She stared wide-eyed and confused at him for two full seconds. "You mean you really don't know?"
"What’s there to know? I have better things to do than watch you fuck your fiancé."
An undecipherable look flashed across her face. "I should go."
In the blink of an eye, he was on her, pulling her into the room and pushing the door closed behind her. This was his time. Nathan had her all fucking week and now it was his turn to enjoy the pleasure of her company.
***
Taken aback by Victor’s sudden aggression, Elsa pressed her hands against his chest, but his body was immovable.
Squeezing her breast, he dipped his head down and whispered into her ear, "You didn't answer my question."
What the hell was she supposed to tell him? Her mouth parted and she almost confessed, but she held her ground. She wasn’t about to show her cards when she was holding a royal flush. "Because it's another impossible question to answer."
His hand slid underneath her skirt and he palmed her pussy. "Does he satisfy you, Elsa? Can he make you come the way I do?"
Another rhetorical question. No, Nate didn’t satisfy her the way he did. He never could, but it wasn’t Nate’s fault she was so fucked up and needed this thing that Victor gave her. Again, she tried to push him away, but he was inexorable.
"I don't like being the other man,” his expression turned deadly.
"You knew I was engaged. What did you expect?" she shoved with all her power, finally putting distance between them. “For me to drop everything and everyone in my life for you when all you’re going to do is disappear when you’re done with this sick game?”
His mouth twitched. “I’m not the one who walked out.”
When he took a step toward her, panic surged through her and she backed herself up against the door, putting her hands up. "Take it easy, Mr. Black."
The tensed muscles around his face relaxed, but a vein at the base of his throat, pulsed. "You have it all wrong. Mr. Black isn't here. This is all me, Peach. Possessive, obsessive and jealous.” He placed the flat of his hand on the door next to her head with casual ease. “The man who doesn’t like to share and will fiercely protect what’s his.” He leaned down into her space, so close that she could see the fury burning hot and wild inside of him. “The real me."
She faced him with a defiant lift of her chin and reached a hand up to touch the smoothness of his lips, but he stepped out of her reach.
"You want to leave? Go ahead. But not before we do our little dance. You were the one who changed the rules of this game and, by God, you’re going to play by them. After we’ve had our little Q&A session you can go home to your fiancé with my scent all over you and my come still dripping out of your pussy. Let's see if he's man enough to do anything about it. If he's feeling brave, tell him where to find me. I’ll be more than happy to show him who you truly belong to."
11: Pieces
Back in Mr. Black’s preferred confessional bondage gear, Elsa sat silently, blindly and unflinchingly waiting for Victor to share his secrets. He had been kind enough to allow her wrists to be bound in front of her and to let her sit on the chaise as opposed to the floor. He had even wrapped a flannel throw around her shoulders to keep the chill off of her. It was an unusually thoughtful act and one that confused her considering she was still being thrust into complete submission.
Seated next to her, she felt his mouth trace the line of her jaw. Soft, gentle, warm… lips feathered the corner of her mouth. Victor. A harsh tug of her hair at the nape of her neck drawing her head back and a sharp bite just below her chin. Mr. Black. Fingertips stroked her upper ribs to the edge of her tattoo. Victor. A hot, greedy mouth latching onto a breast and teeth pulling her nipple to a point. Mr. Black. Scratchy stubble near her navel, a tongue darted between her labia. Victor. Back and forth, on and on their torture continued. Digits inside of her pussy, then her mouth… Strong, confident hands roaming her body… She lost track of who was doing what.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder…” his muffled voice against her mound. “Whoever came up with that phrase didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about.” A tongue slicked into her folds. “Fond. Fondly?” he rolled the word around in his mouth as if it was foreign to him.
She was close. So close… She could feel her release building as he pumped two fingers in and out of her slowly in the awkward, fettered position she was lying in. Just as her pussy began to shoot off in waves, he removed his fingers and stood, leaving her to whine out around the gag and drench the front of her wrap.
“Such a strange word - fond. I know its definition; how to use it in a sentence; but I have no idea what that sentiment feels like. I’m an educated man. I know what it should feel like.”
Padded footsteps across the carpet near her. His voice was calm. Soothing. Victor. Hands centered around her waist. Languid swirling strokes outlining the roundness of her breasts. A tweak of her nipples. Footsteps again.
“My fondest memory…”
Question number four.
“I have none. I mean, sure, there are fleeting moments of mild happiness that I can recall. But every single one of those memories is tainted by the before and after; the what came next. Also…” he paused, gripping her chin in his big hand and tilting her face upward to readjust the blindfold that had slipped slightly. “My life is broken up into three phases,” he continued. “So that question can only be answered in three parts.”
His voice shifted. Not overtly noticeably, but just enough that Elsa knew Victor was fighting against Mr. Black.
Another irritated sigh. “Phase one,” he began as if reading a work memo. “Childhood and young adulthood. I’ll group those two together because really, it all melds together in my mind like one, gigantic, miserable clusterfuck. I thought long and hard about this question, trying to find just one moment of fondness. The only thing that stands out is when I was around nine. Or was it eight?”
The scratch of stubble drew her attention to movement toward the fireplace.
“Whatever. It doesn’t fucking matter. My mom was sober. She had made me dinner and…” silence. No movement. No sound. “Christ this is pathetic, but I was fucking happy that she had cooked for me. Actually fucking, made me a Goddamn meal. And was sober!” his voice boomed. “The things people take for granted, I swear. Like normalcy. Simple, motherfucking, normalcy. A cooked, Goddamn meal and sobriety. Jesus Christ. It wasn’t even a real meal. It was macaroni and cheese and cut up pieces of hotdog in it, but I ate that shit like it was a seven-course meal,” he huffed in disgust. “That fond moment was fleeting. Her sobriety lasted all of a few hours and I found her passed out drunk in the bathroom, lying in a puddle of her own piss and shit.”
She tried to imagine the look on his face as she screamed silently at the injustice that he had grown up with. She hung onto every second of silence as she waited for more, even while knowing that it was tearing him apart to speak of such sadness.
“No child should have to clean their parent the way I cleaned my mother. It’s wrong. Wiping her ass… that fucking dirty cunt of hers… It’s a wonder I still love pussy.”
A wave of nausea crashed over her and she felt as if she would vomit at the mental imagery of a nine year old boy having to care for his mother in such an inappropriate way.
His words faded to a whisper. “What else was I supposed to do? Just leave her there like that? Like some kind of animal with no owner to care for it?”