Misters Series - Nocturnal Stories

Vera

"You talked to him all night."

That's how it started. One simple accusation and everything between us exploded. Four months working for him and his damn dome in his damn building, and the day of the opening we couldn't hold it in anymore.

"He's your friend, 'Mr. Vicenzo,'" I answered. I spat the mister right in his face.

"And that's why you talked to him all night?"

"And what did you expect? You spent the last two weeks telling me not to embarrass you. Fine! I was nice to your friend."

"For forty minutes, Vera?"

He was livid, jealous. His face rigid, his eyes glassy. Right then I wanted to hug him, kiss him, touch every inch of him. I held back. I was risking just as much, I had just as much to lose.

I didn't answer. I took off my shoe first, the one with the broken heel. The one that had gotten stuck on the step while he practically dragged me by the wrist.

"What did you talk about?" he asked.

"He told me bad jokes. Terrible ones." I yanked off the other shoe in anger and threw it through the air; it landed on the last can of paint.

Alberto Vicenzo, the psychopath who hired me to restore the fresco six meters up in some crumbling building. Who harassed me for months on end, climbing up the scaffolding with me, criticizing every damn stroke, every color, every brushstroke. And there I was, flat on my back, my whole body on fire because the son of a bitch would lean in until every inch of his sexy, gorgeous self was pressed against me.

"What joke? Repeat it."

"I don't remember!"

"Don't lie to me!" he shouted, hoarse, teeth clenched. "I know him! I know who he is and what he does! What did he offer you?"

"What did he offer me?"

"Yes! He offered you something to fuck you! Didn't he?"

He was insane! The man was insane! No, he was sick, deranged. He wouldn't let me call him by his first name, I had to say "Mr. Vicenzo." Mister my ass! Sure, the typical rich businessman who thinks everyone is beneath him. The kind who looks at you with that crooked, smug little smirk, like God Himself must have been especially inspired when He created him.

"Who the hell do you think I am?" I shouted back too. "You think I'm some little slutt who'll go with anyone who offers her something?"

"I didn't say that!"

"No? That's exactly what you said! Who do you think you are? Crazy bastard!"

"Then tell me what you talked about!"

"Like it's any of your business!"

He held my gaze and something shifted. I don't know what, but something shifted in his eyes. Every word we screamed at each other, furious, threw fuel on the fire. He took a step, ran a hand through his hair, over his face. He was holding back too.

"My business?" he repeated. "Of course it's my business. You're mine. You work for me, you paint for me, you breathe for me. Even that ridiculous dress - I paid for that."

"I bought that dress myself."

"With my money."

"With money I earned! Working! Or are you going to tell me now that hiring me was some kind of favor?"

"I didn't do you a favor. I chose you. There were twenty restorers in this city. Twenty. All more experienced, all less difficult, all easier to deal with. And I chose you. You know why?"

"Because no one else would put up with your filthy looks, your condescending remarks, your superiority complex," I answered, counting off each of his flaws on my fingers.

"Because you were mine from day one! From the moment you walked into the studio you looked at me like I was some idiot. That's when I knew you were mine. You just hadn't figured it out yet."

I laughed. Out of nerves. He was cornering me, and he wasn't doing it with his body, not even with his six-foot-three looming over me. It was his eyes. That's what weakened me, what stopped me from throwing open the door and telling him to go to hell. It looked like a piece of him was being torn away.

"You're insane. You're completely insane."

"Insane," he agreed. He took a step. "Insane, unhinged, obsessive. Whatever you want to call it. But I'm not going to apologize."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Good. Because I wasn't going to give you any."

Another step. We were a hair's breadth apart now. My shoe still sat on the paint can. My stockings run through. My dress twisted sideways. And him - impeccable, except for his open collar and the strand of hair falling loose. Impeccable, the son of a bitch.

"Forty minutes," he said, lower now, thicker. "Forty minutes with that idiot. What did he ask you?"

God! Same thing all over again - what did he expect me to say?

"Nothing."

"What did he offer you?"

"Nothing!"

"What did you tell him?"

"I don't remember! I was bored out of my mind and I laughed just so I wouldn't tell him to go to hell! Happy now?"

He looked at me. Measured me. Weighed me. Ran his eyes over me from the tips of my feet up to my face, and stayed there.

