While standing felt good, the lack of movement wasn’t comfortable. Being that it was bound to be a while before he returned, I grabbed the pillow with my toes and brought it closer before sitting on it. The position left my arms hanging in the air and my body exposed.
A chill moved through me, and I hissed when my skin hit the cold plaster.
I couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but my fingers were going numb from the combination of cold and them hanging in the air. Another shiver moved through me, and my teeth began to chatter when Domenico’s voice came from right outside the open doorway.
“Then give them a task. Send them on searches. Half the reason she is the only one is because nobody is doing their damn job. They are sitting there, fucking around, eye-fucking her and not doing shit. There are three times as many people hanging around here, which is gaining attention. Cut down on the crew and send the rest to guard the incoming shipment. Just get them the fuck out of here.”
“How many?” Marco asked.
“Seventy-five percent.”
“That’s a lot, Dom.”
Their voices lowered, and I missed some of what they were saying before I heard a voice that was clearly Marco’s.
“I’ll get it done,” Marco assured.
“Good.”
A shuffle of feet and Domenico appeared in front of me, alone. I watched as the anger rippled through him, transforming into a brutal lust as he stared at me. My heartbeat picked up with each step he took, a combination of turned on and frightened. He tugged at the button and zipper on his jeans, his still-hard cock slipping free, a hiss leaving him.
I moved to stand, but his hand on my shoulder kept me down. His cock jumped, the tip brushing against my lips, leaving a swipe of precum on my lips.
His nostrils flared, jaw tight, his touch gentle as he caressed my cheek before moving down my jaw. The tip of his thumb hooked onto my chin, and I let my mouth drop open.
In all the times he’d fucked me, he’d never had me suck him like he’d threatened that first night. By the look in his eyes he was beyond reason or care, desperate to release the mounting tension inside him.
I slipped my tongue out and brushed it against the deep-red tip before closing my lips around it, getting my first taste of his cum. A low groan left him, growing and morphing with each inch down I moved.
Halfway was all he could take. Too slow, too teasing, and no release.
The move took me by surprise, my eyes popping wide, gagging as he pushed my head down. I wasn’t ready, and he gave me little respite. I pulled at the chains in an attempt to move back just a little, but he held my head in place as he pulled his cock from my mouth, then plunged it back in. When I made it down to the base he held me there, his breath harsh.
I drew in one lungful of air before he plunged back in, thrusting as if it would cure the madness that drove him. Using me as he always did.
All the way, forcing his way down my throat, he held himself there for a beat, a roar leaving him as his cock jumped, firing off straight down into my stomach. He convulsed above me before retreating, drops continuing to leak onto my tongue as I drew in much-needed air.
He stared down at me, both of us breathing hard, but said nothing.
I was curious about what had happened, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything. The rare snippets of secrets he told me continued to be obscure and riddle-like.
He tucked himself back away, then released my arms. The muscles burned when released, and I cringed in pain.
Silver eyes never left me as I slowly stood and walked over to where my clothes, or the remnants of my clothes, had fallen when he pulled them from me. I knew the drill. Back in the cage.
Maybe I’d become adjusted to this semi-life, or maybe I just understood the rules better. Escaping was a dream that I was losing faith in ever happening. I thought maybe I could get help from Roman, but Domenico’s warning rang out whenever Roman did anything for me. Then there was the look he gave me. Just the memory of it sent a shiver down my spine.
It could have been Domenico’s words or me opening my eyes to the charismatic man who seemed to have a growing loyalty within the crew, but I had a feeling Roman was the source of the strife brewing.
In the days that followed, I spent more time out of my cage and chained up close to Domenico. The atmosphere held more tension than usual, even with fewer men.
The rumble beneath the surface was obviously unusual, especially because I’d seen both the fear and reverence for la Bestia. The atmosphere created a buzzing in my veins, an anxiety of what would happen when it came to a head.
Domenico entered the room carrying a box. It was evident by the flex of his muscles that it had some heft. It clanged when he dropped it to the ground near me.
“What’s that?” I asked, but as usual I received no response.
A groan left me when he released my arms from the shackles, but when I stood, he pulled me to a stool and sat me down. He handed me a sandwich and drink that were sitting on top of the box, then stepped to the doorway. It was just a blink that he wasn’t watching, a blink that I was fractionally free, but with a small window and no level of real strength, there was no use even thinking about escape.
Instead, I tried to enjoy my sandwich. At least it was a fruit punch Powerade, my favorite. I savored each sip of sweetness.
He stepped back in, but he wasn’t alone. A man littered with tattoos was in step behind him, a large case in his hand.
I looked between the two men in confusion, watching as the man silently opened the case and began pulling items out. The last was in pieces, but I recognized it immediately.
It was a tattoo machine.
My heart began to pound as he set up a light and plugged it and the machine into the extension cord that the only other light was plugged into.
“What are you doing?” I asked as alarm crept in.
Had the day finally come? Was I getting a number or some other identifying marker? After so long, I’d almost forgotten that I was simply goods to be sold to the highest bidder, no matter Domenico’s claim.
Domenico stepped behind me and pulled back the stretched-out collar of my sweater, exposing my collarbone. He kept his hand on my shoulder, holding the fabric back.
“There?” the man asked for verification.
“Yes.”
The man nodded, then slipped on some gloves. He splashed some liquid—maybe rubbing alcohol or just water or something else, I didn’t know—on my skin, cleaning the spot.
The buzzing of the machine made me jump, and I pulled back, but Domenico stopped me. He wrapped his arm under my chin and held me tight against his chest, my head unable to move.
The man’s eyes met mine, then looked to Domenico, but he said nothing. Instead, he dipped the tip in ink and leaned forward.
He met my eyes again. “Don’t move. Please.”
My hands were in white-knuckled fists on my thighs. I was trying to regulate my breathing when the buzz of the machine sounded just below my ear.
The sting of the shallow area was low, but each swipe of dry paper towel was like sandpaper across the newly punctured skin. He used no stencil, free-handing. I tried to focus on the movement, to figure out what he was doing and blot out the pain, but it was more fluid than the harsh lines of numbers I’d anticipated.
It didn’t take long for him to finish, and with a final swipe he cleared any overflow of ink. That towel was wet and felt so good as it moved across my aggravated flesh.