Chapter 9 – POSY #4
“Good girl,” he exhales, reaching out, parting my pussy with his rough fingers. Cool air hits my hot folds, and my core clenches. My swollen clit has popped from its hood.
“Show me how you play with yourself,” he demands.
We’ve never done this before. Dario’s pretty much a penis in vagina kind of guy. He’s into all sorts of positions, but he’s not really into appetizers. He goes straight for the main course.
But if he wants me to handle this growing ache? I guess I don’t mind.
I circle my clit, slow and light. My knees tremble. I check Dario’s face. Should I finger myself? Flick it? He’s going to get bored watching me get off like I actually do.
But then, what do I care? He asked. I settle back, get comfortable.
He takes my foot and rests it on his chest, opening me even more to his scrutiny. And he is scrutinizing. It’s like he’s trying to memorize my pussy.
I keep circling, gradually applying more pressure, edging closer and closer to the puckered bud. My excitement builds, shoving my constant thoughts and worries further and further out of my head.
This feels good. His eyes on me are like another touch, his silent approval an accelerant. He’s really into this. He’s entranced. I draw back the hood of my clit, really show him the slick, hardened nub.
He cradles the top of the foot pressed to his pec. I press the ball of my foot into the muscle as I lift my hips. There’s no give. He’s so strong. So solid.
I’m actually getting close, panting, licking my dry lips. I slip my finger to my slit, gather some wetness, and return to drawing circles, faster, rougher.
It feels so good. I’m coiled tight, getting tighter, but I want more. I cup my breast, and it stokes the wanting higher, but it doesn’t push me over. I’m teetering on the edge. I want to plunge over, I need to, but I can’t. I’m stuck.
I’m whining now. The sound fills the car.
“What’s wrong, Posy?” he asks. “What do you need?”
I don’t know. My gaze flies to his, and he’s so calm and cool and in control. I’m a mess. My pussy juices are dripping down my crack onto the seat, and he’s watching me like a documentary. That shouldn’t turn me on, but the tension inside me ratchets tighter. I need to cum.
I stifle a sob. I need it so bad.
“Dario.” It’s a plea.
His brows spear down. He doesn’t know what I need either.
But then his hand is on his belt. There’s a zip, a tug, and then his cock springs free, thick and ruddy and veined.
“Hold this.” He passes me the leg he’d propped against his chest. Then he spreads my pussy lips and jerks his cock, firm, from root to tip. He works quickly up to speed, racing to the finish. His hot head glances against my folds as he works himself.
I buck. I want him inside me. I’m empty, and I want him to fill me up.
“I’m going to cum all over your pretty pussy. And you’re not gonna touch it. You’re gonna wear my cum tonight because you belong to me, don’t you Posy? This pussy is mine. You’re mine.”
His grip on himself is harsh, his strokes almost painful to watch.
He grabs my hair with his free hand and tugs. Little pricks of pleasure-pain erupt across my scalp. “Say you’re mine, Posy. This pussy is mine.”
“It’s yours, Dario.” I’m hurtling over, almost there, almost there. I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to.
“Say it again.” His grasp tightens. I whine. It hurts.
“This pussy is yours, Dario.”
“You’re going to cum now. Understand, Posy?”
“Yes,” I pant.
“Watch,” he demands, forcing my neck to bend. Cum shoots from his pulsing cock, lashing across my flushed, wet pussy, and I come, harder than I can ever remember, pure ecstasy ripping through me, shocking my system and muting my mind. My thighs tremble, and I instinctually clench them together.
Dario shakes the last drop of cum onto my quivering belly.
He exhales, as if in great relief. He reaches down to the floor, finds my panties, and eases them back up my legs. Then he grabs my chin, lifts my drooping head to meet his gaze.
“When we get inside, you don’t wash it off. You wear my cum tonight, understand?”
I don’t, really, but I’m too pleasure-dumb to argue. “Okay.”
He studies me for a long moment, brow knit. Finally, he presses a perfunctory kiss to my lips.
“You look beautiful,” he says as he helps me out of the car. It’s an obvious lie. I try desperately to smooth my rumpled dress and repair the disaster that is my hair.
He grabs my wrist. “Stop. I want them all to know.”
“Them all?”
Oh, shit. We’re having dinner with other people? I guess that yet again, this isn’t a date. And I have to make nice with mobsters while wearing soaking panties and reeking of cum.
* * *
The hostess shows us to a large private room at the back of the restaurant. La Calomba is one of my favorite places on the Promenade. It’s luxe and done in a monochrome palette with geometric glass doves hanging from the ceilings like postmodern mobiles.
