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He rewarded her, even if it was only with an end to the suspense. She felt his magnificent erection brush against her thighs until he brought it to her lips—the warm, moist flesh of her just beginning to enclose the hardened offering. She tingled, working hard to hold still her pelvis. She didn’t just want to take it. She wanted him to take her.

“Again.”

“I’m a whore,” Bella husked out, the words sounding better, sweeter,

She looked up at Frank and knew she was getting to him. There was a strained look on his face, hidden by his stoicism, but still just under the surface. And he was stiff, painfully stiff. Bella knew it would hurt when that oversized cock stopped rubbing against her labia and showed her he owned it, owned every inch of her, because surely there wasn’t anywhere inside her that vastness wouldn’t touch.

Bella bit her lip. She wouldn’t be thinking that way; he wasn’t even inside her yet. Biology was working against her. Like she was built to take him in to the hilt and scream how much she loved it every moment he was rutting her, to ensure he did it again and again until she was good and bred. And all the socialization and education and civilization, it was all just bunting put up over the real thing.

“I’m a whore.” It slipped out again. She liked the sound of it. It was harsh, bracing, but—effective. Like a finger in her cunt. Nothing subtle about it. It just got her off.

He slowly pressed into her. Sampling the wetness of her flowing lubrication, seeing fit to give her more: more pressure, more of his size, until her opening stretched and began to take him, let him inside. Bella groaned. He was spreading her, making her into a nice open cocksleeve. She was thrilled to unbearable heights by how well-used she might end up; limp and boneless and full of his seed and so fucked out that she just had to sleep.

Only he stopped. Leaving her just about to be entered but not yet penetrated. She could impale herself on that massive cock, but she didn’t dare. That might make him take it away from her for good. She had to keep being a good girl.

“Keep saying,” he rumbled. “Don’t forget what you are.”

“I’m a whore—” And he gave her more of himself, slipping inside and opening her up, driving his cock into her until bright colors exploded beneath her shut eyelids.

He paused again. Reaping the satisfaction of the riot in her clever muscles. Bella could feel it, convulsing and kneading and suckling all over him. She couldn’t stop it. It was her body, what she was meant for. Her only options were to endure it… or to ask for more.

“Say it. Say what you are.”

“I’M A WHORE!” Bella keened. “Don’t stop, don’t, don’t ever take it away!”

He forced her arms together, crossing them at the wrists so he could hold them down with one hand. His other hand went to her face. He cupped her chin and forced her to look up at him; she’d been unable to look away from his length splitting her open, making her so full and yet so empty—there was so much more of him that was going to end up in her!

“Good, good,” he crooned, his voice a gentle growl, and his thumb brushed over her lips and let her suck on it. More went in. She ended up biting down on the webbing of his hand while he filled her to capacity and then gave her more.

She came; her hands flew open, fingers twitching like she was being electrocuted. It usually felt like an accomplishment, a crescendo to orgasm. This time, it just felt like one more inch he was giving her. Bella knew there was more.

“I’m a whore!” she squealed in what little dregs were left of her high-pitched voice after she’d screamed her lungs out, blissful waves crashing over her consciousness, wiping away more and more of her thoughts, replacing them with pain-spiked euphoria. She wanted to stay here forever. She didn’t care how much it hurt. His big cock was just widening her, making her a better cock-holster. Soon, she’d be able to fuck him forever.

“You come like a slut, you know that?” Frank’s voice was a rasp in her ear, strained almost as much as hers. She wondered how good it felt on his end. A swell of pride filled her. It had to be good; she knew it was good. “Like a dirty little slut who can’t think of anything but the next cock she’s going to get off on.”

His free hand went to one heaving breast. He squeezed it painfully even as he held her down, all his weight and strength going into holding her down. There was no possible way for her to do anything he didn’t want her to do, not now, in this position. When he withdrew from her, she didn’t even think to try to thrust her hips up to him. She simply lay there, compressed into the wet concrete by his ferocious drive. He would treat her as he had decided to treat her.

The fear Bella felt was not of him. It was of being refused. Her mind seized on what little memories still remained to it. Like Pavlov’s Dog, she knew there were things she could say that would get her rewarded, show she was a good girl, make her his cock-sleeve again…

“I’m a dirty little slut,” Bella chorused. “I can only think of your cock, only yours, only you—"

Still he came out of her, leaving her so open she actually felt a gust of wind against her splayed lips, before he plunged into her with all the lust Bella had known he felt for her. She screamed herself hoarse; she could not keep such pleasure inside her.

Holding himself buried between her thighs, Frank pumped her against the pavement, leaving Bella a passive receptacle who only had to rock to his thrusts. The wind scoured her. The sunlight infused her skin with golden glory. And all she heard, above the rush of the same boiling blood that had to be coursing through his throbbing erection, was the sound of her own refrain:

“I’m a whore, I’m a whore, I’m a whore—”

Frank’s voice boomed in her ear, dwarfing her pitiful chant: “This is what your cunt was meant for.”

“Yes!” That was all she could say then. Sentences, words, those were too hard to think of when he kept slamming into her, pleasuring her and pleasuring her and giving her more pleasure. “Yes-yes-yes-yes-yessss—!”

Then there was no sound at all, just the stretched out gap between her lips as they vibrated with a scream that not even she heard. Her needs burst one after another in an endless chain, until she could not remember anything, not anticipate anything, only exist in the eternal abandon of a delicious now.

***

The Trattoria had been a respectable establishment once. The owner, Rico Toscani, had inherited the restaurant from his father, an Italian immigrant who dreamed only of serving the same food in America that he would make in Sicily. His legacy had grown from a small hole-in-the-wall to an upper-class restaurant outside the city, far enough from the highway that the sound of beeping, burping traffic couldn’t penetrate, with a valet to handle the expansive parker. A garden encased the Trattoria; outside dining was done on the grass, in the shade of the trees, and inside the windows were thrown open on all but the hottest days, letting in the breeze and the scent of the olive trees—one of which had been planted by Rico Senior before the foundation of his new restaurant had even been laid.

Inside, the Trattoria was pure Old World. Everywhere you looked was stone and wood. Pots and pans hung from the walls. The light came from candled recesses in the walls and chandeliers.

Frank thinks about how he took Bella. It was like the rush he felt as he went into the meth lab, but directed at a woman, at gratifying himself. A working brick oven separated the dining area from the kitchen; patrons could see the cooks ladling dough inside, to cook on bare rock, pulling out an appetizing creation that the white-suited waiters took straight to them.

It’s not important how the Mafia preyed on Rico Toscani. They had many tentacles to reach out with: drugs, gambling, and pure violence. But eventually, Rico sold a controlling interest in his restaurant to them, and the renovation began. Corners were cut. The comfortable atmosphere was replaced by something meant to be hip and urban, but that was really garish and low-rent. Now instead of chandeliers, neon lights hung from the ceiling, strobing too-vibrant shades all around the once intimate darkness. The jukebox, full of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin hits, was replaced with a bar operated by a wholly out-of-place mixologist. Instead of serving vino, he spun around bottles of high-priced Grey Goose around like a DJ working a track. A tip jar was placed as ostentatiously in front of him as the shrine in a Roman home.