Page 25 of Covert Desires

So, I grabbed the duffel full of cash I kept stashed where my car’s spare wheel should be and found the closest private airstrip.

Always have an exit strategy.

Always.

Some nights, I wake up from these nightmares convinced that I’m back at home instead of the island, stuck in the world my parents have created for me.

No friends, no real school, “no leaving the house without your guards, Domenico”. I was a prisoner in my own home.

“The future Don needs to be safe at all times”—the tune my mother recited ad nauseam until her dying day.

But I was never safe.

Not then.

And definitely not now.

I’ve simply traded one hell for another. One where the busty innkeeper with muscle arms like Madonna feeds me lukewarm thin soup like I’m a baby, feeling my forehead with the back of her hand repeatedly.

The delirium refuses to leave me as my present, past, and dream worlds conspire to keep me caged in painful misery.

The loop keeps repeating.

More soup.

More pills.

More running through the dark forest with the faceless beast in pursuit.

I don’t know why Kiah doesn’t just finish what she started and just kill me, but she seems to be taking care of me.

She must have some ulterior motive…

At some point, the haze starts to lift slightly.

I’m almost convinced I hear birds chirping outside, but I know it can’t be—the storm is endless.

Except it isn’t…

One day, I wake up to the welcoming warmth of the sun on my face, stray rays sneaking in through the window.

After this, the fuzziness starts to dissipate slowly.

I’m fully present as the innkeeper with the soft hands and concerned eyes washes my body with a cloth, trailing it over my skin, my caged cock, like a real nurse.

I keep my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. But it’s difficult not to moan, especially when she lifts my balls and strokes the cloth over them.

There is nothing sensual about her movements; they are clinical, precise…but my dick doesn’t know the difference.

Only when she turns the lights off and the warm glow switches to darkness do I open my eyes.

The moon is but a slither outside, offering no illumination; the only light in the room comes from the microwave’s number dials, a neon green glow that casts more shadows than light.

If I keep absolutely still, I can hear Kiah’s hurried breaths in the darkness, the soft hum of electricity radiating from the futon by the window—a vibrator.

Eyes glued to the scene, I try to imagine the innkeeper’s face as she masturbates, trying to muffle those cries of pleasure she thinks nobody can hear.

Such pretty little sounds. I’m sure she’d sound amazing at full volume.

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