Page 7 of Savage Poet

They all swirled in a storm, brewing inside me.

I pocketed the treasure next to the photo and walked downstairs. Whistling, I shoved off the back step and walked in the shadows toward the local whorehouse. I’d prove that sassy hellion wrong. I’d become a man tonight.

A Salvatore never pays and a whore’s legs are always spread for one. I knew our outfit always kept the most beautiful ones on reserve. No other men in Palermo could touch them. Their pussy’s were saved for us.

My knuckles rapped twice on the door.

The madam kept her cool when she opened. “Mr. Salvatore. Welcome.”

She ushered me inside the opulent mansion where women lounged topless on velvet couches. She snapped her fingers. “Get Giselle.”

“Come. Sit.” She led me over to a wide chair covered in the same crimson velvet as the couches. She made me a bourbon, neat. I felt like a man as she paraded woman after woman in front of me until she presented the last one.

“This is Giselle. She’s a favorite.”

I perused the woman. She was beautiful, with long chocolate hair and deep blue eyes. But I didn’t want her.

I look up the line.

“Her,” I pointed my finger at the petite redhead. She was young and flat chested. If the madame was surprised by my choice she hid it well.

The redhead came forward and straddled me. I ran my index finger up her stomach. It shook as it reached her pebbled nipple. It took everything I had not to come in my pants as she moved her hand to the seam in my crotch.

She resembled my hellion, but she was much older. She took my hand and led me to a gaudy boudoir.

I didn’t bother with foreplay. She knew what was coming. I drove my steely hips into hers. My hands made their way to her throat. She clawed at me. I whispered honeyed words of devils and angels as I came. My eyes shut tight, as I buried my nose in her hair and pretended, she was someone else a decade from now.

I let go and she rolled from under me wheezing for breath. I felt reborn, energized, and ready to take my place at the head of my family’s table.

I sprung off the bed and started to dress. Opening my wallet, I let a thousand Euros rain on the bed.

“Salvatore men… don’t pay.” Her voice was husky with pain.

“A gift, for you bella.” I smirked as she held the sheet to hide her barely there breasts.

“Don’t hide, bella. These,” I leaned over taking the sheet and letting the back of my knuckles rub over her nipples, “are art.” I realized I took her, but still knew nothing of sex. “Show me? Teach me how to please a woman?” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Please, bella.”

She nodded. “Choking is fine but wait until you feel me clench around you. Wait until I’m at the edge of the cliff. I’ll soar higher then.”

I undressed again.

She pushed me back on the bed and straddled my hips. “Touch me here.” She rolled her own nipples. “Like this.”

I groaned, feeling my cock harden, wanting more. I bent forward taking the tiny bud into my mouth. She threw her head back and grinded her wet mound on me.

When she lifted her hips, my cock surged up and slipped back in. She showed me the tempo. Slow. Fast.

I came again. This time it was just a sheer release, with no ghost of a girl’s eyes haunting me.

I was virile with a lifetime of pent up rage in my teenage body. We went for hours. And I found my favorite position when she gets on all fours and raised her ass up high.

I slid in deep, seeing stars as my dick hits the secret spot all woman have. My whore didn’t fake her cries of bliss as I hit it over and over.

I realized missionary is for lovers. And love is a weakness. I vowed never to take a woman that way when there is no need. This position was best anyway. She was satisfied and I felt like a powerful god and the best part—I didn’t need her face or lips. Kissing is for passion. Eyes can steal your soul. Both those things are a death sentence for a man-boy like me. Especially if I want to survive to bring my family back to the heights of power.

I left her right before the breaking dawn. The smell of sweaty sex still clung to me as I snuck back into the family home with evil ruling my heart. In a moment of clarity. It all made sense. What I must do to survive like the little Fiorelli girl.

I grabbed my father’s switch blade and crept down the hall to my uncle’s chambers. He was snoring. Bottles of wine littered his nightstand and floor. He was in the middle of two women who also were sleeping it off.

I opened the blade and struck hard and fast. His eyes snapped open, but he was already a dead man as the blood gushed from his slit throat onto the satin pillows.

I held his gaze and waited. In his dying eyes, I saw that he knew. He knew why it had to be done. For he was plotting against me. My uncle wanted me buried and gone but instead it would be him, not me.

I turned, walked out and let the hot shower rinse away my sin. But the man I had become remained. I took my first life and lost my virginity in the same long night.

I met my eyes in the mirror. The Fiorelli girl was wrong. I wasn’t weak. I had just become a man.

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