Sex in the Mafia

Autumn nights in Florida were a lesson in perfection; there was something poetic in the cool, crisp gusting winds that crept up off the ocean, the white-gold stars shimmering over the water like scattered diamonds, the waves whispering secrets to one another, lapping endlessly at the white sand beaches. Tonight was one such night. Dreamy. Poetic. A night made for sex.

A night made for murder.

"Oh god! Oh god! Yes!" I screamed as Johnny pounded me. I felt sweet, succulent heat building in my loins, like molten sugar, and damp suede against my bacck. My skin tingled, throbbing to the rhythm of his thrusts, scorched by the heat of his body; I was at the precipice, teetering above the sublime. "Mmmmm, don't stop, don't you

dare

stop... I... oh

... ohhhh

! Yes! YES!" The cliff fell from under me - I dropped headlong into pleasure, drowning in it, mad with it, sweat-soaked body breaking out into convulsions

.

The light in the living room was purposely dim, spilling feebly from the Corinthian lamp sitting atop the marble end table against the far wall. The creaky old manor was nearly silent, save for my moans and shrieks and screams, his grunts and groans; and there I lay, sprawled on the tan suede couch, being brutally fucked by the man who I had contracted to kill my husband.

He called himself Johnny C. He should have been named He-Who-Fucks.

I saw heaven as he rammed into me, each stroke like god's touch. I could hardly breathe for the fullness of him, pounding, pounding, pounding. The hard slap of his skin to mine buffeted the walls, deafening me. My screams climbed higher as if in contest. I'd already come thrice in the past fifteen minutes, and Johnny showed no signs of slowing. If anything, he was speeding up.

My breasts heaved with each slam, my back arched up into him, legs spread wide to receive his every throbbing inch. I pressed my face to his neck and took a deep breath; he smelled like glory and sandalwood.

"So

tight,

" he groaned as he rolled his hips, his voice a gruff rumble.

"So wet."

Every revolution of those wonderful hips set his cock to caressing my most sensitive places, begetting another wave of mind-numbing bliss, pushing my screams to a higher pitch.

I loved his little compliments; they filled me with a perverse sense of pride. I especially loved the way his teeth clenched when I squeezed him; he was big enough on his own, but kegels could be the difference between me making

him

pass out and me

begging

him to come in me.

He leaned down and captured my lips in a searing kiss, tongue seeking mine. He tasted exquisite; like cherries, whiskey, and

me,

mild, sugary salt with a dash of honey. I could still see a hint of my juices glistening on his lips. I leaned up and licked them off, running my tongue over his bottom lip, against his teeth. His beard scratched pleasantly at my face as he deepened the kiss. Our tongues warred. I melted against him, moaned into his mouth, clenching my hands against his back and hooking my legs behind his thighs to match his movements and goad him deeper.

I

really

wanted him to come. I liked to watch that the most - watch his eyes flutter, watch the muscles in his chest ripple as his body seized, hear him shout my name. Why, I could hear it now:

Lucia! Lucia! LUCIA!

I dragged my nails down his back and squeezed his ass.

Johnny was a southern gentleman, except when he wasn't, with a body that seemed carved of marble; his ass was steel coated in clouds, muscled, but with just enough wiggle to grab hold of. He was tall and long-limbed, with wild, dark brown hair, steely-blue eyes, and intricate tattoos winding across his chest to his broad shoulders. They looked sort of Russian, almost. He had the cock of a Greek god, though; the Iliad wasn't about a romanticized war over some doe-eyed blond, oh no: It was about Johnny's magnificent cock, and how it had conquered an empire.

Or that's how it would've went if

I

wrote the Iliad.

"

Please,"

I managed to gasp. One of his long-fingered hands curled around my throat, his eyes drilling into mine, silently demanding, gently squeezing. With every thrust he squeezed harder, until my moans were wheezes and my shrieks, whispers.

He slammed his hips against mine, pulling me down against him as he speared me. I sucked in a strained breath, caught my lip between my teeth. Jesus on a stick, he was

deep

!

My eyes fluttered; they wanted to close, but something in his gaze held them open. I grabbed his wrist as if to anchor myself against the rapturous storm brewing in my loins, and my breath turned ragged as I strained to inhale. God, it felt

so good!