"No," he said. "I'm not happy. Because you laughed with him. And that laugh was mine."

"Nothing is yours. Not the laugh, not the fresco, not me. Nothing. Do you understand? No-thing."

I watched something short-circuit behind his eyes. I could practically hear it. His whole body went rigid, so much that I stepped back. Not out of fear - out of survival instinct. Whatever was radiating off him was intoxicating me. And he took a step forward, and another, and another. I felt the cold, peeling wall of the storeroom against my back.

"Nothing is mine?" he asked, leaning over my face, whispering in that rough voice.

I looked away and breathed in deep. I don't know why. All that expensive cologne he wore filled my nose, my throat, my lungs. I'd spent months fighting this, fantasizing about him. My joints ached from the effort of holding themselves in place, because he'd look at me for two seconds and I'd melt like an ice cube. So many times I'd kicked myself mentally for fantasizing, for letting myself imagine it. Guys like him don't look twice at women like me. But fantasizing was free.

"Vera, look at me and say that again," he said. "Tell me you don't feel it."

I looked at him.

"Feel what?" I asked.

I felt everything. In my skin, in every muscle, in every hair on my body. Everything. I was burning from the inside out. And I resisted because I didn't want to fall for a man again. Go through all that pain again and then watch him walk away without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Alberto Vicenzo had every single sign pointing to exactly that.

"Feel what's between us, Vera," he whispered, barely audible. "What you make me feel."

God, damn it! Did he have to say it like that, in that voice? Like he was begging for a crumb just to keep from starving. With that kicked-puppy look, that surrender in his face. So handsome, so much a man.

I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. I was the one starving. Desperate and scared because he was tearing down every defense I had like it was nothing. I wasn't thinking, wasn't processing that if I let him in, I'd end up on my knees like some fool.

"Vera," he said my name, startled. He was always the one in control, and in that moment, everything had flipped.

"Shut up."

I shoved my hand into his chest, not even bothering with the damn buttons, just working my way in. Hot skin, coarse hair, hard muscle. I dug my nails in and he let out a groan, his breath catching, and he pressed me harder against the wall.

"Is this what you wanted?" I asked him. I undid his belt. "This?"

"This."

"Since day one?"

"Since the first day I saw you."

I laughed for real, because so did I. Because from the moment I walked into that studio and saw his ten-thousand-euro shoes covered in dirt, I knew this was going to end badly.

I pulled down his zipper. He shoved my dress up around my waist. My stockings were already ruined. He tore one off my leg completely. The other hung there, a spiderweb of nylon draped over my thigh.

"You're paying for the stockings after this," I said.

"I'll pay for whatever you want."

"I don't want you to pay for anything. I want you to fuck me the way you've been looking at me for the last four months."

His expression changed. It turned serious, dark, hungry.

"Whatever you say," he said.

Alejandro

She walked through that door that afternoon and turned my world upside down. It took her no more than three words to leave me completely stupid over her. Every day she looked at me like I was something she'd scraped off her shoe, always trying to knock me down a peg with her sarcasm. But I could tell. Her body reacted whenever mine was close.

We fought like cats and dogs until the day she showed up in that little dress.

A scrap of fabric. Barely enough to cover her thighs, with her entire back exposed. Nothing like the baggy, paint-stained pants she always wore. It drove me out of my mind watching every man in the room stare at her. Eighty dirty old bastards practically drooling over her legs, her back, and that ass.

That morning I'd jerked off in the shower imagining her exactly like that, begging me to fuck her. In my fantasy, I took her out to dinner first. She smiled at me the way she smiles at that asshole. I kissed her gently before undressing her in my bed. She was obedient.

I should've known better.

Vera was anything but obedient.

I tried to tear her panties off while she clung to me, kissing me, parting my lips with her tongue. I couldn't hold back anymore. I wrapped my arms around her with all my strength. That mouth had driven me insane long before I'd ever tasted it. I lifted her, and instinctively she wrapped her legs around my waist.

Desperate.

That was what she was.

Hot.

Mine.

She moaned against my lips. I pressed my weight into her, pinning her against the wall so I could free my hands and touch every inch of her. I dug my fingers into the soft flesh of the ass that made me hard with a single glance. My hand followed the heat between her thighs until I found a way to slip her panties aside.

