Owned By Massimo

Tied To His Bed

I groaned, my head pounding like a drum as I blinked awake. The ceiling above me was strange—high and dark, with fancy wooden beams I didn't recognize. No pink canopy from my bedroom at home. No soft pillows. Just cold, hard reality hitting me.

My arms ached, and when I tried to move them, I couldn't. Panic should have kicked in, but it didn't. My wrists were tied to the bedposts with soft silk ropes, tight enough to hold me but not cut into my skin. I tugged a little, testing them, and a rush of heat flooded my body.

Massimo did this. The mafia king himself tied me up. My breath hitched, sharp and needy. God, why wasn't I scared? I should be screaming, fighting, begging to be let go. He was the most dangerous man in the city—whispers said he killed without blinking, owned half the underworld, broke people like toys. But no. The thought of his strong hands wrapping those ropes around my wrists made my p***y throb. Wetness pooled between my thighs, soaking the thin lace thong even more than before. I bit my lower lip hard, tasting blood, trying to stop the moan building in my throat.

This was crazy. Insane. I was his prisoner, and it turned me on like nothing else. My n*****s hardened against the lace bra, poking out shamelessly. I shifted my hips, feeling the slick slide of my arousal on my skin. Proof. Dripping proof that danger made me hornier than ever. I imagined him standing over me, watching me tie myself up for him, his blue eyes dark with lust. f**k, I wanted him to burst in right now, rip everything off, and claim me.

The door creaked open, slow and deliberate. My heart slammed against my ribs. There he was—the man of my wet dreams, stepping into the room like he owned the air itself. And he did. God, he looked even hotter than in the club. His suit jacket was gone, replaced by a tight black shirt that hugged his muscled chest. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off those tattooed arms—swirling ink of skulls, roses, and words in Italian I wanted to trace with my tongue. His neck had a peek of more tattoos, disappearing under the collar. I wondered how he'd look naked, all that ink covering his body, his head buried between my legs, licking me until I screamed.

My p***y clenched hard at the thought, a fresh gush of wetness making me squirm. I couldn't help it. He was perfection—tall, broad, dangerous. His dark hair was messy now, like he'd run his hands through it during the chaos. But those piercing blue eyes... they locked on me, and a shiver raced down my spine, straight to my clit. Cold. Dark. Deadly. Like he could kill me or f**k me without changing expression. It was sexy as hell. Terrifying and thrilling. I wanted both.

He didn't say a word. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, watching me like I was a puzzle he hadn't decided to solve or smash. The room felt smaller with him in it, the air thick and heavy. Tension crackled between us, electric and hot. I could feel his gaze burning into my skin, stripping me bare even though I was already half-naked. My breasts heaved with every breath, the lace doing nothing to hide how turned on I was. My legs were still closed, but barely—the thong was twisted, clinging to my swollen lips.

I decided to give him a show. Something to break that ice-cold stare. My heart pounded, but I was done waiting. I spread my legs slow, deliberate, letting the cool air hit my soaked p***y. The lace was sheer, transparent from my juices, and I knew he could see everything—my pink folds glistening, the way my clit peeked out, begging for touch. I opened wider, knees bending, feet planted on the bed. Exposed. Vulnerable. Offering myself like the filthy slut I'd always dreamed of being for him.

But he didn't look down. Not even a glance. His eyes stayed locked on mine, unblinking, those blue depths pulling me in like a black hole. I swallowed hard, my mouth dry, my body on fire. I spread even more, until my thighs ached, until the ropes tugged at my wrists and I was fully on display. Wetness trickled down my ass, onto the sheets. I bit my lip again, holding back a whimper. Look at me, damn it. See how much I want you. How ready I am.

Nothing. No reaction. His face was stone, jaw clenched, but his eyes... they bored into my soul, seeing every dirty thought, every fantasy. It was intense, overwhelming. Like he was mind-f*****g me without touching. My clit pulsed with every second of that stare, my p***y clenching around nothing, desperate for friction. I wanted to beg, to arch my back and rub myself against the air, but I held still. Barely.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Tension built like a storm, my skin prickling with goosebumps. Every breath I took made my n*****s brush the lace, sending sparks straight to my core. He just watched, unmoving, like a predator deciding if the prey was worth the hunt. My mind raced—would he punish me? Tie me tighter? Spank me until I cried? f**k me raw? The possibilities made me dizzy, my arousal dripping faster.

Finally, without a word, he turned away. Just like that. His broad back to me, tattoos flexing as he walked to the door. Shock hit me like ice water. No! He was leaving? After I spread myself for him like a w***e in heat? My cheeks burned with humiliation, but it only made me wetter. Twisted, I know. I tugged at the ropes, a frustrated whine escaping my lips. "Wait..."

He paused at the door, but didn't look back. Then he stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him. I was alone again, tied up, exposed, aching. My p***y throbbed painfully now, neglected and desperate. Tears pricked my eyes—not from fear, but from the intense need clawing at me. How could he ignore that? Ignore me? I was dripping for him, spread wide, and he walked away like I was nothing.

Seconds ticked by, feeling like hours. My mind spun with doubt. Was this a game? Punishment for sneaking in? For touching him under the table? God, I hoped so. The thought of him teasing me, denying me, made my clit swell even more. I ground my thighs together, chasing any relief, but the ropes held my arms, leaving me helpless. Moans slipped out now, soft and needy. "Please... come back..."

The door opened again. He strode in, same cold expression, but now carrying something—a bundle of clothes. Simple black pants and a shirt, nothing sexy. He walked straight to the bed, his presence sucking the air from the room. Up close, he smelled like smoke and spice, dark and addictive. I wanted to bury my face in his neck, lick those tattoos.

He stopped at the edge of the bed, eyes still on mine—no peek at my spread legs, my soaked thong. It drove me mad. I wanted him to lose control, to growl and take me. My breath came in pants, chest rising and falling fast. Tension coiled tighter, my body screaming for release.

Then he threw the clothes onto my stomach. They landed with a soft thud, covering my skin but not hiding the wet spot between my legs.

"Get dressed," he said, his voice cold and deadly, like a blade slicing the air. "You're going back home."

What?!