From the boozy volume and the fact that entrees are being served, I gather we’re late. Dario guides me to the table and pulls out my seat like a gentleman. Two dozen people stare. Half of them snicker. A few of the classier wives and girlfriends studiously avoid looking in our direction.
My stomach drops—they’ve all seen the video. I knew that, but with everything that’s happened, it wasn’t at the top of my mind.
It sure as shit is at the top of everyone else’s. Frankie Bianco’s leaning back with his arm on the back of Jen Amato’s chair, smirking like a bitch. Jen’s tittering behind her hand to her sidekick Dita.
The only people not staring—or pretending not to stare—are four older guys in suits. They must be from some other outfit. I’ve never seen them before.
“Dario, you finally grace us with your presence,” Renelli calls from the head of the table. His gaze slides over my face. There’s no acknowledgement. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The message is clear. I’m nothing.
Renelli elbows one of the unfamiliar men. “That’s the moneymaker. My cousin Perla’s boy.”
“It’s nice to be surrounded with family,” the man says in a thick European accent, raising his glass.
The whole table takes Renelli’s lead and pretends I’m invisible. That might be better than the alternative, the laughter. How could Dario bring me here?
My face flames. I refuse to feel ashamed. The video was a stupid thing to do, but I wasn’t the one who shared it. The sinking, hollow feeling sure as hell feels like shame, but it’s not. I won’t let it be.
“I’ll drink to that,” Renelli answers. “Here I’ve got my sister Sara’s boy.” He toasts Frankie. “And over there I have my sister Rosario’s boy.” He gestures across the table to Lucca.
“You’re blessed,” the man intones, clinking his glass to Renelli’s and drinking.
“I am. Cousins as close as brothers. They have their petty squabbles, but at the end of the day—” Renelli thumps his chest with a fist. “Loyal to the bone.”
There’s a wave of nodding and murmured agreement. I shift in my seat. Under the table, Dario stills my squirming with a heavy hand on my knee, but his focus doesn’t waver from his plate. He’s spearing his steak, chowing down, appearing to blithely ignore the conversation.
“Isn’t that so, Dario?” Renelli calls down the table.
Dario blinks as if he hadn’t been listening. He was, though. I can tell. Now that I’ve seen him without his mask, when he wears it, he’s obvious.
“I’m sorry.” Dario raises a befuddled eyebrow.
Renelli repeats himself between forkfuls of branzino. “I said you and your cousins. You’re as close as brothers.”
Dario lifts a shoulder, finishes chewing, and swallows his meat. “Business is business.”
“Now that’s how we Russians see it,” another of the guests, a rugged, bald man, says. “Family is one thing. Business is another. You Italians always mix it up, eh?” He slaps Renelli on the back.
Renelli smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Family first,” he says.
Frankie interjects. “Dario’s always seen things a little differently than the rest of us. He doesn’t do family. And he doesn’t really care if his business gets around, eh?”
Renelli’s face hardens, but he doesn’t give Frankie a discouraging look. He stares down the table at Dario, waiting for a reaction. Dario’s eyes are on his plate.
He’s not touching my thigh anymore, but I’m frozen in place. There is no way I can eat. I’d choke.
“Isn’t that right, Dario?” Frankie repeats, mocking. There’s a smattering of drunken laughter, but some men—Lucca, Carlo the accountant, Miles the bookkeeper—they fall silent.
“What’s this about?” the guy with the thick accent asks. He wants in on the joke. I’m going to puke.
“Let me tell you, man. No, better yet, let me show you—” Frankie says, reaching in his pocket. There is a simultaneous buzz and hush.
This isn’t happening. I stare at the white fabric napkin in my lap, my chest tight.
“Posy,” Dario says, low and even, so softly I doubt anyone else can hear him. “Excuse yourself and go to the ladies room.”
He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I mumble something and flee, forgetting the napkin. It flutters to the floor.
I head down the hall to the restrooms. It’s in the back by the exit. I could run. For once, Ray is nowhere to be seen.
I hesitate at the ladies room door. Escape is less than ten feet away.
How far would I get? My purse is back at the table. I have no money, no phone. In this restaurant, I’m chic, but put me on the street, I look like a hooker, and my panties are still wet with cum.
Besides—
What’s Dario doing?
He sent me off on my own. He has to know I’m a flight risk.
Is he beating Frankie like he did Ivano?
I don’t think so—I think if Dario did that, he’d want me to watch. Honestly, there is no doubt in my mind that Dario will kill Frankie one day. Maybe not soon. He can’t. Not without causing a war. But I know now that it will happen.