The slickness I found told me everything I needed to know.

So did the sharp breath she drew before going perfectly still the moment I touched her.

I slid one finger inside her, and her entire body went rigid. I added a second, and she melted into a moan that only made me harder. I pulled back just enough to look at her.

Her eyes were squeezed shut.

She was breathing through parted lips.

Her head rested against the wall.

Beautiful, a madness.

I wanted to bury myself inside her, to fuck her without even taking her panties off. But the need to watch her come first was stronger.

Vera writhed against me. I could feel her heels digging into my waist, her hands gripping my shoulders with bruising force, and her slickness coating my hand. She was more than wet, more than turned on. My own mind had gone completely blank.

"Do you like that, little little slutt?" The word slipped out before I could stop it.

Her eyes flew open, and she held her breath. For a second, I thought I'd fucked it up, ruined the moment. Then she surprised me again, finished me off completely.

"Yes..." she gasped, rolling her hips against my hand, asking for more.

I took a chance. It couldn't be.

"Are you my little little slutt?" I asked, testing the waters.

"Yes..."

"Tell me, Vera," I practically begged, kissing her neck, licking it. "Tell me," I whispered.

"I'm your little little slutt, Mr. Vicenzo," she moaned, every word drawn out.

Better than any declaration of love. It hit me square in the chest, in the gut, in my cock straining so hard against my pants it felt ready to burst free. I stood there, spellbound, breathing against her skin, my fingers motionless inside her. Vera had no idea what she really did to me. It was desire, raw lust, but also this strange, overwhelming need to hold her.

That was why I hadn't taken things any further all those months. The way she looked at me was obvious. The way she'd sometimes linger over her words, the little gestures she thought I didn't notice. She made me lose control, sent me completely off the rails. At the same time, I couldn't stand being away from her for twenty-four hours. I knew she'd get under my skin, and once she did, there'd be no getting her out.

She fought against my stillness, driving herself furiously onto my hand, twisting her hips any way she could. Demanding. Her muscles tightened around my fingers. I looked at her again. Her face was pure agony, her lips parted, her eyes glazed, her brow furrowed with impatient need.

Her confession filled me with the kind of primitive pride a man feels when his woman can't wait for him.

"What's wrong, Vera?" I asked, playfully. "Are you really that horny?"

She didn't answer. Frustrated, she grabbed my jacket, trying to pull it off. I rewarded her with a few fast, brutal strokes. Her body responded instantly, coming apart beneath my hand.

Then I stopped again.

Furious didn't even begin to describe it.

She decided to play my game. And kicked me straight in the balls.

"Your friend wouldn't have stopped, Alejandro," she challenged, lifting her chin, biting her lower lip.

I pulled my fingers free and made her put her feet back on the floor. Vera swayed the moment they touched the ground, then looked me straight in the eye. She was pushing me to the edge, comparing me to that bastard just to drive me completely insane.

And it worked.

I grabbed the hair at the nape of her neck and pinned her against the wall.

"Spread your legs," I ordered, and she obeyed. "Let's see if that son of a bitch can fuck you better than I can."

I tasted her arousal, the slickness she'd left on my fingers. I licked them slowly in front of her, coating them with my saliva as if I needed more, then slid them straight back between her thighs, finding the spot that unraveled her. I stroked her with the same frantic need I'd had when I'd jerked off thinking about her. She gave herself to me completely. She opened herself to me in every way, not just between her legs. She surrendered while the tips of her toes fought to keep from slipping.

Her breathing turned ragged, short gasps that never quite filled her lungs. She reached for something to hold onto and found my arm, the one wrapped around her waist. She felt boneless, like a rag doll. Even so, at the exact moment she came, she locked her eyes with mine, only for an instant before they fluttered shut. She shattered completely, dragging me down with her. I'd wanted to make her mine, yet in the end she claimed me with a single orgasm.

Beautiful, alive in every cell of her body. I loosened my grip on her hair and kissed her forehead. She answered by brushing a kiss against my chin, playfully nibbling at my beard. Something that felt like triumph tangled with anguish flooded my chest. Something that screamed I'd die if I let her walk away. Then I felt her hands finishing the job of opening my pants. Her cool fingers wrapped around my cock and gave it a slow tug.

