Page 43 of Corrupting Lily

After last night's activities in the bathroom, he carried me to bed, pulling me close to his side as he stroked my back. I thought we might finallydo the deed, but instead, his gentle ministrations lulled me off to dreamland. His more intense ones have now brought me out of it.

Was he doing this while I was sleeping? The thought of me being unconscious while Dominico goes down on me should frighten me. I should feel violated. But instead, I gush, and he fucking loves it, the sound of him lapping me up so erotic that I think I might come. Since when have sounds been such a turn-on for me? It is vulgar. Or so I have been told. To me, it is like an aphrodisiac, sending me to a place where only dirty things exist and my wildest fantasies are realized. With Dominico, all the darkest parts of me are explored safely and without judgment.

“Mmmm, so wet. I can drink you up all day.” He inserts a finger while his mouth latches onto my clit, sending a jolt through my body as I lay my head back down.

When his other hand snakes up and twists my nipple, I cry out, bucking against his face as the sensations collide like a tsunami on the horizon. Building. Brewing. He is masterful in strumming a tune that pulls me tight, coils my body into a massive ball of tension that finally explodes when he adds another finger to the mix, fucking me relentlessly as he pulls the orgasm from me. Dragging it out in delicious long strokes until I am a puddle. A puddle he laps up.

He crawls up my body, his firmness a delicious contrast to my floppy form.

“Good morning,il mio fiorellino.” He kisses me, and I blush when I taste myself on his lips, on his tongue that is stroking mine.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, his voice husky and his eyes darting across my face.

“I slept like a baby,” I admit, feeling refreshed and carefree, especially waking up with his head between my thighs. If this is how my two-month period with Dominico will be, I might never want to leave.

He rolls over, taking me with him so that I am now straddling his stomach. His gaze dips to my tits, their peaks hard and sensitive. He cups them gently and then squeezes them.

“Do you see how perfectly they fit in my hands? Made for me.” I couldn’t even argue that fact. My C-cups nestle in his big hands like they had been molded just for him.

While he fondles my breasts, I gingerly place my hands on his chest.

“Don’t be shy. You can touch me anywhere, little flower.” His grey eyes hold mine, and the pure openness I see there surprises me. Lying here in bed with me, all the tension usually sitting on his form is gone. He looks relaxed and…happy. Still the Dominico I’ve come to know, but just less guarded. He doesn’t need to assert his dominance or prove his manliness with me. I don’t need a reiteration of it. It is in every possessive grasp and every demanding look. Knowing I accept that allows him to simply be.

His gentle encouragement gives me confidence, and I apply more pressure, stroking his hard muscles as they contract under my hands. I’ve never seen a body like this, never touched one this impressive. It’s a body envied by others and objectified by women; the epitome of masculinity. The ink that covers most of the flesh hides the small ridges that being this close and using touch reveals: scars, like mine. Some are circular, others straight lines. Some scarring is faded and rough, while others are smooth to the touch—liars like the one on my arm. Nothing about how that even skin was obtained was gentle.

“What happened here?” I ask, my index finger gently caressing a circular scar under his left pec between two ribs.

“Cigarette burn. There are twenty-eight in total.” He points to a couple of similar-looking scars on his chest and arms.

“My father was a disgusting drunk, and I was a disappointment. The combination was these.”

I didn’t expect him to answer me, and I am absolutely horrified.

“How old were you?” I don’t know why this matters. At any age, it is still unacceptable.

“It started when I was seven and continued until I was fourteen. When I became big enough to fight back. It’s easy for the weak to pick on the weak, which is why my mother and I were prime targets. So, I became strong. Stronger than him. Strong for both of us.”

I hate how he thinks being young is a weakness. This is the effect of abuse. Warped perceptions created by years of conditioning. Tears brim in my eyes as I think of a little boy being robbed of his innocence like this. Abused and forced to watch the abuse of his mother.

“Don’t cry for me. I got my revenge.” His face is blurry as tears well up and then fall, his thumbs grazing my cheek and catching them before they reach my chin.

He doesn’t try to steer us away from this conversation or make light of it. Instead, he points to my knees, where a smattering of tiny scars has fortunately faded with time.

“What are these from?” He touches the skin lightly, and I wince, the story behind them the culprit.

“A form of discipline. My punishment for being a bad little girl. A disappointment, like you. My gran left me some glass ornaments. When I was naughty, my father would smash them until they were little bits of glass. Then, I would kneel on them for as long as it took me to learn my lesson. Or for the bleeding to become too much.”

My vision blurs as I get lost in these thoughts, and when Dominico asks me the next question, it feels as though it is coming from very far away.

“What happened when there were no more ornaments?”

“Then the little girl was put in the naughty box,” I whisper, my hand drifting up to identical scars on either side of my hips, also fadedwith age.

“The box was small, and the girl was scared. And ashamed of herself. So she would hurt herself more. Dig her nails into her flesh until she bled. Punishment for being such a bad girl. She just wanted a new dress. All the other girls at school had pretty dresses, and she wanted one, too. She wanted to fit in because her dress had holes and was frayed around the hem. The other kids at school laughed at her. But that request was selfish, and she was ungrateful. So she was sent to the naughty box. Where time stood still. Where the cold seeped into her bones. Where she was hungry and thirsty. Until she learned her lesson. But no matter how hard she tried, she kept landing up in that box. Why couldn’t she be better? Do better? I thought that was the worst it could get, but then I became older and all the other stuff happened.”

I don’t realize I am sobbing until Dominico pulls me forward, and his arms envelop me, caging me in that space where I feel safe. It's a place where the memories fade and cannot reach me.

His hand strokes my back, and he whispers soothing words to me in Italian—words I don’t understand, but which act like a balm to my soul.

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