He clenched his teeth, growled low in his throat, angling his hips to bury himself to the hilt, dominating me with long, impossibly deep strokes.

The room spun. Something in me that was vast and wondrous erupted, and orgasmic delight suffused my trembling limbs; I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think; my chest heaved and a hoarse scream tore loose from my throat. I collapsed into sobs.

He had fucked me to tears.

"

Please,"

I rasped.

"Please."

I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood. Or was that him biting me? I was so lost in this sea of sensuality that I couldn't rightly tell. "I - oh god, I'm... I-!" Again?! So soon?

His hand clenched tight around my throat, cutting of my air completely. His thrusts turned frenzied. I longed to see him come, but I couldn't concentrate, not with the torrent that was building inside of me. I started to quiver and quake as if the world itself had been beset by tremors, even as my lungs began to burn. Darkness encroached at the edges of my vision.

He released my throat to knead my breasts; I gulped precious air, and the world cleared. I could breathe again, cry out. When I managed to speak, it was haltingly, broken by chest heaving sobs and gasping breaths, made incoherent by his furious pounding me: "I - oh - oh -

mhmm, mhmm

, yes, yes, yes, yes,

yesyesyesyesssss, OH SHIT!

"

We came together. His cock pulsed inside of me as his backed arched, beautiful lips parted in a magnificent yell. Not to be undone, my own wetness came rushing forth like a torrent.

The world quaked, fractured. I was floating among glittering stars, diving through swirling nebulas, watching suns die and planets form from the fiery ashes. My skin sang, my toes curled. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel; it was bright and splintered, as if shining through a prism, a riot of colors, all of them and none of them at once.

I came down, slowly, twitching like I'd been electrocuted. A great contented sigh seeped from between my lips. I lay there as the tremors left me, trying to calm my heart from its frantic beat.

I felt him pull out and tried not to whine, already missing the fullness of his throbbing cock. I should've been sore, but... I just wanted more. He'd fucked me so well that I had forgotten about the pending murder.

That, more than anything, was why I was so fond of him. He could make me forget about Michael, about the family, about my father locked away in his cell; when he was balls deep inside me, nothing else mattered - only us, the feel of his skin against mine, his breath in my ear, invoking my name.

"

Lucia, Lucia, Lucia."

He raked his teeth against my breasts, seized a dusky nipple between them, sucking gently. I jerked away for the intensity of the sensation, but he grabbed me and held fast, and the brief pain swiftly became pleasure. I smiled lazily, still riding ebbing waves of pleasure.

His tongue swirled, his mouth slurped, and I moaned, leaning up into his mouth.

Fuck

, he was good. Why couldn't he have been my husband? He was Italian enough. Connected enough. I would've cherished him. I had cherished Michael, hadn't I? Put up with his shit; the endless cheating and lying, the complete and utter lack of support, even his violence...

Dammit.

"Put that back in me," I all but demanded, reaching down to take his stiff shaft in my hand. It was dripping with my wetness, glistening like a polished pearl, if pearls were long, veiny, velvety gifts from the ancient gods of fantastic fucking. I'd never before held such a perfect cock, not that I was particularly familiar with them; Michael had been my first and only, up until Johnny.

His cock was thick enough that I couldn't quite close my hands around it, but not so thick that I couldn't take it in my throat. Long enough to fill me up, but not so long that it bruised my cervix with his savage pounding.

Truly, his was the Goldilocks of cocks. Or was it the mother bear?

"You've got a mother bear dick," I said, giggling, stroking him.

He laughed low in his chest, even as he pushed my hand away and slid down my body, kissing and nibbling his way down my stomach. He peppered me with kisses, licking and nipping at my skin. He brushed the coarse dark hair above my pussy with surprising gentleness; when he found my clit with his thumb, I nearly came again.

"Your husband doesn't deserve you," he said.

Well of course he doesn't

, I thought.

I gave him ten years of love, and all he's given me is sorrow.

And then Johnny's mouth replaced his thumb and I was flying again, off in the clouds, lost in bracing winds.

He tongued me with a sort of religious reverence, working his way from budding clit to dripping lips and back, sucking me, savoring me,

teasing

me, swirling me about in his mouth like a prized vintage. I was a violin to be plucked, and he, a masterful violinist. Everything was involved - his lips, his tongue, his nose, even his chin. He parted me with his fingers, plunged his tongue inside, and lapped at my sweet spot. I let out a startled cry, overcome by the sensation.

