Owning the Mafia Don

Proserpina

Earlier that eveningBelongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

I had washed and changed into one of the cocktail dresses that I had found in the suitcase. With a sinking heart, I held the pretty little cocktail dress up to my body and felt my face turn red.

It was a low-back swing mini dress with gold chain straps in mink satin with rolled hem and ribbon lace-up detail. Pale lavender in colour it went well with my hair but I chose to let my hair cascade down my back as I saw how deep and how near naked I was looking with the straps revealing all. I would feel otherwise.

And worse, there was no provision to wear a bra and my breasts, plump and full as they were, looked ripe and inviting as they pushed against the corset rebelliously.

I shuddered and pulled out a colourful stole I had brought along in my bag, draping it across my shoulders. The effect was disastrous but…

*

When I stepped out of the dressing room, Lucien turned to look at me and his face was a study in fury and lust, warring with each other. He stood, staring at me, narrow-eyed and I shifted from foot to foot, uneasily.

“Would you like to have me change…?’ I stammered and came to a stop as I remembered that I had no clothes to change into.

Danielle! I thought in despair.

He smiled a wolfish smile with no humour and closed the gap between us in a few strides, jerking me to his hard length, tugging at the straps.

‘More the better to punish you, my little bi**h,’ he smiled thinly but his expression was that of a hungry man who had just been shown a table full of food.

He pushed me against the wall, coming close, so close that I could feel the buttons of his jacket digging into my near-exposed chest.

He tugged off the stole and tossed it contemptuously onto the floor.

And drew a sharp breath as he saw the full globes of my plump breasts straining against the chains of the dress.

He slipped his hand down, under my dress, which was easy since it only came up to my thighs. A quick, hard squeeze to my heavy a*se and then, his large, calloused hand moved to the front. Breathing harshly, he slipped two thick fingers into my soft, damp sex and I whimpered, rising onto my toes, for he had twisted the damp fabric of my panties away so effortlessly.

I leaned up, on tiptoe completely at his mercy as he slid, his fingers in and grunted,

“Wet? Already dripping wet eh, little s*ut?’ and he leaned down to take my mouth biting my lip as I moved in tune to his rough caress of my cl*t, the fingers exploring me avidly.

He ground his lower body, the powerfully muscled thighs, into me as he held me imprisoned against the wall. It would have been painful but his hands playing me, had aroused me to such an extent, that I was oblivious to anything but his clever fingers as they slipped in and out of my sex.

“Please, Lucien,’ I moaned, rocking my hips uncontrollably as he increased the tempo and I cried out, my sobs muffled as he lowered his head and bit my neck. A hand moved to my restrained breasts and he fondled a nipple roughly through the cloth, a sensation that had my womanhood dripping wet.

‘Beg me, woman,’ he said gruffly, pressing his arousal against me.

I complied. How could I resist him?

“Please,’ I whispered feverishly, leaning up, stretching to reach him, kissing his jaw, his hollowed cheeks, anything, ‘Please, Lucien, please…. my Master!!!’

My body rocked in an age-old tempo as he skilfully took me to the heights of an orgasm and I would have slid down onto the floor when I came back to earth, if he had not held me up in his solid embrace.

‘Ah, little one,’ he said in a silky, dangerous voice, ‘I have a lot to punish you for.’

He sounded hoarse and overcome by passion and I leant into him, holding him as the waves of passion subsided.

*

Bouras beamed.

His editor had been pole-axed when she saw the photographs.

Lucien Delano, she had breathed in fascination and Bouras had stopped short as he recognised the name.

*

One of the most feared and one of the most reclusive of underworld bosses.

A man who was hardly ever photographed, who was fiercely protective of his privacy, Bouras knew that he had had a reputation for being ruthless, a killer who had risen from being a street fighter, to becoming mob boss, undoubtedly, a man whose name was spoken of with fear and respect internationally.

He was the head honcho in the arms dealing crime syndicate in Central USA with connections in most businesses spread over almost all the continents.

Again, Bouras felt a sudden chill.

As though someone had walked over his grave.

He gave an uncertain laugh.

*

His editor looked up, with a glare and frowned, tapping her manicured fingers on the glossy pictures.

‘We need to know who this is. Looks young doesn’t she?’ she went on thoughtfully, almost enviously, twirling a pencil in her stubby fingers, as she went on softly, almost as though she was speaking to herself,

“And hot.’

After a pause, she looked up and Bouras was gratified to see that she was actually addressing him.

‘This man used to be a serial womaniser, till a while ago,’ she was saying, her head bent over the photographs spread out on her table.

‘ He had a legendary appetite for sex. he could go on all night, with many women… I had a friend who was in an orgy with him and his friends once…’

A note of envy in her voice made the ageing photographer raise his eyebrows in astonishment.

‘But I believe all that changed …’ she sounded almost regretful and Bouras’s instincts sharpened.

So Madam Shark had had the hots for the Big Boss, eh? he thought nastily.

Suddenly, she raised her head, the predatory look back in her eyes.

“Where? I want details, quick. Where are they? Still in Nafplio?’

Even as he began to speak, she was already calling up a reporter, asking for details, asking him to find out and FAST.

When Bouras walked away, he was grinning from ear to ear as he checked the cash she had given him. Now he could afford a drink alright, he thought happily…