My knees nearly gave out. At forty-five years old, a woman was jerking me off, and my knees were threatening to buckle.

No.

Not just any woman.

Vera.

I tipped my head back and heard her let out a slow, deep breath. **She knew she was the one in control now, the one calling the shots. I had to let go of her completely just to brace myself against the wall, but not before capturing her mouth in another kiss. We moved together in perfect rhythm: I thrust my tongue into her mouth while her hand stroked me faster.

Little by little, she slowed down, easing to a stop. She let go of me and pushed me slightly backward. I took short steps, trapped by my pants around my ankles.

Vera, sensual, erotic, and a little little slutt, took off her panties and the torn piece of stocking. She lowered the shoulders of her dress to her waist and turned around. Stretching her back, offering herself with that bare ass.

I went at her like a savage, grabbing her breasts, rubbing my cock against her, biting her shoulder. She writhed in my hands, falling apart as she waited for me to penetrate her.

I should have taken her in a single thrust, filled her to the very end, and not given her even time to breathe.

I couldn't.

Even with the desperation and the heat, I couldn't.

Instead, I savored the moment. I parted her buttocks and watched as, slowly and deliberately, her sex swallowed my cock.

I heard her moan, deep and long.

"Like that, Alejandro," she said.

When I looked up, her face was against the wall, one hand lost between her legs.

I lost my sense of reality, the little sanity I had left. I thrust into her once with all my strength. Again and again and again. I fucked her like the beast I am, and she welcomed me with even more pleasure. Never a whimper or a "stop." She asked for it. Without shame.

I came, pushing her, dragging her along the wall.

Burying myself.

Dying.

Vera

My mind froze in that brief span of time when he came inside me. All it took was hearing the way he roared, feeling him fill me, and I came too. The orgasm was so powerful, so overwhelming, that I think it left my brain starved of oxygen. I was dizzy, drained, adrift. It was the kisses he pressed along my back that slowly, patiently brought me back.

I felt like crying because there was no going back.

I couldn't pretend nothing had happened, or that I hadn't felt him connected to me in a way I'd never experienced before. I tried not to let it get to me, tried to swallow the ache. After this-after the delirious sex, after the devastating orgasms-came the indifference. The: "It was a pleasure. See you around." But it was done. I had to pull myself together, piece myself back into something resembling a whole person, and get out of that warehouse with as much dignity as I could manage.

Alejandro stroked my arms. His kisses were small, gentle, almost grateful. I decided to stay still and enjoy them. There would be time later to cry my eyes out.

"What do we do now?" he asked, his lips brushing my neck.

"I don't know," I replied, and I truly had no idea.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

There it was: the goodbye. Well, the dream had been beautiful while it lasted.

I nodded without saying a word. I felt him slip out of me, felt his semen running down my thighs, warm and thick. And by the time I had the strength to turn around, Alejandro looked perfectly put together again.

I can't imagine what I looked like. Probably a complete mess. The animal who had just fucked me against the wall pulled a handkerchief from his jacket, crouched down, and began running it between my thighs, between my legs. Cleaning me with painstaking gentleness. Damn psychopath. How many faces did he have?

He made sure to wipe away every trace before handing me my panties. I put them on, smoothed down my dress, and he brought over my shoes dangling from two fingers. He even did that. And I had no idea where to look or how to face him.

It was very easy to fall in love with a man like that. A man built like a tower-mature, well-mannered, commanding. The kind who fucked without restraint and then treated you like a piece of porcelain afterward. Who wouldn't? Sure, he was a controlling lunatic. But he was so handsome, so sexy.

He took my hand before we left the warehouse, and at the door he kissed me. One of those kisses that leaves you drunk and stupid.

Barefoot, I followed him to the back of the building, where the parking lot was. At least he didn't make me walk past all those people. He opened the car door for me-he actually opened the door for me!-and then drove off.

In silence. I didn't know what to say and, honestly, I didn't want to talk anyway. Alejandro drove with his eyes fixed on the road. Reserved. Serious. The same poker face as always. I felt small. And even more foolish. Because there was a difference between the spoiled pretty boys I was used to-the kind whose egos you have to constantly stroke-and him.