"

Mmmmmm,

yes!

" I fisted my hands in his wild curls and held him tight, grinding against his eager mouth as I came.

Wetness gushed out of me, drenching his face, but that didn't deter him. He was cut like a swimmer - maybe he could hold his breath like a swimmer too. I pulled his tongue further inside me, using it like a cock, grinding my swollen nub against his nose, fucking myself with his mouth, greedy and exultant

He slid his hands up my thighs and angled my legs further back, till my ankles flanked my ears. Thank god for yoga; that move could've pulled a muscle. Foolishly, I didn't consider

why

he had pushed my legs back, thinking that he only meant to gain deeper access into my pussy, so that he might taste the deepest parts of me.

Johnny had different ideas. Deliciously naughty ideas. I felt warm breath caress me

down there

, had less than a second to gasp and prepare myself-

His lips brushed against my ass, and I seized up as a jolt shot through me. "Woah there! What... what are you-" His tongue fluttered against me, caressing, teasing. I couldn't help but laugh - it tickled all the way down to my bones.

He pressed his lips flush against my ass, and I near leapt from the bed.

Oh god,

my mind screamed. "Oh god," my mouth yelled. "Fuck... you... shit!" He was... he was tongue-kiss my ass, as tenderly and lovingly as if he were kissing my lips. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! The sensation was indescribable. It had been so long since I had felt this particular pleasure, I had forgotten how intense it was. My hands moved on their own, reaching down and spreading my cheeks further. He licked around the rim, darted his tongue inside. A bolt of pleasure raced up my spine, setting my hair on end. Sweet mother of Mary, it felt

so good

...

I groaned, bottom lip caught between my teeth. Good was to weak an adjective. Amazing? Wonderful? Marvelous?

He worked slowly, pushing a little deeper with each thrust of his tongue, teasing me open. I was afraid to speak, afraid that words might break whatever spell I was under. Was I dreaming? I had to be. He had never gone

there

before.

"You taste so sweet," he moaned, his movements becoming more manic as I melted beneath his ministrations. He flattened his tongue and gave my ass one long, languid lick, opened his mouth wide, and buried his tongue inside.

"Oh!" My eyelids fluttered and my vision went blurry. I loosed a keening wail, quivering beneath him. I gushed again, surprising myself, ass puckering against his lips. He reared back, tongue still inside me, and pushed in again, and again, and again.

I went

mad

.

It was like my whole body was on fire, from the tips of my hair to the soles of my feet, every pore alive with mind-numbing, universe shattering pleasure. I screamed so loudly I was sure the neighbors could hear, the nosy bastards. He ate me hungrily, without restraint, spurred on by my response. My legs felt like nothing so much as jello, but I daren't move.

He leaned back, and this time I did whine.

"No! Don't stop! Put your fucking tongue back inside me!" I reached for his face, to grab hold of his hair, but he slapped my hands away.

"On your knees," he demanded. I hurried to comply. "Ass up, back arched... that's it. Now reach back and spread..."

He attacked my asshole again after I had obliged his instruction. I'd thought he was deep before, but this? This was insanity. How could someone's tongue be so long?

His tongue pumping in and out of my ass made loud, wet sucking noises. Naughty noises. Delightful noises. They turned me on all the more. I didn't think I could handle it if he finger-fucked me too; even I was hesitant to touch myself, fearful of sexual overload - if I collapsed, he would stop tongue-fucking my ass, or so I thought, and I didn't want that at all. I stopped trying to keep track of how many times I came. I didn't even think I could count that high - not drowning in this hazy, half-minded state of euphoria, at least.

There wasn't a drug in the world that could surpass this high.

Finally, it seemed like he was done. As I kneeled there, whimpering, trying to get precious air back into my lungs from all my screaming, he pulled back, tongue slipping out with a wet squelch. All that air he'd packed in there came rushing out. I frowned.

Sooooo

unsexy.

But did Johnny care? Of course not. He laughed, slapped my ass, took a few long breaths - finally, some human limits! - and dived right back at it.

"

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck! You - unh, unh, unh, unh - you... Oh god... you motherfucker!"

