Page 86 of Dirty Mafia King
His look is black like his bedroom, but his words are pure gold. “Look how you please me.”
A shiver runs up my spine.
I’ve been searching for a father figure, haven’t I? An experienced man who other men respect. An alpha male who’d protect me and tempt me, order me about and teach me how to sin. A person who’d understand the dueling facets of my nature, the shy girl and the inexperienced kinkster.
A sexy man who’d test my limits and force me into dirty, reprehensible acts.
Just like the woman in the painting who so beautifully submits to her king’s will.
I close my eyes, and my imagination roams free.
When I open them, I’m focused on one thing—that key.
Rising from the floor, I shake the numbness from my legs and approach the bookshelf.
The book slides free with one tug, and I fold my hand around a key with a tiny red ribbon looped through the eyelet.
The lock isn’t immediately obvious—you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it. Pushing the key inside, I turn it, and the bookcase swings open.
I’m greeted by a staircase leading downstairs. My heart thunders. Freido charged off. Bastian’s in Maine. No one will know.
Do I dare?
Five steps and I’m standing inside. I leave the door slightly open behind me so it won’t be obvious I’m snooping about. Slowly, I descend, curious, nervous, and dreading what I might find.
I reach the landing, enter the large red room, and stare around, aghast.
Bastian mentioned a dungeon, though this room can’t possibly be what he was referring to.
This space is sin incarnate, with everything from a spanking bench to a Saint Andrew’s Cross, from ropes and chains hanging from a beamed ceiling to a buffet of whips, floggers, and feathers displayed on a large table.
Bastian’s bedroom is black, but in this room, everything is red.
I swallow hard. But nerves don’t stop me from exploring. I begin with the bench, and position myself over the hump, face down with bottom up. Imagining the spanking I deserve for my disobedience. Would he use the whip? Would I enjoy it?
I approach the chains and pretend my arms are secured and my body suspended and constrained. So vulnerable. So at his mercy. Trust is the key to letting go, isn’t it?
The table is next, and I take inventory of the items I’ve seen online and in the art movies I enjoy: clamps with a soft felt interior; small, medium, and large floggers; a sharp red leather whip; and a metal object that resembles a penis, with a thin tip, wide middle, and a notch to hold it in place when inserted.
It’s big, but not even approaching the size of Bastian’s bull.
A box of condoms and a bottle of lubricant are to the right.
I trace my finger across the closed seal on the condoms, pleased that the box isn’t opened. The room is tidy, and I get the sense it’s been unused for a while. He hasn’t brought his rotating trio of women here anytime recently.
I don’t know why this pleases me. Why jealousy factors into how I feel about him or who he entertains. This is far more complicated than a crush. It’s not simply sexual attraction, either.
There’s an irresistible, inescapable pull whenever he’s present. A magnetic connection drawing me in, even if I’m occasionally repelled by his dominating manner. It’s undeniable, and has magnified since I moved onto the estate.
And he feels it too.
He didn’t throw me out of bed. The opposite, actually—he handcuffed me and made sure I’d stay put while he found comfort in my body.
We bonded.
We connected.
I glance around the red room once more before heading back upstairs.
