Page 20 of Daddy's Little Mafia Princess
Too bad.
Hooking my thumbs into the corners of her mouth, I force her to open wide as I shove my cock into the back of her throat. She stiffens, gagging and fighting to pull back, but I press my cock deep for a solid count of six before whipping it out so she can breathe.
Tears flood her eyes because I’m choking her, not because she’s crying. She looks pissed as she struggles not to let me fuck her face. I said I’d give her freedom. I never said she’d have control, and before I’m done tonight, she’ll never dare forget that again.
“Open,” I command. “Daddy wants to fuck, Princess. Do as you’re told, or I’ll find another hole.”
She opens grudgingly. With my fist in her hair, I shove to the back of her throat. I hold her face pressed to my pubis, enjoying every strangling-choking cough she gags out around my shaft.
“Relax, Princess.”
She tries, but her gagging is only getting stronger, leaving me with the choice of either pulling out or having her puke on me.
I whip out again, waiting impatiently while she gasps for air. Her eyes water freely, smearing and streaking her face with mascara-tear tracks. God, I love this look.
“Open,” I say. She already has, but defiance is still very much alive in her. She hasn’t stopped glaring at me while she rolls her lips over her teeth, so she won’t accidentally scrape me. “Good girl.”
Her cheeks bulge as I force my way into the soft flex of her throat. Her uvula flutters against my cock head as she chokes—I love it. I fuck the silken sheath of her mouth with swift brutality, keeping my thrusts shallow enough not to trigger her gagging until right before I pull out again. I take her right to the brink of panic, again and again, always pulling out in plenty of time to avoid suffocating her. Her face is red, her mascara ruined, leaving me on the verge of coming hard.
“Stick your tongue out and relax your throat. I know it’s hard, baby, but Daddy likes what you’re doing. Take it for Daddy.”
Not only does she find my rhythm, but she’s not fighting it anymore. Again and again, I fuck her mouth for my own pleasure, pulling out only when I know her ache to breathe is getting the best of her. If she relaxes all the way, she’d be able to breathe just fine, but she’s new, she doesn’t know. She’ll learn in time.
“My jaw,” she gasps as I pull free of her again.
I couldn’t care less about her jaw. I’m right there, my balls so tight, so heavy, so tense. Every nerve is knotted, straining.
“Take it,” I order, but she’s already open and thrusting her tongue out to blanket her teeth, giving me that little extra spice of sensation as I pump back into her mouth, taking myself down that final stretch of unbelievable pleasure.
Need rips through every taut muscle.
“Swallow,” I command, slamming myself all the way to the back of her throat as I come.
It’s instinct, not conscious obedience, which makes her try. The sucking, kissing, and clenching of her throat as she gulps to keep from choking is my favorite torture. I could have stayed there, shoved down her throat for the rest of the night, but I feel the panic in her squirming. Pulling out, I trip her gag reflex. Only now, she has something sticky in her throat, and the combination is more than she can overcome.
I barely got out of the way before she threw up. It wasn’t a lot, just spit and sperm, but as her muscles lock into uncontrollable retching, she loses what little control she has on the ginger plug still in her ass, and it hits the carpet floor with an audible thud.
When one plays in the back door, one can expect certain consequences. This is no big deal, yet her expression isn’t merely mortification. It’s fear.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammers, but I’m not upset.
My legs are like rubber as I climb off the bed. I stroke her back, my fingers caressing old scars to let her know it’s fine, she’s still safe, but she still flinches when I step behind her to pick up the root. I uncuff her ankles, then her wrists. I won’t leave her lying in spit and bile, but nor do I want her running about free.
Not that she can go anywhere. Normally, I don’t keep men at the house, but I usually don’t kidnap the daughters of my enemies. I doubt Pisani will get himself together enough to retaliate tonight, but Miguel Morales is a hothead. I’ve plotted it out in case he feels slighted enough to pay me a visit. He won’t find me unarmed or without help if he does. I have two men in the living room and two more in the hall. My apartment, the penthouse, takes up the top three floors. Only someone with a key to my home can get the elevator to acknowledge it exists, and there’s always someone on my payroll monitoring the building’ssecurity cameras. No one gets in without my knowledge or permission.
Getting out, on the other hand… This place wasn’t built to house a prisoner, depending on how determined she is to leave—whether or not she cares about living afterward. The living room opens onto an expansive deck with a swimming pool. A half rail is all that prevents her from leaping nineteen floors to her eternal freedom.
Clara doesn’t strike me as suicidal, but the fire and defiance she had when she started the blowjob are gone. Now all I see is how pale her face is, how big her eyes are, and how warily she watches me.
I wait until she gets her feet under her before uncuffing her wrists. Holding her arm to steady her, I wait while she drags herself upright.
I did my best to reassure her once. I don’t waste my breath on a second try. Words mean nothing, not in the world her scars say she grew up in.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, flinching from my touch as I walk her into the bathroom. She stands where I leave her at the double sinks, her shoulders hunched, her nipples tight, looking small and uncertain as I turn the shower faucet and get the water up to temperature.
No, not uncertain. Right now, she’sverycertain I’m about to beat her, and I can only think it’s because of the very minor mess she made. I told her there would be a punishment if she didn’t keep the plug in—that’s on me—and now she doesn’t trust my intentions, not even when I open the shower door wider and motion her in.
“Wash up,” I say, and she finally slinks past me. Closing the shower door behind her, I leave to strip the bed. The dirty linens go in the wash, which takes me downstairs past my guys, who are playing cards around the living room coffee table. Theyglance at me but say nothing. This is my ‘wedding’ night, after all. Soiled sheets are part of the package.
