The Fourth Day Bound in His Adriatic Villa

The sky over the Adriatic Sea had dawned leaden. From the main bedroom window, the horizon looked like a sheet of wet iron, with no sun, no promise. Inside, I felt exactly the same: heavy, gray, loaded with something that still hadn’t quite broken.

I had been sleeping on my side, my cheek pressed to the sweat-damp sheet. For the first time in four days, I opened my eyes without feeling immediate nausea. Just a deep exhaustion, almost resigned, as if my body had accepted living underwater. My ass hurt less than the day before, but in exchange a new, strange sensitivity had appeared, some kind of warm echo that kept throbbing deeper inside.

My body is starting to remember the shape of Dario.

That thought turned my stomach more than the dried semen I still had stuck between my thighs.

I got up slowly. The marks on my neck, which on the first day had been almost black, now had a dirty greenish tone, like old fruit. In the bathroom mirror I no longer saw a stranger. I saw someone who was changing, and that was worse. The green eyes were still swollen, but behind them there was something else. Less surprise. More old shame, built up like settled dust.

I went down to the dining room with my hair still wet.

Dario was standing by the window, coffee in hand, looking out at the gray sea. He was wearing only black linen trousers and nothing on his torso, dark tattoos running over his shoulders like ancient ivy. He turned when he heard my bare feet on the marble floor and smiled with that dangerous calm, the one I had already learned to fear more than his shouting.

—Good morning, Apollo. You look better today. Less broken.

I didn’t answer him. I sat down without him having to order me to, and that alone made me feel a silent disgust. The plate was already served: fresh fruit, thick Greek yogurt, two soft-boiled eggs, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. This time I took the fork without him having to insist. Not because I was hungry. Because I already knew resisting in small things was useless, and saving my anger for the big things was the only thing I had left.

Dario sat across from me and watched me chew.

—Did you make the transfer? —I asked, my voice still rough.

—It’s done. Twelve thousand this morning. And six thousand more tonight if you behave.

—And what does “behave” mean to you? —I said it without looking up from the plate.

He smiled and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the tablecloth.

—Stop pretending you feel nothing. Admit, if only to yourself, that your body is starting to open up. Today we’re going farther.

***

After breakfast he took me to the master bedroom. The bed was enormous, dark wood and freshly changed white linen sheets. The room smelled of sea and of that woody cologne that was already familiar to me in a way I preferred not to think about.

—Undress —he ordered.

I did it without protesting out loud, though inside I was still screaming. I folded my T-shirt on the chair with absurd neatness, as if straightening my clothes could straighten something else too. He noticed and smiled, but said nothing.

He laid me on my back, with my knees bent and open. He tied my wrists to the bedposts with black silk ribbons, not as tight as the first night, but enough that I couldn’t close my legs or shove him away. He checked the knot with two fingers, slowly, almost tenderly.

—I want you to look at me the whole time —he said as he took off his trousers.

His cock was already half hard, heavy, thick, shining slightly under the gray light coming through the window. I swallowed without meaning to, and he saw it.

He knelt between my legs and started with his mouth. It wasn’t soft like the day before. This time he sucked with more hunger: flat tongue running the full length, swallowing the tip with a steady rhythm, taking me almost to the back of his throat without pause. My hips jerked involuntarily. My cock hardened much faster than the day before. In less than five minutes I was fully erect, throbbing against his hot palate.

—Fuck… stop… —I muttered.

But my voice sounded weak, unconvincing, almost like a question. Dario lifted his gaze without taking my cock out of his mouth and smiled around it. Then he lowered one hand and started playing with my entrance. A lubricated finger circled the hole in slow loops, pressing just enough, warming the skin. When he slid in the first knuckle, I moaned. It wasn’t pure pain. There was something else. A hot pressure spreading inward like a slow wave.

He added a second finger while still sucking. He moved them skillfully, curling them, searching. When he brushed the prostate with surgical precision, my cock let out a thick spur of clear fluid that he licked up with pleasure, never taking his eyes off me.

—Feel it? —he asked, pulling his fingers out for a moment and pushing them back in deeper—. It doesn’t hurt the same anymore. Your ass is sucking my fingers.

—Shut up… —I panted.

But my hips moved slightly downward, seeking more pressure, without my brain having authorized them. I saw him smile and I hated that smile. And I hated myself for having caused it.

He straightened up, coated his cock with lubricant in two firm strokes, and positioned himself against my entrance. This time he didn’t ask me to lower myself. He spread my legs even wider, held my thighs against my chest, and pushed. He entered in one thrust, halfway in. I cried out, but the cry ended as a muffled moan against my own shoulder. The burn was still there, yes, but beneath the burn there was a full, heavy sensation that my body was starting to recognize as something other than pain.

Dario started fucking me with slow but deep thrusts. Every time he came almost all the way out and plunged back in, my cock bounced against my abdomen, leaving shiny traces on my skin.

—Look at me —he ordered.

I did. His dark, almost black eyes were locked on mine as he gradually sped up. The wet sound of his cock sliding in and out filled the room, and above it was my own breathing, broken, ragged. My wrists pulled against the ribbons, not to escape, but from pure tension building in my arms.

After several minutes in that position, he stopped, untied my hands, and turned me face down. He lifted my hips until I was supported only on my knees and with my face against the pillow. He fucked me like that, harder, one firm hand on the back of my neck and the other anchored on my hip. Every thrust hit the prostate directly, without missing, as if he had been studying me for months and not four days. My cock, harder than ever, brushed the sheets with every push and was driving me insane.

—No… I’m not going to cum… —I muttered through clenched teeth.

It was a lie and we both knew it.

Dario leaned over me, his chest burning against my sweat-soaked back, and spoke in my ear without stopping fucking me.

—Yes, you are. And this time you’re going to cum because you like how I fill you. Because your ass doesn’t want me to stop anymore.

He sped up. The rhythm turned brutal, almost animal. My moans were no longer only from pain. They were hoarse, desperate, mixed with gasps that sounded too much like pleasure to deny later. I felt the pressure rise from my balls to the base of my cock, unstoppable, a tide there was no way to get off in time.

—Dario… fuck…

His name slipped out of me without meaning to. That seemed to set him off even more. He grabbed my hair, which I’d been wearing long even before all this, and yanked back while he gave me the last deep thrusts. I came with a force I had never felt before: thick ropes staining the white sheets, my whole body convulsing under his, a long broken moan ripping out of my throat as if something had been torn from me. Almost at the same time, he buried himself to the hilt and came inside me, filling me with hot spurts that I felt pulsing against the prostate again and again.

I collapsed onto the bed, shaking, semen slowly leaking from my ass and my own orgasm clinging to my belly.

Dario let himself fall beside me, breathing hard. He ran his hand over my sweat-drenched back, slowly, almost tenderly, as if we were lovers and not what we were.

—Good boy —he murmured—. This time you really felt it. And you screamed my name.

I didn’t answer. My face was buried in the pillow, tears mixing with the sweat. They were tears of rage, yes, and of shame, but also of something far more dangerous: residual pleasure that still made my thighs tremble.

***

When I finally found the strength to go to the bathroom, I saw the new notification on the phone he had left on the bedside table.

“+€6,000.00 received – full delivery bonus.”

Eighteen thousand euros in a single day.

I braced both hands on the marble sink and looked at myself in the mirror. Dario’s semen was sliding slowly down the inside of my thighs. My cock was still half-hard, swollen. My neck marked, my lips split, my hair disheveled. And the eyes.

The eyes no longer held only shame.

They held hunger.

And that terrified me more than anything that man had done to me up to that point.