out for you. Shower, do all that crap. I should get the results from your blood tests today. Won’t it be nice when I can fuck your loose little cunt?”
No, but I know my actual opinion doesn’t matter. I go into the bathroom and get myself clean, happy to brush my teeth and get the lingering aftertaste of his cum out of my mouth.
I think back to the days before I knew what cock and cum tasted like. That sure had been nice.
Once I’m done with everything, I head back to the bedroom with only a towel wrapped around me. I’m sure he won’t let me keep it, but I’ve got to take the few moments of warmth where I can get them.
“Is your hair why he called you Mimosa?” Brutal asks from where he’s tapping at a tablet on the bed. “Or is there another reason?”
My hair used to be blue, in fact. And pink before that. It was one of the few fashion luxuries I allowed myself.
“Giulio told them to dye my hair orange,” I say, and that’s about as much of an explanation I’m going to give him.
I definitely don’t want to tell him that the reason I’m Mimosa is because my sister was going under the name Champagne .
He hums, not seeming to buy the answer completely. “What’d you do to end up in that hellhole, anyway? Drugs? Debt?”
He seems willing to talk without fucking, and while I don’t want to give him the real answer, I know I have to give him something if I want to keep him in this decent mood.
“I pissed Giulio off,” I answer.
Yeah, sure. I’d mouthed off at him, but that wasn’t why he’d kidnapped me from my apartment and had forced me into sex work.
No, I owe all of that to my lovely sister. She’d decided she was done working for Giulio. Not “done” as in, getting out of the sex work business.
“Done” as in, going off to another club. Allowing herself to be poached.
Giulio Pavone hadn’t taken kindly to that.
So not only did I find out my sister was fucking men for money, I also got forced into the exact same bullshit on the same day.
If she’d just gotten a normal job like a normal person, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
“That’s pretty easy to do, I hear,” Brutal drawls. “He likes to come off as a nice guy, but he’s nasty as fuck in the end. I’ve heard some rumors…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Nah. He owed me a favor, not the other way around, thank fuck.”
What would the world think if they knew Drake Brutal, entrepreneurial finance darling, had connections to organized crime?
Maybe they would be more shocked if the people up top were squeaky clean. I’ve come to realize that the rose-tinted, ideal world I’d wanted to believe in is even more of a pipe dream than I’d originally thought.
“So he gave you a sex slave,” I answer, deadpan. “You could have gotten one for cheaper, I bet.”
“Probably,” he replies with a shrug. “But I wanted you.”
He doesn’t specify why, and I’m not sure I dare ask the reasons.
“Things didn’t work out with the sugar babies?” I can easily imagine the hundreds of women who would want to date him. Who cares if his personality is trash, because the lavish lifestyle he promises would more than make up for it for most people.
Brutal offers me a vulpine smile, tossing his tablet onto the bed and getting up. He approaches me, and when he gets close, he rests his hands on my shoulders, thumbs massaging lightly. “Got bored. I get bored a lot.”
That doesn’t surprise me.
“How long until you get bored of me?” I ask, looking him steadily in the eyes.
Eye contact got me into trouble a lot at Ntimacy, but I can’t break the habit. It was one of the ways I got people to actually listen to me when I was in class, surrounded by a bunch of men who thought their opinions mattered more just because they had penises.
He shrugs, his hands trailing down until he reaches the towel. He pushes that down until the fabric comes loose, pooling around my feet. “Depends on you, I guess.”
“You never told me what you wanted from me,” I point out. “You don’t want my obedience, but you get mad when I disobey.”
“That’s for you to figure out,” he says, his hands running down my front until he reaches my breasts, and he thumbs over my nipples.
In other words, I don’t think even he knows. Great .
“All right, Master,” I say, sickly sweet. “How should I service you this morning?”
Brutal snorts. He starts to say something, but as if on cue, his phone dings. “Oh, that might be Hunter. Could make this morning a lot more interesting if it is.” He saunters over to the nightstand, leaving me standing there shivering as he checks his phone. His smile widens. “Yep. You’re all good, somehow. Let’s see… I’m feeling generous this morning, and I have a little extra time. Do you want to eat first, or do you want to play a game first?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Eat.”
I’m sure we’ll be playing the game either way, but I need to keep my energy up in order to think straight. Part of the problem was how little I’d been fed, which meant thoughts of resisting were often subsumed by thoughts of food.
He doesn’t seem surprised. “C’mon.” To my surprise, he doesn’t demand that I crawl, so I walk behind him. We go back to his kitchen, and he pauses, staring at me. “I don’t need your input while I cook. You decide to play backseat chef again, and I won’t feed you at all. Got it?”
I nod, although I’m secretly glad that my needling got under his skin.
He thinks he’s a big, strong man, but all of that bravado is hiding an insecure little boy.
To think, I discovered all of that just because of some cooking advice.
Brutal continues to stare hard at me, as though to drive his point home, then he nods. He heads to the fridge, coming out with enough supplies for an omelet—or ten. He hums to himself as he starts to put things together, and I notice him preheating the oven to 425. He starts to cut up a few potatoes, using a seasoned salt instead of just salt and pepper.
I wouldn’t have chosen potatoes for breakfast, but the brief glance I have into the fridge shows a distinct lack of green. The clear vegetables drawer only has stacked cold cuts in it.