It wasn't until we turned onto my street that I realized I'd never given him my address. He had simply driven straight to my house.

"How did you know where I live?" I asked, staring at my slightly run-down green front door.

"I know," he replied, just like that, and turned off the engine.

Of course. He could interrogate me and question me like the Gestapo demanding answers, but when it came to him, all I got was an "I know" that shut down any further discussion. I felt that familiar prickling sensation between my shoulder blades again-the feeling that he was unbearably arrogant, conceited, completely insane.

I grabbed the handle to open the door. Me and my ridiculous fantasies. The guy had fucked me, gotten what he wanted, and that was that. Stupid, Vera. I needed to get out before embarrassment took over and I told him to go to hell.

He didn't let me.

He caught my hand and gave it a tug, pulling me face-to-face with him. Two more kisses. Sweet, unhurried kisses. And at the end, a tiny kiss on the tip of my nose.

"Get some rest, Vera," he said.

I practically fled the car, almost running. My legs felt heavy. I shut the door and leaned against it. It was insane-the way he could go from ice-cold to warm without a single change in his expression.

Onur came to greet me, wagging his tail, his tongue hanging out. Standing on his hind legs, he was as tall as I was. He sniffed my legs, and I had to pull him off me. Then I heard the engine start outside and fade away. My whole body went limp, and my mind was still a tangled mess of confusion.

That was exactly why I'd spent the last year alone. Exactly why: so I wouldn't have these feelings, so I wouldn't get confused, so I could focus on my work and keep my life calm. But no. I had to meet him. I had to let myself get carried away.

I let out a cry of pure frustration, running my hands over my face. "Jesus, Vera."

Onur watched me curiously, tilting his head.

"Yeah," I told him. "Your mother is crazy. Completely insane. Tough luck. If you didn't eat like a dinosaur, I never would've accepted that job. This is your fault."

He jumped on me, licking my face. I scratched behind his ears and let him out into the little backyard. At least he didn't have to worry about anything. I envied him. His life consisted of eating, sleeping, making messes, and being my emotional support. Quite the job.

I went to the bathroom while Onur did his business. I took off my dress along the way, remembering how I'd told him I was his little little slutt, how I'd given myself to him, how I'd clung to his lips. Dying of embarrassment. I wanted to disappear.

The mirror wouldn't let me. It showed me, without mercy, what I had done with him: the mark of his bite on my shoulder, my ruined hair, my smeared makeup. And yet, the woman staring back at me looked satisfied.

My body could still feel his hands, my mouth his kisses, and between my legs I could still feel him. How long had it been since anyone had given me that kind of pleasure? I brought my hand to myself. I was still wet, with traces of his semen. My skin felt raw, and it aroused me. The touch of my fingers felt like his. Those large hands that had covered me completely. I closed my eyes and smelled my shoulder. His expensive cologne and the whiskey on his breath still clung to me.

Once again, I fell under his spell and gave in to my need.

I turned on the shower and stepped beneath it. Either the water was freezing or my body was burning. All I could do was touch myself. The sensitivity hurt, but it didn't stop me. I would have fucked him all night, through the early hours, all morning.

Alejandro.

I had a small, fleeting orgasm that left me empty. It scared me to think that I might never again come apart, never again implode, the way I had with him.

When I came out of the bathroom, there he was: my 175-pound emotional support system, staring at me. The most dependent dog I'd ever found. My anchor.

"Come on, big guy. Bed," I said, dragging myself to the bedroom.

That was my life: paint and dog hair. I just had to find my way back to that life and forget about Mr. Vicenzo. Or better yet, keep him as a memory that could sustain me whenever I felt the loneliest.

My phone chimed with a notification. It was him.

"Tomorrow at 11. Your final check."

That was it. Nothing else.

Asshole.

I wanted to throw my phone against the wall. He wasn't just a controlling maniac, a sociopath. He was a damn bipolar case. I laughed at how stupid I was, at how confused I'd been. I threw my arms and legs into the air. I wished he'd been there with me so I could've kicked him a few times.

I hugged Onur tightly. He was already somewhere far away, dreaming. I clenched my teeth and fell asleep.

"Eleven o'clock. Perfect, you damn idiot."