MafiaXLawyer b(dsm)
1205 Words
(non-con kink, b0ndage,him!liation, 0ral, pleasure denial)
Anna.
“In other news, Blane Luciano has been found not guilty of accusations filed against him, including alleged ties to the mafia. Here's what he had to say—”
“I'm just a hardworking man. I don’t even know what a mafia is. These accusations are from business rivals. I strongly believe in justice, and it was served today.”
That bastard.
I turned off the TV and hurled the remote at the chair. I was so close to winning this case I could practically taste my promotion, my front-page debut on New York Times, my first real victory. But no—Blane f!cking Luciano slithered out of this one like all the others. If only that stupid witness didn't unalive himself
I hate the mafia and I hate that they can control everything and get away with it.
I grabbed my files and flung them across the room, cursing loud enough for my neighbors to hear. How easy is it for a good-looking, filthy-rich man to walk free? Too easy.
I stripped, letting the hot shower beat down on my skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire in my blood. I ate bland noodles, scrolling through my social media while the rage simmered in my chest.
My name was everywhere.
“Sl.t. B!tch. Jealous wh0re.”
Thousands of women defending him like he was some mafia prince on a white horse.
Some warned me:
"He’s dangerous. Just move to Mars."
"He’ll come for you."
"You’ve made yourself a target. RIP in advance.”
Let him come.
Blane and I only locked eyes once in court. His stare burned into me as I told the jury why he should rot in prison. I was foolish to think I stood a chance against him.
Thank God I wasn’t the one to cross-examine him. I would’ve punched that smug, perfect face.
I posted anyway:
“THE MAFIA IS A DISEASE TO SOCIETY. WE DIDN’T LOSE TODAY. WE KEEP FIGHTING FOR JUSTICE. IT’S NOT OVER.
TO ALL OF YOU SAYING HE’LL COME FOR ME—OH, POOR ME, I’M SO SCARED. LOL.
BLANE LUCIANO, YOU CAN KISS MY PHAT A$$.”
I didn’t bother checking the comments. I could feel the notifications exploding on my timeline. I didn’t care. The bastard heart my post.
I called Kevin.
“Hey babe, when are you coming?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
I heard muffled sounds. He was distracted. Always was.
“Uh, sorry, I’m super busy with this movers company. Maybe next month. I’ll try to book a flight early.”
Always f!cking busy.
Why was I still in this relationship engaged to a man who was never there?I'm not stupid to know he's cheating on me. I switched off the lights and crawled into bed.
My chest was tight with frustration.
I slid open my drawer, pulling out the soft silk rope and my vibrator. My secret indulgence. My shameful craving.
I adjusted the pillow just right, slipping the vibrator into place, and loosely bound my wrists above my head.
As the vibrations pulsed against my throbbing c**t, my mind went there—the place it always went.
“No… stop… I’ll come… please, no… let go of me you bastard.” I moaned to no one, to the fantasy I should never admit out loud.
I imagined myself tied, powerless, forced to surrender to ruthless hands that wouldn’t stop, let me go, or care.
The irony wasn’t lost on me—a defense lawyer fighting the mafia by day, craving non-conbondage by night. My dark fantasy.
Kevin didn’t know. No one did.
Only me. And I wore this shame like perfume.
I rocked my hips against the vibrator an inch away from my cl!t, chasing that sharp, filthy edge, until it dragged a soft, trembling 0rgasm from me. It wasn’t enough. It never was.
I untied my wrists, tossed the vibrator aside, and sank into the sheets.
Tomorrow will be another day.
~~~~~~~~
When I woke up the first thing I registered was the searing pull in my shoulders.
A sharp ache. A tight burn. My arms… stretched. My wrists… bound. Suspended high above me, forcing my back to arch and my chest to jut forward like I was some offering.
What the hell—
I blinked into the golden light, confusion heavy in my skull. Thick ropes bit into my skin, tight and unforgiving. Every tug only made them dig deeper, pressing into the soft flesh of my thighs, my hips, my arms. My legs were slightly parted, just enough to make me feel exposed, obscene, and completely owned.
I was splayed on a cold, hard surface—a table. Wide and sturdy. Like it was built for me to be displayed on it.
The house screamed old illegal money.
I was bare from the waist up, my blouse and bra gone. The cool air ghosted over my flushed, sensitive skin. I could feel my n!pples harden under the chill, painfully aware of just how hum!liating I looked.
I looked like turkey on thanks giving. I shifted, this has to be a dream.
The ropes only hugged me tighter, pinning me in this helpless, degrading pose. My pulse pounded in my ears, fear clawing at the back of my throat.
How the f!ck did I get here?
I tried to piece it together — the last thing I remembered was falling asleep in my apartment after the trial… and now, I was here, stretched out like a meal someone was about to devour.
Blane walks in with a proud smile.
I can’t scream or yell from this gag. I can’t even curse him out properly, though God knows I want to.
Who the f!ck does this to a defense lawyer?
Blane f!cking Luciano. That’s who.
The sting of his palm cracks against my ass, sudden, sharp, reverberating through my bound body.
I jerk, but the ropes only dig deeper into my skin, tightening with every desperate, useless wiggle.
He hums, satisfied. “It’s fat alright.”
Bastard.
I glare at him with everything I have, wishing I could spit every curse in the book right in his face. My body burns with fury, but it also burns with something much worse—something I can’t let him see.
He drags a chair beside the table and sinks into it, his long fingers drumming lazily against the armrest.
“Do you have any idea,” he breathes, “how f*****g turned on I was every time you pointed your little finger at me? Every time you glared at me in court like you could ruin me?”
Asshole.
His eyes rake over me, slow and dark, like I’m his favorite meal. He stands, pacing to a nearby drawer. I can’t see what he’s doing—his broad back shields whatever he’s picking up.
When he turns, I see it.
A small, silver egg.
A tiny black remote.
Oh, hell no.
I thrash, testing the ropes, but every struggle just tightens them against my skin.
The friction is unbearable, painful and obnoxiously sweet. And I f!cking hate that this is my kink.
I can’t let him know.
- Writer