I bite my tongue to prevent making a snide comment about his heavy diet. I have to start earning his trust if I’m going to work my way out of this .
He heats up a pan on the stove, adding eggs, ham, and onions, this time only with salt and pepper. He doesn’t speak to me as he cooks, concentrating on his task.
“There you go, Mimi,” Brutal says as he plates the food. I get on a stool by the kitchen island, but he scoffs. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Sitting down?” I say, although I can already tell where this is going.
Brutal sets the plate down on the floor next to the kitchen island. “You eat there. The chairs are for the owners.”
He really wants a reaction out of me for that. I meet his eyes and, not breaking contact, get off the stool and sink onto the floor.
He nods, taking the seat I’d just gotten out of for himself, and he picks at his food. I’d noticed the night before he didn’t have much of an appetite, but he’d prepared much more food than he’d needed to. Whether that had been on purpose or not, I can’t tell, but it puts the idea of drug abuse more strongly in my mind. I know some of them work as appetite suppressants. He’s not a small man by any means, and there’s nothing to indicate he’s a dainty eater, though. Maybe that means his habit isn’t that bad.
When we’re both done eating, he puts the plates in the dishwasher. “Go to the bedroom,” he orders, checking his watch. “Lie down on the bed on your back. Spread your legs. We’re going to play a little game.”
Sounds fun , I think sarcastically.
I go back to the bedroom and position myself as he’d ordered.
Now’s a good time to disassociate, the way I’d often done at Ntimacy. I remember some of the other women there would cry and sob about what they were going through, but I just let myself get numb to it all.
Crying never did much for me anyway.
He ambles in after me, taking his time, and he sheds his own clothes on the way, dropping them carelessly on the floor. He gets up on the bed with me, and I think he’s just going to fuck me.
“Here’s the game,” he tells me with that same wolfish smile. “I’m going to eat you out. If you come, I fuck you. If you don’t… I leave you alone until the evening.”
Is that meant to be some sort of lose-lose situation for me ?
I’m mostly surprised he’s willing to eat me out at all. I remember some of the frat guys at my university laughing about how disgusting it was to eat pussy, as if their unwashed dicks were somehow more appetizing.
I think I’d gotten into an argument with them. I probably hadn’t changed their minds in the slightest, but I’d felt better for pushing back against their sexist ideas.
“Okay,” I answer meekly.
Brutal studies me, his eyes bright. He laughs, shaking his head after a moment, then he gets between my legs. He spreads them a little wider, running his finger along my slit.
He gets his hands under my ass and raises me up a little, then his tongue flicks out, finding my clit right away.
I guess last time hadn’t been a fluke. He’s actually trying to get me off. I keep my breathing as steady as I can and try to pretend it doesn’t feel good.
I think it is worse, actually, that my body likes the sensation of his tongue against my clit. I’d rather be able to disconnect entirely and let my mind drift while all of this happens.
I’m not going to show him any of that.
He’s insistent, though; I have to give him that. He uses his tongue with certainty, with skill, and that’s as much of a surprise as the rest of this. He obviously thinks he’s going to humiliate me by making me come, but that makes me even more determined not to let him win this “game,” as he’d put it.
My body starts to heat up as he continues, even trembling despite my best efforts not to show any sort of reaction. I grip the sheets and grit my teeth, trying to focus on anything but the feeling of his tongue delving inside of me.
He doesn’t back off, doesn’t stop, relentless until it’s all I can do not to buck against his face.
I think he’s actually going to get me to come. I almost want to make a comment about it, some sarcastic quip about Drake Brutal knowing how to service a woman, but I’m sure that wouldn’t go over well.
My lips part as I breathe a little heavier, and the pleasure zings through my body. I probably won’t last much longer .
Almost as soon as I have that thought, I have to stifle a sound because that pleasure ramps up into something I can’t ignore. I let out an involuntary little cry, resisting the urge to grab him by his short hair and force his face harder against me.
He keeps licking until it gets to be too much, until I’m so oversensitive that I do tug on his hair to pull him away. He licks his lips as he does, looking smug.
“Guess I get a nice fuck before work after all.” Glancing at his watch again, he scowls. “Eh. I can be a little late. Let’s test this pussy out now that it’s nice and wet for me.” He climbs on top of me, and without any preamble, he shoves his cock inside.
I’m still so sensitive that I gasp. It feels good, even though it shouldn’t, and my walls clench around his cock as he starts to fuck me.
Think of England , wasn’t it? If he wants me to do anything but lay there like a dead fish, he’ll have to give the order. But I can’t stop my body from contracting and pulling him deeper into me. My orgasm has loosened my body up enough that there isn’t even any resistance, and he fits into me like he belongs there.
Ugh.
No, I’m not going to think like that. This is just my body’s natural reaction. No matter what happens, this isn’t my fault. I’ve read all the articles and psych books and I know exactly what’s happening.
That doesn’t stop the shame from crawling into me. I bury it as deep as I can and keep my expression neutral.
Even when he spills inside of me, I cling to my resolve.
Drake Brutal will not see me break.
I’ve decided. I’m not going to let him get to me. I’ll be whatever he wants me to be—in body. My mind is never going to be his.