Page 9 of Corrupting Lily

She stills as I lean over her, turning in the small gap between us to face forward. Grabbing the seatbelt, I pull it slowly over her petite frame, my fingers deliberately grazing her nipple through the thin fabric of her clothing as I do. It pebbles at that mere touch, her body shivering in response. She looks at me like a small deer trapped in headlights, aware of its impending doom but mesmerized nonetheless.

I don’t bother answering her, that question long forgotten as her eyes dart around my face, landing on my lips occasionally. Smirking, I pull back as she inhales deeply, her gaze suddenly locked on the window beside her. Her knees are squeezed tightly together, her hand rubbing her neck as she leans against the cool glass, her breathing ragged. It’s more fun than I thought, getting her all worked up.

What my little flower doesn’t know is that Matteo is currently gathering all her belongings from her apartment and relocating them to my mansion on the East side. Little Lily Valentine will live with me for the foreseeable future until I decide what to do with her. I heard Basilio lost his mind at the news but cleverly directed his anger elsewhere, aware of the repercussions if he disagreed with my decision.

Looking over at her, I can’t help the excitement and twitch of my dick at the thought of having her close to me. Close enough to see what other reactions I could pull from her. Close enough to corrupt her innocence. This was my favorite thing to do. Introducing people to their true selves. Showing them that light could only exist if there was darkness.

Chapter 7

Lily

After what can only be described as the most intense and awkward car ride I have ever had, we arrive at what appears to be a club. I’m still not sure what I am doing here, and I didn’t ask. Not after Dominico strapped me in like a toddler. But childish was the last thing I felt when his hand grazed my nipple. It was electric, sending a zap straight to the spot between my legs and rendering me speechless. So now here I was, not understanding anything.

Black windows and a giant neon sign, currently off, echoed the name spoken earlier: Mirra. Inside, the place was a mess, with a cleaning crew sweeping up cigarette butts, broken glass, and even used condoms, which made me gag at the thought of what actually goes on here. I carefully follow Dominico and his bodyguard through the debris as they walk through the club towards the back, where a long bar full of freshly washed glasses in trays sits on the surface. The bartender, who is busy polishing them before placing them on the glass shelf behind him, nearly drops the one in his hands when henotices us. Quickly, he maneuvers around the bar, slowly approaching us with a look of pure fear. He must know who Dominico is, and as with everyone I have been in contact with around Dominico, he looks like he is shitting his pants as we stand there.

“Mr. Sante, sir, we weren’t expecting you,” he whispers, bowing slightly as he speaks.

“Where is he?” Dominico asks, his voice dangerously low. He doesn’t even glance at the trembling man.

“S-Sir, h-he’s in the back. But he is busy.” The bartender is at ninety degrees now, his eyes glued to the dirty floor. My eyes flare when I see a wet patch forming at his crotch, slowly spreading.

He has pissed himself. Should I be more afraid?

Dominico dismisses him with a flick of his hand, the bartender taking a large gulp of air as if he had been holding his breath. I'm rooted to the spot, staring at the man still folded at the waist, alarm bells ringing.

"Daisy."

My gaze snaps over to Dominico, who stands in the doorway of a long, dark corridor, clearly waiting for me.

Slowly, I move, reaching him in a couple of steps before he continues. Once by his side, we proceed down the long passage with doors intermittently lining each side until we reach a door at the end of the corridor. The closer we get, the more obvious the noises coming from it become. I brace myself as loud grunting fills the air when the door opens. Whoever is inside must not hear us, as the noises persist. But I am not surprised. They are very loud.

Dominico's bodyguard enters the room first, followed by his boss and then me. Any thought of what I would see is so inaccurate that I almost want to laugh. The floor is covered in items that were on the table, tossed there like one might see in movies when passion takesover. A man about my age is bent over an expensive-looking red oak table, his hands gripping the edges for support. His knuckles are white, indicating the strength of his grip. Behind him stands an older man, his greying hair and sagging skin revealing his age. He has a large pot belly, with grey, springy hairs scattered from his chest down over the protruding mound, blending with similarly colored pubic hairs.

His head is thrown back in ecstasy, his hand on the younger man’s back as his surprisingly thick cock slams into the younger man’s anus. He pulls out nearly all the way before fucking his length back in hard, the grunting sound he makes as he does, mixing with the moans of satisfaction from the more than eager recipient under him. The sound of flesh meeting flesh mixed in with the squelching noise as cock meets puckered hole creates a symphony of sounds that add to the eroticism of what they are doing.