All that pleasure came rushing back. He pistoned his tongue inside and I shrieked, grasping at the couch with trembling fingers. He swirled his tongue in my depths, jabbing it in and out, in and out, in and out, over and over and over, until my every word was one long, undulating moan.

I was delirious. He closed his lips over the rim and sucked. My knees wobbled, and I might have fallen if he weren't holding me steady. I had long since lost my grip on my ass cheeks. My head lolled forward against the couch cushions. Had they always been such a pretty tan? I distinctly remembered hating them.

He tongued my ass as if he might discover the meaning of life somewhere in that pleasant pink place. As if he were starving, and my ass was the most luscious meal ever made on earth - nay, in the entirety of the universe. He was Jason, and my ass was the Golden Fleece. I could hardly breathe for the strength of the orgasms racking me, like thunderous, buffeting waves crashing against the beach. Every breath was ragged and shaking. My thoughts started to disintegrate, fracturing like splintered glass. My every being was consumed by the wholly indescribable pleasure of his tongue spearing my ass, plowing me. Every stroke was its own orgasm that set my soul to quivering. My body hadn't stop shaking since he turned me over.

I don't know how long he might've continued had we not heard the distinct sound of a car pulling up in the driveway.

"Fuck!" I cursed. Not because I was worried about Michael discovering us - I

did

mean to kill him - but because that meant Johnny had to stop and get in place. I wanted the room to smell like I had just been fucked in it. I wanted to look like I'd been fucked too. Maybe, if he still cared at all, Michael might get a taste of the shame and humiliation I'd been living with for

years

.

Ten years, I gave him. I'd been sixteen when we met, seventeen when we became official, eighteen when we were finally married. We'd had the ceremony in Sicily, at my grandfather's chateau. Things had seemed great, back then. Perfect.

But that was before my father's incarceration and my mother's suicide, before the Bellini family fell on hard times; before Michael made capo, before the wars embittered him, before the drugs twisted the man I had once loved into the vile, black-hearted beast he was today.

I could write a book about those years, and a damn good on at that. And if I ever got my hands on that traitorous Franzese bastard...

Johnny gave my ass one more sloppy kiss then hurried off, grabbing up our clothes as he went - his boots, silk shirt and skinnies, my Sergio Rossi's, Charvet blouse, beautiful floral patterned Prada skirt. I was going to miss my clothes when the house burned down; how much of my inheritance had I wasted on what amounted to little more than fabric? I should have been using my father's money to further the family, to help my brothers, but...

I had been too selfish, too upset. They'd hardly shed a tear when our mother died. They hadn't so much as blinked when father went away.

With a calm I didn't feel, I lurched over to the hall closet, grabbed a fuchsia silk robe, and slipped into it, loving the feel of the soft fabric against my skin. I felt along the wall for the light switch and flicked it up; a bright white glow poured over the hallway. I sidled over to the body length mirror that hung a few feet down from the closet, one, to look at myself, and two, to rest against the wall. My legs were still weak.

I looked like I'd just been fucked.

Hard.

My hair was a mess, and my mascara was runny, and my lips were swollen. But my skin was glowing, like literally. I looked radiant-

Oh, no, that was just the light shining down on me.

Shit, I was losing my mind. I think the fucking Johnny had just given me, combined with my nerves - because I was about to

murder my husband

- made for quite the brain-addling cocktail. I mean, Jesus! He'd never fucked me

quite

like that. Did murder turn him on? That was... well, it was kind of hot. Disturbing, but hot. Every girl likes a bad boy.

Bad girls especially.

I should have been ashamed of myself. Here I was, dwelling on the mind-blowing sex I'd just had, when within minutes, I would be helping a contract killer put Michael out of his misery. The dichotomy was dizzying; there were extremes, and then there were

extremes.

Maybe murder turned me on too.

Or maybe it was just all the endorphins swimming around in my bloodstream.

On my way passed the couch I noticed the darkened patch on the rug where I had sprayed my feminine juices. I wondered if men felt such pride when surveying their handy work. They had to, or else they wouldn't get such a rush from facials. I had given Johnny at least a dozen.

Alright Lucia. This is it.

I braced myself, wishing I'd bought a gun. Cold steel in my hand would've calmed my nerves.