I've never done anal before. I thoughthewould try, but fortunately for me, or not, whichever way you looked at it, his pleasure came from seeing me bleed. And that was more easily achieved with tools. I shudder at the thought, but do not linger in that dark place for long. Watching these two, I almost wonder what it would feel like. As thick as the older mans cock is, it seems to slide in and out easily, with the younger man pushing back as if trying to lodge himself even further onto it. Thoughts of me over that desk as a man enters my virgin hole sends a flush up my neck to sit on my cheeks, the heat in this room skyrocketing almost immediately. Tearing my eyes away from the scene, I let my gaze drift to the man depicted in that fantasy behind me, only to find his silver-grey eyes already on me. I blush a deeper red, and he smirks as if he can read my mind. I pull my gaze away from his and return to the scene before us.

Shockingly, the younger man’s mascara and eyeliner-rimmed eyes meet mine, a mischievous gleam in their depths as his index fingerhovers over his lipstick-covered mouth, signaling me not to make my presence known.

“Harder, fuck yes, that’s it!” he shouts, to which the older man obeys, ramming into his ass so hard that the table even shifts slightly. The look on both their faces tells me that they are close. I should look away, but I don’t; my curiosity overrides everything else. I hate to admit it, but I am getting turned on by these two. What kind of person does that make me? When did I become a voyeur? Spasms rock the older man’s body as his ass cheeks pull taut, the orgasm ripping through him in grunts and shudders. At the same time, the younger man strokes his cock, the piercing on the end gleaming as he ejaculates against the side of the table, his shout of approval almost drowning out the sound of a picture being taken.

The older man’s eyes fly open, the dazed and satisfied look in their depths replaced with shock and then fear. His now much limper dick pops out of the younger man’s rear releasing a gush of come that drips onto the carpet, adding to the chaos already there. He stumbles backward with his hand covering his dick while the younger guy leisurely stands upright, his smirking face taking us in.

As naked as the day he was born and as shameless as a man who is completely comfortable with himself and his body, he wanders over to his neatly folded clothes on the couch in the corner. Pulling on his tight leopard-skin pants and sheer black halter top, he rummages through the pockets of his black fur jacket, retrieving a brown manila envelope. He gives me a wink as he saunters over to Dominico and, with a sweeping bow, hands him the envelope as if he has just played a part and is receiving a standing ovation. I suppose he did get a standing ovation in another way.

“Thank you, Jean Pierre,” Dominico says, his eyes not leaving the elderly man in the corner who is watching the scene play out whilecradling his limp cock in his hand. Anger replaces the shock that had been there before as Jean Pierre approaches him.

“I’m sorry, Lorenzo,” Jean Pierre says with a smile. “That was just business; what we did afterwards was pleasure. I like you,” he adds, his index finger trailing down the older man’s face before he pulls it away with a flourish. “Perhaps we could do this again once you've forgiven me?” He almost sings as he walks toward the door we entered, his parting words leaving me pale. “That’s if you’re still alive, darling!”

Without a word, Dominico hands me the envelope before walking deeper into the room, his bodyguard stationed by the now-closed door.

“Open it.” I know Dominico’s order is directed at me, my eyes moving from him to the envelope in my hands. My hands tremble slightly at this point. He casually sits down in a single padded armchair pushed away from the main table. No doubt to give the couple room, I think, my eyes briefly drifting over to Lorenzo, who now wears a look of terror on his face. I believe his nakedness puts him at a disadvantage, the vulnerability seeping out of his pores.

Focusing on the document, I swiftly unwind the small rope wrapped around the fastener, pulling out a bundle of papers.

“What does it say?” Dominico asks, a cigar now in one hand and a cigar tip cutter in the other. He snips off the tip, the sound in the quiet room somehow ominous. My eyes meet Dominico’s. The deathly calm of his demeanor and his emotionless face do not fool me. Beneath the surface is a whirlwind, a hurricane ready to destroy anything in its path. I recognize this look, as the bullet I dodged also wore this façade. Perhaps not as utterly terrifying as Dominico, but no less frightening.

I skim the papers, my brow furrowing as I try to make sense of what I’m reading. “Bank accounts. Offshore. Two of them. Geezus. One has a balance of just over fifty million dollars." Dominico doesn't evenflinch at my words as he puffs on his now-lit cigar, his hand flicking in the air as a gesture to continue. “The other has just under twenty million. The first one is made out to,” I hesitate, briefly glancing over at the naked Lorenzo, the pleading in his eyes not going unnoticed. He knows what is coming. “Lorenzo Luigi Esposito.”

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